Page 3 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Go on! I’ll catch you up.’

He turned and ran.

Richard had done his best by Miss Rowsham, pointing out the architectural beauties of the village, telling as much of its history as he remembered. She had listened and asked intelligent questions: away from other company she was less reticent, and he found himself relaxing and talking to her as a normal human being rather than a female who had been foisted on him and of whom he had to be wary. They had paused for some time outside the Crown, which was ancient and picturesque. It had been a coaching inn and was now quite the magnet to visitors from Town, who liked to sketch it, then lunch in it.

He showed her the church next, and she expressed an interest in seeing inside. He wasn’t an expert on finials and ogees and such – Giles was the man for that, could talk for hours about a flying buttress or a reredos – but there were a lot of family memorials, and he could be amusing on the lives and peculiarities of the ancestors who had left their mark in one way or another. So they had passed an agreeable half-hour, and Miss Rowsham had laughed several times at his stories, which fed his vanity.

They had left the church door open, so even inside they heard the sound of the crash, and looked at each other, startled. Then came the explosion, and they hurried out with one accord and across the churchyard to the street to look. Already people were running up the road towards the station. A column of greasy black smoke was rising ominously.

‘I must go and see if I can help,’ Richard said urgently. ‘Can you find your way back to the Castle all right?’

‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

‘Oh, but—’

‘Don’t waste time arguing. If a train has crashed they’ll need every hand.’

He glanced down a moment at her sensible walking-dress, which cleared the ground, revealing her sturdy boots, and said, ‘Come on, then!’ And they ran.

Notwithstanding every good intention, it was impossible not to stop and gape for a moment at the terrible alteration to normality, a destruction that imagination could not have prepared them for. Two engines were locked together in unholy, twisted union; from them came the flames and smoke. It seemed as though the down train had just been leaving the station and the up train had somehow ploughed into it. Carriages had reared up and seemed to be trying to climb over each other. The first behind the tender of the down train was splintered and compacted.

There were people – including the porter, Hossey – standing on the platform staring in horrified silence. Further down, carriage doors were opening and people were beginning to get down. A woman with the sleeve of her coat torn away and blood running down her arm was walking unsteadily towards them, her face blank with shock.

Miss Rowsham’s clear voice cut through Richard’s momentary fog as she said to the injured woman, ‘It’s all right. I will help you,’ and to Hossey, ‘Bring me a bucket of water and all the clean cloths you can find.’

Richard shook himself and said, ‘I’ll start getting people out. You and you’ – to men standing nearby – ‘come and help me.’

It took little time for Alice to secure the dogs, who whined unhappily at being left when the atmosphere was so tense, and she was lighter than Axe and younger, so she caught him up at the top of the hill. It was a shocking scene. It was apparent that the up train had somehow jumped the rails on the curve before the station, because it had struck the down train at speed and its locomotive was now on fire – presumably the explosion they had heard was its engine. Of its seven carriages two had concertinaed and were poking up in the air like an inverted letter V. The other five had slewed off the rails and slid down the embankment, the last one on its side, the others upright as if hanging by their couplings.

And there had been a horse-box at the rear. It had broken free and rolled down until it hit a tree – somehow, thank God, still upright. But Alice could hear a horse screaming.

Axe met her eyes in understanding. It was a sound impossible to ignore. ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do up here.’

She scrambled down the slope. She could heard frantic banging inside. The ramp-door was held closed by a bolt on either side. Her hands were shaking and she made herself pause and take a deep breath. You can’t help anyone unless you keep calm, she told herself sternly. Horses, in particular, reacted badly to nervous handling. The bolts were heavy, as they needed to be, but moved easily enough. But as she tried to lower the heavy ramp it was shoved from the other side and she lost her grip on it. As she jumped out of the way (a broken foot would serve no-one at this moment) it thudded down and a horse bolted out. Its tethering rope must have broken, and in a blind panic it scrabbled down the ramp, wildly jumping the last few feet, knocking Alice down, catching her a sharp blow on the upper arm with a shod hoof. She barely felt the pain, scrambling to her feet too late to catch it: it was gone, down the hill, rope swinging from its headcollar.

But there were other horses inside – three of them. One was panicking, jerking at its tethering rope, desperate to get free. The other two were down in a worrying tangle. She couldn’t get to them past the upright horse: she had to get it out first. She got up to its head, trying to calm it with words, slipping her finger through the headcollar to pull its head down and ease the rope. It resisted her, eyes wild and white, past reason. The rope was in a quick-release knot: the pulling of the horse had tightened it, as it was meant to, but too much, so that the free end would not come out. Desperately she struggled with it, cursing her small fingers; then a voice behind her said, ‘I got a knife, miss.’

It was a boy of about twelve, small and skinny and poorly dressed. He passed her a clasp knife, the blade well-worn but sharp. ‘Cor, this is a mess!’ he said, in awed tones, as she sawed at the rope.

As the last strands parted, she said, ‘Look out!’ The horse, feeling the rope slacken, jerked round, swivelling on its haunches towards freedom. Alice hung on with both hands as it dragged her with it down the ramp, but instead of bolting it stopped at the feeling of grass under its hoofs and stood rigid and shaking.

‘Can you take it?’

‘Yes, miss, give him here.’

‘See if you can tie it to that tree. I’ll need your help inside.’

She went back up the ramp. The downed horses hadn’t risen. It was the ropes, of course. When they fell, the tethering of their heads prevented them from freeing themselves: their heads were strained up at unnatural angles. She crawled in, found a rope and began sawing. She was close to the head of the horse that was more or less on top, and its frightened eye looked into hers. She held its gaze steadily and spoke soothing words. It was breathing in the short snorts of fear, but it was trusting her.

The boy was back. ‘Cor!’ he said again. ‘What a mess. Them’s expensive ’orses.’

‘Come and hold his head,’ Alice said. ‘I want to see if that foreleg that’s bent under him is all right.’ If it wasn’t, she’d never get him up. But it felt all right as she ran her hand down it. And as if at that signal, the horse began to heave itself up. She led it a step away from the other one. It was trembling all over, but did not seem lame. A miracle, she thought.

‘I’ll put it with the other one,’ the boy said, taking what was left of the rope from her. He caught her glance and said, ‘I’ll use me belt. Don’t worry, miss, I’ll manage.’

Thank God for an intelligent helper, she thought, and turned to the last horse. It had got a leg over the rope in the fall so its head was jammed against its knee, and she could see several cuts, perhaps from the other one’s shoes. She crouched, stroked the bay face and cold ears, and got to work on the tether.

A voice, a male voice, angry and shaking, said, ‘Who the devil are you? Get away from that horse!’