‘Sawn-lee,’ a hollow voice on the loudspeaker announced. ‘Sawn-lee. The four carriages in the front portion of the train now arrived at number one platform will proceed to Rimble, Bornlee Green and Little Codling. The rear portion will proceed to Forthampstead and Ribblethorpe. Please make sure you are in the correct part of the train. Sawn-lee. The four carriages –’
Nicola Maitland-Mayne heard this pronouncement with dismay. ‘But I don’t know,’ she cried to her fellow passengers, ‘which portion I’m in! Is this one of the first four carriages?’
‘It’s the fifth,’ said the man in the corner. ‘Next stop Forthampstead.’
‘Oh, damn!’ Nicola said cheerfully and hauled her typewriter and overcoat down from the rack. Someone opened the door for her. She plunged out, staggered along the platform and climbed into another carriage as the voice was saying: ‘All seats, please, for Rimble, Bornlee Green and Little Codling.’
The first compartment was full and so was the second. She moved along the corridor, looked in at the third, and gave it up. A tall man, farther along the corridor said: ‘There’s plenty of room up at the end.’
‘I’m second class.’
‘I should risk it if I were you. You can always pay up if the guard comes along but he never does on this stretch, I promise you.’
‘Oh, well,’ Nicola said, ‘I believe I will. Thank you.’
He opened the door of the first-class compartment. She went in and found nobody there. A bowler, an umbrella, and a Times, belonging, she supposed, to the young man himself, lay on one seat. She sat on the other. He shut the door and remained in the corridor with his back to her, smoking.
Nicola looked out of the window for a minute or two. Presently she remembered her unfinished crossword and took her own copy of The Times out of her overcoat pocket.
Eight across. ‘Vehicle to be sick on or just get a ringing in the ears? (8).’
The train had roared through a cutting and was slowing down for Cabstock when she ejaculated: ‘Oh, good lord! Carillon, of course, how stupid!’ She looked up to find the young man smiling at her from the opposite seat.
‘I stuck over that one, too,’ he said.
‘How far did you get?’
‘All but five. Maddening.’
‘So did I,’ Nicola said.
‘I wonder if they’re the same ones. Shall I look?’
He picked up his paper. She noticed that under the nail of the first finger of his right hand there was a smear of scarlet.
Between them they continued the crossword. It is a matter of conjecture how many complete strangers have been brought into communication by this means. Rimble and Bornlee Green were passed before they filled in the last word.
‘I should say,’ the young man remarked as he folded up his Times, ‘that we’re in much the same class.’
‘That may be true of crosswords, but it certainly isn’t of railway carriages,’ Nicola rejoined. ‘Heavens, where are we?’
‘Coming in to Codling. My station, what a bore!’
‘It’s mine, too,’ Nicola exclaimed, standing up.
‘No! Is it really? Jolly good,’ said the young man. ‘I’ll be able to bluff you past the gate. Here we go. Are you putting your coat on? Give me that thing: what is it, a typewriter? Sorry about my unsuitable bowler, but I’m going to a cocktail party this evening. Where’s me brolly? Come on.’
They were the only passengers to leave the train at Little Codling. The sun was shining and the smell of a country lane mingled with the disinfectant, cardboard and paste atmosphere of the station. Nicola was only mildly surprised to see her companion produce a second-class ticket.
‘Joy-riding as usual, I suppose, Mr Bantling,’ said the man at the gates.
Nicola gave up her ticket and they passed into the lane. Birds were fussing in the hedgerows and the air ran freshly. A dilapidated car waited outside with a mild-looking driver standing beside it.
‘Hallo,’ the young man said. ‘There’s the Bloodbath. It must be for you.’
‘Do you think so? And why “Bloodbath”?’
‘Well, they won’t have sent it for me. Good morning, Mr Copper.’
‘Good morning, sir. Would it be Miss Maitland-Mayne?’ asked the car driver, touching his cap.
Nicola said it would and he opened the door. ‘You’ll take a lift, too, sir, I dare say. Mr Cartell asked me to look out for you.’
‘What!’ the young man exclaimed, staring at Nicola. ‘Are you, too, bound for Ye Olde Bachelor’s Lay-by?’
‘I’m going to Mr Pyke Period’s house. Could there be some mistake?’
‘Not a bit of it. In we get.’
‘Well, if you say so,’ Nicola said and they got into the back of the car. It was started up with a good deal of commotion and they set off down the lane. ‘What did you mean by “Bloodbath”?’ Nicola repeated.
‘You’ll see. I’m going,’ the young man shouted, ‘to visit my step-father who is called Mr Harold Cartell. He shares Mr Pyke Period’s house.’
‘I’m going to type for Mr Pyke Period.’
‘You cast a ray of hope over an otherwise unpropitious venture. Hold very nice and tight, please,’ said the young man, imitating a bus conductor. They swung out of the lane, brought up short under the bonnet of a gigantic truck loaded with a crane and drain-pipes, and lost their engine. The truck driver blasted his horn. His mate leaned out of the cab.
‘You got the death-wish, Jack?’ he asked the driver.
The driver looked straight ahead of him and restarted his engine. Nicola saw that they had turned into the main street of a village and were headed for the green.
‘Trembling in every limb, are you?’ the young man asked her. ‘Never mind; now you see what I meant by “Bloodbath”.’ He leant towards her. ‘There is another rather grand taxi in the village,’ he confided, ‘but Pyke Period likes to stick to Mr Copper, because he’s come down in the world.’ He raised his voice. ‘That was a damn’ close-run thing, Mr Copper,’ he shouted.
‘Think they own the place, those chaps,’ the driver rejoined. ‘Putting the sewer up the side lane by Mr Period’s house, and what for? Nobody wants it.’
He turned left at the green, pulled in at a short drive and stopped in front of a smallish Georgian house.
‘Here we are,’ said the young man.
He got out, extricated Nicola’s typewriter and his own umbrella, and felt in his pocket. Although largish and exceptionally tall, he was expeditious and quick in all his movements.
‘Nothing to pay, Mr Bantling,’ said the driver. ‘Mr Period gave the order.’
‘Oh, well. One for the road anyway.’
‘Very kind of you, but no need, I’m sure. All right, Miss Maitland-Mayne?’
‘Quite, thank you,’ said Nicola, who had alighted. The car lurched off uproariously. Looking to her right, Nicola could see the crane and the top of its truck over a quickset hedge. She heard the sound of male voices.
The front door had opened and a small dark man in an alpaca coat appeared.
‘Good morning, Alfred,’ her companion said. ‘As you see, I’ve brought Miss Maitland-Mayne