Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

There was a lot of grumbling, but the few passengers remaining got out of the carriage. They walked up and down the platform restlessly, bothered the porters and the guard asking questions to which no one had an answer, or went into the waiting room with passengers from the other carriages.

Pitt picked up someone else’s discarded newspaper and glanced through it. Nothing in particular caught his eye, and he kept looking up every time someone passed, in the hope that it was news of the train leaving again.

Once or twice as the long afternoon wore on, he got up and walked the length of the platform. With difficulty he resisted the temptation to pester the guard, but he knew that the poor man was probably as frustrated as everyone else, and would have been only too delighted to have news to give people.

Finally, as the sun was on the horizon, they boarded a new train and slowly pulled out of the station. The relief was absurdly out of proportion. They had been in no hardship and no danger, yet people were smiling, talking to one another, even laughing.

The next stop was Shoreham-by-Sea, where the trouble had been, then Hove. By then it was dusk, the light golden and casting heavy shadows. For Pitt this hour of the evening had a peculiar beauty, almost with a touch of sadness that sharpened its emotional power. He felt it even more in the autumn, when the harvest fields in the country were stubble gold, the stooks like some remnant of a forgotten age that was earlier, more barbaric, without the inroads of civilization on the land. He thought of his childhood at the big house where his parents had worked, of the woods and fields, and a sense of belonging.

Suddenly the carriage enclosed him. He stood up and went to the end and through the door onto the small platform before the next carriage. It was mostly for men to light cigars without the smoke being unpleasant to other passengers, but it was a good place to stand and feel the rush of air and smell the plowed earth and the damp of the woods as they passed. Not many trains had these spaces. He had heard somewhere that it was an American invention. He liked it very much.

The air was quite cold, but there was a sweetness to it and he was happy to remain there, even though it grew darker quickly, heavy clouds rolling in from the north. Probably sometime in the night it would rain.

He considered what he would tell Narraway of what now seemed to be an abortive trip to France, and how he would explain his conclusions about Gower and his own blindness in not having understood the truth from the beginning. Then he thought with intense pleasure of seeing Charlotte, and of being at home where he had only to look up and she would be there, smiling at him. If she thought he had been stupid, she would not say so—at least not at first. She would let him say it, and then ruefully agree. That would take away most of the sting.

It was nearly dark now; the clouds had brought the night unnaturally soon.

Without any warning he was aware of it: someone behind him. With the rattle of the wheels he had not heard the carriage door open. He half turned, and was too late. The weight was there in the middle of his back, his right arm was locked in a fierce grip, his left pinned against the rail by his own body.

He tried to step backward onto the instep of the man, shock him with the pain of it. He felt the man wince, but there was no easing of the hold of him. He was being pushed forward, twisted a little. His arm was crushed on the rail and he gasped to get his breath. He was pushed so his head was far out over the speeding ground. The wind was cold on his face, smuts from the engine striking him, stinging. Any minute he was going to lose his balance and then it would be a second, two, and he would be over the edge and down onto the track. At this speed he would be killed. It would probably snap his spine. The man was strong and heavy. The weight of him was driving the breath out of Pitt’s chest, and he had no leverage to fight back. It would be over in seconds.

Then there was a slam of carriage doors, and a wild shout. The pressure on Pitt’s back was worse, driving the last bit of air out of his lungs. He heard a cry, and realized it was himself. The weight lifted suddenly and he gasped, hanging on to the rail, scrambling to turn around, coughing violently. The man who had attacked him was struggling with someone else, who was portly, thick-waisted. He could see only shadows and outlines in the dark. The man’s hat flew off and was carried away. He was already getting the worst of the fight, backing toward the rail at the other side. In the momentary light from the door his face was contorted with anger and the beginning of terror as he realized he was losing.