Deadlier Than the Pen (7 page)

*Chapter Seven*
The gent's washroom was already occupied by two men when Ben Northcote entered. He did not recall seeing either of them in the parlor car, but then he'd not been paying much attention to the other first-class passengers.
He maneuvered around a heavy-set, red-faced fellow of forty or so in order to pump water into the ceramic basin and sluice it over his hands. The other man stood with his back to them, changing his collar in front of one of the two mirrors. When the train lurched suddenly, causing his hand to jerk, one end of the new collar flew up and slapped him in the face.
Ben hid a smile as he dried his hands on the roller towel. He was about to return to his seat, when the man whose laundry added starch with such a heavy hand turned to his rotund companion and spoke a familiar name. "What's Diana doing here, Toddy?"
Ben stilled. It wasn't such an unusual name, yet ... Interested to hear the answer, he pretended to find a spot of dirt on the back of his right hand. He scrubbed industriously at it while he eavesdropped.
"She's hoping to get Lavinia to accept her apology. That's what Lavinia thinks, anyway."
"Makes no sense." The man at the mirror sounded peeved, but Ben could not tell if it was the topic of conversation or his losing battle with the collar which annoyed him. "She spoke to her on the platform. Why tag along after us onto the train?"
This time his question received only a grunt in reply. The one called Toddy had gone into the smaller, adjoining compartment that held the commode. In reality, it was no more than a box with a mahogany seat that opened to the tracks below. For all the luxury of the appointments in first class, a primitive dry hopper was the best they could provide in toilet facilities.
"Is she going all the way to our next stand? I didn't see any luggage?"
Toddy's reply was muffled but understandable. "I doubt she intended to come along, Charles, but Lavinia snubbed her and our Diana has always been persistent. Probably followed her on impulse."
"Why is she sitting with Jerusha, then?"
"Because I am occupying the seat next to Lavinia."
There was no longer any doubt in Ben's mind that "their" Diana was the one he knew. Indeed, now that he put the names Jerusha, Lavinia, Toddy and Charles together, he recognized the two men as actors in _The Duchess of Calabria_. This portly fellow was Nathan Todd, who managed the company and took most of the leading male roles. Charles was Charles Underly, easily the least talented person in the troupe. Jerusha would be Jerusha Fildale, the leading lady of Todd's Touring Thespians. Lavinia was undoubtedly the notorious "Miss L. R.," who'd used her body to ease her path to a featured role in the play. She'd had to, Ben thought, remembering her portrayal of Julia, the Cardinal's mistress. She had little ability as an actress.
Underly, having at last subdued his collar, reached for the public brush and comb tethered by cords to the white marble top of the paneled washstand. He winced as he restored order to the thick mane of his hair. Either he'd encountered a snarl or he was hung over. The bloodshot eyes reflected in the mirror made Ben suspect the latter.
"You know what happened the last time Jerusha and Diana had a little heart-to-heart chat," Underly muttered as Todd emerged from the cubicle.
The older man heaved a sigh so deep that the edges of his mustache quivered. "What's done is done. The gossip didn't hurt us at the box office. Still, I could have done without the backbiting backstage."
"You spoke civilly enough to Diana at the station. In your place, I'd have turned my back on her." He reached for the silver-headed walking stick he'd left propped against the wall. "Or wrung her pretty little neck," he added in a mutter.
"We can hardly complain when the story's true."
To avoid making the two men suspicious of him, Ben left the washroom, but he lingered just outside. Their voices reached him well enough through the door.
"Next you'll be telling me she didn't mean what she said about my interpretation of the role of Ferdinand."
"For God's sake, Charles. You've had worse reviews."
"She's Evan Spaulding's widow, Toddy. She might have been kinder. To hear Jerusha tell it, your troupe was like family to her once. It's betrayal, that's what, to go to work for that newspaper and dissect the talents of Spaulding's colleagues."
"That's what reviewers do, Charles." Todd sounded resigned.
"Then she should have found other work."
"As what? A seamstress? Maybe you'd rather she walked the streets?"
Ben heard the sound of the latch being lifted and beat a hasty retreat. He might not know what had motivated Diana Spaulding to choose the profession she had, but he was certain he knew the answer to Underly's earlier question. Once again, she was following Damon Bathory.
And once again he would have to find a way to put an end to her pursuit.
* * * *
"Fools," Jerusha muttered.
Diana came out of her reverie with a jerk. "Who?"
"Them." She indicated Nathan Todd and Charles Underly, who were just returning to the coach.
In the few seconds it had taken the two men to cross from one railroad car to the next, they'd been coated in white. Even Toddy's mustache was caked with wet snow. Underly shook himself like a dog, then glared at Diana as he passed her seat.
"Where did they go?" She'd been so lost in her own bleak thoughts that she hadn't noticed them leave.
"First-class parlor car. To use the gents' washroom."
Diana suppressed a laugh.
"Sheer insanity to have braved the elements in such a blow," Jerusha declared.
"You'd do the same if it weren't storming."
Diana would herself, especially when encumbered by a bustle of any size. The first-class ladies' washrooms were small -- three-feet-by-six at most, with a smaller, adjoining compartment to hold a commode -- but less luxurious cars did not contain any washing facilities and the cramped, airless closets provided for the basic necessity were barely large enough to back into with one's skirts already raised.
"Insanity," Jerusha said again. She was staring fixedly at the scene beyond the square window.
Diana leaned past her for a closer look and had to admit the weather had turned into a formidable blow. A silent, swirling white fury obscured every detail of the passing landscape. "Perhaps this is just a local squall."
"Oh, la, I hope so, but it seems to be getting worse by the minute."
As much as Diana wanted to maintain a more positive outlook for the rest of the journey, she feared Jerusha was right. The train did not seem likely to carry them out of the storm. It appeared to be moving into it instead. She was trying to think of a remark that would cheer them both when her stomach growled loudly.
Embarrassed, Diana felt color climb into her cheeks. This was getting to be an annoying habit, as was missing meals in order to follow Damon Bathory.
Jerusha chuckled. "No breakfast?"
"No time. I'll get something at Stamford." According to the schedule, that was the first stop, followed by New Haven and Hartford.
She wouldn't, of course. She didn't dare waste what little money she had on food. Nor could she buy sandwiches or coffee from the water boy, if she was to afford a hotel room of the cheaper sort wherever she ended up. "I have a few things with me." Jerusha pulled a small satchel from beneath the seat.
Diana stared at fruit and dried beef and cold chicken in amazement. There was even a glass of jelly. "You've enough for several days there. I thought the stand in Hartford lasted almost a week."
"It does. And we've only short trips after -- Springfield, Boston, Portland, and, at the end of the month, Bangor. Then on to Burlington, Saratoga Springs, and Albany. But it never hurts to be prepared. You know how it is with trains. Most of the stops last less than ten minutes and never more than twenty. Barely time to get out and stretch your legs, let alone buy a meal."
Shifting a fraction closer, Diana peered into the satchel. "I don't suppose you stashed an extra coat in there?"
Jerusha's sharp glance surveyed the outfit Diana had chosen to wear for her confrontation with Lavinia. The stylish Modjeska jacket was decorated with beaver fur in the collar and cuffs, but the lining was only fancy quilting, warmer than the satin used in some walking outfits but little protection against the icy blasts of air that eddied into the railroad coach through the loosely-fitted sashes. The pale gray color had been another impractical choice. It would soon be stained with soot and grime.
"Pitifully inadequate," Jerusha declared. "You'd be an icicle already if we weren't sitting right next to the heat."
The coach boasted two stoves, one permanently fixed at each end. Periodically, someone added another stick of wood to keep them going.
"I would have worn my warm blue Ulster with its cape," Diana assured her, "but I expected the day to be clear and warm. That was the forecast." As if to underscore her foolishness, the wind howled and rocked the railroad car, increasing the interior's pervasive chill.
"I have a steamer trunk and Gladstone bag in the baggage car. I can spare a blouse. Perhaps the broadcloth dress. I hardly ever wear it."
Diana gave Jerusha's hourglass figure an amused look before shifting her gaze to her own, far less impressive bosom.
"Needles and thread," Jerusha added, winking at her. "Pins and hair pins. You'll need flannel underwear. A handkerchief. A dressing gown. Slippers. Toilet articles. A flask and drinking cup. A jar of cold cream."
"I might be better off borrowing a pair of trousers and a jacket."
"Oh, la! That you could think you'd be closer to a lad's build than to mine!" Shaking her head at the notion, Jerusha rose and went back among the company to scrounge for clothing.
Diana swiveled her head to monitor her friend's progress. The request produced only further venom from Lavinia Ross. Patsy began at once to burrow into a satchel that was the twin to Jerusha's. With another wink at Diana, Jerusha extended her search to the men.
"Two of you would fit in my britches!" Toddy bellowed, laughing heartily.
The joviality seemed overdone, even for him, and when Lavinia tugged on his arm, he hastened to bend close and listen. Whatever she whispered erased his smile. He did not look Diana's way again.
Charles Underly did not deign to comment when Jerusha approached him, but he did sneer at her request. Pursing his lips, he glanced in Diana's direction, giving definition to the act of looking down one's nose.
"Here," Jerusha said when she returned from her expedition. "This should help. Patsy had a spare." She thrust a heavy, knitted shawl at Diana.
Barely had she got the borrowed garment around her shoulders when she felt the train begin to slow. Up ahead the whistle sounded.
"We can't have reached Stamford yet."
As one, Diana and Jerusha turned to stare out the window, but there was nothing to see except a blinding curtain of snow driven sideways by the wind.
With a lurch, the train halted entirely, belching steam with a sound like a dying elephant. Diana bounced forward. If she'd not caught hold of the ashwood armrest, she'd have ended up in a heap in the aisle.
Bundles tumbled from the nickel-plated luggage racks overhead and Toddy, who had just stood up, lost his balance and landed hard on the plank flooring. His curses filled the air, louder than the assorted moans and cries of alarm from the rest of the troupe.
Rubbing her elbow, the same one she'd bumped in the cab, Diana righted herself. This time it had connected with the window frame.
There had been no collision, no crash. No grinding noises or explosions. She supposed she should be grateful for small favors, but what she suspected had happened was bad enough.
* * * *
An hour later, they'd not moved so much as an inch. Far from leaving the bad weather behind, they appeared to have traveled straight into the heart of it. They were snowbound in the middle of a blizzard.
Diana stared out at the storm and sighed.
"What are you thinking?" Jerusha asked.
"That no one knows where I am, or that Damon Bathory has left Manhattan. I wish I had some way to send a telegram to Horatio Foxe."
"If a train can get stuck in this snow, then the telegraph lines are most likely down."
Diana suspected her friend was right. Conditions had grown steadily worse since they'd stopped. She could see nothing more than an inch away from the window, and only that much through one of the few small patches of glass that were not coated with ice.
Turning away from the view, such as it was, Diana toyed with the idea of taking out her notebook and jotting down her thoughts. Foxe would expect her to write an account of what was happening to her. "Stranded on a Train" the headline would read.
Or, "Dead on Stranded Train."
She shuddered at the thought. "We'll all be icicles before the day's over," she predicted in gloomy tones.
"Not if we move about to keep warm," said Jerusha. "I suggest dancing."
"Dancing?" Astonished by the thought, Diana stared at her. She heard the door to the coach open and felt a blast of cold air, but was too fascinated by her companion's suggestion and the anticipation in Jerusha's voice and manner to look away. "Dancing?"
"The tarantella, perhaps. Something lively to keep the blood flowing and take our minds off being cold. The only thing that would be more useful would be a nice bottle of brandy to warm the insides." Her gaze shifted over Diana's shoulder as footsteps paused in the aisle beside them. With a bright smile, she added, "Or a big strong man to cuddle up to."

Diana knew without looking who stood behind her. So much for keeping her presence secret from him! With a sense of impending doom, she turned to face Damon Bathory.
Face ruddy and hair and beard frosted from having crossed the stormswept platform between cars, he stared back at her with an expression cold as ice sculpture. "What a charming ensemble you are wearing, Mrs. Spaulding," he said in that deep, resonant voice of his. "Did you select it just to meet me?"
Blast the man! Her temper flared, banishing embarrassment and guilt and common sense, as well. "You knew I was here! You lured me aboard this train!"
That annoyingly sardonic brow lifted. "Do you think I also arranged for the blizzard?"
She flushed but did not look away. "I would not put it past you! Sorcerers can conjure up all sorts of evil things."
"Trust me, Diana. I did my best to escape New York without being followed."
"You lied to me."
"Yes."
"About everything?"
His eyes darkened. "No. Not about everything."
Her breath caught. In confusion, Diana dropped her gaze to hands she held tightly clasped in her lap.
Jerusha coughed, then extended a hand past Diana. "Mister Bathory, I presume?" She all but purred the question.
"Miss Fildale. A pleasure." He bowed over her hand and kissed it, bringing his chiseled profile into Diana's line of vision.
"Oh, la! You give me all sorts of new thoughts on how to stay warm."
"Better than alcohol, I trust. Imbibing heavily tends to make people careless and that invites frostbite. It is not a pretty sight, nor is the resulting loss of fingers or toes."
"Charming," Diana muttered. She could guess the sort of tale Damon Bathory might create from this experience. Frozen corpses reanimated in the manner of Mrs. Shelley's Frankenstein monster. Horribly disfigured creatures who --
"Don't scowl so," Jerusha hissed, giving Diana a thump on the upper arm. "Your face will get stuck that way."
Bathory had turned his attention to the other occupants of the coach. Diana glanced over her shoulder at them, then wished she had not. Avid curiosity came back at her in palpable waves. They'd overheard her exchange with Bathory and drawn their own conclusions.
Seeing the salacious speculation in Lavinia's eyes, Diana wished she could crawl under the seat and hide. She settled for visualizing Horatio Foxe's face when she presented him with the sensational story he'd demanded.
Behind her, Bathory's mellifluous voice outlined their situation. "The most practical course is for everyone to gather in one place," he concluded, "and since the parlor car is the most comfortable, I suggest you all move there."
"How astonishing," Jerusha murmured. "We're being invited to join the posh set."
"Kind of you, m'boy." Nathan Todd spoke for all the members of his troupe and none of them needed to be asked twice. Gathering their possessions, they exited the coach en masse.
They were greeted on the other side by a formidable matron. Diana recognized her as the passenger who'd looked so repulsed by the sight of Jerusha and Lavinia promenading on the platform at Grand Central Station.
"I am Mrs. Wainflete," she informed them.
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am!" Toddy grabbed her hand and shook it, causing her considerable consternation. "We're grateful indeed for your hospitality. And to prove it, we'll pay our passage by entertaining you. You have at your disposal, madam, one of the finest theatrical companies in the world. We'll perform a play from our repertoire. Any one you select. What would cost you three dollars for an orchestra seat, you shall have today for free."
Mrs. Wainflete seemed somewhat mollified, although it soon became clear she'd not favored inviting them in. Like the others who'd bought first-class tickets, she'd paid twenty-five dollars to ensure that she wouldn't be obliged to mingle with the riff-raff.
Jerusha pushed Diana in the direction of a buffet outfitted to serve coffee, tea, and light refreshments and pressed a sandwich into her hand. "Eat."
Mrs. Wainflete returned to her pedestal armchair, a recliner covered in red plush and furnished with white cloth arm- and headrest-covers, a foot cushion, and an individual heating coil connected to the small stove that sat in one corner.
The man who identified himself as Mrs. Wainflete's husband, reed thin with wispy hair and a mustache to match, stayed as far away from his formidable wife as he could get, staring out of one of the parlor car's large windows.
"Can't see a blasted thing," he complained, peering into the storm, "and I vow this handrail's turned to ice." Wincing, he lifted his bare fingers from the silver-plated surface.
"You'd best close the curtains," Bathory advised. "We should keep in whatever heat we can."
It did not surprise Diana when Wainflete obeyed. Damon Bathory had that effect on people.
"Surely the stove will keep us warm." Mrs. Wainflete's voice was sour as vinegar.
"We have no way of knowing how long we'll be stuck here."
"A few hours -- "
"More likely a few days."
"Surely you exaggerate, sir." Mrs. Wainflete appeared to take the possibility of being stranded for any length of time as a personal affront.
"I hope I do," Bathory said. "The trainmen, be they porters or brakemen or conductors, are trying to dig us out. If they are unsuccessful in their attempts, they will need every able-bodied man to take a turn at the shovels, and even that may not be enough."
Diana concentrated on sipping a cup of tea, but she was instantly aware of it when Bathory left the parlor car to collect more passengers from another coach.
Jerusha snickered.
"Why do you laugh?"
"Because you relax as soon as he's gone. You bristle like two cats in each other's presence," she observed, still audibly amused. "And he is as fascinated with you as you are with him."
"That's hardly likely," Diana muttered. Besides, Bathory had a dark, secretive, dangerous side. Diana would not be fooled into forgetting that again, nor tricked into trusting him.
"He is a very pretty fellow, Diana Spaulding." Jerusha leaned closer. "If you want my advice, you should keep right on following him until he lets you catch him."
* * * *
"The snowdrifts blocking the tracks appear to be a good twenty feet high," the conductor announced. "We will not be moving again for some time." The blue of his uniform was almost obscured by rime ice.
Fifty-two heads swiveled his way. Over Mrs. Wainflete's protests that there were not enough chairs in the parlor car for everyone, Bathory had insisted on assembling all the train's passengers in one place. There were only nineteen recliners, but the rest of the passengers did not seem to mind the thought of sitting, or even sleeping, on the floor. The parlor-car floor was covered by a thick carpet.
"Are there any plows on this side of the drifts?" Bathory asked the conductor.
"Keeps on snowing, we'll need a mighty big plow. One weighted with twenty-five tons of pig iron and as many as a dozen engines to push it. Not something we get much call for in southern Connecticut."
"What about bucking snow with the cowcatcher?"
Plainly, Bathory had traveled by train in the winter before. So had Todd's Touring Thespians, and Diana with them.
"We'd have to do more shoveling first. Need to back up the track about a mile to do it right, then pull the throttle wide open, and kerchug! Right into the wall of snow." The conductor's smile was grim. "I'll grant you that the impact can drive an engine two or three car lengths into a drift, but then the crew has to go out and clear the snow before we can do it again."
It sounded a long, dangerous process to Diana.
"How many men in your crew?" Bathory asked.
Mrs. Wainflete looked outraged. "Surely you don't mean to invite the help into first class?"
"It makes sense to pool all our resources, especially food and heat. Bodies pressed together keep each other warm."
"I will not stand for it," she shrieked. "The railroad -- "
"The engineer and fireman will want to stay with the engine, and the brakemen and baggage men will be more comfortable in the caboose." The conductor was accustomed to soothing irate passengers. "Doesn't take much to heat it, being small, and that's where they sleep on long hauls anyway."
Mrs. Wainflete settled down and nodded her approval. "I am glad to see _some_ people know their place." She sent pointed looks at several of the coach-class passengers, hoping to encourage them to go back to the other cars.
No one obliged.
"We'll need cuddling to keep warm, even in here," Jerusha whispered.
"At least we're not out in the elements." The wooden sides and bullnose-shaped roof of the railroad car protected them from the snow and wind. But Jerusha was right. The longer the train sat motionless on the tracks, the colder it would get. The mahogany panels on the interior walls and the oak veneer of the ceiling added little in the way of insulation to a car constructed of pine. The ventilators, installed on the level of the overhead racks, let warm air escape right along with the fumes from the oil-burning center lamps.
They would indeed be forced to share each other's warmth if they remained here long. The thought of bundling with Damon Bathory made Diana feel a trifle giddy.
"The baggage car," she blurted.
"What's that, Diana?" Toddy asked.
"There must be more provisions and warm clothes in the baggage car. Someone should investigate."
She made the mistake of glancing at Damon Bathory when she spoke. He stared back, a speculative expression on his face.
* * * *
From the relative protection of the platform between cars, Diana watched the snow fall. It showed no sign of abating. Vicious gusts threatened to topple her from her perch and made her borrowed shawl feel thin as gauze. Aside from the wind's howl, the only other sounds in this eerie white world were the loud pinging of the cooling engine and Damon Bathory's irritated voice.
"What are you doing out here? Do you want to freeze to death?"
Ignoring him, Diana continued to run her gaze over the countryside, searching for some sign of habitation. Not a single building broke the expanse of field and forest as far as she could see, and yet she knew that Connecticut was one of the better populated states. With visibility limited by blowing snow, she supposed there could be a whole town just beyond the next rise and she'd never know it. The most obvious sign of habitation -- smoke from chimneys and smokestacks -- would not be seen at any distance under these conditions. Fenceposts, even small buildings, had already been covered over by drifts of snow.
A heavy weight landed on her shoulders. She yelped and tried to push it off as images from the dream she'd had the night she'd first met Bathory came back to haunt her.
His hands clamped down over the long black cloak of his costume, holding it in place. "Don't be a fool, Diana."
She went still.
"Come back inside the baggage car," he said in a gruff voice. "It's safer there."
Whether there was a double meaning in his words or not, she saw the sense in them. She went in ahead of him.
Crowded with the props and set pieces belonging to Todd's Touring Thespians, the baggage car had so far yielded a few warm clothes to the search party, but little in the way of edibles. Just as Bathory and Diana entered at the front end, shaking show from their clothing, a young trainman came in from the caboose side.
"Mr. Brown, sir. Sam's been hurt. He's in the crummy."
The conductor, Elias Brown by name, followed him out. To Diana's surprise, Bathory went after them. Hatless as always, she noticed. If the cold affected him, he did not show it.
The others were ready to head back to the parlor car, carrying various bits of clothing and other potentially useful supplies. Diana hesitated. She rationalized her impulse by telling herself she was a journalist, that it was her job to find out what was happening and report on it. Going after Bathory this time would have nothing to do with Jerusha's advice. Diana was simply trying to earn a living.
When Diana pulled the cloak close about her over the shawl, she caught a whiff of wet wool and another, more elusive scent that clung to the fabric. His essence, she thought. Was that alone enough to ensorcell her?
She was almost glad of the cold blast of air that greeted her when she stepped out onto the platform between cars. It banished all thoughts save reaching shelter once again.
Just inside the doorway of the caboose, what trainmen called the "crummy," Diana stopped and stared. Sam, the injured man, his face gray with pain, sat upright in a straight-back chair. Bathory knelt at his side, concentrating so hard on peeling away the uniform coat and shirt beneath that he did not notice Diana's arrival.
"At best you've dislocated this shoulder," he said in a soothing voice. "At worst, you've broken your collarbone. What were you doing on top of the railroad car?"
"My job," Sam said. "Brakies ride on top. That's where the iron wheels are, the ones that work the brakes. When the engineer whistles for a stop, one brakie starts from the front and one from the rear."
"How do you keep your balance?"
"Running boards along the top of the cars. But we have to jump from one to the next. Thirty inches between." The injured man hissed in a breath when Bathory probed gently from neck to shoulder. "Always figured it'd be the coupling'd get me."
"You were lucky, then. You didn't lose a finger or a hand, you weren't crushed between cars, and when you fell, the snow softened your landing. But I am going to have to set this collarbone."
"You a doctor?"
The moment of hesitation before he answered alerted Diana to the evasion that followed. This was a pattern she'd encountered with him before. He never answered the question. He said only, "I've set fractures like this before. Will you trust me to do right by you?"