The Secret Tunnel (8 page)

“Is she injecting?”

“Not if I can help it.” He lowered his voice. “So far, she has restricted herself to sniffing. Not a very ladylike habit, in my opinion, especially when she falls asleep with a runny nose. Oh, the things I have to do in my job. Hello, looks like we’re about to get going again.”

“Look, Mitch!” Bertrand pointed to the engine, where
the engineer and the stoker were scuttling out of the shed and back on board. The engineer’s face was smudged with black—perhaps from the stoker’s pants, but perhaps just from soot…

“All aboard!” yelled the conductor. “All aboard!” yelled the station attendant with the bullhorn. Little Arthur, the porter, ran past me, his heels practically kicking his ass, and helped heave the dowager back into her carriage. I heard the words “disgrace” and “write to the chairman” before her voice was drowned, only just, by the engine’s whistle. The soldiers were the last to board, leaping on as the train was moving off, their kilts flying in the air, giving me ample opportunity to admire their strong, hairy thighs… And we were off again.

It was just in time. The first puffs of steam only emphasized how black the sky was getting. Before we were even clear of York station, flakes of snow were beginning to whirl and flurry outside the windows.

Bertrand wanted to go back to our compartment, presumably to pick up where we had left off—inspired, perhaps, by what he had seen through the shed window. I was inclined to humor him, especially if he was in the mood to suck cock, but I was distracted by several things. First, there was absolutely no apparent reason why the train had stopped at York; no explanation had been given, there had been no sign of mechanics working on the train or the track, and it seemed improbable that we had only been delayed so that the engineer could suck his stoker’s dick. Second, I was puzzled by the behavior of the stars, out on the platform without their publicist or their burly bodyguard, Joseph, attended only by Frankie, who would not be much use in the event of an attack. Third, where were the newspapermen? Surely they would have taken advantage of such a God-given opportunity to accost Hugo and Daisy with their impertinent questions. And yet, I had not seen them. Were
Dickinson and Joseph dealing with them in some sinister way, while the rest of the passengers were distracted? Had the engineer and the stoker vacated the engine just so that Dickinson and Joseph could feed their victims’ bodies to the flames? It seemed highly unlikely, but I did find myself sniffing the air for the telltale aroma of roasting flesh.

No, the air was clean—shit! Not clean enough. I pulled my head back into the carriage with a big flake of soot in my eye. It hurt like hell.

“Oh, fuck!”

“Here.” Bertrand pulled out a handkerchief. “Put your head back.
Comme ça
.” He wiped the soot from my eye, which was streaming.

“There’s something in it! God, it hurts!”

“Look up… Look down…
Voilà
. Just…one…moment…” He dabbed at my eye with a corner of the handkerchief, and removed a large piece of dirty grit. The delicate operation had brought us into close quarters; his hand was on the back of my head, and he was practically sitting on my knee.

“Ah. Thank you. That’s better.”

He did not move. “Mitch. When can we…”

“You horny little bastard.”

“I want you so badly. Inside me. Look.” He nodded down to the front of his pants, where there was an obvious swelling. “Please.”

“But I want to see what’s going on—”

“It won’t take long. Just fuck me.”

This was too much to resist, so, once more, we headed toward the bathroom. And once again the door was locked.

“
Putain!
”

“You must be patient.” I pressed myself against him. “It’s worth waiting for.” I could feel his ass pushing back against me; his eagerness was making me hot as hell. I kissed the back of his neck, his ear.

“
Vite! On arrive!
”

There was a rattling and thumping from within the bathroom. We disengaged ourselves, and Bertrand hurried back to the compartment. The toilet door opened a crack, and I saw the diamond merchant’s handsome profile emerge—and then withdraw, as if he was checking the lay of the land. This intrigued me, and I concealed myself inside an empty carriage.

The door opened again, and the diamond merchant stepped out—followed by the young father from the dining car. They muttered something to each other and walked away in opposite directions.

I stepped out of my hiding place, feigning complete surprise when I collided with the diamond merchant.

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

He practically jumped out of his skin. “Jesus!”

“I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

He calmed down immediately. “That’s quite all right. You just… I was… I apologize.”

What had been going on in that bathroom? Was the diamond dealer in fact a diamond smuggler? It was too much to hope that, as Bertrand had mockingly said, every single man on the Flying Scotsman was queer—and besides, the young father was married. But then again, as Vince frequently said, so was Oscar Wilde. No, it was a transaction of a different sort that had been going on, surely. I remembered how the young father had glowered at the diamond merchant in the dining car. Obviously they had arranged to meet on the train, and they were trying to maintain a discreet distance in order to avoid suspicion. Now, despite their plans, I had caught them in the act. Not the act I would like to have caught them in—the contrast between the diamond merchant’s dark hair and the young father’s blond coloring was enough to get me interested—but something that appealed to my appetite for mystery and detection. Where
there were diamonds involved, there was almost bound to be trouble.

“Very unusual to stop at York, isn’t it?” I said. I wasn’t going to let him go just yet, and played the part of the garrulous American traveler.

“Yes, very unusual. I suppose there was some problem on the line.” I tried to place his accent; it was definitely English, but there was a slight twang in there. South African, as Frankie had suggested? I knew the diamond business was big there. Or Australian? Definitely not American, nor Scottish, but there my certainty stopped.

“Looks like we’re coming in for some heavy weather,” I said. This was an understatement; the light was failing fast, and sleet was rattling against the windows.

“Yes. I hope it doesn’t mean delays…” He scowled, his dark eyebrows joining in the middle.

“You got an appointment to keep in London?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course.”

“And what line of business might you be in, if you don’t mind me asking?” This was the sort of question an Englishman would never ask, at least not on such casual acquaintance, but we Americans were, it seemed, a byword for impertinence.

“Oh… International trade. Buying and selling. Import-export.” I suppose one doesn’t just say “I’m a diamond dealer” to a complete stranger.

“That’s a mighty fine ring you’re wearing, if I may say so.” He was gripping the handrail by the window, his knuckles white, his large hand bunching into a fist. Despite his manners, it was easy to see that he was eager to get away from me. The ring—that thick gold band with the single, deep-set sparkler—looked like a brass knuckle.

“Thank you.” He quickly moved his hand, stuck it in his pocket.

“An engagement ring?”

“What?” He was starting to sound annoyed. “No. Nothing of the sort.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Are you?” he replied. “Well. If you will excuse me, Mr.…er…”

I extended a hand. “Mitchell. Dr. Edward Mitchell, of Boston and Edinburgh, at your service.”

“A medical doctor?”

“Yes, sir.”

We shook. The thick gold band dug into my fingers.

“And you are…?”

“Rhys. David Rhys.” He seemed less unfriendly now that he knew I was a medical man.

“Rhys. That would be… No, don’t tell me. Oh, darn it. Is it—”

“Welsh. It’s Welsh. I’m Welsh.”

“Of course. I’ve been trying to place the accent.”

He smiled for the first time; the corners of his eyes creased up, and he flashed his teeth. “Is it that obvious? I’ve not lived there for a long time.”

“It’s very pleasant,” I assured him. “And I suppose that explains your dark coloring as well.”

“Yes. I’m what they call a Celt. Pale skin, dark hair. You could have Celtic blood as well, Dr. Mitchell.”

“Me? I don’t know. My people were English, as far as I know. And I tan like a Negro in the summer, when I’m outdoors, swimming and riding and playing tennis.”

“Although not so much in Scotland, I assume.”

“Not as much as I would like.”

We were getting on well, I thought, but he suddenly seemed to recall something, and resumed his frosty manner.

“I must leave you in peace, Dr. Mitchell.”

“Not on my account. It’s a pleasure to—”

“Good morning.”

He turned his back and stalked down the corridor. A
footstep behind me betrayed the approach of Peter Dickinson. Had Rhys been running away from him?

“Ah, Mitch,” said Dickinson. “How is poor Bertrand? Have you been able to take care of him yet?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t leave it too long. Such conditions can worsen rapidly. Although, as a doctor, you would understand that, I’m sure.”

“Indeed.”

He lowered his voice and spoke close to my ear; again, that intoxicating smell of citrus cologne and warm male flesh tickled my nostrils. “And I might add in this case: physician, heal thyself. We don’t want you to be…uncomfortable, do we?”

“I might need a hand. It can be a tricky procedure—”

“It’s not a hand that you need, Mitch.” He cupped his groin. “It’s this.”

“Yeah…”

“All yours…” He took my hand and drew it down. His crotch was warm—almost hot. I could feel a big pair of balls and a large, semihard dick. I squeezed gently.

“How about now?” I nodded toward the vacant toilet. “I can get Bertrand as well if you want.”

“Two for the price of one? I’m tempted, Mitch. As you can probably tell.” I’d brought him to full erection by now. “But, sadly, I am needed elsewhere.”

“Daisy?”

“Daisy, Hugo, the full traveling freak show.”

“Sounds like fun.”

He rolled his eyes; I didn’t stop feeling him up. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“Did you deal with those reporters?”

He closed his eyes. “Oh, shit, that feels good. I’m going to come in my pants if you carry on like that.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Be a terrible shame to waste it, wouldn’t it? I’d rather squirt it in your mouth, or up your little friend’s arse.”

“That can be easily arranged.” My mouth was watering, and I was hungry for a taste of Dickinson. “Come on. It won’t take long.”

“Patience, Mr. Mitchell. I want more than a furtive suck in a train toilet. You’re worth more than that.”

The sound of whistling approached down the corridor. “Now,” said Dickinson, making his cock throb in my hand, “if it was this little piece, I might consider it.”

Arthur, the porter, bounced into view, carrying a tray with a white cloth over it. I relinquished my grip on Dickinson’s crotch.

“Gentlemen!” said Arthur. “If you will excuse me.”

“Is that going to Miss Athenasy and Mr. Taylor’s carriage, lad?”

“Yes, Mr. Dickinson, sir.”

“Just one moment.”

Dickinson lifted the cloth. A delicious smell wafted out—of steak, and fried potatoes and mushrooms. If my mouth had not already been watering at the thought of Dickinson’s hefty cock, that would have done the job.

“Is it satisfactory, sir?”

“Perfectly, Arthur. Come and see me later for a tip.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Obviously I was not the only passenger from whom Arthur was expecting to make a profit. Dickinson replaced the cloth, and patted Arthur on the ass. “Good lad.”

“Oh, sir.”

“Off you go.”

Arthur squeezed his way between us, and hurried down the corridor, leaving a savory waft in his wake.

“There are some very tidy pieces of arse on this train, Mitch. Your little Bertrand, and my little Arthur…”

I had hoped he would be “my” little Arthur, but it seemed
churlish to argue the point. Perhaps, at some point, we could trade. Now there was an idea.

“Better make sure that all is well with my charges. See you later, Mitch, I have no doubt.”

He smiled and followed Arthur to the private carriage.

“Hsssssssst!”

Was it the brakes, or the wind?

“Hsssssssst!”

No, it was Bertrand, peeking out from our compartment, sounding—insofar as a hiss can convey meaning—extremely unhappy. I joined him.

“I see you, manipulating him.”

“Oh. Watching, were you?”

“I do not like that man, I tell you.”

“Bet you didn’t mind watching me feeling his cock, though? Eh?”

“Bah… You are too…too much…”

“I bet it turned you on, Bertrand. Let me see.” I grabbed him; he too was hard in his pants, although nowhere near as large as Dickinson. “As I suspected. You’re as bad as I am, my friend.”

“It is not fair, Mitch. I want you.”

“And you will have me.”

“But when?”

It was a good question. Every time I tried to make out with Bertrand, we were interrupted. I was not used to forces conspiring against me in this way. Normally, I see an opportunity, and I take it. I do not like to defer gratification. It makes me irritable.

“Okay. Now.”

“
Enfin
. And where?”

“The bathroom.”

“Oh, that bathroom…
C’est toujours occupé
. I prefer here.”

“And I prefer not to be caught in the act and locked up
in Pentonville Prison, thank you very much.”