The Secret Tunnel (16 page)

“Dickinson.”

“Ah! You noticed it too. And for Andrews to smell that way, he must have had some close contact with Dickinson before the murder. That, to me, seems suspicious.”

“
Bien
, if that is all, I think there are others on this train who have had what you call close contact with Dickinson. Perhaps they, too, had
une liaison
.”

“I don’t think so. Andrews was desperately in love with Rhys. He had traveled all the way to Scotland to be near him—and I think he had even brought his family on this train just so they could be together. Why would a man who is so much in love risk everything for a few moments of fun with Peter Dickinson?”

Bertrand looked sulky. “He interested you.”

I was stung. Bertrand was right: I’d been eager enough to rush into
une liaison
with Dickinson.

He put an arm around my shoulder. “Come. Let us consider the aspects of the story. We shall find the truth, shall we?”

I doubted that we would: I had proved myself to be a wholly unworthy detective, fucking and napping on the job while an innocent man was framed for a murder that someone else on the train had committed.

“First of all,” I began, “there is Hugo Taylor, who received a blow to the head and was reluctant to tell me the truth about how it happened. I don’t buy his story about the cocktail cabinet, or whatever it was. Second, there’s Daisy Athenasy, whose dope habit has probably involved her in some kind of drug smuggling operation. She’s costing the studio thousands of pounds, she is unfaithful to her rich, older husband, who is also her employer, and she loves diamonds, which links her to David Rhys.”

“If he was, in fact, a diamond merchant,” Bertrand observed.

“Good point. Andrews says he wasn’t. Also in Hugo Taylor’s party is Francis Laking, aristocratic but impoverished, desperate for money, possibly to pay off blackmailers; he’s such a screaming queen that he’s almost certainly attracted that kind of attention. He’s charming, he’s witty, he knows everyone, but does anyone really know him? Is he who he says he is?”

“In short, you suspect everyone.”

“Look at Peter Dickinson. Posing as an employee of the British-American Film Company, but in fact a superintendent from Scotland Yard. Lady Antonia Petherbridge—to all appearances the epitome of the English upper classes, but in fact, according to Francis Laking, a dangerous political radical, probably with dubious foreign connections.”

“And me?”

“What?”

“What about me?” Bertrand said skeptically. “Surely, as a foreigner, I come under suspicion. Traveling without a ticket, my clothes—
comment dire, débraillé?
—poor, and old, and dirty. Perhaps an anarchist, with a bomb in my suitcase.”

“You don’t have a suitcase.”

“And look how easily I befriended you. And what was Simmonds really saying to me in the
toilette
? And why did I entertain the soldiers?
Hein?
”

This gave me pause. What did I know about Bertrand, apart from the fact that his ass fit my dick like a glove?

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Simply this. We are all strange, to those who look hard enough.”

“Then we must continue to look.”

“
Bien
. And my soldiers?”

“I hadn’t thought of them. But yes, what about ‘your’ soldiers? Why did they find it so desirable to keep us out of the way at the rear of the train while we were stuck in the tunnel for the second time?”

“Because, perhaps, they realized what a good fuck I am,” said Bertrand, looking very pleased with himself.

“Yes. But perhaps, also, they were following orders.”

Bertrand shrugged. “
Je ne sais pas
. For me it is too much.”

There was nothing we could do for the rest of the trip other than stare out the window, stare at my notes, and stare at each other. You might be forgiven for expecting me to beguile the time by fucking Bertrand again, or at least getting him to suck my dick. But, for once in my life, I was not in the mood. I felt defeated and dismayed. I trusted nobody, and I felt impotent—not only in the sexual sense. There was nothing I could do to help Andrews, and I was certain, for reasons that had not yet struggled above the level of intuition, that he was innocent.

Also, of course, there was the fact that I had already come three times in the last 12 hours, once up Vince’s ass and twice up Bertrand’s.

The rhythm of the train soothed me. Ter-ticky-ti-tum-tum. Ter-ticky-ti-tum-tum. There’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing I can do…

I slept again, and woke, cold and miserable, as the train pulled into Kings Cross Station, journey’s end. It was eight o’clock in the evening. We were nearly two hours late. The passengers were already alighting from the train with boxes and bags, hailing porters, disappearing into the crowd. What chance had I of piecing together the events of the day, now that all the witnesses had disappeared? Who was I fooling? I wasn’t a detective—not even an amateur. I’d been involved in one freak crime a few years ago, and I’d fed that fantasy with a lot of random reading and daydreaming—but when it came down to it, I’d been led by my dick, blinded by lust, and hoodwinked by a crafty copper. For all I knew, I had helped the killer to strike.

Nothing but a lingering smell of lemons, and that scrap of paper that Andrews had dropped in the compartment before his arrest. I stared at it, as if it might somehow rescue my shattered self-respect.

There was a discreet cough at the compartment door. I looked up, and there stood Simmonds.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to apologize to the young gentleman for the… er…the way I behaved earlier. It was unforgivable.”

I was in no mood to be charitable, and interrupted Bertrand before he had a chance to accept the no doubt sincere apology. “It’s rather late for fine words, Simmonds. You should have thought of that before you beat him up. If you think you can stop us from complaining to the authorities, you’re—”

“
Tais-toi
, Mitch. It is quite all right,
monsieur
. I forgive you. You were only doing your job.”

“No, sir. I was not.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was acting beyond my authority.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I had been told… Oh, God, what have I done?” He sat down, and gripped his hair in his hands.

“Pull yourself together, Simmonds,” I said, feeling perhaps that some vital piece of information was about to drop into my lap, “and tell us what’s on your mind.”

“That Mr. Dickinson…”

Dickinson again. Always Dickinson.

“Yes? What about him?”

“He told me that there were reporters on the train, and he told me to deal with them harshly. I was not to let them anywhere near Mr. Taylor’s carriage. I was to use…force, if necessary.”

“But why Bertrand? He doesn’t look like a reporter. Does he?”

“Dickinson told me he was.”

“
Moi? Journaliste? Mon dieu
,” said Bertrand, as if the very thought disgusted him.

“So you dragged him into the bathroom, beat him up, and attempted to have sex with him.”

“Ah, that.”

“Yes, ah that, Simmonds. You didn’t think that Bertrand would have kept that quiet, did you?”

“I am sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“The point is that you nearly came over Bertrand. He said you tried to stick your cock in his mouth.”

“I… Well, I… It had been a long time, and…”

“I see. And how much money did Dickinson give you? I presume there was money involved.”

“No, sir. But he said that he’d overlook certain matters.”

“Arthur.”

“Among others.”

“Did Arthur squeal?”

“I don’t know. Someone did, I suppose. Dickinson said he knew all about me. He said he knew every queer in Edinburgh.”

I gulped. My happy home life with Vince suddenly seemed terribly vulnerable.

“And did he threaten to expose you?”

“Yes. I have a wife and children, sir. I have an elderly mother who lives with us. I’m a church warden. Oh, God forgive me…”

Bertrand’s eyes were wet, and even I was starting to feel sorry for the man, who, after all, had only taken advantage of a situation, as I had done on many occasions. Admittedly I had never hit anyone (at least, not without being invited to first), but then I was not living under the dreadful conditions that Simmonds endured.

“You have to make up for what you have done, Simmonds.”

“Yes, sir. I see that.”

“Are you willing to help us?”

“How can I help you, sir?” He looked up at me, the very picture of grief and remorse.

“Help us find the killer of David Rhys.”

“But… You don’t mean… The man they arrested at Peterborough…”

“Andrews. Exactly. He no more killed Rhys than you or I did. Assuming, that is, that you didn’t.”

“For God’s sake—”

“Exactly. You may be a bad man, Simmonds, but I don’t think you’re that bad.”

“But Superintendent Dickinson said that he had proof.”

“Oh, and I’m sure he does. Proof that will stand up very nicely in court, watertight and tailor-made. But I don’t like
that kind of proof. It is based on facts, rather than human nature.” I was paraphrasing Hercule Poirot here, but as neither Bertrand nor Simmonds was a reader of detective fiction I felt I was on safe ground. They looked full of admiration, hanging on my words. I rather liked that.

“So,” I continued, rapidly improvising, “the question is, who had the motive for killing Rhys? Who would want him dead? What does our knowledge of the people on board this train tell us?”

“According to you, Mitch, everyone on this train is either homicidal or homosexual,” Bertrand piped up.

“That may be true…”

“So,” said Simmonds, “what should we do?”

“We? So you are with us, then?”

“Yes. I don’t have to return to Edinburgh for a couple of days. The wife and kids are with her mother. I’m supposed to be visiting my family, but I’d be very happy to come with you.” I noticed that he was casting sidelong glances at Bertrand, who was blushing and staring at his feet. Ah! So that was the way the wind was blowing, was it? Bertrand’s “disgust” for Simmonds was not quite as profound as he had originally suggested.

“Good. Between us, we will solve the mystery. I am staying with my friend Boy Morgan, who lives off the Kings Road in Chelsea. I suggest that we find you a cheap hotel somewhere.”

“I know the very place, sir,” said Simmonds. “The Regal Hotel in Bloomsbury. It’s where I tend to stay when I’m… not staying with my relations.”

“I see. A sympathetic establishment.”

“Very.”

“Is it clean?” asked Bertrand, assuming his coffee-drinking expression.

“It’s clean and it’s quiet,” said Simmonds. “It is also affordable.”

That hit home.

“As for that,” I said, “I will cover any expenses, within reason. I assume that the two of you would not object to sharing a room?”

Bertrand blushed deeper, and Simmonds stared out the window.

“I thought as much. Good.” I gave Bertrand a few bills. “That should cover your immediate needs. Oh, and Bertrand, for God’s sake, get yourself some new clothes.”

 

I was still puzzling over the mystery of the Flying Scotsman as I left Kings Cross in search of a taxi that would take me to Chelsea. Boy Morgan had expected me hours ago and would be worried by now. Perhaps he had telephoned Kings Cross and learned of the delay. Perhaps he had heard that someone had died on the train, and was fretting over me. Yes, surely he still cared enough for that. Surely the closeness we had enjoyed at Cambridge and after meant something to him still, as it did to me…

The cab trundled south, but I was oblivious to the sights and sounds of the town. I could only think of Morgan, and the welcome that I hoped he had prepared for me. God forgive me, I had even stopped worrying about David Rhys.

 

“I’d given you up for lost.”

Boy Morgan stood in the doorway in a white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled halfway up his long, muscular arms, lights from the hall blazing behind him.

Well, that answered one question: he had not lost his looks in the months since I had seen him.

“We had a little trouble on the line,” I said, struggling up the steps with my cases. “You’ll never believe what happened. We got stuck in this tunnel south of York, and while we were in there—”

I got no further than that. Morgan threw his arms around
me, hugging me tight against his chest, and then, before I had time to catch my breath, kissed me on the mouth. There was not much I could do—my hands were weighed down with luggage—but I opened my lips and allowed his tongue to enter.

That answered another question: he was just as eager as me to resume our relations where they had left off.

“So,” he said, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, “Vince couldn’t make it this time?”

“No, he’s—”

“And Belinda has gone to bed already. She gets so tired, looking after the baby, you know—”

“Boy.”

“Yes, Mitch?”

“Could I possibly come in?”

“Oh! God! Sorry!” He suddenly realized that we were embracing in an open doorway, that I was holding my luggage and was travel-weary. “Yes, of course. Let me help you. We don’t run to a butler and a footman in this establishment, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with me.” He took my luggage, and I followed him up the stairs.

“The nursery is on the top floor; that’s where Belinda sleeps most nights, so as not to disturb me if she has to get up.”

“I see. And where am I?”

“Down here.” He led me along the landing. “It’s not too bad. You’ve got your own bathroom and everything.”

“Sounds ideal.”