Paths of Glory (15 page)

George could not risk returning by the same route if there was a possibility of adding an Italian prison to his French experience. He bolted toward the main exit at the top of the stairs and joined the sightseers who were beginning to make their slow progress down the winding stone staircase back to the square. He brushed past several of them, finally slowing his pace to join a party of Americans who had clearly not witnessed his efforts. Their only topic of conversation was where they would be having lunch.

As they spilled out of the tower and back into the square, George linked arms with an elderly American matron from Illinois, who didn’t protest. She smiled up at him. “Have I ever told you I had a relative who was on the
Titanic
?”

“No,” said George. “How fascinating,” he added, as the group passed two Carabinieri who were searching for an unaccompanied man.

“Yes, it was my sister’s child, Roderick. You know, he wasn’t even meant…” but George had already disappeared.

Once he had escaped from the crowded square, he made his way swiftly back to his hotel, but never once broke into a run for fear of attracting attention. It only took him fifteen minutes to pack, settle the bill—a surcharge was added for checking out after midday—and leave.

He walked briskly in the direction of the Rialto Bridge, where he knew there would be a vaporetto to take him to the railway station. As the motor launch glided slowly past Piazza San Marco, he spotted an officer questioning a young man who must have been about his own age.

When he was dropped off at Santa Lucia station he headed straight for the booking office and asked the clerk what time was the next train to London Victoria.

“Three o’clock, sir,” he replied, “but I’m afraid I have no more first-class tickets available.”

“Then I’ll have to settle for third class,” said George, emptying his wallet.

George nipped into the shadows whenever he spotted a policeman, and it seemed an eternity before the platform bell was rung and a guard, at the top of his voice, invited all first-class passengers to board the express. George joined the select group as they strolled toward the train, suspecting that they were the last people the police would be taking any interest in. He even thought about climbing onto the roof of the train, but decided that it would leave him even more exposed.

Once George was on board he hung around in a corridor, keeping a wary eye out for any ticket collectors. He was just wondering whether he should lock himself in a lavatory and wait there until the train had moved off, when a voice behind him said, “Il vostro biglietto, signore, per favore.”

George swung around to see a man dressed in a long blue jacket with thick gold piping on the lapels and holding a leather book. He looked out of the window, and spotted a policeman walking down the platform and peering in the carriage windows. He began to make a pretense of searching for his ticket, when the policeman boarded the carriage.

“I must have mislaid it,” said George. “I’ll just go back to the booking office, and—”

“No need to do that, sir,” said the ticket collector, switching languages effortlessly. “All I require is your name.”

“Mallory,” George said with resignation, as the policeman headed toward him.

“Ah, yes,” said the ticket collector. “You’re in carriage B, stateroom eleven. Your wife has already arrived, sir. Would you care to follow me?”

“My wife?” said George, before following the ticket collector through the dining car and into the next carriage, trying to think up some plausible excuse before the ticket collector realized his mistake. When they reached cabin number 11, the concierge pulled open a door marked
Riservato.
George peered inside to see his jacket and boater on the seat opposite her.

“Ah, there you are, darling,” said Ruth. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it in time.”

“I thought you weren’t going back to England for another week,” George spluttered, taking the seat by her side.

“So did I,” replied Ruth. “But someone once told me that if a more direct route presents itself, you should be prepared to consider it, unless of course there’s a high wind.”

George laughed, and wanted to leap in the air with joy, until he remembered an encumbrance every bit as terrifying as the Italian police. “Does your father know you’re here?”

“I managed to convince him that, on balance, it wouldn’t be a good thing for the school’s reputation to have one of its masters languishing in an Italian jail just before the new term begins.”

“What about Andrew? Weren’t you meant—”

Ruth threw her arms around him.

George heard the door of the compartment sliding open. He didn’t dare look around.

“Of course the answer’s yes, my darling,” said Ruth before kissing him.

“Scusi.” The policeman saluted before adding, “Mille congratulazioni, signore!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

F
RIDAY
, M
AY
1
ST
, 1914

“Y
OUR SHOT
, I believe,” said Turner.

George lined up the tip of his cue on the white. He could feel his legs shaking as he made the shot. He miscued and the ball careered wildly up and down the table, bouncing off a side cushion before coming to rest several inches from the red.

“Foul,” said Turner. “And four more points for me.”

“Agreed,” sighed George, as his host returned to the table. Turner didn’t speak again until he had amassed another sixteen points.

The past month had been the happiest of George’s life. In fact, he had had no idea that such happiness could exist. As each day went by, he fell more and more in love with Ruth. She was so bright, so gay, such fun to be with.

The journey back to England had been idyllic. They had spent every minute getting to know each other, although George did have a flash of anxiety when the train stopped at the Italian border and a customs official took a close look at his passport. When they finally crossed the border into France, George relaxed for the first time, and even spent a moment thinking about Young and Finch climbing in Zermatt. But only a moment.

He told Ruth over dinner why he’d ordered all five courses on the menu, explaining that he hadn’t eaten for three days. She laughed when he described the last person he’d spent a night with on a train, a man who belched garlic when he was awake and snored fumes while he was asleep.

“So you haven’t slept for the past three nights,” she said.

“And it doesn’t look as if I will tonight either, my darling,” said George.

“I can’t pretend that this was how I expected to spend my first night with the man I love,” said Ruth. “But why don’t we…” she leaned across the table and whispered in George’s ear. He thought about her proposal for a moment, and then happily agreed.

A few minutes later, Ruth left the table. In their compartment she found that the seats had been converted into single beds. She undressed, hung up her clothes, washed her face in the little hand basin, climbed into bed, and switched off the light. George remained in the dining car, drinking black coffee. Only after the last remaining customer had departed did he return to the compartment.

He slid the door open quietly and slipped inside, then stood still for a moment, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. He could see the outline of Ruth’s slim body under the sheet, and wanted to touch her. He took off his jacket, tie, trousers, shirt, and socks, and left them on the floor before climbing into bed. He wondered if Ruth was still awake.

“Good night, Mr. Mallory,” she said.

“Good night, Mrs. Mallory,” he replied. George slept soundly for the first time in three nights.

As George bent down to take his next shot, Turner said, “You wrote earlier in the week, Mallory, to say there was something of importance you wished to discuss with me.”

“Yes, indeed,” said George, as his cue ball disappeared into the nearest pocket.

“Another foul,” said Turner. He returned to the table and took his time piling up even more points, which only made George feel more and more inadequate.

“Yes, sir,” he finally managed, and then paused before adding, “I’m sure you must have noticed that I’ve been spending a lot of time with your daughter.”

“Which one?” asked Turner as George missed another shot. “Another foul. Are you hoping to score anything this evening, young man?”

“It was just, sir, just that…”

“You would like my blessing before you ask Ruth for her hand in marriage.”

“I’ve already asked her,” admitted George.

“I would hope so, Mallory. After all, you have already spent a night with her.”

When George had woken after that night it was pitch dark. He leaned forward and pushed the blind to one side to observe the first rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon: a joyful sight for any mountaineer.

He slipped quietly out of bed, felt around on the floor for his pants and slipped them on. Next he located the rest of his clothes. Not too difficult an exercise when you’re used to sleeping in a small tent with only a candle to see by. George quietly slid open the compartment door and stepped outside. He looked up and down the corridor, thankful that no one was in sight. He quickly did up his shirt, pulled on his trousers and socks, tied his tie, and slipped on his jacket. When he strolled into the dining car, the attendants laying the tables for breakfast were surprised to see a first-class passenger so early in the morning.

“Good morning, sir,” said a waiter who was staring at Mallory’s trousers, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Good morning,” said George, and two paces later realized his fly buttons were undone. He laughed, did them up, and hurried through the dining car in search of a morning paper.

It wasn’t until he reached carriage K that he came across the newspaper kiosk. The sign in the window read
Chiuso
, but George could see a young man standing behind the counter undoing the thick string from around a pile of newspapers. He stared at the front page in disbelief. He could only just recognize himself in the blurred photograph, but even with his limited command of Italian he could translate the headline:
Police seek mystery climber of St. Mark’s Basilica
.

He pointed to the pile of newspapers, and the assistant reluctantly unlocked the door.

“How many copies of that paper do you have?”

“Twenty, sir,” he replied.

“I’ll take all of them,” said George.

The assistant looked uncertain, but when George handed over the cash, he shrugged his shoulders and deposited the money in the till.

George was admiring a piece of jewelry in the display cabinet when the assistant handed back his change. “How much is that?” he asked, pointing to one of the velvet stands.

“Which currency, sir?”

“Pounds,” replied George, taking out his checkbook.

The young man ran his finger down a line of figures on a card attached to the back wall. “Thirty-two pounds, sir.”

George wrote out a check for next month’s salary, while the assistant wrapped the tiny gift.

George made his way back to the dining car with the papers under one arm, having put the gift in his jacket pocket. As he entered the next carriage, he glanced up and down the corridor again. Still no one around. He slipped into the nearest lavatory and spent the next few minutes tearing off the front page of every paper, except one, and considerably longer flushing them down the lavatory. The moment he’d seen the last headline disappear, he unlocked the door and stepped back into the corridor. As George continued on toward the dining car, he dropped a copy of the morning paper on the floor outside each stateroom.

“But, sir, I can explain how that happened,” protested George as the object ball bounced off the table and ran along the floor.

“Another foul,” said Turner, picking up the ball and placing it back on the baize. “I don’t require an explanation, Mallory, but what are your prospects?”

“As you know, sir, I’m on the teaching staff at Charterhouse, where my current salary is three hundred and seventy-five pounds a year.”

“That’s certainly not enough to keep one of my daughters in the style they’ve grown accustomed to,” said Turner. “Do you by any chance have a private income?”

“No, sir, I do not. My father is a parish priest who had four children to bring up.”

“Then I shall settle seven hundred and fifty pounds a year on Ruth, and give her a house as a wedding present. Should there be any offspring, I shall pay for their education.”

“I could never marry a girl who had a private income,” said George haughtily.

“You couldn’t marry Ruth if she
didn’t
have one,” said Turner as he cannoned successfully off the red.

George sat alone and sipped his coffee while he waited for Ruth to join him. Was there really a beautiful woman asleep in compartment B11, or was he about to wake from his dream and find himself locked up in an Italian jail, with no Mr. Irving to rescue him?

Several other passengers had appeared and were enjoying their breakfast, although the waiters were unable to explain why their morning papers didn’t have a front page. When Ruth walked into the dining car, George had only one thought: I’m going to have breakfast with this woman every morning for the rest of my life.

“Good morning, Mrs. Mallory,” he said as he rose from his side of the table and took her in his arms. “Do you begin to know how much I love you?” he added before kissing her.

Ruth blushed at the disapproving stares from a few of the older passengers.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t kiss in public, George.”

“You were happy enough to kiss me yesterday in front of a policeman,” George reminded her as he sat back down.

“But only because I was trying to stop you being arrested.”

The waiter joined them and smiled ingratiatingly. After all, they were used to honeymoon couples on the Orient Express.

After the two of them had given their breakfast orders, George slid the front page of the morning paper across the table.

“Nice photograph, Mr. Mallory,” Ruth whispered once she’d read the headline. “And if it isn’t bad enough for a girl to be compromised on her first date, I now seem to be harboring a fugitive. So the first thing my father will want to know is whether your intentions are honorable, or can I only hope to be a criminal’s moll?”