The Mystery of the Blue Train (6 page)

Ten

O
N THE
B
LUE
T
RAIN

“
D
ad!”

Mrs. Kettering started violently. Her nerves were not completely under control this morning. Very perfectly dressed in a long mink coat and a little hat of Chinese lacquer red, she had been walking along the crowded platform of Victoria deep in thought, and her father's sudden appearance and hearty greeting had an
unlooked
-for effect upon her.

“Why, Ruth, how you jumped!”

“I didn't expect to see you, I suppose, Dad. You said good-bye to me last night and said you had a conference this morning.”

“So I have,” said Van Aldin, “but you are more to me than any number of darned conferences. I came to take a last look at you, since I am not going to see you for some time.”

“That is very sweet of you, Dad. I wish you were coming too.”

“What would you say if I did?”

The remark was merely a joking one. He was surprised to see the quick colour of flame in Ruth's cheeks. For a moment he almost thought he saw dismay flash out of her eyes. She laughed uncertainly and nervously.

“Just for a moment I really thought you meant it,” she said.

“Would you have been pleased?”

“Of course.” She spoke with exaggerated emphasis.

“Well,” said Van Aldin, “that's good.”

“It isn't really for very long, Dad,” continued Ruth; “you know, you are coming out next month.”

“Ah!” said Van Aldin unemotionally, “sometimes I guess I will go to one of these big guys in Harley Street and have him tell me that I need sunshine and change of air right away.”

“Don't be so lazy,” cried Ruth; “next month is ever so much nicer than this month out there. You have got all sorts of things you can't possibly leave just now.”

“Well, that's so, I suppose,” said Van Aldin, with a sigh. “You had better be getting on board this train of yours, Ruth. Where is your seat?”

Ruth Kettering looked vaguely up at the train. At the door of one of the Pullman cars a thin, tall woman dressed in black was standing—Ruth Kettering's maid. She drew aside as her mistress came up to her.

“I have put your dressing case under your seat, Madam, in case you should need it. Shall I take the rugs, or will you require one?”

“No, no, I shan't want one. Better go and find your own seat now, Mason.”

“Yes, Madam.”

The maid departed.

Van Aldin entered the Pullman car with Ruth. She found her seat, and Van Aldin deposited various papers and magazines on the table in front of her. The seat opposite to her was already taken, and the American gave a cursory glance at its occupant. He had a fleeting impression of attractive grey eyes and a neat travelling costume. He indulged in a little more desultory conversation with Ruth, the kind of talk peculiar to those seeing other people off by train.

Presently, as whistles blew, he glanced at his watch.

“I had best be clearing out of here. Good-bye, my dear. Don't worry. I will attend to things.”

“Oh, Father!”

He turned back sharply. There had been something in Ruth's voice, something so entirely foreign to her usual manner, that he was startled. It was almost a cry of despair. She had made an impulsive movement towards him, but in another minute she was mistress of herself once more.

“Till next month,” she said carefully.

Two minutes later the train started.

Ruth sat very still, biting her under lip and trying hard to keep the unaccustomed tears from her eyes. She felt a sudden sense of horrible desolation. There was a wild longing upon her to jump out of the train and to go back before it was too late. She, so calm, so self-assured, for the first time in her life felt like a leaf swept by the wind. If her father knew—what would he say?

Madness! Yes, just that, madness! For the first time in her life she was swept away by emotion, swept away to the point of doing a thing which even she knew to be incredibly foolish and reckless. She was enough Van Aldin's daughter to realize her own folly, and levelheaded enough to condemn her own action. But she was his daughter in another sense also. She had that same iron determination that would have what it wanted, and once it had made up its mind would not be balked. From her cradle she had been self-willed; the very circumstances of her life had developed that self-will in her. It drove her now remorselessly. Well, the die was cast. She must go through with it now.

She looked up, and her eyes met those of the woman sitting opposite. She had a sudden fancy that in some way this other woman had read her mind. She saw in those grey eyes understanding and—yes—compassion.

It was only a fleeting impression. The faces of both women hardened to well-bred impassiveness. Mrs. Kettering took up a magazine, and Katherine Grey looked out of the window and watched a seemingly endless vista of depressing streets and suburban homes.

Ruth found an increasing difficulty in fixing her mind on the printed page in front of her. In spite of herself, a thousand apprehensions preyed on her mind. What a fool she had been! What a fool she was! Like all cool and self-sufficient people, when she did lose her self-control she lost it thoroughly. It was too late . . . Was it too late? Oh, for someone to speak to, for someone to advise her. She had never before had such a wish; she would have scorned the idea of relying on any judgment other than her own, but now—what was the matter with her? Panic. Yes, that would describe it best—panic. She, Ruth Kettering, was completely and utterly panic stricken.

She stole a covert glance at the figure opposite. If only she knew someone like that, some nice, cool, calm sympathetic creature. That was the sort of person one could talk to. But you can't, of course, confide in a stranger. And Ruth smiled to herself a little at the idea. She picked up the magazine again. Really she must control herself. After all she had thought all this out. She had decided of her own free will. What happiness had she ever had in her life up to now? She said to herself restlessly: “Why shouldn't I be happy? No one will ever know.”

It seemed no time before Dover was reached. Ruth was a good sailor. She disliked the cold, and was glad to reach the shelter of the private cabin she had telegraphed for. Although she would not have admitted the fact, Ruth was in some ways superstitious. She was of the order of people to whom coincidence appeals. After disembarking at Calais and settling herself down with her maid in her double compartment in the Blue Train, she went along to the luncheon car. It was with a little shock of surprise that she found herself set down to a small table with, opposite her, the same woman who had been her
vis-à-vis
in the Pullman. A faint smile came to the lips of both women.

“This is quite a coincidence,” said Mrs. Kettering.

“I know,” said Katherine; “it is odd the way things happen.”

A flying attendant shot up to them with the wonderful velocity always displayed by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits and deposited two cups of soup. By the time the omelette succeeded the soup they were chatting together in friendly fashion.

“It will be heavenly to get into the sunshine,” sighed Ruth.

“I am sure it will be a wonderful feeling.”

“You know the Riviera well?”

“No; this is my first visit.”

“Fancy that.”

“You go every year, I expect?”

“Practically. January and February in London are horrible.”

“I have always lived in the country. They are not very inspiring months there either. Mostly mud.”

“What made you suddenly decide to travel?”

“Money,” said Katherine. “For ten years I have been a paid companion with just enough money of my own to buy myself strong country shoes; now I have been left what seems to me a fortune, though I daresay it would not seem so much to you.”

“Now I wonder why you said that—that it would not seem so to me.”

Katherine laughed. “I don't really know. I suppose one forms impressions without thinking of it. I put you down in my own mind as one of the very rich of the earth. It was just an impression. I daresay I am wrong.”

“No,” said Ruth, “you are not wrong.” She had suddenly become very grave. “I wish you would tell me what other impressions you formed about me.”

“I—”

Ruth swept on, disregarding the other's embarrassment. “Oh, please, don't be conventional. I want to know. As we left Victoria I looked across at you, and I had the sort of feeling that you—well, understood what was going on in my mind.”

“I can assure you I am not a mind reader,” said Katherine smiling.

“No, but will you tell me, please, just what you thought.” Ruth's eagerness was so intense and so sincere that she carried her point.

“I will tell you if you like, but you must not think me impertinent. I thought that for some reason you were in great distress of mind, and I was sorry for you.”

“You are right. You are quite right. I am in terrible trouble. I—I should like to tell you something about it, if I may.”

“Oh, dear,” Katherine thought to herself, “how extraordinarily alike the world seems to be everywhere! People were always telling me things in St. Mary Mead, and it is just the same thing here, and I don't really want to hear anybody's troubles!”

She replied politely:

“Do tell me.”

They were just finishing their lunch. Ruth gulped down her coffee, rose from her seat, and quite oblivious of the fact that Katherine had not begun to sip her coffee, said: “Come to my compartment with me.”

They were two single compartments with a communicating door between them. In the second of them a thin maid, whom Katherine had noticed at Victoria, was sitting very upright on the seat, clutching a big scarlet morocco case with the initials R. V. K. on it. Mrs. Kettering pulled the communicating door to and sank down on the seat. Katherine sat down beside her.

“I am in trouble and I don't know what to do. There is a man whom I am fond of—very fond of indeed. We cared for each other when we were young, and we were thrust apart most brutally and unjustly. Now we have come together again.”

“Yes?”

“I—I am going to meet him now. Oh! I daresay you think it is all wrong, but you don't know the circumstances. My husband is impossible. He has treated me disgracefully.”

“Yes,” said Katherine again.

“What I feel so badly about is this. I have deceived my father—it was he who came to see me off at Victoria today. He wishes me to divorce my husband, and, of course, he has no idea—that I am going to meet this other man. He would think it extraordinarily foolish.”

“Well, don't you think it is?”

“I—I suppose it is.”

Ruth Kettering looked down at her hands; they were shaking violently.

“But I can't draw back now.”

“Why not?”

“I—it is all arranged, and it would break his heart.”

“Don't you believe it,” said Katherine robustly; “hearts are pretty tough.”

“He will think I have no courage, no strength of purpose.”

“It seems to me an awfully silly thing that you are going to do,” said Katherine. “I think you realize that yourself.”

Ruth Kettering buried her face in her hands. “I don't know—I don't know. Ever since I left Victoria I have had a horrible feeling of something—something that is coming to me very soon—that I can't escape.”

She clutched convulsively at Katherine's hand.

“You must think I am mad talking to you like this, but I tell you I know something horrible is going to happen.”

“Don't think it,” said Katherine; “try to pull yourself together. You could send your father a wire from Paris, if you like, and he would come to you at once.”

The other brightened.

“Yes, I could do that. Dear old Dad. It is queer—but I never knew until today how terribly fond of him I am.” She sat up and dried her eyes with a handkerchief. “I have been very foolish. Thank you so much for letting me talk to you. I don't know why I got into such a queer, hysterical state.”

She got up. “I am quite all right now. I suppose, really, I just needed someone to talk to. I can't think now why I have been making such an absolute fool of myself.”

Katherine got up too.

“I am glad you feel better,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as conventional as possible. She was only too well aware that the aftermath of confidences is embarrassment. She added tactfully:

“I must be going back to my own compartment.”

She emerged into the corridor at the same time as the maid was also coming out from the next door. The latter looked towards Katherine, over her shoulder, and an expression of intense surprise showed itself on her face. Katherine turned also, but by that time whoever it was who had aroused the maid's interest had retreated into his or her compartment, and the corridor was empty. Katherine walked down it to regain her own place, which was in the next coach. As she passed the end compartment the door opened and a woman's face looked out for a moment and then pulled the door to sharply. It was a face not easily forgotten, as Katherine was to know when she saw it again. A beautiful face, oval and dark, very heavily made-up in a bizarre fashion. Katherine had a feeling that she had seen it before somewhere.

She regained her own compartment without other adventure and sat for some time thinking of the confidence which had just been made to her. She wondered idly who the woman in the mink coat might be, wondered also how the end of her story would turn out.

“If I had stopped anyone from making an idiot of themselves, I suppose I have done good work,” she thought to herself. “But who knows? That is the kind of woman who is hardheaded and egotistical all her life, and it might be good for her to do the other sort of thing for a change. Oh, well—I don't suppose I shall ever see her again. She certainly won't want to see
me again.
That is the worst of letting people tell you things. They never do.”