Were the dead any more alone than the living? Her parents went to church most Sundays. But then, her father was a British diplomat, a very senior one. It was expected of him. They had never discussed what he really believed; it was one of the many things they did not talk about. Was that because he was so sure? Or because he had no belief at all? Or was religion just something proper Englishmen did not speak about? Too private? Too important?
Or of no importance at all?
Her mother was different. But then, Americans were more open about such things, even well-bred New Englanders like Katherine. But what did that mean, beyond that she wanted to believe? Perhaps “needed to” would be more accurate.
Her grandfather did not believe in a life after death. Elena knew that. Any kind of organized religion met with his quiet anger for all the judgment it exercised, without right and far too often, he believed, without kindness. Kindness was what he believed in. She knew that from observing him. Kindness, and tolerance of difference, understanding that so many acts of bad behavior were caused by ignorance and pain rather than a decision to be wicked. But what comfort was that when you were torn apart by the anguish of loss, and all you needed to believe was that it was not forever? That there was a God who would take care of those who had slipped beyond your grasp, beyond your heart. Like Mike. And now like Ian.
There was a sharp rap on the compartment door. She reached out to open it, then froze. What if it was not Walter? What if it was another passenger looking for a space to sit? Or a ticket inspector?
She had to clear her throat to make her voice audible. “Who is it?”
“Walter. Open the door, it’s all clear.”
She undid the latch and threw it back so hard it wrenched her shoulder. Walter was standing in the corridor, the darkness in the windows beyond reflecting him like a mirror.
“Come on,” he said urgently. “It’s vacant now. We must be quick.” He had her coat across his arm and her smallest case in his hand. “Come on!” he said again, even more sharply.
She slipped out and slammed the door behind her. There was no time for goodbyes or looking back. She went past Walter, along the corridor and into the lavatory, and locked the door. It was a tiny cubicle barely large enough for its purpose, and it was awkward to undo her dress and take it off over her head, but there was no alternative. Thank goodness, the hot tap actually did run hot water, but there was no soap. First, she washed herself. There was blood on her hands and arms, and it had soaked through her dress in places onto her body. She used a handkerchief to scrub it off the best she could. It took three bowls of water, then a fourth, to wash her dress beyond the first deep, wet stains. It would not all come out. Perhaps it never would. But then, she would never want to wear it again anyway, once she had another! She should have asked Walter to open her case and find her a different one, but he couldn’t be caug
ht doing it, or that would be the end of both of them. They could hardly explain!
She started scrubbing hard and her mind wandered. The bloodstains were coming out, but it was not good enough yet.
She must be quick. Someone else might want the lavatory. And when they reached the station they must get off. She could already feel the train slowing down.
She wrung out her dress, then, shaking with cold, slid the wet fabric over her shoulders. It stuck to her like icy fingers and she almost tore it, pulling it down. It must look dreadful, but anything was better than the blood.
For a moment, panic almost suffocated her. She took a few slow, deep breaths and opened the door. She saw Walter only a yard or two away. He had her coat over his arm, and as soon as she was out of the door, he held it up and she slipped her arms into it, then fastened it in front. Fortunately, it was a full-length coat, falling a few inches past her knees, like her dress when it was dry, not clinging to her like a freezing shroud.
The train was slowing down very noticeably now. She had her handbag with her—she would not have left the compartment without it—but what about her other cases? Above all, her camera!
“I must—” she started, turning to go back.
He caught her arm, holding it hard. “No! We can’t go back there. As soon as the train stops we must go—quickly.”
“I’ve got to get my cases,” she insisted.
He did not ease his grip. “Elena! We can’t carry more than one each. We will have to hurry. Maybe run.”
“But my camera. I can’t leave it!”
“I know. The Leica. I put it into this case, and some clothes back into the big one. I’m sorry, but we can’t worry about what’s lost now. You’ve got your camera and your passport, and some money. Above all, you’ve got your life. So far, the police don’t know anything about you, but they will. People will remember you, and that you were with Newton. You’re a noticeable woman.” He kept his voice low, perhaps trying to keep the anger out of it, but the fear was unmistakable.
“I’m sorry…” She was. After all, he did not need to have done anything to help her. He did not have to believe that she had not somehow killed Ian herself! He did not ask for gratitude, but he deserved at least compliance, and some sense of preservation for herself, because she was now implicating him, too. Who knew what the police might make of her with Ian, and now with Walter? And who could blame them?
She would have waited and explained, even if it had taken days, if she did not have a far more important promise to keep. And she could not help the police. She had no idea who had killed Ian, and she realized now she had not even searched to see if he had been robbed. Maybe the murderer was the same person who had killed the man in the hotel cupboard?
“Come on,” Walter said more gently. “We need to be the first off the train, and be as far away from it as possible, before anyone discovers there’s been a death. Just take your handbag. I’ll carry the cases. Keep your head down, don’t look at anyone. Behave as if we’re hurrying to get the next train to…wherever. We need to know, so we make for the right platform. There won’t be a lot of choice. God knows where we are, but we can’t stay on this train.”
“Berlin,” she said without hesitation. “I need to get to Berlin. I’ve…I’ve got some work to do there. It’s important.” Did that sound cold-blooded? Work? When Ian had just died? But she could not explain.
“It’s even more important that we get off the platform and away from this train,” he reminded her. “But don’t worry. I’ve done a lot of traveling in this area. We’ll find a train, but it would be better if we got the very first one out of here, even if we only go one stop, then change. It’s—”
“I know,” she said quickly. “I understand.”
The train jolted and slowed once more.
Elena nearly lost her balance and was grateful for Walter’s arm around her. She would draw attention to herself if she collapsed in the doorway. She wanted to be invisible. In fact, she wanted to wake up and discover this had all been some frightful nightmare, and she was so cold only because she had lost the cover in bed. Finding Ian bleeding to death, the horror, the grief, and now the wet clothing sticking to her—it would all vanish.