The River Horse Tsar: The Thrilling Adventures of the Most Dangerous Woman in Europe, #6

By Brenda W. Clough

A desperate father hides a little slip of solid gold in the back of an artist's canvas.

It is a token, the clue to a vast international conspiracy to assassinate a world leader and change the course of the 19th century. A train crash puts it into the hands of Marian Halcombe Camlet and Walter Hartright.

They unravel its secrets in a breakneck chase that takes them across Europe, through kidnappings, catacombs and nunneries, a major project to domesticate the hippopotamus for the British Army and, at the last, deep into the depths of the cruel dilemmas of women. Even the most dangerous woman in Europe can do only so much, when every law in Victoria's Britain is weighted in favor of men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda W. Clough
• Release date: Jun 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781611389579

Brenda W. Clough

Brenda W. Clough is the first female Asian-American SF writer, first appearing in print in 1984. Her novella ‘May Be Some Time’ was a finalist for both the Hugo and the Nebula awards and became the novel Revise the World. Her latest time travel trilogy is Edge to Center, available at Book View Café. Marian Halcombe, a series of eleven neo-Victorian thrillers appeared in 2021.  Her complete bibliography is up on her web page, brendaclough.net

Book preview

Book 1

From the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet

The Times of London

5 April 1866

A dastardly attempt was made yesterday upon the life of His Imperial Highness Alexander II, Tsar of all the Russias. The tsar was assailed as he was leaving the Summer Gardens in St. Petersburg. An attacker armed with a pistol fired upon him as he was departing in his carriage, but the imperial coachman was able to lash the horses into a gallop and thus saved the monarch’s life. The perpetrator was immediately dragged down by outraged bystanders and arrested. A wider conspiracy is being laid bare by the energies of the Imperial Ministry of Internal Affairs…

Walter Hartright’s narrative

My artist friend Albert Moore was determined to secure me a fair shake. Tcha, Dunsfold, he said. Was not your late lamented father my favourite colourman? And Hartright here’s been a member of the Mahlstick Club since Hector was a pup. Certainly he should get the professional discount.

Harassed, the boyish shopkeeper said, Of course, sir, of course. Your pardon, Mr. Hartright. Shall it be these paints, then?

My condolences on your bereavement, I said kindly. A shocking thing. I read of the crime in the papers. The elder Dunsfold had been murdered in the street a fortnight ago, and the lad wore a bit of crape around his arm. No apology is called for. I haven’t painted professionally in years. I mulled upon my selection of a dozen or so oil-paint tubes on the shop counter. A canvas. A large one.

By all means, sir. Shall our largest standard size be sufficient? It measures 45 inches by 39.

The shop was an old-fashioned warren of artists’ materials. There were brushes in racks or tied in bundles, cabinets of wide shallow drawers to hold expensive imported drawing papers, ranks of cubbyholes from which the ends of pencils peeped, jugs of linseed oil, boxes of crayon, tins of turpentine, colourants in jars and drawers: the ten thousand thrilling tools of my former trade. I looked up at the rack of prepared canvases. Too small. A custom job then. I need it to be at least sixty inches.

Ambitious, Hartright. Moore came only up to my shoulder, but at this period was sufficiently prosperous with his portrait painting to have grown a comfortable double chin. Landscape?

No, I’m poaching on your territory. It began as a portrait of my sister-in-law.

Mmm. Moore nodded. Mrs. Marian Halcombe Camlet, I remember. Fascinating woman.

No beauty, but I agree her face is interesting.

Moore’s plaint was from the heart. You can’t conceive how many pudding-faced men and cow-like women there are in London. I’ve painted them all. And children like piglets. It was a distinct relief to portray Mrs. Camlet. Turned out quite well, too. Fuchsia silk’s always amusing to render. Mr. Camlet has it in his office. Is yours to be full-length?

You might call it that. I began by sketching her while she was asleep in bed. The drama of the pose, her loosened hair falling over the edge to form a great black pool on the floor – it was irresistible.

Women abed. Moore approved. Always popular with buyers.

"But like a fool I titled it Sleeping Beauty."

Not so dusty, in my humble opinion, Moore said. Makes the viewer look twice. She’s not your conventional stunner, with that square jaw and swarthy complexion, but even more attractive.

She vehemently disagreed. Scolded me up one side and down the other, denouncing it as false advertising and sharp practice. I fobbed her off by telling her it was a sketch for a larger conception. My notion now is to turn the figure into a sleeping German warrior maiden, and perhaps add another figure, a Siegfried, to her Brunhild.

Ah! Mythological matters, the coming thing.

The bed curtains can become walls of flame, and there’ll be armor, gems, and such. A technical challenge shall be good for me.

Moore grunted. Splash out and show what you can do.

But to get all the gubbins in, I need elbow room. How long shall a custom panel take? I added to the youthful shopkeeper.

Wouldn’t take our artificer but a fortnight, sir.

Too long. Laura had come up to town to consult a dentist, and incidentally attend Parents’ Day at Marlborough, where our son Wally was a pupil. In a day or so Marian was to take her two younger children and return with Laura to Limmeridge for a visit. The ladies would carry all these supplies back to Cumberland for me. My London rooms had neither the light nor space for a studio, and my time in town was solely dedicated to my duties as a member of Parliament. Perhaps I can find one elsewhere, I mused.

Young Dunsfold’s boyish treble warbled in his haste. My mother the manager is not in, sir. But I happen to know of a canvas, ordered but never paid for, in the back. I’m confident she would approve of its sale to you. It’s 65 by 50, somewhat larger than you require, sir. But if you would care to inspect it?

Bring it out, by all means.

Moore was stern. It had better be solidly morticed and braced. None of your patchwork! And the canvas without any flaws. Don’t want a defective reject foisted off on you, he added to me.

The panel was carried out by two of the smallest shop boys I had ever seen, probably more Dunsfold sons. They set it on the floor, leaning it against the counter so that the light trickling in from the rain-wrinkled bow window could fall full upon the fabric surface. It appeared quite pristine. The canvas was smoothly woven, awaiting its primer coat of base colour – white? Perhaps primrose yellow would be better, to lend punch to the flames.

The fabric was tautly and evenly fastened on all four edges. I tipped the chest-high canvas forward so that I could inspect the back. At the beginning of Victoria’s reign when my father was a drawing master, oil paintings were executed upon actual wooden boards, and occasionally smaller ones still are. Venetian artists invented the canvas tacked over sturdy wooden stretcher bars, lighter, cheaper, and easier to construct.

Because of its size this frame was notably sturdy, the four sides braced by three crossing horizontal timbers and one vertical one. At every morticed joint and at all four corners, triangles of wood were nailed to keep the angles true and the entire framework rigid. As is customary, a square label was gummed over one of the central junctions. This proclaimed the name of the firm in curly letters: Dunsfold & Son, Artists’ Colourmen since 1839. When I leaned on it the frame betrayed no wobble or give. The entire thing was not heavy, but surpassingly awkward to handle, like a kite as large as a tabletop.

I gazed into the blank white surface again, and my fingers itched for the pencil or charcoal. The hero of Nordic legend, the great Volsung himself, seemed to hover on the verge of existence, with perhaps a sweeping cloak, leaning back in astonishment from the supine figure on the bed. A stormy Northern sky, to make the flames show up well…

It’s a monster, though, Moore said. We can’t possibly take it with us.

Can you have it crated for rail shipment, and delivered to my rooms? Safely, mind. And when the young shopkeeper promised it should be carefully boxed and carried to my rooms off St. James Street that very afternoon, the bargain was made. I left him my card and we stepped out from the comfortable linseed-oil fug into the April drizzle of Fitzroy Square. I owe you a drink, for introducing me to your favourite colourman. The one up in Carlisle is unreliable. The madder he sold me went orange after but two years, another reason I have to redo the picture.

Shameful! No, Dunsfold’s crimsons are stable as Gibraltar. One couldn’t use them otherwise; if their portraits fade or turn purple my clients would yowl. Let it be your club, then. You fly high these days, Hartright, and some political custom would be very welcome.

What, even if they have faces like puddings?

Needs must, when the devil drives. Mrs. M is in the family way, did you hear? It was too wet to walk, so we hailed a hansom and were off to the Reform Club.

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

28 April, 1866

I write this in our first-class rail compartment on our way north. Laura and I are bringing only my little daughter Merry after all. My five-year-old William developed the measles yesterday. A light case, but so tiresomely contagious that my son must stay at home. The older three already had it, and are safely immured at their schools. All of Theo’s children have inherited his intelligence, but can it be prudent for Lottie to give her younger sister a copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman? Lester is only eight! Surely she’s too young for such an alarming work. At least I shall read it before passing it to her.

What a deal of luggage Laura travels with these days! I had assumed that she was bringing down more clothing for the boys, but these black-painted tin trunks with their curved lids, the massive leather trunks, the hat cases, all are hers. And she had an equally heavy baggage of worry. "I was horrified to read in the News that Marlborough is held to be one of the harshest schools in Britain. Oh Marian, and our sons are there!" Fair and fragile, my beautiful sister never looks on the bright side.

But they’re thriving, I pointed out. Wally has made a host of friends and plays cricket. And you may always rely upon his older cousin Micah to watch over him.

Mr. Trollope’s brother was of no protection to him, when they were at Winchester.

I took refuge in the incontrovertible. We were there, my love, for Parents’ Day. Such a clamour about rugger and the school play I never heard. Then I added, It’s hard, when your darlings move away from home and hearth into a larger life. When Micah went to boarding school, that first day in his Marlborough jacket? I cried on the railway platform, Laura, truly I did. Though he is Theo’s son I love him like my own. And you remember what a calamity his first venture out of the nest was. But it was different this time, better. He didn’t even look back at us. He was off, to woods and pastures new. And Theo told me that young birds must fly.

Your husband is so wise, Laura admitted. Yes, that’s the root of my trouble, I know. If only my dear ones could always stay close by me! But I know Wally needed to go. You, even, needed to fly.

And you let me. For I am notably plain, and had no dowry. With neither beauty nor fortune, I had never looked to marry. My life had been fixed in its spinster course until Laura urged me to open my mind to the notion. And with the thought came opportunity, and everything changed. For the better! Now I clasped my dearest sister’s hand. See how time brings us around again. We go to Limmeridge and it shall be as it was when we were girls, the two of us.

And Merry. She glanced fondly down at my pretty youngest. Laura has longed for a little girl of her own. But her health will not allow of another parturition, and so she spoils Merry instead. My daughter sat on the seat beside her aunt playing with her first doll. A real doll with a wax or china head is too fragile for a two-year-old. Inspired by the discovery of two grey shoe buttons in her button bag, Laura made a rag doll to resemble my grey-eyed Merry, knitting brown yarn and then unravelling it to make curly hair and stuffing the muslin body with fleece. Leftover calico sufficed for a wee gown, and she even contrived doll-sized leather boots by snipping the fingertips off an old pair of doeskin gloves.

I had to smile at the sentimentality of a doll version of my youngest. She shall be no trouble, with Miss Biddie to keep her in order. Miss Biddie the nursemaid and Laura’s maid Nettie were riding in a second-class compartment. What amusements shall we pursue? Shall Fairlie enjoy it, if I read aloud to us after supper? It’s spring now, and we can walk to church…

Thus I beguiled Laura with pleasant thoughts of the future. Left to her own devices she might fret herself into real illness. But I must put this journal away. Merry is tugging at my skirts.

29 April

Oh, what calamities yesterday held! I almost cannot bear to write of them. But Laura says events must portend that my little daughter is meant for great things. For otherwise why would the Lord have spread a hand of salvation over Merry? And once recorded in my journal, tragedies are over: confined, safe between the pages, so that I can go on.

I had just put a biscuit into Merry’s little hand when we were flung forward, hard. Laura, sitting with her back to the engine, almost caught me in her lap, and Merry bumped her head on the edge of the seat and set up a wail. But our surprised cries were entirely drowned out by the shriek of brakes. The first-class carriages are towards the rear of the train, to lessen the inconvenience of the smoke from the engine, and all the cars ahead of us crashed and shuddered against each other. The scream of steel on steel was deafening, racking our bodies, pouring through the very structure of the car, a terrifying harbinger of some awful impact.

It seemed to go on for an eternity, but surely was but a moment or two. And then the crash, infinitely worse! We scarcely had time to clutch each other in a panic before the fearsome impact came. We were flung around like toys. Our car, the entire train perhaps, lurched inexorably sideways off the rails.

There is a gap in my memory, but it is a small one. The next thing I knew, I was in the open air. I lay face down in thick frigid black mud. Fragments of clinker were everywhere, in my hair, scraping my cold palms. I had been thrown clear, to tumble down the railway embankment.

I staggered up, dragging my sodden skirts. Laura? Merry? For one fearful instant I was alone. But then beside me something surged and rose in the black mire. It was Laura! Oh sister, are you hurt?

I don’t know, Marian. What happened? Between the black smears her sky-blue eyes were glazed with shock.

A collision – oh God, but where’s Merry? I turned, and the terror of the spectacle almost made my knees buckle. Far down to my left our railway engine had collided with some cars blocking the line. The locomotive was shattered. Metal firetubes with a disturbing resemblance to intestines spurted out of the broken steel. Ominous steam poured up, billows of furious white against the steely afternoon sky mixing with the roiling black coal smoke. The cars behind the engine had been flung off the rails by the impact. Our own carriage was turned onto its side and slithered part-way down the muddy embankment. Everywhere there were injured and frightened passengers, crying out for help. Merry, I screamed. Merry!

Terror chilled me as I clawed back up the slippery slope. How could a child of two survive this? Laura and I had sat nearest the door. Merry had been on the inside. She must be trapped in the compartment.

The broken carriages were still coupled together, a bulky and dreadful necklace. As best I could in my shivering panic I fixed upon the right carriage from the several lying there. And our compartment, it had been second or third from the front.

Was that a childish cry? I pressed my chilly palms against a great metal panel that used to be the roof of the car. There were other screams, trapped and injured passengers crying for rescue. Behind me Laura called, Merry! Can you hear me?

Somehow having my sister at my back inspired me. I bent and gripped an edge. And I lifted it. Fear and love ignited in my heart so that I no longer felt the frost, and I had the fiery strength of Samson for that one instant. The entire section of roof rose a foot or two. Those within cried out in joy as they scrambled to safety. Beside me Laura cried, Merry, give me your hand, instantly! Yes, you must creep out!

With astounding daring Laura reached perilously in past my knees, and gripped a little hand. My little daughter slithered wailing out, down the muddy slope past my skirts, just in time. I had to let the roof fall. The gift of supernatural strength was for but a moment.

Is she injured? Don’t cry, dearest! Laura cried. Marian?

But I could not speak. I could no longer stand. Having expended all my power in a single titanic effort, I swooned dead away.

Walter Hartright’s narrative

I did not get word of the Thorleigh railway disaster until I returned to my rooms after a long day of House sessions. My landlady Mrs. Amalie met me at the door. Mr. Camlet’s just come, sir. Oh, terrible news! The train, there’s been a fearful accident!

I pounded up the stair to my sitting room, where a prosperous bespectacled businessman in a tweed Inverness and tall hat was just folding up a note. He had fawn-coloured hair and side whiskers elaborately barbered to swoop down and then up again into a moustache, but the dapper appearance was marred by a great scar across brow and eyelid. Thank God! my brother-in-law exclaimed. Swiftly, Hartright. We must be off. Marian and Laura’s train – there was a collision somewhere north of Manchester. His hand shook as he flung the note into the fire, and his voice wavered.

With great forethought Mrs. Amalie had flung a few necessary items into a carpetbag for me, and we hurried together to Euston station. Not until we boarded the next train north did I have the opportunity to ask for details.

There were of course none. It was too soon to learn if our loved ones were injured or dead. The very latest edition of the newspaper, purchased still damp from the presses just as the train pulled out, reported only the word of a collision in rural Lancashire.

My Laura. And your daughter. I shivered. Marian has survived astonishing perils. But Merry my little niece and god-daughter could not be so durable. And Laura has never entirely recovered from what was done to her by her first husband.

Camlet’s words were quiet only by force of will. We must pray the cup will pass. I emulated his self-control, not fretting him and myself with futile questions. We sat staring out into the swiftly-gathering April evening rigid with dread, as the miles and hours ticked past.

I pass over the inevitable delays when we arrived in Manchester late that night, the persuasions, bribery, demands and outright threats that got us onto the rescue train and eventually to a rainy rural siding somewhere south of Preston. By then it was the darkest hour. The first faint adumbrations of dawn outlined the slopes of the Pennines in the east. Rescue operations had been greatly impeded by the chilly wet darkness. The need was so desperate that the local rector had cited Luke 14:5, and cancelled Sunday services.

We climbed down and walked. Dozens walked with us, mill workers with tools and crowbars, doctors carrying black bags of medicaments, clergy to comfort the dying. In a long grim line we tramped through an unremitting drizzle along the railway track until we came to a shack by the side of the rail bed. The actual site of the disaster was some way further along.

We’ve some of the passengers here. The ones we could find, a weary signalman added, ominously. He held his lantern high so that we could clamber up onto the platform. A mere mail drop, the place had never been intended for passengers.

I shall recognise my wife, I said.

And I mine, Camlet said. And my daughter, a little girl with dark hair. They were attended by a maid and a nursemaid, but they were in a different carriage.

The fellow shook his head and pulled the door open. The space within was merely four wooden walls and a roof. Huddled within was a solid mass of misery, grimy men, weeping women and moaning children. Again the signalman held his lantern high. I saw no familiar glint of fair hair. If Laura were here and conscious she would be looking for me, as Marian would look to see Camlet. Two clergymen and a doctor pushed past to offer aid. If they aren’t here, then where? I demanded.

Trapped in the wreckage, sir.

Camlet’s barbered side whiskers shifted and bristled as he set his teeth. The same fearful thought dominated our minds. Trapped in a shattered carriage the women were probably dead or dying. She can survive much, my Marian, he said, more to himself than me. A tall woman, with black hair, he added to our guide.

And strong?

Yes, the strongest woman I know.

Suddenly he looked more closely at us. Come this way, sirs.

Around to the side was a tiny shed which served as an office. The signalman knocked. For a long moment there was no reply. Then very slowly the door opened a crack. There seemed to be nobody within. But then down near the level of my coat hem a bright grey eye peeped out.

Papa?

Merry! Camlet fell to his knees, and his daughter dashed squealing into his embrace.

I thrust the door open. And there on the floor lay Marian and Laura, asleep in each other’s arms. My cry of joy woke Laura. Walter! Oh, I knew you’d come!

All three were muddy from head to toe. Laura’s bonnet was gone, her fair hair a snarl, and she had cut her hands. Marian had lost a shoe and seemed to have a black eye. My heart was too full for speech. I paid not the least heed to the ruination of my coat as I hugged Laura, and she shed tears of joy onto my breast.

Camlet knelt beside his wife. Marian, Marian! Daughter, what happened to Mama? Can you say?

Mama lifted the carriage, Merry reported artlessly. And I fell out. But Nana is still lost, and Dolly.

This was not to be credited. The child’s spouting nonsense, I said.

No, Walter, it’s true, Lara wept. Indeed, it was Marian. Such was her emotion, she lifted the entire roof of the carriage. Perhaps half a dozen others escaped, and I was able to drag Merry out. But the strain – she was overwhelmed, and has not spoken since.

Camlet ran his hands over his wife as a miser might finger his hoard. Feel how cold her brow is. We must fetch help.

Let me summon a doctor. I could not bear to be parted from Laura, and gripped her to my side as I stepped out onto the siding again. The sun was about to rise. Helpers hurried past us, up the line to the site of the accident.

Laura’s mantle was dripping wet. I removed my own greatcoat and wrapped it around her, but she said, We must give this to Marian, Walter. They brought us to the separate room because she’s dying!

Camlet is with her, my dear. I’m certain his Inverness is keeping her warm.

A woman passing with two baskets suddenly looked up at me. Forgive my intrusion, sir, she said. But were you speaking of a Mr. Camlet?

She was soberly dressed, clearly respectable, so I replied, Yes. Mr. Theophilus Camlet, of Hampstead near London.

Oh! And he’s here?

We came to rescue our wives, I began.

One of Sensational Books’ aspiring authors? But before I could ask her name and business she said, Take me to him, I beg!

And perhaps you have water, Laura cried. My sister needs to drink, to have her wounds bathed!

We turned again to the shed building and again little Merry opened to us. The woman cried, Theo?

My brother looked up from bundling Marian into his Inverness. Helena?

Oh, my stars, it’s you!

Helena, what are you doing here in the wilds of Lancashire?

I live here. I mean, I live in Thorleigh village. You’ve had some rough knocks! And is this your wife, Theo? Your little girl?

Yes. I beg you, Helena, help me!

Of course, Theo. Let me fetch my husband. He’s a doctor. She handed the baskets to me and vanished.

Quickly, Walter, my wife cried. Perhaps there’s something of help in them.

As she delved rapidly through the baskets I said, Who was that, Camlet?

My childhood playfellow, Helena Deems. But I last heard of her in Wiltshire twenty years ago, when she married and removed to Avebury. Oh, thank God, Laura.

My dear wife held up a metal flask, clearly spirituous. Shake her and call her, Theo. I was able to rouse her but only for moments. If we could get her to take but a sip, it would strengthen her.

Marian, my love. Marian!

I assisted by gently chafing her chilly hands. Little Merry possibly was the more helpful, calling, Mama! Mama!

Marian’s eyelids fluttered. Theo?

Camlet pulled the cork. Drink, dearest. A sip, merely.

She’s taken but a drop, Laura protested. Another swallow, Marian, I implore you! But Marian’s eyelids closed as if the effort to keep them open was impossible to sustain. Camlet was obliged to pass the flask back.

He sat on the floor and held Marian, bundled in the coat in his lap to keep her from the chill, as we crouched around them. But little Merry tugged my sleeve. Unca Walter!

I rose to pick her up. The wan morning light from the doorway was dimmed. A group of the local men peered in, a few mill workers and a shepherd or two. It called for effort to parse the local accent: See,  ’tis old Nick! Come to carry the ugly witch away! Fetch the parson, and sharp about it!

Laura’s ear for northern dialect is more acute from spending so much of her life in Cumberland. This is my sister, and she is no witch!

She must be, one of them reasoned. If she could lift a railway carriage.

The others nodded, and an old man added, ’Tis Hell’s power, and only in the Evil One’s gift.

A Londoner, Camlet is no more familiar with the local accent than I. But his instinct for danger is sound. Hartright, is there trouble?

 I dared to glance back at him for an instant. The first ray of dawn picked out the lurid scar that marred brow and eyelid. Against the dimness of the shed it gave his entire countenance an inexpressibly evil air. Brother, do you have your stick?

He spoke with an annoying calm. Dear me, I believe I left it in your sitting room.

I was still holding Merry, who even though she was grimy and had begun to suck her thumb was a notably pretty tot. And Laura clung to my free arm. Between the three of us we blocked the doorway. To bullock me aside might be possible, but it would take an active malice to attack a respectable woman and a little girl.

I put my reliance upon the innate decency of the Englishman. Come, come, I said in soothing tones. We’re a modern and civilised nation, and this is the 19th century. When was the last time anyone in England was accused of witchcraft? It must be a century and a half at least.

How d’ye know?

I’m a Member of Parliament, so you may take my word for it. I put all the conviction at my command into the words. I am a politician now, able to persuade. And certainly it’s a good notion to consult your pastor, and get his learned opinion. Is he here? Let him be fetched, if so.

As is so often the case in government, delay was a perfectly effective tactic. A lengthy debate ensued about which local clergy should best be consulted, where they were, and who should be sent to fetch them. Before any conclusion could be achieved Camlet’s woman friend returned, bringing a man in a brown tweed greatcoat.

What is this, eh? he demanded. "Clitheroe, what’s to do?’

Dr. Knyvett, sir, this lady called upon the dark powers!

She lifted the railway carriage, a mere woman.

Except she can’t be a mere woman, with that face. She must be a minion of Satan.

Or an angel, I put in.

My gentlemanly accents made the newcomer glance at me. I know these villagers. But you, sir, are? He spoke like an educated man, but his voice was rough, as if he had a cold.

I introduced myself and presented my wife. And my brother-in-law, Mr. Camlet.

Theophilus, Mrs. Knyvett added. Roland, I’ve known Theo since I was seven.

How do you do, Camlet said from his seat on the floor. Dr. Knyvett, is it?

The doctor was dark-haired and sturdy, with the solid strength of a yeoman farmer and a firm gaze under stern shaggy eyebrows. Indeed, and I am the village doctor in Thorleigh, Mr. Camlet. With your permission I shall examine your wife.

Everyone watched closely as Dr. Knyvett pulled off his gloves. He took Marian’s pulse and pressed his thick fingers against her forehead. Laura said, She did indeed lift the roof of the car, doctor. But it was to save her little daughter here.

Pooh, it was no miracle, Dr. Knyvett said, rising. In my professional opinion, this is an ordinary woman. It’s not unknown for a person under the stress of some great emotion to wield the strength of three men. Even you, Clitheroe, could do it. Not for your dog, or for me, but for some person most dear to you, Annie perhaps, or little Joe. And naturally, after expending such a titanic effort, the wielder of the power must recover.

She collapsed directly after, and has only been conscious for moments since, Laura affirmed.

Not a scrap wrong with her but exhaustion.

We’ll nurse her back to health, Mrs. Knyvett cried. Theo, Roland has given me permission to offer you the hospitality of our home.

You’re an answer to prayer, Helena, Camlet replied. Doctor, you are the soul of Christian kindness, and I hasten to accept your generous offer.

My carriage is down by the road, the doctor replied. Let us have Mrs. Camlet carried down to it. Mrs. Knyvett, I leave the management of the task to you. I must be off to see to the wounded.

Though Marian is both tall and of a good figure, lifting her limp form was easily done by using Camlet’s Inverness for a stretcher, several men holding it by the edges on either side. Camlet followed carrying his daughter, and I held Laura’s arm. With her local knowledge, Mrs. Knyvett selected and supervised the carriers, and led the cavalcade. You felt no fear, I said to Camlet.

No, I was armed.

You were what?

I was holding Marian’s revolver, in her skirt holster. He grinned at me over Merry’s curly head. She demonstrated the way of it in Aquileia. You need not even pull the piece out of your pocket. If the target comes close enough, you can fire right through the garment.

Did you cock it? His startled glance made me sigh; plainly the preliminaries were unknown to him.

We tramped a mile along sheep tracks and across pasture to the nearest country lane. This was crowded with the wagons and carriages of local rescuers, and we had to walk a good way before coming to the doctor’s gig.

An hour’s drive brought us into Thorleigh. This was a typical industrial village of the region, mean brick terraces rapidly thrown up to house a burgeoning work force. The local ribbon manufactory employed men, women, and even the older children, but since it was Sunday the lanes were busy and the wives were gossiping by the town pump near the church. We halted in a side square at an older stone house. I helped to carry Marian in and saw Laura into a hot bath. Then I addressed Camlet. You’re able to manage here, brother?

Certainly. Marian shall be put to bed, Laura must get well warmed, and all must be fed. With Helena’s kind help we shall do well. You intend to go back?

Yes, Dr. Knyvett shall want his carriage to return home in. There may well be assistance I can offer to the victims. And it’s surely my duty to learn the fate of Netty and Miss Biddie.

And Dolly, little Merry cried.

Pray God they live, Camlet agreed. And secure the baggage, if you can. Helena is sharing her very stockings.

 A word in your ear, then. Before they take away her gown? Remove Marian’s revolver. He gripped my shoulder in silent thanks.

It was not yet noon. I drove back to the lane and walked to the accident site. Assiduous inquiry discovered Miss Biddie about to be removed to the hospital in Preston. She had sustained a broken leg and concussion. The body of Laura’s maid Nettie was excavated from the wreckage and taken to the morgue.

When the men with horses began to drag the wreckage aside to clear the line there was less for unskilled helpers to do, and I found time to seek the baggage. I was pleased to find my wife’s trunks all to hand. The unlabelled oddments gathered up from the shattered compartments were laid out on the trampled wet grass. I recognised and claimed Marian’s rosewood writing desk, scratched but still intact. It was such a part of her, it was queer to see it here. I did not dare open it, but when I gave it a shake I could feel the thump of her journal inside. And a crushed and dirty handful of familiar calico and brown yarn was my niece’s rag doll.

This great flat rectangular parcel was my canvas. Young Dunsfold had been good as his word. It had been carefully encased in a crate as large as a tabletop. The crate had then been tightly sewn up in hessian, enveloped in tarpaulin, and stoutly corded in all directions, to survive any ordinary shipping.

But when the cars were flung off the rails the unwieldy parcel had tumbled along with everything else. A great gash had been scraped across the enveloping tarpaulin. I examined the damage and realised with relief that this was the back of the panel. The front side was still safely protected. Some of the crate’s boards were broken, and I was about to shift the cording over to keep them from falling away.

Then, peering into the gap, I saw the square Dunsfold label half torn away. And behind it, on the bare wood, was a glint of colour. I lifted the torn edge of the paper label and was astonished to see an edge of metal. Gold!

It was not a coin but irregular in shape, set into a shallow knothole in the triangular piece of wood that braced the mortice. I pried the edge with my fingernail and it came free easily, secured only by a dab of glue.

I held the bit of gold up in the afternoon light. It was smaller than my thumbnail and irregular, like a flat crooked teardrop. Were those characters on the surface, or some kind of pattern? There was a hole through the wider edge so that it could be worn on a chain or fob. When I tested the metal on my front teeth it was soft enough to be genuine gold.

Who would have hidden this valuable little trinket behind the label of an artist’s canvas? Might the colourman’s label conceal an entire cargo of hidden valuables? I tore the paper square away a little further, but saw nothing but wood.

It was entirely mysterious, but I could not probe into it here, on a windy rail siding. The wagons were coming to haul the luggage up the line to another train. I secured the flat bit of gold in my watch case and closed up my parcel again by sliding its rope bindings to hold the broken boards in place.

I took two of the ladies’ trunks for their immediate use, and the rail authorities undertook to ship all their other luggage directly to Limmeridge. Dr. Knyvett and I brought the trunks back to his home at the end of the day.

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

I roused from the deepest slumber to the sound of childish prattle. My little Merry was whimpering. I had a Dolly, she said with a sob. But the train fell over and now she’s lost.

Another slower girlish voice said, Ohh, sad.

A third child said, You’re like a doll yourself. I’ll let you hold Cissy.

Baby, I said sleepily. Where are we?

At Gwendolyn and Carrie’s house, Merry said. Cissy has a china head.

I must tell Mama you’re awake, Gwendolyn said. Come along, Carrie.

Gwendolyn says I’m a doll, Merry told me with pride.

"I daresay she means that you’re smaller