Shroud of Darkness

E. C. R. Lorac

Description

One was brutally attacked in the choking black fog in Paddington Station. Attempted murder became bona fide manslaughter, and examination of the intimate lives of the passengers involved Chief Inspector MacDonald in a macabre game of hide-and-seek in which one man tried to find his identity and another was ready to kill to preserve the shroud of darkness that obscured his.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Mystery
• Detective

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 23 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774644942
• Langue: English

Extrait

First published in 1954.
This edition published by Rare Treasures.
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Shroud of Darkness



by


E. C. R. LORAC
FOR GLADYS RIVETT

Dear Gladys,
It seems appropriate that this one should bededicated to you, because I started it in theCornish Riviera Express, when you and I travelledfrom Penzance to Plymouth together andtalked about “the Moor.” We both know thatjourney so well, and this story is a souvenir ofit, to remind you of many pleasant places, notforgetting the view across the Teign to Shaldonand the Estuary at Starcross.
E.C.R.L.
CHAPTER ONE
“Where are we now?” asked Sarah.She had been asleep awhile, lost in one of those uneasy dozesthrough which the sound and movement of the train had penetratedand become muddled up with her dreams. As she stretchedherself she was aware that the boy in the opposite corner hadbeen watching her in that queer, disturbing way she had noticedthroughout the journey: he looked away quickly when she wokeup, as though he felt guilty that it wasn’t fair to stare at a girlwho went to sleep in the train.
“Are we nearly at Paddington?” she asked, turning to thewindow. The glass mocked her with her own blurred imageagainst the blackness of impenetrable fog outside. The boy turnedto his own window and rubbed its misted surface.
“No. We haven’t got to Reading yet,” he answered. “I thinkwe’re somewhere between Newbury and Reading—but we mightbe anywhere. It’s pretty thick, isn’t it?”
“Beastly,” agreed Sarah. “London will be a poem. How lateare we?”
He looked down at his wrist watch. “Nearly an hour late—andit’ll get worse nearer to London.” He hesitated, and then asked inthat gentle, diffident way which made him so likeable: “Does itworry you? . . . Perhaps somebody’s meeting you at Paddington,and waiting on a platform in a fog is pretty dreary.”
“No. Nobody’s meeting me,” said Sarah crisply. “I think meetingtrains is a mug’s game. And it doesn’t worry me, either. I canget home by tube, nearly all the way. It’s just that it’s a borebeing late.” Then, feeling that she had been rather brusque, sheadded: “It’s been such a nice journey: it’s a shame to have it spoiltby fog at the end.”
She saw his face lighten, and a smile flicker on his mobile lips.“Yes, rather. It was grand along the coast and up the Exe estuary.I’m sorry about the fog—but it’s been a good journey.”
He turned to the window again and stared at the opaque glass,and Sarah shrugged back into her corner and closed her eyesagain. She had finished her book, finished The Times crossword,and she didn’t want to talk. Above all, she didn’t want to watchthe boy opposite her. She had liked him so much as they hadstood in the corridor and watched the pale December sunshineover the sea at Teignmouth, the sand hills at Dawlish Warrenand the shining estuary at Starcross.
His name was Richard: he had told Sarah that, though whetherRichard were his Christian name or surname she had not enquired.He was about her own age (Sarah was nearly twenty-one)for he had told her that he had just finished his military service.His home was in Devon, somewhere near Plymouth. Sarah’shome was near Kingsbridge, and she and Richard had talked happilyabout their favourite holiday haunts in Devon and Cornwall.She had liked his voice, and his slow, pleasant speech, whichsometimes quickened in eagerness and developed a very slightstutter. If only the journey had ended punctually and normally,Sarah would have remembered Richard as that nice boy in thetrain. But when the mist had closed down on them near Taunton,she had become aware of a sense of constraint. She had a queer,inexplicable feeling that he wanted to tell her something andcouldn’t get it out, so that his easy speech had broken down intoabrupt disconnected negatives and affirmatives and he had tendedto stare out into the mist, go silent, and then try to talk again.
It wasn’t a sentimental sort of crisis, thought Sarah, who wasa very clear-headed young woman. She had experienced that sortof thing—the stuttering embarrassment of an impressionableyouth, and the odious eroticism of elderly philanderers. It wasmore as though the boy were making a desperate effort to remembersomething and appealing to her for help.
“Damn,” said Sarah to herself. “It comes of working for apsychiatrist and typing out case histories. I’m getting case-minded.Can it, do . . .”
She took refuge in verbal memory, concentrating on familiarlines, for she could always lose herself in poetry: and then shecould have boxed her own ears, because her mind produced “Tobe or not to be . . .” and Hamlet’s soliloquy imposed itself onthe slow grind of train noises in a fog.
2
“Goodness! Have we really got somewhere?” asked Sarah asthe train bumped to a standstill and a blur of light brightened themisted windows.
“Reading—thank God!”
The abrupt remark came from the middle-aged woman whowas the only other occupant of the compartment. She sat in acorner seat, back to the engine, on the same side as the boy, andshe had been writing steadily ever since she got in the train atExeter. With a large, businesslike writing block on her knees shehad been writing with a speed and ease which seemed to Sarahalmost miraculous, undeterred by bumps or swaying. Her voicewas very deep, and Sarah repressed a desire to grin, having alreadyobserved that the writer’s physiognomy was non-committal, in asmuch as it might as well have been a man’s face as a woman’s.
“It’s not quite so thick here,” said the boy, and then the carriagedoor opened and cold fog swept in, heralding two more passengers—bothmen—who sat down on Sarah’s side, facing theengine. The writer glared at them both, as though their entrywere a personal affront, gathered her sheets of paper together, andbegan to read her script with the same appearance of concentrationwhich characterised her writing.
Sarah turned to the boy. “Will you lend me your book—if youdon’t want to read it yourself?” she asked. “At the rate we’regoing it may last me till Paddington.”
“Yes, rather, of course,” he said hastily. “It’s jolly good. I’veread it before, so you can keep it if you don’t finish it.”
The book was a Penguin edition of Josephine Tey’s FranchiseAffair , and as he handed it over, Sarah grinned at him. “Thanksa lot. You can have mine. Oh ... we’re off again. Here’s hoping!”
She settled down with the book—which she found entrancing—andmanaged to forget her sense of discomfort for a while.Then the train drew to another halt and she glanced up. Theboy was not looking at her this time; he was staring at the twomen who had got in at Reading, and there was something in hisstrained, concentrated stare which made Sarah shiver.
“Oh dear,” she thought, “there is something odd about him.He looks as though he’s going through absolute hell ... or asthough he’s going to have a fit. Heavens above, not a fit in afogbound train.... It’d be just too grim.”
She tried to read again, found that the words meant nothing,and decided to go along the corridor and have a wash. Anythingwas better than sitting there, trying not to watch that unhappy,strained face opposite. She stood up and reached for her grip onthe luggage rack, pulling out sponge bag and towel. As she didso she glanced at the two men who were sitting on her own sideof the carriage. One was a heavy, middle-aged fellow, a prosperousbusinessman, she guessed, like thousands of others. He was readingan evening paper, his chin sunk on his chest, his eyes downcast;he might be reading or dozing, but he was taking no interestin anybody else. The second man was young, with dark browsand slicked-back hair, wearing clothes that had a cheap smartnessand a tie that made Sarah think “Spiv,” an odious youth. Heglanced up at Sarah with bright, calculating eyes, at once boldand furtive.
She turned away, thinking “If he isn’t a bad lot I’ll eat my hat.Cosh boy or the equivalent . . . something revolting about him.”
She walked along the corridor, found that both hot and coldtaps functioned—rather grittily—and washed away some of therailway grime. Then she stood for a while in the corridor, thankfulthat the train was at least still trying and that the greaterfrequency of blurred lights meant that they were nearing the suburbs.She smoked a couple of cigarettes, and did not go back toher seat until she was pretty sure that the train was approachingPaddington Station: detonators and signalmen with flares seemedto indicate the last lap—and quite time, too. It was nearly nineo’clock.
The boy was sitting very still, staring at the floor between hisfeet, and he took no notice of Sarah, who began to pack up herscattered belongings, get on her topcoat and gloves, and make afinal attempt to read as the train ground on, more and moreslowly, and eventually came to a standstill.
The writing lady gave vent to another sepulchral “ThankGod!” let down the window, and blocked the door with hermassive, tailored bulk. The platform was on her side and shealighted with surprising celerity, considering her bulk, to be followedby the two men who had got in at Reading. The boy wasstanding up, but he made no offer to help Sarah lift her suitcasedown: he almost leapt at the open door, calling: “I say, wait aminute. Haven’t we . . .”
His voice was lost as he jumped on to the platform.
“Well!” thought Sarah. “Manners not ingrain—but he didn’thave a fit. For these and all Thy other mercies, etc. What a night!I hope to God the tube hasn’t given