Page 52 of The Wayward Duke
“Yes. But the train must depart by half-past ten regardless, or the entire timetable descends into chaos.” Wentworth’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “We have two hours at most.”
Two hours. Julian’s pulse spiked. Two hours to identify Kellerman’s mark and his weapon.
“This train alone stretches over a tenth of a mile. Ample territory.”
Wentworth turned towards the platform gates. “Best we begin, then.”
The next quarter hour passed swiftly as they conducted brisk searches of luggage, cargo, and passenger compartments, the plainclothes constables scrutinising all those boarding. But nothing sinister revealed itself – no wires or explosive mechanisms. No stashed weapons or vials of poison. Only innocuous items: books, travelling cases, parasols, and picnic baskets.
Unease skated down Julian’s spine. Little time remained before the scheduled departure. He forced his breathing to steady.
Think, damn you. Somewhere beyond the authorities’ notice—
“The coal,” Julian said, already striding towards the back of the locomotive. “Get a combustible device in the firebox, and you’ve got a derailment.”
Behind him came the smack of boots breaking into a run across the platform. “Check the tenders!” Wentworth barked. “Question the firemen!”
Julian vaulted up into the nearest tender car. When they entered, the fireman blinked at them in confusion. His youthful face was smudged with soot, cap askew.
“Sirs, if you’re looking for the passenger compartments—”
Wentworth cut him off, tone brusque as he flashed his credentials. “Has anyone besides you accessed this car today?”
The young man paled beneath the grime coating his skin. “An inspector not fifteen minutes ago while I stepped out for a smoke.”
“Get out,” Wentworth ordered. “I need to take a look in here.”
The fireman scrambled from the tender without argument.
As soon as they were alone, Wentworth stripped off his coat and took up a shovel. “The device won’t be on top of the pile,” he muttered, sifting through the gleaming coal with smooth strokes. “It’ll be buried below the surface, ready to be shovelled into the firebox once the train is on its way.”
Julian watched him work, swift and methodical. The shovel scraped over the coal, the only sound beyond their laboured breaths in the cramped tender car. Wentworth handled the tool with an ease that spoke of long practice. Of having performed such tasks countless times before in his shadowy profession.
Julian fought the urge to hurry. Forced his muscles to uncoil, adopting a casual slouch against the tender wall despite his thrumming pulse.
“How do you know what to look for?” Julian asked, breaking the tense silence.
Wentworth gave a dry laugh, not pausing in his efforts. “Captain Courtenay tried selling his design for the coal torpedo to Her Majesty’s government.”
“Courtenay of the Confederate Secret Service?”
“The very same.” Wentworth kept shovelling, movements sharp with urgency. His shirt clung to his back beneath his discarded jacket. “He developed it to sink Union steamships and derail locomotives during the war.”
Julian frowned at the mention of America’s civil war, still so fresh in memory. “Tell me you didn’t give that wretch a shilling.”
The thought of the Crown funding such carnage turned his stomach. He’d seen the callous aftermath. The scorched earth and mass graves in America. All so the South could keep humans as property.
“God no,” Wentworth said. “And from what I hear, neither did any other government. The man slunk back to America with his tail between his legs, where I hope he dies a miserable death.” He hefted a lump of coal, scrutinising it before discarding it again. “Look for extra weight, distinct shape. Something that doesn’t belong.” The shovel scraped faster now, movements edged with urgency. “Looks like our culprit,” he said, carefully lifting out the coal. He turned it over in his hands. “See the plug?”
It looked innocuous enough – Julian wouldn’t have been able to differentiate it from any other piece of coal in that pile were it not for the visible metal casing hidden beneath a layer of soot filled with explosives ready to detonate. Capable of rupturing even a locomotive’s robust boiler.
Wentworth’s face was grim as he and Julian stepped out of the compartment. “Lads, we’ve got a live one!” he shouted.
A young officer approached from the platform. “Boss?”
“Take this,” Wentworth said, passing it off gingerly. “Probably not a threat without a spark, but treat it like an active bomb, or I’ll draw and quarter you myself.”
As the man hurried away, Wentworth turned to Julian. “The bastard who planted it may still be here to finish the job.”
