Читать книгу Paul Temple and the Curzon Case - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 8

The Whitby to Scarborough train ran along the coast and probably qualified as the most beautiful stretch of track in England. The North Sea stretched away like an immobile sheet of blue on one side, while the inland view was of distant moors and forestry, sudden valleys with neatly arranged farms and a perilous hillside into which the railway lines were cut. They went through places like Burniston and Cloughton and Ravenscar, evocative places which suggested an England before the arrival of railways. There had been a furore of protest when the line had been built, and another a century later when someone had tried to close the line down.

The train chugged slowly through the scene, giving Paul and Steve ample time for leisured contemplation. Steve leaned forward occasionally to point out Farmer Hattersby’s barn on the skyline and the village where old Mrs Stark had lived.

‘We’re just coming into the tunnel now, I think,’ said Steve. ‘This cliff ahead of us…’

The train curled round and into the face of the cliff, plunging the carriage in darkness. The noise of the engine and the wheels on the track seemed aggressively loud, but that wasn’t the noise which Paul was listening to. He could hear somebody coming along the train corridor whistling tunelessly to himself. The whistling came nearer, stopped by their doors, and then came into the carriage.

‘This is where John Draper disappeared,’ said Steve.

‘Quite,’ murmured Paul.

The newcomer seemed to have sat in the corner of the carriage and was whistling an absent-minded version of Loch Lomond. Paul leaned across and placed a reassuring hand on Steve’s knee. She gasped in alarm.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ he said with a laugh, ‘it’s only your husband.’ But he waited apprehensively, all his reflexes at the ready for whatever might happen in the fateful tunnel.

But nothing happened. Two minutes later the train chugged harmlessly into sunshine and Paul found himself staring at an elderly man with a quizzical smile and a deaf aid. The man looked a little startled himself to see Paul Temple.

‘My goodness,’ he said with that slightly overpitched tone of the very deaf, ‘it’s Mr Temple and his wife. Well— well.’ He raised a hand to silence Paul while he adjusted his deaf aid. ‘There, now you can speak. I’m afraid I’m a little hard of hearing.’

‘How do you know—?’ Paul began.

‘I expect you’re wondering how I know your name. By the way, I’m Dr Lawrence Stuart. I’m in practice in Dulworth Bay. We’re all of us agog to see you in action. Local gossip has it that you’ll solve the case in forty-eight hours.’ He laughed. ‘I think they’re hoping you’ll pin all three disappearances on me.’

‘Lucky for you we’re only here for a holiday,’ said Paul. ‘I promised Inspector Morgan he could pin the disappearances on the villain without interference from me.’

Dr Stuart chuckled happily. ‘Yes, I heard about your little pretext. I gather Mrs Temple was brought up in the North Riding? Wonderful place to spend your childhood, don’t you think, Mr Temple?’ He looked out of the window for the wide arc of Dulworth Bay to bear witness to his enthusiasm. The grey overhanging cliffs seemed by an optical illusion to be leaning into the distant sea. ‘This rock face below us is worth a tourist’s visit, Mr Temple,’ he continued ironically. ‘This is where we had the air disaster three weeks ago. You must have read about it. All the passengers were killed and we’ve been plagued by sightseers ever since.’

‘I read about it,’ said Paul.

‘It happened just after midnight. I was called out of my bed. A most distressing business. They’d still be gossiping about it in the village if your Baxter boys hadn’t disappeared to provide a new topic.’