Deadlier Than the Pen Part 8

"In New York. Don't you remember? We'd disbanded for a bit to reorganize. The last ingenue, Louisa Carver, had just left to get married. That's why Toddy had to hold ... auditions. He went all the way to Philadelphia in search of actors who'd suit."

"Philadelphia!" Diana's voice rose higher than she'd intended. She did not dare look around to see if anyone had heard, but she was careful to whisper her next question. "When?"

Jerusha gave her an odd look. "Early in the month. I don't remember the exact date. Came back with all three of them. Underly. Sims. And Lavinia."

"Could it have been the 9th?"

"It could have been. Whatever is the matter with you, Diana? You've gone pale as a cheesecloth scrim."

"Nothing." And it was true, she told herself. Nothing but an excess of imagination.

She' d been overexposed to tales of terror of late. No wonder she was jumping at shadows. To think that the same man had killed both those women was preposterous, let alone that anyone she knew had tried to harm her. Besides, if Bathory hadn't had time to change "costume," neither had Underly or Sims. Or Toddy.

Of the four men on this train who had been in both cities where young women had been murdered, and in New York when she was attacked, only one posed any threat to her. But not because he could turn out to be a cold-blooded killer. Damon Bathory might have other dark secrets, but she could not convince herself he was capable of murder.

Would he be very angry, she wondered, when he found out she was still after her story? After him?

It didn't matter. As long as she was careful not to be alone with him, she would be perfectly safe from his wrath ... and from all other strong emotions, as well.

As Diana listened to Jerusha chatter about plans for the current tour, she was glad that, for the moment, Damon Bathory had no notion she was on this train. She must have herself firmly under control before she met him again. These foolish, contradictory feelings she was enduring now would never do.

If she had any sense, she thought, she'd hope he did elude her. Then she could go back to New York and tell Horatio Foxe the truth -- she'd gone after the scandal but had failed to find any.

Chapter Seven.

The gent's washroom was already occupied by two men when Ben Northcote entered. He did not recall seeing either of them in the parlor car, but then he'd not been paying much attention to the other first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers.

He maneuvered around a heavy-set, red-faced fellow of forty or so in order to pump water into the ceramic basin and sluice it over his hands. The other man stood with his back to them, changing his collar in front of one of the two mirrors. When the train lurched suddenly, causing his hand to jerk, one end of the new collar flew up and slapped him in the face.

Ben hid a smile as he dried his hands on the roller towel. He was about to return to his seat, when the man whose laundry added starch with such a heavy hand turned to his rotund companion and spoke a familiar name. "What's Diana doing here, Toddy?"

Ben stilled. It wasn't such an unusual name, yet ... Interested to hear the answer, he pretended to find a spot of dirt on the back of his right hand. He scrubbed industriously at it while he eavesdropped.

"She's hoping to get Lavinia to accept her apology. That's what Lavinia thinks, anyway."

"Makes no sense." The man at the mirror sounded peeved, but Ben could not tell if it was the topic of conversation or his losing battle with the collar which annoyed him. "She spoke to her on the platform. Why tag along after us onto the train?"

This time his question received only a grunt in reply. The one called Toddy had gone into the smaller, adjoining compartment that held the commode. In reality, it was no more than a box with a mahogany seat that opened to the tracks below. For all the luxury of the appointments in first cla.s.s, a primitive dry hopper was the best they could provide in toilet facilities.

"Is she going all the way to our next stand? I didn't see any luggage?"

Toddy's reply was m.u.f.fled but understandable. "I doubt she intended to come along, Charles, but Lavinia snubbed her and our Diana has always been persistent. Probably followed her on impulse."

"Why is she sitting with Jerusha, then?"

"Because I am occupying the seat next to Lavinia."

There was no longer any doubt in Ben's mind that "their" Diana was the one he knew. Indeed, now that he put the names Jerusha, Lavinia, Toddy and Charles together, he recognized the two men as actors in The d.u.c.h.ess of Calabria. This portly fellow was Nathan Todd, who managed the company and took most of the leading male roles. Charles was Charles Underly, easily the least talented person in the troupe. Jerusha would be Jerusha Fildale, the leading lady of Todd's Touring Thespians. Lavinia was undoubtedly the notorious "Miss L. R.," who'd used her body to ease her path to a featured role in the play. She'd had to, Ben thought, remembering her portrayal of Julia, the Cardinal's mistress. She had little ability as an actress.

Underly, having at last subdued his collar, reached for the public brush and comb tethered by cords to the white marble top of the paneled washstand. He winced as he restored order to the thick mane of his hair. Either he'd encountered a snarl or he was hung over. The bloodshot eyes reflected in the mirror made Ben suspect the latter.

"You know what happened the last time Jerusha and Diana had a little heart-to-heart chat," Underly muttered as Todd emerged from the cubicle.

The older man heaved a sigh so deep that the edges of his mustache quivered. "What's done is done. The gossip didn't hurt us at the box office. Still, I could have done without the backbiting backstage."

"You spoke civilly enough to Diana at the station. In your place, I'd have turned my back on her." He reached for the silver-headed walking stick he'd left propped against the wall. "Or wrung her pretty little neck," he added in a mutter.

"We can hardly complain when the story's true."

To avoid making the two men suspicious of him, Ben left the washroom, but he lingered just outside. Their voices reached him well enough through the door.

"Next you'll be telling me she didn't mean what she said about my interpretation of the role of Ferdinand."

"For G.o.d's sake, Charles. You've had worse reviews."

"She's Evan Spaulding's widow, Toddy. She might have been kinder. To hear Jerusha tell it, your troupe was like family to her once. It's betrayal, that's what, to go to work for that newspaper and dissect the talents of Spaulding's colleagues."

"That's what reviewers do, Charles." Todd sounded resigned.

"Then she should have found other work."

"As what? A seamstress? Maybe you'd rather she walked the streets?"

Ben heard the sound of the latch being lifted and beat a hasty retreat. He might not know what had motivated Diana Spaulding to choose the profession she had, but he was certain he knew the answer to Underly's earlier question. Once again, she was following Damon Bathory.

And once again he would have to find a way to put an end to her pursuit.

"Fools," Jerusha muttered.

Diana came out of her reverie with a jerk. "Who?"

"Them." She indicated Nathan Todd and Charles Underly, who were just returning to the coach.

In the few seconds it had taken the two men to cross from one railroad car to the next, they'd been coated in white. Even Toddy's mustache was caked with wet snow. Underly shook himself like a dog, then glared at Diana as he pa.s.sed her seat.

"Where did they go?" She'd been so lost in her own bleak thoughts that she hadn't noticed them leave.

"First-cla.s.s parlor car. To use the gents' washroom."

Diana suppressed a laugh.

"Sheer insanity to have braved the elements in such a blow," Jerusha declared.

"You'd do the same if it weren't storming."

Diana would herself, especially when enc.u.mbered by a bustle of any size. The first-cla.s.s ladies' washrooms were small -- three-feet-by-six at most, with a smaller, adjoining compartment to hold a commode -- but less luxurious cars did not contain any washing facilities and the cramped, airless closets provided for the basic necessity were barely large enough to back into with one's skirts already raised.

"Insanity," Jerusha said again. She was staring fixedly at the scene beyond the square window.

Diana leaned past her for a closer look and had to admit the weather had turned into a formidable blow. A silent, swirling white fury obscured every detail of the pa.s.sing landscape. "Perhaps this is just a local squall."

"Oh, la, I hope so, but it seems to be getting worse by the minute."

As much as Diana wanted to maintain a more positive outlook for the rest of the journey, she feared Jerusha was right. The train did not seem likely to carry them out of the storm. It appeared to be moving into it instead. She was trying to think of a remark that would cheer them both when her stomach growled loudly.

Embarra.s.sed, Diana felt color climb into her cheeks. This was getting to be an annoying habit, as was missing meals in order to follow Damon Bathory.

Jerusha chuckled. "No breakfast?"

"No time. I'll get something at Stamford." According to the schedule, that was the first stop, followed by New Haven and Hartford.

She wouldn't, of course. She didn't dare waste what little money she had on food. Nor could she buy sandwiches or coffee from the water boy, if she was to afford a hotel room of the cheaper sort wherever she ended up. "I have a few things with me." Jerusha pulled a small satchel from beneath the seat.

Diana stared at fruit and dried beef and cold chicken in amazement. There was even a gla.s.s of jelly. "You've enough for several days there. I thought the stand in Hartford lasted almost a week."

"It does. And we've only short trips after -- Springfield, Boston, Portland, and, at the end of the month, Bangor. Then on to Burlington, Saratoga Springs, and Albany. But it never hurts to be prepared. You know how it is with trains. Most of the stops last less than ten minutes and never more than twenty. Barely time to get out and stretch your legs, let alone buy a meal."

Shifting a fraction closer, Diana peered into the satchel. "I don't suppose you stashed an extra coat in there?"

Jerusha's sharp glance surveyed the outfit Diana had chosen to wear for her confrontation with Lavinia. The stylish Modjeska jacket was decorated with beaver fur in the collar and cuffs, but the lining was only fancy quilting, warmer than the satin used in some walking outfits but little protection against the icy blasts of air that eddied into the railroad coach through the loosely-fitted sashes. The pale gray color had been another impractical choice. It would soon be stained with soot and grime.

"Pitifully inadequate," Jerusha declared. "You'd be an icicle already if we weren't sitting right next to the heat."

The coach boasted two stoves, one permanently fixed at each end. Periodically, someone added another stick of wood to keep them going.

"I would have worn my warm blue Ulster with its cape," Diana a.s.sured her, "but I expected the day to be clear and warm. That was the forecast." As if to underscore her foolishness, the wind howled and rocked the railroad car, increasing the interior's pervasive chill.

"I have a steamer trunk and Gladstone bag in the baggage car. I can spare a blouse. Perhaps the broadcloth dress. I hardly ever wear it."

Diana gave Jerusha's hourgla.s.s figure an amused look before shifting her gaze to her own, far less impressive bosom.

"Needles and thread," Jerusha added, winking at her. "Pins and hair pins. You'll need flannel underwear. A handkerchief. A dressing gown. Slippers. Toilet articles. A flask and drinking cup. A jar of cold cream."

"I might be better off borrowing a pair of trousers and a jacket."

"Oh, la! That you could think you'd be closer to a lad's build than to mine!" Shaking her head at the notion, Jerusha rose and went back among the company to scrounge for clothing.

Diana swiveled her head to monitor her friend's progress. The request produced only further venom from Lavinia Ross. Patsy began at once to burrow into a satchel that was the twin to Jerusha's. With another wink at Diana, Jerusha extended her search to the men.

"Two of you would fit in my britches!" Toddy bellowed, laughing heartily.

The joviality seemed overdone, even for him, and when Lavinia tugged on his arm, he hastened to bend close and listen. Whatever she whispered erased his smile. He did not look Diana's way again.

Charles Underly did not deign to comment when Jerusha approached him, but he did sneer at her request. Pursing his lips, he glanced in Diana's direction, giving definition to the act of looking down one's nose.

"Here," Jerusha said when she returned from her expedition. "This should help. Patsy had a spare." She thrust a heavy, knitted shawl at Diana.

Barely had she got the borrowed garment around her shoulders when she felt the train begin to slow. Up ahead the whistle sounded.

"We can't have reached Stamford yet."

As one, Diana and Jerusha turned to stare out the window, but there was nothing to see except a blinding curtain of snow driven sideways by the wind.

With a lurch, the train halted entirely, belching steam with a sound like a dying elephant. Diana bounced forward. If she'd not caught hold of the ashwood armrest, she'd have ended up in a heap in the aisle.

Bundles tumbled from the nickel-plated luggage racks overhead and Toddy, who had just stood up, lost his balance and landed hard on the plank flooring. His curses filled the air, louder than the a.s.sorted moans and cries of alarm from the rest of the troupe.

Rubbing her elbow, the same one she'd b.u.mped in the cab, Diana righted herself. This time it had connected with the window frame.

There had been no collision, no crash. No grinding noises or explosions. She supposed she should be grateful for small favors, but what she suspected had happened was bad enough.

An hour later, they'd not moved so much as an inch. Far from leaving the bad weather behind, they appeared to have traveled straight into the heart of it. They were s...o...b..und in the middle of a blizzard.

Diana stared out at the storm and sighed.

"What are you thinking?" Jerusha asked.

"That no one knows where I am, or that Damon Bathory has left Manhattan. I wish I had some way to send a telegram to Horatio Foxe."

"If a train can get stuck in this snow, then the telegraph lines are most likely down."

Diana suspected her friend was right. Conditions had grown steadily worse since they'd stopped. She could see nothing more than an inch away from the window, and only that much through one of the few small patches of gla.s.s that were not coated with ice.

Turning away from the view, such as it was, Diana toyed with the idea of taking out her notebook and jotting down her thoughts. Foxe would expect her to write an account of what was happening to her. "Stranded on a Train" the headline would read.

Or, "Dead on Stranded Train."

She shuddered at the thought. "We'll all be icicles before the day's over," she predicted in gloomy tones.

"Not if we move about to keep warm," said Jerusha. "I suggest dancing."

"Dancing?" Astonished by the thought, Diana stared at her. She heard the door to the coach open and felt a blast of cold air, but was too fascinated by her companion's suggestion and the antic.i.p.ation in Jerusha's voice and manner to look away. "Dancing?"

"The tarantella, perhaps. Something lively to keep the blood flowing and take our minds off being cold. The only thing that would be more useful would be a nice bottle of brandy to warm the insides." Her gaze shifted over Diana's shoulder as footsteps paused in the aisle beside them. With a bright smile, she added, "Or a big strong man to cuddle up to."

Diana knew without looking who stood behind her. So much for keeping her presence secret from him! With a sense of impending doom, she turned to face Damon Bathory.

Face ruddy and hair and beard frosted from having crossed the stormswept platform between cars, he stared back at her with an expression cold as ice sculpture. "What a charming ensemble you are wearing, Mrs. Spaulding," he said in that deep, resonant voice of his. "Did you select it just to meet me?"

Blast the man! Her temper flared, banishing embarra.s.sment and guilt and common sense, as well. "You knew I was here! You lured me aboard this train!"