Chapter 30: The 1924 Train Murder Case (3)

"Excuse me, sorry to bother you, is this Carriage 04?"

"Yes, sir," replied the passing train attendant with a nod.

Receiving this confirmation, the man boarded the train. He was a gentleman wearing a bowler hat and carrying a leather briefcase. He immediately selected an empty table, placing his briefcase upon it.

He unzipped the case, revealing two bound kraft paper notebooks, a fountain pen with a quill nib, and a small box of ink. He unscrewed the ink box lid, dipped the pen carefully, and then hurriedly began to write and sketch on the pages.

He certainly looked like a writer.

"Mr. Gill, you’re on this train too?" Painter Hunt entered, arms full of oil paints.

In contrast to the tidy Mr. Gill, Hunt wore a pair of filthy overalls, stained with a myriad of colors—his hair included, now streaked with bluish-gray. His hands were smudged and grimy, as if he had just finished a canvas moments ago.

"Mr. Hunt? You’re bound for London as well?"

"Indeed," Hunt replied. "A few of my paintings have caught the eye of some London aristocrats. They wrote to me, asking that I come to the gallery and handle the sale myself. But Mr. Gill, I never expected you’d be aboard this train to London. Didn’t you once say you’d never again write those ‘glorious stories’ about London’s nobility?"

At this, a shadow of annoyance flickered across Gill’s face, but he quickly masked it with a resigned, bitter smile.

"What can I do? It’s for a living," he said. "Until I produce a work that shakes the world, I must earn my bread with tabloid writing. The pay isn’t much, but at least the papers provide me a fee to meet my daily needs. Recently, my reputation has reached London, and the big city’s presses are in desperate need of someone versed in layout and ink."

"It was an invitation I couldn’t very well refuse, so here I am."

"I see," Hunt nodded, losing interest in further conversation. He laid out his canvas and paints directly across from Gill.

Oil paints, once on clothing, are nearly impossible to cleanse. So when Hunt spread his tubes and brushes across the table, Gill frowned in displeasure and coughed pointedly, hoping for some consideration.

Hunt, however, ignored him entirely, continuing with his colors, mixing and painting as he pleased.

The atmosphere quickly grew awkward.

It was clear that the passengers for Carriage 04 had not all arrived yet.

From the platform below, two more passengers boarded.

One was tall, the other short. One bore a scar across his face, the other had sharp features and a sly, ferret-like look.

Neither gave the impression of being upstanding citizens.

They chose a long sofa at random and sat, their posture and attire entirely at odds with the word "refined." This incensed Lady Ottilia to no end.

"What’s the matter with the Hyle Express? Wasn’t it said that ordinary folk aren’t admitted to this train? I can accept a writer and a painter, as they still count as respectable, but what right do these two have to share our carriage?"

Her words drew the ire of the pair. Mackie was about to give Ottilia a piece of his mind when his companion Batholomew stopped him, drawing from his belt a Webley .38-inch L9A1 revolver.

The sight of the weapon sent a wave of terror through Carriage 04—especially among the attendants, James and Eli.

James and Eli quickly interposed themselves between Batholomew and Lady Ottilia, pleading with him to keep calm.

"Sir, the lady merely let her tongue run away with her. I’m sure she meant no harm. Please, do not fire on the train. Should you cause a panic, the entire train could be halted by your actions—and that isn’t what you want, is it?"

Batholomew paid the attendants no heed. He cocked the revolver and pressed it to Lady Ottilia’s head. Watching her tremble with terror, and seeing her utterly useless husband—who had fainted dead away the moment the gun appeared, offering her no protection at all—Batholomew gave a chilling, sinister laugh.

He pulled the trigger.

The expected scene of blood and horror did not unfold. The revolver was empty.

Yet in the air wafted a pungent stench of urine. Lady Ottilia, in her terror, had lost control of herself.

Batholomew, still holding the revolver, now wore an apologetic expression.

"Terribly sorry, my lady," he said with a wicked grin. "This is just an old military revolver from my private collection. Unfortunately, it has no bullets. If it did, I wouldn’t have been allowed on the train, would I?"

So it was merely a collector’s piece?

Lady Ottilia’s face flushed with anger. "So you were only here to scare me, you filthy arms dealer?"

Batholomew only laughed all the more at the insult.

"Indeed, my lady. I must admit, I enjoyed myself quite a bit just now."

Muttering curses, Lady Ottilia rose, grabbed her suitcase, and stormed off to the lavatory—clearly to change her clothes in a fit of fury.

Now Batholomew’s attention shifted to Tang Mu and the trembling Dale.

Dale seemed on the verge of fainting, but couldn’t quite manage it. She simply cowered behind Tang Mu.

Thus, from Batholomew’s perspective, Tang Mu stood out all the more.

"Are you not afraid of me, my pretty lady?" Batholomew inquired.

Tang Mu remained calm. "Isn’t your revolver empty?"

"It is indeed," Batholomew replied. "But have you heard of Schrödinger’s cat? Until I pulled the trigger, you couldn’t be entirely certain whether I would kill or not, could you?"

"Perhaps," Tang Mu said, smoothing her sleeve and gazing steadily at the arms dealer. "But I imagine you’d rather see this train continue on its way. After all, you still need to travel, to conduct your business. Certain goods, I suspect, can only be sold once you reach London."

Batholomew fixed Tang Mu with a predatory gaze, his eyes like those of a hawk—sharp, intense, and dangerously intent, as though to pin her in place with their force.