Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles 4)

“You have my word, Kitty. This is a one-off, and no one need ever know you were involved.”

“You’re a gent, Mr. Buchanan,” she said and gave him a kiss on the cheek before slipping out of the compartment.

Ross wasn’t sure what might have happened if she’d stayed a minute or two longer. He pressed the steward’s bell and waited for Angus to appear.

“I hope that was satisfactory, sir?”

“I can’t be sure yet.”

“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Yes, Angus. I need a copy of the railway’s regulations and statutes.”

/> “I’ll see if I can find one, sir,” said Angus, looking mystified.

When he returned twenty minutes later, he was carrying a massive red tome that looked as if its pages hadn’t been turned very often. Ross settled down for some bedtime reading. First he scanned the index, identifying the three sections he needed to study most carefully, as if he was back at St. Andrews preparing for an exam. By 3 a.m. he’d read and marked up all the relevant passages. He spent the next thirty minutes trying to commit them to memory.

At 3:30 a.m. he closed the thick volume, sat back and waited. It had never crossed his mind that Kitty would let him down. Three thirty, 3:35, 3:40. Suddenly there was a massive jolt that almost threw him out of his seat. It was followed by a loud screeching of wheels as the train slowed rapidly, and finally came to a halt. Ross stepped out into the corridor, to see the chief steward running toward him.

“Problem, Angus?”

“Some fucker, excuse my French, sir, has pulled the communication cord.”

“Keep me briefed.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ross checked his watch every few minutes, willing the time to pass. A number of passengers were now milling around in the corridor, trying to find out what was going on, but it was another fourteen minutes before the chief steward returned.

“Someone pulled the communication cord in the lavatory, Mr. Buchanan. No doubt mistook it for the chain. But no harm done, sir, as long as we’re on the move again in twenty minutes.”

“Why twenty minutes?” asked Ross innocently.

“If we hang about for any longer, The Newcastle Flyer will overtake us, and then we’d be stymied.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’d have to fall in behind it, and then we’d be bound to be late because it stops at eight stations between here and London. Happened a couple of years back when a wee bairn pulled the cord, and by the time we arrived at King’s Cross, we were over an hour behind schedule.”

“Only an hour?”

“Aye, we didnae get into London until just after eight forty. Now we wouldn’t want that, would we, sir? So with your permission, I’ll get us on the move again.”

“One moment, Angus. Have you identified the person who pulled the cord?”

“No, sir. Must have bolted the moment they realized their mistake.”

“Well, I’m sorry to point out, Angus, that regulation forty-three b in the railway’s statutes requires you to find out who was responsible for pulling the cord, and why they did so, before the train can proceed.”

“But that could take forever, sir, and I doubt we’d be any the wiser by the end of it.”

“If there was no good reason for the cord being pulled, the culprit will be fined five pounds and reported to the authorities,” said Ross, continuing to recite the railway’s statutes.

“Let me guess, sir.”

“Regulation forty-seven c.”

“May I say how much I admire your foresight, sir, having asked for the railway’s statutes and regulations only hours before the communication cord was pulled.”