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forward, she glanced at his face.
    His pale eyes were wide open, staring at her.
    But she could tell he didn’t see her.

 
    CHAPTER 6
    Belinda’s freckles stood out against her stark white face.
    ‘What is it, darling?’ Daisy asked, holding out her hand. ‘What’s wrong?’
    ‘It’s him.’ The child’s whisper trembled.
    ‘Mr. McGowan? Is he ill?’
    ‘I think he’s dead.’ With a dry sob, Belinda launched herself into the shelter of Daisy’s arms. She was shaking all over. ‘His eyes are open, but . . . I touched
him. I moved his arm, to make him comf’table, ’cause I didn’t realize . . . I feel sick.’
    Daisy stroked her hair. ‘Are you going to be sick?’ she enquired, deciding a matter-of-fact tone was most useful in the circumstances.
    ‘N-no, I don’t think so.’
    ‘I was sick once,’ Tabitha announced with unwarranted satisfaction, ‘when I ate too many sweeties.’
    ‘I’m cold,’ said Belinda.
    ‘Then let’s get your coat on.’ Taking it down from the rack, she steered Belinda’s arm into the sleeve. ‘He was a very old man, you know, darling. You’ve had
a frightful shock, but it’s not really very surprising. Oh, Anne, thank heaven you’re back. Belinda’s found Mr. McGowan dead, or at least very ill. Could you . . .’
    ‘Dead?’ Anne shrieked, hands clapped to her horror-stricken face. Tabitha promptly began to cry.
    ‘For pity’s sake, pull yourself together! It might be a paralytic stroke, I don’t know. I must go and see, so could you please take care of Belinda – she’s had a
nasty shock – and arrange for someone to go and find Dr. Jagai?’
    ‘That man!’
    ‘I’ll go,’ Belinda said with a disdainful glance at Anne. Daisy scrutinized her, mistrusting her rapid recovery. ‘Honestly, Miss Dalrymple, I’m all right now, and I
know where he is. It won’t take a minute.’
    ‘Bless you, darling. Don’t tell anyone else, please, Anne,’ Daisy added sharply. ‘Not until I’ve found out what’s happened.’
    When they reached the open door of Mr. McGowan’s compartment, Belinda turned away her head but she went on without faltering. Steeling herself, Daisy turned in.
    Albert McGowan certainly appeared dead. His chest was not rising and falling. Stretched out on his back on the seat, with his head towards the door, his body looked lifelessly limp, untenanted.
Shoeless feet in black silk socks stuck out from the tartan lap rug which covered him to the waist. Daisy bent to see his face. The open eyes glared at her. The blind mask of fear and fury made her
flinch.
    As she reached for his wrist to try for a pulse, a neat little man in black, carrying a tea tray, arrived in the doorway.
    ‘What’s up?’ he demanded. ‘’Ere, miss, what’s ’appened?’
    ‘You’re his manservant?’
    ‘Weekes is the name.’
    ‘I’m afraid Mr. McGowan seems to have died in his sleep.’ In spite of the ghastly eyes, it seemed the correct, soothing thing to say.
    ‘In ’is sleep? Not bloody likely, if you’ll excuse me saying so, miss. The master wouldn’t never’ve laid ’isself down flat like that without ’is pillow.
Arsking for trouble that’d be, with ’is dyspepsia.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Sure as bloody eggs is eggs.’ The gentleman’s gentleman recollected himself. ‘Yes, miss, I’m quite sure. I took his pillow down from the rack for him myself, after
luncheon, so’s he could nap whenever he wanted.’
    Daisy looked around the compartment. ‘Then where is it?’
    ‘That’s what I’d like to know, miss. Nor he wouldn’t have laid down with his head to the door. See the camp-stool there under the window? I put his medicine and that
glass of water there for him with me own two hands. Bismuth, it is, for his stomach, He always had it within reach.’
    There was a small puddle on the floor beside the stool. Daisy moved to look at the glass, her hands be hind her back to avoid the temptation of touching it. Fingerprints on