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Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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be coming up to the tiny station. Hester Tolbathy was looking a degree less frantic when Max brought her the relatively good news from the caboose.
“You’re quite right in telling them we’ll be serving up at the house. I wouldn’t dare offer food among all this broken glass, and one can’t send one’s guests away hungry. Though I must say, as far as I myself am concerned, I don’t even want to think about eating. I hadn’t realized train wrecks were so disturbing to the stomach.”
“Nor had I,” said a friend who’d been standing nearby, “since you’ve brought it up. Oh dear, I wish I hadn’t said that.”
The woman wadded her handkerchief over her mouth and dashed off toward the cloakroom. Hester Tolbathy began looking frantic again.
“I do hope Edith isn’t coming down with something. Perhaps it’s just the shock. Did he say how soon they could begin serving?”
“He who?” Max asked her. “There are just the three women out there.”
“But what happened to the man who’s in charge? The one who served the caviar so beautifully?”
“Hester, those caterers don’t even know who that man was. They thought he was your butler.”
“Whatever for? Who has a butler these days? We certainly don’t, just Rollo who does the yard, and we wouldn’t have him if he weren’t married to our cook. Rollo’s about eighty years old and smells like a goat. But if that man wearing the chain isn’t one of the caterers, who on earth is he? And what’s happened to him? Did you see him in the dining car, by any chance?”
“I haven’t seen him anywhere, not since his performance with the caviar. And you haven’t either. Right?”
Hester Tolbathy stared at Max for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I’m sure I haven’t. He got the caviar and champagne started, I remember, then went off. I suppose I assumed he’d gone back to the caboose to start organizing the buffet. It didn’t seem to matter. The caterers came well recommended and obviously knew their business, so I simply left them to it and concentrated on my guests. But how odd about that man with the chain. Whoever do you suppose he was?”
“I’ve been hoping you could tell me.”
“But I can’t. I’m quite positive I’d never seen him before, and I flatter myself I have a fairly good memory for faces. What a pity your Uncle Jem couldn’t have been here. He knows absolutely everybody, and he never mixes up the names and faces. Oh, we’re stopping. Thank heaven for that!”
CHAPTER 7
T HEY’D BEEN ON THE train less than two hours altogether, but it felt like infinity. Nobody was standing on ceremony about getting off. Men were fetching wraps by the armload and parceling them out like handbills. A couple appointed themselves emergency conductors, got the doors open and the steps down. Max remembered he was supposed to be escorting Marcia Whet and looked around for her. She was, he saw, already bundled into her pelisse and boa, carrying her muff and the now absurd cartwheel hat in her hand. Obed Ogham was with her, astonishingly sober and silent for one who’d acted so drunk and boisterous a little while ago.
The pair of them stopped beside Hester Tolbathy. “Hester, isn’t there something we can do?” Marcia asked.
“Yes, go straight to the house and phone for the police ambulance. Obed, get hold of that bartender and take him along with you. Show him where to set up and start him serving drinks. Tell Jessie to make hot coffee and send Rollo down with the handcart we use for the cleaning supplies. The caterers can load it with some of their stuff and let him push it back. Tell Rollo to hurry. And for goodness’ sake, Marcia, tell that ambulance to hurry, too. I don’t like Mr. Wripp’s color one bit.”
“I never did,” said Ogham with a flash of his customary charm. “Don’t fret, Hester. Wripp will live to bury us all. Go ahead, Marcia. I’ll catch up with you. How’s the booze level up at the house, Hester?
“You’re quite right in telling them we’ll be serving up at the house. I wouldn’t dare offer food among all this broken glass, and one can’t send one’s guests away hungry. Though I must say, as far as I myself am concerned, I don’t even want to think about eating. I hadn’t realized train wrecks were so disturbing to the stomach.”
“Nor had I,” said a friend who’d been standing nearby, “since you’ve brought it up. Oh dear, I wish I hadn’t said that.”
The woman wadded her handkerchief over her mouth and dashed off toward the cloakroom. Hester Tolbathy began looking frantic again.
“I do hope Edith isn’t coming down with something. Perhaps it’s just the shock. Did he say how soon they could begin serving?”
“He who?” Max asked her. “There are just the three women out there.”
“But what happened to the man who’s in charge? The one who served the caviar so beautifully?”
“Hester, those caterers don’t even know who that man was. They thought he was your butler.”
“Whatever for? Who has a butler these days? We certainly don’t, just Rollo who does the yard, and we wouldn’t have him if he weren’t married to our cook. Rollo’s about eighty years old and smells like a goat. But if that man wearing the chain isn’t one of the caterers, who on earth is he? And what’s happened to him? Did you see him in the dining car, by any chance?”
“I haven’t seen him anywhere, not since his performance with the caviar. And you haven’t either. Right?”
Hester Tolbathy stared at Max for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I’m sure I haven’t. He got the caviar and champagne started, I remember, then went off. I suppose I assumed he’d gone back to the caboose to start organizing the buffet. It didn’t seem to matter. The caterers came well recommended and obviously knew their business, so I simply left them to it and concentrated on my guests. But how odd about that man with the chain. Whoever do you suppose he was?”
“I’ve been hoping you could tell me.”
“But I can’t. I’m quite positive I’d never seen him before, and I flatter myself I have a fairly good memory for faces. What a pity your Uncle Jem couldn’t have been here. He knows absolutely everybody, and he never mixes up the names and faces. Oh, we’re stopping. Thank heaven for that!”
CHAPTER 7
T HEY’D BEEN ON THE train less than two hours altogether, but it felt like infinity. Nobody was standing on ceremony about getting off. Men were fetching wraps by the armload and parceling them out like handbills. A couple appointed themselves emergency conductors, got the doors open and the steps down. Max remembered he was supposed to be escorting Marcia Whet and looked around for her. She was, he saw, already bundled into her pelisse and boa, carrying her muff and the now absurd cartwheel hat in her hand. Obed Ogham was with her, astonishingly sober and silent for one who’d acted so drunk and boisterous a little while ago.
The pair of them stopped beside Hester Tolbathy. “Hester, isn’t there something we can do?” Marcia asked.
“Yes, go straight to the house and phone for the police ambulance. Obed, get hold of that bartender and take him along with you. Show him where to set up and start him serving drinks. Tell Jessie to make hot coffee and send Rollo down with the handcart we use for the cleaning supplies. The caterers can load it with some of their stuff and let him push it back. Tell Rollo to hurry. And for goodness’ sake, Marcia, tell that ambulance to hurry, too. I don’t like Mr. Wripp’s color one bit.”
“I never did,” said Ogham with a flash of his customary charm. “Don’t fret, Hester. Wripp will live to bury us all. Go ahead, Marcia. I’ll catch up with you. How’s the booze level up at the house, Hester?
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