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The ringleader was a handsome-looking brute, with a strong jawline and a broken nose. His cap was pushed far down his forehead; the back of his
head was practically shaved. According to the stripes on his jacket, he was a sergeant.
    “Nice to stretch the legs,” I said. “Cigarette, anyone?” I offered my case. It was duly admired.
    “That looks like silver.”
    “It is silver.”
    “You’re American.”
    “And you’re Scottish.”
    “What about your wee friend?”
    “He’s Belgian.”
    “I fought in Belgium,” said the ringleader, “and I still bear the scars of that war.” He lifted up his kilt and showed a deeply indented scar on his left thigh. I bent to inspect it.
    “You’re lucky to have kept the leg.”
    “Aye. Plenty didn’t.”
    “Ever get any pain?”
    “You a doctor?” he asked.
    “Or just enjoying the view?” put in another, digging his pals in the ribs.
    “Both, in fact.”
    “I get a twinge now and again,” he said, dropping the skirt. I stood up, reluctantly. There had been a noticeable blast of heat from under his kilt, and I felt like warming my hands.
    “Otherwise, you’re in good health?”
    “Aye, sir.” He lit his cigarette from my lighter. “Rude health.”
    “I’m glad to hear it.”
    “Perhaps you’d like to examine me, doctor?” This came from one of the younger soldiers, a snub-nosed redhead.
    “Why, soldier, what’s wrong with you?”
    “Well,” he said, in a foolish, childish voice, “I keep getting these awful swellings down there.”
    The sergeant clipped him around the ear. “Don’t be so fuckin’ cheeky, boy. Sorry, sir.”

    “That’s fine. I don’t mind high spirits.”
    “Is that so? The lads do have very high spirits, don’t you, lads?”
    There was a general, throaty murmuring of “aye.”
    “And what are the four of you doing in London?” I asked him. “Duty, or pleasure?”
    “Bit of both, sir. We’re on guard duty at the Palace.”
    “Indeed. Then perhaps I shall come and look you up.”
    The sergeant leaned toward me; I smelled whiskey on his breath. “Or come to the carriage later, and look us up there.”
    He took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the stub away with finger and thumb. It landed on the platform in a shower of sparks, hissing on a patch of frost.
    Bertrand was beckoning furiously from the end of the platform.
    “Goodbye, boys. Hope to see more of you later.”
    They laughed, waved, moved on. Perhaps, in a group like this, they would be unwilling to do more than talk dirty. But if I could single one of them out—the quiet, dark-haired one, perhaps, or the brute of a sergeant…
    Bertrand was hopping from one foot to the other. “ Vas-y! Pour l’amour de dieu , Mitch…”
    “What is it? I was just talking to those—”
    “Listen.”
    “What?”
    “ Écoute! In there!” He jerked his thumb toward the shed at the end of the platform.
    “What is it?”
    “Go! Hear!”
    He grabbed my arm and walked me toward the shed. There was something, he was right—a rhythmic thumping, and what sounded like groaning. Was there an animal tethered in there—a station dog, perhaps—trying to get out? Or was it…

    “It is the engineer, I think.”
    “The engineer?”
    “And the… What is it you call him? Le chauffeur . He who makes the fire.”
    “The stoker.”
    “ Oui, c’est ça , the stokkeur. They have gone in together.”
    “And now they’re making these strange noises.”
    “ Bien sûr . I think, perhaps…”
    “You’re not suggesting that they stopped the train at York just so they could nip into the shed for a fuck, are you?”
    “Why not?”
    “Are they good-looking?”
    “The engineer is not bad. He is blond, with blue eyes. The stokkeur, he looks like a gypsy.”
    I was intrigued—but unfortunately neither of us was tall enough to see through the tiny, filthy window at the top of the shed door. I looked around for something to stand on—a bucket, perhaps—to no avail.
    “Lift