Chapter 4

There was a polite tap at the compartment door and I stood, welcoming - as I had previously lauded the absence of - the interruption. It was the dark young man who had assisted us, and he entered, introducing himself.

"Jackson, sir," he said, as I admitted him. "I thought you gentlemen would appreciate a cup of tea."

He was carrying a tray with three well-used, mismatched mugs on it, and a Brown Betty sat steaming in the middle of it. He saw me examine it and cast his eyes down.

"I'm sorry, sir, I know it was presumptuous…"

The young fellow thought I was irate at the fact of three mugs; he had evidently pulled his courage together and implicitly invited himself to remain and have a chat. It was not an unwelcome idea, and his initiative impressed me.

"Not a problem, lad!" I assured him, and then turned to my bag. "I just noted the absence of biscuits."

"Well, what we had – it's not really good enough for gentlemen as yourself…" he trailed off and out of my eye I saw Holmes wave him to a seat. He deposited the tray on the small table and started preparing the cups as I rooted in the depths for a moment and emerged, victorious, with a packet of digestives.

"Capital." Holmes straightened carefully, pulling at the blanket. His slippers peeped out the end and I absently tugged it down to cover them as I passed. I opened the packet and extracted two biscuits for myself, then handed the rest to Jackson.

"Don't put them in front of Holmes," I directed, settling in my own seat next to Jackson. "He'll eat the lot if you don't watch him."

It was evident the lad was nervous, a bit surprised at his own audacity in inviting himself to tea with the famous detective and his biographer, but the bustle of getting the pot poured, and "one lump, please", and the decimation of the biscuit packet eased his nerves quite handily.

"I'd read of your injury, sir," Jackson said, placing the cup after taking a careful sip. It was quite hot and I let mine be for a bit, leaning back and dividing my attention between the two. I had worked with and fought beside men of Jackson's colour before, from dealing with their injuries, I knew that we were all exactly the same under that outer covering. Jackson had impressed me so far as an intelligent young man. His initiative was obvious as well.

The conversation had gotten by me, yet again, and it was the mention of my name that brought me back to the compartment. This furlough was most obviously needed, as my attention span currently was no longer than that of the average pigeon.

"…Dr. Watson was an Army surgeon, as you may know, and managed to patch me up quite nicely. The episode was wearing on him, though," his eyes twinkled as he glanced over "and so I suggested a holiday."

I merely snorted, shaking my head slightly. Ownership of such a splendid idea could be happily shared.

"Not the best time to see that part of the world, sir, summer's much nicer," Jackson said frankly. "Still, autumn has its' charms, I grant. Have you a room?"

"A small cottage, rather. Not far from town." I supplied.

"I do not find myself at ease in crowds," Holmes added, reaching for another biscuit. "Indeed, strangers are often an irritant to me, unless they bring a case. Or excellent tea…" he added swiftly, noting Jackson's faintly crestfallen look.

"I may be able to bring you both, if Dr. Watson does not object." They both looked at me, and I sighed. The man attracted cases like a flower attracted bees. Any moment now, I half expected to see Lestrade come through the compartment door.

"We're on a train," I said a mite sourly, "which limits your ability to disregard my recommendations and go haring off on an investigation. Proceed."

Jackson was silent for a moment, organizing his thoughts, and then started.

"During the boarding, I assist the luggage captain with the transfer of bags and placing items of delicacy so there is less chance of them being damaged. One bag was given to me with instructions to be very careful of it. It was quite light for its size. I placed it – with care, I might add – on the counter to be certain it was not dropped, nor anything dropped upon it, and the man who gave it to me turned absolutely white, then scolded me roundly for not being careful enough with it. I asked if there was anything in it that could prove to be a hazard to the train, and he shook his head – but I remained unconvinced. Still, it had a ticket on it that indicated he had paid for special handling, and those tickets are to be sold only when the luggage captain has thoroughly reviewed the item. That's as may be. I can't say how carefully it's examined, but once that ticket is on…"

He shrugged, and Holmes nodded, understanding.

"When money changes hands for special consideration, it can give rise to abuse of the system. A porter would have no say in the matter," he stated, and Jackson nodded.

"I hoped to get an opportunity to open it but the luggage captain took charge of it and I saw it later in a locker in the secured section – the lock-up. I noticed there was a small damp spot left where the bag had rested. As I watched someone dropped a small crate on the damp spot and it – well – jumped."

"The box jumped? Did it have anything live in it?" I asked.

"Nothing live. It just jumped a few inches and came to rest. When I lifted it, there was a small dark spot on the bottom, almost like charring."

I felt my blood run cold. I met Holmes' gaze and could see his thinking mirrored my own. An explosive. A liquid explosive that was detonated by pressure was on the train. To what end?

"Can you describe this gentleman?"

"About six foot tall, dark hair and eyes, and he spoke with an accent. I believe it was American."

"And do you recall the name?"

Jackson frowned, closing his eyes. "It was on the ticket, I can almost see it," he said slowly, remembering. "Dar…Das…Dabney. Marcus Dabney."

OoOoO

"Marcus Dabney, of the Americas," Lestrade said, placing a sheet on the desk. Holmes had recently been allowed the liberty of the sitting room, if he did not abuse the privilege, and he picked the note up to study it as the Inspector continued.

"The gentleman claimed his brother's body and indicated he would be having it buried here. Surprisingly, he asked nothing else of the circumstances surrounding his demise. He did not ask to speak to the investigator, nor to the police surgeon. If I had not chanced to be in the morgue on an unrelated matter, we would never have exchanged words."

"Everything has been in the papers in lurid detail, I would not expect him to require further information." I said, but Holmes shook his head.

"That was over two weeks ago," he disagreed. "He must have received the wire and left almost immediately to arrive here in that short period of time. Perhaps he visited the library before coming to call for the body, Lestrade." He tapped the letter with a long finger, thoughtfully. "That would seem a peculiarly rational decision during a time I would have thought he would be very emotional."

"True. I received the impression that they had not been close, nor was he aware of his brother's criminal past. He had made arrangements with one of the local funeral parlours. I waited with him as the carriage was brought round, but I had little feeling of grief from him. More of weariness, and of a distasteful task not yet complete. I have no knowledge of what happened after that."

"What did you discuss?" I asked.

"The weather, his voyage. He waxed quite enthusiastic about his business in America, in New York. He bragged of their vision, of removing old buildings for new. Old buildings," he snorted. "He should know better."

Holmes had sat back, pensively. "What was his business?"

"He was in demolition."