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“What does that have to do with today’s catastrophe?”
“There’s an Irish-American in town. I met him today.” He deemed it wiser not to mention the man’s evil aura.
“We can’t go around accusing tourists of crimes without proof,” Moore blustered. “I understand your reluctance to lay the blame at your uncle’s feet, but his penny-pinching ways are well known. He may have skimped on materials for the bridge. The general opinion is the wind brought down the structure.”
“You cannot condemn a man just because public opinion assumes he is guilty.”
Moore’s handlebar mustache quivered. “Of course not. This isn’t the Wild West of America. There’ll be a thorough investigation. I’ve already telegraphed Scotland Yard. In the meantime, Judson Cullen is probably safer in our cells.”
Parker couldn’t argue with that. “With your permission, sir…”
Moore held up a pudgy hand. “You’re to stay here and answer the telephone if it rings. You seem to be the only man in the station comfortable with Mr. Bell’s invention. Personally…”
Leaning heavily on his cane, willing away the throbbing ache in his thigh muscle, Parker gritted his teeth while Moore droned on about the advantages of the telegraph over the telephone. By the time detectives arrived from London, the Irishman would be long gone, especially since it was Christmas and Scotland Yard’s mucky-mucks were probably on holiday. Meanwhile, he was supposed to twiddle his thumbs waiting for the telephone to ring, which normally happened once a week at most.
* * *
The lilt of Irish brogues and the typical uproar as men tried to outshout each other with opinions about the disaster calmed Darren. He took a long draft of his ale, comforted that Irishmen all over the world were much the same. In this quaint Irish pub just outside a Gloucestershire village, he was safe among his own kind—strong, opinionated people, ready to fight for what they thought was right despite the injustices perpetrated on them for generations.
The loud group of men seemed to fall into two camps. One lot shouted the engineer and the wind were to blame. Their naysayers had heard rumors of explosions.
Talk eventually turned to who might be responsible for sabotage if such were proven to be the case. A strange silence fell until one man piped up, “Jaysus, I hope ’twasna the Brotherhood. Blowing up bridges is one ting, but the train…all those people. Seamus told me the engine driver was a fella from Belfast.”
When every soul in the place made the sign of the cross, murmuring, “God rest his soul”, Darren’s fears were confirmed. Months of planning down the drain. The Brotherhood would be foolish to claim responsibility.
He scanned the smoke-filled room, easing off his stool when he espied two rough-looking fellows he’d noticed the day before. Sullen-faced, they sat apart, taking no interest in the arguments. Outcasts. Unless Darren missed his guess, they were just the sort of thugs he needed to deal with Daffyd and his comrade.
“Gentlemen,” he gushed. “Can I buy you gents a drink?”
FORCES OF EVIL
Samantha’s home was normally a short walk from the ferry dock but it took the family almost an hour to plough through crowds of people. Many expressed their outrage at what had happened. She cringed at the loud demands for the engineer’s lynching. It seemed pointless to tell them of the explosions. Apparently, only those on the water had heard and felt them. It was unlikely anyone would listen to a girl.
Others made a point of shaking her father’s hand and thanking him for saving his passengers. “You’re a hero, Daddy,” Grace said.
He shook his head in his usual modest way. “News travels fast. I just reacted as anyone would. We had to get away from the wave. It would have swamped us.”
“Nevertheless,” his wife said, clinging to his arm. “You’re my hero.”
“I couldn’t save Brock, though,” he replied, putting an arm around Samantha’s shoulders once they were safely home. “I’m so sorry, darling girl.”
Guilt worsened the horror already constricting her throat. “Thank you, Daddy,” she murmured.
“She didn’t love him anyway,” her sister insisted, shrugging off her fur-lined pelisse. “And let’s face it, none of us liked him.”
“Grace Anne Hindley,” their mother exclaimed, helping her husband to remove his overcoat. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
Samantha buried her head against her father’s shoulder. “It’s true, though,” she sobbed. “I planned to break off the engagement.”
Her father rubbed her back. “Well, I can’t say I’m sorry about that. Your mother and I never understood what you saw in him. However, he didn’t deserve what happened to him today.”
Samantha nodded woodenly. “I began to realize it was a mistake on Christmas Day. He was no fun at all.”
“And then you met the sergeant at the dance,” Grace declared.
“You’re not helping,” Mummy said. “Come with me and we’ll put the kettle on. We could all do with a good cup of tea.”
Samantha’s father handed her a kerchief. “Before all hell broke loose, I noticed you seemed to be getting along well with the policeman.”
