The Night Train to Edinburgh

All Aboard

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The rain had already begun when I stepped onto the platform at King's Cross, and the great old train waited there like a patient animal, breathing steam into the cold evening air. I am Nora Bell, twenty-nine years old, a travel journalist with short curly auburn hair and, I like to think, a good eye for the truth. My freckled hands were cold, so I pulled my dark green woollen coat tighter, tucked my little leather notebook into my pocket, and climbed aboard the sleeper train to Edinburgh.

The corridors were narrow and warm, panelled in dark wood that gleamed under soft golden lamps. The whole train felt old-fashioned, almost timeless, as though it belonged to another century entirely. I found my compartment, left my bag, and made my way to the dining car, where the real business of watching people always begins.

I settled at a small table and let my eyes wander. Across the aisle sat a large, heavy man of about fifty, bald with a grey moustache and a ruddy face. His dark blue suit was expensive but badly wrinkled, and he kept turning a golden pocket watch over and over in his fingers, as if the time itself made him nervous. Every few minutes he glanced toward the luggage rack near his seat, checking, always checking. Later I would learn his name was Mr Harlan Voss.

By the window sat a slim woman in her mid-thirties, with long black hair tied in a low knot and warm brown skin. She wore a plain grey dress and a red scarf, and beside her rested a battered violin case, which she touched now and then, gently, the way one touches something precious. [sighs] When the waiter passed, she did not look up. Her name, I discovered, was Clara Finch, and there was a quiet sadness about her that I could not quite name.

At the next table a young man caught my eye and grinned. He was perhaps twenty-five, lean, with messy sandy hair and a crooked, easy smile that had clearly opened many doors. His leather jacket was worn and his boots were scuffed. Teddy Malone, he told everyone within earshot, delighted to make their acquaintance. His eyes, I noticed, moved often to other people's pockets and bags.

And in the corner, missing nothing, sat a small, neat old woman of about seventy. Her silver hair was pinned in a tight bun, and round spectacles sat on her nose. She wore a lavender cardigan and held a knitting bag in her lap, though her needles stayed still. Mrs Adeline Crowe watched us all with the calm patience of someone who had seen the world and expected the worst of it.

Then the conductor arrived. Alec Pryce was about sixty, with thinning grey hair beneath a navy cap and weathered olive skin. His uniform was neat, the brass buttons polished, a silver whistle on a chain. He welcomed us with a smile—but it was a strange, tense smile, and his gaze slid away when it reached Clara. [pauses] Something, I thought, was already wrong on this train.

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