On the Blue Train by Kristel Thornell Page B

but from her serious plans. If grief over her mother’s death had left her ill and incapable of literary work, what role might this have played in the unusual measures she had taken? The loss of a loved one affected a person in unexpected ways. He had found her lucid, if erratic and novel—however, what if the illness mentioned had taken its toll on her mind? Should she have been laughing, eating with gusto in company and going about shopping when all the while the police and the press were after her, hunting her libidinously, and anyone at the Hydro who picked up a newspaper might have summed two and two, and known it?
    His tension spurred him into a cold shower. What was Teresa planning? He was sickened to have arrived at her owndeath, that ultimate flight from any and all versions of one’s face, as her probable next move.

    He didn’t return to the Hydro after the baths, because he didn’t know how he would have deployed himself there. Had he run into Teresa, he could hardly have questioned her. If she’d been willing to accompany him on another walk, as he’d have been tempted to propose she do, pretending that he hadn’t discovered her secret would have been difficult. The desire to plead, Tell me why , or, Don’t do it! might have overpowered him. And speaking his mind could lose him her trust, even conceivably cause her to run away once more. So he wandered about.
    On Parliament Street he came to W.H. Smith and entered. Three of her books were in their circulating library.
    ‘Oh, she’s the one that’s gone missing.’ The lady who found them for him was affected by a marked rounding of the upper back that did not prevent her from somehow moving harmoniously, horsey and courtly. ‘She’s surely dead, poor thing. Dreadful for the family. Everyone will be wanting these now. I warrant it’ll make her reputation.’
    Teresa’s other name on the books’ covers seemed an affront.
    He proceeded to the Stray, where he began, while meandering along, to examine one of the novels. The cover was rather theatrical: a bear in a man’s suit appeared to beremoving—or was about to hide behind—a human mask, whey-faced, raffish, vaguely lecherous. Harry smiled over the first lines. And, surprisingly quickly, was ensconced within the story, where he spent some hours, by turns drifting on foot and sitting.
    A dog bounding into him returned him to himself some time later. An eager, pure-faced terrier. Remembering Teresa’s passionate glance at the corgi, he stooped to pat the animal, which became increasingly excited until his master, an indeterminate sort of man in a mackintosh, forcibly reclaimed him. It wasn’t raining, though the opaque sky was threatening. This man would be at home in the rain, and not just because he had dressed for it. His features already appeared nebulous and forlorn. He bid Harry good evening with a woebegone, slightly reproachful tone. The terrier extended a reluctant farewell. It was chilly and Harry had rushed out without his coat. Had he left it at the baths? He was also, he found, half starved but inclined to continue with the novel.
    He was installed at Bettys a handful of minutes later, reading as he awaited poached salmon, the intrigue rolling up around him like the light sheath of a stocking over a woman’s leg.

    He emerged into early evening, beneath a sky of that drastic heartfelt blue, the dawn of black, which had always seducedhim. He purchased The Times . The column of interest was in the middle of the paper.
    The Colonel hadn’t received any news as to the whereabouts of his wife.
    In their search for her, the police had dragged Albury Mill Pond.
    Someone said he had seen Teresa at Milford railway station, a few miles south of Godalming.
    This unfamiliar geography began to take on hazy contours in Harry’s mind. He saw a grim sort of marshland, spectral with fog.
    He was nearing the hotel and it seemed that Teresa was standing in front of it. At first he wondered whether