Free Dorchester Terrace by Anne Perry Page B

the rhythm of his reading by a sharp rap on the door. He turned the page down reluctantly.
    “Come,” he answered.
    The door opened and Stoker came in, closing it silently behind him. His face was difficult to read, as usual. Pitt had learned to interpret his agitation or excitement by studying the way he moved, the ease or stiffness in his body, and the angle of his shoulders. Now he judged Stoker to be alert and a trifle apprehensive.
    “What is it?” he asked, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk.
    Stoker sat obediently. “Maybe nothing,” he replied.
    “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be here,” Pitt pointed out. He trusted Stoker’s instincts. He was the only one who had believed in Narraway when Narraway had been accused of treason in the O’Neil case. Everyone else had believed only what the evidence seemed to show them. Stoker had had the courage to risk not only his career but also his life to work secretly with Pitt against those who had corrupted and usurped the power. It was Stoker who had saved Pitt’s life in the desperate struggle at the end.
    Stoker’s mastery of small observations was acute. He heard the evasions that skirted around a lie, saw the smile that indicated nervousness, the tiny signs of vanity in a conspicuous watch chain, a folded silk handkerchief a shade too bright, the overly casual manner that concealed a far better acquaintance than that admitted to.
    “What is it?” Pitt insisted.
    Stoker frowned. “Down Dover way. There have been a few questions about railway signals and points.”
    “Railway points?” Pitt was puzzled. “You mean where the tracks join, or branch? What specifically is being asked? Are you sure it’s not just routine maintenance?”
    Stoker’s face was grim. “Yes. It’s a stranger, asking about how the signals work, where they’re controlled from, can it be done by hand, that sort of thing. Thought it might just be some fellow wanting to explain it to his son, at first. But there have been questions about timetables, the freight trains and passenger trains from Dover to London, and branch lines as well, as if someone wanted to figure out where they cross.”
    Pitt thought for a moment or two. Some of the possibilities were ugly. “And you’re sure it’s the same man asking?”
    “That’s a bit hard to tell. Extremely ordinary-looking, except he had very pale, clear eyes. The man who asked about the freight trains had on spectacles. Couldn’t see his eyes.”
    “And the man who asked about the signals and points?” Pitt asked, a tiny knot of anxiety beginning to tighten in his stomach.
    “Different hair, as much as you could see under his hat. Doesn’t mean anything. Anybody can put a wig on.”
    “What’s being moved in and out of Dover on the lines he asked about?” Pitt pressed.
    “I looked into that. Heavy industrial stuff, mostly. Some coal. Fish. Nothing worth stealing, not with a rail crash anyway.”
    Pitt thought for a moment. “And you said he asked about passenger trains as well?”
    “From Dover to London. Think it’s some passenger they could be after?” Stoker asked.
    “It’s a lot of trouble to go through for one passenger,” Pitt replied. “It sounds more like some kind of anarchist thinking to create a major disaster, just to show us that he can.”
    “What for?” Stoker was frowning, puzzled. “Couldn’t even pretend there’s any idealism or political motive in that.”
    “That’s what worries me,” Pitt admitted. “It doesn’t make sense. We haven’t understood it yet. But you’re right, there’s something planned, even if this is just a distraction, something to keep us occupied so we miss the real thing. But we can’t ignore it. And if, as you say, someone is prepared to cause a train crash just to kill one person, then it has to be someone of overwhelming importance.”
    Stoker moved his thin, strong hands in a very slight gesture of helplessness. “Whatever they are planning, it