Alistair MacLean - Breakheart Pass

The seven people taking breakfast were seated as they had been the previous evening, except that Deakin had taken the place of Dr Molyneux, who had yet to put in an appearance. Peabody, seated next to him, spent what was clearly a most uncomfortable meal: he kept glancing furtively at Deakin and had about him the look of a divine on the qui vive for the emergence of a pair of horns and forked tail. Deakin, for his part, paid no attention: as befitted a man who had just undergone an enforced absence from the pleasures of the table, his undivided attention was devoted to the contents of the plate before him.

Claremont finished his meal, sat back, nodded to Henry to pour him some more coffee, lit a cheroot and glanced across at Pearce's table. He permitted himself one of his rare and wintry smiles.

'I'm afraid Dr Molyneux is going to find some difficulty in adjusting to army breakfast times. Henry, go and waken him.' He twisted in his seat and called down the passageway. 'Ferguson?'

'No luck, sir. Nothing. Quite dead.'

For a moment, head still averted, Claremont tapped his fingers irresolutely on the table, then made up his mind. 'Dismantle your equipment,' he called, then turned to face the company again. 'We'll leave as soon as he's ready. Major O'Brien, if you would be so kind–' He broke off in astonishment as Henry, his measured steward's gait in startling abeyance, almost rushed into the diningroom, wide eyes reflecting the shock mirrored in the long lugubrious face.

'What on earth's the matter, Henry?'

'He's dead, Colonel! He's lying there dead! Dr Molyneux.'

'Dead? Dead? The doctor? Are you – are you sure, Henry? Did you shake him?'

Henry nodded and shivered at the same moment, then gestured towards the window. 'He's like the ice in that river.' He moved to one side as O'Brien pushed by. 'Heart, I'd say, sir. Looked as if he slipped away peaceful, like.'

Claremont rose and paced up and down in the narrow confined space available to him. 'Good God! This is dreadful, dreadful.' It was clear that Claremont, apart from the natural shock at the news of Molyneux's death, was aghast at the implications it held: but it was left to the Reverend Peabody to put it into words.

'In the midst of life …' For a person built along the lines of an undernourished scarecrow Peabody was possessed of an enormously deep and sepulchral voice that seemed to resonate from the depths of the tomb. 'Dreadful for him. Colonel, dreadful to be struck down in his prime, dreadful for those sick and dying souls in the Fort who were depending upon him, and him alone, to come to their succour. Ah, the irony of it, the bitter irony of it all. Life is but a walking shadow.' What was meant by the last remark was not clear and Peabody, it was equally clear, was in no mind to elucidate: hands clasped and eyes screwed tightly shut, Peabody was deep in silent prayer.

O'Brien entered, his face grave and set. He nodded in reply to Claremont's interrogative glance.

'Died in his sleep, I'd say, sir. As Henry says, it looks like a heart attack, and a sudden and massive one at that. From his face, it seems that he never knew anything about it.'

Deakin said: 'Could I have a look?'

Seven pairs of eyes, including those of the Reverend Peabody, who had momentarily interrupted his intercession with the hereafter, immediately turned on Deakin, but none with quite the cold hostility of Colonel Claremont's.

'You? What the devil for?'

'Establish the exact cause of death, maybe.' Deakin shrugged, relaxed to the point of indifference. 'You know that I trained to be a doctor.'

'Qualified?'

'And disbarred.'

'Inevitably.'

'Not for incompetence. Not for professional misconduct.' Deakin paused then went on delicately: 'For other things, shall we say? But once a doctor, always a doctor.'

'I suppose so.' Claremont was sufficiently a realist to allow his pragmatism to override his personal feelings. 'Well, why not? Show him, Henry.'

A profound silence enveloped the dining compartment after the departure of the two men. There were so many things to be said, but all those things were so obvious that it appeared pointless to say them: by common consent they avoided the gaze of each other and seemed to concentrate on objects in the middle distance. Even the advent of Henry with another pot of fresh coffee failed to dispel the funereal atmosphere, if for no reason other than the fart that Henry was a natural for the chief mourner at any wake. All seven pairs of eyes withdrew their gazes from the far distances as Deakin returned.

Claremont said: 'Heart attack?'

Deakin considered. 'I guess you could call it that. Kind of.' He glanced at Pearce. 'Lucky for us we have the law aboard.'

'What do you mean, sir?' Governor Fairchild looked even more distraught than he had the previous evening: with what was possibly very good reason, he now looked positively distressed.

'Somebody knocked Molyneux out, took a probe from his surgical case, inserted it under the rib cage and pushed up, piercing his heart. Death would have supervened pretty well immediately.' Deakin surveyed the company in an almost leisurely fashion. 'I would say that it was done by someone with some medical knowledge, at least of anatomy. Any of you lot know anything about anatomy?'

Claremont's voice was forgiveably harsh. 'What in God's name are you saying?'

'He was struck on the head by something heavy and solid – like a gun butt, say. The skin above the left ear is broken. But death occurred before there was time for a bruise to form. Just below the ribs is a tiny blue-red puncture. Go see for yourselves.'

'This is preposterous.' Claremont's expression didn't quite match the expressed conviction, there was a disturbing certainty about the way in which Deakin spoke. 'Preposterous!'

'Of course it is. What really happened is that he stabbed himself to death, then cleaned up the probe and returned it to his case. Tidy to the end.'

'This is hardly the time–'

'You've got a murderer aboard. Why don't you go and check?'

Claremont hesitated, then led an almost concerted movement back towards the second coach, even the Reverend Peabody pressing along anxiously if apprehensively in the rear. Deakin was left alone with Marica, who sat tensely in her chair, hands clenched in her lap and looking at him with a most peculiar expression. When she spoke it was almost in a whisper.

'A murderer! You're a murderer. The Marshal says so. Your Wanted notice says so. That's why you had me untie and tie those ropes, so that later you could wriggle out–'

'Heaven send me help.' Wearily, Deakin poured himself some more coffee. 'Clear-cut motive, of course – I wanted his job so I upped and did him in in the middle of the night. I killed him, faking to make it look like a natural death, then proved to everyone it wasn't. Then, of course, I re-tied my hands behind my back, using my toes to tie the knots.' He rose, moved past her, touched her lightly on the shoulder, then moved on to a steam-clouded window, which he began to clear. 'I'm tired, too. It's snowing now. The sky's getting dark, the wind's getting up and there's a blizzard lurking behind those peaks. No day for a burial service.'

'There won't be any. They'll take him all the way back to Salt Lake.'

'They'll do what?'

'Doctor Molyneux. And all the men who have died in the epidemic at Fort Humboldt. It's normal peacetime practice. The relatives and friends – well, they like to be there.'

'But it – it'll take days to–'

Not looking at him, she said: 'There are about thirty empty coffins in the supply wagon.'

'There are? Well, I'll be damned. A railroad hearse!'

'More or less. We were told that those coffins were going to Elko. Now we know they're going no further than Fort Humboldt.' She shivered despite the warmth of the compartment. 'I'm glad I'm not returning on this train … Tell me, who do you think did it?'