The Shooting Season - Isobel Starling Page 0,3

I had heard talk in my club of men having some exciting trysts on railway journeys. I thought they were mere fancy. But then I’d learned that prostitution on the railways was an open secret, known mainly by those who sought such services or had a friend with whom they shared intimate information. I was appalled that, at a glance, Cummings might have thought me the kind of man who sought an illicit tug from a stranger on a train. What irked me most was that, if I gave in to my darker nature, he would have been right. I was a deviant, a filthy, ungodly deviant. I had tried to deny that part of me. It had been so long since I’d permitted myself intimate contact with a man that I found I’d become half-hard in the mere moments I was pressed to Cummings’s back. I wonder, did he notice? Gods, I was pathetic. I must repress my urges. I did not want these erotic thoughts. I could hold the need in for only so long before my body betrayed me—then I saw to myself and felt completely wretched afterward.

I slumped back on the bed and my collar felt all too restrictive around my throat. I reached and unhooked it, then undid the top button of my shirt. I slipped my trembling fingers inside and pulled out the warm silver cross that hung around my neck. I caressed it, seeking comfort. I prayed, begging the Lord's forgiveness for my sinful thoughts. After several minutes of prayer, I regained my sober mask, righted myself, opened my overnight case, and set out my pyjamas, my slippers, and my toileting bag. Then I left the cabin, locking the door behind me and returned to the lounge car. I needed a stiff drink!

As I walked the narrow corridor, rocking back and forth with the gait of the train, I looked out of the picture windows framing one side of the carriage which displayed the built-up cityscape of London with a grey pea-souper fug hanging low like a malevolent cloud. I was glad to be leaving the filthy city, heading for fresh air, glorious vistas and of course the item from Lord Ardmillan’s collection that I had coveted for the past thirty years.

On entering the lounge a haze of cigar smoke hung in the air, and the deep rumbling laughter of gentlemen in conversation jarred me from the fugue state that the clickety-clack of the train workings had temporarily put me in. There were fifteen high backed leather chairs grouped in two’s and three’s around the lounge, with small side tables. Seven men were seated, and of course, no women. If a woman were to take the Caledonian Sleeper, for propriety’s sake, she and her companion would stay in their compartment for the duration of the journey.

Two somber suited, grey whiskered elderly gentlemen were seated opposite one another on my left, locked in a battle of wills over a game of dominoes. One of the men looked up, caught my eye, and nodded a stern greeting. Four men of business sat together indulging in a game of whist and some banter. Then, I saw a seventh man sitting alone, a blue-grey cloud of pipe smoke swirled from behind an opened copy of The Times Newspaper shrouding his face. The headline writ large across the cover spoke of a thief on the loose. The man’s legs were crossed, but what caught my eye was that he wore the most splendid two-tone inky black and cognac russet leather ankle boots. I knew immediately that these were the handiwork of the famous Mr. Edwin Clapp of Massachusetts for they were much in demand among the fashionable men of London society.

I was still a little flustered from the unfortunate incident in my sleeping compartment and wished for refreshments and silent contemplation. And so, spotting a pair of unoccupied chairs at the end of the lounge carriage I vowed I would sit quietly, take my supper, drink a glass of Port wine, and watch the hours of darkness go by until I became sleepy enough to retire.

I sat heavily in the straight-backed claret leather chair, rested my head, and closed my eyes. I listened to the musical cadenced sounds of the train wheels on the steel track below. I had always found the rhythmic clickety-clack of the train to be lulling. I let my mind wander and was near in a doze when a light Scots voice said,

“Mr. Hannan,