Chapter Forty-two

Glasgow Central Station

The train whistle blew inside the monumental enclosed platform of Central Station. Scaffolding from the recent enlargement clad the side of the ornate building, and the massive new bridge over the River Clyde was completed, but was not yet open to the public. The Caledonian Railway had made every effort to see to the comfort of its passengers. There was even a first-class hotel, which fronted an entire side of the station. That hotel—with its up-to-date plumbing, elegant restaurant, and comfortable beds, as well as the station with its modern steam trains, connected to an efficient transportation system—was only a few scant miles away from Deirdre, with her macabre caverns, demon-worshipping acolytes, and life-stealing potions.

Ramsgate stood on the platform trying to make small talk with Mother, a woman who, even under pleasing circumstances, disdained idle chatter. Tasha stood before the open doorway of a plush private railroad car attached to the Royal Scot. Her left arm, in a sling, was causing her pain. She interrupted Ramsgate and asked him to thank Mycroft Holmes for the use of the private car.

“Since there can’t be any public recognition, he felt it was the least he could do. He’s rather keen on hushing this up.”

Tasha was more than aware of that, and agreed with Mycroft, though not for the same reasons. She simply thought that in the end, exposure or suppression would make no difference in the course of world events.

“How’s the arm?” asked Ramsgate.

She smiled, “It’s nothing.”

“And Laura?”

Her smile faded. She had led me, as if I was walking in my sleep, to a bed in the private car. Mycroft had offered a nurse, but Mother refused. Watching over me was her personal responsibility.

Ramsgate changed tack. “Deirdre isn’t being let off. It’ll be nineteen fifty before she sees daylight again. What a monster.”

Tasha’s eyes flashed. “A genius!” she said with bitter admiration. “The way she manipulated those armaments manufacturers; revitalized her cult. The sham case she arranged for me, perfect in almost every detail and arranged on very little notice.”

Ramsgate was surprised at Mother’s admiration. “Let’s be thankful she wasn’t too good,” was all he could manage.

“It hardly matters; the war will come. Soon. And I don’t think this world we know will survive it.”

“Why didn’t you kill her? I would have.”

Mother’s lack of response provided no insights.

The final whistle blew from the engine.

“There’s someone else who wanted to say goodbye,” said Ramsgate as he nodded down the platform. Ian was approaching, flanked by two constables. At Ramsgate’s signal, the pair let him walk alone toward Mother. Ramsgate nodded toward Ian. “Mr. Holmes took your suggestion to heart, Tasha.”

Tasha closed her eyes, sighed, then tenderly kissed Ramsgate on the forehead. “Thank you.”

Ian came close and Ramsgate retreated, leaving them alone. Ian looked self-consciously at Tasha, neither of them comfortable. He let out a breath and finally spoke, “They’re sendin’ me back to Montana. You wouldn’t know anything about that—” he gave her a weak grin.

She did not return his attempt at intimacy, “Let’s just say I like to pay my debts.”

Ian’s smile faded and again there was an uncomfortable pause. This time Tasha spoke first, “Stay there, Ian. Build a new life in the clean air of a new world; escape the storm that will soon wither this old one.”

He nodded and they faced each other.

“Goodbye, Tasha.” He started to say more, but she held up her hand, stopped him and shook her head. He understood, then gazed into her eyes, trying to read them, but they were also silent.

The train behind Tasha started to move. She stepped into the doorway of the railroad car, watching as Ian—the lone figure on the platform, isolated by white steam—receded into the distance.

Tasha could watch no more. She leaned into the car, her face distant and drained as she whispered, “Adios.”