As he lunged forward, forced open the carriage door against the onrushing air and stepped out onto the narrow ledge at the side, clinging to the door frame, it was more than the wind, the steam and the smuts that stung his skin and his eyes, it was an agony of memory, a sacrifice, a loss, the price of his own escape from ruin and prison as well.

He turned to see how far he had to inch along the carriage until he could scramble onto the plates that connected the carriage to the coal wagon and the engine.

Baltimore was screaming something behind him.

By then Dundas had understood what the price was. He might even have felt the jail fever in his bones and known he would die there. Certainly he knew the hatred of the injured and the bereaved after the crash. Blame for it would have destroyed any man, dogged him for the rest of his life. Poverty was a small price in comparison. Perhaps he trusted that his wife would have borne that lightly compared with Monk’s ruin. He might even have discussed it with her.

Maybe that was why she had smiled even as she wept for him when she told Monk of his death.

He must move. The train was still increasing speed. If his hand slipped, if he lost his hold on the door frame, he would be dead in seconds. He must not look down. The countryside was a blur, like something seen through a rain-smeared window.

He started to inch along, moving his hands then his feet. It was not far to the front of the carriage, two yards maybe, but they were the longest two yards on earth.

There was no time to delay, no time to think. He put one hand along as far as he dared, and stretched his foot to grip. He let go with the other hand and jerked his body forward. The carriage swayed and he slipped, and grasped again. He almost fell onto the footplate behind the coal wagon, the sweat breaking out on his body until his clothes were cold and wet against his skin.

He turned to see Baltimore teetering on the edge, white with terror, and shot out his hand to haul him in. Baltimore’s knees crumpled and he sank down onto the plate.

The noise was indescribable. Monk gestured toward the coal wagon.

Baltimore clambered to his feet, waving his hands.

“He’ll never hear us!” he shouted desperately. His hair flying, whipped about his head, his face wild-eyed, wind stung, already splotched with smuts.

Monk waved at the coal wagon again and moved toward it.

“You can’t!” Baltimore screamed at him, shrinking back against the carriage wall.

“I damn well can!” Monk yelled. “And so can you! Come on!”