He looked around, and there was the shoe under the seat. He gave it to her, then took it back and put it on her bare foot himself, tying the laces.

“All right. Let me help with your weight. Hold on to me with your good arm, and I’ll make it as painless as possible.”

He tried, but she fainted before he could lift her to her feet. While she was unconscious, he carried her closer to the door of the next compartment and then through it.

But the red-faced man wasn’t there. It was someone else saying sharply, “Here, what do you think you’re doing?”

His shirt was torn and bloody, his trousers ripped to the knee, and blood dripped from a cut on his ear. “I’m a doctor,” he went on. “She may have internal injuries, broken ribs.”

“It’s her shoulder,” Rutledge said, “either broken or dislocated.”

“Let me see.” But as he stepped toward Rutledge, the car swayed again, the sound of metal rending and wood snapping. “Dear God! Is there anyone else in there?”

“I saw a man. He’s dead.”

“Can you be sure?”

“I’m from Scotland Yard. Yes, I’m sure.”

“All right, pass her to me. We can’t stand on ceremony now.”

Rutledge did as he was told, lifting Meredith’s limp body through the outer door, barely on its hinges, and clear of the carriage. The sun touched Meredith’s face, and her eyelids fluttered. The doctor, bracing himself with the help of the red-faced man, took her from Rutledge and then, between them, lowered her safely to the ground.

The doctor knelt and felt her shoulder. “You’re right. Dislocated. Let’s get her away from here. We’re collecting cases under that tree over there. Can you carry her that far?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I’ll keep going and come back to you.”

“Have you seen a man—with a young boy? I’ve come to find them—”

“A good few men are all right. I haven’t seen a boy among them.” The doctor helped him lift Meredith Channing again, bracing her bad arm, and then disappeared into the carriage Rutledge had just left, to look at the man.

Rutledge carried her to the area where the walking wounded were being collected, and someone there spread a blanket over the bruised grass for him to lay her on. He took off his coat, rolled it, and set it under her head. Then he remembered her hat. “Stay with her,” he said to the woman beside her, and jogged back to the train.

The doctor was just coming out again. “You were right, he’s dead. Broke his neck from what I could see.”

He wanted to ask the doctor if he had searched the man’s pockets for his identification. Instead he asked, “There’s a rose hat just behind you—and a small valise. The woman—”

“Yes, they all worry about such things, ” he said testily but handed both out to Rutledge.

When he reached the trees again, Meredith Channing was conscious, her eyes bright with unshed tears from the pain. As he put her things beside her, she offered him a bleak smile.