“Ian,” she murmured. “I thought I’d imagined you.”

“There was something I had to do,” he said, sitting down beside her, trying to judge whether she was comfortable enough to leave and continue his search.

She shut her eyes again, frowning a little. “I must have fainted.”

“Yes. A good thing.”

She tried to nod and then thought better of it. After a moment she said, “Your friend. Did you find him?”

“My godfather. Not yet.”

“Oh—yes—that’s right. I remember.” She opened her eyes. “Go and look. I’m all right.”

But she still seemed a little dazed. “After a bit,” he said. “Now. Come back and tell me when you find him, will you? I shan’t be going anywhere, it seems.”

He took her good hand and held it for a moment before letting it go.

Walking swiftly away, he scanned the people working around the wrecked carriages. More had appeared now, from the village and from a distance as word spread. And three more bodies had been added to the makeshift morgue, but Trevor was not among them. He found himself thinking about the man just beyond where Meredith Channing had been lying. Tall, graying, distinguished . . .

Hamish said, “It doesna’ signify. Leave it.”

Clearing his mind of everything else, he started back up the line, leaning in to see who might still be in each carriage, sometimes helping rescuers bring out another injured passenger, sometimes unable to see beyond the upturned seats and collapsed ceilings. And always calling Trevor’s name to be sure.

And then, suddenly, there was his godfather coming toward him, a bloody handkerchief tied around one hand, a cut across his forehead, and a decided limp in his stride. The boy clung to him, still clutching the box of toy soldiers.

Rutledge was so relieved he stopped, unable to speak. The two men stared at each other, Trevor saying, “What in hell’s name are you doing here?”

“News reached the Yard, and I came directly—”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with us for a few days more.”

Rutledge began to laugh helplessly. Then he said, “Where have you been? I must have walked up and down this train a dozen times!”

“On the far side of the engine, examining all the wheels. Where the lad couldn’t see what he shouldn’t. We were very lucky in our car. But they want us to give our names to a constable, and so I came round to find him.”

Rutledge remembered Meredith Channing. “Do you see my motorcar there on the road? When you’ve given your name to the constable, go to it and wait. I won’t be long. I’ve promised someone I’d come back.”

Trevor nodded. “Go on. We’ll be all right.” Taking in his godson’s appearance, scraped and bloody and disheveled, he added, “If you need to stay longer . . .” and let his voice trail off.

Rutledge answered the unspoken question. “Like you, she was lucky. There is the constable, I think.” And then he was gone, hurrying back the way he’d come. He could feel Trevor watching him as he turned toward the trees.