“Aye, your dunnage.” Agar grinned. “You step off at Folkestone as you stand now and you’ll cause no end of stir.”
Pierce watched the green, rolling hills flash past, and listened to the rumble of the carriage on the roadbed. Here was a problem he had never considered and had made no plans for. But Agar was right: he couldn’t step out at Folkestone looking like a ragged chimney sweep, especially as Fowler was almost certain to seek him out to say goodbye. “I have no change,” he said softly.
“What say?” Agar said, for the noise of the wind through the open van door was loud.
“I have no change of clothing,” Pierce said. “I never expected…” His voice trailed off; he frowned. “I brought no other clothing.”
Agar laughed heartily. “Then you’ll play the proper ragamuffin, as you’ve made me play the stiff.” Agar slapped his knee. “There’s a daffy of justice, I say.”
“It’s nothing funny,” Pierce snapped. “I have acquaintances on the train who will surely see me and mark the change.”
Agar’s merriment was quashed instantly. He scratched his head with a green hand. “And these same of your acquaintances, they’ll miss you if you’re not there at the station?”
Pierce nodded.
“It’s the devil’s own trap, then,” Agar said. He looked around the van, at the various trunks and pieces of luggage. “Give me your ring of tickles, and I’ll break a pit or two, and we’ll find some square-rigged duns to fit you.”
He held out his hand to Pierce for the ring of picklocks, but Pierce was looking at his watch. It was now two minutes to the drop-off point. Thirteen minutes after that, the train would stop in Ashford, and by then Pierce had to be out of the luggage van and back in his own compartment. “There’s no time,” he said.
“It’s the only chance— ” Agar began, but broke off. Pierce was looking him up and down in a thoughtful way. “No,” Agar said. “Damn you, no!”
“We’re about the same size,” Pierce said. “Now be quick.”
He turned away and the screwsman undressed, muttering oaths of all sorts. Pierce watched the countryside. They were close now: he bent to position the satchels at the lip of the open van door.
Now he saw a tree by the roadside, one of the landmarks he’d long since set for himself. Soon there would be the stone fence…. There it was… and then the old abandoned rusty cart. He saw the cart.
A moment later, he saw the crest of a hill and Barlow in profile beside the coach.
“Now!” he said and, with a grunt, flung one satchel after another out of the moving train. He watched them bounce on the ground, one by one. He saw Barlow hastening down the hill toward them. Then the train went around a curve.
He looked back at Agar, who had stripped to his underclothes, and held his fine duds out for Pierce. “Here you are, and damn your eyes.”
Pierce took the clothes, rolled them into as tight a ball as he could manage, wrapped the parcel with Agar’s belt, and, without another word, swung out the open door and into the wind. Burgess closed the van door, and a few moments later the guard and Agar heard a clink as the bolt was thrown, and another clink as the padlock was locked once more. They heard the scratching of Pierces feet as he scrambled up to the roof; and then they saw the rope, which had been taut across the roof from slapper to slapper, suddenly go slack. The rope was pulled out. They heard Pierces footsteps on the roof a moment longer, and then nothing.
“Damn me, I’m cold,” Agar said. “You’d best lock me back up,” and he crawled into his coffin.
__________
Pierce had not progressed far on his return journey before he realized he had made still another error in his planning: he had assumed it would take the same amount of time to go from the van to his compartment as it took to go from his compartment to the van. But almost immediately he recognized his mistake.