One glance at the resolute look on her face and he realised he had no choice. He took her arm

Sue Lawrence is a popular novelist as well as a cookery book author. The Night He Left is published by Freight. Down To The Sea, her first historical mystery, was published by Contraband in 2019. Sue’s latest book, The Unreliable Death Of Lady Grange, was published in March by Saraband.

She ran downstairs and opened the front door. His car was gone. Fiona staggered back inside to the kitchen table and sat down, her hands at her head. He’s done a runner, she thought, as she heard the noise of the toilet flushing next door.

How the hell would she tell Jamie?

Sunday 28 December 1879, 7.30pm.

Ann Craig yanked her cape from the coat stand and threw it over her lilac gown. With clumsy fingers, she buttoned it up in front of the mirror.

Her face looked paler than usual, framed by her dark hair. Usually this was where she preened, tilting her head from right to left, pinching her cheeks to add colour; at this moment, though, grooming was far from her mind.

She fastened the hook at the collar and strode towards the door.

“Wait, Mrs Craig,” said Mrs Baxter, heaving her bulky frame as fast as she could along the corridor. “Donald will go with you.”

Donald Baxter emerged behind his wife. Normally smart with his hair neatly combed, tonight he looked windswept.

He pulled his cap from his pocket and said: “I’ll come too, Mrs Craig. I’m just in. There’s a commotion down by the shore, no one’s sure what’s happened.”

Ann pulled her hat firmly onto her head and opened the door. As the wind whirled around them, her hat blew off and she ran to fetch it.

Battled

It was caught in a rose bush so she ripped it from the thorns and rammed it once again onto her head, holding it in place with her hand.

“Will you not let me go down myself, Mrs Craig, and find out what’s going on? This isn’t a night for a lady to be out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Baxter. I am perfectly capable. Here, take my arm.”

He reached out his arm and together they battled against the lashing rain and howling gale. As they headed for the river, they came across others, heads stooped low against the wind.

They tumbled along together over Magdalen Green towards the signal box on the shore.

The wind continued to howl furiously as Ann and Donald slithered down the slope towards the path.

She lifted her head and stopped, peering ahead. She could see the huge signal post was bent over like a bowed willow branch.

She pulled Baxter’s sleeve and shouted in his ear. “I shall remain by this lamppost. Go and ask at the signal box.”

Donald cowered low and took careful steps across the green.

“Hurry!” she shouted, wrapping her arms round the post. Shoulders stooped, she listened to the almighty roar as waves higher than houses crashed against the shore, throwing great sprays of water over the gathering crowd.

It was impossible to see the bridge through the dark; Ann tried to put aside visions of the train plummeting into the murky, cold depths of the Tay.

Some 10 minutes later, she looked up and saw a stooped figure approach, arms held out at either side for balance.

Donald came right up to her and shouted: “A man climbed up to the signal box. Signalman told him he’d got the usual signal from the other side as the train entered the bridge. Since then, nothing. No more telegraphic communication, he said.”

Ann stared at him. “But what’s to be done?” “No one can do anything right now, Mrs Craig.” She pulled back the hair that had blown over her face and yanked it behind her ears. “We shall continue at once to the station. They must know more there.”

Donald began to protest about the gale, that a lady should not be out on a night like this, it was far too far to walk, but she struck out her elbow for him and said: “It’s barely a mile, Baxter.”

One glance at the resolute look on her face and he realised he had no choice. He took her arm and off they staggered through the howling gale towards Tay Bridge Station.

Bedraggled

As they approached, Ann saw crowds of bedraggled people standing outside, huddled round the gates. Even over the moan of the wind she heard wails of anguish.

Ann looked up at the large clock over the entrance: it was just before 8pm and the train was well overdue. The crowds parted a little as she headed for the station gates, which were firmly shut and padlocked. “Come, let us continue,” she hissed to Donald. She leant through the bars of the gate and rapped on the wooden door and some of the throng turned to her.

“They’ve locked us out.”

“Station’s closed.”

“Flung us all out.”

Ignoring the pack, she whispered to Donald: “Go round the back to the side stairs and then to the stationmaster’s office on platform two. Tell Mr Smith I wish to see him.”

“But Mrs Craig, he will not...”

“Go, Baxter. At once!”

Baxter shuffled away and headed round the back. Ann stood up straight and surveyed the crowd. She was used to being taller than most women but now she seemed to dominate everyone before her; the crowd was stooped, heads bowed as they huddled for shelter from the storm.

After what seemed an interminable time, Donald appeared and whispered to her to follow. She set off behind him, head held high, pulling at her skirt which had become trapped under someone’s walking stick.

She turned to check the crowds were not following then hurried down the side steps towards platform two and stationmaster Alec Smith’s office.

Dishevelled

At the foot she came to an abrupt stop as she noticed a glint at her feet: broken glass. She looked up and noticed that part of the glass roof had shattered.

She lifted her skirts a little and continued, stepping with caution towards the office as Donald swung the door wide for her to enter.

Here was a strange sight. Two railway men, dishevelled and windswept, were staring silently at the inert telegraph machine as if willing it to stutter into life.

A third man sat at the desk, his head in his hands, snivelling like a child.

“Mr Smith, what news is there?”

He sprang to his feet, wiping his forearm across his flushed face.

“Mrs Craig, I’m sorry you were barred from entry. I had to take the decision to close the station. I am unsure the rest of the roof will hold.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve just been out to the signal box – there’s been no signal from the south box since the train left, only a few minutes late.

“Together with my engine-shed man I tried to get along the tracks, but the wind was too strong.”

He turned towards the men by the telegraph machine. “Jimmy, tell the lady what you saw.”

More tomorrow.