Estimated Time of Arrival

The hallway was dimly lit by the soft, blue glow of the tiny lights lining the floor. occasionally the area would light up with white lightning flashes that reminded Netty of a camera going off. She cautiously made her way toward the muffled, thumping sound coming from one of the doors closest to the front of the hall. An agonized moan rose in the dark, causing Netty’s skin to erupt in gooseflesh, her blood chilled as the sound was cut off by one last, muffled bump. She shivered, crossing her arms over her stomach as she continued.

She stopped directly in front of the offending room, knowing that knocking would be taking it too far. Who knew who was in there or what they were doing?

“Oh, it’s all your fault,” a man’s voice wailed from inside, causing all the hair on Netty’s arms to stand up on end. “You made me do it. You made me do it and now look, your head is broken open and leaking everywhere like some rotten gourd. A disgusting mess. This is all your fault, all your fault…”

Netty was so scared she couldn’t even move. Even worse was the fact that she recognized the voice—elderly, male, strong British accent. Soon she heard the smooth trickling sounds of the room’s sink being turned on, someone washing their hands or face. Get back to your room, her instinct suddenly screamed, as though waking up after being drugged and gagged with a rag. Why the hell are you out here? What would he do if he opened the door and saw you?

Before she went, another flash of lightning revealed the name written on the card outside the door, confirming what she already knew: Thornwell.

She thought of Mr. Thornwell, with his Victorian manners and hard-edged tone, and of Mrs. Thornwell, with her endlessly sad eyes and nervous little smile. Netty had just heard her die. Heard her head get broken open.

Netty turned as though a switch flipped inside of her and rushed back towards her room, her mind racing with what would come next. A woman was dead. Murdered. She needed to tell Sal right away, she needed to get out of the hallway right this very minute. But when she was almost to her room, she noticed someone sitting in a chair in the dark, monitoring the hallway. She hadn’t seen him there before, the conductor. He was still wearing his hat, the blue lights reflecting off the surface of his round glasses.

“Did you hear that just now?” she whisper-screamed when she saw him, “The Thornwells fighting?”

The conductor stared at Netty. “Is that why you came out of your room this late? They often argue, dear, I wouldn’t worry about it—”

“No, no, you don’t understand.” Netty’s hands were trembling; she thought she might vomit. “I just overheard him. He killed her, he said her head was broken open like a rotten gourd, please, you have to go in there and see for yourself!”

At her words, the conductor’s posture immediately stiffened as he came to true attention. He rose immediately, gently making his way around Netty, placing his hands on her arms. “I’m sure you misheard,” he assured her. “I’ll show you. Don’t worry.”

The conductor walked to the Thornwell’s room. He lifted his hand to quiet her before knocking. After a moment, light poured into the hallway, flooding around the conductor as though he were on a stage.

Netty couldn’t hear the specifics of what they were saying. She only heard the conductor exchanging words with Jack Thornwell in an apologetic tone. He never stepped into the room. Never crooked his head to see inside. After another moment, the door was closed again, leaving them in near total darkness once again.

“Mrs. Thornwell is sleeping now,” the conductor told Netty. “He said the large thumping sound was because his suitcase slid off the bed. They did argue, but she’s fine.”

“Did you confirm that with your own eyes?” Netty demanded.

“I saw her foot near the edge of their bed behind him,” the conductor said defensively. “You’ll see tomorrow, when you come to breakfast.” He steered her toward the door of her own suite, “She’ll be there, eating her haddock like always.”

Netty couldn’t believe it. “So you’re just going to ignore everything I just said?” She felt her face warm.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, your breath reeks of alcohol. Now, while we don’t mind our passengers enjoying themselves on our train, we do draw a line if drunken belligerence starts to affect the other passengers. If you don’t want this to become a…heightened issue…you’ll go back to your room now. Or shall I knock for your husband?”

Netty’s heart skipped a beat. She swung wildly between rage over being dismissed and desperation to be away from this stupid, little man. In the end, she reasoned that Thornwell didn’t know which suite was hers. When his wife didn’t show up to breakfast in the morning, she’d tell Sal everything, and he’d back her up.

“No,” Netty said, wrapping her arms around herself and looking to the floor. “Don’t wake Sal. I’ll go.”

“Thank you.” The conductor let out a sigh of relief over his victory. “Goodnight, then. Everything really is okay, I promise. Nothing happens on this train without me knowing about it.”

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