Watson on the Orient Express

by Anna Elliott

  “It is unlikely that she knows anything of value, but the question must be delved into,” Holmes said. He sounded slightly weary; we were both feeling the effects of the past several days.

  “I suppose that they planned for the false body found in the drainage ditch to be identified as Lord Harwell some days ago. But then when Watson escaped—and thanks to Lady Harwell, Lord Harwell truly had disappeared—they altered their plans and decided to have Watson identified as Harwell. But I still don’t entirely see what their aim was.”

  “That, too, must be investigated,” Holmes said.

  With a final rattle, our cab drew to a halt, and I looked out to see the number 221B illuminated by the carriage lamps. I was suddenly exhausted, as though a giant lump of fatigue had been dropped on me from above. Tomorrow, we would continue the search for Watson and our fight to find evidence against Lord Sonnebourne’s organisation. But for right now, all I wanted was to collect Becky and go home to where Jack—

  The front door of 221B opened, and Mrs. Hudson’s plump form stood illuminated against the light of the front hall.

  “Mr. Holmes? Is that you?” She peered out at our carriage.

  “What have you, Mrs. Hudson?” Any sign of tiredness entirely gone, Holmes leaped from the cab, landing on the pavement.

  “It’s a telegram, Mr. Holmes. It came this afternoon.”

  Holmes was already ripping open the sheet in Mrs. Hudson’s hands. I flung a handful of change at our driver, then scrambled out to join him, peering over his shoulder.

  The message had been sent from Victoria Station, by “JHW.” It contained only these words:

  Enroute to Constantinople. Danger to French official and Holmes.

  SUNDAY, JULY 10

  14. WATSON

  I spent the night in a modest hotel near the harbour. When morning came, I felt much more like myself.

  But then I went down to breakfast and picked up a newspaper from a stack at the lobby front desk. My picture was on the front page.

  Wanted for Murder, the headline read. The image of my wild-eyed stare looked as though I were bewildered with drink or drugs. I remembered the young police inspector at Lavender Hill asking if I knew why I had been found unconscious with two dead men.

  I put down the paper immediately, turning it over to hide my picture. I recalled first being awakened by flashes in the house near Clapham Common. So those had been flashes of a photographer’s camera, and all England was now seeing the results of the photographer’s work.

  My name was not in the headline. At least that was something to be thankful for, although, having not read the text of the article, I could not tell whether any name had been associated with that revolting image.

  As inconspicuously as I could manage, I strolled out of the hotel and down to the ferry dock in the warm morning sun, pretending to be concerned with nothing more important than taking in the fresh sea air. At a vendor’s stall, I bought a straw boater hat. I tilted it at what I hoped was a rakish angle, enough to conceal part of my face. Then I boarded the ferry, taking a seat at the far end. I wanted to be one of the first to debark when we landed at Calais Harbour. In France, I reasoned, there would not be such a hue and cry for an English criminal.

  Luck proved to be with me that morning, for no one accosted or questioned me during the ferry journey or on the train from Calais to Paris. I rode unchallenged all the way to the Garde Nord Station.

  I took the time to plan my next move.

  The most important thing was to keep Holmes informed of my whereabouts. I had with me several blank telegraph forms, taken from Victoria Station. I would write two more messages, again to Holmes at Baker Street and to Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. If Holmes had already departed, Mycroft would know how to reach him.

  But what to tell them?

  What had I not told them? I thought.

  Then I wrote.

  Continuing to Constantinople. Sonnebourne assassin has connection with Pera Palace.

  I folded the two messages into two one-hundred-franc banknotes and tucked them into my right waistcoat pocket.

  At the Garde Nord station, I got off the train with the other passengers. Smoke from the trains swirled throughout the crowded walkway. I was glad of it. Eyes down, squinting against the choking dust, I made my way forward, trying to remain inconspicuous.

  I saw the telegraph booth at the centre of the station rotunda. But I stopped abruptly.

  Waiting at the booth, his long arms dangling at his sides, was Clegg.

  I hung back, letting the crowd flow past me, keeping to the other side of the booth. Then I moved over to where a shoe-shine boy sat waiting for customers. I took a fifty-franc banknote from my waistcoat pocket.

  The boy became very attentive.

  I have a rudimentary grasp of French, and I was able to make the boy understand what I wanted, which was for him to walk over to the telegraph booth, sit down a short distance away so as to interfere with the movement of passers-by, and not move for five minutes.

  To my surprise, he replied in English, “So I don’t move, whatever happens?”

  I nodded, gave him the banknote, and waited until he took position. A crowd quickly gathered.

  Soon Clegg stepped away from the booth to see the cause of the gathering. I eased my way into the vacated space, caught the eye of the telegraph clerk, and slid my message and the two banknotes beneath the metal grill onto the counter.

  The clerk picked them up, glanced at the message, and nodded.

  I mimed “hush” with my pursed lips and forefinger.

  He nodded again.

  I kept moving. Not looking back, trusting that the clerk would accommodate me, and hoping Clegg would not notice. Or that if he did, he would have no influence over the clerk.

  My next task was to reach the eastern station, some distance away from Garde Nord, where I could board the Constantinople train. I saw a sign for an exit. I made my way along the crowded corridor and emerged into a less-crowded open area, with perhaps a half-dozen doors, already opened, along the far wall.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard a familiar, ugly voice.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Clegg.

  Was there someone with him?

  In for a penny, I thought, and motioned that the two of us should go towards the ticket wall, away from the crowd. I led him there, turned to face him, and drove my knee into his groin, taking him by surprise. He doubled over. I grabbed his collar and, rocking back, pulled him towards me, driving my knee upwards once again, connecting with his chin. Not a soul attempted to stop us. With the flow of the crowd moving towards the exit doors, it is possible that no one even noticed.

  I pushed Clegg aside and left him slumped against the wall.

  Outside the station, I hailed the first waiting cab. “Gare de l’ Est. Wagons-Lits,” I said. The driver nodded and flicked a whip over his horse.

  I had the vague recollection that I would need a passport for the train to Constantinople and wished I had thought of that before sending my wire to Mycroft. But there was another way, I thought. I would take the train at least as far as Munich, where I knew a British embassy was located. I would send yet another wire to Mycroft. Possibly he could arrange matters. Even better, perhaps Mycroft could clear my name.

  I entered the eastern station and hurried to the Wagons-Lits platform, arriving only a few moments before the waiting Orient Express was about to leave. One uniformed attendant stood on the otherwise empty platform. On the train behind him, the door of the last carriage remained open. I had a hundred-franc note ready for him. I held it out like a ticket and pressed it into the hand of the attendant.

  “Munich,” I said.

  He held the note, but he frowned. “These carriages require a reservation. They are first and second class. Third class is—”

  Behind me I heard an all-too familiar voice, Cockney accented, loud, and angry. “Not so fast!” I turned and saw Clegg running toward
s me.

  Then from above me came a woman’s voice. “Lord Harwell!”

  I looked up.

  In the open railway carriage doorway stood Mrs. Torrance. She was now dressed in black silk rather than white, but her sharp features and piercing dark eyes were unmistakable as she addressed the uniformed attendant.

  “He has a reservation,” she said. “Harwell. Check your list.”

  The attendant consulted his book, nodded, and pocketed my note.

  Clegg, his meaty face bruised and swollen due to our altercation, now stood beside me. He radiated heat and sweaty odour. I felt his sour breath in my face, and his thick hand grasping my upper arm.

  To my astonishment, Mrs. Torrance said, “Clegg. Go back to London. Those are orders.” She tossed a thick white envelope down to him. He released my arm in order to catch the envelope.

  He glanced at the contents and nodded again. Then, with a sullen glare at me, he turned and walked away.

  Two policemen were approaching, but Clegg passed them without stopping.

  Mrs. Torrance said, “Get in.” She beckoned impatiently. “Or do you want to stand on the platform and be arrested?”

  I clambered up the metal steps and into the carriage. Mrs. Torrance stepped aside to let me pass. Ahead of me was an open door leading to a private sleeping compartment. I went inside and she followed. The compartment was neat and smelled of perfume. Jasmine, I thought. Faint yellow light from a small electric bulb shone on the varnished wood surfaces of the wardrobe and drawers. Those were all tightly shut. A bright blue folded silk robe occupied the far end of a narrow sofa.

  She shut the door to the compartment behind her. “Mr. Holmes told me to protect you, Dr. Watson,” she said.

  “Clegg obeyed you,” I said.

  “He takes orders from those he believes are in command.” She smiled, as though pleased to be sharing her secret. “Today, he believed that his commander was me. And he wanted the money in that envelope.”

  Was this true? Sonnebourne’s words came back to my memory. Shoot the Torrance Woman as well. She is working for Holmes.

  But Sonnebourne had given those orders to the dark-haired assassin, in the interview room that I had seen through the decoy portrait. Clegg had not been in the interview room. In fact, Clegg had been ordered to stay away.

  So, yes, it was likely that Clegg did not know that Mrs. Torrance was marked for death and no longer in a position to give orders.

  Ought I to warn Mrs. Torrance?

  She continued, “Clegg will kill you if he can.”

  “When did you talk with Mr. Holmes?”

  “We can go over all that later. I shall be in the dining car at seven. For now, you must go to your own compartment. You’ll find clothes and your passport. Or the conductor may have it.”

  “Passport?”

  “In a leather folder, personalised with your name. Don’t lose it. You won’t get to Constantinople without one. Nor even into Bulgaria, for that matter.” She opened the door. “The compartment is in the next car down, on your left. Number 7.”

  “Did Holmes give you my passport?”

  She shook her head. “The passport is in the name of Gerald, Lord Harwell. He is a client of Sonnebourne’s.” She paused. “He is also a Duke. So, in the dining car, you should behave like a nobleman. People on this train will expect that.” She paused. “When someone says ‘your grace,’ or ‘Lord Harwell,’ don’t ignore them. Milord.”

  I ought to be able to respond to Milord, I supposed. “Perhaps you can explain why the clothes I am wearing now have Harwell’s initials,” I said. “There were also tradesmen’s letters—”

  She cut me off. “Your body was to be discovered in London and identified as Harwell’s. When you escaped, they found another substitute. The real Harwell was to travel to Constantinople on this train, and then vanish with a new identity. But since he’s not here, we can use his belongings to get you out of trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Don’t pretend, Dr. Watson. I saw those policemen in Paris, and I saw your picture in the newspapers before I left Dover. Now go to your compartment. Before the attendant comes.”

  15. LUCY

  “Are you really all right about my going?” I asked.

  Jack and I were sitting side by side in the familiar surroundings of 221B Baker Street. Everything from the shag tobacco kept in its slipper by the mantle to the Queen’s initials VR outlined in bullets on the wall spoke of Sherlock Holmes. But it all felt somehow slightly empty, almost eerie tonight, with Holmes not here, and without any promise of when—or even if—he would return.

  For answer, Jack turned to face me. The fire in the grate patched his lean face with alternate light and shadow. “Do you mind when I’m called out to a murder scene or to hunt down a violent suspect in the middle of the night?”

  As an officer of Scotland Yard, he frequently was. “Well, I don’t love it, but that’s your job.”

  “There you are then.”

  I could tell from the quality of Jack’s brief smile that it wasn’t quite as simple as that. I was walking—deliberately walking—straight into a known danger, and for almost the first time since we’d met, I would be on my own.

  Before I could say anything more, though, the clock on the mantle struck eleven, and Becky startled up from where she’d been dozing in an armchair by the fire. Not that she would have admitted to being asleep. At eleven years old, she considered herself far too close to adulthood to be shackled with childish constraints like bed-time.

  “Is it time for you to leave, Lucy?” she asked.

  “Very nearly.” I got up, too, and picked up the small carpet bag I’d already packed with everything I would need.

  Becky bit her lip. “Thank you for letting me stay up to say goodbye.”

  “I had to.” I gave her a hug. “Otherwise I would have been continually checking to make sure you hadn’t stowed away in my suitcase.” I spoke lightly, but with her that was distinctly within the realm of possibility.

  Becky didn’t smile, though. “What if Dr. Watson didn’t travel by the Orient Express after all?”

  I sat back down on the edge of the sofa. I did need to be on my way, but Becky needed reassurance more.

  “We’re as sure as we can possibly be,” I told her. “His telegram yesterday said that he was enroute to Constantinople. And when he spoke to you on the telephone, it sounded as though he started to say ‘Orient’ before he was cut off.”

  “He wasn’t on the passenger list of the last train to depart, though,” Becky said.

  “No. But Lord Harwell was.” Mycroft’s first act after the receipt of Watson’s telegram had been to demand a list of passengers from the Wagons-Lits railway company, and it had been brought by special messenger to us within the hour. One of those instances where Mycroft’s high-up position within the British government was a distinct advantage. “We know that Watson was identified as Lord Harwell at the Lavender Hill Police Station. And we know that the real Lord Harwell is dead.”

  Holmes and I had in fact just unmasked his murderer.

  “So it’s likely that Watson is still travelling under Lord Harwell’s identity.”

  Becky didn’t look even slightly reassured. “Dr. Watson’s telegram also said there was danger to Mr. Holmes in Constantinople.”

  “I know.”

  Those were the only two definite scraps of information that Watson had been able to impart in his maddeningly brief telegram: Enroute to Constantinople. Danger to French official and Holmes.

  “That’s why Lucy’s going,” Jack said quietly. “So that Mr. Holmes will have someone to watch his back.”

  None of us mentioned the possibility of Holmes not going to Constantinople as a result of Watson’s warning. That would never be entertained as an option by anyone who knew Holmes. If anything, the direct personal threat was more along the lines of waving a red flag in front of a bull—or would be, if those animals could actually see in colour. No forc
e on earth could have prevented Holmes from journeying to Constantinople now.

  “We don’t know whether Watson is acting of his own free will or whether he’s being held prisoner by someone travelling with him,” I said to Becky.

  Something was most definitely wrong, otherwise Watson would have written to explain matters more fully. But without knowing the truth of the dangers he might be facing, we didn’t dare send any telegrams in response to his. If Watson was a captive, and our enemies learned that he had succeeded in warning us, it could cost him his life.

  “That’s why we need to travel to Constantinople in person,” I said. “Both for Watson’s sake, and for the sake of whatever international disaster he’s trying to prevent.”

  Mycroft had already booked passage for us on the Orient Express that would leave Calais the day after tomorrow. The tickets were under assumed names, and by prearranged agreement, Holmes and I would have no contact with one another from now on.

  That was why Holmes was not here now: he had already departed for one of his famous bolt-holes, the rented rooms he kept all around London, stocked with everything he would need to disguise himself for the journey.

  “I know.” The corners of Becky’s mouth were still turned down. “I just wish that I could go with you.”

  “Come on, Beck.” Jack put an arm around his sister. “If you were gone, who’d keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t get into any trouble while Lucy’s away?”

  Becky mustered up a wan smile, and Jack looked up at the clock. “Lucy’d better be off now.”

  “Is our friend the watcher in place?” I asked.

  For the last two days, 221 Baker Street had been under surveillance by a wide array of individuals, from young men offering to shine boots, to flower sellers and idle loafers who mysteriously seemed to find the house across the road from ours the most comfortable building in all of London against which to lean.