by Anna Elliott
Unfortunately, confronting any of them would be a waste of time. They were simple hirelings, probably with only a vague notion of their purpose in keeping watch on us.
We needed the individual closer to the top, the one giving the orders.
Jack was already standing by the window. He edged the curtain a fraction of an inch out of the way, looked out and then nodded.
“Present and correct. It’s a new one, anyway. An old man slumped on the pavement and swilling something out of a bottle and pretending to be drunk. But he’s keeping a sharp eye on our doorway here.”
“Well, I must put on a good show for him, then.” I took up my hat and coat.
“Goodbye.” Becky hugged me fiercely. She didn’t protest any more, or cry at my leaving. But my last sight as I reached the street and gave a final look back at the house was of her small, forlorn figure outlined in the glow of the upstairs window.
She raised her hand to wave, and I blew her a kiss. Then I turned away.
Across the road, the drunken old man heaved himself to his feet with a fairly convincing show of simply stretching his legs. Then making another show of finding his bottle empty, he shuffled after me as I walked down the road.
I was wearing my own clothes: a grey walking suit trimmed with black braid, and a matching hat. I also wore a black evening cloak around my shoulders, which in the mid-July weather was entirely unnecessary for warmth, but which did make it easier to blend into the deepest shadows at the side of the street.
I walked until I reached Park Road, where I hailed a cab. I risked a quick glance behind me. My friend the elderly reprobate was still shuffling after me, with more purpose in his steps, now. I’d walked too quickly for him to keep up the drunken act.
“St. Paul’s Cathedral, please,” I told the driver.
Then I climbed into the cab and settled back against the worn leather seats.
By the time we had reached our destination and I alighted before the wide stone steps, my cloak and hat had both been stuffed into my bag. I now wore a distinctly more eye-catching hat of emerald silk with a spray of ostrich feathers on one side, and a capelet of matching deep green emerald.
Inside, the sanctuary was a long, dimly lit space, with candles glowing on the altar. The faint ambient light of the outside street lamps filtered through high gothic-style stained glass windows. I wasn’t the only one to seek refuge here tonight: a few shabby-looking figures were spaced out among the dark wooden pews. From the snores coming from several of them, they were less interested in worship than in finding a safe place to sleep. But then, considering my own purposes in being here, I was scarcely in a position to judge.
I knelt down in an empty pew close to the door that led back out into the knave and waited. The candles on the altar flickered. The snoring continued to echo in the vaulted space. But no one else entered behind me.
I bent my head—sincerely; I couldn’t recall God owing me any favours, but I would be happy for any divine assistance offered to me tonight. Then I slowly sank down until I was crouched on the floor between the high-backed wooden pews and invisible except to anyone who looked in on me directly.
I took out my hairpins and once again opened my bag.
From there, if anyone was watching—and I distinctly hoped that they were, otherwise this night was going to be counted as a great deal of wasted effort—a bent, elderly woman with untidy grey hair and a tattered shawl exited the church. She limped her way arthritically down the road until she reached a coffee house still open at this hour of the night and entered.
There the elderly crone disappeared, to be replaced by a young, blond-haired woman in a nurse’s uniform, who made her way efficiently down the street but with a slightly tired lag in her step. Anyone seeing her would assume that she was travelling home from attending a difficult medical case or a childbirth.
The nurse hailed a passing cab, which deposited her outside of a butcher’s shop where Holmes had one of his famous bolt-holes in the upstairs rooms. Jack and I had taken refuge there once, before we were married. I pushed the memories away as I changed out of the nurse’s uniform and into the apparel of a young man: trousers, scruffy checked coat, and a flat-brimmed hat pulled down low over my eyes. I needed all my attention focused on the job at hand tonight, not lost in the past. Although I wished that Jack were here in the room with me now.
Dressed in my boy’s apparel, I exited the bolt-hole through the upper-story window, climbing down the water pipe and landing in the narrow alley that ran along the back of the butcher’s shop.
At the end of the alleyway, I performed a quick scan of the road. Several pedestrians, three newspaper boys, and a few early-morning women shoppers with baskets over their arms. I had at any rate lost the old man who had been watching Baker Street; I’d not seen a sign of him since St. Paul’s Church.
Hands in my pockets, I sauntered casually out of the alley and down the road, heading for Belgravia and Victoria Station.
16. WATSON
I left Mrs. Torrance in her compartment, walked down the passageway to the next railway carriage, and pushed open the heavy connecting door.
Immediately I recoiled from a blast of hot, dusty air. The roar of the locomotive and the clatter of the wheels assaulted my ears. I caught the sharp scent of lignite. My eyes stung. Beneath me, the gap between the swaying carriages closed and then widened. The bright steel rails, crushed stones, and wooden sleeper ties below me all flew past at a dizzying rate.
I had to keep moving. I pulled open the door to the next carriage and hauled myself inside. Behind me, the door clicked shut. Inside, in the relative calm, I caught my breath before I manoeuvred into the passageway. I needed to find my own compartment and get away from the public view. My face adorned the front page of newspapers both in England and in France. Thanks to the manipulations of Lord Sonnebourne and his shadowy organisation of criminals, I was a fugitive wanted for a double murder.
I stood for a moment. Outside, the French countryside floated by on my right, green fields and greener forests, visible through the large windows along the narrow corridor. On my left, I saw a row of polished wood compartment doors, identical to those in the carriage from which I had entered the train. All were securely shut. No rattling. Brass hardware locks and recessed brass handles gleamed as if brand-new.
At the end of the passageway sat a uniformed railway conductor. He was aware of my entry into his carriage, but as yet he was content merely to observe the intrusion.
I had taken many railway journeys, but never on a train so luxurious as the Orient Express. And never, I reflected, in the identity of someone else. John H. Watson, M.D., was not accustomed to travel in such circles, where the cost of train fare to my destination was a greater sum than most of my patients earned in half a year. But here, I reminded myself, I was not John H. Watson, M.D. I was impersonating a duke.
Compartment Number Seven, Mrs. Torrance had said. There I would find clothes and a false passport. I would dress for dinner and join her in the first-class dining car, where she would explain why she, a murderer Sherlock Holmes and I had been pursuing for nearly half a year, was now his ally—and also mine, since she had prevented my capture.
On the second compartment to my left, the number seven gleamed in polished brass. I tried the door. It was locked. The uniformed conductor stood up from his seat and came forward, a middle-aged man of swarthy Mediterranean features and quiet dignity. He wore a black cap and black uniform, each smartly trimmed with elegant gold braid. He held a black leather notebook in one hand. His small dark eyes met mine, respectful but with authority.
“I am Maurice, senior conductor for this sleeping car. You are, sir?”
To my chagrin, in my fatigue I momentarily forgot the name of the duke I was impersonating.
“I am on your list,” I said, “to occupy Number Seven. The attendant on the platform permitted me to board.”
“Noted, Sir. However, you will understand it is for your security that I
must ask again for your name.”
I remembered the initials in my jacket lining. I had seen them. What were they? Would I have to remove my jacket?
Then, thankfully, I remembered.
“Harwell. Gerald,” I said. “I am a duke. From England. Kent.”
He looked dubiously at me, and then at the paper in his leather-bound notebook.
“Yes, Milord. I have it here on my list. Number Seven. I have your passport as well.”
“In your notebook?”
“I have your passport locked in my storage compartment with those of the other passengers in this carriage. I keep them there so I can show them to border officials when we cross at Strasbourg. That way, none of you need interrupt your sleep.” He smiled. “You can rest undisturbed as we enter, or at any other crossing.”
“I should like to see my passport. To verify that it is correct.”
“Momentarily, Milord.”
He produced a brass key, unlocked the compartment door, and then placed the key into my hand. He stood discreetly aside to give me an unobstructed view. A sofa on my right. Wooden cabinets on my left. And doors. All tightly shut. A small washstand in the corner. A mirror. A window with the shade drawn. Shelves with bottles of pomade and cologne, brushes, and shaving kit.
“The company has replaced all the sleeping cars in the fleet.”
“That explains why everything looks so new. Because it is.”
“Yes, Milord. I mention it because you are no doubt accustomed to the old design, since you have travelled with us before. The new design places one washroom between every pair of two compartments, rather than at the ends.” He pointed along the corridor to another door, two doors down from mine. “That is the men’s washroom for this carriage. Do not use the other. There are ladies travelling on the train.”
I smiled. “I am meeting a lady for supper this evening.”
“The first-class dining carriage is two cars further down. After the ladies’ salon. Next comes the men’s smoking lounge and library.” He gave a brief nod. “I shall have your bed made up by the senior attendant while you are in the dining car. His name is Anthony, and he has already unpacked your suitcase. I am sure you will find all to your satisfaction. If not, would you kindly inform me, and I shall see to it personally. Now, I shall retrieve your passport.”
He departed, closing the door behind him.
I inspected the clothes that hung in the wardrobe. Three jackets, one for evening wear, with matching trousers, all freshly pressed. Black silk pyjamas. Starched white collars, shirts, black silk socks, silk underwear. Three pairs of highly polished shoes, including one pair in glossy patent leather.
I touched the soft, smooth fabric of the dinner jacket. A far cry from the quality of my own wardrobe. On impulse, I looked inside the jacket lapel. The same initials, in the same gold thread: “GH.” A saying of Thoreau, the American philosopher Lucy frequently quoted, came to mind: “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”
I wondered if any of these new clothes would fit me.
I sat on the sofa, slipped off my dusty brogan shoe and tried the patent leather. It did fit.
There came a knock at the door.
“Your passport, Milord.”
Maurice handed me a flat folder of black leather, with a name printed on a strip of white satin fabric sewn onto the top: LORD HARWELL OF KENT. The folder opened to reveal a single sheet of heavy parchment, framed by the leather. The British Lion and Unicorn at the top of the parchment were the same as on my own, as was the instruction from the Prime Minister to “request and require” safe passage of the bearer wherever the passport was presented. But while after “John H. Watson” on my passport came the words “a British subject,” on this one after “Gerald, Lord Harwell,” were the words, “Duke of Harwell, in the County of Kent.” I recalled the pride I had felt when carefully signing my name to my own passport. The signature on this one was a scrawled “Harwell.” The careless indifference of Harwell’s writing made me think how far from my own natural state was the role I was now playing.
“All in order, Milord?” He was setting a ceramic pitcher on the washstand.
“Thank you.” I folded the binder and handed it back. Absurdly, I wondered what Holmes’s passport signature looked like. His disdain for bureaucratic regulation might have elicited a scrawl just as careless as Harwell’s. Particularly if he were playing the part of a contemptuous duke.
If I was to help Holmes, I needed to set aside my own misgivings and play that role.
“How long until we reach Constantinople?” I asked.
“From Paris it is normally two and one-half days. Early Wednesday morning is our scheduled arrival. Sixty-three hours.” Maurice consulted his watch. “Barring unforeseen delays, naturally. There is a timetable in the drawer of your writing desk.”
“How long until Munich?”
“After midnight tonight. Or possibly later.”
“I shall be asleep, no doubt. Can you send a telegraph message for me?”
“From Munich?”
I nodded. “To London.” I drew from my pocket my supply of paper currency and handed him two hundred-franc notes. “I shall have the message ready after supper this evening. It will be brief.”
Maurice pocketed the notes and glanced over to the mirror and corner washstand. “First-class dinner service begins at seven, Milord. Please ring for me if the shaving kit or anything else does not meet with your approval. The water in the pitcher is hot.” Then he gave a slight bow and departed.
I sat down heavily on the sofa, suddenly fatigued. But a glance at my pocket watch told me I would need to shave now and dress for dinner if I was to be punctual. The shaving kit contained everything I required. I stared critically at my reflection. For a fleeting moment I considered beginning a new moustache to restore what my kidnappers had taken from me, but I knew this was not the time. I was Harwell and had to look the part. I turned to my luxurious clothes. The dove-grey silk vest, the Egyptian cotton wing-tipped shirt, the velvet trimmed dinner jacket, all felt far sleeker and finer than those I wore in London. But they all fit perfectly.
I checked my reflection in the class. I thought I looked the perfect aristocrat, down to the tight symmetrical knot of my black silk tie. My fatigue had vanished.
But cold suspicion had replaced it. I determined to have an explanation from the woman who called herself Mrs. Torrance.
17. WATSON
The dining car windows were large and tall. From the small table where I sat, the green fields and hills of the French countryside seemed to race towards us, and then away. Trees and houses made long shadows that stretched out in the light of the setting sun. Across from me sat Mrs. Torrance. Her face shone with the sunlight. She drew the shade down to keep the glare from her eyes.
“The clothes in my wardrobe are a perfect fit,” I said.
“You make that sound like an accusation,” She tapped ash into a small silver tray, delicately grasping her long cigarette holder between her fingertips. “You men have smoking jackets to keep the ash away,” she said. “Someday these will be fashionable for women.”
She looked outside for a moment, ignoring the few grey flakes of ash that fell onto the white linen tablecloth. She gave a pouting smile. “Why would you complain that your wardrobe is too perfect? I thought you would enjoy a taste of luxury, Milord.”
“I find it disconcerting that everything fits so well. Even the trousers, with the right leg one-quarter inch shorter than the left, to compensate for a wound I received at Kandahar. Why are the measurements of Harwell’s garments all identical to mine?”
She gave me a sharp look. “You really don’t understand?”
“You duplicated my entire wardrobe?”
“What you found in your compartment we had made to measure, based on your tailor’s own specifications.”
“When?”
“In late June. The plan has been in the works for more than a month, ever since your M
r. Holmes took that very valuable painting from Lord Sonnebourne—”
“The painting that Sonnebourne’s client had stolen to pay Sonnebourne for his new identity,” I said.
She gave a cold smile. “Sonnebourne considered that an affront, nonetheless, and requiring a response that would be painful to Holmes.”
“Kidnapping me.”
“Killing you, actually. As I said, your body was to be discovered and identified as Lord Harwell’s. No such identification would survive if the measurements of the clothes on your body were not the same as those in Lord Harwell’s own closet. And, given his status and wealth, such a comparison would have been made, I assure you.”
“Who made the clothes?”
“Harwell’s tailor, as his label proclaims. All were finished and waiting in Kent, ready to be spirited into Harwell’s own bedroom once police had found his body. But when you escaped, we brought everything to the Dover ferry and then onto this train.”
“But if you expected Harwell on this train, there was no reason for you to bring garments that fit me.”
“We were no longer expecting Harwell.”
“Why not?”
“We learned that Lady Harwell had killed him. Your Mr. Holmes solved the case and had her arrested.”
I shook my head, wondering how Holmes had become involved. “How did you learn that?”
“There are telephones at railway stations, Milord.” She smiled, and amusement shone in her dark eyes. “And I am still part of Sonnebourne’s organisation. His funds have paid for this luxury that surrounds us. I suggest you take time to enjoy it. The waiter is hovering in the aisle behind you, eager to pour your champagne.”
I watched as the waiter filled the crystal goblets, one for her, one for me. When he was out of earshot, I continued.
“If Harwell was dead, why send the clothes here?”
“Because we knew you were coming. Clegg heard you in the police station, warning someone about the Orient Express, just as he knocked the telephone from your hand. I saw you outside Victoria Station. And when you arrived in Dover, you asked about the ferry to Calais. And you certainly appeared to need help. You were unshaven and quite dishevelled.”
