by Anna Elliott
“But why help me?”
“I told you. Because Mr. Holmes asked me to.” She raised her glass. “Now, I propose a toast to your continued good health.”
“Does Sonnebourne know I am here?”
“I reported to Sonnebourne from Victoria Station after I had seen you. I shall also send him a wire from Strasbourg.”
My thoughts raced. “But he does not know you are working for Holmes?”
“If he did, I would be dead. Clegg would have killed me.”
I kept my features steady. I had overheard Sonnebourne tell the other man, the dark-haired assassin, to do exactly that, but only after he had completed his deadly work of killing Holmes and the French Diplomat.
She paused and took out another cigarette from a flat silver case. “Holmes has caught wind of an assassination to be performed in Constantinople.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
“I don’t understand.” I struck a match and lit her cigarette.
She reached across the table, touching my forearm lightly, with her fingertips. “I am the assassin, Dr. Watson. That is what I do for Sonnebourne.”
I shuddered, but only inwardly. Keep her talking, I thought. “I find that hard to believe,” I said.
“My most recent task involved a gullible woman, just before your abduction. She had no family and her appearance matched a client who wanted to be presumed dead. I drugged her, dressed her as a fortune-teller, led her to Westminster Bridge, and pushed her off. You may remember the case.”
“I do. We thought Sonnebourne’s organisation was behind it. Did Sonnebourne order you to kill your husband?”
“Kill Torrance, you mean?” She shook her head. “He was a repellent creature. Fortunately for me, he was never my husband. At the Grand Hotel, it was expedient for us to pass as a married couple. We did so for two very long years. When he was caught and jailed, I visited him. He wanted to kiss me goodbye, through the bars of his cell. Quite romantic. He closed his eyes as our lips met, and I broke his neck. As a doctor, you know exactly how that could be done.”
Her matter-of-fact manner chilled me, though I tried not to show my revulsion. “I do. The cervical vertebrae are always vulnerable.” I sipped champagne. “Now, what is your real name, if you are not Mrs. Torrance?”
“I have been called many names.” She smiled, and her tone became softer, more sympathetic. “I have even been called a duchess. But I have no real name. I seem to outwear the ones I use from time to time. On this train, the name on my passport is Jane Griffin. Now you are wondering just what kind of monster fate has provided you as a travelling companion. Let me assure you, I am not a monster.”
“So you will perform no more assassinations.”
“I have promised Holmes.”
“In Constantinople, who was the target?”
I knew the answer, of course: a French diplomat was the intended victim. But I would not reveal what I had overheard through the painting. That was my one advantage.
Her smile faded. “We will save that for our arrival. Now. I see the waiter’s cart coming with our oysters and caviar. I must insist that we do not discuss business matters any further.”
The cuisine of the Orient Express equalled the finest in my dining experience throughout my far-reaching adventures with Holmes. Yet I could not savour the rich fare. The woman now calling herself Jane Griffin sat before me, calmly enjoying her appetizers, her champagne, and then her soup, a lobster bisque that normally would have made me forget where I was. But I could not forget.
My thoughts were whirling. Was Jane Griffin really working for Holmes? Sonnebourne had said so, of course, in the conversation I had overheard. And why else would Jane Griffin claim that Holmes was now her ally? But still there was something troubling me. Something I could not put my finger on, but troubling nonetheless.
I had to learn more.
We were midway through the fourth course when I could restrain my concern no longer. “You promised to explain how you came to be working for Holmes.”
She shook her finger in mock admonition. “That is going back to business.”
“But for only a moment.”
“Very well. For one moment only.”
She set down her knife and fork, laying them neatly across the china plate with the Wagons-Lits emblem inlaid in gold. “Do you mean, how did Holmes find me? He would not disclose that.”
I nodded. “Why didn’t he have you arrested?”
“Because you had been abducted by then, and he wanted to rescue you. Under the circumstances, he said, he was prepared to bend the rule of law to serve a higher purpose.”
“Not unheard of,” I said.
“I told him I knew where you were.”
“Did you mention Sonnebourne planned to use me as Harwell’s corpse?”
“I did. Holmes was most anxious to prevent that.”
“How?”
“He proposed a bargain. I was to help you escape. In Constantinople, I was to botch the assassination. And in return, he was to destroy Sonnebourne.”
“Why would you want that?”
“Sonnebourne—” she broke off, turning away, her gaze directed at the window. Outside, the shadows of twilight lengthened and gathered, cloaking the green vista that sped endlessly towards us and then away.
After a few moments, she continued. “Sonnebourne is a slave master. I am his property. There is no leaving him. The police cannot defeat him. Holmes is my only hope.”
18. WATSON
As the meal concluded nearly an hour later, the dessert, a rich crème brûlée, absorbed only a part of my attention. The surrounding conversation, the rhythmic click of the rails, the dusk that had turned to darkness outside—all faded into the background. The piano player had begun a familiar, sentimental tune, with lyrics that spoke of lost beauty and bygone love. I tapped my silver spoon to break through another layer of hardened caramelized sugar and then savoured the rich burnt-cream custard beneath. I thought of my dear wife, Mary. I wondered if I would have another chance at happiness with a lovely woman. It was the melancholy music, I told myself, that made me long for something different. I resolved simply to savour the moment, as Holmes had often advised.
Jane Griffin also had felt the nostalgia of the melody, I thought, for she put down her coffee cup and gave a sigh. “I will change my life,” she said. “Though at my age, I wonder how much is possible.”
Had I taken more champagne or brandy, I might have answered more sympathetically. I might have said that she was still a striking beauty. I might have said that her manners and movements would captivate whatever man became the object of her attention. But I said nothing. All I could think of was her cool description of how she had walked into a jail in the seaside town of Shellingford and killed her husband.
“Have you ever thought of starting again?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” I had to admit.
“It is possible. If one has adequate means. Take our waiter, for example.” She gestured at the man, smartly dressed as he was in his liveried uniform. “He is quite obviously a servant here. Possibly even ridiculous, you might think, in his silken hose and knee breeches and satin coat. Yet next month he will start anew. He will be his own master, opening his own hotel in Barcelona. The train abounds with opportunities, and he has been with the train for more than a decade. Nearly since it began.”
“Able to save up a substantial sum, I suppose.”
“Able to take advantage of opportunities,” she replied.
“Are you suggesting that I do something different?”
“Oh, no. Certainly not now. You are loyal to Holmes. As am I. We are working together here, for a common purpose. I merely suggest that later, someday in the future, you might find yourself with an opportunity to strike out on your own.”
“When the time comes, I will no doubt consider it,” I said, sipping coffee.
She was looking at my right hand, which held the coffee cup. “Barked
the skin on those knuckles, did you?”
“A little encounter with Clegg.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “To judge from your unblemished features, you came out the winner. And Clegg is very good. You must be quite the fighter, Milord.”
I had a realisation.
“Clegg will have telephoned Sonnebourne from Paris,” I said.
She shrugged, as though the matter were of no consequence. “Undoubtedly.”
“He will tell Sonnebourne that I am on the train, and that you facilitated my escape.”
“And so?”
“Won’t that put you in danger?”
She gave me a kindly smile. “I do appreciate your concern. But Sonnebourne was already aware of your presence. I told you, I reported to him from Dover. I spoke with him on the telephone.”
“What did he say?”
“He intends for you to travel to Constantinople disguised as Lord Harwell. There is a room at the Pera Palace reserved for you. His plan is that you and Holmes—and by association, the British Government—will take the blame for the assassination.”
I drew in my breath. “But you said—”
“That I was working for Holmes, and I am. There will be no assassination. Instead, I will take the payment money and vanish. Maybe you’ll come with me.”
The sentimental melody was concluding. I caught some of the words:
But to me, you’re as fair as you were, Maggie,
When you and I were young.
“It’s a thought,” I said.
“You’re a decent man,” she said. “I wonder what would have happened.”
“What?”
“If we’d met twenty years ago.”
“I might have reformed you?”
“I might never have gone wrong.” She smiled. “I was only eighteen.”
“I was twenty-six,” I said. “On a boat for India. On my way to Afghanistan. I was shot there.”
“I am pleased that you came back.”
We had stopped at Strasbourg when I said goodnight to the woman calling herself Jane Griffin and returned to my compartment. The attendant had already transformed my sofa into a bed. I ran my fingers over the silken sheets and held up the soft eiderdown pillow. But I had no time for sleep. I had to think. I needed to understand what might await me in Constantinople so I could warn Holmes.
I lifted my shade and peered outside my window, with the absurd notion that I might recognise someone. But only a uniformed railway attendant was on the platform. I realised that the train, being full, would not have passengers waiting to board, nor would a passenger on the Orient Express be likely to get off at the first stop from Paris. There were far less expensive ways to make that relatively short journey.
Beside the attendant was a tall table, resembling a speaker’s podium. A second man approached, in a different uniform, carrying a valise. I saw his face. Maurice. I watched him walk up to the other attendant and place the valise on the podium. He opened the valise and took out a stack of leather folders resembling the passport Maurice had shown me earlier that evening. The attendant nodded, and Maurice returned the folders to the valise. Then I saw Jane Griffin on the platform, walking towards Maurice and the attendant. She handed the attendant a folded piece of yellow paper and a banknote. The two nodded. She returned to the train with Maurice. Her report to Sonnebourne, I thought.
A shrill whistle blew, and the train moved forward. As it picked up speed, I tried to focus my thoughts. What would happen in Constantinople?
The sleek-haired assassin was on his way. I might recognise him from behind, but I had not seen his face. I only knew Sonnebourne had ordered him to kill the diplomat, kill Holmes, and then kill the Torrance woman, who now called herself Jane Griffin.
But Jane Griffin had said she was the assassin. And, to help destroy Sonnebourne, she planned to steal the payment money and vanish. What would happen when she met the sleek-haired man? Would he kill her? Or would she kill him?
And what awaited me in Constantinople?
According to Jane Griffin, Holmes and I were to be blamed for the assassination. That was why Sonnebourne had paid for me to occupy this expensive compartment on this luxurious train. How would I be set up? Was someone waiting to attack me, as they had done in London? Or was there some other scheme?
What to do? What to believe? How to plan?
I seemed to hear Holmes’s voice.
It is useless, even dangerous, to speculate until we have established the facts.
And there was one fact that I had to identify. One thread that might unravel the tangled web in which I found myself enmeshed.
I sat down on the bed, took out a pad and pen, wrote a telegraph message to Mycroft Holmes, and then coded it. In plain text the message read:
Mrs. Torrance now calling herself Jane Griffin. Says she is allied with Holmes. Please wire confirmation or denial, with instruction. Will arrive Wednesday at Pera Palace, Constantinople, under name of Harwell. JHW.
I rang for Maurice and handed him the message when he arrived at my door a few moments later.
“Send from Munich, Milord?”
I nodded. “What time will that be?”
“Just past three in the morning, Milord.”
“Then do not wake me.”
I prepared for sleep. A few minutes later I was lying between silk sheets, clad in silk pyjamas, my head resting on a silk-covered eiderdown pillow. I closed my eyes, trying to empty my mind of the recent events that had somehow swept me away from London. I went over my telegram message. The code was a relatively easy one, involving a shift of letters in the alphabet. Mycroft had used it on a previous case, one in which I had been involved. Surely, he would recognise it and make short work of extracting my meaning.
But what if he did not?
No, that did not bear worrying about, I told myself. I had done all I could. The telegram would reach Mycroft, and Mycroft would reach Holmes, and Holmes would find a way to reach me when I arrived at the Pera Palace. Holmes would show me what to do.
The steel wheels beneath me clicked on the rails in a reassuring rhythm. The carriage swayed as though a rocking cradle. The cool night air fluttered the curtain at my window and made a refreshing change from the warm, tobacco-and-food-scented atmosphere of the dining car. I wondered where in Germany we were. I wondered if there were farms outside, or forests. I was tired, I told myself. I needed sleep. It ought to come immediately.
But it did not.
MONDAY, JULY 11
19. WATSON
I remained awake, more or less, tossing and turning. Then I realised that the click of the wheels had slowed, and the sway of the carriage had diminished. I heard the hiss of steam brakes. The train stopped. I sat up in the bed, noticing faint light coming through the small gap in the curtain. I stood and peered through the gap. Outside was a railway platform and a drab brick façade. A large painted sign proclaimed that this was ‘München.’ Munich. Shaded electric lamps illuminated the platform.
A uniformed attendant waited there. Once again, I saw Maurice approach, coming from the train. He passed the attendant a folded yellow paper—my message, I was sure of that. From a wallet Maurice extracted what appeared to be banknotes—likely those I had given him—and handed them over. The two men nodded, shook hands, and Maurice turned and walked back to the train, disappearing from my view. The transaction was complete, though I had not heard a single spoken word. The attendant remained on the platform, having pocketed the message and banknotes. I waited for him to go into the station, but he did not.
A moment later, another man appeared, also coming from the train, but from several cars forward of mine. His back to me, he handed the attendant a banknote. The attendant nodded and produced the yellow message paper Maurice had given him. The new arrival took the paper, opened it and glanced at the contents, holding it in one hand. The flame from a newly lit match flickered in his other hand. He touched the flame to the yellow paper. The two men watched it burn, first while he
ld by the new arrival, and then on the concrete of the platform. The flame vanished. The attendant scuffed at the small remnants of embers and ash. The two men nodded at one another. The attendant stood by while the other turned back.
The other man’s face was visible for only a moment. Then he was hurrying to the forward end of the train.
But in that moment, I recognised him.
Clegg.
The lights of the station faded away as the train gathered speed.
It took me several minutes to get dressed. At the end of the corridor, Maurice the carriage conductor was dozing on his chair. He looked up at me in surprise.
“Did you deliver my telegram?”
“Yes, Milord. At Munich. I handed it personally to the night manager. He was on the platform.”
“Did you tell anyone you were delivering a message?”
“No, Milord.”
I stepped around his chair. Tried the door. It was locked. “Maurice, I need to get through.”
“The dining car is closed. The woman’s lounge and the smoker are closed as well, Milord.”
“I have some business with a passenger in third class.”
For that was where Clegg would be, if he were on the train.
“Milord, they will be asleep.”
I peeled off two hundred-franc notes and handed one to Maurice. “I shall be quite discreet,” I said.
“You will pardon me, Milord, but you do not appear to be preparing for a quiet chat.”
“I saw you give my message to the attendant in Munich. Then one of the third-class passengers bribed the attendant to hand it over. I watched him burn it and stamp out the ashes.”
Maurice’s eyes widened. “That is most irregular.”
“So. May I pass, Monsieur Conductor?”
“Be careful, Milord. I cannot leave my post.”
My after-dark transit from carriage to carriage was less disturbing than when I had first come on board, even though the wind howled around me and the rattle of the connecting chains and the wheels was just as loud. In the night, I was not distracted by the surrounding landscape whizzing by, or by the swift-moving ground beneath my feet. I had to press on. I had no choice but to confront Clegg. Holmes doubtless would have a better plan, but I needed to take action.