Watson on the Orient Express

by Anna Elliott

  That was truer than Lady Danville probably knew. I hadn’t recognised the Honourable Mr. Mallowe by sight, but the society pages were frequently plastered with his exploits, which ranged from public drunkenness—he had once while heavily inebriated attempted to swim in the Trafalgar Square fountain—to scandalous liaisons with other men’s wives.

  However—and the fact made me study Mr. Mallowe with more interest—he had of late come within the range of Holmes’s attention, owing to some of his most recent affairs skating across the line into illegality. His name had come up in association with an illegal gambling den in the Seven Dials district, and also with a scheme of fixing horse races. He was, so rumour had it, heavily in debt, with his family’s estate mortgaged and his creditors closing in.

  In short, he was an ideal candidate for one of Lord Sonnebourne’s promises of a new identity and a new life away from the crimes of the old one.

  Lady Danville was still speaking. “Those two gentlemen are Italians, and don’t speak a word of English as far as I can tell. I don’t know what their business abroad is.”

  I could have told her that from what I could gather they were in the business of importing wine, and were lamenting the drought that had caused a sharp decrease in the quality of this year’s grape harvest. But Clarice Earnshaw wasn’t supposed to be able to speak or understand Italian.

  “And those are all of the passengers in the first-class carriage,” Lady Danville included. “Apart from an Austrian viscount. Count Styptovich, I believe the name was. A very elderly gentleman, and quite infirm. I saw three of the Wagons-Lits attendants helping him to board the train, and one of them told me that he had requested all of his meals to be served to him in his compartment, as his health was too fragile for him to make the journey to the dining car.”

  Our waiter brought me a menu at that point, and the rest of the meal passed with me answering Lady Danville’s questions about my own upbringing and background. It was difficult to give my full attention to making sure that I kept my details straight and didn’t contradict myself. Our conversation had given me a great deal to think about.

  24. WATSON

  At seven that evening the train had just left Budapest. I went to the dining car refreshed, prepared with a line of questioning.

  Jane Griffin sat at the table we had previously occupied, wearing a crème-coloured silk dress. A small crème-coloured matching hat was pinned to her tightly coiffed black hair.

  I began my questions with, “Do you always work alone on Sonnebourne’s projects?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I wondered if there were others.”

  “No others.”

  “Sonnebourne may have sent reinforcements.”

  She shrugged. “We should talk of something more pleasant.”

  “If I am to be helpful, I should know what to expect.”

  “I shall tell you when we meet Holmes on Wednesday. Less than two days from now.”

  I was not about to be put off. “So you always work alone?”

  “Once or twice I have been part of a team.”

  “Which team member would Sonnebourne send?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “None at all? What would you do if you were Sonnebourne?”

  She smiled. “What a persistent fellow you are, Milord.” Then her tone softened. “I suppose, if I were Sonnebourne, I would send someone I thought would blend in with the surrounding populace. A Turk.”

  “A man? Or a woman?”

  “For the railway station, a man. Able to shoulder his way through the crowds and make his escape.”

  “Any man in particular?”

  She lifted the evening’s table flower—another rose—and brandished it playfully in my face before tucking it away into its crystal goblet. “I am thinking you wish to trick me in some way, Milord.”

  I spread my palms. “Generally, women think I am not at all devious. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Very well, I shall trust you.” She poured ice water for us both into heavy crystal glasses. “The man I worked with—I saved his life in Sofia, nearly five years ago. He is tall, thin, elegantly handsome, clean shaven and well-groomed. His hair is jet black.”

  “Not unlike Mr. Holmes.”

  “He is called Malat, because he comes from the town of Malatya.”

  So the sleek-haired man I had seen with Sonnebourne had a name. And she had saved his life. And now he would be coming to kill her.

  “But there will be dozens more resembling him at the station,” she went on. “Come, do not look so downcast. When we arrive, I will show you the station and where the target will be. You can understand what is to transpire. By the way, Clegg will be there as well.”

  I sipped ice water. “I thought Clegg planned to return immediately. On this very train.”

  “He told you that?” She smiled.

  “Why will he be at the station?”

  “Sonnebourne’s orders are to make sure you attend a certain political event that will occur there Friday afternoon. Then Clegg and I are to kill you.”

  I raised my palms in mock horror. “But you have promised Holmes that there will be no assassination.”

  Her smile broadened. “Would it count as an assassination if I were to kill Clegg?”

  25. LUCY

  I was back in my own compartment, sitting on the edge of the bed that the conductor had just made up for me, when the door opened.

  I stiffened, my hand moving instinctively towards the pistol that I had already placed under the pillow. But the figure that slipped through my open door was small, dressed in a lacy white nightgown—and wearing a prodigious scowl.

  Rosamund drew up short at the sight of me, her eyes rounding in surprise. “Oh. I thought this compartment was empty.”

  “I think you want the next one down,” I told her. I had already discovered that the Austrian Archduke’s compartment was next to mine, on the side nearest to the front of the train. But the one on the other side of me, closer to the back of the train, was unoccupied. “Why do you need an empty compartment?”

  Rosamund gave me an appraising look as though trying to decide whether or not to trust me, then stuck out her lower lip. “To hide from Miss Nordstrom. She’s trying to put me to bed.”

  “And I suppose you’re not tired yet?” Experience with Becky had taught me that children could be asleep on their feet and yet vociferously deny feeling the slightest bit of fatigue.

  “Not at all! So I told her that I had to go to the washroom.” A small hint of satisfaction crept into Rosamund’s tone. “Then I came in here before she could come out of our compartment and see where I’d gone.”

  “I see. She’ll probably be worried about you, when you don’t come back and she can’t find you, though.”

  Rosamund shrugged, scuffing her bare toes against the carpet.

  I studied her for a second, then reached for the tin that the Wagons-Lits attendant had placed on the shelf by the bed. “There are some biscuits here. Would you like one? I think I saw some chocolate ones.”

  Rosamund’s eyes flashed to mine again, her look wary, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re not going to march me straight back to Miss Nordstrom?”

  “Not right away, at least.” I opened the tin and offered it to her. “You can sit down, too, if you’d like.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Rosamund accepted both a biscuit and the invitation, perching on the end of the bed and curling her feet up under her.

  “You’re nicer than those Italian men. I accidentally opened the door to their compartment after dinner, and one of them shouted at me to get out. As if I’d want to stay in their nasty compartment anyway!” She made a face. “It smelled like my father does when he’s had too much to drink—mixed with old socks!”

  I smiled, waiting as Rosamund licked a smear of chocolate from her fingers, then said, “You know, the odd thing is, I’m certain that I locked the door to my compartment before you came in.”<
br />
  Rosamund startled, the wary, sullen look once more coming down over her small features. “Maybe you forgot to.”

  “I’m quite sure that I didn’t.” I spoke gently, though, and after a moment, Rosamund gave up, letting out a defeated sigh.

  “Fine. I stole this from one of the attendants when he came in to make up our beds for the night.” She held up a pass key, of the kind that the Wagons-Lits conductors wore on their belts to open any door on the train. Her small face settled in a sulky frown. “I suppose now you’re going to say that I have to give it back.”

  “No.” If nothing else, I had to admire what seemed to be an inborn skill at picking pockets. I had had to practice for months before I could lift a man’s watch or key chain without his noticing.

  “You’re not?” Rosamund was so shocked that she forgot momentarily to look sullen.

  “Not for the moment. You have to promise me that you won’t go into any more compartments that belong to other people, though. It’s not good manners.”

  It could also be dangerous. I didn’t know whether Holmes and I were being observed on the train. Everyone on board with us might be exactly who they claimed to be. But if one of the passengers wasn’t what he or she seemed—and if Rosamund stumbled on that potentially deadly secret—

  “I’ll make you a list of the empty compartments,” I told her. “But you also have to promise not to be gone so long that Miss Nordstrom gets into a panic about you.”

  Rosamund’s expression was a blend of relief warring with suspicion. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Because everyone needs to get away by themselves now and again. And because I like you.”

  “No you don’t.” Rosamund’s chin dropped to her chest, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “No one likes me.”

  She spoke with flat, matter-of-fact certainty that was far sadder than tears or a plea for sympathy would have been.

  Telling her that it couldn’t be true or that I was certain she was wrong would do no good at all. I settled for a question. “No one?”

  Rosamund crumbled a piece of biscuit between two fingers, looking down at the carpet. “Well, Miss Nordstrom doesn’t like me. She looks after me because father pays her to, but she thinks I’m horrible.”

  “How long has Miss Nordstrom been looking after you?” I asked.

  “Since my mother died. Last year.” Rosamund’s voice was once again flatly unemotional—but not, I was sure, because she actually felt nothing.

  “What about your father?” I asked. I had the sense of treading on dangerous ground, so I kept my tone mild, my words careful. “He’ll probably be wondering where you’ve gotten to by now.”

  “No he won’t!” Rosamund brushed the crumbs off her fingers and onto her nightgown with an angry gesture. “For one thing, he has a separate compartment. Miss Nordstrom and I share, and then he’s got the one next to ours. But all he ever thinks about is business and all the cables and letters and things that he’s always getting from foreign places. I could jump straight off the train and Father wouldn’t notice! Or he’d only tell me to be a good girl and mind what Miss Nordstrom says.”

  I could hear an echo of her father’s curt, dismissive voice in her tone.

  I sighed. When I had come into his life, Holmes had doubted his own ability to be a successful father. Little did he know, I had frequently run across men and women who made him look as though he ought to be writing an advice column on parenting for the London Times.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Rosamund. “But we’d better get you back to your own compartment before Miss Nordstrom really does start to worry about where you’ve gone. I’ll come with you.”

  Rosamund’s shoulders slumped again, but she clambered down off the bed without argument. “Thank you for the biscuits, anyway.”

  “You’re very welcome,” I told her.

  A sudden and completely unexpected wave of homesickness washed through me. I had lived most of my life without any real home or family. I’d learned in the past two years that the trouble with having a home was that you could miss it so sharply it was almost physically painful when you were away. I would have given anything to be back in London now, sitting in front of the fire with Jack and engaging in one of our nightly battles to get Becky to stay in bed.

  Rosamund was a year or two younger than Becky, and nothing like her to look at. But in that moment, she reminded me a little of her all the same.

  Before reaching for the door, I bent down so that my eyes were on a level with hers. “If Miss Nordstrom fusses, we’ll tell her that I invited you to come and keep me company for a little while. And whether or not you believe me, I do like you. You’re welcome to come and visit me here any time.”

  26. LUCY

  The lights in the train corridor were turned down low as I made my way back to my own compartment after having delivered Rosamund to hers. Thanks to my explanation, Miss Nordstrom’s fussing had been kept to a minimum—although she had looked patently incredulous at my thanking Rosamund for the pleasure of her company.

  Children, despite all adult opinions to the contrary, weren’t stupid, and with a child’s unflinching perception, Rosamund had summed up the situation exactly: Miss Nordstrom cared for the little girl solely out of duty, and because she would lose her post if she failed at her job.

  The knowledge no doubt made Rosamund act out all the more in consequence.

  I was deep enough in thought that I nearly forgot to look where I was going. When a door to one of the compartments on the left opened and the Honourable Richard Mallowe came reeling out, I had to stop short to keep from walking straight into him.

  “Hello, there.” He peered at me through a clearly alcoholic haze. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your ah-ac-acquai—” He gave up on trying to force his tongue to pronounce the word. “Don’t believe that we’ve met.”

  He had already seized hold of my hand with one of his hot, dry ones.

  “My name is Clarice Earnshaw,” I told him.

  “Clareesh,” he repeated, mangling the word. “Prrrretty name. Pretty girl, too. Not that there’s much competition on this train.” He snorted, breathing what felt like an entire winery’s worth of alcoholic fumes into my face. “You’re the only thing worth looking at among all the old fossils on board.”

  If this was Mr. Mallowe’s best effort at seduction, it was a wonder that he had any love affairs at all, much less the dozens to which society newspapers gave him credit.

  But young, unmarried, and innocent Miss Clarice Earnshaw wouldn’t be expected to make that observation. Nor would she know how to extract herself from Mr. Mallowe’s grasp—a task that was becoming increasingly difficult as he leaned forward and tried to put a hand on my waist.

  I was itching to stamp hard on his instep, or execute a manoeuvre that would leave him with a sprained or possibly broken wrist. But that would give my cover away.

  If Mr. Mallowe wasn’t genuinely inebriated, he was a remarkably fine actor. But there was always a chance that this was a test. Or that one of the other train passengers might be watching.

  Accordingly, I summoned up a shy smile. “You’re too kind. But I really think that I must be going—”

  “Oh, don’t go yet.” Mr. Mallowe tightened his grip on my hand. “We’re only just getting acqu-acqu—” he gave up again. “Only just getting to know each other.”

  I was weighing my options for extracting myself with a minimum of awkwardness—and not feeling especially sanguine about any of them—when I was saved from having to act by another compartment door opening.

  It was the door next to mine, which made it the compartment of the Austrian viscount, the one who was too old and feeble to dine in the restaurant car.

  Old, he certainly was. A bald head, much liver-spotted and ringed with a meagre fringe of white hair like a tonsure, protruded out from the compartment like a turtle from its shell.

  The count’s face was quite remarkable in it
s ugliness: a great jutting beak of a nose, thin lips, and sharp eyes set under shaggy white brows.

  He scowled at us, speaking in heavily accented English. “A little quiet, if you please, out there! Some of us require to rest!”

  I doubted that Mr. Mallowe would have any concern for Count Styptovich’s rest. But he’d startled at the count’s sudden appearance, loosening his grip on my hand.

  “Good night!” I pushed past Mr. Mallow, opened the door of my own compartment, and swiftly went inside before he had entirely realised what had happened. I snapped the lock behind me, adding the safety chain, then leaned back against the closed door.

  The travelling clock I’d already put on the small bedside stand showed the time to be nearly half past nine. Another few hours, and we would be in Munich, and then it would be roughly another two and a half days until we reached Constantinople.

  At the moment, those fifty-odd hours seemed to stretch out before me, interminably long.

  WEDNESDAY, 13 JULY

  27. WATSON

  Thirty hours later, in the dark early hours before dawn, I dressed and left my compartment.

  Maurice dozed on his chair at the end of the shadowy corridor. He did not see me, I thought. I opened the outer door and stepped onto the steel platform into the rushing night air. The steel ladder was beside me, and I used it to haul myself up to the rooftop.

  I needed to get away from the stifling atmosphere of my closed compartment. The false identity I had taken, the oversweet luxury of silken sheets and garments that were not mine, all cloyed my thoughts. I needed to clear my mind. In a few hours we would be in Constantinople and I would face the woman calling herself Jane Griffin, with her beautiful hard features and her false smile. Whatever she had planned would happen, and I would have to respond quickly and decisively. Holmes’s life might be at stake, as well as my own. Was she really working with Holmes? Could I trust her?