by Anna Elliott
She had promised that when we met at the station on the morrow it would all be made clear. She thought Holmes would be there. Holmes, she said, would banish my doubts. I had asked what would happen when Clegg and Holmes saw one another. “Likely Holmes will not appear as Holmes,” was her reply. “We both know he is a master of disguise.”
Fruitless conversations.
Speculations, Holmes would have said.
So here I was, crouched on a rooftop of a railway carriage, catching my breath in the July heat. I clutched the bars of the steel ladder as the train rattled its way to the east and the new day. This morning would mark our arrival in Constantinople, and I would begin the end of a game to which I knew none of the rules and not even all the players.
We were steaming along the shore of what my guidebook map had proclaimed the Sea of Marmara. Seven cars ahead of where I perched, a crescent moon cast its light onto surrounding clouds, partially obscured by the swirl of lignite smoke from the locomotive. The dawn would begin from that direction. Alongside the train I could see shadows of ancient ruins, grim heaps of stone walls that once had been buildings of importance, filled with lives and longings. The minaret tower of a small abandoned mosque seemed to flare up and then fall away as we passed it by, lit by a flash of lightning. I wondered if a storm was coming. I wondered if there would be a break in the oppressive heat.
Shoot the Torrance woman, Sonnebourne had said, and then pushed a photograph across the desk.
Torrance was never my husband, Jane Griffin had said.
And then I knew. Or felt certain that I knew.
Deduction, not speculation. Deduction from facts! I whispered the words to myself. I tried to arrange the facts logically, but I was distracted by the huge wave of relief and triumph that swept through me. I very nearly sprang to my feet, though that would have been a disastrous move to make upon the roof of a swaying, speeding train. Steady on, Watson, I told myself. Pride goeth before a fall.
I tried once more to arrange the facts into the chain of logic. But I could not.
Still, I knew.
I looked ahead, where I thought I saw a bluish tint above the black horizon. Dawn and Constantinople, the Torrance woman, and Clegg awaited me. And possibly Holmes.
But what would I do about it?
Then from behind and below me came Clegg’s voice, in his mock-Cockney accent. “Out for a breath of fresh air, are we, Milord?”
“That’s quite correct, Roland,” I said. For some reason I felt jauntier now than since my journey had begun.
“Thought so, Milord. Mind your step on the way down, Milord.”
I returned to my compartment, and packed.
28. WATSON
The sun had been up for nearly an hour when the train arrived in Constantinople. I stepped down from the railway carriage, dazzled by the bright morning sun, so much more powerful than what I was accustomed to in London. The station was newly built in what appeared to be golden sandstone, on such a grand scale that it might have been a cathedral. Along the horizon I could see minaret spires far taller than the one I had observed during the night. The air was cleaner than in London or Paris. The crowd waiting at the station seemed less impatient than those I had seen in European cities, though possibly that was due to the limitations of my own perception.
I watched Maurice stepping down with my luggage, two gleaming and expensive leather suitcases that John H. Watson, M.D, would never have dreamed of purchasing. He loaded them onto a cart. I took several bills from the packet I still retained and passed them over to Maurice. He thanked me and whistled up a platform attendant for my luggage cart.
On the platform up ahead Jane Griffin stood beside the next car, waiting for her own luggage. She waved at me and gestured towards the station.
“She has the finest car,” Maurice said. “The one farthest from the engine noise and smoke. Have you travelled with her and the gentleman before, monsieur Milord?” he asked.
“Gentleman?”
“The one in third-class carriage?” He stroked his hand above his head to mime a short haircut.
“No. My first time.”
“You should take care, Milord. I have seen them before with other people. But I have never seen those other people return.”
“They make people disappear,” I said.
“As long as you are aware, Milord.”
I caught up with Jane Griffin. I turned and saw Clegg, striding forward, carrying his own suitcase.
“Poor fellow,” Jane Griffin said. “Doomed to third-class travel.” We watched him. He stopped alongside the last car, set down his suitcase, and knelt to tie his shoe. A few moments after that he was with us.
“We’ll all go together to the hotel, shall we?” said Jane Griffin.
“Jolly fun,” said Clegg.
We rode in an open landau carriage, pulled by two white horses, bearing the insignia of the Wagons-Lits company. “The Orient Express company owns the hotel,” Jane Griffin said. “It’s quite pleasant, actually.”
“How long will we be staying?”
“That depends,” she said.
We approached a bridge across a wide waterway. I tried to recall the images from the map I had looked at.
“We are crossing the Bosporus,” Jane Griffin said. “If you look to your right, at the top of the hill, you can see Topkapi Palace. The sultan and the seat of government are there. I mention it because what happens at Topkapi will determine how long we stay here.”
“Days, weeks?” I said.
“It depends on progress. If agreement is reached, then tomorrow. If no agreement, then Friday. Both sides will of course claim progress and congratulate each other. But Friday is the last day possible. They have been here nearly a month.”
“What are they doing?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Oh, it’s no great secret” Clegg said. “Well, as between ourselves, it isn’t. To the public, of course, it is a secret. Quite an important one.”
I looked at him expectantly. “Go on.”
“Sorry,” Clegg said. “Must leave you now. Some business to attend to.” He vaulted out of the landau, leaving his suitcase. “Check me in to the hotel, will you?”
She nodded. He vanished into a crowd of pedestrians, cart-drivers, vendors, oxen, donkey-carts, and women carrying baskets. All seemed in a hurry.
“A good place to disappear,” she said.
We rode in silence.
“It goes back ten years,” Jane Griffin said. “The European powers signed a treaty declaring the Suez Canal to be neutral. But our people—”
“Sonnebourne?”
She smiled. “Not Sonnebourne’s people. I ought to have been clear on that point. England voiced official reservations to the treaty. The government agrees that ships can pass through, but will not allow the army to be restricted in keeping the area safe.”
“Since we control Egypt.”
“And France doesn’t support those reservations. Pure poppycock, diplomatically speaking. England paid France, after all, for its ownership in the canal. But they say the restriction weakens the treaty.”
“Posturing.”
“Quite, but public official disagreement is bad. So the powers-that-be are in Topkapi Palace, trying to work out some face-saving declaration. It goes on and on.”
“Ten years.”
“And counting.”
“Where does Sonnebourne come in?”
“The French official is here. As is England’s negotiating fellow. Lord Lansdowne.”
I must have changed my expression, for Jane Griffin looked at me sharply. “You know Lord Lansdowne?”
“I’ve met him, yes.”
Saved his life, I might have added. Twice. But I kept that to myself. I asked, “He’s the target?”
“No, not him. The Frenchman is the target. The Sonnebourne organization is being paid to kill the Frenchman.”
“And Sonnebourne is paying you to do that.”
&n
bsp; She shrugged. “He’ll be very, very disappointed when I don’t.”
A suite on an upper floor of the Pera Palace hotel awaited me. Jane Griffin had the suite next door. We rode up in the electric lift together. The platform was enclosed with ornamental wrought-iron bars that resembled a cage. The bellman let us into our rooms, Miss Griffin first. “You each have your own balcony,” he said. “The view of the Golden Horn is a famous one. Quite exceptional.”
“I’ve seen it,” she said.
“The Wagons-Lits company has a tour organised,” he said. “Complimentary for new arrivals who are guests of the hotel. Do either of you wish to take it?”
I decided to test whether Jane Griffin would want to keep a leash on me. “I will go,” I said.
“You do that, Milord,” she said. “I have other plans.”
So, I toured Constantinople with several other fellow passengers I recognised from the train. We saw remnants of past civilizations that had occupied the city. Obelisk towers from the Egyptians. A Roman hippodrome, where chariot races had once been held for the amusement of the masses. Stunning Christian mosaics in a Byzantine cathedral. An impossibly diverse labyrinth of colourful shops, all under one roof at the Grand Bazaar.
When I returned, dazed and bedazzled, later that afternoon there was a message for me at the desk. “Supper at 8 tomorrow. JG.”
I gave a sigh of relief. I was free until the end of the day tomorrow. Thursday.
On an impulse I asked the clerk if Mr. Sherlock Holmes had registered at the hotel. The answer was a very polite, “No, Milord.”
Then the clerk nodded towards the adjoining space, where soaring walls and huge coloured-glass ceiling domes created the atmosphere of a great cathedral. “Afternoon tea is served until six, Milord. British style, very fine indeed. Would you care to partake?”
Seize the moment, Holmes would have told me.
“Indeed,” I said.
THURSDAY, JULY 14
29. WATSON
Rose petals were strewn on our table in the Pera Palace dining room. Above them were gilded dishes of apricots, skewered meat, yoghurt, and flat bread. Jane Griffin sat across from me, her dark eyes searching mine.
“Enjoying Constantinople, Milord?”
I shrugged. “News of the treaty?”
“Nothing. But tomorrow is the last day. They’ll be departing, agreement or no. Tomorrow afternoon will be our moment.”
She took a telegram from her purse and handed it to me. It was dated from Sofia Railway station at four o’clock and read:
JANE GRIFFIN, PERA PALACE.
ARRIVE FRIDAY MORNING STOP
SECOND A IDENTIFIED STOP
MUST PREVENT STOP
WILL SEND PHOTOGRAPH STOP SH END
“‘SH’ is ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ of course,” she said.
“And ‘second A’ means a second assassin,” I said.
“Do you read it that way? After all, you know him better than I do.”
“Since the first assassin is …”
She nodded. “Though I’ve promised I won’t.”
“Now, as to ‘must prevent,’” I said. “How will we stop him—or her?”
“I’m going to be busy with Clegg.”
“Busy?”
“Killing him. Since he’s been ordered to frame you.”
“You mentioned that at dinner,” I said.
“So, I’m afraid stopping the other fellow …” she let her voice trail off.
“Is up to me,” I said.
“That’s how I read it.”
30. LUCY
My eyes snapped open, and I lay a moment in the darkness, uncertain of what had awakened me. This was the second night of our journey. We had passed through Vienna and Budapest, and were now on the final leg of the journey that would take us through Bucharest and from there to Constantinople.
The day had passed as slowly as I had foreseen. I had sat with Lady Danville for all of the meals served in the restaurant car—which at least had the benefit of keeping Richard Mallowe away. Lady Danville had undertaken to convince him of the error of his wicked ways, causing him to avoid her like the proverbial plague.
Count Styptovich had kept to his room, but Father Jerome, the Catholic Priest, had made an appearance in the dining car at luncheon. I had spent most of the afternoon playing cards with Rosamund—with Miss Nordstrom periodically interrupting to tell a scowling Rosamund that she needed to eat her vegetables or do her lessons or comb her hair.
After dinner, I had gone to bed early. And now the communicating door between my compartment and Count Styptovich’s was slowly opening. That was the sound that had awakened me—the snick of the latch as it was raised from the other side.
I let out a breath, relaxing back against the pillows. “It’s all right.” I kept my voice low, mindful that one of the attendants or other passengers might be passing by in the corridor outside. “I’m already awake.”
The door swung inwards and Count Styptovich’s domed bald head and beaky nose were revealed in the opening.
“I would have come earlier,” Sherlock Holmes said. “But I wished to give the sedative that I slipped into the attendant’s water earlier tonight time to take effect.”
I blinked. No matter how prepared I thought I was for Holmes, he still managed to catch me off guard. “You drugged our conductor?”
“Naturally.” Holmes came the rest of the way into the room, shutting the door behind him. “A minor dose only. He will wake in an hour or two, believing merely that he fell asleep while on duty. But as you have no doubt observed, his chair is at the end of the carriage, making it impossible to explore the rest of the train without his being aware.”
Since Holmes had not attempted to contact me last night, I had been prepared for him to make an appearance tonight and had gone to sleep fully dressed. The time on my bedside clock now read a quarter past three in the morning.
I pushed back the eiderdown coverlet and stood up, eyeing Holmes’ Count Styptovich disguise with fascination.
“Aren’t you worried that nose will melt straight off your face in this hot weather? I’ve never seen you use quite so much putty before.”
“An overwhelmingly distinguishing feature for observers to focus on was necessary. Otherwise someone might be liable to notice that there are similarities in appearance between the Austrian viscount and Father Jerome.”
I had already recognised Holmes in both personas. “Hence the Count’s infirmity that requires him to keep mostly to his compartment. It must have been quite a feat to manage to board the train twice, though, as two different people.”
“Less so than you might think.” Holmes crossed to the door, opened in a crack, and peered cautiously out into the corridor outside. “The Wagons-Lits attendants, while conscientious in their duties, have a narrow focus of attention that seldom observes details beyond the execution of those same duties. Ah.” He drew back, lowering his voice still more. “Our conductor is safely asleep, and there is no one else about. I believe now would be an opportune time for us to make our exit. We will proceed one at a time. If anyone happens to catch sight of one or the other of us, they will assume that we are merely seeking the wash room or stretching our legs.”
Holmes exited first, making his way down the corridor with the bent, hunched-over walk of an elderly and infirm man.
I waited until he had reached the door that led into the next carriage, then followed, holding my breath I stepped quickly down the aisle.
True to Holmes’ word, our attendant was slumped over in his chair, snoring gently. I edged my way past him, then followed Holmes into the next carriage, which proved to be the gentlemen’s smoking lounge, and thankfully deserted at this late hour of the night.
“What is our aim?” I murmured to Holmes, when I had caught up to him.
“I thought an examination of the baggage cars might prove fruitful. At a minimum, it might provide some clue as to whether any of our fellow passengers are not what they seem
.”
Holmes, like Rosamund, had provided himself with a train attendant’s pass key, and now used it to unlock the doors that lay between us and the first of the train’s two baggage cars. Save for the light of the corridor lamps behind us, the baggage car was entirely in darkness. But after entering and closing the door, Holmes drew something out from the pocket of his dressing gown and switched it on, causing light to spill from a glass bulb.
“What is that?”
The device resembled a cross between a candle stick and the lamps that were mounted on carriages for driving at night.
“A new invention. American in origin,” Holmes said. “Sold by the United States Battery Company. Battery powered, and called the O.T. Bugg Friendly Beacon Electric Candle, in honour of its inventor, Owen T. Bugg, Jr.” He glanced at the small lantern with appreciation. “I owe Mr. Bugg a debt. I had thought of inventing something along these lines myself, but he has saved me the trouble. Now, let us not tarry any longer. Time is getting on.”
The baggage compartment was crammed with trunks, crates, and suitcases of every description, as one might expect. Those who could afford passage on the Orient Express were accustomed to taking all of their worldly comforts with them when they travelled.
With the aid of the lock-picks that Holmes had also brought, we unlocked trunks and valises and made rapid inspections of their contents. We found nothing, save that Mr. Mallowe’s taste in literature ran to some decidedly off-colour magazines, and that the Italian wine merchants had bought cases of cigars while in Paris.
When an hour had passed without any more productive discoveries, I was beginning to feel uneasy prickles at the back of my neck. Holmes had ensured that our Wagons-Lits conductor would be asleep, but he couldn’t have drugged every attendant aboard the train. What were the odds that one of the train passengers would suddenly discover the need for an item in one of their stowed-away suitcases, and send off the attendant to fetch it?
Holmes’ sharply indrawn breath cut off my thought, and turning, I found him kneeling in front of a plain, unlabelled wooden crate with a few tufts of packing straw poking out through the slats at the top.
