Property of a Lady Faire: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  Molly and I sauntered down the narrow aisle, arm in arm and heads held high, as though we had every right to be there. The few people we encountered just smiled and nodded pleasantly to us. Molly and I nodded and smiled in return. No one raised a fuss, or asked any questions, because since we gave every appearance of belonging there, then obviously we must.

  And there you have it. How to be a secret agent, in one easy lesson.

  A steward in a blindingly white uniform with lots of gold piping and serious braid on his shoulders and rows of gleaming buttons came bustling forward to meet us. He smiled and bowed, and inquired how he might best be of service, in formal Russian he’d clearly learned from a book. I answered him in English, and he immediately responded in English he’d clearly learned from a book. Molly dazzled him with her smile, and asked for directions to the restaurant car. The steward bobbed his head quickly.

  “Just follow the corridors through carriages second and third, honoured sir and lady, and you will emerge immediately into the restauranting car. Second serving of the day is just beginning.”

  I gave the steward my best dazzling smile, to make up for the fact that I didn’t have any suitable money about me with which to tip him, and Molly and I moved on. The steward was gracious and understanding about it, and made a rude gesture at our backs that he didn’t realise I could see in the mirror on the wall. I wasn’t worried he might say something. The rich are often notoriously poor tippers. It’s part of how they got to be rich.

  • • •

  We reached the restaurant car without further mishap, and it turned out to be barely half full. Perhaps the constant lurching of the train had made the other passengers travel-sick. At least it meant we had no problems getting a table. Molly and I just marched down the aisle with our noses stuck in the air, and none of the exquisitely dressed people already at their tables paid us any attention at all. I chose the very best table, picked up the Reserved sign and threw it away, and pulled out a chair for Molly to sit down. She sank elegantly into it with a gracious smile, and I sat down opposite her and studied the setting details as the spoils of conquest.

  Gleaming white samite tablecloth, luxurious plate settings, and first-class cutlery, all of it stamped with the Trans-Siberian Express company crest. I shook out the heavy napkin, dropped it in my lap, and pocketed the silver napkin holder. I glanced out the window, just in case anything had changed. Snow. Lots of snow. And even more snow. For a moment I thought I saw something moving, but when I looked more closely I realised it was just the train’s shadow, racing along beside us. Molly caressed the inside of my thigh with her toes, underneath the table, and smiled at me demurely.

  I picked up one of the oversized menus. The heavy paper stock was bound in red leather, and everything on offer was in French. I can read French, but it was a sign the food was almost certainly going to be overcooked and underwhelming. That kind of food nearly always is, outside of France.

  “There aren’t any prices,” said Molly, running her eyes rapidly over what the menu had to offer.

  “If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it,” I said. “That goes as standard, in places like this. Ah, there’s an English translation at the back, if you need it.”

  Molly glowered at me over the top of her menu, and withdrew her foot. “I’ll back my French against yours any day.”

  “Splendid idea. Bring her on,” I said. “Baguettes at dawn?”

  Molly giggled, and we turned to the menu’s back pages, honour satisfied. The English-language translation was in very small type, as though it was being presented only very grudgingly. I couldn’t say I was particularly impressed by any of it. Just because something is rare and expensive and fashionable, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s going to be in any way tasty. I can remember when baby mice stuffed with hummingbirds’ tongues was all the rage, in the most-talked-about London restaurants. I once outraged a celebrity chef by asking if I could have mine in a sesame seed bun.

  “Oh look!” said Molly. “There’s going to be a caviar and vodka tasting later this afternoon.”

  “Don’t get too impressed,” I said. “Unless it’s the real Beluga stuff, all caviar tastes the same. Salty. The trick is to get them to provide you with enough dry toast to eat it on.”

  “Snob,” said Molly, not unkindly.

  “I’m a Drood!” I said cheerfully. “We’re entitled to the best of everything the world has to offer. It says so in our contract.”

  “You have a contract with the world?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Of course, we don’t let the world see it.”

  “Of course,” said Molly.

  “You can’t talk,” I said. “All the time you were staying with me at Drood Hall, you insisted the kitchens provide you with six boiled eggs for every breakfast, just so you could choose the best one.”

  “I got the idea from Prince Charles,” said Molly.

  “You’ve never met Prince Charles!”

  “I read about it, in Hello! magazine. And if it’s good enough for him . . . Have you anything witty and informative to say about the vodka?”

  “Only that vodka usually only tastes of whatever you mix it with. I’ve had peppermint vodka, paprika vodka, chocolate vodka . . . What an afternoon that was. I do remember a story my uncle James told me, from his time in Russia during the Cold War. He said he always used to drop a little black pepper onto the surface of a glass of vodka, let the pepper sink to the bottom, and then knock the vodka back in one, so that the peppered dregs stayed in the bottom of the glass. Because in those days you got a lot of homemade bathtub vodka showing up in Moscow, even at the best parties, a lot of it spiked with fuel oil. The fuel oil floated on the surface of the vodka, and the black pepper attached itself to it, and took it to the bottom of the glass. Made the stuff safe, or at least safer, to drink. Blind drunk wasn’t just an expression in those days.”

  “You know such charming anecdotes,” said Molly. “Better not try that trick here; I don’t think it would make a good impression.”

  “Of course not,” I said cheerfully. “Only the very best for us, because we’re worth it.”

  “I love to hear you talk,” said Molly. “You’ve lived, haven’t you, Eddie?”

  “Not as much as you,” I said generously.

  Her earthy laughter filled the air, and well-manicured heads came up all around us. I don’t think they were used to hearing the real thing. Perhaps fortunately, a train conductor came bustling into the carriage just then. Wearing a sharp and severe black uniform, with lots and lots of gold buttons down the front, and a stiff-peaked cap. He looked quickly round the restaurant car, fixed his gaze on Molly and me, and headed straight for us. He had that look, of a small man with a little power, determined to abuse it for all it was worth. And make everyone else’s life as difficult as possible, just on general principles. It was clear from his expression that he didn’t like the look of Molly and me. We weren’t dressed well enough, didn’t look rich or powerful enough, to be eating in his restaurant car, on his train. The likes of us had no place in such a salubrious setting.

  He walked right up to us, ignoring all the other diners seated at their tables, and everyone else sensed trouble coming and determinedly minded their own business. Molly studied the conductor lazily as he approached, and smiled a quietly disturbing smile.

  “Want me to turn him into something squelchy?”

  “Not in front of the passengers,” I said quickly. “We’re trying not to draw attention to ourselves, remember?”

  “All right,” said Molly. “I’ll try something subtle.”

  “Oh good,” I said, wincing. “You always do so much more damage when you’re trying to be subtle.”

  The conductor slammed to a halt at our table and drew himself up to his full height, the better to puff out his chest and sneer down his nose at us.

  “Yes?” I said, drawing the word out in my best aristocratic English, so that it sounded like an insult. “Is the
re something you need, fellow?”

  He’d clearly heard that kind of English before, and it threw him a little off balance, but one look at our clothes reassured him that we were definitely not the right sort. He glared at me unblinkingly, ignoring Molly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that going down really badly with Molly.

  “Pardon me, sir and madam,” he said, in only lightly accented English. “I am afraid I must insist you show me all your tickets and passes. Including your reservations for dinner at this serving. If you cannot, you must explain yourselves immediately! I hope it will not be necessary for me to summon the security guards. They can be . . . most unpleasant.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” I said. “Molly dearest . . . ?”

  “Of course, darling,” said Molly. She snapped her fingers imperiously, to draw the conductor’s attention, and then fixed his gaze with hers. His face went blank, and his jaw dropped, just a little. Molly held out an empty hand to him. “There. See? We have first-class tickets. And reservations. And everything else we need. So you don’t need to bother us ever again. Do you?”

  The conductor started to say something, and then his mouth snapped shut as Molly frowned. The conductor looked at her empty hand, and then smiled meaninglessly at Molly and at me.

  “Of course . . . madam and sir. Everything is in order. You will not be troubled again.”

  “We’re not the diners you’re looking for,” I said.

  “Quite so, sir . . .”

  He turned abruptly away and marched off, looking completely convinced and terribly confused. He rubbed at his forehead with one hand, as though bothered by something he couldn’t quite place, or something in his head that shouldn’t be there. He glared at everyone he passed as he hurried back down the aisle, looking for someone to take out his unease on, but everyone had the good sense to keep their heads down and say nothing. Molly looked around for the nearest waiter and caught his eye, and the young man immediately snapped to attention and hurried forward to take our order.

  In the end, Molly ordered one whole page of the menu, and not to be outdone, I ordered everything on the opposite page. Just to increase the odds of ending up with something worth having. The waiter actually lowered himself to look seriously impressed. The bill for that much food was probably more than he and his fellow waiters on the train earned in a week. I then raised myself even further in his estimation by blithely ordering him to bring us a bottle of the best Champagne the Trans-Siberian Express could offer. The waiter smiled and bowed quickly, several times, and then hurried off to place our order and tell his fellows all about it. Obviously anticipating a really good tip, because clearly money meant nothing to such wealthy patrons as us.

  Molly and I threw aside the menus, sat back in our comfortable seats, and looked about us. It was all very calm, very civilised. Very peaceful. Not a hint of piped music. Though if they sent a gypsy violinist in to serenade us, I was fully prepared to punch him in the head repeatedly until he gave up and went away again.

  “We should do this more often,” said Molly. “We never seem to find the time to just kick back and enjoy ourselves. Pamper the inner person . . . Though I have to ask, are you actually planning to pay for all this, or are we just going to have to break a window and jump for it? I mean, I never pay for anything on principle, on the unanswerable grounds that the world owes me. But I have to say, confusing a conductor is one thing, but confusing a credit card reader could prove problematic . . .”

  “Not to worry,” I said. “I have a whole bunch of credit cards, courtesy of the Armourer. All part of an agent’s legend, once he’s out in the field. I was supposed to hand them back in, but after the way my family treated me, somehow it just slipped my mind . . .”

  “Won’t they have shut those cards down, now you’re disowned?” Molly said carefully.

  “They can’t,” I said cheerfully. “They’re not real cards. They’re good enough to fool any machine, anywhere in the world, but the best of luck to anyone actually trying to get money out of them . . .”

  Molly looked at me accusingly. “Why haven’t I heard about these cards before?”

  “Because you’d only have abused them,” I said.

  “Of course!” said Molly. “That’s what credit cards are for!”

  “It’s people like you that undermine economies,” I said. “Now then, I can only use each card once, and then they self-destruct so they can’t be traced. And since I can’t go back to the Armourer to ask for more, we’re going to have to make them last.” I stopped for a moment to consider the matter. “I still believe I can go home again, eventually. That I can put things right with them. When I explain about my parents, and the Voice, and the Lazarus Stone.”

  “After everything your family has put you through, you still want to go back?” said Molly. “After all the terrible ways they’ve treated and mistreated you, you still think you have to explain yourself to them? You let your family walk all over you, Eddie.”

  “Of course,” I said. “That’s what families are for.”

  I looked out the window again. Snow. I looked up and down the restaurant car, studying the other passengers. They all seemed very prosperous, very comfortable, and happy enough with the food in front of them, if not necessarily with each other’s company. There was barely a murmur of conversation going on in the whole carriage. Most of the diners had the look of couples who’d been together for some time and had said everything to each other that was worth saying. So they sat, and ate, and didn’t look at each other. I hoped Molly and I would never get to that stage.

  It also occurred to me that there was an awful lot of expensive and impressive jewellery on open display, because after all there couldn’t be any dangers in a place like this . . . I turned back to Molly and found she was also studying the jewellery, with the look of someone doing mental arithmetic. She caught me looking at her.

  “Relax, Eddie. I’ll be discreet. They’ll never know what hit them. Yes, I know, we’re not supposed to draw attention to ourselves, but who would be looking for us here?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” I said. “It feels like everyone in the world is after us. Very definitely including whoever is really responsible for the murder of all those people at Uncanny. We still don’t have a clue as to who that was. We’re the only ones who can find out, because we’re the only ones looking. Everyone else is convinced it was us. There are a lot of people out there who’d do anything to punish us for what they think we’ve done. The Regent of Shadows did a lot of good for people in his time. He still has a lot of friends out there. Then there are all the people who’d love to get their hands on a rogue Drood and his armour. And finally, people like the Detective Inspectre, who think they can use us to get to the Lazarus Stone.”

  “I’m not sure there is anyone like Hadleigh Oblivion,” said Molly.

  “You could be right there,” I said. “But you get the point.”

  “How could I not, after you’ve explained it all so laboriously? I am keeping up with things, Eddie! Honestly, you’d think I’d never been on the run before . . . So, basically, we’re hiding from absolutely everybody?”

  “Basically, yes,” I said. “Just like old times.”

  We shared a smile, remembering how we first met. When my family denounced me for the first time, and tried to have me killed, and the only people I could turn to for help were those I’d previously considered my enemies. Molly and I had already tried to kill each other several times, earlier in our careers, so she was one of the first people I turned to. The only person who knows you as well as an old friend is an old enemy. Who knew the two of us would get on so well . . . ?

  The waiter came hurrying forward, proudly bearing a bottle of Champagne in an ice bucket. He placed the bucket reverently on the table and then opened the bottle with practised ease. He poured me a glass, and presented it to me with a grand gesture. I think I impressed him, and perhaps even faintly scandalised him, by not even glancing at the
label on the bottle. I took a good sip, and nodded nonchalantly. I gestured to the waiter to pour a glass for Molly. He did so quickly, and Molly took the glass and downed it in one. She smiled sweetly at the shocked waiter.

  “That’s the stuff. Pour me another, sweetie. I’ve got my drinking cap on, and my liver is going to take some real punishment this evening.”

  The waiter looked at me imploringly, but I just gave him a What can you do? shrug. He sighed, quietly, in a Barbarians Are at the Gate sort of way, and refilled Molly’s glass. She knocked that one back too.

  “I can’t help feeling you’re not getting the most out of that,” I said.

  “I’m thirsty!” Molly said loudly. “It’s been a busy old day.” She glared at the waiter, and he hurried to pour her a third glass. He then put the bottle in the ice bucket and ran away before he could be forced to participate in any more appalling behaviour. Molly sipped at her Champagne, little finger delicately extended, grinned at me, and looked out the window. At all the endless, unmarked snow rushing past. I looked too, just to keep her company. There still wasn’t a single tree or landmark to be seen anywhere, even along the distant horizon. No sign of life, let alone civilisation.

  “It’s like looking at a dead world,” Molly said quietly. “Like looking at the surface of the Moon . . . Siberia. You were here once before, weren’t you, Eddie? On that case you still don’t like to talk about.”

  “Yes,” I said. “The great spy game. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, buried deep beneath the Siberian tundra, lies one of my family’s greatest secrets and most terrible horrors.”