The Woman on the Orient Express

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  She had stumbled out of the villa, stunned by what she had just witnessed. One of the other guests—a tall, fair handsome man she’d only been introduced to the previous day—had caught sight of her. He was sitting alone on the terrace in the moonlight, smoking a cigarette and had jumped up, offering her a handkerchief and asking if she had hurt herself. When she told him what had happened, he had not asked any questions, just sat and listened.

  They had watched the moon set and the morning star rise over the sea before they said good night. He had taken her hand then and kissed it, holding her eyes with a lingering glance before padding back across the dew-covered cobbles to his room.

  The next day he knocked on her door, bringing a tray of coffee and peaches from the garden. She invited him in, secure in the knowledge that her husband would certainly not come looking for her. He had made her laugh with stories of the people he had flown out from England to work with. And then he had asked if she would like to go bathing—which soon became part of a daily ritual.

  At the Villa Rezzonico few members of the house party ventured out of bed before midday. But she would rise at eight thirty to meet him for a morning dip. On the second day he swam to her beneath the surface of the water, as lithe and quick as a fish, skimming her hips with his shoulder as he swerved past. She almost lost her balance, but he was there, lifting her up above the waves. She bent to kiss his wet forehead, tasting its saltiness. And he tilted his head back until his lips met hers.

  They had lain in the sand at the water’s edge, her skin on fire where his fingers traced the curve of her arm. They had not spoken about it—hadn’t planned what they would do—but the next morning, after their swim, he produced the key to a beach hut. It smelled of dry seaweed and olive oil—an empty bottle of which lay on the rough wooden bench that served as the only piece of furniture. He spread his towel on the sandy floor and they dropped onto it, limbs entwined, still slippery from the sea.

  Three days later they were lying in the shade, eating green figs and melon when he took her hand, his eyes clouded. “Darling, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  She sat bolt upright, trembling as he told her about his wife and daughter.

  “I should have told you at the beginning.” He reached out to stroke her hair. “But I wanted you so much.” His eyes searched her face. “You have every right to despise me, I know. But I don’t regret a single moment. Do you?”

  She was prevented from replying by the sound of a saxophone. A hundred yards away, on the bandstand in front of the Excelsior Palace, a jazz quartet struck up and a tipsy-looking woman in pink silk pajamas began dancing barefoot in the sand.

  “We’d better be getting back,” he said. “They’ll notice if we’re late for lunch.”

  That afternoon, because it was their last day, everyone posed for a photograph on the beach. Unable to be near him, she couldn’t smile. The shot had caught the tension in her. She looked like a cornered animal. And he was looking straight at her, not at the camera. There was a fierce, restless look in his eyes, as if he was sick of the charade the holiday had turned into.

  And then they had met, just two weeks later, in early May, at a cinema in Leicester Square. It was easy to arrange because they had discovered they lived within a mile of each other. Perhaps if he had not been so close, if he had lived hundreds of miles away, she might have been able to forget him. But it had been pure torture, looking out across the blossom-filled trees of Green Park, knowing that he was just a few streets away.

  Now the distance between them was growing by the minute. He was on the night train to Calais. Tomorrow he would be back in London. And Baghdad was so very far away.

  We will be together, I promise.

  Would he have said that if he didn’t mean it? Nancy lay down and closed her eyes.

  When Agatha opened the door of her compartment, Katharine was still in her pajamas. She was lying on the banquette, covered with a blanket, her head propped on a stack of pillows and a book open on her lap.

  “Aren’t you getting off?” Agatha asked, reaching up to the luggage rack for her hatbox.

  “I don’t think so.” Katharine yawned and stretched. “I couldn’t get off to sleep: too many doors banging everywhere. It’ll be quieter when we stop. And I’ve seen Venice half a dozen times.”

  Agatha opened the door of the cupboard that contained the washbasin, checking her reflection in the mirror. There was a smear of chocolate on her lip. Her insides curled. She wondered what the young man must have thought of her.

  As she moved her head, she caught Katharine’s face reflected in the mirror. The contrast did nothing to lift her spirits.

  “Are you taking a tour?” Katharine looked up from her book as Agatha delved in her handbag for a lipstick.

  “I don’t really like crowds. I prefer to see the sights on my own.”

  “Very wise,” Katharine replied. “People can be very trying, can’t they? It will be such a relief when they’ve all cleared off.”

  Agatha could have taken offense at this remark, as she was the primary obstacle to Katharine’s peace and quiet. But it was said with such a sweet smile, it was impossible to feel slighted in any way. “Are you enjoying your book?” she asked.

  “Oh yes!” Katharine pulled out a bookmark and closed it up. “I don’t usually read this sort of thing—but it’s rather good.” She reached across to deposit the book on the table under the window.

  It was upside down, but the image on the cover was as familiar to Agatha as her own front door. An elegant foot in a red satin shoe stepping from a car onto the pavement. Black lettering against a threatening sky. A surge of adrenaline shot through her body.

  “It’s called The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.” Katharine had turned away from her to plump up the pillows. “It’s by Agatha Christie. You know: the one who ran off to Harrogate and had half the policemen in England chasing after her?”

  Agatha snapped her handbag shut and seized the handle of the door, mumbling something about needing the lavatory before the train pulled into the station. When she reached the end of the corridor, she locked herself inside the tiny cubicle and sank down on the seat. The train, already slowing down, made a sudden lurch. As her fingers shot to the handrail, she saw that they were shaking.

  What a fool, to think you can escape.

  CHAPTER 5

  Venice

  As the train shuddered to a halt, Katharine leaned across to pull down the blind. People were already spilling onto the platform, eager to see as much of the city as possible in the few hours ahead. She moved the blind sideways, watching through a slit of window, seeing without being seen. It wasn’t long before she spotted him.

  “Oh, Max,” she said to herself, “you just can’t keep away, can you, darling?”

  She saw that he had lost the beard he had grown last season. She thought the mustache looked better. He had lost weight, too. Quite handsome in that suit. So different from the scruffy student, fresh from Oxford, who had joined the dig three years ago.

  Katharine watched him until he disappeared into the crowd. Letting go of the blind, she sank back onto the bed, images of him slipping through her head like a silent movie. Max had always been her favorite. In that first season in the desert, she had ensnared him, sending him on ten-mile treks to buy her sweets and cigarettes, rewarding him with nothing more than an invitation to brush her hair. She loved the way he did it, so firm and yet so gentle.

  When they were alone together in her room, the atmosphere was electric. He wanted to touch her: she knew that and it thrilled her. But he was afraid of overstepping the mark, of going any further than she permitted him to. And that was more intoxicating still, to wield such power over another.

  As she closed her eyes, she imagined his hands traveling over her body. She allowed herself this fantasy because it was safe. A make-believe man could do her no harm. The real Max, given half a chance, would be dangerous.

  She hadn’t expected to see
him on the train. There was no need for him to travel out east this early. He could have left it another week at least. She wondered if he’d been invited to the wedding. She hoped not. It was a business arrangement, not a celebration.

  Her eyes snapped open. A horrible thought had occurred to her: that Max had been asked to be best man; that he would be standing right behind her during the ceremony, handing over the ring when the time came. That would be pure torture.

  Agatha was one of the last people to get off the train. She had to pass the compartment belonging to the girl on her way out. The door blind was pulled down. Agatha paused for a moment and listened. Not a sound from inside. Short of knocking, there was no way of knowing whether she had disembarked.

  As Agatha walked out of the station into the late afternoon sunshine, she tried to put Ann Nelson out of her mind. This was the beginning of her big adventure—the kind of journey people might dream of making, if only they had the means—and she must not let fear spoil it.

  But what are you actually afraid of?

  That question had been popping in and out of her head ever since she left London. Being alone, missing home—the fears had been simple ones at first. But on the Orient Express they had taken on a new dimension. Now she was afraid that the past had climbed on board with her, that heartache would consume her.

  Walking along the cobbled streets, she breathed in the mingled scent of cigarettes and coffee and dust. It was a continental smell, very different from London, and despite her gloomy thoughts, it set off a tingle of excitement. She joined a throng of people queuing for the vaporetto.

  The arrival of the Orient Express in Venice had unfortunately coincided with the end of the school day, and it felt as if half the population of the city was heading home. The sight of a group of girls about the same age as Rosalind, smiling and laughing as they waited for the boat, brought a lump to her throat.

  When the boat pulled into the quayside, a crush of uniformed bodies propelled her toward the gate. She was lucky to get a seat. Scores of people, including several women, were standing up, clinging to whatever they could as the boat lurched away from its mooring. The young men seemed to have no qualms about sitting down while a woman stood. It was everyone for him- or herself.

  She was beginning to think she’d made a big mistake, choosing this way of seeing the city, but as the boat chugged along the Grand Canal, her mouth opened in silent wonder at the moving tableau: ornate facades of carved stone and gilded wood, flowers spilling from balconies, music drifting from floating restaurants, gondolas slipping out of hidden ribbons of green water.

  Agatha’s plan was to disembark at the Rialto Bridge and browse the souvenir stalls before heading toward Saint Mark’s Square. But seeing a sign indicating the fish market, she decided to get off earlier. She soon found herself in a labyrinth of twisting, narrow streets punctuated by small, rickety bridges of weed-strewn wood. The signs had petered out and she had no idea which way to go.

  Cut off from the bustling heart of the city by the high, dank walls of old houses, these streets had an eerie silence. She could hear her footsteps echo as she quickened her pace. The cobbled street was heading for what looked like a gateway. But when she reached the gate, she found that it was locked.

  Turning round, she caught sight of a man at a window, watching her. The look on his face turned her stomach. For a moment she stood absolutely still, paralyzed by the sinister grin spreading across his face. Then she saw his hand move to the front of his trousers.

  She put her head down and ran as fast as she could, back down the alley, the smack of her feet on the cobbles matching each beat of her heart. When she reached the bridge, she doubled over, panting, against the wooden railings. There was a gondola gliding toward her. What should have been a pleasing sight felt suddenly tainted, as if everything in this city would be forever colored by that seedy encounter in its backstreets.

  As the boat drew closer, she could see a couple sitting behind the gondolier. They were kissing. He was stroking her hair, whispering something in her ear. They were about to pass beneath her when he glanced up at the bridge. It was Archie’s face she saw. Archie’s face framed with impossible black hair. Of course it wasn’t him. She knew that. The couple looked Spanish or Italian, not English. But still she saw that face.

  She whipped her head round, her eyes fixed on the gondola as it slipped away. Agatha knew at that moment what she was really afraid of: she was afraid she was losing her mind.

  She stumbled through the streets, hoping at every turn for a glimpse of the Grand Canal. Her plan to see Saint Mark’s Square abandoned, she just wanted to find a way of getting back to the comforting familiarity of the Orient Express. But to her surprise, she suddenly turned into a street with an arrow-shaped sign bearing the words “Piazza San Marco.” She thought she might as well follow it, as it offered a better chance of finding the way back to the main thoroughfare than continuing to wander aimlessly.

  Nothing could have prepared Agatha for the sight that met her eyes when she reached the end of the street. She emerged from a stone tunnel through an ancient building that straddled the cobbles. And there she was, in a vast open space bustling with people and pigeons. The last rays of the setting sun fell on the gilded facade of Saint Mark’s Basilica. The ancient wood and stone glowed like the entrance to some heavenly city guarded by a winged lion gleaming in a starry sky.

  People appeared to be coming in and out of the central archway. She glanced at her watch. The recital would have already started. She hesitated, nervous about going in. She no longer felt at home in churches. She had stopped taking communion. It wasn’t that she no longer believed in God, more a case of him not believing in her. In divorcing Archie, she felt she had let God down, broken a sacred promise. Although she still went to church occasionally, she felt like an unwelcome guest.

  Despite her misgivings, Agatha found herself drawn across the square, as if invisible hands were pulling her along. She passed under the golden-framed mosaic above the west door and stepped into the cool, dark interior.

  She hesitated again as her eyes adjusted to the change of light. Fumbling in her bag, she pulled out a silk headscarf. Yet another disguise? Archie’s voice mocked her as she knotted it under her chin. The sense of not belonging intensified as she saw shadowy figures lighting candles, crossing themselves, and kneeling at prayer. It was the music that persuaded her to take the next few steps. The melancholy strain of a violin. It sounded exactly how she felt.

  As she walked further into the cathedral, it was almost impossible not to look up. Acres of gilded mosaics covered the vaults and cupolas. It was like stepping into a cavern of hidden treasure. Silver lamps threw back a bewildering array of glittering images. Twisting birds and horned demons, wild-eyed disciples on a storm-tossed sea, John the Baptist plucking Jesus from what looked like a river of snakes.

  Stumbling slightly, she made her way toward the music, which was coming from a side chapel to the left of the nave. But as she reached it, a uniformed attendant stepped in front of her, barring the way.

  “Mi dispiace, non ci sono posti a sedere.” Agatha frowned, uncomprehending.

  “No seats left, I’m afraid.” The young man from the train appeared from the shadows. “But there’s a place over here: you can see through the screen.”

  She followed him round a stone pillar and, sure enough, she could see the soloist through the gaps between a frieze of carved wooden dragons and lions guarding the side entrance to the chapel.

  “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the single chair beside the screen door.

  “Oh, but it’s . . .”

  “No, really—I’m happy to stand after all that time on the train.” He flashed a smile, a gleam of white from beneath the dark mustache.

  The chair, although ancient and high-backed, was quite comfortable. She rested her head against the wood and let her eyes range across the gilded ceiling of the chapel as the music filled her head. She had a sense of almos
t drifting out of her body, of soaring up to join the impossible creatures depicted overhead. And for the first time since leaving London, she felt safe, out of reach of the tormenting voices and haunting faces that had followed her onto the train.

  If there is a God, she thought, music must be his language. She closed her eyes to shut out all other distractions, breathing in the ancient, comforting scent of old churches, of polished wood, melting wax, and lingering incense. She had fallen into a sort of sleep when a voice behind her startled her back to the present.

  “Are you all right?”

  His eyes were upside down, his mustache like a black arrow piercing his nose. It took her a couple of seconds to register that her head was tipped backward and he was leaning over the top of the chair.

  “Did you enjoy it?” His eyes crinkled at the edges. As dark as sloe berries, they had an oriental look from this angle.

  “Oh yes, very much!” Agatha jumped up from the seat, hoping he didn’t think she’d slept through the whole thing.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m terrifically thirsty. Would you like something to drink or eat? We’ve got an hour or so before we need to get back.”

  She hesitated for only a fraction of a second. If the suggestion had come from a man of her own age or older, she might have suspected the motive. But because he was young and came out with it in such an unselfconscious way, she felt quite safe in accepting. And she was in a foreign city where nobody knew her. Where was the harm in it?

  “I’m so sorry, I haven’t introduced myself properly, have I?” He held out his hand. “Max Mallowan.”

  “Ag . . . Mary,” she stuttered. “Mary Miller.” He made a little bow as he released her hand. “Where would you like to go? A bar or a restaurant?”

  “Well . . . I’m not sure. I’m not really hungry, but I’m not all that keen on bars . . .” She paused, aware of sounding ungrateful and rather pathetic.

  “Do you like ice cream?”