At this she nodded enthusiastically.
“There’s a very good place not far from here.”
It was dark when they stepped outside. He led her across the square and down a narrow street lined with shops selling everything from carnival masks to cigars. They crossed a bridge that led to the Canale della Giudecca and came to a waterside café with candles on the tables whose menu featured the largest selection of ice creams Agatha had ever seen.
“Have you tried pistachio? It’s very good. Or, if you like liqueur, you can get Amaretto flavor.”
She admitted her inability to tolerate alcohol, and his mouth turned down in sympathy. “I’m afraid I developed the opposite problem at Oxford. Too much claret and not enough concentration, my tutors would probably tell you.”
Agatha blinked. Her nephew, Jack, had gone to Oxford. They had very likely been there at the same time. She opened her mouth to ask when he had graduated, but closed it before the words came out. To mention Jack would be to risk giving herself away. Instead, she told him about the time she and her mother had ordered half pints of cream as an alternative to wine on holiday in Cornwall.
“Did you drink it?”
“Every drop. I’ve become rather a fan since. It’s my favorite thing to drink.”
He laughed. “Do they serve it on the Orient Express?”
“I’m sure they would if I asked, but I daren’t—there’s so much food, people would think me an absolute glutton.”
“Well, I think that when you’re on holiday, you should do exactly as you please.” He grinned. “And as they probably don’t serve half pints of cream here, I’m going to insist on you having two ice creams as compensation. So what will you have?”
It was strange, being treated like an indulged child by someone younger than herself. But she was beginning to see that Max’s youthful face masked what her mother would have called a wise soul. Despite the age difference, he somehow seemed years ahead of her.
After much agonizing, Agatha settled on cioccolato fondente accompanied by dulce de leche—a wicked but heavenly combination for a cream addict. Max chose something called crema dei Dogi, whose flavor he described as treacle tart with a dash of marsala. Between mouthfuls, he asked her how far she was traveling.
“To Damascus by train, then on to Baghdad,” she said. “And you?”
“I’m getting off at Trieste,” he replied. “I’m heading in the same direction as you, but I have to take a boat to Beirut to pick up some supplies there.” He scooped up another spoonful of ice cream. “Do you have family in Baghdad?”
She told him the same story she had given Katharine, adding that she hoped to visit the dig at Ur at some stage during her stay. At this, his eyes lit up.
“That’s where I’m going—I’m working on the dig.”
To Agatha, this was a most extraordinary coincidence. But when she told him she was sharing a compartment with one of his colleagues, his expression suddenly changed. It was only a fleeting look, and he covered it instantly with a smile, but he was a poor actor. It was as if a fly had landed in his ice cream.
“Oh, you’re sharing with Mrs. Keeling, are you? I didn’t realize she was on the train—I thought she was coming by sea.” He scraped with his spoon at the sticky residue in the bottom of his glass. “How are you getting on with her?”
Agatha took a breath. “She’s quite charming.” She couldn’t see his expression. His eyes were still on his spoon. “She seems to have led a most interesting life.”
“Quite right.” Max raised his head slowly. “A most interesting woman. And soon to be changing her name again. I must remember to call her Mrs. Woolley in the future.”
“Mrs. Woolley? You mean she’s . . .”
“Oh yes.” He nodded. “She’s marrying our esteemed boss. Next Tuesday, I believe, at the Anglican church in Haifa Street.”
Agatha shook her head, perplexed. “I wonder why she didn’t mention it? She told me so much about herself—all about the dig and the things she’d worked on—but she never hinted that she was about to be married to the very man we were discussing.” She looked at him expectantly, but he simply shrugged. Either he didn’t know or was too discreet to disclose the reason for Katharine’s reticence. Glancing at his watch, he artfully changed the subject.
“I think we’d better get our skates on—it’s five past eight.”
“Oh!” She scraped back her chair in alarm. “Do you know the way back? I got terribly lost this afternoon.”
“Don’t worry. We can get a water taxi from down there.” He pointed to a jetty about a hundred yards from the café.
A boat arrived just as they reached the water’s edge. This time, there was no crush of people waiting to embark and they found seats easily. As the rope slipped into the water, Agatha turned to look at the softly lit facades of the buildings on the opposite bank. A gondola glided past, just a few feet from their boat. Another couple, holding hands, smiled up at the passengers in the water taxi. The man raised his hand in an awkward sort of wave. Agatha made herself look at them, at him, half-afraid of what she would see but daring herself nonetheless. To her relief, the man’s face stayed just as it should be. There was no trace of Archie about the eyes, the cheekbones, or the mouth.
She realized that she had the young man sitting next to her to thank for that. With music and ice cream, he had transformed her sinister experience of Venice into something joyful. He had saved her from herself. As the gondola disappeared into the night, she felt an inexplicable sense of peace.
In the darkness, the journey down the Grand Canal had an extra dose of magic. Lanterns spilled colors onto the black water, and peeling plaster glowed in the moonlight. There were fleeting glimpses of elegant diners and costumed street performers. Apart from the occasional observation, Max said little, as if he, too, was wrapped up in his own thoughts. But as they boarded the Orient Express, he said something that intrigued Agatha.
“Would you mind not telling Mrs. Keeling that I’m on the train?” He glanced left and right, as if afraid she might emerge from one of the carriages. “I hope you won’t think me rude. It’s just that I’d rather our paths didn’t cross until I’m back at the dig house.”
“Am I allowed to ask why?”
He gave her a sheepish smile. “Of course—but I can’t promise to be completely honest. I don’t want to color your opinion of her with my own particular prejudices.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” Agatha said. “I’ve heard enough to guess what life must be like for you all, cooped up together for months on end in that heat.”
He gave a small shake of his head. “She’s a fine artist and a great publicist. If it wasn’t for her, the dig would have run out of backers long ago. But she has this need to . . .” He trailed off, rubbing his chin. “She likes to control people, I think. She casts a spell on you, and before you know it, you’ve become her slave.” With a wry smile, he said, “Be careful of that, won’t you?”
Before she could make any response, he tipped his hat and turned toward his carriage. “Thank you for your company, Mrs. Miller. I look forward to our meeting again in the not-too-distant future.” And with that he was gone.
CHAPTER 6
Venice to Trieste
Nancy sent the steward away when he came to offer supper. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had only been a piece of toast. She knew she ought to have something, but she couldn’t face it. In a bid to distract herself, she rifled through her bag for Delia’s letter.
If her cousin had been surprised at Nancy’s sudden decision to pay her a visit, she hadn’t hinted at it. The letter was full of plans for outings to exotic-sounding restaurants, trips to the theater, and afternoons at the tennis club.
Delia’s large, bold handwriting was just what you would expect of a woman who had defied convention to take a man’s job in a foreign city. As a child, Nancy had been in awe of her. Delia was twelve years older and the brightes
t girl in her school. At eighteen, she had won a place at Cambridge to study classics and had taught herself Persian in her spare time.
When war came, Delia was recruited by the Foreign Office for work so secret she wasn’t even allowed to tell her parents where she was based. Then, in peacetime, came the posting to Baghdad. Nancy wasn’t sure exactly what she did. Something to do with keeping an eye on the local tribesmen, Uncle Rowland had said.
Nancy’s biggest fear was that Delia would throw her out if she discovered the real reason for the visit. Laying the letter aside, her fingers came to rest on the soft fabric of her dress. She let them trace the pattern of diamonds and zigzag lines, finding the place where her stomach swelled. She couldn’t really believe it herself. But in the past few weeks she had been feeling a fluttering inside, a sensation that reminded her of a robin she had tried to rescue when it flew down the chimney. Trying to open the window with her elbow, she had felt its tiny wings beating, trapped inside her hands as she struggled to set it free.
Thank goodness for jersey dresses and loose-fitting jackets with big pockets. Nancy hated the idea of lying to her cousin. But it wasn’t fair to confront her with the scandalous truth. She was going to have to pretend to have fled England to escape a violent husband. It was a shabby thing to do, but Nancy’s very survival depended on it. Delia was the only family she had left. She had to make her an ally, make her see that, with a baby on the way, there had been no other choice but to get as far away as possible.
The hoot of the engine scattered the images inside her head. The train was beginning to move. She was glad to be leaving Venice. Relieved that night had fallen outside the window, preventing her from catching any further, torturing glimpses of the place where she had spent the happiest and most wretched days of her life.
As the train picked up speed, there was a knock at the door.
“Madame?”
The steward again. He was so attentive, trying so hard to look after her. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?
“It’s all right, thank you,” she called out. “I really don’t need anything.”
“But, madame.” His voice was louder now, with a note of urgency. “I have something for you. A telegram.”
She jumped off the bed, her heart lurching. He must have changed his mind. Decided to come with her after all. He must have wired as soon as he got off the train.
“Oh, thank you!” She took the telegram from the steward with trembling hands. Flashing a grateful smile, she shut the door and unfolded the stiff paper.
The words swam before her eyes.
DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU DELIA GRANDFIELD DEAD.
Katharine had taken supper on a tray—a dish of deviled eggs and a bowl of Waldorf salad, the remains of which lay beside her on the banquette.
“How did you like Venice?”
“It’s breathtaking.” Agatha took off her hat and hooked it over the end of the luggage rack. “Quite exhausting, though. Do you mind if I go to bed?”
The steward had already effected the nightly transformation of the compartment, pulling down the bunk and hooking the little ladder over the side. Katharine had not consulted Agatha about the sleeping arrangements. The banquette was clearly marked as her own territory. But Agatha didn’t mind. She liked the privacy the top bunk afforded. She planned to get undressed lying down if she could manage it, to save having to peel off her clothes in front of Katharine.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Katharine pushed the tray to the far end of the banquette and picked up her book. “The steward will be back in a minute—shall I order you something?”
“No, thank you.” Agatha opened the cupboard that contained the washbasin and took her toothbrush from the glass. “I had the most delicious ice cream, and I couldn’t eat another thing.”
“Do you mind if I carry on reading for a while? I’m wide awake now: worst luck!”
Agatha didn’t mind that either. She had always been able to fall asleep quickly, almost anywhere. And once she was unconscious, she rarely woke up. Last night had been an exception, which she put down to the excitement of sleeping on a train for the first time in her life.
As she put away her toothbrush, she caught a glimpse of Katharine in the mirror. Her book was propped up on her knees, obscuring most of her face. Agatha could see that she was more than halfway through The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It was unnerving to think of her reading the story with no notion that its creator was lying fast asleep above her head.
She climbed the ladder and lay down, trying not to bang her elbow on the wall as she undid the buttons of her blouse. She was wriggling into her nightdress when Katharine’s voice rang out from below.
“Do you think she really lost her memory?”
Agatha’s stomach contracted.
“Agatha Christie,” Katharine persisted. “Do you think it was all an act?”
The bed creaked as Agatha breathed out. “I . . . er . . . I . . . don’t know much about it,” she mumbled.
“Really? It was all over the papers—of course, you can’t believe half of what they say—but it was a fascinating case. I think the business with the abandoned car was a cry for help, don’t you?”
Agatha felt as if her tongue were glued to her gums. She lay absolutely still, praying that Katharine would think she’d fallen asleep.
“I imagine the amnesia thing was her husband’s idea. A very convenient smoke screen for whatever sparked the whole thing off, I’d say.”
Agatha heard the rustle of sheets as Katharine shifted her position. Perhaps she didn’t expect a response. Perhaps the remarks were nothing more than throwaway observations, a brief interlude in her reading. Still, Agatha didn’t move. She lay on her back, her nightdress rucked up around her middle, terrified of advertising the fact that she was still awake.
It was only later—what seemed like hours later—that Katharine reached across to put out the light. Agatha fell into a sort of doze after that. She woke up suddenly and sat bolt upright, grazing her head on the roof of the compartment. She felt a desperate urge to relieve herself and wondered why. Then she remembered. In her haste to get into bed she had forgotten to visit the lavatory.
She eased her legs over the side of the bunk, feeling for the ladder with her toes. It squeaked as she put her weight on it and she paused, listening. There was no change in the rhythm of Katharine’s breathing. Agatha’s left foot made contact with the carpet. Then she felt for the handle of the door.
She would not normally have ventured into the corridor without her dressing gown, but there was no hope of locating it in the dark. And her spectacles—where were they? With a silent groan she remembered that she had tucked them under the pillow. She prayed she wouldn’t encounter anyone outside the compartment. She had no idea what time it was. Hopefully the steward had finished his rounds and was tucked up for the night.
The lamps in the corridor had been turned down low—just enough light for passengers to find their way to the lavatory in the middle of the night without dazzling the other occupants of the compartments when they opened the doors. As Agatha made her way toward the end of the carriage, she saw that every compartment was in darkness. It must be very late, she decided. But as she drew nearer to the engine, she caught a flicker of movement. Her heart sank. Someone else had got to the lavatory before her.
She hesitated, wondering whether to hide in the shadows for a while. But a sudden blast of cold air caught her face, taking her breath away. The person she had seen must have pulled down the window in the top half of the door at the end of the carriage. She shivered. Why on earth would they do such a thing? Wrapping her arms round her billowing nightdress, she marched indignantly toward the source of the icy draft. But as she drew level with the last compartment, she stopped dead. It was the girl. Ann Nelson. She was leaning out of the window, her hair plastered against her face with the force of the freezing air. And her fingers were on the handle of the door, her knuckles white as she grasped it. In a moment of horri
ble clarity, Agatha saw that she was about to throw herself from the train.
In the split second before she acted, a single word seared Agatha’s brain.
Good.
Nancy was going to die and Archie would be free of her.
As it shot through her mind, she batted the thought away, her body already hurtling toward the end of the carriage. She saw the door fly open, heard metal crash against metal as it swung against the side of the train. The girl was silhouetted against moonlit clouds, clinging onto the handrail.
“Nancy!” Agatha’s voice was drowned by the rush of air. “Nancy! Don’t jump!” she yelled.
The girl twisted round just as Agatha reached her. Agatha grabbed her round the waist, trying to pull her away from the open door. But a gust of air knocked her off balance. She felt herself falling, saw the ground below, rocks glinting where the moon caught them. Her hands flailed, searching for something, anything to grab hold of. Suddenly her body jerked sideways, as if some invisible hand had hooked itself under her waist and scooped her up. The last thing Agatha remembered was her head hitting the handrail. Then everything went black.
CHAPTER 7
Zagreb to Sofia
Agatha was dreaming of Torquay, of sitting in the garden at her mother’s house, surrounded by daffodils. She and Archie were all dressed up for a day at the races. Suddenly he reached out and swapped their hats. The brim of his came down over her eyes and when she pushed it back, she saw him grinning at her from beneath a confection of net and silk daisies. They looked at each other and laughed and he said, “Good Lord, I do love you!” But before she could reply, his hat fell back across her face, smothering her as she tried to open her mouth. And then she was falling, through the daffodils, into the cold, dark earth. Past the bones of Tony, her Yorkshire terrier. Past worms the size of fire hoses and earwigs with fangs like kitchen knives. Falling, falling . . .
It was the smell that brought her back to life. A sharp metallic scent of iodine. She opened her eyes to blue sky beyond the window. And Katharine’s face hovering over her, the blonde halo of hair giving her the look of a ministering angel.
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