The Woman on the Orient Express

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  The thunder and lightning had stopped by the time Agatha fell asleep. But something else woke her in the middle of the night. She blinked in the darkness, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. Suddenly she realized what was wrong. There was no movement. No sound from the engine. The train had stopped.

  The ladder creaked as she climbed down to look out of the window.

  “What time is it?” Katharine’s voice, croaky and a little slurred, drifted up to her.

  “I don’t know.” Agatha could smell the ripe fumes of vodka. She wondered how many White Russians had been downed after she left.

  Lifting a corner of the blind, she gasped. The storm clouds had vanished, leaving a clear sky with a huge full moon. And down below, glittering as the wind rippled its surface, was water: right up to the wheels of the train.

  Agatha pulled the window down a couple of inches. Cool, pine-scented air set her skin tingling.

  “Aargh! It’s cold!” Katharine grunted.

  There was a shout from somewhere outside. Then Agatha saw two figures wading knee-deep through the water. “I think the line’s flooded.”

  “What?” Katharine was wide awake now, fumbling for the lamp. At the same moment there was a knock on the door. The steward appeared, bearing a steaming jug and two cups.

  “Please do not worry, ladies—we are having a little trouble.” He laid the tray down on the table. “I have to go and see, so please excuse me for some time. There is fruit and some pastries in the dining car if you become hungry.”

  “Thank you.” Katharine leaned across to sniff the jug as the door closed. “Hot chocolate—ugh!” She made a face. “I need the bathroom.” As she stood up, there was another knock on the door.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry—I thought . . .” Nancy Nelson shivered in the draft from the window as the door opened.

  “You’re looking for Mrs. Miller?” Katharine gestured behind her. “Please excuse me.” She clapped her hand to her mouth, pushing past Nancy, who stood, bewildered, pulling up the collar of her turquoise silk dressing gown to cover her neck.

  “I do apologize, Mrs. Miller—I didn’t realize you were sharing. Is your friend all right?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Agatha smiled. “Just a gippy tummy, I think.”

  “She’s gone to see what’s happening—the woman who’s been sitting with me, I mean,” Nancy said. “I thought I might . . .” She paused.

  “Yes, please do come in.” Agatha pulled the single chair out from the table. “Would you like some hot chocolate?”

  Nancy sat down. Taking the proffered cup, she raised it to her mouth, inhaling the aroma but not drinking. “How’s your head now?”

  “Healing nicely, thank you.” Agatha settled herself on the edge of the bed that Katharine had vacated. “I don’t think I’ll need the dressing on it much longer.”

  “That’s good.” A pause and then: “It feels like an omen, the train getting stuck. A sign I shouldn’t go on.” She took a sip of her drink, staring into the cup. “I was thinking, at Istanbul I could catch a train back to England.”

  “But you said you couldn’t go back,” Agatha replied. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “I feel as if I’m caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I don’t want to go back, but I’m afraid of going somewhere I don’t know. Now that Delia’s . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Agatha opened her mouth, then closed it again. It was a delicate situation. She didn’t know this woman, not really. And yet she reminded her so much of herself: of the desperate person she had been on that cold December night almost two years ago. Nancy clearly needed help. But would it be sensible to offer to look after someone in such emotional turmoil? After all, she had come on this trip to discover places on her own, not to hook up with a fellow traveler.

  Don’t be so selfish. Her mother’s voice rang out loud and clear.

  “If it’s any comfort,” she began, “I’m going to Baghdad, too. I’ve no idea how I’m going to like it, but I intend to stick it out for a couple of months at least.”

  “Really?”

  Agatha nodded. “We can explore the place together, if you’d like to.” She waited for a moment. It was the first time she’d seen anything like a smile on Nancy’s face. “I’ve booked a room at a hotel for a few nights until I find my way round the place. I’m sure they’ll have other rooms available at this time of year.”

  “Thank you.” Nancy blinked. “That’s such a kind offer.” She was smiling still, but she looked close to tears. “Are you sure you’d want me with you? Don’t you have things already arranged?”

  “Not really.” Agatha shrugged. “I’ve deliberately avoided making plans because it’s quite exciting not knowing where each day might take me.”

  “That sounds really . . . But . . .” Nancy twisted her wedding ring. “I don’t know how to put this: it’s awfully embarrassing to admit to . . . What I mean is, there won’t be much time for exploring: I’m going to have to find some sort of job.” She glanced up, shaking her head. “You see, there isn’t much money. I don’t have any of my own. I had to sell my jewelry to get this far.”

  Agatha reached for the jug of hot chocolate, topping up Nancy’s cup. “What kind of work would you look for?”

  “I don’t know. Something in an office, I suppose. I’ve never had an actual job. I helped my father run his estate before it was broken up. I’m quite good with figures. And I can type.”

  Agatha paused at this, her cup halfway between the saucer and her lips. “I might be able to offer you something temporary,” she said. “I need a secretary.”

  Agatha didn’t need a secretary. She was perfectly capable of typing her work herself. But as the words came out, she felt something bordering on relief. The divorce had changed her overnight from an amateur writer to a professional. The stories she had composed as a hobby were now her only source of income. And she had been dreading sitting at the typewriter with a blank sheet of paper. Perhaps with an assistant, she would feel more like a real author.

  “Oh!” Nancy’s face brightened. “What would you want me to do?”

  “It would mainly be typing up handwritten notes. Nothing too onerous.” Agatha wasn’t ready to reveal herself completely. Not yet. “I hope to rent a house for a couple of months, so you could work in return for bed and board if that suits. And while you’re with me, you could look for something more permanent.”

  Before Nancy could respond, the door opened.

  “Gracious, it’s like the trenches out there!” Katharine bustled in, her face betraying no sign of the hangover that had sent her scurrying to the bathroom. Her cheeks were glowing and her eyes sparkled with the drama she had just witnessed. “Men up to their waists in mud! Goodness knows how long we’re going to be stuck here.” She sat down on the lower bunk, next to Agatha, bending low to avoid knocking her head on the bed above. “I’ve brought us a midnight feast.” She unfolded a linen napkin that contained bananas, pears, and a selection of muffins and pastries. Holding out her hand to Nancy, she said, “Sorry: I didn’t introduce myself properly earlier. Katharine Keeling.”

  “Nancy Nelson.” Nancy stood up as she released Katharine’s hand. “I must leave you both to enjoy your food.”

  “Nonsense!” Katharine laughed. “The more the merrier.” She offered Nancy an apple strudel. “You were on the cover of Vogue, weren’t you? I remember the dress you wore—Dior, wasn’t it? I did the drawings for it at their Paris show.”

  Nancy looked startled. For a moment Agatha thought she was going to run out of the compartment. But she took the pastry and sat down, examining it as if it were the clue to some abiding mystery. Then she said, “Yes, I loved that dress. Do you work in fashion?”

  “Not anymore. I’m at the British Museum now, with a team of archaeologists in Mesopotamia.” Katharine reached to the end of the bed, pulling her bag out from underneath a cushion. Delving into it she produced a small shiny object, creamy white and
shaped like a pebble. “This is the kind of thing I draw nowadays.” She set it on the table next to the bananas.

  “What is it?” Agatha asked.

  “An amulet of the moon god,” Katharine replied. “Pick it up if you like. It’s not the real thing—just a replica. I found the original in one of the death pits. Hamoudi, our foreman, copied it for me.”

  “Is this a hare?” Agatha said, examining its carved surface.

  “Yes. Turn it over. Can you see what’s on the other side?”

  “It looks like a pair of feet with something in between them. A snake, I think.” Agatha passed the amulet to Nancy.

  “Quite right,” Katharine said. “It was a magical symbol in ancient Mesopotamia. Very potent. It was supposed to protect the dead person in the afterlife.”

  “What’s it made of?” Nancy asked.

  “Ivory: a boar’s tusk.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Nancy passed it back.

  “Thank you.” Katharine tucked it inside her bag. “I carry it with me always. Silly, really—but I won’t be parted from it.” She laughed. “I expect you’ve both got something of that kind with you—something you couldn’t leave behind, even when you’re traveling.” She looked at Agatha.

  “Well, I don’t have anything as interesting as that, I’m afraid. I have my daughter’s photograph, of course . . . Nothing else really.” This was a lie. Agatha had a letter hidden inside the inner zip compartment of her handbag: the letter that her publisher, John Lane, had written to her nine years earlier, making an offer for her first manuscript, The Mysterious Affair at Styles.

  “What about you?” Katharine was looking at Nancy now.

  Agatha glanced from one to the other, fearing the effect this thinly disguised nosiness might have on Nancy. But the reply came with only a moment’s hesitation.

  “I have a scarf,” Nancy said. “It’s rather moth-eaten, with a pattern of peacock feathers. It reminds me of living in Ceylon as a child. I used to wake up in the morning and watch the peacocks in the trees outside the window.”

  “How marvelous!” Katharine took a pear and bit into it. “I’ve always wanted to go to Ceylon. How long were you there?”

  “About ten years. My father had a tea plantation near Trincomalee. I was born there.”

  “It must have been quite a shock, coming back to England at that age,” Agatha said.

  “Yes, it was. The cold was something I’ve never really got used to—and it took me a long time to stop looking out for snakes every time I went for a walk.”

  “Well, you’ll be right at home in Baghdad.” Katharine smiled. “It’s absolutely roasting in summer: in fact, it’s never cold at all, not even at Christmas.”

  “I’ve tried to imagine it.” Nancy blinked and bent her head, brushing away a flake of apple strudel that had attached itself to the lapel of her dressing gown.

  “It’s quite beautiful,” Katharine said. “Imagine the Garden of Eden: that’s what it’s like. Flowers everywhere. And on a hot summer night, the mist hangs in long white ribbons over the river. When the light fades and the lamps are lit in the houses on either side, it’s full of mysterious reflections and it glitters like gold.”

  With a few well-chosen words, Katharine had Nancy on the edge of her seat. Her anxious, preoccupied expression had turned into one of eager anticipation. Nancy wanted to know more about Mesopotamia and all about life at the dig. As Katharine regaled her with stories of Arab sheikhs and hidden treasure, Agatha remembered the words Max had spoken on the platform at Venice. She casts a spell on you, and before you know it, you’ve become her slave. Be careful of that, won’t you . . .

  Almost imperceptibly, Katharine was steering the conversation away from her own experiences in Mesopotamia to probe Nancy’s future plans. Lost in thought, Agatha didn’t realize what was happening until she caught the tail end of one of Nancy’s sentences:

  “. . . and Mrs. Miller has very kindly offered me some temporary secretarial work.”

  “Really?” Katharine’s head swiveled. “You didn’t tell me you were traveling to Baghdad on business, Mary. What line of work are you in?”

  “Well, I . . .” Agatha felt herself go hot. “I write a little—for magazines. I’m hoping to do some travel pieces.”

  Katharine’s lips slid into the Mona Lisa smile. “How very interesting! Which magazines do you write for? I wonder if I’ve—”

  A sudden screech of the train’s whistle brought Katharine to an abrupt halt. “Oh!” She jumped up. “What’s happening?” She peered out of the window at a landscape turned gray by the first hint of dawn. “I can see something. Looks like another locomotive. It must have come to pull us out.” There was another whistle, more distant this time.

  “I’d better be getting back.” Nancy’s anxious look returned as she got to her feet, wrapping her dressing gown tightly round her body. “Thank you—you’ve both been awfully kind.”

  By sunrise they were on their way again. Breakfast was served as they crossed the border into Turkey, and by lunchtime they were close to Istanbul.

  Nancy was not in evidence for either meal and neither was Katharine’s French companion, Jean-Claude.

  “I managed to get rid of him eventually,” Katharine said when Agatha inquired how the evening had gone. “He’s a frightful bore. How anyone can be so obsessed with things like stress fractures and water pressure, I can’t imagine!”

  Agatha felt a twinge of sympathy for the sad-eyed Frenchman, written off for no worse crime than being passionate about his chosen profession. She wondered why Katharine had bothered staying on in the saloon if that was how she felt, when she could so easily have left earlier.

  “Oh, look!” Katharine gesticulated with a forkful of salmon.

  The train had begun to wind in and out through strange wooden houses with slatted walls. As they entered the outskirts of Istanbul, they slipped past great stone bastions—a legacy of the city’s ancient and bloody past—which gave fleeting glimpses of the sea.

  “You don’t get much of an impression on this side,” Katharine said, taking a sip of Chablis. “Once we cross the Bosphorus to the Asian coast, you’ll really see Istanbul.”

  “I’m very disappointed that we’re not stopping,” Agatha replied.

  “Can’t be helped, I suppose. We lost too much time last night. Never mind—you’ll be able to see it all on the way back, won’t you? How long are you staying in Baghdad?”

  “I’m not sure.” Agatha spread butter onto a fragment of melba toast. “It depends on how I like it, I suppose. I’ll want to be home for Christmas, of course.”

  “Christmas, yes.” Katharine gave a wry smile. “I can hardly remember Christmases in England.”

  “How do you celebrate it in Mesopotamia?”

  “With a day off—our only day off all season.”

  “Goodness, that sounds rather harsh!”

  Katharine nodded. “Leonard’s a real slave driver. As far as he’s concerned, you’re out there to work, and work is what you must do, day and night. I remember the first season Max came to us, he produced a pack of cards one evening and started playing gin rummy with Michael, the draftsman. Leonard was beavering away in the Antiquities Room—as he does every night until two or three in the morning—and when he came out and saw what they were doing, he hit the roof. He said to Max, ‘If you’re not capable of working, you’d better go to bed.’”

  Katharine grinned as she finished this story. Agatha was perplexed. According to Max, the wedding was due to take place in just three days’ time. How could Katharine talk about Leonard Woolley as frequently as she did without mentioning the big event? There was no shame in a widow marrying for a second time—but perhaps there was some sort of scandal on his side. Agatha couldn’t remember reading anything in the papers about a previous wife, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Maybe Katharine had reduced this high-minded vicar’s son to a quivering heap of lust. After witnessing her performance in the saloon the
previous night, it wasn’t difficult to cast her in the role of temptress.

  As the train slowed to a crawl on the approach to its final destination in Europe, Max’s voice echoed through Agatha’s head again. Would you mind not telling Mrs. Keeling that I’m on the train . . . I’d rather our paths didn’t cross until I’m back at the dig house. What was that all about, she wondered? Had Max fallen for her hypnotic charms like the Frenchman, Jean-Claude? Was this some sort of addiction for her, leading men on and then casting them aside? If so, Leonard Woolley must be an exceptional sort of man to have snared her.

  CHAPTER 10

  Istanbul to Ulukisla

  The crossing from Europe into Asia was chaotic. On the other side of the narrow stretch of water separating the two continents, a connecting train was due to depart in less than two hours. There was precious little time to get the passengers and their luggage off the Orient Express and onto the ferry. In the mad scramble of people and suitcases, Agatha lost sight of Katharine.

  Boarding the boat, Agatha’s main concern was avoiding a recurrence of the seasickness that had made the crossing from Dover to Calais so miserable. She decided that the best strategy would be to remain in the open, close to the side. She climbed out onto the upper deck and found a place to stand, next to the rail. As she peered over the edge, she saw that the gangplank had already been hoisted. With a honk of its foghorn, the ferry slipped away from its mooring.

  To Agatha’s relief, the Bosphorus was as calm as a millpond. There was none of the pitching and rolling that had made her so queasy in the Channel. She watched the quayside recede, gazing in wonder at the mosques and minarets standing out against an azure sky.

  “It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”