The Woman on the Orient Express

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  It was Nancy, not Katharine who had found her.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Agatha stepped sideways, making room for Nancy to stand beside her. “It seems incredible that in a few minutes’ time we’ll be stepping onto a different continent.”

  “I can’t wait.” Nancy smiled. “By the way, I’m free at last: Signorina Tedaldi’s responsibilities ended when we reached Istanbul. I couldn’t understand most of what she said, but I got the gist of it. Apparently, the Wagons-Lits company has no jurisdiction on the Asian side.”

  “Well, there’s a whole new world waiting for you over there.” Agatha swept her hand toward the opposite bank, where countless wooden fishing boats bobbed at anchor. As the words came out, she knew that she was really saying them to herself.

  “I was dreading it until last night.” Nancy grimaced. “Did you mean what you said about needing a secretary?”

  Agatha nodded. In the cold light of day it seemed even more reckless, inviting a total stranger to share her life for the next two months. But there was no going back now. To withdraw the offer would be downright cruel. “I did mean it,” she said, “as long as you’re sure that’s what you want—don’t feel you have to accept out of politeness. If something better turns up when we get to Baghdad, you must feel free to take it.”

  “It’s perfect—more than I dared hope for. But you must promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve come on this trip to see new places, and you mustn’t let me cramp your style. As long as I have a roof over my head, I’ll be quite happy to stay put while you go exploring and to type it all up when you get back.”

  “Won’t that be a bit dull?”

  Nancy gave a wry smile. “Believe me, it’ll be an absolute pleasure after the life I’ve had lately.” She glanced over her shoulder, as if she were afraid her husband might be in hot pursuit. “Oh, there’s Mrs. Keeling! Doesn’t she look lovely?”

  Striding toward them in the dazzling sunshine, Katharine looked more striking than ever. She was wearing a white linen outfit with navy polka dots. The wide-legged trousers would have made Agatha look distinctly dumpy, but on a woman of Katharine’s stature, they were very elegant. The matching blouse was trimmed with navy at the neck, echoed by a ribbon of the same color below the bust. A short-sleeved navy cardigan draped over her shoulders completed the ensemble.

  “I thought you’d been left behind!” She squeezed into the space between Agatha and Nancy.

  “We were just admiring the view, Mrs. Keeling,” Nancy said. “But I suppose you’ve seen it many times?”

  “Please, call me Katharine. And yes, I have seen it before—but it never loses its impact. The last time I made the crossing, it was early in the morning. The sky was a wonderful pale blue—like forget-me-nots—and there was mist rising up from the water, making the domes and minarets look all ghostly, like a mirage.” She turned to look at the fast-approaching coastline of the eastern side of Istanbul. “A word of advice: stock up with food from the market stalls when we get to the other side. The meals on the next train will be ghastly.”

  “How long will it take us to get to Damascus?” Nancy asked.

  “Well, barring any further mishaps, we should be there by tomorrow afternoon. We usually have a couple hours for shopping in the bazaar, then it’s off into the desert.” Katharine lifted the sleeve of her blouse, twisting her head to examine the skin at her elbow. “Damn! I thought so: blasted bugs have been at me again!”

  Agatha saw a row of angry red bites on the pale underside of Katharine’s forearm.

  “It must have been last night.” Katharine winced as she rubbed her skin.

  “Try not to scratch,” Agatha said. “They look as if they might be infected.”

  “Yes: I think my arm looks a bit swollen.” She held out both arms for the others to inspect.

  “I’ve got some calamine lotion in my suitcase,” Agatha said. “I won’t be able to get at it until we’re on the other side, though.”

  “Thank you. I usually bring some myself—can’t think why I didn’t remember it.” Katharine reached for the rail of the boat, swaying slightly.

  “Are you all right?” Nancy caught her arm as she staggered sideways.

  “I . . . I’m . . .” The color drained from Katharine’s face.

  “You need to sit down.” Agatha took her other arm. “That’s it—lean on us. There’s a seat over there.”

  When the ferry reached the Asian side of Istanbul, Katharine said she felt better. She refused the help of a Turkish sailor who offered her his hand as she stepped off the gangplank. But she still looked very pale. Agatha persuaded her to take a cab to the train rather than wait in line in the hot sun for one of the coaches.

  Inside Haidar Pasha station, it was bedlam. The Taurus Express was waiting, but no one could board until the customs officials had cleared every item of luggage destined for the journey to Syria. The air was full of shouting and screaming, and passengers thumped their suitcases, trying to get attention.

  “You have to bribe them,” Katharine whispered in Agatha’s ear. “Do you have a pound note?”

  “I think so.” Agatha delved in her purse.

  “Wave it in the air.”

  With a dubious look, Agatha did as she was told. A customs man dripping with gold braid bustled up and chalked cryptic symbols on their baggage. The ripe odor of sweat oozed from his body as he worked. It was such a male smell, and so long since Agatha had encountered it. It made her think of Archie. Of running from the railway station in Torquay the night they were married, racing each other to the Grand Hotel. They had collapsed onto the bed, pulling each other’s clothes off, laughing like children at the way his shirt stuck to his body. And as they lay together, sleepless, listening to the bell of All Saints’ Church chime away their precious night, she breathed him in.

  “Have you got another pound?” Katharine’s voice tugged her back to the present. She had already dispatched Nancy to a row of stalls at the far end of the station to gather supplies for the journey, and now she began instructing Agatha in the fine art of bribing a porter to get them into one of the better carriages. Sitting regally on her largest suitcase, she paused for breath, fanning herself with a magazine.

  “Are you sure you’re well enough to travel?” Agatha asked.

  As Katharine nodded, a bead of perspiration trickled down the side of her face. “I’ll be fine once we get out of this hellhole.”

  The Taurus Express was comfortable but not luxurious. Nancy was alone again, but there was a connecting door from her compartment to the one occupied by Agatha and Katharine. As soon as Nancy had stowed her luggage, there was a tap on the wooden panel.

  “Katharine’s asleep,” Agatha whispered as the door opened. “I think it’s the best thing for her—she looked as if she was going to pass out on the ferry, didn’t she?”

  “She looked feverish to me.” Nancy arranged the food she had bought on the table by the window. Peaches, grapes, bananas, and half a dozen squares of baklava. The bag containing the pastries gave way as she set it down, the paper translucent with oozing honey.

  “I think she might be.” Agatha nodded. “Those bites on her arm looked horrible.”

  A muffled sound came from the other side of the wall. It was high-pitched and frantic, like a cry for help. Nancy jumped to her feet and opened the door, Agatha right behind her. Katharine was lying on her side, her face wet with perspiration, the sheet pulled from the bed and tangled around her middle. As the door closed behind them, she lashed out with her arm.

  “Get away! Leave me alone!” Katharine lurched onto her other side, pulling the sheets with her.

  “Katharine . . .” Agatha bent over her. “Can you hear me?”

  “He’s got a gun!”

  Nancy caught her breath. “She’s delirious, isn’t she?”

  Agatha nodded. “Can you get some cold water and a face flannel?”

  Nancy opened the cupboar
d containing the washbasin while Agatha cradled Katharine’s head.

  “That fool should never have told him!” Katharine’s voice was getting louder. “Might as well have pulled the trigger himself!”

  “It’s all right, Katharine—just lie back, now.”

  Nancy’s eyes met Agatha’s as she handed her the wet flannel. “What’s she talking about?” Agatha put her fingers to her lips.

  “Such a shock . . . No one could take a thing like . . .” Katharine tossed her head, sending the flannel flying off.

  “She needs a doctor, doesn’t she?” Nancy whispered. “Shall I ring for the steward?”

  Agatha shook her head. “There’s nothing much a doctor could do. I nursed men with infected wounds during the war, and this is just the same. The fever has to run its course. All we can do is watch her and try to keep her cool.”

  “We’ll take turns, then,” Nancy said.

  “Don’t you see?” Katharine suddenly sat up, her eyes wide open. “They said your husband’s dead.” She grasped the collar of Agatha’s blouse, twisting the fabric between her fingers. “He did it at the foot of the pyramid. Like a sacrifice . . .”

  Nancy and Agatha spent the next few hours creeping between the two compartments like nuns from a silent order. Nancy gave instructions to the steward not to knock on either door until morning. He had brought them bowls of stew for supper—a thin, grease-blobbed soup with some unidentifiable lumps of meat floating in it. Katharine had been right about the quality of the food.

  Thank goodness for the baklava, Nancy thought. Misshapen and crumbling though they were, the little squares of pastry tasted heavenly. As Nancy ate hers on the other side of the door, she watched the sun set over the Sea of Marmara. Little islands dotted the coastline. The fading light turned them into humps of gray, like a school of whales basking in the water. As the sun sank into the ocean, the train veered to the left, away from the coast, and began winding its way up a gorge. She listened for sounds from next door. She could hear nothing but the distant chug of the engine and the rhythmic rumble of the wheels on the track. Katharine must be sleeping.

  Snatches of her fevered speech spilled through Nancy’s head like beads from a broken necklace. He’s got a gun . . . That fool should never have told him . . . They said your husband’s dead . . . He did it at the foot of the pyramid. What had happened? Had Katharine’s husband killed himself? The reality of someone actually doing what she had only contemplated hit her with such suddenness, she felt paralyzed. What on earth had he been told, to push him over the edge? She wondered how much Agatha knew about the woman whose compartment she was sharing. Had Katharine confided in Agatha the way she herself had done?

  As darkness enveloped the train, Nancy went to take her turn at Katharine’s bedside.

  “She’s been a little better this past half an hour,” Agatha whispered. “Still very restless, but quieter.”

  Nancy took the chair that Agatha had vacated, feeling the warmth her body had left behind. They had agreed to sit with Katharine for three hours at a time, taking a nap in Nancy’s compartment between shifts. But seeing how exhausted Agatha looked, Nancy decided she would try to sit it out until morning. If Agatha didn’t wake, she wouldn’t disturb her.

  It was a long night. Nancy lost count of the number of times she got up to refresh the flannel with cold water and a few drops of cologne. Katharine felt very hot to the touch. The flannel sucked up the heat, wafting the scent of lavender through the compartment. It made Nancy feel drowsy, but she battled to stay awake. She had brought a copy of Vogue with her to read. As she gazed at the pouting faces of the models, it was hard to believe she had ever been part of that world. It seemed like another life entirely.

  The thought of what lay ahead was too intimidating to contemplate. A life in a foreign city, with a baby. Nancy knew that in accepting her new friend’s offer, she was clutching at straws. How long would she be able to cover up what was happening to her body? What would this kind woman say if she knew the truth? Nancy put down the magazine, running her hands over her stomach. She could feel the difference, especially sitting down. Her clothes still fitted, just about. But when they got to Baghdad, she was going to have to find a way of dressing differently, find things that concealed her condition for as long as possible. No one in their right mind would take on a secretary who admitted to being nearly six months pregnant. With luck, Nancy would find some other work: earn enough to rent a place of her own and hire a nanny when the baby came. But until that happened, she must go on pretending, playing the part of the unloved runaway.

  She tried not to think about what her baby’s father was doing as the train took her farther and farther away from him. He would be back in London by now. She knew the street where he lived, had walked past the house, torturing herself with the little she knew of his life there. The wife, the little girl. She had hurried past, afraid of catching a glimpse of the child through the window. She knew even then—before her own child had made its presence felt inside her—that if she had seen his daughter, she would never have been able to write that letter, begging him to come with her to Baghdad.

  “I’m most frightfully thirsty.” Katharine was suddenly sitting up in bed, sending the flannel slithering to the floor. “Could I have a glass of water?”

  “Yes, of course!” Nancy jumped up. “Are you feeling better? We were so worried . . .” She turned to fill the glass.

  “Really?” Katharine shivered, pulling the sheet up to cover the ivory silk straps of her lace-edged nightgown.

  “We’ve been taking turns to sit with you.”

  “You darlings! Was I really that bad?”

  “You’ve had a fever. It must have been the insect bites.”

  “Wretched things!” Katharine examined her arm. “Have I been asleep long? What time is it?”

  Nancy looked at her watch. “Ten to six.”

  Katharine blinked. She leaned across to pull up the blind. “My God, it’s getting light! What day is it? Where are we?”

  “Still in Turkey, I think. We haven’t stopped anywhere for ages. And it’s Sunday, by the way.”

  Katharine put her hand to her head. “I feel quite peculiar. Dizzy. I need food, I think, but I couldn’t face it.”

  “Could you manage some grapes?”

  Katharine nodded slowly. “I could try one.”

  Nancy took one from the bunch and cut it in half, removing the pips. “Try just holding it to your lips at first if you’re feeling queasy.”

  Katharine did as she was told, closing her eyes as she held the fruit up to her mouth. After a few seconds, she swallowed it down. “Mmm . . . that’s lovely. Can I have another?”

  As Nancy cut one open, Agatha appeared in the doorway. “Oh, you look so much better,” she said. “I’m sorry, Nancy—I must have slept through the alarm.”

  “No need to apologize. I thought you needed a good long sleep after what I put you through the other night.”

  With a wry smile, Agatha perched on the end of the bed. “Grapes: what a good idea.”

  “They’re delicious,” Katharine said. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “I remember getting very ill with a fever when we lived in Ceylon.” Nancy moved the bowl of fruit onto the bedside table where Katharine could reach it. “I had a nanny—a native woman called Amanthi—who looked after me. I was refusing to eat or drink, and my parents were going frantic. She asked them for grapes, and she sat by my bed day and night, popping one into my mouth whenever I opened my eyes. I can’t eat them nowadays without thinking of her.”

  “I do envy you, growing up in a place like that.” Katharine broke off half the bunch and began eating them, pips and all. “My childhood was spent in London, and I absolutely hated it: the cold, the smog, the whole vast sprawl of it. I love going to Mesopotamia because it’s the exact opposite.”

  “Well, I envy you, having a profession,” Nancy said. “I wanted to be a teacher in Ceylon, but . . . well, things turne
d out differently.”

  “What happened?” Katharine asked.

  “My uncle was killed in the last war, and suddenly we were back in England. My father became the heir to a title and land in the Cotswolds—which sounds like a blessing but turned out to be a curse.” Nancy paused, wondering if she’d said too much. The two women were looking at her expectantly. It couldn’t hurt her father to tell them, could it? Not now. “The inheritance tax was crippling,” she went on. “My mother had died when we lived in Ceylon, and being the only child, I tried to help him keep things going. But we had to sell one thing after another—fields, outbuildings, paintings, furniture—until there was nothing left but the house itself. And every time it rained, we’d be running around with buckets because the roof leaked like a sieve.”

  She turned her face to the window, ashamed to tell them the rest: that a good marriage had been the only means of saving the place; that she had accepted Felix’s proposal for her father’s sake, only to lose him to a heart attack a month after the wedding.

  She was saved from further interrogation by a hoot from the engine and the sudden slowing down of the train.

  “Oh, look!” Katharine knelt up in bed, her nose against the glass. “It’s the Cilician Gates!”

  Nancy craned her neck, expecting to see the entrance to an ancient walled city or ruined castle. But all she could see were towering pillars of natural sandstone, great cliffs of rock turned coral pink by the first rays of dawn.

  “What is it? What are you looking at?”

  “You’ll see in a minute,” Katharine replied. “It’s the pass through the Taurus Mountains. Alexander the Great brought his army through here in 333 BC, and Saint Paul passed through on his way to visit the Galatians. The train always stops to let people get out and admire the view.”

  With a second long whistle, the Taurus Express juddered to a halt.

  “Go on, you two.” Katharine waved toward the door.

  “You go, Nancy,” Agatha said. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Nonsense!” Katharine rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about me.”