The Woman on the Orient Express

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  Agatha could smell the sausages as she stepped onto the sand. Steam was rising from the row of saucepans, all perched on the stoves held steady by rocks arranged around the base of each one. She lined up with the others and was soon handed an Arab flatbread with a fat sausage nestled inside. To wash it down, there was a tin mug full of hot, sweet black tea.

  Agatha sat cross-legged on the sand to eat. As she bit into her breakfast, it tasted like the most delicious thing she had ever eaten. There was something about being in the desert, at daybreak, with the colors of the dawn—pale pinks, corals, and blues—and the pure, cool air that gave everything a sense of wonder. Suddenly, her old life in England seemed very small, very insignificant. This was what she had dreamed of. Here, in this barren landscape, she was truly away from everything—with the silent morning air, the rising sun, the sand for a seat, and the taste of sausages and tea.

  When the time came to move on, the men who had cooked breakfast disappeared over the ridge of a sand dune, their baskets loaded onto the backs of camels.

  “They’re Bedouin tribesmen,” Katharine said. “You’ll see more like them when you come to the dig.” She turned to Nancy, who was sitting across the aisle. “You’ll come and visit, too, won’t you?”

  “Well, I . . . er . . .” Nancy looked from Katharine to Agatha, as if seeking permission.

  “We can travel together, can’t we?” Agatha said. “How far is it from Baghdad?”

  “Quite a way: about twelve hours by train. But there are interesting places to see along the way. You could take your time. Stop off for a day or two at Karbala and Ukhaidir. Then we can put you up in the annex for a few days. It’s quite basic, but I think you’ll enjoy it. The boys will love to have you, I’m sure.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you,” Nancy said. “It sounds absolutely fascinating.”

  A shout from the front of the coach made them all turn their heads. The driver suddenly swerved to the left. Through the window they saw what had caused the diversion. A truck was parked right in the middle of the track, with rifles pointing out of the windows.

  “Bandits!” Katharine hissed. “Don’t worry. They won’t come after us. They’ll be waiting for the caravans.”

  “Those men on camels?” Nancy frowned.

  “Not the ones who made our breakfast—they’ll be well away by now. But there’ll be others coming through—merchants on their way back from trading their wares in Damascus—that’s who they’re waiting for.”

  After bumping along on a detour of several miles, the coach picked up the track again. At just after ten o’clock, Agatha spotted a dome and minarets shimmering in the heat rising from the sand.

  “That’s Fallujah,” Katharine said. “You can just about see the river running past the mosque. It’s the Euphrates.”

  To enter the city, the coach had to drive over a bridge made of boats. It swayed alarmingly and Agatha felt a wave of nausea, which thankfully passed as soon as they were back on dry land. They drove through palm groves on a rutted track of a road. Then, on the left, were the golden domes of another, bigger mosque, which Katharine told them was in a city called Kadhimain.

  “We’ll come to the Tigris soon,” Katharine said. “It’s only a few miles to Baghdad.”

  They were on a proper road now, with rows of palms on either side and herds of black buffaloes wading in pools of water. Then they passed houses and gardens full of flowers. Agatha glimpsed tennis courts with European people—young men and women—darting around in white.

  “Welcome to memsahib land.” Katharine smiled. “This is Alwiyah—the smart suburb. I’d avoid it if I were you.”

  The tennis courts and manicured gardens eventually gave way to what looked like a shantytown. Shacks made of petrol cans surrounded a vast, muddy enclosure full of buffaloes. The stench of manure penetrated the coach and had everyone holding their noses.

  “This is Buffalo Town.” Katharine pointed out of the window at a pair of women squelching about in the mud, smiling as they threw feed into a trough for the animals. “It looks like a slum, doesn’t it—but these people are actually quite wealthy by Arab standards. A buffalo is worth a hundred pounds or more. Can you see those bracelets on their legs?” Agatha watched the women as they staggered back through the mud. Sure enough, there was a glint of silver around their ankles. Each woman had a clutch of bracelets: silver chains laced with beads of lapis, jade, and amber.

  Buffalo Town was on the banks of the river Tigris. This was crossed by another bridge of boats—not as long as the first—and then they were in Baghdad, driving up a street full of rickety buildings, heading toward an imposing mosque with domes of turquoise. Then the coach stopped, and Agatha realized that this was it: after five days of traveling, she was finally there—in front of the Tigris Palace Hotel.

  Katharine got out to say good-bye as the driver unloaded Agatha’s and Nancy’s luggage. “Some words of advice,” she said. “When you go shopping, remember that nothing in the Middle East is what it appears to be. If you see a man gesticulating at you violently to go away, he is actually inviting you to approach. On the other hand, if he beckons to you, he is telling you to go away. And if you want someone to listen to you, you have to shout. That’s how they do things here. If you speak in an ordinary voice, they’ll ignore you: they’ll think you’re talking to yourself.”

  “Where are you staying?” Nancy asked.

  “On the other side of town, at the Maude. It’s a guesthouse, not a hotel. Leonard hates to spend money on accommodation.” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry: that probably sounds rather disloyal.” She paused for no more than a heartbeat. “Actually, we’re getting married tomorrow. Leonard and me, that is. Will you come?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Baghdad

  Nancy wondered if there were any other guests staying at the Tigris Palace Hotel. There was no one to be seen in the marble-floored reception area when they came downstairs that afternoon after unpacking. Tea was served in the cool interior courtyard by a uniformed waiter who wouldn’t have looked out of place at Claridge’s.

  “Why didn’t she tell us before?” Nancy said, spreading a napkin on her lap.

  “Perhaps she didn’t want a fuss.” Agatha paused while the waiter poured tea into her cup. “It’s her second marriage, after all.”

  “But you’d think she’d have mentioned it, all the same. Do you think she’s been having second thoughts?”

  “I suppose she might have been mulling it over on the journey: trying to decide if it was what she really wanted.”

  “I remember feeling like that the morning after Felix proposed.” Nancy reached for a cucumber sandwich. “I’d told my father—who was absolutely thrilled—but I remember looking out of the window at the buds coming out on the horse chestnut trees and thinking that getting married would be like those leaves unfurling. They looked so pale and tender and—I don’t know—exposed. They were coming out, and there was no going back. And who knew if a gale or a frost might suddenly come along?”

  “Had you known Felix long?”

  “Not really. I’d seen him at a few social occasions around Christmas. And then he was at a party thrown by a girl I was at school with. It was fancy dress—very wild—and a lot of people were already very drunk when I arrived. Felix had come as Zorro. He looked just like Douglas Fairbanks, in a red cape and a black sombrero hat. I found out later that he’d proposed to several other girls at the party before he got to me.” Nancy shook her head. “I think he’d have called it off if he could when he realized what he’d done. But my father had already put a notice in the Times. It was too late to back out. So we were married six weeks later.”

  Agatha picked up the teapot, topping up Nancy’s cup, then her own. “Marriage is always a leap into the unknown, even if you think you know the other person inside out. It works for some people. But I doubt there are many truly happy marriages.”

  Nancy glanced at a butterfly—striped red, white, and black like a flag�
�that had landed on the wall above Agatha’s head. “When we were talking on the train, you said your husband had been in love with someone else. Did he give her up?”

  Agatha stared into her cup. “He . . . We . . . we’re no longer married.”

  “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Agatha let out a long breath. “It’s a terribly hard thing for me to talk about—even now. When I first met Katharine, I was too ashamed to tell her. I’m afraid I let her think my husband had been killed in the war.”

  “Well, I don’t blame you. And from what you told me the other night, it wasn’t your fault that things didn’t work out.” Nancy took a bite of her sandwich.

  “The trouble is people always think it must be your fault when men have had enough of you. That you didn’t try hard enough. And when you have a child that makes you feel even more of a failure.”

  Nancy felt the bread turn into sawdust in her mouth. What was she going to tell this child when it was old enough to understand, if its father didn’t make good on his promise?

  If you can just lie low out there for a few months . . .

  The memory of his words taunted her. Here she was, in this foreign city halfway across the world, dependent on a woman she barely knew. A woman who would no doubt recoil in disgust if she knew Nancy’s secret. How on earth was she going to get through the next few weeks—let alone months?

  Agatha woke early the next morning. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was. She had fallen into bed exhausted at just after six the previous evening, and now, looking at her travel clock on the bedside table, she saw that she had slept for more than twelve solid hours.

  For a while she lay there, luxuriating in the feeling of being in a proper bed, in a room of her own, for the first time in almost a week. Then she climbed out and went to the window, which opened onto a small balcony. Below her was Al Rasheed Street, the busy main thoroughfare of Baghdad. It was full of people. They were nearly all men in Arab dress, though there were a few in Western-style suits. Most were on foot, but some were in carriages drawn by mules or horses. As she watched, an ancient-looking bus trundled past, pulled by a team of mules. It had a spindly staircase spiraling up the back end and was stuffed with dozens of people. This, Agatha thought, must be the morning rush hour.

  In the shade of an awning across the street, a man in an Indian-style turban was serving food from a makeshift stall. She could see another man behind him, flipping slices of what looked like eggplant on a griddle over a charcoal fire. Yet another was inserting lettuce and some sort of white sauce into flatbreads. Arab men were queuing for the food, chatting and spitting on the pavement as they waited. The smell of the cooking wafted up to where Agatha stood watching, making her feel very hungry.

  She and Nancy had arranged to meet for breakfast at eight thirty. The wedding was at ten, and when it was over, they planned to set about the business of the day. Agatha was to go house hunting, while Nancy wanted to go to the British Consulate to find out exactly what had happened to her cousin.

  Agatha couldn’t help wondering how Katharine would be feeling, waking up on what was to be her wedding day. She herself had mixed feelings about attending the service. It was going to be a painful reminder of what she had traveled all this way to avoid. Archie and his fiancée were due to marry in just four days’ time.

  She shut the image out of her mind by sorting through her clothes, deciding what would be appropriate for a wedding in a city where the temperature was predicted to reach around ninety degrees Fahrenheit by the time they stepped outside the church. She settled on a dress of lilac silk with a trim of cream rosebuds at the neck. She would wear it with the new straw cloche she had bought in Harrods’ hat department. She grimaced as she lifted it out of the box, remembering her embarrassment as an assistant had explained the significance of the different styles of ribbon trim on offer for this type of hat.

  “It’s the latest thing,” the girl had said, sweeping her hand toward the blank-eyed china heads. “The ribbon you choose sends out a message: a sort of code.” She pointed to an arrowlike pink grosgrain ribbon. “This shape indicates that the wearer is single but has already given her heart to someone.” She glanced at Agatha, seeing from her expression that this was not going down well.

  “Or there’s this one.” She indicated a complicated-looking knot of mauve silk ribbon. “This means that you are already married.” Her smile was met with an even deeper frown.

  “Perhaps this would be more appropriate?” She picked up a hat with a flamboyant bow of cerise with white polka dots. “This one says that you are single and interested in mingling.”

  “I just want something plain, actually.” Red in the face by now, Agatha had plucked a hat from the nearest mannequin. It had a narrow cream ribbon trimmed with a single button of mother-of-pearl—and if this carried a cryptic message, she didn’t want to know.

  As Agatha laid the hat on the bed, there was a sharp rap on the door of the bedroom. She glanced at the clock. She had ordered tea for seven thirty, but it was only just after seven. Thinking that perhaps it was Nancy, she went to open the door. To her surprise, Katharine was standing there.

  “Sorry to disturb you so early.” She looked agitated, the smooth skin of her forehead puckered. “It’s Max and Michael. They’ve been held up. They wired from Beirut last night: some problem with the ship carrying our supplies.” She huffed out a breath. “Anyway, it means we haven’t any witnesses for the wedding. I was wondering if you and Nancy would do the honors.”

  “Oh . . . I . . .” Agatha stalled. “You mean . . . sign the register?” The full significance of it struck her. This would blow her cover completely. To use an alias on a certificate of marriage would render it invalid. It would make a mockery of the whole wedding: Katharine and Leonard Woolley would, effectively, be living in sin. “I . . . I’m not sure if I . . .” She was at a loss for an excuse. How could she refuse such a request without appearing downright rude?

  “You don’t need to pretend anymore, you know.” Katharine took a step closer, put her hand on Agatha’s arm. “I know who you are.”

  Agatha felt herself wither in the beam of Katharine’s eyes. She knew. She had very likely guessed within hours of their first meeting.

  Moments from the train journey flashed in rapid succession through Agatha’s mind. The times she had caught Katharine looking at her with that Mona Lisa smile. Do you have a different pair of spectacles? Those really don’t suit you at all . . . She was probably laughing up her sleeve the whole of the journey.

  “You’re not on the train now.” Katharine’s voice fell to a gentle whisper. “You don’t have to worry about people pointing the finger. In Baghdad you can hide yourself away if you want to.”

  Agatha took a breath. She felt as if her lips were glued together. “When did you realize?”

  “When I saw you without your glasses, after you hurt your head. You were lying fast asleep and I held my book up to your face, comparing it to the photograph on the back page. I’d had my suspicions before that. I was dying to ask, but I didn’t want to make things awkward for you on the train.”

  Agatha turned away, shaking her head. “I was stupid, thinking I could get away with it. It’s just—”

  “You don’t have to explain. It’s completely understandable.” A pause and then: “I read all about it in the papers, of course, like everybody else. If it’s any comfort, I know how that feels—having your private life hung out like so much dirty washing.”

  “You do?”

  Katharine nodded. “I wasn’t quite truthful on the train. When you said you were a war widow, I let you believe that my husband met the same fate. He didn’t. He committed suicide six months after we were married.”

  “Oh, Katharine—I’m so sorry . . . I . . .”

  Katharine held up her hand. “You don’t have to say anything. But please, just support me now, will you?”

  “Yes, of course I will.”

  Sai
nt George’s Church on Haifa Street was dwarfed by the towering minarets of the Abu Hanifa Mosque. But despite its relatively small size and unimposing architecture, Agatha felt a soothing sense of peace as she and Nancy followed Katharine inside.

  “There’s no need to tell her—not yet,” Katharine had said as she left Agatha’s bedroom to get ready for the ceremony. “I’ll ask her to sign the register first. That way she won’t see your name.”

  Agatha had felt very guilty and hypocritical when Nancy greeted her with “Good morning, Mary,” at breakfast. But there wasn’t time to go into it now, to explain why she had wanted to conceal her identity and how, once begun, the tangled web of deception had enveloped her. And so, once she had imparted the news about their acting as witnesses, she had deliberately steered the conversation away from talk of the wedding, chatting about the business of renting a house until the eggs, bacon, and toast were eaten.

  Katharine had arrived by horse-drawn carriage to collect them. Her outfit was stunning: a Chanel suit in cream wool, edged with black braid, a double string of pearls, and a cream broad-brimmed cloche with matching trim of folded silk embellished with a single flower of white tulle. A small bouquet of lily of the valley lay on the seat beside her.

  It had taken no more than ten minutes to reach the church, despite their way being blocked at one point by a man leading two buffaloes across the road. Katharine had laughed when this happened.

  “Oh dear,” Nancy said. “Aren’t you worried we’ll be late?”

  “It’s a bride’s prerogative, isn’t it?” Katharine replied. “And anyway, Leonard can’t go anywhere without me: I’ve got the keys to our new expedition truck.”

  As the carriage drew up outside the church, Katharine had fallen silent. Agatha noticed that her fingers were shaking slightly as she handed down her bouquet before stepping onto the pavement.

  “Are you all right?” Agatha whispered as they went inside. “Not too nervous?”