The Woman on the Orient Express

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  Opposites attract.

  Her mother had said that the day she announced her engagement to Archie. He’s not like your other young men, is he, dear? She had said it with a bright, brittle smile and a film of tears in her eyes. Agatha had been too much in love to see that these were not tears of joy. She had taken her mother’s observation as a compliment to Archie: no, he wasn’t like the others—he was impetuous, mercurial, and very, very handsome . . .

  In that moment she sensed that Max felt just as she had: captivated, dazzled, and hopelessly out of his depth.

  Saleem was clearing away the remains of lunch when they got back to Sahra’ Alqamar. Max grabbed a plate of flatbreads before the boy had a chance to take it back to the kitchen.

  “Are you hungry now?” He offered the plate to Agatha. “There’s some goat’s cheese left, too, if you like it.”

  Katharine’s face appeared round the door. “Oh—you’re back at last! I thought you’d been kidnapped!” She stepped into the room, taking Agatha’s arm. “You must see the Antiquities Room—there’s just time while Leonard’s with Duncan in the darkroom. You haven’t met Duncan, yet, have you? Or Pierre?”

  Agatha shook her head.

  “Pierre’s our epigraphist—he translates the cuneiform tablets—and Duncan’s our ceramics expert. You’ll meet them both at dinner tonight. Anyway, come with me: Nancy’s already in there.”

  She led the way down the passageway to a room at the heart of the expedition house. “It has no windows,” she explained. “There’s no way of getting to it from the outside. We still keep it locked at all times, though.”

  As Agatha stepped over the threshold, she could see why. Lit by two oil lamps, the room glittered like an Aladdin’s cave. Nancy was standing next to a golden statue with the head of what looked like a pharaoh and the body of a lion. In her hand was a goblet of the same color with a design of rams’ heads around the rim.

  “Look at this!” Nancy held it out to Agatha. “It’s really heavy—is it solid gold?”

  Katharine nodded. “The statue isn’t though—it’s gilded ivory. That’s the one that sparked the rumors I was telling you about. If it was solid gold, it’d be worth a king’s ransom.”

  “It looks almost Egyptian,” Agatha said.

  “There are similarities between the Sumerians and the Egyptians,” Katharine replied. “That striped headdress is almost identical. And look at this . . .” She took down a box from the top shelf, lifting the lid to reveal a beautiful gold dagger with dark-blue stones in the handle. “This came from a prince’s grave, and we think the sapphires came from Egypt. We had to pay the workman who found it its weight in gold—very expensive, but we have to do it to discourage stealing. We found other royal graves, but most of them had already been plundered.” She gestured to the goblet in Nancy’s hand. “This cup is our best find. Early Akkadian. Unique.”

  “What’s this?” Nancy was looking at a life-sized bust of a man’s head. It looked very different in style to the other heads in the room. The headdress was more Arabic than Egyptian. And it was a different color—not golden, but a darker, tawny shade.

  “Oh,” Katharine laughed. “That’s one of mine, I’m afraid. It’s Hamoudi—our foreman at the dig—do you recognize him?”

  “You did this?” Agatha reached out to touch the sculpted features.

  “Last season, yes: I got it cast in bronze back in London and gave it to Leonard as a wedding present.”

  “It’s frightfully good,” Nancy said. “So very lifelike.”

  “Well, it took a long time to get it right. Poor Hamoudi: he must have been bored rigid, posing for me night after night, when all the other workmen had gone home.” A wistful look crossed Katharine’s face, which she quickly covered with a smile. “We’d better make ourselves scarce now: Leonard will want to get to work on today’s finds.” She ushered them out of the room and locked the door. “We usually have a nap in the afternoons—apart from Leonard, that is, who doesn’t actually sleep at all . . .” She pulled a face. “I expect you’re both worn out after the train journey—I’ll see you in a couple of hours, shall I?”

  Katharine lay down and closed her eyes but sleep wouldn’t come. She could feel the beginnings of a migraine pulsing behind her eyes. She wasn’t sure what had triggered it. Maybe it was spending too long hunched over the new trench on the east side of the mound, with the morning sun shining right at her. Or perhaps it was the arrival of Agatha and Nancy, bringing the realization that there would be questions, questions she wasn’t sure she would be able to deflect.

  Sliding off the bed, she slipped on a robe and unlocked her bedroom door. She stood in the passageway for a moment, listening. She could hear a distant clatter from the kitchen: Ibrahim and Saleem preparing the evening meal. She heard the scrape of clay on wood as Leonard took something from a shelf in the Antiquities Room. He wouldn’t hear her tiptoe past the door on her way to find Max, wouldn’t have any idea how she was going to spend what was left of the afternoon.

  The sleeping dogs didn’t stir as she crossed the courtyard. The door to the annex was slightly ajar, left that way deliberately to allow some air into the low-roofed mud-brick dormitory whose six bedrooms were now all occupied. Max’s room was the one nearest to the entrance, so she didn’t have to creep past anyone else’s room to get to him.

  She hesitated for a moment, her fingers on the latch of his door. There was no sound but the muffled grunts of someone snoring. Michael probably, or Pierre. Noiselessly she lifted the latch. There was a bolt on the inside, but Max never used it. She pushed the door open.

  Max was lying on top of the bed, fully clothed. An open book had slithered, facedown, onto the counterpane. With his eyes closed, he looked serene, almost regal, like a young pharaoh about to be laid in a sarcophagus.

  “Max,” she whispered. He didn’t stir. She went closer, bending over him. When she spoke again, her mouth was inches from his ear. “Max, are you awake?”

  His eyes snapped open. “What?” He sat up quickly, knocking his book to the floor, where it fell onto a goatskin rug with a soft thud. “What’s the matter?” He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

  “I’ve got a headache.” She raised a hand to her temple, rubbing the skin. “Could you give me one of your massages? You’re so good at it.”

  Max hesitated, a frown creasing his forehead. “Yes, I suppose I could. I’ll have to wash first, though.”

  Katharine sat on the bed as he went to pour water into the tin bowl on the dressing table. She saw that his legs were still dusty from the dig. He wetted a flannel and rubbed it across his face, then washed his arms up to the elbows.

  “Do you want to sit in the chair?” he said, toweling himself dry.

  “I’d rather lie down,” she replied. “If I put the pillow at the other end of the bed, you could sit in the chair. I expect it’ll be more comfortable for you like that.”

  “All right.” Max gave her a doubtful look. “I’ll try it.” He moved the chair from its place under the window while she positioned herself on the bed, pulling her silk robe over her bare legs. She closed her eyes, waiting for the delicious moment when his fingers made contact with her skin.

  Agatha woke up with a jolt, wondering for a moment where she was. She had fallen asleep naked, on top of the covers, having left the window open in a bid to get some air into the stuffy little room. She wondered what had woken her. A noise from outside, perhaps.

  Pulling on her dressing gown, she went over to the window. It was difficult to see much through the heavy metal bars. Not that there was much out there: just bare scrubland punctuated with the odd boulder. She couldn’t hear anything much, either, just the low rumble of somebody snoring in another room.

  She decided to get dressed and take her notebook to the sitting room. It would be more pleasant than staying here. There might be something to eat, too. It was another couple of hours until supper, and she regretted turning down what had been left of lunch.

&nbs
p; A few minutes later she lifted the latch on her bedroom door, taking care not to let it drop as she let herself out. She didn’t want to disturb Nancy next door. As she made her way along the narrow passageway, she noticed that one of the other doors was slightly ajar. She didn’t know whose room it was. Apparently, one of the men had abandoned his afternoon nap in favor of something else. She wondered if she would run into whomever it was in the sitting room. Rather awkward, she thought, if it was one of the two she had yet to be introduced to. And not in the least conducive to writing up her observations of the dig.

  What she saw as she drew level with the door stopped her dead. Through a gap no more than an inch wide, she caught a glimpse of Katharine sprawled on the bed upside down, one bare leg protruding from a dressing gown of crimson silk. And bending over her, his hands buried in her hair, was Max.

  As she stood there, rooted to the spot, his head whipped round. In the split second before she darted out into the courtyard, his eyes flashed with the shock of seeing her. When she reached the sitting room, she sank into one of the rickety armchairs, panting for breath. There was no one else around. For that, at least, she was thankful. When she had recovered a little, she went and helped herself to a glass of water from the jug on the table. She sipped it slowly, feeling the beat of the pulse in her throat as the liquid slipped down.

  She tried to distance herself from what she had just witnessed. Tried to view it dispassionately, like a scene from a movie. What business was it of hers, what these people got up to?

  But there was no denying the familiar stab in her stomach—the same physical pain she had experienced that night in the car outside the home of Archie’s friends.

  This was jealousy, pure and simple.

  How can you be jealous? Why are you chasing after a man more than ten years younger than you are?

  “I don’t know, Mama,” she whispered to the empty room.

  At just before six Agatha went back to the annex. The door of Max’s bedroom was shut now. She hurried past, not wanting to hear whatever might be going on inside. She had agreed to wake Nancy in time for supper—otherwise, she would have stayed in the living room until the meal was served.

  Nancy didn’t hear the first, tentative knock. When Agatha did manage to rouse her, she came to the door looking bewildered.

  “Sorry—I was in such a deep sleep,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Did you manage to drop off?”

  Agatha nodded. “Just for half an hour or so. Then I made some notes about what we saw this morning.” Part of her wanted to tell Nancy what she had seen on the way to the living room. But as the words took shape on her tongue, she bit them back. Telling Nancy would make it real. And the atmosphere at supper was going to be uncomfortable enough without dragging her into it. “How are you feeling now?” she said instead. “I was worried about you earlier.”

  “Much better, thank you.” Nancy glanced down. Her dressing gown was hanging open, revealing the curve of her belly. She pulled one side over the other and knotted the belt. “You won’t tell Katharine and the others, will you? I couldn’t bear it if everyone knew.”

  “Of course I won’t, if you don’t want me to. But what will you say if Katharine notices?”

  “Do you think she will? Is it that obvious?”

  “Not when you’re wearing an aba,” Agatha replied. “I don’t think anyone would guess. But what if she starts quizzing you? She’s bound to ask what you’re planning to do when I go back to London.”

  “I’ll tell her the truth—that Delia left me enough money to be going on with and that I’ll start looking for a job in the spring.”

  “But . . . ,” Agatha hesitated, searching Nancy’s face. The thought of her going through the ordeal of giving birth with no one but strangers to help was very worrying. Katharine ought to be told. But what Agatha had just witnessed felt like a betrayal, and made her unwilling to let Katharine in on the secret.

  “But what?” Nancy frowned.

  She had to say it. Whatever Katharine was up to in her private life, she could still be a friend to Nancy. “Well, it’s just that . . . ,” Agatha faltered. “I know you’re going to get a nanny when the time comes—but Katharine might be able to help. In an emergency, I mean.”

  “I don’t see how,” Nancy said. “Ur’s a long way from Baghdad.”

  “But she’s bound to know people. It wouldn’t hurt, would it, to tell her about the baby—as long as she kept it to herself?”

  Katharine was alone in the sitting room when they got there. There was no hint of embarrassment in her eyes as she greeted them. Had Max said anything, Agatha wondered? It seemed unlikely that he would keep something like that from her, given their obvious closeness. Perhaps her plan was to just brazen it out: act as if nothing had happened in the hope that Agatha would think she had imagined seeing her in Max’s bedroom.

  “Come up to the top,” Katharine said. “You get a wonderful view of the sunset from up there.”

  They followed her up an open staircase on the far wall of the courtyard to the flat expanse of whitewashed bricks that formed the roof of the expedition house. The sun was already low in the sky, a red ball hanging over the distant mound of the dig. Agatha could see the tiny figures of the workmen scrambling down the sides.

  “This is where we keep all the ceramic ware we excavate.” Katharine gestured toward the piles of terra-cotta shards dotted all over the roof. “I’ve got jobs for you both this evening, if you’re willing. Do you like jigsaw puzzles?” Her eyes went from Agatha to Nancy. “We have a room downstairs where we take the pieces and try to fit them together to find out what we’ve got. It’s like doing a jigsaw in three dimensions. There could be bowls, pitchers, drinking vessels, storage jars—it’s quite good fun when you get into it. And it’ll give us all a chance to catch up—I’m dying to hear how you’ve been getting on in Baghdad.”

  Nancy and Agatha exchanged glances. As they examined some of the broken pieces, a face appeared at the top of the staircase. A man of about fifty with curly gray hair and a bushy beard greeted them with a little bow.

  “Good evening.” He spoke with a French accent.

  “This is Pierre,” Katharine said. “He’s from the Sorbonne.” She put her hand on Agatha’s shoulder, ushering her forward with gentle pressure. “Agatha speaks very good French, Pierre. I’m sure you two will get on like a house on fire.”

  By the time the sun sank below the horizon, Agatha was deep in conversation with the epigraphist. He was telling her about the cuneiform tablets found in the houses at Ur, offering to draw an alphabet in her notebook so that she could understand the basics of the ancient language.

  When the gong rang for supper, he took her arm and helped her down the staircase. “Sit by me,” he said in French as they made their way to the table. “It’s nice to have someone new to talk to. Max is the only person on the dig who speaks my language with any degree of fluency.”

  Agatha saw that Max was already sitting on the opposite side of the table, next to Michael. She looked down as she took her seat, avoiding his eyes. She glanced sideways at Katharine, who was seating Nancy next to a young man she guessed must be Duncan. Katharine had mentioned him in her letters. He was an archaeologist from Scotland—the newest member of the team—who had only just graduated from Saint Andrews University. He looked very young. If she hadn’t known he was a graduate, Agatha would have guessed he was no more than a teenager.

  Leonard was the last member of the household to come in to supper. He took his place between Katharine and Michael with an abstracted air. Agatha sensed that for him, food was an unwelcome but necessary interruption, not something to be anticipated and enjoyed. She wondered what he would say if he knew what had been going on just yards away from where he had been working this afternoon, if he had seen what she had seen.

  She watched Katharine as a steaming bowl of lamb stew was set on the table. She was leaning across Leonard, saying something to Michael. There was no tension in her expre
ssion, no indication that, less than two hours ago, she had been in another man’s bed.

  For Agatha, the meal was an uncomfortable experience. She spent the whole time trying not to look at Max, which proved very difficult with the nature of the meal, which involved a central platter of torn flatbreads to be dipped in the stew. Each time she reached for a piece, she lowered her eyes. There was a tense moment when Max’s hand went to the plate at the same time as hers and their hands almost touched.

  Leonard looked at her across the table as this happened, a quizzical expression on his face. She wondered if he had some inkling of what had been going on, and her heart missed a beat.

  “I’ve just finished reading one of your novels,” he said. “It was very good.”

  “Oh?” She felt a wave of relief. “Which one was it?”

  “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Katharine lent it to me.” He glanced at his wife with the ghost of a smile. “I’ve read some of your others, too. I do like detective stories.”

  Agatha was pleasantly surprised. She’d had him down as too intellectual to bother with her kind of fiction.

  “As it happens,” he went on, “I have an idea for a murder mystery.”

  “Really?” Agatha was even more surprised.

  “Set in ancient Egypt.” He nodded. “I know that’s not your period, but I’m sure you could pull it off, with enough research.”

  “Poor Agatha!” Katharine turned to him with a little shake of her head. “She’s come here for a rest!”

  “It’s all right.” Agatha smiled. “I’m always on the lookout for new ideas. Perhaps I could jot down a few notes later.”

  When the meal was over, coffee was served in the courtyard, which had been transformed into a magical-looking space with hurricane lamps hanging from hooks on the walls. Leonard and Katharine were the first to go outside. Agatha hung back in the dining room until Max had left the table. Then Pierre asked her if she would like to see the cuneiform tablet he was working on at the moment.