The Woman on the Orient Express

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  “Yes, it was.” Agatha felt as if someone else was controlling her mouth, as if her voice was coming from some parallel universe. She had never spoken about those ten days in Harrogate. It was exactly two years ago—December 1926—that she had left her car at the edge of the quarry and walked through a winter dawn to the nearest railway station.

  “I’d had a breakdown.” Up here, in the darkness of the Arabian desert, it somehow felt safe to let it out. Like whispering a secret in the confessional. “I’d been away from Archie for a few weeks, nursing my mother at her house in Devon. We were very close, and I was devastated when she died. Then, the weekend after, Archie came down from London and told me he was in love with another woman. In those few days my whole world came tumbling down.”

  In the silence, all Agatha could hear was the sound of Katharine inhaling.

  “I wanted to ask you about it on the train—when I first suspected who you were.” Katharine’s voice was softer, lower. “I’m sorry. It was crass of me. Pretending I didn’t know and then posing that question about whether it was really amnesia.”

  “I can hardly blame you for that. It’s only what the entire population of the British Isles seemed to want to know at the time.” Agatha shifted her weight from one elbow to the other. “You were right, as a matter of fact: it was Archie’s idea to say I’d lost my memory. He thought it was the only way to salvage both our reputations. He told the papers I’d had a mental collapse brought on by overwork. I even booked sessions with a psychiatrist to make it look convincing. One journalist was actually following me—every day for a couple of weeks—after I got back home. I felt like a criminal.”

  “I felt just the same when Bertram died.” Katharine lay back, blowing a plume of smoke into the night sky. “I felt absolutely to blame—even though I’d done nothing wrong.”

  Nothing wrong? So, Agatha thought, the theory about the lover in Egypt was a white elephant. “Have you ever talked about it to anyone?” she asked. “I got the feeling that when you let it out—the morning of your wedding—there was something preying on your mind. Something you needed to get out in the open before you got married to Leonard.”

  “You’re very perceptive.” Katharine leaned across to tap ash over the side of the roof. “But no. It’s too . . . private. I can’t bring myself to put it into words. It’s too painful.” A pause and then: “I’m sorry. Do you understand?”

  Agatha suddenly saw what Max had meant. She draws you in. Katharine had done exactly that. Drawn Agatha into revealing things about the darkest time in her life, then clammed up the moment the tables were turned. And in doing so, she had gained a psychological advantage. Now she knew things that no one else knew.

  “Agatha?”

  Something in the timbre of her voice gave her away. There was fear in that husky whisper. Once again it occurred to Agatha that she had got Katharine all wrong. That this was not some game. There was something about the circumstances of her husband’s death that she really couldn’t bear to talk about. A fragment of remembered conversation floated into Agatha’s mind. Nancy’s announcement of her pregnancy. And Katharine’s reaction. Had there been a baby, out in Egypt? A stillbirth or a miscarriage?

  “Of course,” Agatha said softly. “Some things are too painful to talk about. I do understand.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Ur to Ukhaidir

  Agatha was in a deep sleep when Nancy came knocking at her door. She peered at her watch. Half past eight. She jumped out of bed, pulling her shawl round her shoulders.

  “I thought I’d better wake you up,” Nancy said. “I don’t feel like breakfast—but the others have already had theirs.”

  Agatha dressed quickly. By the time she reached the main house, Saleem was clearing away the breakfast things. She grabbed a piece of toast and asked if she could have a cup of tea. As she was drinking it, Max popped his head round the door.

  “Hello. Do you fancy a trip into the desert? I’ve got to go and collect the wages for the men from Najaf. We could go and see the palace at Ukhaidir.”

  “Oh.” Agatha put down her cup. “I read about that. It’s more than a thousand years old, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. It was built in 775 AD. It’s a ruin now, of course—but spectacular, all the same. I’m setting off in about half an hour if you want to come.”

  “I’d better go and ask Nancy.” Agatha drained her cup and stood up.

  “I can’t take both of you, I’m afraid.” Max shrugged. “We have to pick up supplies and a Bedouin guard in Najaf.” He cocked his head toward the courtyard. “Katharine’s got plans for Nancy, I think. She said something about her not having been well. She’s going to get her cataloguing photographs.”

  Agatha nodded. “How far is it to Najaf?”

  “About fifty miles. There’s a huge lake nearby.” He smiled. “We can stop off for a picnic on the way home if you like. Can’t expect you to travel all that way on a piece of toast.”

  Agatha smiled back. Clearly, Max loved his food as much as she did. Not at all like his boss, who only seemed to eat out of necessity.

  As she went to get ready, she spotted Katharine and Nancy disappearing through a door on the other side of the courtyard. She felt grateful and rather surprised that Katharine had orchestrated things to make this trip possible. It seemed to confirm what had occurred to her last night: that she’d completely misread Katharine. Why would she want to send Agatha off with Max into the desert if she wanted him for herself?

  On the way to Najaf, Agatha mentioned to Max how surprised she’d been to learn that Leonard liked detective stories.

  “He’s not as buttoned-up as he looks, is he?” Max chuckled. “I’m dying to hear about this ancient Egyptian murder idea of his—has he told you about it yet?”

  Agatha shook her head. “To be honest, I’m awash with ideas at the moment—all set in the present day. I’ve never really thought about writing a historical crime novel.” She told him about the plots she was developing for two new books.

  “How clever.” He smiled when she explained the idea of using symbols from the Yezidi shrine as a murderer’s code. “I’m delighted to have taken you somewhere that inspired you.” He slowed down as they approached a big pothole in the road. “Perhaps you should think about setting one of your novels in an expedition house.” He cast a wry sideways glance. “Plenty of motives for murder there!”

  “Are there?”

  Max grunted a laugh. “With the possible exception of Duncan—who’s only been with us five minutes—I don’t think there’s a single member of the team I wouldn’t have cheerfully strangled at some point over the past three years. You wouldn’t believe how tense it gets sometimes. A bunch of people thrown together twenty-four hours a day. We’ve never actually come to blows—but it’s been a near thing on more than one occasion.”

  “What sort of thing do you fall out about?” Agatha was thinking of Katharine. She seemed the most likely source of tension. It wasn’t difficult to imagine men fighting over her.

  “All kinds of things. Anything from who’s not pulling their weight on the dig to who’s snaffled the last packet of cigarettes. The day before you came, there was a terrible atmosphere at breakfast because Katharine said no one had passed her the toast rack.”

  “Really? That sounds awfully petty.”

  “It is!” Max shook his head. “Out here things somehow get magnified out of all proportion. And Katharine, I’m afraid, is the worst offender. Living with her is like walking on a tightrope.”

  “I got a sense of that last night,” Agatha said. She told him about going up to the roof to look at the stars and Katharine’s sudden appearance. “She won’t talk much about the past, but I get the impression that whatever caused her first husband’s suicide still haunts her. I wonder if that’s what makes her so edgy?”

  “Very likely,” Max replied. “I’ve often wondered about it myself. Did she tell you she won’t allow Leonard in her bed? All he’s allowed
to do is watch her taking a bath each night.”

  Agatha turned to him, openmouthed.

  “It’s common knowledge among the team, so I don’t suppose she’d mind me telling you. I don’t know how he stands it, poor devil.”

  “That does seem very bizarre. Has she ever told you why?”

  “Not really.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles showing white through the tanned skin. “Like you say, she won’t talk much about the past. But there’s certainly something: some psychological thing, possibly, that makes her chew men up and spit them out. She gets away with it because of her looks and her magnetism. I feel sorry for Leonard. It must be wretched for him.”

  He turned the car sharply to the left, and Agatha was vaguely aware of the minarets of a mosque in the distance. But she was looking without really seeing, her mind spinning with images of Katharine. She felt quite certain, now, that something had happened between her and Max. It was there in his voice, in the way he tensed up when he was talking about her. Katharine must have led him on, then left him dangling, just as she was now doing with Leonard—the difference being that Leonard was her husband. He had rights. Reasonable expectations. How was it that a man who was so forceful in other areas of his life could accept a situation like that?

  Soon they were passing roadside stalls and women leading mules laden with baskets of fruit. Max pulled up beside a market in the shadow of the mosque, and Agatha followed him from stall to stall, helping him to select the best onions, oranges, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Then they went across to the police station to pick up the Bedouin guard who accompanied them to the bank. Once the money was collected and stowed in the back of the truck, they set off for Ukhaidir.

  The palace was the closest thing to a mirage Agatha had ever seen. It seemed to appear from nowhere after miles of featureless sand and scrubland. Its coral-colored walls rose like a cliff out of the plain, vultures circling the turreted towers at its four corners.

  “It’s amazing!” Agatha leaned forward, shading her eyes. “How on earth did they build something so enormous all those years ago?”

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Max nodded. “Those walls are over sixty feet tall. I hope you’ve got a head for heights.”

  Inside the battlements was a vast empty space. The only remnants of the pleasure palace it had once been were fallen stone columns decorated with acanthus leaves. Max explained that the main attraction for visitors was climbing to the parapets to see the panoramic views of the desert. It was only when they emerged from a spiral staircase that she appreciated just how high the walls were.

  “Oh!” She steadied herself on the remains of a stone archway. The precipitous drop made her feel dizzy. “It’s quite terrifying, isn’t it?”

  “Take my hand if you like.” Max reached out to her. “We’ll take it nice and slowly.”

  His hand felt warm and firm in hers. He led her along the battlements to one of the towers, whose narrow window revealed an amazing sight. The dusty yellow of the desert gave way to a sparkling expanse of turquoise water.

  “That’s Bahr al Milh,” he said. “It means Sea of Salt in Arabic.”

  “It’s breathtaking.” She stood very still, wondering if he would release her hand now that they were no longer moving. But he didn’t. “Is that where we’re going for our picnic?”

  “Yes. There’s a lovely spot on the south side. It’s very peaceful—no one around but the odd fisherman. We can kick off our shoes and dip our toes in the water if you like.”

  He was close enough for her to breathe in the scent of him. Sun-warmed skin with a hint of something sharp and aromatic, like thyme or eucalyptus. Agatha felt that fizzing sensation in her belly—the same feeling as when their bodies had accidentally touched in the darkness at the shrine of the moon god. She was aware of perspiration beading her forehead and hoped that her hand didn’t feel clammy in his.

  He kept hold of it. All the way round the parapet, not letting go until they reached the bottom of the staircase.

  The Bedouin guard was waiting for them beside the truck, which Max had parked in the shade of the walls. His rifle was laid beside him, on top of a sack of onions. Max said something to him in Arabic, and he hitched up his robe, jumping nimbly into the back, where he perched on one of the other sacks of produce destined for the kitchen at Sahra’ Alqamar.

  Agatha was surprised at how quickly they reached the lake. From the palace walls it had looked a long way away, but they were there in less than half an hour.

  “Are you hungry?” Max jumped out and came round to open the door for her, taking her hand again as she stepped down onto the sand.

  “I am quite hungry,” she admitted. “But I’m very warm. Could we go for a paddle first, do you think?” She would have liked to do more than just paddle. The lake looked so inviting. It reminded her of the seaside at Torquay. Long days spent on the beach as a child. Swimming was a passion she hadn’t had the chance to indulge very often while married to Archie.

  “Do you fancy a proper swim?” Max must have seen it in her face.

  “That would be heavenly—but I didn’t think to bring a swimsuit. What a pity.”

  “I wonder if we could . . .” Max looked at his feet. “Could you . . . improvise, perhaps?” He glanced back at the truck. “I’ll get our friend to turn his back. And I promise to swim with my eyes closed.”

  Agatha’s heart missed a beat. Could she? Should she? All she had on under her dress was a silk vest and knickers. It was too hot, out here, for any more underwear than that. She could just about preserve her modesty going into the lake—but she knew very well that her garments would become completely transparent once they got wet. She might as well be naked, coming out.

  “Well, I . . . ,” she faltered. The lake looked so tempting. “What would we dry ourselves on?”

  “We can drip-dry in this heat.” Max grinned. “But I can offer you a couple of sacks to wrap yourself in when you come out: not very luxurious, I’m afraid—but better than nothing . . .”

  “And you promise you won’t look?” She was smiling, too, now.

  “Scout’s honor.” He touched his fingers to the side of his head.

  Max was already in the water when she stepped out of the truck. She glanced down at her body, painfully aware of her lily-white legs and the little mound of baby fat that she had never quite managed to lose since giving birth to Rosalind. She took a deep breath, trying to flatten it, just in case Max or the guard were looking. It was just a few yards to the water’s edge. She decided to take it at a run, plunging into the glorious coolness.

  “Bravo!”

  Max appeared suddenly from under the water. He was a couple of feet away from her, and his eyes were tightly shut.

  “You can open them now if you like,” she said. “I’m quite decent from the neck up.”

  She watched his eyelids part to reveal the irises. In the light reflected off the water, they were the color of melting chocolate.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” He tilted his head back and floated on the surface, his shorts rippling over his thighs. “I can’t tell you how good it feels after weeks and weeks in an excavation pit.”

  “I can imagine.” Agatha was trying not to look at his legs. Golden brown and muscular, with a peppering of dark hairs glistening in the sun. She glanced across the lake, afraid that he might catch her staring. “Is that a jetty over there? Could we swim to it?”

  “Yes, if you’re feeling energetic.” Max slid back into an upright position.

  She launched into a powerful crawl. “I’ll race you!” she shouted over her shoulder.

  She heard him laughing as he came up behind her. Their hands grasped the wood of the jetty at the same moment.

  “Whoa! Where did you learn to swim like that?” He took a lungful of air and heaved himself onto the platform, offering her both hands as she went to pull herself out.

  “I grew up by the sea. I can’t remember actually learning. My sister taugh
t me, I think.” She realized, too late, that she was sitting next to him, dripping wet. And his eyes were open. Her hands went to her breasts. Then she remembered the knickers and tried to cover that part of her body as well.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “I . . . I forgot to close my eyes.”

  Seeing his face, she couldn’t help giggling. Beneath the tan he was actually blushing. She gave up trying to cover herself and put a hand over his face instead. His skin felt as cool and smooth as wet clay.

  He put his hand up to hers, tracing the outline of her fingers. “You’re very beautiful.”

  The words hung in the air like a peal of thunder. Had he really said that? She felt suddenly tongue-tied, paralyzed. The water lapped against the struts of the jetty. Somewhere behind them a bird gave a piping call from its nest in the reeds.

  Gently, he moved her hand from his eyes to his lips. The kiss was barely perceptible, as light as a butterfly brushing her skin. But its effect was electric. Her whole body pulsed with it.

  “Oh, Max . . .” She looked deep into those melting eyes, wondering what her mother would say if she could see her now, sitting at the edge of a lake, as good as naked, with this young man.

  But for once her mother remained absolutely silent.

  “We should go back.” He let go of her hand, looking away from her, across the lake. He meant to the truck, to the picnic packed in baskets—no doubt getting warmer and less appetizing with every passing hour. But she wondered if he now regretted that kiss. Those words.

  With hardly a splash, he slid into the water. She followed him back to the shore, keeping her distance, treading water as he climbed up the bank. She waited for him to fetch the sacks from the truck. Saw him turn his back and walk away. Was he being a gentleman or had he lost interest in her already?