"Darling, do be careful, lest you start drooling."
He shook his head and chuckled in spite of himself. "My apologies, but this?" He motioned to the OHX-1. "This is unlike anything ever seen before and considered somewhat risqué for the exclusive and staid Orient Express."
Eliza motioned him toward the train, and they resumed their descent to Platform 20. "Risqué is rather my speed."
He chose not to reply to that little trap. After time together he was getting good at spotting them.
Closer to the Express, regardless of their uniforms, both Wellington and Eliza had to push through the crowd. When they broke through, they found a higher-ranking officer who motioned for the two of them to join him. This sergeant issued various assignments to their fellow officers until it was just the three of them.
"You are friends of Louis?" he asked.
"Oui, sergeant," Wellington began, "Je m'app—"
"Please," the superior said, "speak English. I am sure your French is flawless. And that is what gives me concern. Also, the less I know of the two of you, the more deniability I have."
Wellington paused, glancing at Eliza who shrugged, then turned back to the sergeant. "We are indeed friends of Louis. Sergeant...?"
"Petit. Sergeant Petit, and you need access to the passengers?"
"Yes," Eliza said, "we believe a madman may be amongst the guests."
Petit raised one eyebrow. "And the reason I am just finding out about this is..."
She cleared her throat. "You had a series of brutal murders a few months ago. A string of prostitutes, yes?"
Petit’s eyes went wide. "You know of the Ghoul of Notre Dame?"
"We’ve read the case file from the Préfecture."
He stared down from one end of the train to the other, and his complexion grew paler by the second. Wellington saw his problem; the beautiful and famous were being funnelled through a maze of roped off areas towards the OHX-1. Petit shook his head. "Of course that monster would choose the Orient Express. It is a bouillabaisse of influential targets."
Eliza followed his gaze and gasped, talking hold of Wellington by the wrist. "That’s Douglas Keating," she whispered to him, motioning with her head to a smartly dressed dark-haired man carrying a small valise. Well, smart until you reached the man’s head which sported a hat that would have dwarfed Wild Bill Wheatley’s in comparison. "The cattle baron from Texas."
A blonde lady, dressing in a glittering green dress that accentuated her fine form followed him, though from the distance between them they didn’t appear to be a couple. However, in the way she touched the man’s back and laughed along with him, they knew one another. "Ashe Robbins," Eliza added, "the famous actress."
Wellington attempted to look impressed at the celebrities from America, but his own excitement welled up to the surface as he recognised, "Professor Henrietta Falcon, the scientist from the Brunel Institute! She is revered around the world for her engineering breakthroughs. Quite amazing to see her out of her university. I wonder if she had a hand in designing the OHX-1?"
"And that is Jean-Pierre Dubois, the French Ambassador, and he is talking to..."
"...Mustafa Solak, the renowned poet," Wellington finished. "Many call him the Shakespeare of the Ottoman Empire."
"Scientists, politicians, artists, and robber barons," Sergeant Petit went on, his voice now rather dry. "All of them are in terrible danger."
"Quite." Eliza glanced across the crush of people before turning her face towards the train "Any sign of him, Welly?"
"No, but the longer we are out in the open like this..."
"True," she said before turning to Petit. "Perhaps we should take our place on the Express as your officers?"
The sergeant nodded. "Follow me."
A brass band struck up, playing cheery selections that distracted the crowd. As the three of them slipped on to the Express, the crowd’s adulation and the band’s overtures were muffled by the train’s lush interior. Passing through car after car, Wellington noticed each of the luxurious sleeper units was labelled with its occupant. Professor Falcon was in the room next to the Texan cattle baron. They finally came to a stop in a car with only two doors visible, the one before them marked "Privé". Petit opened the door to reveal an immaculate office with a desk centred before a wide window.
"Welcome to my base of operations," he said before motioning to another door to the left. "Through there, the two you will attend to passengers’ needs and complaints."
"Where are the other uniforms going to be?" Eliza asked, leaning forward to peer at a large diagram of the Express mounted on the wall behind the desk.
Petit pointed at various cars. "We will be stationed at each end of the sleeper sections at night, and then during the day patrolling the parlour and viewing cars."
"Weapons?"
"Standard French issue Moussin-Elard 504s with variable settings, set at half-pressure on last inspection." Petit looked between them and shrugged. "We don’t want to melt holes in the OHX."
"Especially with these somewhat temperamental engines," Wellington said, raising his hand a fraction as if he were afraid to break in. "One shot through the hull and the best result would be a stranded train. Worst case..." He mimicked an explosion.
"You seem to know quite a lot about the OHX," Petit noted.
"He reads engineering publications... for fun. I'm more of a Brontë girl, myself."
"Then we shall have to avoid the worst case, Mr Brooks," Petit said with a violent bobbing of his Adam’s apple. "So what is your plan once we are under way?"
"Mingling," Eliza replied.
"As police officers?"
"Both as uniforms and undercover. Hiding in plain sight as it were," Wellington explained. "This may make our job a bit more difficult, but it will mean we can move freely among the passengers."
"You talk as if you are travelling with the common folk," the police commander chuckled. "You forget that you are with the elite. They will expect you to see to their every need. Mostly those needs will be about as deadly as wiping their bums after a visit to the loo. You will not find the assembled here as accommodating as you would those in third class." Petit took a seat behind his desk, glanced at the clock in the wall, and then turned to the paperwork on his desk. "I will have a full manifest sent to your quarters. Now, off with you. The Express departs in roughly fifteen minutes, and I will expect you to make at least one round of the train before you return here." And with a wave of his hand, Petit was done with the two of them.
Wandering out into the corridor with Eliza at his back, the environment began to settle in with him. For the next few days, this testament to technology and luxury would be their world. Jekyll had to be hidden within the passenger list, and in between tending to the passengers’ demands, they would also be a line of defence. It was a matter of finding Jekyll before anyone else died.
Pausing at a junction between cars, Wellington looked around at the details surrounding them. They had travelled on many hypersteam engines in their time, but those models were utilitarian compared with the OHX-1. Care and thought was evident everywhere, from polished gleaming bass and ornamental rivets. From where they stood, they observed finely dressed porters loading luggage into a rear car—nothing as common as portoporters for this exclusive crowd. Only human hands would handle their particulars.
"This machine is exquisite," Wellington muttered, managing to keep his outward countenance that of a disinterested police officer as opposed to the expression a clankerton would wear.
Eliza twisted her lips. "For the cost of the tickets, I should hope so."
His eyes lingered on Eliza’s lovely profile, and he let out a muffled sigh. No, there would most likely be no time for romance on this most romantic of trains. Their priority was to apprehend a mad doctor as quickly as possible, for both their and the passengers’ sake.
Chapter Eleven
In Which a Battle of Wits Is Engaged
Mrs Hyacinth Thanderbaum in 2D complai
ned again about the amorous noises coming from 2B.
Mr Alex White protested that the configuration of his shower taps was far too complicated—though why that should be a matter for the constabulary, Wellington had no clue.
Miss Octavia Flattery insisted that someone find out where her Scottish Terrier’s favourite toy had disappeared. It was apparently diamond-shaped and worth a pretty penny.
This was all on Day One.
The only comfort was Wellington and Eliza had, so far, remained unnoticed and unrecognised. Their gamble on being in plain sight was working rather splendidly. While they stood watch in the dining car or walked the occasional patrol along the length of the train, conversations between passengers continued without interruption. They were, in a sense, invisible, like servants.
Day Two, however, would present a very different sort of challenge.
Eliza entered the office in a smart, stylish morning outfit—a conservative tweed blazer and matching skirt against a bright yellow blouse—and straightened her hat. Wellington saw it in her face; it was giving her trouble. Always a dangerous move for a piece of headwear.
"All right there, darling?" he asked after a moment of watching her fidget in the mirror.
"It’s rather frustrating," she began through clenched teeth, "that I’ve managed to put together this outfit, and my hat refuses to remain where I want it." She then spread her gloved fingers wide. "And these do not make pinning it in place any easier."
"Allow me," Wellington offered, stepping free of his desk post.
A smile fluttered on Eliza’s lips. "You look rather smart in brown."
He smoothed out the lapels of his own suit. "I do, don’t I?" Taking the pins out of her hand, he waited for Eliza to position the hat where she desired it to sit. As he worked in pins between the hat’s fabric and her hair, he asked, "Any new leads this morning over breakfast?"
"Did you know, that soap is the most important instrument in the medical profession, ranked alongside with the scalpel?" The tension in her voice reminiscent of an individual ready to crack under the stress of tediousness and boredom,
Wellington nodded. "Is it now?"
"Oh, yes," Eliza said, sounding like a scream lurked behind her calm words, "straight from the chiselled jaw of Barton Linton, the sole heir of the Linton soap empire. The man possesses the same amount of charisma as his familial product."
Wellington swallowed a snicker as the final pin slipped into Eliza’s hair. "There you are, darling."
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and when her brilliant blue eyes flicked open, a somewhat too bright smile flashed at him. Yes, he was certain the heir of the soap empire had come a hairbreadth from being strangled with the rope from his own product. "And what is your agenda for the day?"
"I was going to try to dig a bit with the Castles."
"Frederick and Ida?" Eliza barked a laugh. "And I thought Barty was an undertaking."
"They seem like charming people…" Wellington cleared his throat. "From a distance."
"Yes," Eliza agreed, "like, say, that between London and Mars?"
"Oh, come now..."
"What makes you think they know anything? The Castles are older than dirt!"
"We should never question the knowledge of our elders," Wellington stated. "And our elders do love sharing it."
Eliza crooked an eyebrow but then a smirk crossed her face. "Rather clever, Welly. Rather clever."
The sergeant’s office door opened, and Petit appeared, his gaze on the coffee pot only broken by a quick glance to the two of them. "Bonjour, Monsieur, Mademoiselle, today is your day in rotation?"
"Yes, it is," Wellington said, checking his reflection in the mirror one last time.
"Nothing new then, I take it?"
"Since leaving Vienna, we have been doing our best to work through the manifest and passengers when assembled."
"And with over fifty across these cars, the trip is going to go by rather quickly," Eliza offered.
"Indeed," Petit replied. "So who will you be talking with this morning?"
"The Castles."
"Good luck with them," Petit sighed gloomily whilst pouring himself a cup.
With a tight smile, Wellington exited the office and make for the dining car. Through the window in the door, he observed many seated patrons, while one or two tables remained vacant.
At the farthest end of the car, he could just make out the elderly couple he needed to question.
Frederick and Ida Castle sat with their backs to the opposite door, but occasionally flicked glares at those younger than they were—which was everyone. The old man never took his bowler hat off, even when eating or meeting a lady. Wellington had observed this terribly rude behaviour on his innocuous patrols of the train. Still, Frederick was dutiful to his wife, whom he pushed around in a rickety old wheelchair.
No one on this train was short of a penny or two, so he could only imagine that the Castles, despite their fortunes, leaned toward the miser’s side of the upper-crust.
"Once more unto the breach," Wellington whispered, opening the door and preparing for battle, or as some liked to call it, breakfast.
While his outward expression exuded a dull familiarity with his surroundings, Wellington remained in awe, once again, of the luxurious touches of the Express. This dining car reminded him of a London gentleman’s club; all done up with dark brown wood-panelled walls, and lush red lounge chairs. They were set up in either pairs facing each other or, at the junction, slightly wider tables for four, which suited his purposes rather well. He stepped aside for the highly polished automaton delivering coffee and tea to the small handful of people enjoying late breakfast. As he moved to the rear of the car, his eyes went from passenger to passenger, gleaning as much information as he could.
Amelia Chase and her twenty-year-old daughter, Molly, were sitting opposite each other. Chase the Elder tapped Molly on the knee, and she slipped over to sit on the vacant chair tucked to one side. The Chases would eventually become part of the investigation, as everyone here were potential leads to Jekyll, but they also filled Wellington with dread. Molly was an only daughter, and gossip said Mrs Chase had thrust her before every eligible bachelor the previous summer and winter, and showed no signs of stopping. According to newspaper columns that Eliza was addicted to, Mrs. Chase’s efforts had been for naught. This meant the young girl was now being thrust before married men. Hard to believe, but being set up as a mistress to some wealthy so-and-so was preferable to having Molly become a spinster. Though, with her head bowed hands clasped, the poor girl didn’t really seem the mistress type.
His eyes darted over to Professor Henrietta Falcon, lighting up a cigar as she eased back into a chair, her attention on a book of complex computations. From the look on her face, she found her morning read rather amusing. Her head shook gently from side to side as she picked up her pen and made notations within its margins. A published work, Wellington wondered, and she’s offering corrections and notations?
The closer Wellington drew to Ida and Frederick Castle, the more he understood exactly what Sergeant Petit meant. They were not attracting many visitors, seated as they were in the farthest reaches of the dining car, where the rattle of the train on the tracks was loudest. Their countenances didn’t help in making them approachable, either.
Frederick Castle, a baron of the growing “personal security” industry, dressed in the height of fashion... from twenty years ago. He had sandwiched his jowls in between two stiff collars and regarded Wellington’s approach through a pair of watering blue eyes. His wife, Ida, slumped in her wheel chair, fought to stay awake. The chair lacked any of the advances Wellington’s invalid father had possessed, even though the Castles were rich enough to have afforded one. The squeak from its wheels going up and down the corridor was one of the few irritations on the Express.
The miserly eccentric and his dutiful wife were hardly unique in the Empire—in fact, it was rife with their sort. From the much-feared Mis
tress McTafferty in her highland estate subsisting on boiled beans, to Kevin Moncrieff, who lived in a boarded-up house in Highgrove, while his banks earned more and more each year, there were always those who made money only to hoard it. Even with the current state of affairs, Wellington still preferred mad scientists over such skinflints.
Still, needs must.
"Good morning," Wellington offered cheerily as he took a seat opposite of them. He smiled what he thought might be his best smile—the one Eliza said she found charming.
The Castles fixed their eyes on him and did not return his greeting. This welcome to their table was as stony as Avebury Circle itself. If Wellington hadn’t been on Her Majesty's payroll he would most likely have attempted to slide under the table. The longer Ida stared at him with her beady eyes, the more Wellington preferred her slumped in slumber.
Time to hide under the cover of a persona. Eliza had been telling him how it was the bit of their job she enjoyed the most—well, second only to blowing up things. Slipping into a role that wasn’t quite her, using all of her wiles against the most recalcitrant of people. Eliza had a rather extensive portfolio, Wellington had discovered, of identities—or legends as they were referred to in the Ministry—that she spent many hours developing and perfecting. No wonder she had been so cross when Wellington had cast her in a moment’s improvisation as a mute when they faced the Phoenix Society. That had not gone over so well.
"Lovely day, isn’t it? Nothing quite like a morning’s repast to start off a day, yes?" Wellington asked as he took off his bowler and laid it on the chair next to him. The weather was always a good opener since everyone had an opinion on it. Surely even these two.
Operation_Endgame Page 10
