‘More civilized,’ Uncle Nat agreed. ‘And though planes travel faster than trains, they can’t drop you in the heart of a city.’
When boarding was announced, they joined a queue of people shuffling up a travelator to the platform. Hal anticipated the acrid stink of diesel, but above the blue-and-grey carriages striped with yellow, he spied wires and realized the Eurostar was electric. Stepping off the travelator, he dodged round a woman struggling with a giant suitcase.
Hal whistled, leaning to one side so he could see the engine. ‘That is a long train.’
‘It’s a quarter of a mile long,’ Uncle Nat agreed. ‘The engineers use bicycles to get from one end to the other. Shall we go and say hello to the loco?’
The pair hurried along the platform, grinning, excited to see the face of the electric engine that would take them through the Channel Tunnel, under the sea, to France.
The Eurostar nose was long like a greyhound’s. It had a sunny yellow face with a dove-grey chin and a dark blue slipstreamed body. It looked light, fast and more friendly than the colossal diesels that had pulled the California Comet.
‘An e320,’ said Uncle Nat approvingly. ‘The newest rolling stock. The 320 refers to kilometres per hour, their top speed. There’s an engine at both ends of the train, in case we get stuck in the tunnel.’
‘Has that ever happened?’ Hal had his pocketbook and pen out and was drawing the engine’s face.
‘Yes, but it’s rare and usually due to extreme weather conditions.’
Hal sketched in the windscreen, and noticed the train driver was watching him. He waved. The driver smiled and waved back.
Once he’d finished his sketch, they retraced their steps back down the platform.
‘Here’s our carriage,’ said Uncle Nat.
‘It’s First Class!’ Hal gasped.
‘Business Premier,’ Uncle Nat corrected him as they climbed aboard. ‘The baron doesn’t travel any other way.’ He pointed at a pair of single seats facing each other over a table. ‘That’s us.’
Hal sat down and stared at the glass meeting cubicles in the centre of the room. It was the most office-like carriage he’d ever seen. After a while, an announcer welcomed them aboard the Eurostar in English and then in French. The doors closed and Hal felt the gentle lurch of the train moving out of St Pancras station accompanied by the low humming sound of the electric engine. He looked out across London. The early morning sun sliced through the low ashen clouds with swords of lemon light, and the palette of industrial greys was spattered with a lime-green suggestion of spring. It was hard to believe that in less than three hours he’d be in Paris. It had taken that long to get here from Crewe.
‘Shall we find out what’s in here?’ Uncle Nat pulled out the brown envelope he’d been given in the hotel and placed it on the table between them. From it, he slid a wad of paper. ‘The Kratzenstein family’s business, K-Bahn, builds railways and sells rolling stock. After the Second World War, Arnold Kratzenstein inherited the company and ran it for years. He’s still alive at the grand old age of eighty-two. Alexander Kratzenstein, was his eldest son. He took over the business seventeen years ago.’
Hal pulled out his pocketbook and, turning to a double blank page, began to draw a family tree. He needed a way to remember who everyone was, and he knew a picture would work best. He put Arnold at the top. ‘Alexander is the one who has died?’
‘Yes.’ Uncle Nat pulled a copy of a newspaper article from the wad of papers. ‘Look, his obituary was printed yesterday. This will be helpful.’
‘Can I see?’
‘It’s written in German.’ Uncle Nat showed him the page and Hal’s heart sank. How was he going to do any detecting if he couldn’t understand what anyone was saying or had written down? ‘It says that Alexander is survived by his wife, Clara – an artist – and their son, Herman, aged nine.’
Hal wrote these names on the family tree and drew a railway line from Alexander’s name to his wife’s and his son’s.
‘Interesting. Alexander has an older son from a previous marriage. He’s nineteen and named Arnold, after his grandfather.’
Hal added him to the family tree too.
‘I wonder who will run the family business now?’ Furrows of concentration appeared on Uncle Nat’s forehead as he shuffled through the pages.
An attendant arrived with a trolley and laid out two trays on their table containing pastries, tiny pots of jam, a yogurt, and a hot dish covered with foil.
‘Could I trouble you for a coffee?’ Uncle Nat asked the attendant, who duly poured one.
‘Who is Alma Essenbach’s uncle?’ Hal asked. ‘In his letter, the baron said that Alma’s uncle saw a witch on Dead Man’s Pass, and that the Kratzensteins were her family.’
‘Alma’s in her late fifties, so I would imagine it must be old Arnold Kratzenstein. That would mean that either her mother or father is Arnold’s sister or brother.’
Hal drew in a new branch of the family tree, adjoined to Arnold, and below it he marked in Alma. As he did so, Uncle Nat pushed his food aside. ‘Aren’t you eating?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Is everything OK?’ Hal could see something was bothering him.
‘If I’m honest, I’m worried about what we’re getting mixed up in.’
‘But the baron wouldn’t put us in danger,’ Hal said, pushing his tray aside in solidarity.
‘I know.’ Uncle Nat smiled weakly and slid the papers back into the brown envelope. ‘Oh, look, we’re approaching the Channel Tunnel. You can tell by the fences.’
Through the window, Hal saw tall metal fence panels flying past, then suddenly the morning dissolved into darkness, strip lights on the ceiling lit up the carriage and the windows were black. As the train travelled deeper underground, Hal’s hearing dimmed until his ears popped. He looked up at the ceiling, picturing a sea full of fish above them and boats sailing on its waters. ‘How long will it take to reach France?’
‘Usually, no more than half an hour. It’s a thirty-mile stretch and the longest tunnel underneath the sea in the world.’ Uncle Nat smiled. ‘This tunnel is the most expensive engineering project ever undertaken.’
‘It’s cool,’ Hal replied, more than a little awestruck.
Having grown accustomed to the darkness, Hal was blinded when the train finally burst out of the tunnel. ‘We’re in France!’ he said, half standing in his seat to look out of the window, but to his surprise France looked a lot like England. The weather was drab; a thin fog lingered over the bare treetops as they sped past wide flat fields and electricity pylons. As the train accelerated, Hal’s view became blurred, and he felt pinned to his seat as if they were about to make the jump into hyperspace. He realized with glee that this was the fastest train he’d ever been on.
As they approached the outskirts of Paris, the Eurostar slowed down and the announcer spoke in French, then English, informing passengers they would soon be arriving at Gare du Nord.
‘Gare means station,’ Uncle Nat said, ‘and Nord is north.’
‘Gare du Nord,’ Hal repeated. ‘Station of the North?’
‘It’s the station for trains going north of Paris.’
The doors hissed open. Hal felt a lurch as he stepped down on to the platform of Gare du Nord and heard a passing couple speaking French. He moved closer to Uncle Nat. The station was beautiful: columns of mint-green ironwork stretched up to high arched windows. He couldn’t understand the French signs, but saw English words underneath the French.
‘This way to the Métro.’ Uncle Nat led him to an escalator that took them down into a hall lined with shops. They approached a wall of ticket machines and Hal watched with interest as Uncle Nat’s fingers danced over the touchscreen.
‘Voila, ton billet,’ he said, passing Hal a white strip of card, ‘means “your ticket”.’ He smiled. ‘We take the RER line D two stops south, to Gare de Lyon.’
‘Gare de Lyon,’ Hal said, trying to sound French. ‘Stati
on for trains to Lyon?’
‘Yes!’ Uncle Nat looked pleased. ‘And lunch with the baron!’
CHAPTER FOUR
LE TRAIN BLEU
Uncle Nat and Hal squeezed on to the crowded Métro train. There was an abrupt honking sound and the doors snapped shut with a startling bang. Above the door was a map with tiny lights that lit up as the train visited each station on the route. It was only two stops to Gare de Lyon, and Hal was relieved when it was their turn to get off, and rise up the escalators. He wondered what sort of place Le Train Bleu was, and guessed it would be posh.
‘Is the restaurant on a train?’ he asked Uncle Nat as they emerged in the bustling station.
‘No, but it’s named after a famous luxury sleeper train that travelled to the French Riviera. The restaurant was built in 1900, for the Exposition Universelle – a Parisian celebration of inventions in the city.’ He led Hal to a sweeping stone staircase with a glazed archway at the top and Le Train Bleu spelt out in elegant white letters on a gold background.
‘It’s more than a hundred years old?’ Hal marvelled.
‘Yes, and every inch of the walls and ceiling are covered in magnificent paintings, carvings and statues. I think you’re going to like it.’
As they approached, the towering wooden doors opened and a man in a blue uniform welcomed them in. ‘Bonjour, Messieurs, bienvenue au Train Bleu.’
Inside, Hal found himself in the fanciest restaurant he’d ever seen. It looked like a palace. The high ceiling was painted like a cathedral with sumptuous murals, scenes of fun and joy in warm pastel colours, edged with gold.
‘Nous rencontrons un ami pour le déjeuner, Baron Essenbach,’ Uncle Nat said to a woman standing behind a counter. She picked up two menus and marched down the blue-carpeted aisle of the astonishingly cavernous restaurant. Hal tripped over his own feet while looking up at the gold chandeliers, each lightbulb a stamen nestled in a glistening flower.
Rows of neatly laid tables butted up to long wooden banquettes upholstered in blue leather and topped with brass luggage racks, giving the feel of a luxury dining car on a train.
The baron was sitting at a table beside an arch framed with gold winged cupids. He jumped to his feet when he saw them approaching. Dressed in an emerald waistcoat over a smoke-grey shirt, topped with a mustard cravat, his presence was impressive, but Hal noticed the bags under his eyes. The baron wore a worried expression that deepened the lines across his distinguished forehead.
‘Nathaniel.’ He shook their hands vigorously. ‘Harrison. I cannot thank you enough for coming.’
‘Of course,’ Uncle Nat replied as he and Hal slid on to the banquette, sitting opposite him.
‘Let’s order the food first, so we can talk.’ The baron took the menus from the maître d, and she gestured to a waiter.
Hal stared at the list of French food on the menu. He didn’t know what anything was. He spotted the word steak and was almost certain pomme was potatoes. He remembered in his French class they’d learned frites was chips. ‘I’ll have steak tartare et pomme frites, s’il vous plait, he told the waiter, hoping he was pronouncing it right.
‘Are you sure?’ Uncle Nat asked.
Hal nodded and handed back the menu. You couldn’t go wrong with steak and chips.
Once the waiter had gone, the baron leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, toying with his moustache as he looked over his shoulder to check no one was listening. ‘I reserved the tables around us, so we don’t have to whisper,’ he said in a conspiratorial voice, and Hal felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
‘We read the letter,’ Hal said.
The baron gave Uncle Nat a look laden with meaning, and Uncle Nat gave an almost indiscernible dip of his head.
‘Good, you must tell me what you make of the strange things that have happened.’ He sat back in his chair and Hal took out his pocketbook and pen. ‘Five days ago, my wife’s cousin, Alexander Kratzenstein, was visiting his family home in Wernigerode. He went for a walk along the railway line beside the house and was found by Bertha, lying on the tracks in Dead Man’s Pass, his face twisted in the most horrible grimace. He was dead.’
‘Who is Bertha? Hal asked.
‘Alexander’s first wife.’
‘And what is Dead Man’s Pass?’ Hal said, adding Bertha to the Kratzenstein family tree.
‘A narrow-gauge steam railway runs from the town of Wernigerode to the peak of the Brocken mountain,’ the baron explained. ‘The Kratzensteins were involved in its construction in the late 1800s. A spur curves off the main line and leads to their house.
‘They have their own train?’
‘But of course – they are in the business of making trains.’ The baron laughed at the expression on Hal’s face.
‘And Alexander Kratzenstein died in Dead Man’s Pass?’ Uncle Nat asked, and the baron nodded sombrely.
‘Yes. Bertha called Alma with the terrible news. She still lives in Schloss Kratzenstein with Alexander’s eldest son, Arnie.’
‘Why is it called Dead Man’s Pass?’ Hal asked.
‘I’m not certain. I think there was an accident there when the railway was being built.’ The baron turned back to Uncle Nat. ‘I left for the Harz mountains on Sunday, at Alma’s request. Old Arnold is eighty-two and uses a wheelchair. Bertha has employed a nurse to take care of him, and adopted the duties of the housekeeper, but, apart from Arnie, the only other person in the house is Aksel, the groundsman.’
Hal made note of the groundsman and the nurse at the bottom of the page. He would be checking they both had alibis.
‘If Bertha, Alexander’s first wife, lives in the family home,’ Uncle Nat said, ‘where are Clara and Herman Kratzenstein?’
‘Berlin, which is where Alexander lived most of the time. He was visiting his father on business when he died.’ He paused as a pair of waiters approached the table with a line of plates balanced on their arms, and gracefully deposited everybody’s food and drinks.
‘Bon appétit,’ Uncle Nat said as they all picked up their cutlery.
Hal stared in horror at the plate put down in front of him. On it was a patty of uncooked minced beef with a raw egg yolk on top. ‘I ordered steak,’ he exclaimed.
‘That is steak tartare,’ Uncle Nat said, trying not to smile.
‘But it’s raw!’
‘If you don’t want it –’ the baron moved the plate to his side of the table, chuckling – ‘I am happy to eat it.’
‘Do you want to order something else?’ Uncle Nat asked.
‘I’m fine with the chips,’ Hal replied, relieved that at least he’d got that right.
‘Traditionally, the family inters its deceased in the Kratzenstein crypt near the summit of the Brocken,’ said the baron between mouthfuls. ‘When I arrived at the house the next day, poor Alexander was laid out in the library.’ He shook his head and muttered, ‘Grässlich.’ He drew in a breath, then went on. ‘The doctor, whom I met the next day, said Alexander died of a heart attack. I asked about the expression on his face, but the doctor had no idea what might have caused it.’
‘Strange,’ Uncle Nat said.
‘Indeed, and later that day, the family lawyer came to take Alexander’s will from the safe, but it wasn’t there.’
‘Could it be in Berlin?’ Uncle Nat asked.
The baron shook his head. ‘The lawyer was confounded because Alexander had come to him the previous year to write a new will, and all the family’s documents are kept in that safe. Nothing else was missing – only Alexander’s will.’
‘Do you think someone took it?’ Hal asked.
‘I don’t know.’ The baron pursed his lips and his moustache bristled. ‘Alma believes it is the curse.’
‘What is this curse?’ Uncle Nat said, sceptically.
‘The story is that hundreds of years ago a crazy witch cursed the family so that all the Kratzenstein men would meet a premature, and unnatural end.’ The baron raised an eyebrow. ‘Alma can
list every Kratzenstein who died this way including Alexander’s brother, Manfred, who died young, fighting with the French Foreign Legion.’
‘Do you believe in the curse?’ Hal asked, adding Manfred to the family tree beside Alexander, and writing dead next to his name.
‘I do not believe in curses or the supernatural,’ the baron replied. ‘The mystery of what happened to Alexander is troubling. That is why I wrote to you. I want you to discover what happened in Dead Man’s Pass that led to his heart attack. I can hardly investigate – it would be obvious what I was doing, and I must take care of the funeral.’ He looked at Uncle Nat, and there was a long moment of silence between the two men that baffled Hal.
‘You polished of those chips quickly,’ Uncle Nat said, turning to Hal. ‘Your fingers are all greasy. Why don’t you find the bathroom and wash your hands?’
It was more of an order than a suggestion, and Hal stood up, nodding, but he couldn’t help feeling that something was going on that he was being kept out of. He slid his book and pen into his pocket and smiled brightly as he walked away from the table. Pausing a row of tables away, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Uncle Nat’s concerned face leaning towards the baron. He dropped to the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans and pulling out his pocketbook. As he drew the scene, he listened intently, trying to catch what they were talking about.
‘. . . never been triggered, not in all my professional career . . .’ Uncle Nat was saying.
‘What else was I to do?’ the baron replied. ‘I don’t use code words lightly. This may be serious.’
‘Then why involve Hal?’
‘Because your nephew’s powers of deduction are extraordinary. The German papers picked up the story about him solving that murder on the Safari Star.’
‘He’s a child, and in my care.’ Uncle Nat looked troubled. ‘My family don’t know about my past.’
‘I will not allow a hair on his head to be harmed. I swear.’ The baron leaned forward. ‘Nathaniel, tell me what I should do, and I will do it.’ He sounded frightened. ‘You two are the best hope I have of preventing a terrible situation from escalating into a crisis.’
Danger at Dead Man's Pass Page 2