Watson on the Orient Express

by Anna Elliott

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Holmes inhaled again, slowly, his nose bent to the crate. “Tell me if you smell anything from this crate here.”

  The baggage car wasn’t as well insulated as the others, and at the moment, I couldn’t imagine a scent strong enough to overpower the smell of smoke and hot oil from the train’s engine. But I complied, bending to draw in a breath next to the wooden container.

  My eyes widened. “Gunpowder?”

  “So I thought, as well. Come.” There was a metal bar on the floor that the train attendants probably used for levering heavy baggage onto and off of the train. Holmes took it up and used it to pry up the nails that held the crate closed. Then he raised his electric candle.

  I had to bite my lip as the straw-packed contents of the shipping container became clear.

  “Guns.”

  There were at least a dozen of them, not just revolvers, but rifles, as well, with boxes of ammunition. And beneath those were several round devices that were unpleasantly familiar.

  “Plate bombs?” I asked Holmes.

  “Indeed.”

  One of the same devices that had nearly killed Flynn a few days before. It was seldom that I saw Holmes caught off guard by a development in an investigation, but for the moment shock tightened his features. Then his mouth settled into a grim line.

  “The Suez Canal lies in a notoriously volatile part of the world, with tensions running high between the native Egyptians and the Ottomans, who nominally control the region. And although the Suez has been declared neutral territory, it remains a potential powder keg which a single ignited match could cause to explode.”

  “The potential lighted match being these weapons?”

  “As you say. The Urabi Revolt of the early 1880’s led to widespread violence and rioting across Egypt that cost the lives of hundreds of innocents. If someone today were to transport these weapons to Egypt, then incite the populace to violence—”

  “And if British security was to let these weapons proceed there from Constantinople, having been distracted by assassination of one of the French officials at the treaty talks—”

  Holmes and I both looked down at the crated rifles and hand guns in their bed of straw. I spoke the thought that was in both our minds. “This isn’t just an assassination we’re trying to prevent,” I said. “It’s a potential war.”

  31. LUCY

  “Why would Lord Sonnebourne want to incite violence in Egypt?”

  We were back in Holmes’—or rather Count Styptovich’s—compartment, having returned to our own railway carriage just as the drugged attendant was beginning to stir.

  I was perched on the edge of the bunk. Holmes was sitting cross-legged on the floor, in as close an approximation of his Baker Street nest of cushions as the pillows from the bed could form. From the tension in the line of his jaw, I thought he would be clamping a lit pipe between his teeth were it not for his role of a supposedly frail elderly gentleman whose lungs would not withstand thick tobacco smoke.

  His eyes were closed, and he answered me without opening them. “What Lord Sonnebourne’s personal interest is, we cannot be certain. But I am reminded of a certain European power with which we have tangled before—one bent on dominating the continent and doing everything in its power to thwart Britain.”

  “You’re speaking of Germany.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So our working theory is that Sonnebourne is in the pay of the Kaiser?”

  “The theory requires proof. But it seems at present the most plausible explanation to fit the facts of the case. Whether Sonnebourne feels any actual allegiance to Kaiser Wilhelm, or whether he simply accepts payment in the way he does from his stolen identity clients remains to be seen.”

  I looked at the clock. In just a few short hours, we would reach Constantinople. “What are we to do about the weapons? Should we report them to a railway official?”

  “That would involve an explanation of how two supposedly ordinary passengers came to be prying open crates in a sealed and locked baggage compartment—as well as inevitable questions as to why we are travelling under false identity papers. All of which would cause significant delays.”

  “And we need to find Watson as soon as possible.”

  Holmes nodded. “Besides, we took the precaution of confiscating the ammunition from both the revolvers and the rifles.”

  The bullets were now residing in Count Styptovich’s suitcase, and without them or a replacement supply of ammunition, the weapons would be useless.

  “We must assume, though, that this shipment was merely one of many,” Holmes went on. “Which leads us to another likely if unfavourable possibility: that at least one if not more of the train’s employees are also in the Kaiser’s pay.”

  He was right, and it was another reason to keep silent about our discovery: if we reported the weapons to the wrong person, we would be exposing our own real identities to exactly those individuals most interested in making sure that we never stepped off the Orient Express alive.

  “I suggest that you return to your own compartment and get what rest you can before our arrival,” Holmes said. “I shall do the same. And when we arrive in Constantinople, we can proceed with our endeavour to find Watson, and report the shipment of weapons to Lord Lansdown and the other officials at the summit.”

  “Not all of whom may be honest, either. The assassin could be among those at the talks.”

  “True.” Holmes’s eyes were closed again. “But there are times in an investigation where one’s best strategy is to rustle the bushes in the manner of the beaters on a duck hunt—and see what manner of creature flies out.”

  FRIDAY, JULY 15

  32. LUCY

  Against all odds, I slept for an hour or two after regaining my own compartment. When I had woken and dressed, the attendant brought me hot coffee and the news that the train was running a few minutes behind schedule, but would nevertheless reach Constantinople in half an hour’s time.

  I packed my suitcase, then sat down by the window, wishing that I could speak with Holmes again. But especially in daylight hours it was safer that Clarice Earnshaw and Count Styptovich have no contact whatsoever with one another.

  A tap at the door made me startle, my heart quickening. But the knocker was only Miss Nordstrom, her brows pinched together in an anxious frown.

  “Is Rosamund here with you?”

  “No, I’ve not seen her all morning.”

  “It’s very naughty of her. I can’t find her anywhere.” Despite my assertion, Miss Nordstrom peered into my compartment as though she suspected Rosamund of hiding under the bed. “She must have run off and hidden the way she does, but we’ll be arriving soon, and I don’t know what to do!” Miss Nordstrom’s thin hands twisted together. “Her father will be so angry!”

  I privately thought that in order for Mr. Anstruther to be angry over Rosamund’s disappearance, he would first have to notice that she was gone.

  But out loud all I said was, “Well, she must be somewhere on the train, and she’ll have to come out when we get to Constantinople. I wouldn’t worry.”

  Miss Nordstrom didn’t look entirely reassured, but she did turn to leave, murmuring, “Oh dear, oh dear,” as she hurried off down the corridor.

  Müşir Ahmet Paşa Station in Constantinople was a new construction, built in a style that fused the gothic with the oriental. Twin clock towers flanked the domed central building, which was ornamented with a stained-glass window that echoed the style of the famous Rose Window of Notre Dame.

  Miss Nordstrom was still wringing her hands and looking worried as I stepped down onto the train platform.

  “Has Rosamund not been found yet?” For the first time, I felt a prick of worry. But then, Rosamund could hardly have jumped off the train. “Have you checked the empty compartments?” I asked.

  Miss Nordstrom nodded tearfully. “The conductors are searching now, but so far she’s nowhere to be found! Oh, do please be car
eful with that!” she added.

  One of the porters had been struggling to load her own and Rosamund’s luggage onto a baggage cart, and had fumbled with one of the trunks, causing it to slip partway to the ground.

  “Be careful!” Miss Nordstrom bleated again. “All of Rosamund’s bottles of strengthening tonic are inside there, and I don’t want them broken!”

  Mr. Anstruther stood a little off to one side, tapping his foot and scowling down at his pocket watch, which he held open in one hand.

  “This really is most inconvenient. Most inconvenient indeed. I have an urgent appointment across the city in three quarters of an hour that cannot possibly be postponed.” He looked up. “Miss Nordstrom, there is nothing to be done but for you to remain here until Rosamund is found. Then bring her to the hotel. The Pera Palace is the name. A suite of rooms has already been engaged for us, you need only ask at the front desk.”

  “Yes, Mr. Anstruther. Of course, I’ll wait here just as you say. I can’t think what the child can have been thinking of, it’s so naughty of her.” Miss Nordstrom blinked pale lashes and twisted her hands together again. “I hope you don’t think I’ve been in any way remiss in my duties, Mr. Anstruther. I did try to look after her and to keep an eye on her at all times, but she’s so quick—”

  “Not at all. I’m sure you did your best.” Mr. Anstruther cut short his employees’ anxious twittering with a curt nod. “I will see you back at the hotel this evening.” He started to swing round, but then his eye fell on me. “I understand that you, ah, befriended my daughter on the journey.” He cleared his throat, then added, “I’m most grateful,” in a gruff tone before striding off.

  I was left staring after him in surprise as he vanished into the crowd of departing passengers and porters wheeling carts of luggage.

  A sharp jab to my ankle brought me back to myself, coupled with the sound of a violent fit of sneezing.

  Holmes, in the persona of Count Styptovich, had just jabbed me with his walking stick and blown his nose practically in my ear as he hobbled by. A salutary reminder that we didn’t have time to spare, any more than Mr. Anstruther did.

  I turned back to Miss Nordstrom. “I hope Rosamund decides to be found soon,” I told her. “Maybe I’ll see the two of you at the hotel. I’m staying at the Pera Palace, as well.”

  33. WATSON

  It was just after noon Friday when I heard a knock at the door of my room. Jane Griffin’s voice. “Lord Harwell?”

  I was ready for her, wearing Harwell’s finest black silk suit with a dove-grey waistcoat. She wore a long-sleeved dress of dove-grey silk and a straw hat dyed to match. She gave me an appraising look.

  “We appear well together.”

  “Perhaps we should have a photograph taken.”

  “Another time,” she said. “You need to go to the ceremony. I’ve had a message from Holmes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.” She withdrew a brown envelope from her purse. “He sent this photograph. And a name.”

  From the envelope she withdrew a photograph of a dignified, middle-aged man with sleek dark hair and a walrus moustache. Two words were affixed with paste, each clipped from a newspaper. “The assassin.”

  I studied the photograph, trying to imagine what the man would look like when seen from behind. Was it the same man I had seen across from Sonnebourne a week ago? I could not tell.

  “Go and take care of this man,” she said. “His name is Anstruther. He will be in the crowd somewhere, within sight of the platform where the departure ceremony will be held. Leave now. Be in place early. The ceremony starts in an hour. But watch out for Clegg. His job is to oversee the shooting and see that you are blamed.”

  “How will he do that?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll be watching him, and when he makes his move, I will kill him.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “It’s the one thing I do well,” she said. “Now you must leave. When you have stopped the assassin, find Holmes. He will be somewhere in the crowd.”

  “What about you?”

  “I told you on the train. I’ll come back here for the money. I’ll be leaving here just after the Orient Express departs. At two.”

  “I won’t see you again?”

  “Only if you decide to come with me.”

  “It’s a thought,” I said.

  “I’ll walk you to the staircase.”

  She did. She watched me walk down the wide marble steps. I turned at the first landing, and she was still watching. I waved, nodded, and continued down to the lobby.

  Then I rode the lift back upstairs. On the fourth floor I let myself into the Harwell room with my key. Then I climbed out the window, and then over my terrace wall.

  I stood on the ledge for a moment. Below me was the Golden Horn harbour, but I did not take time to appreciate the view. I edged my way along the narrow stone surface to the window of Jane Griffin’s suite.

  The window was open.

  34. LUCY

  “You would like tea, sir, while you are waiting?” the hotel clerk asked for the fourth time.

  Holmes and I were standing at the front desk in the ornate lobby of the Pera Palace.

  Outside, the city streets were hot and dusty, with bright clumps of pink and purple bougainvillea growing from the peeling plaster walls. The interior of the hotel, though, was cool and luxurious. Polished marble columns supported the vaulted ceiling. Curtains of red velvet hung at the windows, and the lobby benches and chairs were upholstered in a matching red and gold brocade.

  Holmes had discarded his Count Styptovich disguise and now appeared as himself—and was currently looking as though he were restraining the urge to vault across the desk between us and strangle the clerk with his bare hands.

  “I would not like tea. All I wish is for you to examine your records and tell me whether you currently have a room occupied by Gerald, Lord Harwell.”

  “Or Dr. John H. Watson,” I added.

  Holmes glanced at me, and I said, in an undertone, “If he’s not a prisoner, there’s always a chance that he might have engaged the room under his own name, isn’t there?”

  The clerk bobbed his head. “Yes, sir, yes, Madame. Perfectly, perfectly.”

  He had been persuaded by Mycroft’s official-looking documents that he was duty-bounded to show us the hotel’s guest books. Not that he would have required much in the way of persuading in any case. Thin and anxious-looking, he swallowed nervously as he flipped open the heavy leather-bound volume that contained the hotel’s records. “I just thought that perhaps a cup of tea while you wait—”

  At Holmes’ look, he abandoned the sentence, swallowed again, and began to run his finger down the long column of names. “Ah yes. Here it is. A room checked out two days ago to Gerald, Lord Harwell. Just as you say.” He beamed at us. “Room number 506.”

  “Thank you.”

  Holmes turned away. “We can go to the room—” he started to say.

  “Sir! A moment only—”

  Holmes swung back around and the clerk flinched at the intensity of his glare. “Well?” Holmes demanded.

  “It is only—the young lady did mention a Dr. Watson, did she not, sir? A Dr. John Watson?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it is just that we have a room checked out under that name, as well,” the clerk faltered. “You see?” He turned the leather guest book around so that we could look.

  The entry had been made on the most recent page. At the bottom were Holmes’s and my names with room numbers beside them—although I doubted that we would get the chance to ever occupy those rooms. Mr. Anstruther had signed the registry just above us, for a suite of rooms on the hotel’s second floor.

  And a few lines above that was the entry that the desk clerk had pointed to: “John H. Watson, M.D. Room number 424.”

  35. WATSON

  The woman calling herself Jane Griffin sat at her dressing table, as though put
ting on makeup before her mirror. For a moment I feared she had seen my reflection. But as I waited, frozen, she bent down, reached beneath the dressing table, and lifted up a black leather valise that very much resembled my own medical bag. This was different, however; two brass clasps sat on either end of the central spine rather than the single one I was accustomed to opening.

  She snapped open the clasps, one at a time, and then, turning to the bed behind her, lifted the open valise and turned it upside down.

  Packets of bank notes spilled across the white fabric coverlet. She quickly arranged the packets into five rows and five columns. Then she carefully repackaged them into the valise. Leaving it open on the bed, she opened a drawer in her dressing table and withdrew a shining silver pistol. She clicked it open, examined the cartridges inside, and then clicked it shut before carefully tucking it into the valise. She closed both clasps and tucked the valise behind the bolster pillow at the head of the bed, pulling up the coverlet.

  Then came a knock from the door to her sitting room. As she went to answer it, I quietly swung my leg over the window sill and stood, holding my breath. Another knock came. I tiptoed on the carpet to the connecting door, where I could see into the sitting room through the crack between the edge of the connecting door and its frame.

  The woman opened the door and stepped back. A man entered.

  For a moment his back was towards me, and I recognised his sleek black hair. The assassin.

  But then he turned, and I saw his face.

  Clegg.

  But what did that mean?

  “Well?” the woman asked.

  “Armed and timer set. Where’s my money?”

  “Somewhere safe, until I see results.”

  She nodded towards the door and he opened it, stepped aside, and held it open as she left the room. He followed and said, “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”