First Class Murder: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery

by Robin Stevens

  Just then Mrs Vitellius came out of her compartment, her beautiful deep-red day dress swishing elegantly about her.

  ‘Good morning, Jocelyn,’ she said, and then she gave the two of us a very hard stare. I gulped. Had she guessed that we were disobeying her already by gathering information? It was strange to think that Mrs Vitellius should suddenly be our adversary.

  ‘Well, Jocelyn,’ said Daisy, without pausing at all, ‘thank you so much. Now come along, Hazel, we must go and freshen up in our compartment.’ She seized my arm and off we marched.

  ‘Freshen up?’ I asked, when our door had swung to.

  ‘I had to say something, didn’t I? Anyway, wasn’t that a useful conversation? We’ve got some terribly juicy information. Hazel, before we go any further, I think you ought to write down a list of passengers, so we can see who our most likely suspects are in this case. As you know, we must be meticulous in our reasoning.’

  I wrote, and as I did so, I wondered. If Mrs Vitellius could create a new history for herself, who else might not be telling the truth about themselves? And which of them might have reason to betray England?

  ‘You’re quite right!’ said Daisy, once I had finished. ‘If the spy is someone who travels often, the way Mrs Vitellius said they were, then there are some people who are much better suspects than others. Il Mysterioso, for example, and Mr Daunt. Of course, we don’t know how much the Countess, Mrs Daunt and Madame Melinda travel, but we ought to be able to find that out. Sarah will travel with Mrs Daunt, so Mrs Daunt’s answer will be the same as hers.’

  ‘And my father, Hetty and Maxwell can be discounted,’ I said. ‘And Alexander.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Daisy thoughtfully. ‘I wonder whether we can use him to find out information about the Countess.’

  ‘But we might not be able to trust him!’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ said Daisy, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘We can’t trust anyone.’

  I realized that I was being foolish. After all, we had just deduced that Alexander could not be the spy. He was probably quite all right. It was just that we did not know. I did not like the idea of being friends with anyone we were not sure about.

  ‘All right,’ said Daisy. ‘To action! The thing to do is this. We’ll each follow half of our suspects. So you on Mr Strange, the Countess and Madame Melinda, and I’ll keep on the Daunts and Il Mysterioso – and Sarah too. Remember, watch everything they do – and we must be especially vigilant at every station. That’s where spies like to meet their contacts, and that’s when they hand over the documents. If we’re not watching we might miss the moment, and then the investigation will be ruined.’

  ‘What will we do if Mrs Vitellius sees that we’re watching? She’ll be furious with us!’ I thought someone ought to point this out.

  ‘She may have set herself against us,’ said Daisy, ‘but, as we know perfectly well from our previous cases, grown-ups are not always very noticing people. Think of all the things we know about them, while they have no idea we’re watching!’

  5

  After that we set about uncovering Mrs Vitellius’s spy.

  Now that I know what was about to happen I find it rather funny: we were so focused on the spy problem that we almost missed some very important clues to the coming murder.

  We took up position in the corridor, staring out at the passing scenery and playing I Spy. This was not a chore – we had stopped in Paris and then travelled on through the French countryside during the night, and now we were rolling through high meadows which shone with summer flowers, while all around us mountains gleamed with dazzling snow. We saw chalets like brightly painted toys, dotted across the mountainside as though they had grown there, and when we forced the window open the little way it could go, the air was full of cowbells.

  But we were also paying careful attention to what was going on behind us. For quite a while the only person we saw was Sarah. She was kept busy, hurrying to and fro with medicinal preparations and hot towels and grapes from the kitchen. Her expression grew more and more cross, and once again I had the distinct feeling that she did not like her mistress or enjoy her job.

  Once she took longer to return, and Mr Daunt stuck his head out of Mrs Daunt’s compartment (which was next to his, with a connecting door). ‘Come along, Sarah!’ he bellowed. ‘Don’t keep my wife waiting!’

  ‘Oh, William, I have the most dreadful headache,’ Mrs Daunt whimpered from behind him.

  ‘Poor Georgie,’ said Mr Daunt lovingly. Sarah stalked past us and pushed open Mrs Daunt’s door, and I heard Mr Daunt snarl, ‘Idiot! Hurry up!’ at her.

  ‘Isn’t he horrid!’ I said to Daisy.

  Then Mr Strange emerged from his compartment. It was at the very end of the corridor, furthest away from the dining car, and so Daisy, who was facing that way, saw him first. I turned as I heard the sound of footsteps, and saw Mr Strange striding towards us on his long thin legs, flexing his fingers and muttering to himself. He seemed very preoccupied – but then he saw us staring at him, and pulled up short. I wondered if authors were always so unkempt. He reminded me of a cat that has not been fed for a while. In his right hand (spattered with blue ink, the nails quite stained) he held a cracked fountain pen. And then I saw that in his left was a small silver knife. It glittered villainously in the sunlight, and I gasped.

  I feel a little foolish about the gasp, but really, a knife is not what you expect to see on a train with deep carpets and gleaming polished walls.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Mr Strange asked, blinking at us. Daisy put out her hand to hold mine.

  ‘You’ve got a knife,’ I said, rather stupidly – but I could not think of anything else to say. Spies carried weapons, I knew that – in Daisy’s books they are always stabbing each other with knives hidden in gloves and hats and umbrellas – but they were not usually so obvious about it.

  But Mr Strange did not seem upset by my observation. ‘Oh, this?’ he asked, wiggling it about between his fingers so that it flashed up brightly. ‘It’s only a paper knife really. Use it for opening letters, and for inspiration. Friend bought it for me as a joke, you know? Crime writer – using a knife, you see?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said politely. It did not look like something that was merely for opening letters. It was thin and wickedly sharp, and my eyes were drawn to it, as though it were giving off light, instead of merely reflecting it. I wondered what sort of inspiration it gave him. ‘Are all your books about crime?’

  I had asked it simply for something to say – but Mr Strange pounced on it like a cat on a bird and began to speak very fast.

  ‘All books,’ he cried, ‘are about crime, because all life is crime. It is everywhere – it is unavoidable. Hidden passions! Dark secrets! Ah, the human heart hides many sins. I’ve put it all into my books – Sands of Death and The Doom of the Stone. They’re good strong stuff – plenty of blood; it isn’t my fault that the world isn’t ready for the truths they contain.’

  ‘Golly,’ said Daisy. ‘How fascinating.’

  ‘The public won’t buy them! Seems they only like their crime novelists to be ladies these days. A man doesn’t cut it. Hah!’

  I wondered if that were really true.

  ‘But I’ll show them,’ Mr Strange went on. ‘I’m going to set my next book on a train just like this one.’

  ‘Golly,’ Daisy said again. ‘But hasn’t that already been done by Mrs Christie?’

  ‘Imitation is the greatest form of flattery,’ said Mr Strange. ‘Anyway, anything women can do I can do better. Don’t know why I’m telling you all this . . . What do you know about murder? I expect you’re still reading books about pixies.’

  I bit the inside of my cheek and tried very hard not to glare. Mr Strange did not deserve any success at all, I thought. Daisy squeezed my fingers so hard that I winced. I could tell that she was in a blaze of indignation.

  ‘Now, what are you standing here for?’ Mr Strange suddenly looked extremely fierce, and I would have stepped backwards,
only Daisy kept me beside her. She was not afraid, and I tried to be like her.

  All at once Madame Melinda came bursting out of her compartment, black tassels flying – and then she saw what Mr Strange had in his hands and staggered against the wall.

  ‘Good heavens!’ she gasped, her voice booming out. ‘He has a knife!’

  Jocelyn, sitting at his post, looked up.

  ‘It’s a letter opener,’ Mr Strange told her scornfully.

  ‘A knife!’ Madame Melinda repeated, waving her plump little hands in the air. The train rocked, and all the beads on her gown rattled like chattering teeth.

  Jocelyn came quickly down the corridor. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘if you would put the knife away—’

  ‘It isn’t a knife!’ snapped Mr Strange. ‘I don’t see why I should do any such thing!’

  ‘Sir,’ Jocelyn repeated, quite calmly, and at last Mr Strange sighed and shoved it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  It was only then that I noticed that the Countess’s door had opened, and she and Alexander were looking out, the Countess with a thoughtful look on her pinched face. Mr Daunt threw his door open too, with Mrs Daunt behind him, and even Sarah, back from the kitchens with a bottle and a glass tumbler, was watching excitedly. The corridor was very full, and at that moment the train seemed smaller and closer than ever.

  So you see, that was the moment when everyone in the Calais–Istanbul coach discovered that Mr Strange had a knife.

  6

  Now we were nearly in Italy. At the border we slowed and stopped, and the train dipped as heavy men in black uniforms climbed aboard. They were police, which was quite usual – my father had explained to me that there would be police at almost every border we crossed – but they seemed far more menacing than the French police had been, or Inspector Priestley and his officers back in England. They muttered to each other, and then one of them pointed at me with the flat of his gun, and said something I did not understand. Jocelyn said, ‘Lei è cinese,’ and the policeman frowned. ‘Papers,’ he said. ‘Show me her papers. She is not from Europe – what is she doing here?’

  I seethed. I had as much right to be on the Orient Express as anyone else.

  But while I was only feeling cross, Daisy, as usual, was noticing things. ‘Do you see how they’re behaving?’ she asked me quietly, as the policemen muttered to Jocelyn and leafed through our passports. ‘They’re worried about something. Their faces look nervous. See, they’re pointing ahead, where we’re going, and shaking their heads. Ooh, do you think they know about the spy?’

  She said this quietly, which was good, because at that moment Il Mysterioso burst from his compartment (that was how he moved – in dramatic rushes, as though he were late for something exciting). He gave a start when he saw the policemen and their guns, which gleamed in the light from the chandeliers. I did not blame him for being shocked. They looked ugly and out of place, and I hated them. I believe he would have gone back into his compartment then, except that the policemen noticed him too. One of them grinned with excitement, and shouted, ‘Il Mysterioso! A magic trick! Fai un trucco di magia!’

  Il Mysterioso gave a sort of fake grin, then put his hands to his lips, as though surprised – and when he pulled them away again a stream of red and blue and yellow silk came with them, a rainbow from his mouth. The policemen cheered.

  The Countess’s door opened, and Alexander looked out curiously. Then Il Mysterioso tapped his own door handle. ‘Apra la porta,’ he said. ‘Open it!’

  The policeman stepped forward eagerly and tried to open the door. The handle would not budge. It was locked.

  Il Mysterioso motioned him aside and tapped the door handle again. He nodded at the policeman, who tried it – and this time the door opened, so easily that he nearly fell into the darkened compartment.

  The policemen bellowed with laughter and clapped Il Mysterioso on the back. Alexander laughed too. I was impressed – but as I stared at Il Mysterioso, I was also confused. He was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes, and he flinched, just a little, from the policeman’s hand. He seemed almost afraid of them. I wondered if I was imagining it – but when I looked at Daisy, I saw that she was thinking the same thing. Was this evidence? Did it point to him being the spy? I was not sure, but I tucked what we had seen away in my head to come back to later.

  The policemen passed on to the next carriage and Il Mysterioso dodged back into his compartment. However, Alexander came out to speak to us. ‘Isn’t he amazing?’ He nodded at Il Mysterioso’s closed door. ‘If I don’t end up a Pinkerton, I think I’d like to be a magician.’

  Daisy blinked. ‘Pinkerton?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Alexander. ‘Sorry. They’re this American detective agency. I think they’re incredible. My parents and Grandmother want me to join Father’s business when I grow up, but I want to be a detective. I’m already practising.’

  I did not know what to think. First, of course, it was terribly un-English for Alexander to tell us about himself like this. I wondered if all Americans were so forward. And how odd that he should want to be a detective! Was this a good sign, or a bad one? I could tell that this bit of information had not impressed Daisy. She gets very protective about detection – in her mind, it belongs to us, and she does not like to see other people taking it over. ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘How lovely for you. Of course, Hazel and I have no interest in detection or magic at all. Girls don’t, you know.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alexander, his face falling for a moment. ‘I was going to say that I could lend you some crime books if you like.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Daisy freezingly. ‘We don’t read – especially not detective novels.’

  This, from the girl who had packed an extra case full of novels, was so comical that I nearly spoiled everything by laughing.

  ‘No, really?’ said Alexander, looking surprised. ‘Why? You ought to. Read Trent’s Last Case – it’s ripping.’

  Daisy opened her mouth, but for once nothing came out. ‘Come along, Hazel,’ she snapped at last. ‘Let’s go and talk about dresses.’ And off she swept towards our compartment, dragging me along behind her. I glanced back at Alexander apologetically. If he liked detection, perhaps he was someone worth being friends with after all.

  But Daisy, unfortunately, had taken against him. ‘What a bother!’ she said once the door was closed. ‘That . . . that . . . silly boy has managed to stumble upon our best suspect.’

  ‘You really think Il Mysterioso is our best suspect?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Daisy. ‘He’s a suspicious character if ever I saw one. That beard – what if he’s grown it to hide his identity? He’s foreign and menacing, and that’s what spies are like in all my books. And you saw the way he was with the policemen.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be better for a spy to look as though they fitted in?’ I asked doubtfully, feeling a little pang that Daisy could believe that appearance was important. After all, the outside of me does not look the way heroes do in books. ‘The ones in books all get caught, so they can’t be much good at it.’

  Daisy narrowed her eyes at me. I think she was trying to decide if I was making a joke at her expense – and perhaps I was, a little. After all, it has been a very long time since I believed in the myth of Daisy Wells. Yes, she is President of the Detective Society, but I am its Vice-President, and if I do not take her down a peg or two from time to time, who will?

  ‘Anyway, he’s much the most likely spy. We must just carry on watching and hope that he reveals himself. And we must keep Alexander away from what we’re doing. Really! Thinking he could be a detective!’

  ‘But – why couldn’t he be?’ I asked. ‘If we can!’ It simply came out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, Hazel!’ gasped Daisy.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I expect I’m wrong.’

  ‘I expect you are,’ said Daisy with feeling.

  Through the walls of our c
abin, we heard shouting. It sounded just like Mr Daunt.

  ‘Again!’ said Daisy, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘Whatever’s he upset about this time?’

  ‘I suppose Sarah’s done something,’ I said. But then there was a particularly loud shout, and I heard, ‘. . . WON’T ALLOW IT! SPIRITUAL NONSENSE!’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Daisy. ‘That sounds as though . . . He must really hate Madame Melinda being on the train.’

  I thought for a minute. Mr Daunt seemed too preoccupied to have time for spying – but was this just a ruse?

  ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if he was the spy?’ asked Daisy, mirroring what I was thinking. ‘Or she was, and all that helplessness was just an act. Of course, it’s unlikely, but a good detective never discounts anything. After all, you never know, do you? We must just wait and see.’

  7

  For the rest of that day we rushed through Europe in a blaze of colour and noise. I remember lakes and great sweeping plains, and red-brick sprawls of Italian cities. The train stopped in Milan for a while, and almost everyone piled out to stretch their legs. I saw Mr Strange darting among the iron fretwork of the station, muttering to himself and scribbling things down on bits of paper, and Mr Daunt striding into a newsagent to buy the latest London paper.

  My father sent Maxwell off with a pile of telegrams and turned to me and Daisy. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Business is over for the time being, after all. May I take you on a city tour?’

  Almost before I could nod, we were swept up into a taxi, breathing petrol fumes and sour old leather, and a funny, bright, spicy smell that I decided must be Milan itself. We drove through little red-brick streets, bouncing along the cobbles, my father drawing our attention to all the landmarks. I felt most terribly excited as we swept past beautiful domes and spires and great stone statues of people on horseback. There was a cathedral, its stone like filigree lace, and a market full of sweet good smells that made my stomach rumble with hunger. Then we turned a corner, and as my father pointed out La Scala (it did not look like much to me, but I suppose I still have lots to learn about culture), I caught sight of a tall, black-bearded, cloaked figure walking towards another man. As I watched, a parcel appeared from underneath the cloak and vanished into the other man’s pocket – as quickly as a magic trick. Then the two men turned and walked away from each other as though it had never happened at all.