“If she has, she will probably telegram to Vienna,” said Justine.
MARY: How in the world are our readers going to know who Miss Jenks is? She was only in the first book.
CATHERINE: Then they should go back and read the first book. It’s only two shillings, at bookshops and train stations. I would have mentioned that, but you told me to stop advertising!
“How come I don’t get a pistol?” Diana flopped down on the seat again and crossed her arms, frowning.
“But I do not have a pistol either,” said Justine. “You see, they are not always necessary.”
“Yeah, but you can kill people with your bare hands,” said Diana.
“What! I would never do such a thing.” Justine looked shocked. Mary did not respond—it would have been neither polite nor kind to mention that Justine had, in fact, killed several people in just that way.
Mary opened the trunk and began taking out their nightclothes—her nightgown, then pajamas for Justin Frank, who would be sharing a cabin with another man, a stranger. She was worried about that—but of course he would not know Justin was a woman. Justine would be fine, wouldn’t she? Anyway, she could defend herself. Diana, who had no nightgown, would have to sleep in her shift. Diana just stared at Justine, eyebrows raised.
“I mean, I would never kill intentionally. The man on the street in Cornwall, the Pig Man in Mary’s house, those were accidents. I have never intended to kill anyone.” Justine looked as though she were about to cry.
“Of course not,” said Mary. “We know you would never do such a thing. Do you need anything else? I have pajamas and a robe for you here, but you had better choose a change of clothes for tomorrow. Also, where are your slippers? For goodness’ sake, Diana, can’t you make yourself useful? You’re closer to the trunk than I am.”
“No,” came the response. “There’s no room. You and Justine take up all of it.”
Just then, they heard a knock on the door. Mary opened it. A man in the uniform of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits said, “Pardon, mademoiselle. I am Michel, the porter for this car. We are serving coffee and a selection of desserts in the dining car. If you wish to attend, I will make up your beds in the meantime.” He bowed and withdrew.
“Coffee?” said Diana. “Lovely coffee! Let’s go.”
“All right,” said Mary. “I wonder if they have tea?” Perhaps she would have to get used to the continental practice of drinking coffee. It might be hard to find good English tea where she was going.
“Let me settle into my cabin, and I will join you,” said Justine.
Mary nodded. This would be their home for two days. She looked around the cabin. It was small, but neat and elegant. Altogether, she approved of the Orient Express. Unfortunately, she would have to share it with Diana. . . .
DIANA: Better than sharing it with Catherine! She might have a nightmare and start prowling around the cabin in her sleep. She might even bite you without realizing it!
CATHERINE: Well, that’s always a risk. I am a puma.
“Come on,” Mary said. “You don’t want to miss dessert, do you?”
“Hardly!” said Diana, jumping up. They left Justin in his cabin, introducing himself to M. Waldman. Mary could hear the murmur of their voices behind the closed door.
The dining room was as elegant as a hotel, with cloth on the tables, proper silverware, porcelain cups for coffee, and . . . yes, there was a teapot! Mary signed with relief. They found a table under a window and ordered their drinks, then went to the dessert buffet. The dining car was full but not crowded—late August was probably not the most popular season for traveling across the continent. Most people had already taken their holidays and were returning home, wherever that might be. Once she had chosen a slice of raspberry torte and some almond biscuits—almost as good as Madame Corbeau’s apricot snails earlier that day—Mary sat by the window and watched the suburbs of Paris rush by. Diana rapidly devoured a slice of gâteau au chocolat, then went back for seconds.
Mary let the warmth of the tea seep into her. It was a very good oolong, and reminded her of tea in the parlor at 11 Park Terrace. Really, she was exhausted. So much had happened today. This morning she had been in London, and now here she was, rushing through the French countryside toward Vienna and then destinations unknown. Diana seemed perfectly fine, but then she always did. Nothing seemed to tire her or affect her ability to go from one thing to another without giving either much thought. Sometimes Mary wished she could be so free of worries.
DIANA: I do get tired. I get tired of you telling me what to do.
And Justine seemed at home here in France, in a way Mary could not be. In the restaurant earlier, she had ordered for all of them in French. Of course, she was the only one of them who spoke French fluently, and anyway she was Mr. Justin Frank. As the man of the family, he would be expected to make decisions for them all. He would be expected to handle financial transactions and take the lead except in those inconsequential instances where courtesy dictated that a woman should go first, such as through a doorway. Mary had to admit that Justine played a man to perfection, pulling out chairs for her and Diana, taking Justin’s hat off at exactly the right times and in the right places. She wrapped her hands around her teacup and breathed in the rising aroma. Suddenly, she felt awkwardly English and self-conscious.
“I see you have found a seat. Mary, would you mind if Heinrich Waldman joins us? He is my cabinmate. Heinrich, my sisters Mary and Diana.” Justin pulled out the chair next to Diana and sat, folding his long legs under the table. Her older brother Justin, she reminded herself, mentally reviewing the details of their story. She looked at up at M. Waldman and was surprised to discover that he was one of the university students from the ferry. He had been in front of her in the line at the ticket window, until he and his friend had drawn aside to discuss something or other.
“I do hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said, in good but accented English. “If it is an inconvenience in any way, I would be pleased to sit elsewhere.” He was tall and blond, with very blue eyes.
“Not at all. Please do sit. We’ve eaten already, you see, but I’m sure you’re both hungry. There are plenty of refreshments left.”
“I am most grateful to you, Miss Frank,” he said, taking the chair next to hers. “I myself do not wish to eat anything, but I would welcome a cup of coffee.”
“And for me as well,” said Justin. “Heinrich tells me that he is Swiss, and returning from a vacation in England. I have told him that I studied for some time in his country, near Geneva. That is where I learned French, which so many Englishmen do not speak, although I’m afraid I never managed to learn more than a smattering of German. Of course Heinrich speaks both.”
Ah, Justine had elaborated on their story! She had added the part about studying in Switzerland. Good for her. She would not have been able to disguise the excellence of her French from a Swiss national. Of course, she spoke English with a French accent, but it was slight—they had hoped foreigners would not notice. For a moment, Mary remembered the parlor at 11 Park Terrace, where they had sat with Catherine, deciding what they would say if anyone asked who they were and where they were going. Make it as close to the truth as possible, Catherine had said. It’s always easier to tell the truth than to lie, unless you’re Diana of course.
“Yes, my brother is studying to be a painter,” said Mary. “I assure you it’s not sisterly partiality when I tell you that he’s supremely talented. We are going to Vienna so he can study at the art museum, the great big one.”
“Ah, the Kunsthistorisches Museum,” said Waldman.
“Gesundheit,” said Diana. “I’m going to get more cake.”
“You’ve had quite enough,” said Mary, but before she could finish the sentence, Diana was already gone.
“And what is your field of study?” Mary asked, turning to Heinrich Waldman. Wasn’t Heinrich a German name? She knew, because Justine had told her, that Switzerland was partly French and
partly German. He looked German, or at least like the popular idea of a German. His eyes, she noticed, were very blue indeed.
“I am a student studying medicine at the University of Ingolstadt. I too will be going to Vienna, where I must visit the museum of pathologische Anatomie—ah, that is not a subject for the ladies!—before returning to university. Otherwise, I would disembark in München, since it is so much closer. I was traveling with a fellow student—I seem to remember that you were behind us in the ticket line, Miss Frank, when I so embarrassed myself by mislaying my purse! I was happy to find it again in another pocket. Unfortunately he was taken ill at the last moment and could not embark with me, so you see I am by myself. But I am very pleased to share a cabin with your brother.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Mary. “I mean, about your friend being taken ill.”
“Ah, he will be better presently.” Waldman smiled at her. “But you honor him with your sentiments, Fräulein.”
“How is Switzerland now?” asked Justin. “I have not been there for many—that is, several years.” While they had been talking, he had waved to the waiter and ordered coffee for both himself and Waldman.
“Well, you see,” said Waldman, leaning back in his chair. What followed was a political and philosophical discussion that soon had Mary completely confused. How could the government of Switzerland be so complicated, with all those cantons and charters, or were they constitutions? Without realizing it, both Justin and Waldman soon switched to French, and then back to English, and then moved freely between the two as the subject seemed to warrant. She sat by the window as twilight fell and the gas lamps were lit in the dining car, drinking her tea, listening to their baffling conversation, and missing England very much.
When the porter came to tell them that their cabins were ready for the night, Mary looked around for Diana. Where in the world had she gone? “Excuse me,” she said, rising. “I must find our sister.” The two men rose as well and bowed to her, then sat and resumed their conversation. Waldman took a cigarette out of a case in his breast pocket, no doubt for when the ladies had withdrawn and he could smoke. Diana was not in the buffet line. Mary scanned the dining car and saw her at the far end, sitting next to a woman in the most elaborate ensemble Mary had ever seen, in a shade of mauve that had surely never existed in nature, with a hat tilted at such a fashionable angle that it looked as though it were about to fall forward over her eyes
“Oh, hullo. I was wondering when you were going to notice I was gone,” Diana said as Mary approached the table. “Duchess, this is my sister Mary. Mary, this is the Duchess. She has some sort of long name I can’t pronounce.”
“So pleased to meet you,” said the Duchess in a high, cultivated voice—cultivated like those hothouse plants that can’t survive outdoors and are wheeled out only on the most temperate days. She wore too much rouge. “You must call me Iphigénie. We are all des amis, are we not, on the Orient Express?”
“Yes, of course, ma’am,” said Mary, somewhat befuddled. What did one call a duchess, other than Iphigénie? Surely it was something like “Your Grace.” Continental duchesses were rather out of her experience. “I’m afraid it’s time for my sister to go to bed.”
“My sister is such a spoilsport,” said Diana. But she stood up and said “Ta now,” then followed Mary through the dining car. As she passed them, Mary noticed that Justin and M. Waldman were still in animated discussion, and the latter had lit his cigarette. Most of the other women had left already. Soon, the dining car would become an enclave of smoking men. Although she did not want to stay—by this point, all she wanted was a bed, or at least a bunk, to call her own—the thought annoyed her. Women were always withdrawing, it seemed.
BEATRICE: Exactly. That is why we must fight for liberty and equality.
CATHERINE: And divided skirts.
BEATRICE: Mock me all you wish, but the liberation of the female body is as important as the liberation of the female mind. With the vote and birth control—
CATHERINE: Beatrice! Do you want to get this book banned, particularly in America, where they’re so prudish? There are some things you just can’t say.
BEATRICE: But I should be able to! That is exactly my point.
Their cabin was made up for the night. Mary immediately changed into a nightgown. “Thank goodness I can get out of that outfit,” said Diana. “Honestly, it makes me want to throw up.”
“Not in here,” said Mary. She found her Baedeker’s Austria and lay in the bottom bunk, reading once again about Vienna, studying the fold-out map of the city. She found the Ringstrasse, the main thoroughfare of Vienna, which half-encircled the central city. Then she found Prinz-Eugen Strasse, the street on which Irene Norton lived. It was south of the Ring, and next to what looked like a long, rectangular park. Once they got to Vienna, they would find a cab to take them to her building. Cab fares were quite reasonable in Vienna, according to Baedeker. Although she had responded to his telegram, Mrs. Norton would probably not receive Mr. Holmes’s letter with a full explanation of the case until after they had already arrived. Mary hoped she would be able to help them. But there was no use lying awake and thinking about what they were going to do, or what might happen. She needed to go to sleep. Diana was already snoring in the upper bunk.
Mary rose, put her Baedeker away, then took her pistol and ammunition out of the waist bag where she had placed them earlier. She turned down the gas lamp, and tucked the pistol and small leather bag of bullets safely under her pillow before she lay down again. The pistol was not loaded—she knew better than to sleep with a loaded firearm under her head. In an emergency, it would not be particularly useful, except perhaps to bludgeon someone with. But its bulk under her pillow was reassuring.
She wondered if Justine was still in the dining car, talking to Heinrich Waldman. He was rather handsome, in a blue-eyed, blond, boyish sort of way. Quite the opposite of—well, it didn’t matter whom.
JUSTINE: We had returned to our cabin, but were still awake, conversing. Waldman was talking about the political and economic situation in Austria-Hungary, and I thought it would be best to learn as much as possible before we arrived. It was not particularly interesting—I find politics rather dispiriting, myself. But it was useful nevertheless. And then we got onto a discussion of Leibniz that kept us awake until the small hours. That was more interesting than politics, of course.
CATHERINE: Oh, of course.
JUSTINE: Is that meant to be sarcastic?
CATHERINE: Of course not. Why would I ever be sarcastic about Leibniz?
JUSTINE: Ah, now I know you’re being sarcastic!
DIANA: Who’s Leibniz?
The next morning, they had breakfast in the dining car, again with M. Waldman. Mary expected that he and Justin would once again discuss politics, but this time it was to Mary he turned. Was she enjoying her travels? Did she find the continent very different from England? He himself had very much enjoyed his vacation in her country. He and his friend had gone on a walking tour of the Lake District. Was she familiar with Samuel Taylor Coleridge? Coleridge was his favorite poet. He much preferred Coleridge to Wordsworth. And her? Where did she come out on that great question?
Mary admitted that she liked Wordsworth very much, and had not read enough of Coleridge’s poetry to judge, but both were said to be among the greatest English poets. While putting butter and jam on her roll—the breakfast on the train was what they called “continental”—she tried to remember what she had read by Coleridge. If only Miss Murray could have stayed longer, and she could have had a proper education!
She was rather flustered by his attention. For one thing, M. Waldman must be about her own age, or not much older. And he seemed even more handsome this morning. His hair was slightly rumpled, and he smiled more—particularly at her. He had a way of leaning slightly toward her as though they were sharing a secret. He seemed so direct, unlike some men she could name.
Now he was talking about his course of stud
y. “I am most interested in infectious diseases, Miss Frank,” he said. “I wish to find out their causes, their methods of transmission. Great work has been accomplished in this area in the last decade—we have reduced outbreaks of cholera and typhoid, for instance. But so much remains to be done.” His eyes were even more blue this morning, and very sincere. That was a noble ambition, was it not? To rid humanity of such scourges?
After breakfast, once their cabin had been made up for the day, he came and sat with her, chaperoned of course by Mr. Justin Frank. Now the two men discussed the scientific advancements of the day and their philosophical implications, but in a way that included Mary as well. Diana was bored to death, she informed them. “I’m going to get some air,” she told Mary, and took off—who knows where! When Mary went to look for her before luncheon, she found Diana already in the dining car, sitting at a table with a Turkish rug merchant, a Viennese chocoletier, and her friend the Duchess. For several hours they had been playing some sort of card game. Apparently it involved gambling, for Diana had won ten francs.
“Where in the world did you get the money to gamble with?” Mary whispered to her fiercely as she dragged Diana back to their cabin.
“I stole it from you, of course,” said Diana. “Ow! You’re hurting my arm. You should be happy—I only stole five, and now we have ten!”
After lunch, Mary studied her German phrase book. Danke schön. Wie viel kostet das? Wo ist das Museum der Kunst? Justin lay in his cabin, taking an afternoon nap. He must have been up late talking to M. Waldman. She did not know where M. Waldman had gone. Probably for a smoke?
“He was flirting with you,” said Diana. “I wonder why?”
“Because of course no one would flirt with me without an ulterior motive,” said Mary, exasperated. “I’m so composed and reasonable, and all that.”
“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you bought into all that bosh about Coleridge and Wordsworth. What kind of man talks about poetry? Unless he’s forced to under torture, or something.”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman (The Extraordinary Adventures of the Athena Club Book 2) Page 11