She dabbed the wound and Agatha flinched, her hand flying to her head.
“No, you mustn’t touch it.” Katharine’s voice was different. Gentler than before.
“I . . . She . . .” Agatha tried to sit up, a jumble of images crowding her brain.
“It’s all right—you don’t have to explain.” Katharine put her arms around Agatha’s shoulders, easing her back onto the pillow. “I saw what happened. There was a terrific bang, and I ran out into the corridor to see you rugby-tackle that girl. You were very lucky not to fall out of the train, you know. You saved her life.”
“She’s . . . ?”
“Yes, she’s fine. Just a few bruises. Do you know who she is?”
Agatha looked away. Did she? Was Ann Nelson really Archie’s lover? She had no proof.
“The Honorable Ann Grandfield, as was.” Katharine took a dressing from a green tin box and applied it to Agatha’s forehead. “Voted Debutante of the Year by Tatler a few seasons ago—and made the front cover of Vogue. She married Viscount Nelson earlier this year: April or May, I think it was.” She ran her fingers around the edge of the dressing, sealing it to the skin. “I wonder what’s gone wrong.”
As Katharine’s hand withdrew, Agatha screwed her eyes shut. It wasn’t the sting of the iodine. She could bear that. Katharine’s revelation was like a punch in the stomach. She felt stupid, confused. This was not her husband’s lover, then, but some other Nancy: a society beauty whose face had become public property. That, at least, explained why Agatha had thought she knew her.
But if she was not the girl Archie had gone off with, who was the man Agatha had seen on the train? She could almost have sworn it was her ex-husband. Could Archie possibly be involved with the newly married wife of a viscount? Was that why he had been so desperate to keep her name out of the divorce proceedings? And if it was him, why had this Nancy tried to kill herself hours after waving him good-bye?
When she opened her eyes, the sunlight dazzled her. It occurred to her that she had no idea what time it was or what country she was in.
“Don’t try to sit up,” Katharine said as Agatha raised her head from the pillow.
“I just . . .” Agatha sank back again. “Where are we?”
“Yugoslavia. We’ve just crossed the border.” She looked at her watch. “You weren’t unconscious for very long. They brought a doctor on board when we stopped at Trieste, but you probably don’t remember.”
Agatha frowned. “No . . . I . . . What did he say?”
“That you might be concussed and I was to keep a careful eye on you. How do you feel now? Not sick, I hope? You must tell me if you get a headache.”
Agatha’s hand went to her temple. Did she have a headache? Her head was certainly sore where she had caught it on the handrail. As her fingers made contact with the skin above her ear, she gasped.
“What’s the matter? Are you in pain?”
“I . . . No. My glasses . . . Do you know where they are?”
Katharine reached across to the table. “Here you are,” she said. “The steward found them when he dismantled the bed.”
Agatha stared, dismayed at the tortoiseshell frames folded in Katharine’s hand. As she took them, Katharine’s eyes locked on hers. There was a hint of a smile, which could have meant something or nothing. Had Katharine seen her photograph in the back of Roger Ackroyd? Did she know?
“I’m going to sit here and read while you rest, if you don’t mind,” Katharine said, with no trace of irony in her voice. “I want you to close your eyes and try to go back to sleep. In an hour or two, if you feel up to it, I’ll order us something to eat.”
Agatha felt a sudden wave of exhaustion wash over her, as if Katharine’s words had a hypnotic power. There was nothing she could do. If her cover was blown, she would just have to face the consequences later. Right now all she wanted was oblivion.
Nancy pulled the sheets up over her eyes. She longed to be left alone, but there was no chance of that. A fearsome Italian woman in the tight-fitting navy uniform of the Wagons-Lits company had come onto the train with the doctor and installed herself in the compartment.
Nancy’s Italian was no better than this woman’s English, so their conversation had been limited. But no explanation was necessary. Signorina Tedaldi was clearly on suicide watch.
“You sleep, no?” No doubt the words were kindly meant, but the gruff manner in which they were delivered made it sound like an order. And Nancy was beyond sleep. Her head felt as if it were on fire.
What would have happened if she had gone through with it? If that woman hadn’t grabbed her? Now that she was safe, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she was glad to be alive, whatever the consequences. Standing on the edge of the train in the moonlight with the wind snatching the breath from her body, she had suddenly felt that familiar fluttering in her belly, as if the half-formed being inside were rattling the bars, begging to be heard. In that moment she realized she had no right to do what despair had driven her to. Because it was not just her life she was about to destroy.
She closed her eyes, thinking of the woman who had risked her life to save her. Her memory was hazy. She remembered white cotton billowing out like a ship’s sail in the moonlight. A woman in a nightgown, on her way to the lavatory. If she had not woken up, not needed to leave her compartment . . .
Nancy sucked in her breath. Wondered what she herself would have done in a similar situation. Would she have been brave enough to try to stop a complete stranger from throwing herself off a speeding train? And yet . . . Nancy searched the jumbled images of the night before. No, not a stranger: she distinctly remembered someone calling her name.
Whoever the woman was, she had hurt herself. Nancy dug her nails into the back of her hand as she remembered. Her head was gashed, and there were drops of blood on her nightgown. She must find her as soon as possible. Beg her forgiveness and thank her for what she had done. Yes, thank her. For in spite of the fear, the panic that bubbled up every time she allowed herself to think about the future, there was something to live for. She felt an overwhelming urge to tell this Good Samaritan that she had saved not just one life but two.
Nancy opened her eyes a fraction of an inch, glancing sideways at her Italian minder, who was writing something in a notebook. She wondered if she would have to ask permission to leave the compartment and go in search of the lady in the nightgown. Signorina Tedaldi was probably under orders to escort her all the way to Damascus. It was understandable, she supposed, that the company would want to avoid the taint of passengers taking their own lives while on the train. But once she disembarked, she would be on her own. No Delia waiting in Baghdad to take her home.
Nancy’s throat constricted at the thought of her cousin. The last time she had seen Delia was at Victoria station two years ago, at the end of a spell on leave. They had laughed together over a couple of sailors who had been leaning out of one of the carriages, blowing kisses as their train pulled away.
“Come and visit!” Delia had called as she climbed aboard. “We’ll have a blast!”
Nancy had smiled and waved furiously until the smoke drove her away from the platform’s edge. Baghdad had sounded so strange, so alien. Delia’s stories of her life there—of the heat, the insects, the tribesmen with their gaggle of wives—made Nancy think it was the last place on earth she would choose to go for a holiday.
It seemed impossible that Delia was dead. She had been so passionate about her work, so in love with life. The telegram had given no clue as to what had happened. Nancy wondered who had sent it. Probably someone at the British Consulate’s office, where Delia had worked. She wondered fleetingly if she might be able to appeal to someone there for a place to stay while she worked out what to do. They were supposed to help British citizens in extremis, weren’t they? And there couldn’t be many worse predicaments than the one Nancy was in now.
Katharine studied Agatha as she slept. In the bright sunshine it was possible to see that her hai
r, swept back from the wound, was a different color at the roots. It was only a fraction of an inch of new growth—no more than a week, Katharine guessed—but enough to betray the fact that Mary Miller was not a natural redhead.
Katharine opened her novel at the inside back cover, holding the book as close to her traveling companion’s face as possible without disturbing her. Yes, she thought, the nose was the same: a strong Roman nose—but not unattractive. A wide mouth with the upper lip a little less full than the lower one. And the eyebrows: if Katharine had been drawing this face, she would have enjoyed doing those. They were striking but not startling. There was no artifice about them—no plucking or cosmetic enhancement. They sat above the eyes like gull’s wings, the outer edges sweeping out a good half inch beyond the lashes.
Hard to tell for sure, of course—especially with the eyes closed. To Katharine, it was like watching something emerge, half-hidden by sand, from the desert. She was used to piecing things together, seeing what was not yet there. And as she gazed at the woman lying on the banquette, the photographic image from the novel floated through space, superimposing itself on flesh and bone.
“This is you, isn’t it?” she whispered.
Agatha slept through the whole of Yugoslavia, waking only when the train stopped at the border with Bulgaria. Through the window she could see a sign written in an unfamiliar alphabet. There was a stall on the platform with black-and-white sausages piled alongside a smoking charcoal brazier. A woman wandered past the window with a tray of what looked like chunks of baked pumpkin topped with walnuts and icing sugar. Agatha glanced at her watch. It was half past three, and she was ravenous.
Katharine had anticipated this. She summoned the steward, who instantly brought a plate of elegantly arranged sandwiches and a ramekin of chocolate mousse.
“It’s good that you feel like eating,” she said, as Agatha tucked in. “What about this evening? Do you think you’ll be up to walking as far as the dining car?”
“I think so.” Agatha nodded. “But can I get away with it?” She raised her hand to her head, fingering the dressing. “I must look an awful sight.”
“We could cover it up. Do you have a headband?”
“No—only hats. I can’t wear a hat to dinner, though, can I?”
Katharine shook her head. “Not to worry—I have one. It’s mauve with black and silver sequins. Do you have anything that would go with it?”
“I have a black flapper in crepe de chine—would that do?”
“Perfect,” Katharine replied. “Now, do you have a different pair of spectacles? Those really don’t suit you at all.”
“Oh . . . I . . .” Heat rose up Agatha’s throat to her face.
“You have lovely eyes. It’s a shame to hide them.” Katharine was giving her that Mona Lisa smile again. Agatha felt horribly self-conscious, utterly tongue-tied. Was Katharine being deliberately provocative, trying to get her to confess? Or was it just her way to be so blunt?
The steward saved Agatha from having to make any response, knocking on the door to deliver a bouquet of white roses and sweet-scented French lavender.
“For you, madame.” The steward handed Agatha a small card along with the flowers.
“From her?” Katharine pursed her lips.
“Yes.” Agatha read the note aloud: “With profound gratitude and good wishes for your recovery. I hope to thank you in person when you are well enough. Nancy Nelson.”
“I don’t suppose she’ll want to show her face at dinner.” Katharine took a cigarette and inserted it in the silver-tipped holder. “She’ll probably ask you to go to her compartment. I wonder what she’ll have to say for herself.”
Katharine seized her chance when Agatha left the compartment to visit the lavatory. She had been itching to look while Agatha was asleep, but that would have been too great a risk. The slightest movement might have woken her.
It was a shabby thing to do, rummaging through another woman’s handbag, but Katharine told herself it was for Agatha’s own good. If she wanted to visit the dig at Ur—to do it properly—she was going to have to win Leonard’s approval. He detested tourists. Resented their presence for even a few hours. The idea of having one around for several days and nights would be anathema to him—particularly if it was a woman.
Leonard was a man’s man through and through. But one thing he always respected, regardless of gender, was a clever mind. The other thing guaranteed to get his attention was money. If Mary Miller really was Agatha Christie, Leonard would welcome her to the dig house with open arms.
It was a matter of seconds before she found what she was looking for. Her fingers made contact with something flat and hard, wrapped in a lace-edged handkerchief. As she pulled it out, she saw a corner of matte black. Beneath the lace was a glint of gold—the lion and unicorn crest of a British passport. She glanced at the door before flicking through the pages. There was her proof: Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie. Maiden name: Miller.
Agatha hesitated as she passed Nancy’s compartment. I hope to thank you in person when you are well enough. It sounded like an open invitation to knock on the door. But the blind was drawn. Agatha wondered if Nancy was asleep. She glanced up and down the corridor before putting her ear to the glass.
She heard a cough, then a creaking sound, like someone getting on or off the banquette. Would Nancy be alone? It seemed unlikely that a person in a state of such distress would be left unattended. The proper thing to do would be to use the steward as an intermediary. Send a message asking if it was convenient to visit. But that seemed absurdly formal in the circumstances.
As she lifted her hand to knock, the door suddenly opened. The view of the compartment beyond was blocked by a very large, cross-looking woman in the uniform of the Wagons-Lits company.
“Who is it?” The voice, tremulous and very English, came from someone else.
The woman in uniform looked over her shoulder, creating a sliver of space between her body and the door frame through which Agatha could see Nancy Nelson. She was sitting on the edge of the banquette, pushing her bare feet into slippers that matched her dressing gown of turquoise silk.
“May I come in?” Agatha gave the guard a tentative smile.
The woman frowned. “She sleep.”
“But I can see that she’s awake.”
The woman shifted her weight, obstructing the view of the compartment again. “Non capisco,” she replied.
Agatha was not going to be fobbed off. “Parlez-vous français?”
This question elicited a wary look. “Un petit peu.” Agatha spoke fluent French—something she had picked up while living in Paris with her mother as a child. She explained that she was the person who had stopped Mrs. Nelson from harming herself and that she wished only to speak to her for a short while.
The guard glared at her, then looked at her watch. “Dix minutes,” she muttered, marching off in the direction of the lavatory.
“Mrs. Miller!” Nancy was smiling, but her jaw trembled, as if it took every ounce of strength she possessed. “I’m so terribly sorry . . . I . . . Your head . . .” She trailed off, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown.
“It’s nothing, really—just a graze.” Agatha saw that Nancy’s brown eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She looked as if she’d been crying all night. She took a step closer. “I haven’t come to pry. Just send me away if you’d rather be alone.”
Nancy closed her eyes and took in a long breath. “Thank you for coming. It’s awful, having that woman in here with me. I feel like a prisoner.”
Agatha sat down on the chair that had been brought in for the guard. There was a host of questions clamoring in her head but she kept silent, waiting for Nancy to speak.
“You knew my name.” The eyes were still closed. “You called out to me, didn’t you?” The lids parted. “How did you know me?”
“I . . . I recognized your face. I must have seen your picture somewhere—in a magazine, I think.”
&n
bsp; “Ah.” The sigh caught in her throat, halfway to a sob. “I suppose you’re wondering what on earth can be the matter with me.”
“Well, I . . . ,” Agatha faltered, aware that any response was likely to sound insensitive.
Nancy’s eyes ranged over the carpet, as if the answer were concealed in its pattern. “It’s the old story, I’m afraid: I married a man who doesn’t care for me.”
Her words hung in the air. Agatha held her breath, waiting for her to go on.
“I thought running away was the answer.” Another long pause and then: “I was going to my cousin in Baghdad. I was going to stay with her until I worked out what to do.” Nancy opened the hand that contained the handkerchief, screwed into a tight ball. “But last night there was a telegram.” She stared at the handkerchief, her eyes brimming with tears. “Delia, my cousin, is dead.”
“Oh . . . I’m so sorry.”
Nancy’s grief was like the pull of a magnet. Agatha wanted to lean across the space between them, put an arm around those trembling shoulders. But something made her resist. It was the memory of the face reflected in the train window. Those eyes, so like Archie’s. If there was even a chance that he was part of this . . .
“I felt so . . . alone.” Nancy’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “I lay here in the dark, listening to the wheels going round and round. And it occurred to me that the simple answer was to jump out of the train.” She raked her hair with her fingers. “I’ve let everyone down. My father would turn in his grave if he knew what a mess I was in. He thought Felix would be the perfect husband.” Nancy’s whole body shuddered as she said this, as if her dislike of her husband bordered on dread. “But I couldn’t stay—I couldn’t stand it.”
“Does anyone know where you are?” The way Agatha said it sounded innocent enough.
The Woman on the Orient Express Page 7