The Woman on the Orient Express

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  Before Katharine could reply, a man with ginger whiskers emerged from the shadows. “Hullo, Katharine, old girl!”

  “Michael! You made it after all!”

  “What?” He gave her a crooked smile that revealed a gold tooth. “Didn’t think we’d let you down, did you?”

  “Is Max here?”

  “Up front.” He jerked his head toward the altar. “Ready to do his duty with the ring.”

  “Well, that’s . . . wonderful.” Katharine glanced over her shoulder at Agatha and Nancy. “Looks like you two will be able to relax after all.” She gave a tight smile. “Michael, let me introduce you to my friends.” At that moment the organ struck up the opening chords of “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.”

  “Oops! No time for that, I’m afraid!” Taking Katharine’s arm, he steered her toward the aisle.

  Agatha and Nancy waited until the bride and her escort were almost at the altar before following in their wake. As they made their way up the aisle, Agatha wondered what to make of the sudden change in the proceedings. The look on the face of the man giving Katharine away had been one of amused puzzlement, as if her remark about his turning up after all was a joke. Had the men really been held up? Could it have been a ruse cooked up by Katharine to get her to reveal herself? She brushed the idea away. It was pure conceit to imagine that a woman could wake up on the morning of her wedding with thoughts of anyone but herself and her future husband.

  Agatha stopped at a pew a few rows back from the front on the bride’s side of the church. As she did so, Max looked round and smiled, raising his hand in a discreet wave.

  Katharine was at the altar rail now. Leonard turned to her as she drew level with him. Even in profile, Agatha would have recognized him. There was something very distinctive about the high, sloping forehead, the bushy eyebrows and the long, rather wild-looking beard. From this distance he looked old enough to be Katharine’s father.

  The music stopped and the vicar stepped forward, making the sign of the cross over their heads. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this morning for the sacrament of marriage.” It might have been an Anglican church, but his lilting accent was straight out of the Welsh valleys. He made the word “marriage” sound as if it had three syllables.

  “Leonard and Katharine—” He looked at each of them in turn. “The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows the secrets of our hearts. Therefore, if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Agatha saw Max drop his head. She wondered what he was thinking. If there had ever been something between him and Katharine, this must be excruciating for him.

  The secrets of our hearts . . . The phrase echoed in her head. Yes, she thought, the chances are that every one of the six other people standing in this church—including the vicar—has at least one secret they will never, ever tell.

  There were some secrets that could be let go without too many repercussions. Others, though, might shatter lives. This morning two secrets had been exposed: that of her own identity—which was annoying, but not the end of the world—and the truth about the way Katharine’s first husband had died. She wondered why Katharine had chosen to reveal it on this day of all days. On the face of it, the secret had been delivered up in response to Agatha’s embarrassment at being found out. But perhaps there was more to it than that.

  Why did he kill himself?

  That was the unspoken question. Was there something else Katharine had wanted to say? Had she been seeking some sort of reassurance before entering into this second marriage?

  That fool should never have told him . . . Such a shock . . .

  The night of delirium on the train seemed to hold the key to whatever was locked up inside Katharine’s heart. But something had held her back this morning. If she had come to the hotel intending to confide in her new friend, something had made her change her mind.

  “Leonard, will you take Katharine to be your wife?” The vicar’s melodic voice broke the silence. “Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”

  Agatha’s insides crumpled like burnt paper. Archie had broken all those promises within a few years of making them. He had only really loved her at the very beginning—before life had intervened to spoil his impossible image of what married life was supposed to be like. But when she had really needed him—when she was pregnant with Rosalind and feeling frightened and vulnerable, when she was knocked sideways by the death of her mother—he had not been there for her. He had neither loved her nor comforted her. And he had never protected her: he had wanted her to protect him. He couldn’t bear it if anyone was ill or unhappy because it disturbed his equilibrium. And as for honoring her, any vestige of that had vanished when he fell for another woman.

  As Agatha listened to Leonard Woolley make his marriage vows, she wondered if Archie would feel even a glimmer of shame when he said those same words in four days’ time.

  She glanced at Nancy, who must be finding all this just as demoralizing as she was—probably even more so, as she had been a bride just a few months ago. Nancy was gazing straight ahead—not at the couple themselves but at the stained glass window behind the altar. Her expression was unreadable.

  The vicar turned to Katharine and began the vows a second time. “I, Katharine . . .”

  “I, Katharine, take you, Leonard, to be my husband.” Katharine’s voice was low and husky, as if she had just come out of a deep sleep. The brim of her hat cast her face into shadow, so there was no indication of how she felt. As she completed her vows, Max stepped forward with the ring. The vicar took it from him and placed it on a red velvet cushion.

  “Heavenly Father, by your blessing, let these rings be to Leonard and Katharine a symbol of unending love and faithfulness, to remind them of the vow and covenant which they have made this day through Jesus Christ our Lord.” He held out the cushion to Leonard, who took the ring. For a long few seconds he seemed to be struggling to get it onto her finger. In the end she pulled her hand away and did it herself.

  “Katharine, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage.” With an awkward smile, Leonard took her hand again. “With my body I honor you; all that I have I share with you . . .”

  Agatha couldn’t help imagining the two of them in bed together, as they would be in just a few hours’ time. It was a strange, rather distasteful thought. Her own inner voice berated her for being so superficial. Just because Leonard was older and less physically attractive than his new wife didn’t make him an unsuitable husband. What if Katharine had been marrying the much younger and undeniably handsome Max? Would that have been more acceptable? To her surprise, that image was even more disturbing. Why should that be?

  Her train of thought was derailed by the vicar’s proclamation. “Katharine and Leonard have made their vows to each other and declared their marriage by the giving and receiving of a ring. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife. Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder.” A pause and then: “You may kiss the bride.”

  It wasn’t so much a kiss as a bob of his head toward her upturned face. It was as if Leonard was afraid his lips would mar her perfect skin. Then he hooked his arm through hers and led her down the aisle. Neither of them was smiling. He looked embarrassed and she looked . . . Agatha struggled to pinpoint the expression on Katharine’s face. Resignation, determination, and anxiety were the words that sprang to mind. It reminded Agatha of the way she had felt during her divorce proceedings, when she was called to hear the evidence of Archie’s fake adultery at the Grosvenor Hotel. Yes, she thought, Katharine looked like a woman about to face an ordeal.

  Max and Michael followed the bride and groom down the aisle, and Nancy slipped out of the pew behind them. Agatha hung back. She felt an overwhelming urge to be alone in this p
lace, just for a few moments. She sat down, her eyes on the stained glass image of Saint George slaying the dragon.

  I’m sorry.

  She wasn’t sure if she’d whispered the words aloud or just heard them inside her head.

  Sorry for not being a good enough wife, for depriving Rosalind of her daddy.

  Would Archie have strayed if she hadn’t left him alone in London while she went to nurse her mother? Would he have fallen for a younger, prettier woman if she had tried harder with her own appearance after Rosalind was born?

  She was apologizing for these things to someone who she was no longer sure was listening, or was even there. But saying it made her feel better, all the same.

  When she got outside, Nancy was standing by the horse-drawn carriage with the men and Katharine was chatting with the vicar.

  “Oh, there you are!” Katharine gave the ghost of a smile. “I’m afraid there isn’t time for any kind of reception.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hands, one still clutching the bouquet of lily of the valley. “We have to leave for Ur in an hour’s time and get the dig house open for the rest of the team. Max is staying here for a couple of days to organize the supplies.” She looked over her shoulder to where the others were standing. “I haven’t introduced you to them yet, have I?” Taking Agatha’s arm she led her down the steps. “Leonard, Michael, Max—this is my friend Agatha: Agatha Christie.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Jebel Sinjar

  The day after the wedding, Agatha was breakfasting alone on the terrace overlooking the river Tigris. Nancy was spending the morning in bed, still recovering from her sleepless night on the Taurus Express and the long coach ride through the desert.

  The view across the river reminded her of Venice. The Arab boats with their high-scrolled prows and faded paintwork were not so very different from gondolas. As Agatha glanced upstream, she saw a procession of the more primitive, raftlike vessels that Katharine called gufas coming toward her. They were loaded with melons and chickens and sacks of grain. As she watched them glide by on the muddy brown water below, she mulled over the events of the day before.

  She had almost died of embarrassment outside the church when her deception was exposed so publicly. On the way back to the hotel, Nancy had been very good about it, reassuring her that no one would blame her for wanting to travel incognito. In a way it was a relief to have it out in the open. But there had been no chance to explain it to Max—he had gone off with Katharine and Leonard as soon as the service was over.

  So it was a surprise when the waiter brought a note on the tray with her coffee. Max had come to the hotel. He was waiting for her in the lobby.

  “Could you ask him to join me—out here?”

  Agatha wasn’t sure if the waiter had understood. She was spreading marmalade onto a piece of toast when she spotted Max walking through the French doors, shading his eyes against the sun.

  “Good morning!” He beamed as he strode across the terrace, waving away the broken branch of a large potted palm that caught at his hat as he passed it.

  “Hello.” Agatha tried to read his face. He was still smiling, but he looked rather nervous, as if he had something unpleasant to say. “Please, do sit down. Would you like some coffee—or would you rather have tea?”

  “Coffee would be lovely.”

  She poured some into the empty cup that had been put out for Nancy. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Just black, thanks.”

  “I’m awfully sorry to have misled you in Venice,” she began. “It’s just that I—”

  Max raised his hand. “Please—don’t worry about that. I absolutely understand that a successful writer would want to travel incognito. It must be an awful bore to have complete strangers accost you when you’re trying to relax.”

  “That’s very gracious of you.” Agatha felt all the tension in her body melt away. “Do help yourself to toast, by the way—they’ve brought far too much for one person.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Christie—I am a bit peckish, actually. The food over at the Maude isn’t much to write home about.”

  “Well, dig in. And do call me Agatha.” How she wished she could revert to her maiden name. Mrs. Christie. It was a constant reminder of what she was not. But it was how the world knew her. She was stuck with it.

  “Thank you, Agatha.” His cheeks went slightly pink as he said her name. He covered his self-consciousness by helping himself to a piece of toast, to which he applied liberal quantities of butter and marmalade. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he said, as he laid down the knife. “I’m going to be in Baghdad for the next few days, organizing supplies for the dig, and I wanted to invite you and your companion on a sightseeing trip, if you’re interested.”

  “Oh? That’s very thoughtful.” It occurred to Agatha that Nancy might be the reason for the invitation. She and Max were about the same age, and Nancy was very attractive. She wondered if Katharine had filled him in on the disastrous marriage. “The thing is,” she went on, “I’m not sure if Nancy’s up to doing any more traveling at the moment. She hasn’t managed to get much sleep these past few days, and she’s trying to catch up.”

  She watched Max’s face. If he was disappointed, he was too much of a gentleman to show it.

  “Never mind,” he said. “What about you?”

  “Well, where were you thinking of going?”

  “I thought you might like to see the Yezidi shrine at Jebel Sinjar, in the Kurdish hills near Mosul. It’s called Sheikh ‘Adi. Have you heard of it?”

  “Well, I’ve heard of the Yezidis—aren’t they devil worshippers?”

  “That’s what people say, but it’s not strictly true. Their religion is based on a spirit called Shaitan—very similar to Satan in the Bible—but they don’t worship him: they’re just afraid of him. They believe he was put in charge of the world by God and that he will be succeeded one day by Jesus, who they recognize as a prophet, but one not yet come to power. Their beliefs are all about appeasing Shaitan while he’s in charge.” Max took a bite of toast and swallowed it down. “They’re a very peaceable lot, and their shrine is one of the loveliest, most tranquil places I’ve ever seen.”

  Max had cleared the table of toast by the time Agatha had finished quizzing him about the Yezidi tribe and their mountaintop home. The prospect of a trip to this remote region of northern Mesopotamia seemed far more exciting than her original plan to spend the morning house hunting. That could wait until tomorrow. She wondered if Nancy would change her mind about staying in bed when she heard about Max’s offer.

  “You don’t mind walking, do you?” Max asked.

  “What? All the way to Mosul?”

  “No.” He grinned. “Just the last couple of miles to the shrine. You can only do it on foot or by horse. It’s quite cool, even in the afternoon, because of the altitude.”

  “No, I won’t mind that,” she replied. “I think it’ll probably be too much for Nancy, though. I’d better pop up to her room and let her know what we’re doing. What about lunch? Shall I ask the housekeeper if they could give us something for a picnic?”

  “No need—we can pick up stuffed flatbreads from a stall along the way. You could ask them if they’d fill a flask with tea, though.”

  Half an hour later they were on their way. Max had the use of a car while he was in Baghdad—a battered black Austin 7 with a dusty windscreen, whose suspension had been severely compromised by years of motoring over bumpy desert tracks.

  Halfway through the journey they stopped for lunch. Max spread a moth-eaten tartan rug on the sand while Agatha fished out the flask and two tin mugs. A few yards farther up the road was a party of women working by the roadside, digging up roots and picking leaves. They wore turbans of bright orange and robes of green and purple.

  “They’re Kurdish women,” Max said.

  “They’re very tall, aren’t they?” Agatha looked up from pouring the tea. She saw that the women had spotted them. They began walking towa
rd them, their bodies very erect, their heads held high. Agatha saw that their faces were bronzed, with rosy cheeks. As they drew nearer, she noticed that they all had blue eyes.

  They called out some sort of greeting, then one of them said something to Max, whose reply made them laugh. Another took a fold of Agatha’s skirt, examining it with interest. They chatted to each other, nodding and smiling. Then, as quickly as they had come, they turned away, swaying like a bunch of exotic flowers as they walked off toward the blue mountains on the horizon.

  “What did they say?” Agatha asked.

  “Oh, they were just being friendly.” Max brushed away a fly that had landed on the rim of his cup.

  “I suppose they thought my clothes were very strange?”

  “Oh no—it wasn’t that.” He had that sheepish expression again. The same look he’d given her when he asked her not to tell Katharine he was on the train.

  “What, then?” she persisted.

  “If you really want to know, they asked if you were my woman.”

  “Ah!” Now it was Agatha’s turn to feel embarrassed.

  “I told them that we were friends,” he went on. “And they said they knew you couldn’t be my wife because, if you were, you wouldn’t have been the one pouring the tea.”

  “Really?” Agatha gave him a puzzled glance.

  “They’re a rum lot, these Kurdish women.” Max made a gruff sound in his throat—something between a grunt and a laugh. “The Arab workmen on the dig tease the Kurdish men because their wives bully them. They’re all Muslims—but you’d never mistake a Kurdish woman for an Arab one.” He spread his hands, palms up. “It’s not just the way they dress. The Arab women are shy and modest and will always look away when you speak to them—whereas a Kurdish woman has no doubt that she’s the equal of any man. They’ll talk to anyone—even strangers—and when they marry, the woman is always boss.”

  “Splendid!” Agatha smiled. “Where do I sign up?”

  Max grinned. “What would Mister Christie say about that, I wonder?”