“Enjoyment, Milady. We have a good social evening of it. There’s plenty to eat and drink. It feels agreeable to some to get their own back on the airs and graces of their employers. I mean, can you imagine what it must feel like to be on the other side for an evening or two? Then there’s the rewards too.”
“Rewards?”
“Yes, every week there’s a handsome cash prize for the best turned-out “master” or “mistress.” And in a few weeks’ time there’s to be an outing for all of us — a special excursion train to a spa where we will all have a very good time. All we have to do for that is to attend at least six of the party evenings. Anyway, that’s what’s organised, nothing more.” He stopped suddenly.
“And…?” I encouraged him to go on.
“So I cannot understand why the managers got so upset that you were a real Countess. I mean, what’s it to them? The only ones who’d get into trouble would be us servants for borrowing all the clothes and wearing the jewelry.”
I now understood all about the rash of thefts the Inspector had described, and why the more conscience-burdened servants had returned the items after use. Perhaps there had been someone there at the ball wearing Uncle Berty’s medals.
The photographs were in my bag, I remembered. I went through them until I found the one of our impostor. I handed it to Müller.
“This man. Do you recognise him?”
“Yes. He’s one of the actors at the Fenix. Before that he played at the Variety Theatre on Na Příkopě Street. Does a wonderful impersonation of the German Kaiser. And funny, my word! You know, when he does ‘Give me a woman who loves beer and I will conquer the world’ — he is just so very funny.”
“But isn’t the Kaiser only in his late thirties? This actor…”
“Hans Grübbe is his name.”
“Isn’t he somewhat older?”
“A little perhaps, but look at the photograph. That’s him playing the part of an old man in The Brecht Family Chronicles last year. They say he has wonderful makeup. And that tearful look, that’s his speciality. They say it’s simply onions.”
Another explanation. So many in one evening.
“And do you intend to go again?”
Müller hesitated. “Well, I can’t really —”
“Oh, don’t mind about the clothes. I am sure my husband won’t regard it.” (I would tell him not to regard it.)
“Well, no. I don’t really like the way they treated you, Milady. It has soured my appetite for what I thought was a little piece of innocent enjoyment.”
“But my dear, Müller, I want you to go. And I want you to tell me all about this excursion when it is announced. All about it.”
***
The whole of the following day, Sunday, I kept to my room. It had been such an ordeal and I needed to rest. I came out of my room briefly for lunch, having missed Mass, and had tea served in my boudoir. In the evening I started to read a new novel, The Sham Prince, but I put it down in the end. Reality was beginning to be far more exciting to me than fiction.
With my breakfast tray the next morning, served at ten (I was still recovering), there was a telegram. It was from Karel, that wretched husband of mine. I just knew it would be something inconvenient, and it was.
ARRIVING 11AM TRAIN STOP KAREL STOP FELICITATIONS
‘Felicitations’ — was that all a young, spirited woman would want? He was older, of course. My mother equated wealth with rank and rank with age. How wrong she was on almost all counts — particularly this Count, I mumbled angrily. My anger was really directed at the circumstances, the timing. I wanted Karel to come home when I was the hero of the hour — the greatest solver of mysteries in Bohemia. However, I would have, I supposed, to accept my lot and be the dutiful Countess awaiting his arrival at the station.
Müller knocked.
“Good morning, Milady. The General has just telephoned and has asked me to relay to you a message. It is this: could you meet him at his club for lunch? Red carnation, dark suit. I presume that makes some sense to you, Milady?”
“Yes. Perfectly. You can telephone a reply that I shall certainly attend on him at 1p.m.”
There must be something on Uncle Berty’s mind, I was thinking.
“And the young persons, Milady?”
“For the moment, there is nothing for them to do. But don’t send them away.” Then I went on to tell Müller that they could have bread and soup from our kitchen, and at night they could use the stables. I was thinking of a particular task for them, but not until one or two other matters had first been resolved.
Sabine’s hair-brushing ritual had virtually vanished by virtue of the vanished article, and she was at a loss to know which clothes to lay out for me. I could now be convincing as a ragamuffin, a rather suave man about town, a traditional tiara-ed Countess or, with the plain dresses she had made, an ordinary woman on a common tram. But for my husband, it had better be back to normal.
Although the Franz-Josef railway station, popularly known as the FJ1, serving the lines of the West Bohemia Railways, was only the shortest carriage drive from Jindřišská Street, it was my habit to be early and to sit in the Refreshment Room until the train was announced. I let the carriage wait outside, in front of the station, and entered the Refreshment Room directly and found a seat at the far side, overlooking the platforms under the great new double glass roof which was part of the station’s rebuilding. Luckily for what was to transpire, the seating along the walls of the Refreshment Room was arranged in a series of booths. This afforded me the privacy which I preferred.
No sooner had I settled and begun to look at the menu card — although I knew it backwards as I had always been there to greet Karel as the dutiful wife that I was — than an awful, terrible feeling of déjà vu came over me. In this case, it was it was not something I had seen, but that I’d heard. Two distinctive, rough English voices drifted over from the next booth to assault my ears. Because it was so noisy from the throng of people within, the crowds on the platforms, the sounds of carriages squealing to a halt, the shouts of guards, and the violent chugs which precede locomotion for engines just starting out, I could not make out what they were actually saying. It was enough for me to know that they were there, only a metre or two from me. For a moment I was paralysed with fear and loathing, but then I got a firm grip on myself.
I asked the waiter if he wouldn’t mind taking a note out to my carriage, waiting outside. Quickly I scribbled a message to Müller to get Sabine to put the urchin’s guise in a bag and if Müller knew where my husband kept his revolver, to put that in too. I didn’t think to ask for any bullets! These things to be sent round as soon as could be.
In a few moments a conductor walked through the room with a bell and blackboard announcing the imminent departure of the Spas Express — to Karlsbad. I could hear the scraping of chairs behind me and when I thought it was safe to look, I saw the two distinctive shapes of the men I had last seen by the Fenix Theatre’s stage door. Perhaps it was because I was half English, but I reckoned I could probably recognise an English villain anywhere — and now there was a world full of them. One of these particular villains had distinctive red hair.
The train to the spas was due to leave at five minutes past eleven. This would give me little time. Fortune was smiling on me when at eleven o’clock exactly the train from Vienna steamed into the station perfectly on time.
My husband stepped out of one of the leading carriages and was quickly embraced by his loving wife. He took his pipe out of his mouth and lifted his soft hat a little — both of which gestures were to make him think his appearance was by this means somehow improved.
“My dear — your hair…it is — is it different?” were his first words.
He was wearing, I noticed, the Duc d’Orleans with the brim turned up, from Čekans the hatters in Wenceslas Square, which I had bought him for Christmas las
t year — or was it the year before?
“Dearest, it is only a wig,” I answered, “Don’t trouble yourself about it. Now, come over here a moment.”
“A wig? But why, for Heavens’ sake?”
I was pulling him to one side of the throng, “Do you have any money on you?”
“Well, yes. I think I have two hundred. You know I usually carry —”
“Could you give it to me? I need it…” but then I hesitated. How could I explain for what purpose? Quite apart from the fact he might say no, it would take too long. “I need it…at this moment. Right now, in fact.”
Mystified, but sensing my urgency and determination (and he knew better than to argue against that), he got out his wallet and handed me the money.
“Everything is perfectly well at home. There are four urchins lodging in the stables. Cook will give them soup in the kitchen. Müller may need to borrow one of your suits next Saturday — oh, and your decorations, but I shall be back by then, I’m sure. I have to catch the train to the spas. I’ll tell you all about it when I return.”
At this point Müller appeared and ran up to us carrying a carpet bag, which he handed to me. When he had caught his breath he looked me earnestly in the eye — something a servant wouldn’t normally venture to do, of course, but then I’d had very close bodily contact with Müller only the day before. Maybe he thought that gave him rights. He spoke gravely: “Do you think this is wise, Milady?”
His eyes kept nodding downwards. He was clearly thinking of what I’d asked him to pack in the bag.
“Oh, nonsense,” I said, but actually not believing this was wise in the very slightest — and, looking back at Karel and Müller who did not know quite how to react, so stunned were both of them — I boarded the train just as it was about to propel itself out of the station.
***
Once the conductor had seated me in an empty First Class compartment — and I asked him to ensure, as far as possible, that no-one else shared it as I said I was very tired and needed to rest — I then explained to him that I would have to buy my ticket. As the transaction was taking place, I tried to find out about the two men from the theatre. The conductor said he was almost positive that there weren’t two such men as I had just described to him in First Class.
The train was travelling to the great Bohemian spa of Karlsbad. But this was hardly the Season, surely?
“And can you cross the border from Karlsbad?” I was wondering if this was their plan.
“From Karlsbad there’s a train which goes to Nuremberg and Munich, via Eger. Change at Munich for the Orient Express to Strasbourg and Paris. The through trains start on May 1st. You can go to the Customs House in Karlsbad to avoid the formalities on the train.”
In my eagerness for hot pursuit I hadn’t thought before that they might be leaving the country. And I had no passport upon my person, although these were not always deemed necessary for people of quality.
Once the conductor left, I composed myself and took stock of things. First I drew down the blinds to the corridor. These men, and I’d seen them get on the train, must have gone down to Second Class, perhaps Third. I would be far too conspicuous going to look for them in the get-up of a Countess, even in the rather dull outfit I’d chosen to meet my husband. I hadn’t wanted to excite him. “Urchin” was my only other available outfit.
I looked in the carpet bag. Wrapped in Honza Major’s former coat was Karel’s revolver. I held it in my hand and realised I would probably never have the courage to use the thing. On the other hand, I’d been foolish to embark on this part of the adventure alone. Surely I might indeed need it? What had started out as solving a little puzzle had suddenly turned so much darker.
I looked at the thing more carefully for it was the first I had ever closely examined a revolver. I saw a catch on the side, near the trigger. The safety-catch, I supposed. I found it moved easily to the touch. I quickly moved it back — but was that on or off? I could of course squeeze the trigger — but if the catch were off, and I presumed it had bullets in it, it would fire. I didn’t want to risk anything. I wrapped it up again in my clothes and forgot about it for the while.
In a couple of minutes I had transformed myself once more. Leaving my things in the compartment — the conductor would look after them — and having made sure he wasn’t patrolling the corridor at that moment, I slipped out and down the two First Class carriages to the Second Class Dining Car. The journey was due to last about three hours, but I realised I had to be on the watch. I wasn’t certain there wouldn’t be an intermediate stop or a long enough wait by a signal for them to descend. Firstly, I should get a proper look them: after all, I had never seen them at close quarters. Then I would find a seat in Third Class — but keep my eyes open if the train halted, and at Karlsbad I would have to be very vigilant or I could lose them altogether.
I just wished I had read some of these Sherlock Holmes novelettes that had appeared by instalments in a Prague magazine. I always felt I should wait until I could get my hands on the original English edition, but my Czech acquaintances, reading in translation, had been thrilled by The Baskerville Dog, as it must be titled in English. Even from detective fiction there must be plenty of tips I could have learned.
There was a swing door into the Dining Car with an oval window of etched glass. I was standing by the kitchens. Peering through the glass I thought I saw them.
I needed something to make myself inconspicuous as I walked through the car. Beside the kitchens was a small office cubicle, probably that of the Dining Car Superintendent. Piled half in the cubicle and half in the corridor was a stack of newspapers. I grabbed a bundle and strode purposefully through the Dining Car, hoping that no-one, least of all one of them, would ask me for a paper.
As I approached their table (and I was noticing how modest the fare was here compared with the First Class saloon, with which I was, naturally, completely familiar), the carriage lurched as it negotiated a curve. A waiter ahead of me stepped back to steady himself, taking a moment to regain his stance with a tray of ten full beer glasses held aloft on an upturned hand. That gave me a good second to take them in. The stockier, cruder-looking character had his back to me, so I couldn’t really make out his face — although I would recognise his lumbering shape anywhere, as well as his red hair. He was leaning back in his chair, his legs straight out before him.
The other didn’t look quite so rough at close quarters. He wore a large cravat tied in a loose, Parisian manner, although I thought his coat to be rather worn at the cuffs. He sported a pointed beard and a waxed moustache. The sudden lurch of the train had dislodged his eye-glass, which bounced on its cord in front of a rather faded purple velvet waistcoat. He was leaning forward, his head cradled on his elbows, as if the other had said something of great moment to him.
I squeezed slowly past the waiter who was by now bending and delivering the foaming ale glasses to an adjoining table. Three carriages later, having dumped my newspapers, I arrived at the Third Class, towards the rear of train. I had never experienced anything quite like it: wooden slatted benches, wire racks for luggage, the unupholstered boarded sides of the carriages. And it was crowded.
Travellers on a bench seat in the first compartment I ventured into automatically squeezed up to allow me room — which there was, just. I decided the only way I could endure this was to pretend to be asleep, with my cap pulled down over my eyes. I could still make out the view, and I watched a flurry of snow dusting the monotony of fields and hedges, or draping the poles and wires left for this year’s growth of hops.
At first the noise of the wheels beating the joints between the rails seemed unbearably loud — louder in Third Class, I thought. But perhaps that’s because I had nothing else on which to concentrate. After a while the rhythmic sound aided restfulness like Oriental monks soothed by some constant mantra.
After what still seemed an intermina
ble period the gentleman — if that is the word to describe him — sitting on my right, and who was playing a game of Twenty-one with two others, resting their cards on the lid of a small suitcase, pulled out his pocket watch. The journey had only thirty minutes or so to run, and the train hadn’t halted once. We were climbing through low hills now and the snow looked more intense. I began to doubt if Honza Major’s coat would be up to the job. In any event, I would be very conspicuous as a well-dressed lady and I decided to stay in this disguise, at least until I reached my destination and I could find an hotel. However, I’d had enough of travelling steerage for the moment and decided to sneak back to my own compartment.
As I passed along the Second Class carriages I glanced into all the compartments, but could not see the men, through the Second Class Dining Car and still no sign of either of them. As I finally reached the First Class carriages there was quite a commotion, with people jostling and filling the corridor. I squeezed through them until I was confronted by the conductor. He barred my way:
“No Third Class passengers allowed in First,” he said forcefully.
He was the same conductor I had conversed with earlier. It was obvious he didn’t recognise me in the slightest. I did my best to disguise my voice too: “So what’s all the fuss about then?”
“Next carriage up. There’s been a terrible incident. One man shot dead and a woman missing.” He leaned forward towards me. “And haven’t I seen you before?”
I had already turned and made myself scarce in the crowd that jammed the corridor. In the crush I felt someone pushing past me. He was behind me, so he couldn’t see my face — but as soon as he had squeezed by I could see it was the rough man of the pair. In that instant I was frozen with fear. Perhaps if I had been able to cry out I could have raised the alarm. I knew instinctively that the person who had just been pushing against me, brushing his arm past mine even, was the murderer, if that’s what had happened. I turned. I could just make out a smudge of red hair under the cap which he had pulled down over much of his face.
The Countess of Prague Page 6