by Lear, James
“Ah, Monsieur Damseaux is a film enthusiast, I see.”
Bertrand made that characteristic shrug. “I like Novello.”
“You have excellent taste,” said Dickinson.
“Unlike this coffee,” said Bertrand, grimacing.
“No, gentlemen, today I am looking after Miss Daisy Athenasy.”
“Good grief,” I said. “Daisy Athenasy? The star of Dead Man’s Kiss?” Vince and I had seen the film in Edinburgh one wet Sunday afternoon, and I vaguely remembered a blonde actress with dark, bee-stung lips and a somewhat bovine expression, vamping and mugging her way through scenes of peril.
“The very same.”
“An excellent film,” I lied. I’d spent much of the screening with my fingers up Vince’s ass, and my mouth on his neck.
“Well, her latest, which we’re shooting now, is much better. It’s a rollicking new version of the classic Rob Roy.”
“Ah,” said Bertrand, “with Hugo Taylor. Bien.”
“You are very well informed, monsieur. Do you read the film magazines?”
“I glance at them,” said Bertrand, looking rather pleased with himself.
Hugo Taylor! Everyone had heard of Hugo Taylor—at least, everyone in our circles. He was the darling of the West End stage, the life and soul of every theatrical party and gossip column, and, according to the rumors, one of us. Perhaps this was wishful thinking—he was exceptionally handsome, with his dark, Celtic looks, his laughing eyes, and his clean, athletic limbs. Vince and I had even cut his picture out of the paper, and speculated about how we would entertain him should he ever visit Edinburgh.
“Ah, you are a fan, Mr. Mitchell?”
“Well, I wouldn’t describe myself as a fan. I mean, I’m a doctor.”
“Indeed? A medical man? How reassuring. It’s always good to know there’s a doctor on board.”
“Let us hope that I am not needed.”
“Of course.”
“But is Mr. Taylor…?”
“On the same train as us? He certainly is. That was what you were going to ask, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Taylor and Miss Athenasy will be here in a short while.” Heads were turning all over the carriage. Dickinson lowered his voice. “Which accounts for the sudden popularity of LNER’s catering, which, frankly, is not up to much.”
“C’est vrai,” said Bertrand, still grimacing over his coffee.
“However, a picture is a picture, and it will be nice for the readers of the film magazines to see that stars take their meals just like ordinary folk. I shall seat them here.” He gestured to the next table, already laid with crystal, silver, and china. “You will be visible behind them as they eat.”
“But isn’t it a little early for lunch? It’s barely eleven.”
“Ah,” said Dickinson, tapping his nose, “that’s the magic of the movies. They won’t really be eating their lunch, I’m afraid. That was a step too far for Miss Athenasy. They will be served in their private carriage.”
“Bah,” said Bertrand. (He really did say “Bah,” a noise I had never actually heard before.) “They are snobs.”
“Perhaps, monsieur. But they also need some privacy. A rest from the glare of publicity.”
“Publicity which you are paid to provide.” Bertrand was spoiling for a fight; it amused me.
“Let us say, publicity which I am paid to control.” Dickinson was smiling, tapping the tips of his fingers together. I suspected that he could eat boys like Bertrand for breakfast. “Speaking of which, you must excuse me, gentlemen. We have some unwanted guests.”
The two flashily dressed young men had materialized in the carriage, drawing attention to themselves by trying to look inconspicuous.
“Ah! So I was right,” I said. “They are reporters.”
“Correct,” said Dickinson. “And they should not be on this train at all.”
“It is a free country, I think, is it not?” said Bertrand.
“Yes, unfortunately for me. They are on the scent of a story that I do not wish them to report.”
“I see. Concerning Miss Athenasy and Mr. Taylor?”
“Of course. The newspapers are determined to create scandal.”
“How awful.”
“And people will say that there’s no smoke without fire.”
“But surely,” I said, “there is no fire between Daisy and Hugo?”
“Aah,” said Dickinson, getting to his feet, “there we are straying into confidential realms. I must disturb you no longer. Thank you for your cooperation.” He smiled, a dazzling display of perfect white teeth, and bowed slightly to us both.
“What a charming man,” I said.
“I do not like him.”
“Bertrand, it’s a little early in our friendship to be jealous.”
Bertrand looked flustered. “I did not mean that… Not only that, en tout cas.”
“Don’t worry.” I leaned forward and whispered, “My cock is all yours.”
“It is good.”
“Damn right.”
“But also, I do not like him because…because I do not like him. He has un air suspect.”
“Oh come on. He’s fine!”
“As you will. I do not trust him.”
“Just because he’s in the film business—”
“Non, not only this. Perhaps I am, as you say, jealous. But also there is instinct.”
“Prejudice, you mean. You know nothing about him.”
“And you know nothing about me, Mitch.”
“I know enough. You are poor and you would like to be honest.”
“Is that why you were so kind to me?”
“Not entirely,” I said, gripping his leg. “It was also because I wanted to fuck you.”
“This is well,” he said, his face clearing. When Bertrand smiled, the world seemed like a better, kinder place. “Perhaps, after lunch?”
“I’d like nothing better than to get your sweet ass up on the table right here and now, and fuck you in full view of British-American’s cameras.”
“Ah, mais les fourchettes! Les verres!”
“It’ll have to wait, then, till I can provide you with a more comfortable landing.”
“It will be worth it, Mitch.”
I was caressing his leg, which necessitated leaning over the table in an awkward position. We were disturbed by a discreet cough from the steward.
“Will you be taking luncheon, gentlemen? If so, I will reserve a table for you.”
I sat up straight and muttered something about dropping my napkin.
“Our sole is very good, and I think you would like the spit-roasted chicken, if I may make a suggestion.”
“You certainly can.”
“And perhaps a glass of hock?”
“Ah, non, pfff,” said Bertrand. “No German wine.”
“Forgive me, sir.”
“Un bourgogne blanc, s’il vous plaît.”
“Certainly, sir. Shall we say one o’clock? That should give you time to…work up an appetite.” The steward rolled his eyes and turned on the balls of his feet.
“I wonder what dishwater he will bring us?” said Bertrand.
“It must be a burden, having such a discerning palate.”
“Sadly, my income does not match my tastes.”
“Then happily, you are my guest. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to treat you to a decent lunch and a good bottle of wine.”
“Nothing?”
“Well…” I was about to resume my sub-table groping when I was distracted by an outbreak of chattering and shushing from the door of the carriage. Heads turned, eyes flickered, and comments were made behind hands.
Dickinson led the way, a camera slung around his neck. Behind him came a slim young man in an exquisite pearl-gray double-breasted suit, with a flower in his buttonhole and a rather loud necktie, his suspiciously long hair carefully waved and pomaded and—could it be?—somewhat unnaturally golden. He carried a c
lipboard and pen and appeared to be some sort of secretary. Next came what looked like a glittering cloud, all wisps and sparkles, which eventually revealed itself to be Miss Daisy Athenasy in a swansdown-trimmed gown and a mineful of diamonds. She walked like a racehorse, her haunches describing figure eights, and smiled benignly at all of us. She looked as if she had just been aroused from a deep sleep of exotic dreams, and was not yet fully awake.
She was followed by—oh, it was really him!—Hugo Taylor, immaculate in a charcoal lounge suit, a lavender tie, and a beautiful pearl tiepin. His black hair was carefully combed, but not so carefully as to make him look effeminate. His face was perfectly symmetrical, almost pretty, an impression that was mitigated by his famously athletic body. Taylor’s trademark, both on stage and screen, was his regular use of gymnastic stunts—backflips, forward rolls, handstands, cartwheels—often without a shirt. The orchestra seats, during a Hugo Taylor show, were full of adoring fans of both sexes. Now he simply walked, but with such elegance and poise that I found myself sighing. Bertrand had stars in his eyes. We must have looked like a couple of schoolgirls. Taylor caught our gaze, smiled, and acknowledged us with a tilt of the head. I felt momentarily thrilled, before realizing that his every waking hour must be dogged by people such as me.
“For heaven’s sake, Bertrand,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Control yourself.”
The steward showed the stars to their table, and, when they were seated, the rest of the passengers tried to look as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, in that peculiarly British way. In America, conversations would have been struck up, autographs requested and given, life stories recounted at tedious length. But here, in the chilly north, a decent reserve was maintained. The stern-looking dowager snorted at her mousy traveling companion and continued to sip tea and nibble a biscuit. The young mother shushed her three daughters, who were staring, rapt, at Daisy, while their father scowled and stared out the window. Even the steward made a pretense of polishing the silverware, although I could tell from his high color and sparkling eyes that he was almost breathless with excitement. I imagined he too was a great admirer of Hugo Taylor.
The foppish young secretary fluttered around Miss Athenasy, arranging her gown, calming and pampering her like a pedigree cat. Dickinson whispered a word in Taylor’s ear; Taylor nodded.
“Mr. Mitchell, Monsieur Damseaux,” said Dickinson, “allow me to introduce you.” We scrambled to our feet, as if under orders; the rest of the passengers fumed silently into their coffee cups. “Miss Daisy Athenasy.” She smiled sleepily, extended a hand laden with sparkling stones; we both pressed the fingertips. “Mr. Hugo Taylor.” Taylor stood, and gave us both manly handshakes. Was that a little extra warmth, a little extra pressure, that he communicated to me? What exactly had Dickinson whispered in his ear? Was there to be a private party, later, in Taylor’s carriage? Taylor, Dickinson, Bertrand, and me…
I was aware of a presence behind me, and turned to see a huge hulking form in a black suit, the shirt collar way too tight around the bull neck, dark eyes under a beetling brow watching our every move.
“It’s okay, Joseph,” said Taylor. “I don’t think they’re going to murder us.”
The gorilla grunted and took a seat beside—not at—the table.
“Joseph is a necessary evil, gentlemen,” said Taylor, with a subtle smile on his face. “The studio believes that the world is full of lunatics just waiting for an opportunity to bump me off, or to abduct Miss Athenasy and do unspeakable things to her lily-white body.”
“Oh Hugo, darling, really.” Daisy drawled. “Your imagination disgusts me.”
“As you can see, Miss Athenasy and I are the very best of friends.”
“Now then, Hugo,” interrupted Dickinson, who did not want this carefully orchestrated luncheon to turn into a public mudslinging match, “perhaps you would like to sit down?”
“Of course. I shall behave. Fear not, Mr.… What was your name again?”
“Dickinson. Peter Dickinson.”
“I wish the studio would just give us one publicity manager,” said Taylor. “It’s very confusing for simple folk like actors to be learning new names all the time.”
“I’m with you for the duration, Hugo.”
“Good. Now let’s get this show on the road, as they say.”
Dickinson prepared his camera and signaled his readiness to shoot.
“Apologies for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen,” said Taylor, addressing the carriage. “We shall simply take a few photographs and leave you in peace.”
“Well, really,” said the dowager. “I call that an impertinence.”
Her companion, who had been watching Taylor with brimming eyes, the pupils like potholes, looked mortified.
Bertrand and I resumed our seats. Wine had materialized in our glasses—presumably to make it look more like luncheon—and we tasted it. It was a little early in the day for me, but I was grateful for the drink.
“Pas trop mal,” said Bertrand, smacking his lips. Here was a boy almost indecently ready to be corrupted by the finer things in life.
Food was served to the stars, and they made a decent pretense of putting it onto forks and letting it hover around their mouths. They toasted each other (I noticed that Miss Athenasy, at least, was really drinking) and laughed and chatted. It looked convincing. They looked good, and Dickinson worked quickly and efficiently to capture the scene. The rest of the passengers had given up all pretense, and were openly staring—all except the dowager, who decided now was the time to start loudly dictating a letter to her companion.
There was a scuffle at the door. Joseph leaped to his feet and barged down the carriage.
“Bloody reporters,” muttered Dickinson, darkly. I pitied the poor creatures, being manhandled by the Neanderthal Joseph; they were, after all, only trying to do their job. But I was so starstruck, and so taken with Peter Dickinson, that I said nothing. I wondered, vaguely, if Joseph would be part of the party… I rather liked the idea of watching him fuck Bertrand… The contrast in their height would be amusing… How many men was I planning to have? I was losing count…
The camera clicked and flashbulbs popped, silverware clinked and jingled, and all too soon this unreal meal was over. Daisy and Hugo left as they had arrived, in a haze of swansdown and diamonds. Taylor looked back over his shoulder and gave us all a cheery salute. The steward started clearing their plates; not a mouthful of food had been swallowed.
“No, darling,” I heard the mother saying to one of her daughters, “just because Daisy Athenasy doesn’t eat up like a good girl, that doesn’t mean you can leave your greens.”
Dickinson and Joseph accompanied the stars to their carriage; only the secretary remained.
“Well, they’re settled now,” he said, pulling up a chair. “May I, gentlemen?” He had an open, friendly face, the skin a little too smooth and shiny, the eyebrows possibly plucked—but there was a look in his eye that I could not mistake. Here was a fellow traveler, in more senses than one.
“D’accord.” Bertrand seemed less hostile now, with a couple of glasses of wine inside him.
“So, gents, what did you make of my charges?”
“They seem very nice,” I said.
“Nice?” the secretary spluttered, and wiped his mouth on my napkin, which he plucked from my lap. “No, I wouldn’t describe Hugo and Daisy as nice.”
“Well, she seemed a bit…tired.”
“Yes. Miss Athenasy is frequently tired.”
“Ah.” I suspected some dark secret but was too tactful to ask an employee to spill the beans.
“She has a little help when she gets in front of the cameras. You know…” He mimed sniffing.
“You mean she dopes?”
“Please, Mr. Mitchell!”
I whispered, “Is that why she doesn’t eat anything?”
“Among other reasons. Like all actresses, she is obsessed with her weight.”
“She is al
ready too thin,” said Bertrand. “In Belgium, women have flesh on their bones.”
“Not that it would interest you too much,” I said, watching the secretary’s face for a reaction. He cocked an eyebrow but made no comment. Bertrand blushed and looked at his hands.
“I’m sure she will eat in their private carriage,” I said.
“Yes,” said the secretary, “she will certainly be eating something. Or someone.”
What was he trying to tell me? There was some scandal afoot, of that I was sure. Perhaps not a crime, as such, or a proper murder mystery, but at least something worthy of my powers of deductive reasoning.
I thought for a moment and then said, “Joseph?”
His eyebrows rose even further. “Are you a mind reader?”
“Me? No. Just a doctor.”
“I see. The diagnostic mind. You’d make a very good…”
“Yes? What?”
He looked slightly flustered. “I was going to say detective.”
“But how extraordinary! That is exactly what I want to be!”
“You? A detective? Why on earth?”
“Oh, I have a passion for crime fiction.”
“Me too! Allow me to introduce myself.” He pulled out a card—everyone on this train had cards—bearing a coat of arms and the name “Francis Laking, bart.” I knew enough about English customs to realize that this was a minor aristocrat.
“Sir Francis.” I held out my hand; he took it in a soft, limp grip. “Edward Mitchell.”
“Oh, really! You can dispense with the sirs and madams. It’s Francis, if you insist, but everyone, I mean really everyone, calls me Frankie.”
“And Frankie, you can call me Mitch.”
“And who is this enchanting creature?” People were looking around, but Frankie didn’t care; he seemed to love the attention.
“This is Bertrand Damseaux, my…traveling companion.”
“Enchanté.” Frankie took Bertrand’s hand, and would have kissed it had it not been snatched back. “Well, now, Mitch. As a budding detective, what do you make of our fellow passengers? Have you nosed out a mystery? Are they all they appear to be, do you imagine? Or are they traveling in disguise?”
This was a matter more suited to my taste than movie stars. “Quite possibly. Look at those two, for instance.” I nodded toward the ample dowager and her cringing companion. “What do you think of them?”