First Class Murder: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery

by Stevens, Robin

  Daisy was not impressed by that at all. ‘Hah! You want us to remember another invented name? I don’t think we can manage that – not unless you explain what you’re really doing here. Explain properly. Isn’t that right, Hazel?’

  ‘Er,’ I said. ‘I do like your scarf.’

  Daisy rolled her eyes. Miss Livedon – Mrs Vitellius – bother, I thought, how was I to keep up with all her names? – sighed.

  ‘If you say a word . . . Girls, this is serious. It isn’t a game. If you tell, powerful people will be very cross with you. M will be very cross with you – you know perfectly well who I mean.’

  Daisy pursed her lips – we did know, very well – even though I still do not know exactly what secret things M does to make him so important. Daisy will never tell me. Sometimes I wonder whether she really knows.

  ‘Do you promise?’

  Daisy sighed, and then nodded at me.

  ‘We promise,’ we both said together.

  ‘All right,’ said Miss Livedon. ‘I’m after a spy.’

  ‘No!’ cried Daisy. ‘NOT Hermès!’

  ‘Yes, very amusing, Daisy. I have been given special dispensation not to appear in person at the trial. I am here because, according to the information I have been given by my contact, someone carrying secrets about Britain’s military capabilities has boarded this train, and will be handing them over to German spies in Belgrade. Now, officially we’re friends with Germany – but the government doesn’t like the way Herr Hitler’s been carrying on, and we don’t want him to know any more about our operations than we can help. This spy has got past us too many times – been a thorn in our side for months. So here I am, to make sure that the spy – and the secrets they’re carrying – never reach their destination. Whoever it is must be in this coach, and I mean to find out who they are. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your noses out of it, all right? It’s serious, Daisy.’

  ‘Stop saying that! Why don’t you tell Hazel to be serious?’

  ‘Because Hazel is always serious,’ said Miss Livedon, smiling at me. ‘Now, girls, I know that you’ve done some detective work in the past, but this is different. This is international affairs, and you simply can’t be a part of it. I’ve trusted you with the truth, and now I need you to absolutely stay out of it. No investigation, no daring missions – is that understood? It is so dreadfully inconvenient that you happen to be on this train as well.’

  I felt rather apologetic – Miss Livedon was looking at us so fiercely. Daisy, though, was only cross.

  ‘But – Miss Livedon!’ she said. ‘You can’t tell us not to help! What if you need us for this investigation? You know we’re good detectives, you remember what happened at Easter – it was us who solved the murder, not you!’

  ‘And this isn’t a murder, Daisy. Argue all you like, but I won’t change my mind – and if you do try to butt in, I will do all I can to prevent you. Is that understood?’

  Daisy’s pretty face was thunderous. Even I felt cross now. Here was another grown-up telling us not to be detectives on this holiday, and I found that I liked it less and less each time I heard it. We were being shut out of everything truly interesting.

  Miss Livedon glared at us until we muttered, ‘Yes, Miss Livedon.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s not my name any more, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Vitellius,’ we said obediently. Daisy said it through gritted teeth. ‘And you have lovely clothes,’ she added in a louder voice.

  ‘Top marks, Daisy. Remember, for as long as we are on this train together, my name is Helen Vitellius, and you met me five minutes ago. All right? And tell your maid – Hetty – the same.’

  Jocelyn popped his head round the open compartment door.

  ‘Miss Wells – Miss Wong?’ he said. ‘I’ve looked at the tap, and it all seems quite in order now. I see you have met Mrs Vitellius . . .’

  ‘We were admiring her spiffing hats,’ said Daisy, beaming, as though she had not been having a furious row two minutes ago. ‘Come on, Hazel, I expect Mrs Vitellius wants to unpack her pretty clothes.’

  Back we went to our compartment, and my heart was in my shoes. Mysteries wherever we turned, and we were not to be allowed to investigate any of them! It was not fair! I was trying so hard to be good, and to ignore the intrigue surrounding the Daunts – and then we were handed a real spy drama, under our very noses. I looked at Daisy and saw that she was fizzing with indignation too. Whether the grown-ups liked it or not, the Detective Society had discovered yet another mystery, and being told not to investigate it by Miss Livedon – no, Mrs Vitellius! – had only made us more curious.

  2

  The train steamed on, rattling and ratcheting and groaning like a living thing. It was still making me feel rather ill – my whole head was filled with the noise, and my feet did not know what to do, with the floor shaking and bouncing up and down between every step. But then I sat down on the edge of Daisy’s bunk (the bottom one) and stared out of the window, and saw the lit stone buildings of Calais sliding away behind us. It was like a night picture endlessly rolling away and renewing itself, just for me. The houses vanished and were replaced by cold silver fields; then there was a shining river, pale and slow; and then we rushed into a forest, and all I could see was the lit compartment behind me, and Daisy stalking up and down in her nightie.

  It seemed to me that what we had heard from Mrs Vitellius really could not be ignored. What was going on with the Daunts was strange, but there might be nothing more to it. A real spy, though, was simply too fascinating not to look into. Mrs Vitellius might have tried to warn us off, but if we have learned anything from our two proper cases so far, it is that grown-ups are not always right. No matter what she said, we had to help discover the identity of the person selling secrets to Germany. If we did not, we would be letting down not only ourselves and our Detective Society, but the whole of Britain. I imagined the King looking sadly at me, the Queen and the handsome Princes behind him. I had to look after poor King George – he was very old, after all, and old people should not be upset.

  Daisy was saying something, but I was so deep in my thoughts that I ignored her. My father expected me to be good this holiday, I knew that. But wasn’t it better to unmask a spy who was working against Britain than to be good? Could he really object if we brought someone to justice?

  I knew at the bottom of my heart that he could – but I did not want to admit it. My father would be furious at the way I was twisting the problem – but suddenly I felt that what he thought did not matter so very much. Yes, he wanted the best for me – but wasn’t I old enough to begin to decide for myself what the best for me was? I am very nearly fourteen, after all, and people who are fourteen are practically grown-ups.

  ‘Hazel!’ said Daisy, jabbing me in the ribs, and I jumped. ‘I’ve been talking to you, Hazel. Listen up! You’re dreaming. As I was saying, we have found our mystery. Although Mrs Vitellius has very good detective instincts, we know that she is not as successful as we are at testing her suspicions. We must investigate as well, and if you continue to go on about this being a holiday, as President of the Detective Society I shall have to order you—’

  ‘You don’t have to persuade me!’ I said. ‘I’ve decided that I want to investigate this case as much as you do.’

  Daisy beamed at me. ‘Hazel, you brick!’ she cried, and then she flung her arms about me so tightly that I struggled for breath.

  3

  On Sunday, I woke up to a glow of sunlight on my face, dreaming I was flying. The soaring settled into the rocking rhythm of the train, and I opened my eyes to see that the sun had risen behind our fringed scroll-down blind and was stretching across my white pillow. I breathed in the starchy smell of clean sheets and smiled.

  And then I remembered: we were not just on holiday any more. We were beginning another investigation. I leaned out of my bunk and saw Daisy below me, splashing water across her face and humming.

  ‘Hazel!’ she cried when
she saw me awake. ‘Get up! We’ve got a whole lovely day to be detectives in!’

  We dressed, and out we went into the corridor. Jocelyn was at his post, yawning a little and smiling at us, and Daisy beamed back at him as we went past to breakfast.

  ‘Allies,’ she said in an undertone as we sat at our table, ‘are always very useful. Remember that, Hazel.’

  We had decided that we would begin our investigations over breakfast, while we had all our suspects in the same place. The dining car looked lovely, all crisp white linen, sparkling glass and deep fringed arm-chairs, but just like our sleeping carriage, it was a hotel dining room in miniature, everything so close together that we could hear nearly every word spoken.

  The tables were set in twos and fours. Although only the Countess and Alexander were already having breakfast, it was clear that everyone from the Calais–Istanbul coach would be seated together at the end closest to our compartments. There were passengers from other coaches bound for other destinations at the far end, but we ignored them. They seemed to be citizens of quite another country, one that did not matter to us in the slightest.

  Of course, my father and Maxwell and Daisy and I had been seated together. The Countess and Alexander (who smiled widely at me when I caught his eye; I looked away) were also at a table for four behind us – I wondered which passengers would be joining them. The table for two opposite us was still empty.

  Then a white-coated waiter stopped by our table and put a telegram down on my father’s plate. He unfolded it, the paper crackling thinly, and read it with a frown. My heart jumped hopefully. I knew that expression – it meant that there was business to be done. It seemed that my father was just as bad at being on holiday as Daisy and I were.

  ‘It’s Bartlett and Evans,’ my father told Maxwell. ‘Their Carfax sale – it’s going ahead. We must prepare the papers. Hazel, my dear, I had hoped to alight at some of the stations with you – Lausanne or Milan – today, but I’m afraid it won’t be possible. I’ll need to work on this for most of the day, so you and Daisy must look after yourselves. And tomorrow I’ll show you Belgrade. Can you forgive me?’

  I felt quite horrid. It could not have worked out more perfectly for me and Daisy – but of course I had to look disappointed. I do hate lying to my father.

  I tried to distract myself with breakfast – which, luckily, was very easy. It was lovely. The waiters came round with steaming platters of sausages and eggs, like we had in England, but there were also plates of buttery toast and sweet pastries oozing with jam and chocolate – it really was just like eating cake.

  Then Mrs Vitellius came in, and the Daunts, Mrs Daunt wearing that same glorious necklace we had seen the evening before. Behind me, someone dropped a fork, and I turned to see the little old Countess staring at Mrs Daunt, her eyebrows raised in shock and anger, as though she had done something dreadful to offend her. I wondered what it might be. Mr Daunt seemed in a much better mood than the night before: he pulled out his wife’s chair for her before the waiter could reach it, and handed her her napkin most lovingly.

  Mrs Daunt, although she was wearing a very smart blue dress with her necklace, looked pinched and cross.

  ‘I’m sure I’m not well,’ she said. ‘I have the most dreadful headache. I wish you—’

  ‘Dear Georgie, would you like coffee? Tea?’ Mr Daunt said over her. I was not surprised to hear that Mrs Daunt had a headache – her husband was so loud and pushy that he must be exhausting.

  ‘Coffee,’ said Mrs Daunt. ‘Black.’

  Mr Daunt shouted to the waiter, asking for coffee and eggs and fruit, and sausages for himself. Mrs Daunt rested her head on her hands and winced. ‘I want Mama,’ she announced suddenly. ‘I want to speak to her. I’ve changed my mind – I’m going to ask Madame Melinda to let me speak to her.’

  ‘You are NOT—’ bellowed Mr Daunt. Then he took a deep breath and collected himself. ‘Dear Georgie, what have I told you? That woman’s bad news – she’s an absolute charlatan. She’s only after one thing, and that’s your money.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Mrs Daunt, a rising whine in her voice. ‘That’s just what you say. I want Mama! I want to speak to her!’

  She really was like a first-year shrimp from school, I thought, all silly and sulky. But perhaps it was all an act. I knew from our previous cases that people could be very good at acting a part. Despite appearances, could she be the spy that Mrs Vitellius was here to catch?

  I looked up and saw that Daisy was listening in as well, while pretending to admire the lovely fluted lamps on the wall behind the Daunts. I wondered what she was thinking.

  Then I heard Alexander hiss, ‘Grandmother!’

  I turned and saw that the Countess had got up from her table, taking absolutely no notice of him. Leaning elegantly on her cane, she tapped her way over to the Daunts, and then she stretched out a thin finger – in green lace gloves to go with her lovely green silk dress – to point it at Mrs Daunt’s throat. The ruby of Mrs Daunt’s necklace jumped like a heartbeat, and Mrs Daunt herself shrank away into her chair, her face suddenly nervous.

  ‘Morning,’ said Mr Daunt, frowning up at her. ‘What can we do for you?’

  The Countess’s finger did not waver.

  ‘That ruby,’ she said sharply, ‘is mine.’

  Mr Daunt was staring at her as though she had gone quite insane. The Countess, though, spoke slowly and clearly. ‘I tell you that you have my ruby, and I demand it back at once.’

  ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ spluttered Mr Daunt.

  ‘That ruby,’ said the Countess, ‘has been in my family for five hundred years. However you came by it, it is mine, and one day it will be my grandson’s.’

  ‘Are you a madwoman?’ asked Mr Daunt. ‘I bought this necklace fair and square for Georgie two months ago. The deed of sale and the insurance are in my luggage, if you’d care to look at them. I can even tell you how much it cost.’ I felt Daisy frown at that.

  ‘You do not seem to understand,’ said the Countess, her voice sharp as metal. ‘When I left Russia, we were forced to sell it against our will. Now I have found it again, and it is time to get it back. It is not its price, it is what it means to our family. I demand that you return it to me, where it belongs.’

  ‘Pooh to that,’ replied Mr Daunt. ‘Go away. I bought it, and I own it, and Georgie will wear it.’

  ‘How dare you!’ cried the Countess. Her colour was high, and her little bird-like chest was heaving. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this – you’ll see!’

  And she jabbed her finger forward, so quickly that Mrs Daunt squealed and raised her hands in front of her face. But all the Countess did was turn and stalk out of the dining car, her cane punching into the soft carpet as though it might bore holes straight through it. Alexander leaped up and rushed after her, casting one awkward glance over his shoulder.

  Mrs Daunt was gasping with shock.

  ‘Eat your breakfast, my love,’ said her husband, patting her hand. ‘Don’t worry about her. She’s quite clearly a madwoman.’

  Mrs Daunt pouted and her hand strayed to her throat unhappily. ‘It was awful, William . . .’ she said. ‘Promise you won’t let her take it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Mr Daunt, glaring around at us all as though he wanted us to forget what we had just seen.

  But the incident still floated about the room, like a bad smell that would not go away.

  4

  By nudging my shin with the toe of her shoe, Daisy told me to hurry up and finish my breakfast, and as my father and Maxwell had begun a very serious grown-up discussion about people and places and numbers that all sounded much the same, it was easy for us to escape. Out of the dining car we went (I wrapped an extra pastry in my napkin and stuffed it into my skirt pocket, just in case), and found ourselves back in the corridor.

  Jocelyn was still at his post. ‘Miss Wong!’ he said. ‘Miss Wells! Do you need anything?’

  ‘Oh, no,’
said Daisy, putting on her best being-nice-to-grown-ups face. ‘We only wanted to talk to you. The Orient Express is quite wonderful. Goodness, you must have the most exciting job. And so important!’

  ‘Oh yes, miss,’ said Jocelyn, beaming. ‘I do enjoy it.’

  ‘Just think of all the people you must meet! Why, in this carriage alone . . . Is the Countess really Russian nobility?’

  I could almost see Jocelyn thinking. It was not terribly good form, of course, to speak about the other passengers. But Daisy was gazing up at him, eyes wide, innocence shining out of her.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ he said, and I bit my lip to stop myself smiling. He was under her spell. ‘I believe the family had to flee during the Revolution. She lives in England now, although the rest of her family moved on to America.’

  Five minutes later we had enough knowledge in our hands to write out a passenger manifest. Madame Melinda really was a medium, and Mr Daunt’s diet pills were doing terribly well now that he had married an heiress and invested her money in the business.

  Mr Strange, besides being Mrs Daunt’s brother, was a novelist – one who wrote gory, shocking crime mysteries. Their mother had disapproved of his books, and that was why she had left everything to Mrs Daunt. Apparently he was on the Orient Express to gather information for his next novel. ‘Are they any good?’ Daisy had asked Jocelyn, and he had replied, ‘Well, I shouldn’t think your parents would like you to read them,’ and winked.

  Alexander, although he lived in America, went to a most English boarding school – ‘Perhaps you know him?’ asked Jocelyn.

  I frowned. I did not like the way he expected us to make friends with Alexander, for all that he seemed all right. I wanted this holiday to be just Daisy and me, like old times.

  We heard about Mrs Vitellius too, and Il Mysterioso (though nothing new about either of them), and I really did almost feel guilty about tricking Jocelyn like this. He seemed such a thoroughly nice person – but detection is sometimes not a very nice thing.