‘Did you see—?’ I gasped to Daisy.
‘See what?’ asked my father.
‘That glorious façade,’ said Daisy smoothly – and I knew that she had seen everything I had. ‘Baroque, isn’t it?’
So as far as we were concerned, the investigation was complete. We had found our spy.
After that, I only wanted to be back on the train again. It seemed an age before we were approaching the station – I was terrified that the Orient Express might leave without us – but at last, there we were, hurrying back along the platform where the train waited, gathering steam. Then the guards waved their flags, whistles shrilled and the train began to rock and tremble. It quite knocked me sideways again. I thought I should never get used to the way trains moved – like being inside something living, and breathing, and fierce.
There was a shout from outside, and Il Mysterioso came leaping aboard, cape swirling. I shrank back against the patterned wall, staring at him. His eyes looked wild, and I was terrified that he knew what we had seen. But then he nodded at us all (my father nodded back, and Daisy managed a weak smile) and strode past to his compartment. He evidently had no idea that we had been watching.
‘What if he’s already handed all the secrets over?’ I whispered to Daisy. ‘Are we too late?’
‘He can’t have,’ said Daisy. ‘Mrs Vitellius mentioned that the spy’s main meeting point with the Germans would be Belgrade, didn’t she? We’ll just have to make sure we’re ready, the moment we pull into the station there. Don’t worry, Watson, we’re still in time to stop him – now that we know it’s him.’
‘But can we?’ I asked.
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Daisy firmly.
The train moved off, and after that the forests closed in and became something out of a fairy tale, dark and deep and turning blue in the distance. I thought I saw a bear, but Daisy did not believe me. ‘Really,’ she said, pressing her nose up against the window in delight, ‘this is quite the nicest place to have a mystery, isn’t it?’
We stopped several times – in big city stations and smaller country halts with just a strip of platform edging onto grass – and one of us always got out and loitered, peering down the length of the train, in case Il Mysterioso took the opportunity to do something else illegal. But we saw no more packages being traded. Indeed, he kept to his compartment. ‘He must be preparing the information to hand over in Belgrade,’ Daisy told me.
Mrs Vitellius, though, seemed to be everywhere, passing up and down the corridor and striking up amusing conversations with the other passengers. ‘What a lovely brooch!’ she cried, accosting the Countess.
‘I had many brooches once,’ the Countess replied gloomily, leaning on her cane. ‘They are all gone. Taken. Stolen. I had earrings too. And bracelets, and necklaces – ah, if there was any justice in the world I would be back in Russia, able to chop off the heads of the people who took my necklaces. You know my necklace is on this train? This very train! Why, I would like to go and take it back. If I were in Russia, I should do it now.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Vitellius. ‘Really?’
‘I intend to do so later,’ said the Countess, clenching her fists. ‘After dinner tonight. It is my right.’
We tried to avoid Mrs Vitellius, but of course it was terribly hard – and every time she saw us she gave us a quick, hard glance. It was turning out that having Mrs Vitellius as an adversary was a most uncomfortable thing. Did she know about Il Mysterioso? She seemed to be watching him as well – but then, she was watching everyone. Should we tell her what we knew: that he was the spy she was looking for? I felt we ought to – but then it would prove that we had disobeyed her, and I hated to think what she might do to us. She had been so dreadfully fierce the day before.
We watched and waited all afternoon, until I felt almost unbearable with it, breathless and excited like the day before Christmas. As we dressed for dinner, my fingers shook doing up the buttons on my dress, and I almost tore my collar. Daisy pulled her dress over her head, and it fell in gentle black and orange folds around her. Next to Daisy’s lovely gown my own looked very silly and little-girlish. I blushed at its short skirt and spots.
Daisy peered at herself in the gold-edged mirror above our basin. ‘Hmph. I’ll do, I suppose.’
‘You look all right,’ I said shortly, standing on tiptoe to peep at myself over her shoulder. My hair was coming out of its plaits and I looked dreadfully pale.
‘I wish I had your colouring,’ said Daisy as a bell rang sweetly out of the shuddering noise of the train, and a voice cried, ‘Premier service!’
‘Oh, goody, dinner.’
There was a knock on our door, and when I opened it, there was my father, smiling at me.
‘May I take you through to dinner, mesdemoiselles?’ he asked, holding his arm out to me as though I were a grand lady. It was silly really, but I could not stop myself smiling back at him. I took his arm, and Daisy slipped her arm through my free one, and in a row (squeezing together slightly to get down the narrow, shaking corridor) we went into the dining car.
Our crisp white table had been set with ranks of glittering silver and crystal and glowing lamps, all shivering and dancing with the movement of the train.
‘Hazel, you are setting an excellent example to your friend,’ my father told me quietly as Daisy sat down and a white-jacketed waiter flicked her smooth white napkin out across her lap. ‘You see how improving this holiday has already been?’
‘Yes, Father,’ I said, and sat down myself with a bump.
The waiter poured out water (for us) and wine (for my father) without spilling a single drop. It was like a magic trick. I stared out of the window, past the soft reflected glow of the lamps on the tables, at the tall trees that almost hid the softening evening sky, covering and then revealing it again like moving fingers. Everything outside, beyond the pane of glass, somehow seemed very far away and unreal.
Another waiter came round with a steaming tureen of soup, pouring it out with a flourish right in front of my nose, and I clenched my spoon in my fist and took rattling, nervous sips. A speck landed on my collar at once, and I sighed.
The food was gorgeous, if rather grown up. After the soup there was chicken in a fancy tower, and then white fish in a creamy sauce – the waiters served it all from large silver platters; it was almost magical how they flourished it onto our plates without mishap. Pudding was crêpes Suzette – cooked at the table, and then set alight, so that shocking short bursts of blue flame flared across the carriage.
But I was almost distracted from the food altogether by what was happening all around it.
I was watching Il Mysterioso, of course. He seemed preoccupied, chewing away at his food automatically and quite ignoring the other people (Mr Strange, Mrs Vitellius and Madame Melinda) on his table. Halfway through the main course he took out a propelling pencil and began to draw on his cloth napkin, tugging at his beard and muttering under his breath. Daisy nudged me and we both sat up straighter. Were these British plans being sketched out?
‘Sir!’ said the waiter. ‘May I fetch you a notepad?’
‘No, no,’ said Il Mysterioso, waving him away. ‘This will do.’
The Daunts had come into the dining car together. He seemed as loving as ever, but she looked even more sulky, flinching away from him as he guided her to her chair. She was still wearing the necklace, and it glowed mesmerizingly. I heard the Countess say, in a very loud stage whisper, ‘Look at our jewel!’
‘Grandmother!’ said Alexander. I glanced round and saw him blushing – and though I turned my head away quickly, I found myself thinking again that perhaps he was someone we ought to get to know.
Jocelyn made his way through the restaurant car on his way to the Calais–Athens coach beyond it, smiling and nodding to the passengers as he went.
‘I tell you, my dear, put your mother out of your head!’ said Mr Daunt.
I suppose it came out louder than he had intended – and this was all t
he cue Madame Melinda needed. She stood up and glided over to the Daunts’ table, the tassels and beads on her dress clicking as she did so. She really did glide – all her movements were very smooth and majestic, as though she had been oiled.
‘Are you quite all right, dear Georgie?’ she asked.
‘Do go away,’ said Mr Daunt. ‘Nothing to see here.’
Mrs Daunt pouted. ‘Oh, William!’ she said. ‘Why can’t I speak to her?’
‘Indeed!’ cried Madame Melinda, drawing herself up to her full height (which was not very high). ‘Georgie, my dear, do not despair. I have come to give you good news – I have received a Communication.’
Mrs Daunt’s face suddenly glowed with hope. ‘From Mama?’ she asked.
‘But of course,’ said Madame Melinda. ‘She demands to be heard – tonight.’
‘Oh, do go away,’ said Mr Daunt. ‘Haven’t you been listening? I won’t let you practise your mumbo-jumbo on my wife on this train.’
‘But, William!’ said Mrs Daunt. ‘I want to speak to Mama!’
‘No!’ shouted Mr Daunt, his face very red. ‘This is for your own good! I want an end to this. There will be no more séances, if you please. You’ – he pointed a thick finger at Madame Melinda – ‘shan’t get any more of my money!’
With a sob of distress, Mrs Daunt leaped up, necklace flashing hectically under the lamps, and rushed from the room.
‘This is your fault,’ snarled Mr Daunt, glaring at Madame Melinda. ‘I only want to make her happy!’
‘Happy? She ran away from you! And I am not surprised. You have the most distressing aura. Quite red – almost black. I tell you, I will continue holding sessions with Georgiana until she asks me to stop.’
‘You dare!’ roared Mr Daunt. ‘You . . . you . . . get out of my way. I must go and look after my wife.’
He strode out, growling to himself. The whole carriage sat, electrified. The only sounds were the clink and rattle of cutlery and the shake and roar of the train. Not one of us could think of a thing to say until Mr Daunt returned a few minutes later.
‘Wouldn’t see me,’ he said, glaring across to where Madame Melinda had resumed her seat. He clearly meant that it was her fault once again. ‘Sarah! Go and see if she needs anything.’
Sarah frowned up at him from where she was sitting with Hetty. ‘I’ll go when I’ve finished,’ she said pertly, ‘sir,’ and she went back to her crêpes. I was amazed all over again by her rude behaviour, and surprised that Mr Daunt did not tell her off. Instead, he ordered more crêpes, and the blue flame when they were lit threw his nasty red face and hairy moustache into sharp relief.
Mr Strange was staring at him as well, I noticed; he had shrunk back into his seat as though trying not to be seen. He did not seem very sorry that his sister had been upset. On the contrary, he looked almost gleeful. I wondered if this was all just material for his research, or whether he liked seeing his sister suffer. I thought he did. He stood up and sloped out, and then Il Mysterioso got to his feet too. He looked so distracted that I wondered whether he had even noticed the argument. Was he too busy thinking about how he was going to hand over the secret information when we arrived in Belgrade? He left, and Daisy nudged me.
I knew we ought to leave as well, but just then the Countess got up, saying, ‘Now is the time to speak to her. I feel it. No, Alexander, don’t fuss! I’m perfectly all right. I can handle this family’s affairs on my own!’ She stalked past our table, hands clenched around her cane and lips set, and I knew that we could not go spying on Il Mysterioso while the Countess was in the corridor, bothering Mrs Daunt about the necklace – because, of course, that was what she was about to do.
Daisy held up a hand with four fingers, and I nodded and waited – and then, just as the four minutes was up, Sarah stood up with a groan and a roll of her pretty eyes. ‘All right, then, I’m off to look in on Madam. Don’t say I never do anything for you,’ she told Mr Daunt as she passed by, poking him with her finger in a shockingly familiar way. He glared at her.
So again we had to wait – and then, as though there was a conspiracy to thwart us, up got Madame Melinda and Mrs Vitellius. They went out together, Madame Melinda muttering crossly and glaring back over her shoulder at Mr Daunt, while Mrs Vitellius yawned and fiddled with her cigarette holder.
Trying not to fidget, I swooped my spoon around my plate and wished it was polite to pick it up and lick it. There was still some syrup on it. But of course, my father would not think that civilized behaviour at all. Daisy poked me. Two minutes, her fingers said.
And that was when we heard the scream.
8
It was such a loud, high scream that I think some people assumed it was the train’s whistle going off unexpectedly. ‘Tunnel, is it?’ asked Maxwell, startled.
But I knew it was a scream – and I knew it had come from a woman. The noise rocketed up my spine and made me sit up straight, as poised as Daisy. Who had screamed? Mrs Vitellius? The Countess? Sarah? Madame Melinda? Or . . . Mrs Daunt.
Daisy herself was out of her seat before any of the rest of us had even begun to move, rushing towards the sound. The worse something seems, the more Daisy needs to be close to it.
Mr Daunt pushed past her and led the charge out of the dining car. Out we went into the corridor, which was already crammed full of people. Madame Melinda was beating on the door of Mrs Daunt’s compartment – so it was Mrs Daunt who had screamed – and shouting, ‘Georgiana! Dear Georgiana!’ Behind her was Mrs Vitellius, having very believable hysterics, and the Countess, looking fierce. Mr Strange stood frozen outside his room, an expression of terror on his face. Jocelyn came running towards us from the dining car, his Wagon Lit cap falling off. There was no Il Mysterioso, though, I noticed. His door was closed. Where was he? How could he not have heard the commotion?
‘OUT OF MY WAY!’ bellowed Mr Daunt, and he pushed Madame Melinda aside (or at least tried to – she is very solid, like a nesting doll, and so only swayed) and hammered on his wife’s door. ‘Georgie!’ he shouted. He dashed into his own compartment, and rattled the connecting door. ‘This is locked! GEORGIE! Why isn’t she answering?’
He came barrelling back out into the corridor and bellowed this at Sarah, who was backed up against the wall, scowling.
‘She wasn’t answering earlier either,’ she said. ‘She’s probably still sulking. She’s got the key in the compartment with her.’ But for once she sounded more frightened than cross.
‘I’m going to break down the door,’ announced Mr Daunt. ‘GEORGIE!’
‘Wait – sir – I can get a key!’ said Jocelyn, still panting.
‘Hang your key,’ said Mr Daunt. He backed up, cheeks red, white shirt front gleaming in the light from the corridor’s chandeliers, and then barrelled forward into the compartment door. It gave with a smash, and he staggered inside. Madame Melinda darted after him – quite quickly, considering her size – and for a moment the doorway was quite obscured. Mrs Vitellius was trying to get in, and the Countess, so I could not see – and then the Countess gave a cry and started backwards, straight into me, at exactly the moment Mr Daunt yelled, ‘GEORGIE!’
The Countess’s face was scrumpled up with horror. Madame Melinda let out a shriek, and Jocelyn, pushing past me (it was very rude, I thought – I only wanted to see what was going on), cried out too. ‘A doctor!’ he shouted. ‘A doctor, quick!’ and he reached up and pulled the emergency cord. The train let out a squeal, and then, with a grinding of brakes and a tremor that had us all falling against each other and shouting, the Orient Express began to slow. It shook and shuddered, and then at last, after what seemed like an age, it was still. In the eerie silence my ears still hummed with the ghost of the noise, and I felt myself trembling – it took me a moment to realize I must be shaking with shock, not from the train.
Daisy was up on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd. Alexander was craning his head too, just as eager as she was – which was perhaps why Daisy – who, as I have m
entioned before, truly hates to have any kind of competition – said, ‘Oh, bother that,’ seized my hand and dragged us past everyone else into the doorway of Mrs Daunt’s compartment.
And I saw.
The compartment lamps were off, and the only light flowed in from the corridor. Half in the pool of it knelt Mr Daunt, a heavy shape slumped in his arms. It was Mrs Daunt – I could tell by her hair, and her lovely dress. But the hair, and the dress, and Mr Daunt’s white shirt front were all now covered with bright blood; it was splashed everywhere, such an awful lot of it . . . And in the light I also saw the room key and Mr Strange’s knife, both smeared in blood as well.
My knees gave way, which was not very good detective behaviour, but is the truth, and Daisy had to prop me up against her, squeezing my arm. She had gone very white and pink, her mouth open, and I could feel her heart beating through the soft fabric of her dress. She did not make a sound.
Madame Melinda had been struck dizzy too – she had staggered sideways to slump against the connecting door between Mrs and Mr Daunt’s compartments, her scarf balled up in one of her fists. Her eyelids fluttered, and she said, ‘Georgie! Oh, Georgie!’
‘If you’re going to faint, go through to my compartment,’ growled Mr Daunt. ‘Go on, open the door.’
Madame Melinda rattled it. ‘It’s locked,’ she said, fanning herself – and then repeated, ‘It’s locked!’ She pointed to the bolt with trembling fingers. Then she slid it back, pushing the door open. ‘Both this door and the main door – both locked, from the inside. Oh Lord! The spirits have been here, I tell you! The spirits! Nothing else could have got into this compartment!’
First Class Murder: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery Page 6