The Secret of the Night Train

by Sylvia Bishop

  “HA!” shouted Ester, from the back.

  “Got them! Meddlers! Got them!” screeched the parrot. The nearest bird opened his eyes in surprise, and chirruped. The next bird heard him, and she stirred too. One by one, around the house, the jewelled birds heard the call, twitched their wings, and started to sing.

  The Turkish police offered Max and Marguerite a fancy hotel to stay in, but they went to stay with Salem instead, sleeping on cushions on the floor of his flat. That night, the three of them stayed up swapping stories. First, Max and Marguerite told Salem everything that had happened at the house, right up to the moment Suzanne Leroy and Great-Aunt Elodie had been handcuffed and taken away. Max remembered, but didn’t try to describe, how her great-aunt’s eyes had darted leftrightupdown as they took her to the police car, and how she had never dropped that small smile.

  Then Salem told stories. He was a wonderful storyteller. He told them about the unlikely adventures that he had ended up on thanks to Sister Marguerite. He told them funny stories about his wife, Anne, and their young lives in Paris, and how scatty and kind she was. They had a zoo full of inconvenient pets that had needed looking after, and if Anne found anything injured, she would bring it home.

  “Only Anne,” he laughed, “would bring a goose back to our tiny flat.” And some of the soft dough of his face folded into laughter lines, and some of it folded into sorrow, all at the same time.

  In the morning Max woke with an idea, and since she woke just before dawn, the idea was extra sticky. Before the others were awake, she slipped on her shoes, padded out through the deserted café, and raced through the shuttered streets back to Great-Aunt Elodie’s house. Two sleepy police officers were on guard, because the whole place had to be searched for stolen goods, and they didn’t want any of the other Phantoms removing anything overnight.

  Max, out of breath, panted her idea to them.

  “Well,” said one, yawning, “If you’re sure he wants them, then fine. They’ve got to go somewhere.”

  “He will,” said Max. She didn’t know for sure, but she was an optimist.

  The others were up early, and for the rest of the day, Max and Sister Marguerite explored Istanbul. Salem had to stay and look after the café, but they invited Rupert, Ester and Klaus. Ester declined – “Just because we’re on the same side,” she blared, “doesn’t mean I want to traipse round Istanbul with you pointing at things and smiling” – but Klaus was free to go now that her jewels were safe, and Rupert came too.

  Max finally saw the Istanbul that she had read about in her armchair. They had to dash from place to place, but once they had arrived somewhere, Max slowed down, trying to learn every detail by heart. It made her feel slightly desperate to think she might ever forget. She saw all the famous sights. She lingered in the morning light that filtered through the stained glass of the Blue Mosque; she felt herself shrink a little under the huge painted dome of Hagia Sophia; she let herself be flooded right through with every colour in Topkapı Palace. She lost Sister Marguerite for at least half an hour in the heaving halls of the Grand Bazaar, but found her in the end, haggling over some sheets of black fabric for a new habit.

  Max loved seeing all the famous buildings, but she loved it best when they came unexpectedly upon colourful streets that slid steeply downhill towards the Bosphorus Strait; streets that felt, as you stood at their crest, like they were the beginning of something exciting. She could generally persuade the others to race her down them. Klaus was slow and lumbering, but Marguerite and Max were well matched – and the winner was always Rupert, by a long way.

  “Still homesick?” asked Sister Marguerite, as they caught their breath after an especially close race.

  Max considered this. She missed her home, but there wasn’t a knot in her stomach any more.

  “No,” she said, “I don’t think so. At least, it doesn’t feel like sickness any more. I just know, kind of in the back of my mind, that there’s something important I’ve left behind.”

  Sister Marguerite nodded a satisfied nod, her wimple wobbling. “The first rule of travelling,” she reminded her, “is that you have always left something behind.”

  Early that evening they had to meet Le Goff, to discuss their reward for finding the diamond. They said goodbye to Rupert and Klaus, and strolled back to the great white house on the Bosphorus Strait. When they arrived, police officers swarmed about the house like ants, and a knot of especially worried police officers at the front barked into radios.

  They found Le Goff in the gardens, tucked up under a pile of blankets in a deckchair by the rosemary, his breath misting in the air. As they approached, he looked up from his crossword. “Hello!” he said. “I thought we’d talk out here. You can’t get a moment’s peace inside. They’re tearing the place apart. Everywhere you turn somebody wants you to do something.”

  Le Goff had apologized at length yesterday, but things were still a bit stiff and awkward. There was a “well then” sort of silence. Another of the worried police officers with the radios hurried past, his radio crackling out panicked Turkish.

  “Is something wrong?” Max asked, her gaze following the officer.

  “Your great-aunt,” said Le Goff, lying back and shutting his eyes, “has disappeared. Left Suzanne Leroy behind and phantomed off somehow by herself. But your great-aunt has been a Turkish citizen for years –” he smiled at this “– so she’s their problem. Not mine.”

  “Le Goff,” said Marguerite sternly, “do you have any interest in solving crimes beyond what is strictly required of you?”

  Le Goff sipped his coffee and considered this. “No,” he said. “Not really.”

  Max just stood, breathing in the scent of rosemary and taking in the news. She found that she was not at all surprised. Somewhere inside, she had always known that her great-aunt would flutter out of trouble. The way her eyes had darted about as they led her away, Max had known that she was already twitching together the threads of a plan.

  Poor Suzanne, left behind. She was ruthless with her enemies, but Great-Aunt Elodie was ruthless with her friends.

  Le Goff interrupted her thoughts. “By the way, Max,” he said. “The house keeps getting calls from a Mr Marek. He says that he was sent a parcel from Elodie Morel, and even though it was a very odd parcel, he is very keen to know why she was trying to contact them, and whether he can be of assistance.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “Apparently, the parcel was delivered by a small girl, and contained a letter to someone called Maximilienne.”

  Max remembered Istvan Marek looking up sharply from the parcel, and how the three of them had shouted after her as she ran. She had thought they were cross with her, but they must have been excited by the name on her great-aunt’s headed paper. It made her feel peculiar to think that they were still there in their soft silent hallway, all those miles away, calling and calling for Elodie Morel. “Um,” she said, “sorry about that. I was investigating.”

  “Unlike some people,” added Marguerite, looking pointedly at Le Goff. “Now, what about this reward?”

  It turned out that the reward would have to be paid to Max, as nuns aren’t allowed money. But Max didn’t have a bank account.

  “Well, I’ll send someone to get it in cash for you, then,” said Le Goff, closing his eyes again and covering up a yawn. “That will be simplest.”

  Sister Marguerite opened her mouth to tell him off. Clearly, she didn’t think that handing huge sums of money in cash over to small children was a very thorough way to deal with the situation. But Max kicked her ankle, and mouthed, “Rupert.” If they could give Rupert the cash that he needed, he could return safely to London. So Sister Marguerite shut her mouth again, and settled for pursing her lips instead.

  Two hours later, they were setting off back to Salem’s café, carrying two cases. One, bulging and heavy, was for Rupert’s debts. The other, the lighter case, Max was allowed to keep.

  “How much did this train journey cost?” Max asked. Sister Margueri
te told her. Max did her sums, which made her brain hurt, and she had to do them a few times to be sure. “OK,” she said at last, “then I’m going to go somewhere on a train every school holiday until I’m … until I leave school.”

  When they reached the café, Salem was sitting at a table outside, slowly and patiently taking black onyx off a tiny bird, which trembled in his hand. The window was already full of de-jewelled birds, cheeping feebly for joy, and in the alleyway at the side of the café hundreds more cages were waiting.

  “This was your doing, Max? Setting me this Herculean task?” said Salem. But he was smiling, and Max knew from the tender way that he stroked the onyx bird that he was pleased. It warbled softly to him.

  “I thought you might know what to do for them,” said Max.

  “I can try my best. They’ll probably never be able to fly now; but they can be comfortable enough, if I look after them. And they’re already earning their keep.” He nodded down the road, to a young couple walking towards them. “Watch.”

  The couple were clearly from out of town, and looking for somewhere to stop. A foot away from Salem’s café, one of them stopped to exclaim, and pointed to the café with the glorious wall of birds in the window. The birds preened themselves, and sang as sweetly as they could. After a moment’s discussion, the couple went inside. Max poked her head in after them, and saw that the room was already two-thirds full, and the waiter was busy running from table to table.

  “Imagine when I have filled my whole café with birds,” said Salem, removing the last thread of onyx from the tiny creature in his hands. “Imagine how beautiful it will be.” And Max could, and it made her so pleased that she had to turn a couple of cartwheels down the pavement just to work the jumpy feeling off.

  Max and Marguerite were being flown home the next day, so everyone had dinner at Salem’s café that night – even Ester, although she made up for it by keeping up a constant stream of complaints about the food. Near their table a shabby old parrot watched them, shouting “Meddlers!” at intervals with great satisfaction.

  Max handed Rupert his suitcase.

  “Crikey,” he said, “quick work, Max. Gosh. Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  “That was the deal,” said Max. “And we couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “I don’t notice us getting cases of cash,” grumbled Ester.

  “Ester Rosenkrantz,” said Sister Marguerite. “You have enough cash already to build yourself a house out of it.”

  Ester pouted. “It’s expensive, being an old woman,” she creaked. “I’ve just agreed to hire this idiot permanently, for a start.” And she stole some stuffed vine leaves from Klaus’s plate, to indicate who she was talking about.

  Klaus beamed. “I’m Ester’s new personal assistant.”

  “Heaven help me,” added Ester. But Klaus just laughed.

  Max never wanted dinner to end, but it had to end sometime. The food was finished, the candle on their table was almost used up and starting to gutter, and the café had slowly emptied out around them. Even the parrot was asleep under its wing. However hard she tried to hide her yawns, Max could not fool Sister Marguerite, and all too soon everything was suddenly rushing to a close.

  “Don’t look so glum, Max,” said Salem. “You can come and visit. Any time.”

  “I’ll write, Max,” promised Klaus.

  “Me too,” said Rupert.

  They all looked at Ester.

  “What?” she said. “What?” She chucked a pear drop in her mouth. “Oh. Bye, Max.”

  Which would have to do.

  They left Istanbul on another misty dawn, but this time they took off upwards into the mist, on upwards into cloud, until they couldn’t see the land any more. The aeroplane made Max feel pressed in, somehow, and it hardly felt as though they were travelling, even though she knew that they were gobbling up the miles.

  She wondered whether, somewhere below them, a train snaking across land was carrying Great-Aunt Elodie away.

  When they landed back in France, Max treated them both to a taxi, and sat with her nose pressed to the window as they weaved and wound around familiar corners of Paris. They pulled up at last outside her own home. Sister Marguerite was staying in the taxi, to carry on to the convent. She kissed Max once on each cheek. “See you soon, mon lapin.”

  It was the middle of the day, so her parents were out. Her older brother Pierre was at his national chess tournament, and her older sister Claudette was at her international showjumping championship. Max let herself in. From the living room, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, the sound deadened slightly by the thick curtains and carpets.

  Max went into the kitchen, where there was a welcome-home note from her mother. She made herself hot chocolate on the stove, and took it up to the attic; and she took her brown travelling case too, because it felt strange to be without it. She sat in her own red armchair. Then, to her surprise, she cried.

  She had wanted to come home. And it was wonderful to be in her own attic, and feel that worn velvet again. But the world inside her head was so big, and she had forgotten how small she was expected to be here. How would she ever show her maman everything that she had seen and felt? How would she be able to fit it all into the small tidy words that they said to each other at dinner, with strictly no wriggling about while you talked? Was that the end of adventure now?

  She didn’t know a name for what she felt, but it was joy and sadness all at once swirled together, and it made her heart feel like it might burst.

  It wasn’t until after she had finished her hot chocolate, and watched the sky for a while, and felt a little steadier, that she discovered Sister Marguerite’s note in her case. It was taped to a small box, wrapped in brown paper. She opened it.

  Welcome home!

  Strange, isn’t it? Don’t worry – one good meal at home and one good night’s sleep is normally enough to readjust. Your own bed! It’s a wonderful thing, mon lapin!

  After that, you might start to feel wanderlust, which is the opposite of homesickness, and makes you want to go anywhere and do anything. Most people have both homesickness and wanderlust in them. They are good things – keeping us grounded, and keeping us moving.

  But they can be uncomfortable, so in this box is a houseplant that might help. It’s some rosemary. When your wanderlust gets bad, just smell it, and remember that there is time for everything – time to rest, and time to be on the move – and that if you really want adventures, you will always find them. Sometimes, they are on your doorstep.

  Come and see me soon!

  Yours,

  Sister (Commandant) Marguerite x

  Max finished reading, and looked up at the little slice of sky above. It shifted colour very slightly, and a bird wheeled overhead, then went off somewhere else without her. She didn’t mind: her eyes were heavy, and her head was full. For Max Morel, for now, it was time to rest.

  My first thank you is an unusual one, to someone I have never met: Mark Smith, aka “The man in seat 61”. His website, www.seat61.com, is an incredible resource for train travel. Thanks to his detailed instructions, I was able to plot this book from my little flat in London, and later, go on the journey myself.

  Huge thanks to Sam Plumb, Dylan Townley and Erin Simmons for their wisdom as I drafted and redrafted and had meltdowns, etc. And thank you to my editors, Sophie Cashell, Lauren Fortune and Genevieve Herr, for all their support-and-sagacity.

  Sean Williams and Marco Guadalupi made this story into the beautiful object you are holding now, and I am not over it yet (whenever you are reading this, that will still be true).

  And – of course – thank you to Bryony Woods, the extraordinary agent who made it all happen.

  Sylvia Bishop has recently graduated from Oxford. She is one half of the brilliant improvised comedy duo Peablossom Cabaret. She is also the author of

  Erica’s Elephant and The Bookshop Girl.

  Follow Sylvia on Twitter @sylviabishop

/>   Marco Guadalupi is a digital artist from Brindisi, a little sea town in Southern Italy. Before becoming an illustrator he was a writer, and has always enjoyed telling stories.

  Follow Marco on Twitter @marcoguadalupi

  Scholastic Children’s Books

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  First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2018

  This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2018

  Text copyright © Sylvia Bishop, 2018

  The right of Sylvia Bishop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her.

  eISBN 978 1407 18656 6

  A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.