Introduction

Paris, 1928:

 Agatha Christie and fellow writer Dorothy L Sayers board the Orient Express, bound for Constantinople. Christie in particular is looking forward to a break from recent dispiriting events in both her work and private life – the finalization of her divorce from her philanderous husband Archie, and the miserly reception of her latest book.

But before the duo can settle in to enjoy the luxuries of their first-class journey, their journey is derailed when a fellow guest drops dead during the dinner service. And as the last person to speak to the victim, Dorothy finds herself a prime suspect in his murder.

As the train hurtles East, Sayers’ resourceful assistant Eliza and her friend Theo must navigate a maze of suspects. But with each passing mile, the stakes rise, and when another body is discovered, their search to find the killer before they reach their destination becomes increasingly complicated.

Can Eliza and Theo stay one step ahead, crack the mystery and clear Dorothy’s name? Or will this be one journey too far for the amateur sleuths?

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Excerpt

Chapter One

All Aboard

Crime writers were a special breed of animal. They circled one another like hounds scenting a fresh trail, each sniffing out plot holes and red herrings with the precision of bloodhounds.

From one end of a long table in their private dining room at Café Royal, Eliza Baker scribbled minutes in a worn notebook as members of the London Detection Club happily sipped claret and traded gory stories of murders and kidnappings gone wrong. Her bright eyes peering over the top of wire-rimmed spectacles, the club secretary Dorothy Sayers was recounting some gruesome detail about a body in a locked room. Looking dapper in his evening jacket and bow tie, Anthony Berkeley leaned back, grinning with amusement as he corrected her on the likely state of rigor mortis. When Agatha Christie chimed in, ‘Any murderer worth his salt can throw off an overly zealous detective by keeping the body warm through artificial means,’ everyone fell silent as if the Her Royal Majesty the Queen had given a final proclamation ending all debate on the matter.

The ease with which they spoke of murder might have been unnerving if Eliza hadn’t known them so well. She’d been working as the secretary to the secretary for two years now, and she’d attended many of these dinners, where the writers relished the darkness corners of human depravity while drinking far too much wine. The fragrant scent of roast duck filled the air and reflections of the chandelier’s soft glow danced in the wine glasses. Yet, while the writers tucked into their dinners with gusto, Eliza pushed a green bean around her plate. Despite her short-lived career at Scotland Yard, their talk of grisly murder put a damper on her appetite.

Of course, growing up on the streets and living through the war, she’d seen dead bodies. Far too many for her twenty-nine years. All the more reason not to talk about them over dinner. She closed her eyes and tried to shake the image of her poor mother, left penniless and destitute by a father she’d never met, and then dying of tuberculosis, leaving Eliza and her younger sister to fend for themselves. And then there was her partner at the Met. She’d watched him die, too. That tragedy at the docks had ended her career with Scotland Yard before it had really begun. Not to mention, it broke her heart.

‘I second.’ Agatha’s voice brought her out of her melancholy memories.

Drat. While Eliza was daydreaming, Dorothy had made a motion. Pencil at the ready, she tried to catch up to the conversation. From what she could gather, the writers were discussing sending a delegation to an International Writers’ Convention in Constantinople to hawk their new collaboration, The Floating Admiral, a mystery novel they’d composed together in Exquisite Corpse fashion.

‘All in favor, say aye.’ Gilbert Chesterton, the club president, tossed his cape over one shoulder with an air of solemnity befitting the House of Lords. A chorus of ‘Aye’ rang out and pounding an imaginary gavel, Mr Chesterton declared, ‘Motion passes. Dorothy will represent us in Istanbul.’

‘Excellent.’ Dorothy clapped her hands together. ‘I’ve already bought our tickets.’ She gestured toward Eliza. ‘Miss Baker and I will board the Orient Express the day after tomorrow.’

Eliza’s mouth fell open. Before she had time to question this plan, which involved dropping everything and running off to Constantinople/Istanbul with her boss, the writers were already onto another cold case. A recent double murder in a sleepy hamlet of Margate in Kent. Dorothy mused that the murder weapon must have been an eggplant or zucchini given the areas local produce.

‘Probably a murder-suicide,’ Anthony said. ‘A husband tired of eating black pudding while getting chewed out for taking the occasional nip.’ He chuckled. ‘Couldn’t take it any more.’ He dragged a finger across his throat. ‘And zip.’

Leave it to a group of crime writers with minds sharper than razors to turn a perfectly civilized supper into a scene fit for a locked-room mystery.

‘Or a wife who’d had enough of her husband sneaking around with his secretary,’ Agatha said with ice in her voice, no doubt the result of her recent divorce from her own cheating husband.

‘Excuse me.’ A familiar figure appeared at the threshold. ‘I’m looking for Eliza.’

A refrain of yips cut through the air.

A lump in her throat, Eliza got up from the table. ‘What are you doing here?’ She stared at her sister. ‘What’s happened?’ It was unlike Jane to interrupt her at work. And even stranger that she’d bring Queenie. Pulling at the leash, the little beagle wagged toward her with Jane in tow.

‘This arrived for you by special courier.’ Jane held out a blue and gold envelope.

‘What is it?’ Eliza bent down to give Queenie a pat.

‘It’s from the Orient Express line.’ Jane thrust the envelope at her. ‘I assume it’s a railway ticket.’ One side of her lips twisted upward the way it did when she was annoyed. ‘When were you going to tell me you’re leaving?’

‘I’m not.’ Eliza glanced around at Dorothy, who was laughing and not paying the least bit of attention to Jane and Queenie. ‘At least, I wasn’t… I mean, I didn’t know.’ She took the envelope. It couldn’t be. Surely, Dorothy hadn’t bought her a ticket on the Orient Express. Not without asking her first. Not without approval from the Detection Club. Then again, knowing Dorothy, that was precisely what she’d done. She turned it over in her hands. Even the envelope was posh. Carefully, she opened it, making sure not to tear the shiny, gold edges. Geez. Sure enough. A railway ticket for the Orient Express. A second-class railway ticket, to be exact. ‘I guess I’m going to Constantinople the day after tomorrow,’ she whispered. ‘Dorothy bought the ticket without telling me.’ She shrugged. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know until—’

‘Well, I’m going away on an urgent assignment.’ Jane held out Queenie’s leash. ‘So, you’ll have to take your dog.’

‘On the Orient Express?’ Eliza balked. ‘Her name may be Queenie, but I doubt they’ll let her on board.’

Jane’s lips did that thing again. ‘True.’ She thought a moment. ‘Never mind.’ She wound the end of the leash around her palm. ‘I’ll take her.’

‘Where are you going?’ Eliza reached in her pocket and produced a dog biscuit. The beagle’s tail thumped against the floor and she crunched it into dust.

‘Can’t say.’ Jane tilted her head in that you-should-know-better-than-to-ask sort of way. And Eliza did know better. Her sister’s work at MI5 was top secret. Only in extreme cases did Jane tell her anything about her urgent assignments. Like the time Jane asked her to spy on the members of the Detection Club because the War Office thought they were privy to classified information.

‘Are you sure you can take Queenie… wherever it is you’re going?’

Jane nodded. ‘She’ll be good company.’

Eliza knelt to the beagle’s level. ‘Be a good girl for Auntie Jane.’ She gave Queenie’s ears a scratch. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ She looked up at her sister. ‘When will you be back?’ She stood up and smoothed out her skirt.

‘I can’t say.’

She couldn’t say. Or, she wouldn’t say. Probably classified. Hard to believe her sister had gone from picking pockets and using chess notations as their own private code to working for British Intelligence. Eliza had come along way too. Thanks to Admiral Hall and the French boarding school where she’d learned everything from forensic science to French and German.

Jane leaned closer. ‘Be careful,’ she said clutching Eliza’s wrist as if she were sending her off to the gallows rather than a train journey. She looked into Eliza’s eyes. ‘I mean it. Be careful.’

Queenie, ever dramatic, let out a mournful whimper and flopped onto Eliza’s boots as if to stage a last-minute rescue.

Eliza sighed. ‘You’re both acting like I’ve got a one-way ticket to doom.’ She pried Queenie off her shoe and arched a brow at Jane. ‘It’s a train trip, not a murder plot.’

‘Just watch your back.’ Jane kissed her on the cheek. ‘Come on, Queenie. Let’s go.’ She tugged on the leash and they disappeared into the hallway.

‘I will,’ Eliza said into the echo of her sister’s shadow.

Jane and Queenie. The only two creatures she loved in this world. More to the point, the only two creatures who loved her.

* * *

Two days later, Eliza found herself at Victoria Station. She threaded her way through the bustling crowd toward the platform. A whistle shrieked and a ghostly curl of steam floated through the iron archways. As she stepped onto the platform, Jane’s warning echoed through her head. Watch your back. Through the hum of activity, raised voices drifted above the din of steam engines and clacking of giant, steel wheels. A curtain of steam rising from the locomotive obscured the faces of the well-heeled passengers pushing their way toward the first-class carriage.

Up ahead, she spotted Dorothy’s distinctive porkpie hat tilted at a jaunty angle on her round head. Her boss was waiting with a mountain of luggage and no porter in sight. Eliza steeled herself for her employer’s rough orders and marched toward the commanding woman who looked like an army general surveying a battlefield, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd as if expecting a wayward soldier to fall in line.

‘There you are,’ Dorothy said. ‘I was beginning to think you’d abandoned ship.’ She smiled. ‘Thank goodness. I’ve had an awful time with my bags.’ She pointed. ‘Eliza to the rescue.’

Eliza grabbed the handle on the largest case. ‘Good grief.’ The thing weighed a ton. ‘What have you got in here?’

‘Books.’ Dorothy smiled. ‘Our latest Detective Club collaboration.’ She tugged on her gloves. ‘For the writers’ convention in Constantinople.’

‘Good morning, ladies.’

She turned to see Agatha approaching, a case in each hand.

‘We’d best find our compartment and get settled in.’ Wearing a broad-brimmed hat, button-up cardigan, starched shirt and men’s tie complete with clip, Agatha Christie looked every bit the world explorer.

Maneuvering the leather valises through the jostling crowd, Eliza kept close to her employer. The coal smoke mixed with sea air was thick and salty and made her cough as she rushed to keep up with Dorothy. For a large woman, Dorothy L. Sayers was quick on her feet. The only things quicker than her feet were her wit and her temper.

Eliza had been working for the well-known mystery writer for two years now. And still she didn’t understand why Dorothy took her secretary duties for the Detection Club so seriously. After all, it was just a silly supper club for crime writers with overactive imaginations, inventing trouble for their own amusement. Yet here they were making a special trip to Constantinople to sell the latest short-story collection put together by club members. Were they so short of cash they had to hawk their books by hand at a writers’ convention?

Speaking of books, the case full of books weighed more than Eliza herself. Her right arm stretched to its limit trying to heft the monstrosity.

‘Eliza, dear, are you all right with those bags?’ Agatha gave her a sympathetic smile. Her fine features and soft eyes always gave the impression of congenial affability, even when she was put out or cross. Agatha Christie was a bigwig in the Detection Club. As the bestselling author of the bunch, she carried a lot of weight, even more than a suitcase full of books. ‘Why don’t we get help?’ Agatha waved for a porter.

‘And risk losing sight of our wares?’ Dorothy was breathless. ‘Not a chance. We keep tabs on our precious cargo.’ And all she was carrying was her handbag and a Baedeker’s guide to Constantinople.

So much for help.

Dorothy panted. ‘Those books are my babies.’ She’d edited the collection, a feat she’d compared to negotiating feuds between warring ‘clowders of cats.’ And she should know. She kept five cats living with her in her London flat. Five cats, along with one worthless husband. From what Eliza could tell, all Arthur did was drink and mope about the place. Sure, he’d been injured in the war. But so had a lot of men who weren’t drinking themselves to death.

‘My baby is back in Berkshire with Peter and Madge.’ Agatha sighed. ‘I hate leaving Rosalind and Peter.’ She slowed her pace until the three of them walked abreast.

‘Rosalind is five years old. Not a baby,’ Dorothy barked. ‘And she’s with your sister. She’ll be fine!’ She huffed. ‘No offense to Peter, but he’s a dog—’

‘You don’t know what it’s like having a child,’ Agatha said, sifting the case in her hand.

Dorothy winced and quickened her pace again.

‘I miss Queenie already.’ Her little beagle was in good hands with her sister. Anyway, the dog would be happier at home in the flat they shared with Jane. Jane’s flat, to be exact. Slipping the strap of her own small handbag over her shoulder, Eliza clutched the heavy case with both hands.

‘And at least Peter is loyal.’ Agatha sniffed. ‘An exemplary member of the Order of Faithful Dogs.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Which is more than I can say for Archie and the Order of Faithless Rats.’ A cloud darkened her countenance. With a shake of her head, she quickened her pace. Eliza had heard about Agatha’s unfaithful husband, Archie who, last Saturday, only one week after the divorce was final, married his mistress. Indeed, the mistress-cum-new-wife was why Dorothy had insisted Agatha come along on this trip. To take Agatha’s mind off her faithless rat ex-husband.

‘Yes, well, at least mine is a faithful rat,’ Dorothy said under her breath. ‘A boozy but faithful rat.’ She stopped and Eliza nearly ran into her. ‘But at least he’s a good cook and he takes good care of the cats while I’m away. And Porky. Which suits me.’ Porky was the name of a porcupine Dorothy had rescued from the woods near her parents’ house in the fens. Stabbing the air with a finger, she took off again. ‘Onward.’

The sharp staccato of Agatha’s heels hitting the platform tapped in counterpoint to the buzz of the crowd and hissing of the engines. Despite the heavy luggage, Eliza matched her pace. The symphony of sounds electrified the moist air and ignited a rush of adrenaline as Eliza anticipated boarding France’s premiere luxury railway.

By the time she reached the first-class carriage, her arm was throbbing. She sat the heavy case on the platform and took a deep breath.

‘Don’t let those books out of your sight.’ Dorothy peered over the top of her spectacles.

Eliza was used to Dorothy’s commands. ‘You’d think you had bricks of gold in here.’ She grasped the handle and heaved the bag onto the first stair and into the car.

‘Let me help you, Miss.’ Finally, a porter came to her rescue.

‘Thank you,’ she said, glaring up at Dorothy.

The big woman shrugged and disappeared into the carriage.

‘Good heavens.’ The porter laughed. ‘This is a load. A little thing like you carried this all the way from the station?’ He winked. ‘Why so serious, Dolly? Come on, give us a smile.’

Eliza got those kinds of comments all the time. Men acting amazed at her strength or her ju-jitsu moves or telling her to smile, or saying, ‘You’re too pretty to be so serious.’ Yeah, if they’d grown up on the streets of London picking pockets and hustling chess to survive, and at twenty-nine years old were working a measly part-time job making peanuts, they wouldn’t be smiling either.

She wished she hadn’t thought of chess. Whenever she did, she thought of Theo. Theo Sharp. He’d run off to Paris before they’d even finished their first ever game. That was two years ago, just after she started working for the Detection Club. Probably afraid she’d beat him. Her head jerked involuntarily. Yeah, he was a sore loser. The pang in her chest betrayed her. It wasn’t only about chess. She missed him. She exhaled a long breath. Tomorrow at dawn, after the boat train to Dover, the ferry to Calais, another train to Paris, a taxi transfer from Gare du Nord to Gare de l’Est station, she could wave as they boarded the Orient Express.

Side-stepping through the train’s narrow corridor, she followed behind Dorothy and Agatha as they made their way to their compartment. Dorothy was generous enough as employers go. But not enough to buy Eliza a first-class ticket. Still, Dorothy invited her to rest and take tea with them in their cabin. And she insisted Eliza call her and Agatha by their Christian names. As if that made them equals. Eliza and her meager luggage and forensics sample case, which she never left home without – a habit she picked up at the Met, could find her second-class accommodations later, after the train left the station.

A small but energetic steward gave them a tour of their cabin. He opened a mahogany door in the corner to reveal a small sink and brackets holding a water pitcher and glasses, along with a mirror, soap, and embroidered towels. Compact but elegant. Like the steward. Did the line intentionally hire small stewards to match the scale of everything in the cabin? He pointed to a wooden ladder attached to the wall across from the cushioned seat. ‘At nine o’clock, I set up the bunks and turn down the beds.’

‘I’ll take the top bunk,’ Agatha said with excitement. You’d never know it from looking at her, but Agatha was quite athletic. Eliza had seen photographs of her in Hawaii with a surfboard. For her late thirties, Agatha was fit as a fiddle. And Dorothy was in better shape than she let on. Back in London, she rode a motorcycle everywhere and swooped into Detection Club meetings wearing flowing capes over men’s suits. She was nothing if not eccentric.

‘I should hope so!’ Dorothy laughed. ‘I’m not climbing that toothpick ladder.’

‘One last thing,’ the steward said. ‘Your robes are hanging here.’ He touched one of the plush, blue robes hanging from a hook on the wall. ‘And your slippers are there.’ He pointed to the floor where two sets of matching furry slippers waited like members of the Order of Faithful Dogs. He smiled. ‘I’ll be nearby. Let me know if you need anything.’ He gave a little bow and backed out of the cabin to make room for the porter with their luggage.

‘Why didn’t the Detection Club sell baked goods or sponsor a car wash?’ Eliza said, watching the porter struggle to slide the heavy suitcase under the seat. ‘It would have been easier on the back.’

‘A Detection Club bake sale!’ Agatha grinned. ‘What a delightful idea.’ She smoothed her skirt and sat down on the upholstered bench. ‘We could sell Sinister Shortbread.’ She giggled. ‘And Poisonous Puddings… or Treacherous Trifle.’

Leave it to a crime writer to come up with ideas for a deadly bake sale.

‘Or Murderous Mincemeat.’ Dorothy took a seat next to Agatha. ‘Jealous Jammy Dodgers, and Scandalous Spotted Dick!’ She chuckled as she laid her handbag on the seat next to her.

‘Foolish Fool,’ Eliza chimed in, taking a seat across from them on a tiny jump seat.

Both women sat blinking at her. Maybe she should stick to what she knew: forensics, ju-jitsu, chess, and pickpocketing. All right. Maybe not pickpocketing. After all, that was why she had a job as Dorothy’s secretary. So she didn’t have to pick pockets or hustle chess.

‘Tiresome Tart?’ Eliza raised an eyebrow.

‘Stop!’ Agatha waved her away.

Fine. Lesson learned. Don’t compete with the wordsmiths. Again, she thought of Theo. Had he finished his second mystery novel? Was he busy writing a third? Or was he lolling about Parisian chess clubs picking up games and lithe French beauties? She bit her lip.

‘Quit talking about puddings.’ Agatha put a hand on her wool-skirted tummy. ‘I’m already devilishly hungry. I only had time to gulp down a cup of cream and wolf a piece of marmalade toast before leaving home.’

With a great belch of smoke and the loud squeal of metal on metal, the train lurched forward. Eliza grabbed onto the jump seat and pressed the toes of her boots against the floor to steady herself.

‘Let’s order tea.’ Dorothy adjusted her skirt. ‘And then you can tell me about your presentation for the conference,’ she said in Agatha’s general direction. ‘Eliza, be a dear and find our cabin steward.’

Clutching the woodwork as she went, Eliza swayed into the corridor to find the steward. When she returned, Dorothy and Agatha were in the middle of a tense discussion.

‘What do you mean you’re done writing?’ Dorothy’s voice went up an octave. ‘You’re the crown jewel of British crime writing. You can’t just quit. And everyone expects you to speak at the conference.’

‘My last book was a disaster.’ Agatha shook her head. ‘I only wrote it because I was strapped for cash.’ She closed her eyes. ‘It was painful. I had to dig it out of my soul like a splinter.’ She fiddled with the handle on her purse. ‘The Blue Train… It should be called The Stinker Train.’ She blew out a breath. ‘I won’t have to quit writing. After my latest bomb, no one will buy another.’

Were readers so fickle they would give up on a favorite writer after one bad book? Anyway, Eliza doubted the book was so bad. From what she’d seen, these writers were their own worst critics. Especially the women writers. The men, on the other hand, all seemed to think their own work was genius.

‘I thought it was brilliant.’ Dorothy took her friend’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll find your inspiration again. The last year has been difficult. With your mother’s death and then Archie.’ She patted Agatha’s hand. ‘Give yourself time.’ Tilting her head, she gave Agatha a sympathetic smile. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, dearest.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I do wish you’d reconsider and come to the conference.’ Her tone shifted from consoling to cajoling.

What was so wonderful about a writers’ conference? All those windbag eggheads nattering on about make-believe crimes and fantasy romance.

‘My heart is set.’ Agatha rearranged her purse on her lap. ‘I had a ticket to the West Indies, but at a dinner party in London last week, Captain Howe made Baghdad sound so romantic.’ She smiled. ‘The next morning first thing, I went to Cook’s and exchanged my ticket.’ Her face lit up. ‘So, here I am. On my way to the digs of Ur. At the invitation of my dear friend Katharine. Katharine Woolley.’

The digs of Ur. Eliza was almost jealous. Doing something with your hands. Outside in the dirt. Not making up stories in a dark corner for a change. For a writer, Agatha was an adventurous sort. Archeology. Digging up the past. Eliza preferred the future to the past, especially when her own past was full of so much suffering and starvation.

‘Of course, a bunch of boring old writers can’t compete with mummies and ancient bones.’ For a moment, a wistful look passed over Dorothy’s face. And just as quickly, it was gone. She tugged at the bottom of her jacket. ‘The living never can compete with the dead.’ She turned to Eliza. ‘Now, where’s our tea?’

Just then, the cabin steward appeared with a tray. Thank goodness. Dorothy could be a bear, especially when she was hungry. The steward balanced the tray on one gloved palm and laid out the small table with the other. Quite a feat given the motion of the train.

‘Darjeeling tea and raspberry macarons.’ The pastel-pink, cream-filled discs looked like stringless bandalores. He sat the plate of treats on the table and then laid out a silver teapot, teacups with matching, gold-rimmed saucers, and tiny, silver spoons. ‘Enjoy your tea, madams.’

‘Could I get a little pick-me-up in my tea?’ Dorothy winked at the steward. ‘Brandy, perhaps.’

‘Of course, Madame.’ The steward looked to Agatha. ‘Anyone else care for un remontant?’

Agatha glanced at her watch. ‘No, thank you.’

Eliza shook her head. She wasn’t on vacation, after all. She was working. Not that carrying luggage, taking notes, and arranging schedules took much brain power. Not like a challenging game of chess. A pang stabbed at her heart. Theo Sharp. Would she ever see him again?

‘Very well.’ The steward gave a curt bow and then disappeared.

Dorothy resumed her attempt to persuade Agatha to speak at the Crime Writers’ Conference. And Agatha held fast recounting the wonderful things she’d heard about the archeological digs of Mesopotamia from her friend Leonard and Katharine Woolley.

Not five minutes later, the steward reappeared with a carafe of brandy and bottle of champagne.

‘Champagne!’ Agatha clapped her hands together. ‘How lovely.’

Eliza wondered if the second-class passengers would be treated to champagne. A bed in second class was still better than sleeping on straw in the alcove of a church like she did as a child. She thought of Theo, who’d reported in his last letter that he and his roommate had taken up ‘tramping’ to learn what it was like to live in poverty so they could write about it. Having grown up in poverty, she didn’t see the allure.

‘Compliments of a fellow traveler.’ The steward held out a folded card to Dorothy.

A bewildered look on her face, Dorothy took the note and opened it. The color drained from her face as she read it.

‘What is it?’ Agatha asked. ‘Bad news?’

‘That remains to be seen.’ Dorothy’s breath caught as she dropped the card onto the table. She turned to the steward. ‘I’ll take my brandy neat if you please.’

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ Eliza said as she plucked the note off the table.

‘In a manner of speaking…’ Dorothy gulped down the brandy and held out her glass for a refill, ‘I have.’

Eliza stared down at the scrawling, black words:

Dearest Dottie. Imagine my surprise when I learned we were on the same train en route to the Orient Express for the same convention in Istanbul, as the locals call Constantinople. Looking forward to catching up. It’s been far too long. All my love, Peachy.

She looked back at Dorothy, whose complexion had gone from pale to blotchy. ‘Who the devil is Peachy?’ She passed the note back to Dorothy.

Rather than answer, Dorothy waved to the waiter and ordered another drink. ‘Make mine a whiskey.’

* * *

The Hôtel des Bons Amis perched uneasily on a crooked street in the shadow of Montmartre, its peeling façade a weary testament to the years of whispered secrets and hurried goodbyes it had absorbed. Inside, the air hung thick with the acrid scent of stale cigarettes and spilled absinthe, clinging stubbornly to the faded wallpaper patterned with wilted fleurs-de-lis. Theo Sharp’s room was no better: a dim, sagging space lit by a single flickering bulb that cast jittery shadows across the threadbare rug and the cracked mirror hanging lopsided on the wall. A warped table bore the scars of careless knives and scorched matchsticks, and the two narrow beds, their springs poking through lumpy mattresses, groaned under the weight of too many sleepless nights.

Theo applied a thick coating of Beauchamps lotion to his cracked, red hands. He rewrapped the bottle in one of his union suits and hid it in the top drawer of his bureau, along with an envelope full of bank notes. The quest for writerly authenticity only went so far. His roommate Eric Arthur Blair, an old friend from Eton, would break the bottle over his head if he found it. And he’d have a conniption if he found out about the money. Eric believed in absolute faithfulness to the experience of poverty. Right down to the roaches and rats in their dirty little room this dingy hotel in the bohemian, if not fashionable, part of Paris.

Theo shuddered to think what his mother would say if she could see him now. Sitting in front of their shared typewriter at a rickety table stacked with old newspapers in front of a greasy window. Almost two years ago, he’d hopped on a train to Paris in the romantic, if misguided, hope of becoming a real writer. Like Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Joyce. They’d found their inspiration in the dark basements of Parisian brasseries; why couldn’t he? He still hadn’t finished revising the novel he’d written before leaving London. Now, he wondered, why bother? After all, his first foray into detective fiction wasn’t exactly a resounding success. Sure, he’d got it published, thanks to Dorothy and her pals at the Detection Club. His second attempt had been summarily returned by his editor, who called it ‘romantic drivel.’

His elbows on the table, Theo held his hands up waiting for them to absorb the lotion before setting his damp fingers on the keys. His father had warned him not to go to Paris. It was a wonder the old man waited a whole year before cutting him off. Theo scoffed. And his mother… well, she couldn’t bring herself to disown her only son. She regularly sent him care packages and money, which he kept hidden from Eric. In fact, the bottled of Beauchamps had been in her last package, a little present she’d picked up on her trip to New York to attend his sister’s wedding to a Rockefeller at the Rainbow Room. La tee da. His parents must have loved hobnobbing with posh Americans.

His father may have a title, but the Yanks had money. Serious money. And more than anything else, his father worshiped money. Theo massaged a sore spot on his hand. An occupational hazard. He chuckled. His father should be happy. For years, he’d chided Theo for studying philosophy at Oxford, claiming he should do something useful with his life, as if being a member of the landed gentry and living the life of leisure was useful!

Well, Daddy dear, you should see me now. I have a job as a plongeur at a greasy spoon. Ha! I’m finally doing something useful: washing dishes.

A roach scurried across the table. Theo grabbed a newspaper from atop the pile and swatted at the vermin. ‘Gotcha!’ As he dumped the carcass into the trash bin, he skimmed the headlines of Le Figaro:

Samedi 13 Octobre 1928.

La rapprochement franco-allemande.

Le perte sous-marin ‘Odine.’

Un voleur de bijoux braque Chanel.

L’affaire Harold T. Horan.

Conférence internationale des écrivains.

International Writers’ Conference. In Istanbul. That must be the one Dorothy had invited him to. He’d had to decline because of the stupid dish-washing job. He wondered if Eliza was going along. Probably a good thing he couldn’t go. Seeing her again would be too painful. It would rekindle the fire he’d come to Paris to extinguish.

With new resolve, he went back to the paper. To practice his French, he translated the rest of the news headlines aloud, ‘The French-German relation. The Odine Submarine Loss. Jewel Thief Robs Chanel. The Harold T. Horan Affair.’ His French was improving. No thanks to washing dishes.

When he wasn’t washing dishes, he and Eric went tramping. Tramping was Eric’s idea. Dressing up like hobos and frequenting the questionable parts of the city. All in the name of research. The upside: when he was dressed like a bum, the chess players in Tuileries Garden underestimated him, which meant he won a few extra quid. At least Eric didn’t begrudge him making money from chess since he saw it as a sort of Robin Hood operation. Eric claimed to be writing an ‘award-winning exposé’ on poverty in Paris called A Scullion’s Diary. Theo would be happy to finish his second mystery novel. Although his first one had been such a flop, he wondered if his father was right about him wasting his life.

Then again, for Theo, writing wasn’t about the money. Writing was hunger. The frenzied attempt to fill a void: the gaping abyss between experience and representation. In short: longing. He remembered someplace Hegel said, to be self-aware was to stare into an abyss called desire. Desire. Longing. To reflect on one’s life was always to want more from it. To yearn for something to fill the emptiness.

Poverty wasn’t just an empty stomach. It was an empty soul. And Theo’s soul was starving. His writing was a desperate attempt to stop the churning. To fill it. To plug it up with words. Words were his Bon Amis and more skittish than the roaches and the rats.

He wiped his fingers on his trousers and then started typing. As always, the first words he typed were:

For Eliza. Eliza, Mon Amour.

The more he tried to forget her, the more she bore a hole in his memory, a hole so deep that it threatened to consume his empty soul.

The door swung open with a bang. Eric stood smiling in the threshold. He was dressed as a bum, his short hair stuck up in all directions like a hedgehog, and a smudge of dirt ran down the side of his long face. But his eyes… his eyes shone as bright as beacons. ‘Theodore, old boy.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Pack your bag!’ He held up a box he’d been carrying under his arm. ‘I got us new jobs.’

‘Oh, no,’ Theo said without thinking. He didn’t want to know where. If there was something worse than washing dishes, Eric would find it.

‘Aren’t you going to ask?’ Eric’s voice was full of excitement.

Theo pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter and crumpled it into a ball. ‘I’m afraid to ask.’ He tossed it toward the bin before Eric could see it. For Eliza. Eliza, Mon Amour. How absurd. More like, Amour non partagé: unrequited love.

‘Guess!’ Eric opened the lid to the box and pulled out a blue and gold uniform.

‘Scrubbing toilets at the Ritz?’ Theo aimed for the wastebin and lobbed. ‘Shoveling coal at the Savoy?’

‘Close!’ Eric laughed. ‘Public Area Attendant on the Orient Express.’

‘Public Area Attendant?’ Theo squinted at his friend. ‘What the—’

‘Glorified toilet scrubber.’ Eric grinned. ‘Come on.’ He threw a uniform in Theo’s direction. ‘Our training starts in an hour.’

Merde! Theo smiled to himself. Progress. At least, now he was thinking in French. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1.Did you learn anything new about Dorothy L. Sayers or Agatha Christie? Do you enjoy reading about real historical figures in fiction?

2. What would you have done in Dorothy Sayers’s situation? Do you think times have changed such that she would no longer feel shame over her situation?

3. What about Agatha Christie who just went through a divorce? What do you think it must have been like for a woman to set out on her own and travel to the Middle East in 1928?


4. Did you get a sense of what it must have been like to travel on the world’s most luxurious train? How has travel changed? Do you think a trip like theirs is still possible today?

5. What do you think of Eliza and Theo’s developing relationship? Do you enjoy some romance sprinkled into your mysteries?


6. Do you like the chess metaphors and chess subplot? Do you need to know about chess to enjoy it?

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