The next morning, Jasper took the seat opposite me at the linen-covered table in the dining car. “Good morning, old bean.” He motioned to the book I’d put beside my plate. “I take it you finished your mystery?”
“I stayed up far too late, and now I rather wish I hadn’t.” I pushed Murder on the Links across the table to him. “I thought you might want to have a go at it as well.”
He picked up the menu card. “Never regret reading into the wee hours, that’s my motto. It sounds like this was an excellent read, if you couldn’t put it down.”
“The story wasn’t the only thing that kept me up.”
Jasper removed his monocle from his eye and put down the card. “Not feeling well?” He nodded at my untouched cup of hot cocoa and my plate with a single golden roll on it. Despite the melting Swiss butter, I’d only managed one bite of the crispy bread.
“I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I waited until the waiter had poured Jasper a cup of coffee and left a fresh basket of rolls, then I leaned forward and whispered, “I overheard someone planning a murder.”
Jasper choked on his coffee and dabbed his chin with his napkin. “Mur—?” Heads turned at his incredulous tone. He lowered his voice. “Murder? Are you sure?”
“Fairly certain. I’ve thought of nothing else since half past one last night and don’t know what else they could have been discussing.”
“They?”
“Yes, two people.” I described how I’d come to overhear the voices in the passageway outside my compartment, then said, “One person said they had to take advantage of the situation while they were in St. Moritz. I didn’t see them, and they kept their voices down, but I could still hear their conversation. Anyway, after the first person said that about taking advantage of the situation, the other person didn’t seem to agree and said, ‘What about the body?’”
Jasper broke a roll in half. “That conversation doesn’t necessarily mean murder.” He focused on spreading butter across the warm crinkles of the bread’s interior. “Perhaps all these recent—um—incidents, shall we call them, which have been of the rather deadly
variety, have impacted your perception a tiny bit? The people could have been talking about a body of water or a body of work—paintings, books, something along those lines.”
I couldn’t be cross with Jasper because when he raised his gaze to meet mine, there was nothing but concern in his expression. “I wish that were the case—I really do. And I’ll admit that I couldn’t hear every word, but I do know that the second person went on to say something about getting rid of it. I definitely caught the words frozen ground and difficult.”
Jasper put down his knife. “I say, that does sound rather ominous.”
“I agree. I can’t put any other interpretation on it.”
“No, you’re right, old bean. Sorry to doubt you. You have no idea who it could’ve been? No hint of an accent or distinctive way of speaking? Gravelly? High-pitched? Nasal?”
“No, not at the low volume they were speaking. I couldn’t distinguish much. One person’s voice was higher pitched and the other’s was lower, which makes me think it was a man and a woman.” I glanced around the dining car, which was packed with passengers. Sunlight flashed on the silver teapots and gleamed on the polished mahogany walls. The quiet clink of china teacups being replaced in saucers and the low murmur of polite conversation permeated the atmosphere.
“It seems so unlikely, but as you said, after recent events I’ve learned not to be deceived by appearances.”
Jasper put down his roll and looked around discreetly. “And it seems someone on this train has murderous intentions.”
Chapter 2
Ifeel the appropriate thing to do is inform someone in authority, but I’m not sure who that would be on the train,” I said. “I suppose once we reach St. Moritz, I should report it to the police. But other than the fact that I heard two doors close, which indicates both people were in the same carriage as we were, I can’t tell them much more than that.”
I scanned the occupants of the dining car. I hadn’t paid that much attention to the other passengers on the train, but I couldn’t help but study them now, wondering if two of them had been in the passageway last night. A woman in her mid-forties was seated at the table directly across the aisle from us. I recognized her. I’d seen her picture in the paper when I was a child. She was Amy Ashford, a lady mountaineer who had climbed many of the peaks in the Alps.
The article had made quite an impression on me. At the time, it hadn’t occurred to me that ladies could do the sort of thing she was doing. Mountain climbing was considered mostly a manly sport, but her verve and energy came through in the article. When the interviewer asked why a lady like herself wanted to climb the peaks, she had replied, “Why not? Why shouldn’t ladies participate in the sport? The mountains aren’t only the province of men.” The whole article had resonated with me, and I remembered it even now.
Jasper noticed the direction of my gaze, and I asked, “Do you recognize her?”
“Of course. It’s Mrs. Ashford, the famous mountaineer.”
“It’s hard to believe she could have anything to do with what I overheard last night.”
Mrs. Ashford wore a green tweed travel suit with a matching felt Tyrolean hat accented with a red feather. Although her brown hair was bobbed, there was something about the style of her clothes—the longer hemline that came down to the ankles—and her upright posture that indicated she had more in common with the Victorians than anything from the new century.
The waiter refilled Mrs. Ashford’s coffee, and she gave him a smile, which exposed a crooked-tooth grin.
A trill of laughter rang out from another table of four people breakfasting together. Mrs. Ashford turned in that direction, and her smile vanished. Disapproval flashed across her face as she watched the group.
A young couple sat on one side of the table. The woman was probably in her mid-twenties, with shiny golden hair curling out from under the brim of her hat, which matched her pale pink travel suit. Like Mrs. Ashford, her hat was in the Tyrolean style, but while Mrs. Ashford looked as if she’d picked hers up at an Alpine shop in a local village, I was sure that the fair-haired young woman across the dining car had purchased hers in Paris. It had that extra flair that only an expert milliner could achieve.
The blonde was a beauty, with a creamy complexion, cherry-red lips, eyebrows plucked to a perfect arch, and pale blue eyes. Her companion sat with his arm draped casually across the back of her chair. He held a cigarette in his other hand and wafted smoke rings into the air above his wiry dark brown hair. He was in casual attire of the type the Prince of Wales had made popular, a Fair Isle V-neck jumper over a shirt. With his square-jawed face and broad-shouldered build, he looked as if he were ready to pose for a Thomas Cook & Son travel poster—the hardy hiker with a length of rope looped over his shoulder as he stood, legs planted on a rock, surveying a mountain range.
Two younger men sat across the table from the couple, both with a thatch of fair hair and freckles. They were so similar-looking I wondered if they
were brothers. Their expressions were identical. Both were full of wide-eyed admiration as they looked at the man across the table.
“Mrs. Ashford doesn’t look pleased with the party of four. Do you know them?” I asked as I took a sip of my cocoa.
Jasper casually turned and surveyed the dining car behind him then turned back. “The two young chaps on one side of the table are in a compartment near mine. I met them yesterday. They’re on the way to St. Moritz to ice climb. They’re training with the man across the table from them, Mr. Lavington. Apparently, Mr. Lavington is quite the expert in ice-climbing and mountaineering in general. I gathered that both of the younger men are rather in awe of him. One is named Blinkhorn—the one seated on the aisle, I think. They do resemble each other, don’t they? They might be twins, but the last names are different. The other’s name is . . . let me think. Oh yes, Ignatius Hale. If all goes well here, the three will make an assault on Everest in the future.”
“Do you know the young woman?”
“Mr. Lavington’s wife, Emmaline. I haven’t talked with her on the train, but I remember when she was a deb.”
“I’m sure you did your duty and danced with her.”
“Yes, I did. She was a sensation. Several lads were head over heels for her.”
“I can see why. She’s very pretty. She has the look of the fragile china doll.”
“On the exterior, certainly, but at the core, she’s rather willful and spoiled.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Jasper! That’s not like you to say something so critical.”
“The truth is often unpleasant. If you spend any time in her company, I’m sure you’ll agree. She was a guest at a shooting party I attended last year in Scotland. Emmaline and several other ladies went out on the moors with us one day. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was enjoyable to her, and she made sure everyone knew it. The weather, the food, the views, her shoes. Nothing was to her liking. She even sent a servant back to the house to bring her a fresh pair of shoes.”
“So no stiff upper lip?”
“Decidedly not.”
“I wonder which person it is that Mrs. Ashford disapproves of. She still has a scowl on her face when she glances back at
them.”
“Perhaps it’s simply because they’re making so much noise.”
Emmaline’s voice carried through the air. “No more talk of ropes and merits of this over that one. And let’s stop with the never-ending debate about portable oxygen. You boys are too, too boring. Tell me, what else do you intend to do in St. Moritz besides climb?” She waited a beat, then said, “Come on, there must be something.”
Her husband, in an urbane drawl, said, “Darling, leave them alone. Climbing is the reason they’re going to St. Moritz. Just like you’re going for the shops.”
She patted him on the cheek. “And you’ll frown and grumble at the price tags as you always do.” She looked back across the table to the young men. “Ben is rather keen on budgets and sticking to them. So tiresome of him.”
Another couple entered the dining car. The woman wore an austere navy suit and had black curls and pale skin. Her companion had thinning ginger hair, a ruddy complexion, and the bulky build of a man who had once been fit but was now going soft around the middle. Unlike the other men in the carriage, who wore tweeds or sporty jumpers and jackets, he had on a pinstriped suit with a gold chain across his vest. He followed the waiter with a lumbering gait to a table, but the woman broke off and darted across the carriage, calling, “Emmaline!”
I could see the expression on Mrs. Lavington’s face when her name was called. Her eyes widened and the corners of her lips flattened into a look that could only be irritation. She sent a covert glance toward her husband before she reached for her handbag. The dark-haired woman arrived at the table, and the three men stood. Mrs. Lavington remained seated and removed a cigarette from a case before looking up.
The brunette said, “I thought we might not see you until we got to St. Moritz.” She flapped her hand at the men. “Oh, do sit down. I’m only stopped for a moment to say hello.” She had small, close-set eyes with stubby eyelashes and narrow lips. Her clothes were of the best quality. She had forgone the Tyrolean hat and wore a cloche with an unusual disk-like brim that dipped over one eye. ...
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