“Watson!”
It was not often that I succeeded in surprising Sherlock Holmes (I had done so recently, to be sure), but my presence with a valise just in time to board the gleaming Star of Egypt the following night as it was leaving Ramses Station clearly caught the detective off guard, as it did the duchess and Professor Tewfik. Seated opposite Holmes in the lounge car, they had clearly been told not to expect me, but as Howard Carter predicted, single berths were in fact to be had at the last minute if one did not object to sharing compartments with strangers. At the window the clerk asked if mine was to be a return ticket, as many sightseers typically preferred to journey back via dahabeah, a picturesque and stately steamer trip down the Nile, ending, if one chose, as far north as Alexandria. This choice I declined and I joined the others after depositing my bag onto the rack above the berth in my compartment, which, as it chanced, boasted no other occupant.
“We are advised to lock our windows whenever the train stops,” the detective cautioned me, “as local thieves using fishing rods are seemingly adept at extracting one’s valuables within less than a minute’s time.”
“Many thanks.” I looked about. “Where is—?”
“Lord Darlington is indisposed,” the duchess explained, “and will join us in a day or so. Assuming,” she added pointedly, “that this excursion will last that long.”
It occurred to me that fifteen hours in Her Grace’s frosty presence might well seem like thirty and that it was a good thing part of the time we should all be asleep.
Professor Tewfik, as well, seemed out of sorts. He was determined to accompany us, and doubtless the last-minute nature of the trip had upset his own demanding schedule. He appeared flustered, searching furiously among documents and books as if fearing in his hasty departure he had omitted something of importance.
“Sorry. So sorry,” he kept repeating. His eyes bulged with each repetition of the word.
The duchess did not acknowledge this or any of us, but stared fixedly out the window, ignoring the setting sun, as the train crept through the outskirts of the city, crossing the Imbaba Bridge to follow the Nile south along its western bank. We were just in time to see the pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx silhouetted in the gold penumbra of the Aten’s dying glory. If the duchess was affected by this heart-stopping spectacle she gave no sign, and darkness shortly descended like a dropped curtain. Now only occasional pinpricks of light dotted the night’s black velvet and soon even those intermittent glimmers lay behind us and the Star of Egypt, like a sinuous, lone glowworm, was wending its way across the Sahara.
Silence appeared to have descended with the sun as well. I was about to light a cigarette, but a sudden look in the window’s reflection from Her Grace caused me to think better of it. Excusing myself from the charged atmosphere, I went onto the platform for a smoke, where Holmes shortly joined me.
“My dear fellow, I had no expectation you would find yourself able to accompany us. What happened?”
“It was a simple matter of putting my foot down,” I explained. “I told Juliet she cannot expect to be treated like some Dresden doll, dusted like a fragile porcelain, set on a shelf, and patronised, if spoken to at all! I suggested her notions of romantic love were perhaps out of date and it was time for a new candor between us.”
“Indeed.” In the darkness the detective’s eyes shone. I did not care to pursue the origin of that gleam.
“What have I missed?”
Holmes lit his own cigarette and blew smoke. “More of Her Grace’s airs and graces. She wants to know why she is being asked to visit Luxor, a question I cannot answer to her satisfaction.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her it was my belief that her husband did in fact locate the tomb of Tuthmose the Fifth—as he would have been—but that in order to understand what became of the duke afterwards, it was necessary to confirm the discovery itself.”
“And the mysterious Darlington?”
He shrugged. “Continues mysterious. ‘Indisposed’ is such a convenient catch-all. It is always possible,” the detective conceded, turning over the question in his mind as he spoke, “that Darlington is precisely what he seems, a shy schoolmaster from Staines with scholarly ambitions, who nurses understandably ambivalent feelings towards his elder brother and his squandered inheritance.” But his tone belied his words.
“Have you had word from Mr. Carter? A telegram from Luxor?”
“No, but to my way of thinking that is not significant. If Carter has confirmed the find, I think he would believe it unwise to trust such information to the telegraph. On reflection, it might be argued the fact that he has not communicated augurs better than if he had.”
“Ah, yes. The site would soon be as crowded as Piccadilly Circus with gawkers, the press, and thieves. Stop a bit,” I added, holding him by the coat as he made to leave the platform. “Assuming you are correct and that Uxbridge dug in a forbidden section of the valley, how did he pay for the labour? I doubt fellaheen, experienced after centuries in these matters, would dig for promises.”
“You forget, Doctor, the duke had a silent partner with resources of her own.”
“Turkish resources?”
“Why not? If the duke unearthed the gold of Tuthmose, the Khedive would certainly claim the lion’s share, which would unquestionably offset their expenses and more than justify their outlay. But there is another possibility,” he added, as the idea struck him.
“And what might that be?”
“That Miss Fatima has invested Turkish dinars on her own behalf.”
“Double-dealing?”
“Based on her passport collection it seems the only kind of dealing she knows.”
“A dangerous game, surely.”
“But one she has played before.”
At this moment the train abruptly lurched to a stop, throwing us against the bulkheads.
“So sorry, gentlemen,” a cheerful Levantine conductor announced as he passed us. “A camel caravan. We’ll soon be on our way again.”
“Is this a frequent occurrence?” the detective asked.
“Yes, but not so much at night. Good evening, gentlemen.” With a crisp salute, he left us to contemplate this prospect.
“No wonder the journey takes fifteen hours,” I commented.
“Shall we go back and face Her Grace’s music?” Holmes asked. “Staying out here might be misinterpreted.”
“Or it might not,” I felt bound to point out.
The duchess was where we left her, gazing with unseeing eyes at her own immobile reflection in the window. The woman was as unknowable as when we were first introduced. I found myself remembering a comment Freud made to me during one of our Vienna walks, “What does a woman want?” he asked, though I’m not certain his question was addressed to me.
Professor Tewfik, preoccupied entering memoranda in the ledger propped unsteadily on his lap, looked up briefly, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” yet again, before bending over his mysterious notations.
I now had the leisure to inspect my surroundings and must confess I was pleased. While the Star of Egypt was perhaps not on a par with such rolling masterpieces as the Orient Express, it was nonetheless a first-class affair, obviously—as Carter indicated—built to accommodate wealthy sightseers in this part of the world. The voices we overheard were invariably excited English or American. The fourteen carriages themselves were painted beige, an attempt, I imagined, to suggest or blend in with desert sands. The gilded lettering on each wagon-lit was named for an Egyptian deity. Inside, marquetry had been replaced by mirrors and the upholstery was leather instead of cloth, but otherwise the Pullmans were strikingly similar to their European counterparts, not surprising when one of the stewards (a Maltese, who, like the rest of the staff, spoke Arabic, English, or French with ease) informed me the coaches had been built in France. Our compartments were clean and ingeniously designed, the linens immaculate, and the furnishings never less than tasteful.
Uncertain in every sense of what was yet to come, I sat back and considered our silent company, for it occurred to me we none of us had much to say to one another, or rather, we had much to say, but I sensed each considered it prudent to keep his own counsel. The duchess, who might or might not be involved with her “indisposed” brother-in-law, could not hope to settle her husband’s estate, much less inherit his title and device, until and unless Michael, eleventh duke of Uxbridge, was confirmed dead. Holmes was playing what he would term a long shot, believing that all such questions would be answered when we reached the Valley of the Kings. Tewfik, desperate for artifacts to include in his museum’s insufficient collection, was likewise counting on the outcome. Would he startle the world by obtaining even the partial contents of the first unopened pharaonic tomb? And Howard Carter, not present, but doubtless anticipating our arrival in Luxor, was certainly counting on a major discovery, hoping such a find would aid his own rehabilitation.
And I? Was I here because, as the faithful water-carrier for the detective, I was bound to see where things led and ultimately write about them? Or was I present because of the ultimatum presented me by wife? It was apparent that from this point forward relations between us must be altered. I could only hope that henceforward they would be altered for the better. It is hard for the leopard to rearrange his spots (and still qualify as a leopard), but I had been given to understand in no uncertain terms that unless I made some fundamental change in my modus operandi, things would go hard with us. By this time I had absorbed enough of my wife’s lexicon that what I regarded as “change” Juliet (always assuming she defeated her ailment) I knew would characterise as “growth.”
At eight-thirty the dinner gong was mercifully sounded, breaking in upon my thoughts, and our little party, morose as ever, proceeded to the dining car. Each damasked table had an Egyptian rose centrepiece and the menu (which I managed to save but have since misplaced) offered an enticing variety, consisting of a choice of Pawpaw Cocktail, the ever-popular Nile perch in a remoulade sauce, or Crumbled Steak and asparagus with something called “Cream Sauce Princess.” There was also, if memory serves, roast turkey with Liver Stuffing St. James, assorted vegetables, and Diplomat Pudding or Pêche Melba.
Had any of us known what lay in store, I wonder if we would have ordered differently.
“What a shame Lord Darlington was feeling unwell,” I remarked in an effort to thaw the communal ice.
“Darlington will join us as soon as he can,” was all the duchess offered, covering her wine glass before the steward was able to pour the chilled rosé. It certainly struck me we had no need of anything more chilled than things already were.
“Professor Tewfik,” Holmes asked, spooning his pudding after a further uncomfortable silence during which we concluded our meal, “you’ve doubtless visited the Valley of the Kings?”
“To be sure, Colonel. On many occasions. I may say by this point I know it quite well.”
The professor sounded relieved that someone had found a conversational gambit.
“It is easily accessible from Luxor, I take it?”
“Only about twenty miles distant. In cooler weather, such as this time of year, the trip is quite manageable. Luxor, as you know, is on the eastern bank of the river, while much of Thebes, the old capital, and the valley itself lie on the west, but the trip via felucca is mere minutes and the road thereafter to the ossuaries has been smoothed for tourists and is well maintained.”
“So the fact now confirmed that the duke and his”—Holmes did not lift his eyes from his pudding—“associate were three nights in Luxor suggests they had ample time to cross the river and see what was there?”
“In theory more than ample.” Tewfik also tried not to look at the duchess, who remained silent, concentrating on her Pêche Melba.
Our attempts at conversation appeared to have been exhausted following this exchange. It had occurred to me to mention Juliet and her experiences at the Al Wadi, but on further thought I rejected the idea. Matters here revolved around the duchess and her missing husband; my private concerns were none of hers. Or Holmes’s, for that matter.
Shortly thereafter, the awkward meal came to an end and the unhappy group dispersed, heading for our wagon-lit. Holmes and Professor Tewfik had jointly reserved their compartment and naturally the duchess had her own deluxe suite at the end of the car.
Readying myself for bed, I briefly opened the transom to air the small room and was startled by the rush of wind and a slight spray of sand. In my drowsy state I attributed this to the great rate of speed at which I supposed we were travelling. After my recent conversation with Juliet and the ill-feeling aboard the train, the prospect of sleep was by no means unwelcome. As a rule I enjoyed trains and had no difficulty letting them sway me into the arms of Morpheus.
Mindful of Holmes’s injunction regarding thieves amid the possibility of additional night-time camel caravans, I closed and locked my window before climbing onto my narrow bed. There, lulled by the gentle rocking of the train, I drifted off, looking forward with anticipation to whatever we would find in the Valley of the Kings and drowsily contemplating a triumphant homecoming that would reunite me with my wife.
It was some hours later and I was entirely unconscious when I became dimly aware of a soft but persistent knocking, which I finally realised was at my own door. As I was obliged to fumble for the blue night-light in unfamiliar darkness, it was some moments before I unfastened the bolt and opened the door to behold the Duchess of Uxbridge, dressed in night clothes underneath a belted robe of pink quilt.
“Your Grace!”
“May I come in?” She did so without waiting for an answer, shutting the door behind her. It was about this time that I realised the train had stopped; also, that it had begun to rain. In my dull state it did not occur to me that in Egypt this was impossible.
“More camels?”
“I don’t think so. It wasn’t a sudden stop. Something. I don’t know. You are a doctor.” I wasn’t sure how this last fact figured into her computations, but the woman was clearly frightened and possibly with reason, for we could now make out shouting up and down our carriage.
“Wait here.” Throwing on my own robe and slippers, I stepped into the corridor and seized a conductor who was rushing past.
“What has happened?” I demanded, holding him fast.
He favored me with a wild look. “Khamsin!” he cried. “Pull down all the shades and secure them!” before shaking himself free and rushing on, repeating his instructions.
I had no idea what “khamsin” meant or referred to (a horde of desert bandits out of The Arabian Nights was all I could manage; had they somehow blocked the train?), but I stepped back into my compartment, where the duchess, ashen-faced, sat where I had left her on the edge of the lower berth.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure, but we’re to pull down the shades,” and leaning past her, I did, tying off the cord on the lower edge of the dark leathern curtain to the cleat on the sill. I now realised that the rain was improbably not striking the carriage roof, but pelting solely at the windows.
“It isn’t rain,” the duchess remarked, as though hearing my thoughts. “It’s sand.”
So it was—sand being buffeted by increasing wind. The sound was hypnotic, the aural equivalent of watching crashing waves or staring at flames in the grate.
“Talk to me. Please.”
“What about?”
“Anything. Only keep talking.” She looked about the small dimly lit place in search of a topic. “Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Happily?”
Before I could frame an answer there was another knock on my door, followed by the entrance of Holmes.
“Have you seen the duchess? Oh, I beg your pardon!” he added, spying her and directing a quizzical glance at myself.
The woman regarded the detective briefly but said nothing.
“Holmes, what is ‘khamsin,’ do you know?”
“I do now,” replied the detective, who was already dressed. Professor Tewfik, also dressed, joined him in the doorway. “Khamsin is what one would call a mistral in the South of France,” he explained. “Is that correct, Professor?”
“Yes, meaning ‘Great Wind.’” The museum director nodded. In the gloom, his eyes were starting from their sockets and he was breathing in the wrong places. “Khamsin is our name for a sirocco, or kamikaze, as they term it in Japan. Here it denotes a typhoon of sand, the winds capable of whipping up the Sahara at speeds of over a hundred miles an hour. The natives call it ‘Allah’s Breath.’ It is rare for this time of year,” he assured us hastily, “but one closes tight the shades to prevent injury from flying glass in case the windows should break.”
The duchess had not moved from where she sat but pressed a fist to her mouth.
“How long does this last?”
As we looked at him, Tewfik hesitated, then shrugged unhappily. “‘Khamsin’ literally means ‘fifty.’”
“Fifty?” The duchess moaned.
“Fifty what?” I demanded. “Hours? Days?”
The man shook his head. “There’s no telling, but there’s no going forward until it slackens, that much is certain.”
Far from slackening, however, the wind only appeared to be gathering force. The sand no longer resembled rain but rather hail and, shortly thereafter, pebbles that clattered everywhere like a regiment of cavalry cantering down a stretch of macadam. The ensuing racket made speech impossible.
Holding on to various bulkheads, we stared at one another. The howling redoubled in fury, and now the entire wagon-lit began to tremble. How long could such a horror last? It couldn’t, we told ourselves. But it did, and grew still worse. Fifty. Fifty hours of this was inconceivable; fifty days unsurvivable.
“What’s happening?” the duchess yelled, as though she’d not heard the professor’s explanation.
Before anyone could answer, there was an explosion and my window was smashed inwards, the shade snapping up as the cord was severed and a tidal wave of sand blowing in with shards of glass, prompting a muffled shriek from the duchess, who doubled over in an instinctive contortion. Whether this posture was adopted for protection or from terror it was impossible to say; possibly both considerations were at work.
The carriage itself now threatened to tilt entirely. The detective and I exchanged looks.
“We must decouple this car,” Holmes decreed. “For if it rolls over, it will take its neighbours with it, or they do the same to us, which would greatly complicate any attempts at rescue.”
His logic was clear enough.
“If Your Grace will excuse me,” I shouted in her ear, “I must dress!”
She gave a spasmodic jerk of her head but did not speak. I nodded to Holmes, who tugged a blanket from the upper berth and wrapped it around the duchess, then pointed his finger beyond the door, indicating he and the professor would wait for me there.
As the wagon-lit continued to be buffeted by shrieking wind and pelting sand granules, I managed to slip on my clothes and boots, one hand pressed against a bulkhead to preserve my balance. I made feeble attempts at decorum, but speed was of the essence and space was limited. How much of these arrangements were noticed by the duchess it is impossible to say, but when I made a move to the door she seized my arm with a convulsive strength and a wild look.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“To help.”
“No!”
“I’ll return,” I promised. “Stay right here. Will you do that?”
She made no answer as I pried her clenched fingers one by one from my sleeve and squeezed them around the blanket. Thinking quickly, as one does in such circumstances, I seized an extra shirt and tied it about my head, endeavouring to cover my nose and mouth, knotting the sleeve ends tightly at the base of my neck.
Seeing my appearance thus in the middle of the night amid such a tempest prompted her to jam a fist again into her mouth as if she would swallow it.
“Stay right here, Your Grace!” I knew I spoke but could not hear my voice muffled through the cloth that covered my mouth. “I’ll reconnoiter.”
And with that, I was out the door and into the corridor. No windows on this side of the train were broken, as the khamsin was barrelling in from the west, but the car itself was rocking to and fro as though being tossed about amid an earthquake. Sand had contrived to coat everyone and everything within. My teeth instantly gritted with it.
Towards the front, I could see Holmes, Tewfik, and some others gathering, and I made for them, the flooring quivering beneath me as my feet struggled for purchase. Hats and face coverings were being improvised and distributed.
“Remember,” Holmes was saying as I reached him, “this operation must be performed twice, once at each end of the car. Is that understood?”
There were muffled nods and five travellers whom I had not met squeezed past, heading for the rear of the car. “This way, pardner!” cried one. “Right behind you, pal!” yelled another. Spying me, the detective offered a grim smile before pulling up his own face covering.
That said, we pulled open the platform door, to be greeted by a blast of sand that sent us reeling backward into each other, our eyes stinging from grit.
“Push us!” the detective ordered Tewfik, and, with our heads lowered, we were thrust onto the platform where the storm had already smashed in the door that faced the wind. The skin on my face and arms, even the part that was nominally protected, felt it was being stung by a thousand nettles, or stabbed by the very glass shards whose forced entry my window shade had dismally failed to prevent. My forehead was instantly cut open, but my hands were the worst. Had I thought more clearly while dressing in my compartment at that confusing time, I would have devised some protection for them. I would pay dearly for that neglect; now, however, there was nothing for it but to follow the detective.
As he crawled out and dropped underneath the couplings, I did likewise, more or less falling in his wake. There matters only worsened. Where we crouched it was a veritable wind tunnel, and above us our wagon-lit and the one attached before it rocked alarmingly in opposite directions, producing high-pitched squeals that rivaled the volume of the tempest.
Professor Tewfik, who had followed us, almost suffered a more dire fate. The wind made a snatch at him as he descended and threatened to whirl him into a dark oblivion had Holmes not seized him by his collar, which promptly came off in his hand. Fortunately, his other fist snagged the man’s coat and, dragging him back, forced him up and into the car. The professor gave the detective a heavy nod of gratitude and left us to our work. Everything was so dark I could not tell whether it was day or night.
And to crown our difficulties, what we could see only further confused matters. The coaches, cunningly painted to blend with ochre desert hues, now acted as malevolent camouflage, disguising where they began and the storm left off.
Amid our struggles to undo the coupling, it was all one could manage not to think of one or both cars overhead rolling over in the midst of our efforts and crushing us both. It did cross my mind that if such a thing occurred it would prove a ridiculous end to our two lives, but I told myself, as the sands assaulted me like pummelling Furies, perhaps all endings are ridiculous and this would prove no worse than many others.
Thanks to the steward who earlier had informed me the carriages were built in France, it was no great matter for Holmes and myself to know what was required to decouple them. The difficulty lay in withstanding the onslaught of sand and accomplishing the task before one or more sections of the train were toppled by the ferocious khamsin. It was useless to speak, but by dint of gestures I indicated to Holmes that I would stand with my back to the wind, thus shielding him as he worked the coupling. I had not thought to bring any sort of winter garb, but with my robe thrown over a singlet, a shirt, and my Norfolk, the layers I had improvised proved sufficient for me to shelter the detective from wind and sand as he strained to unwind the giant screw-tension turn-buckle and throw off the two heavy link safety chains. The only flaw in my choreography was that I was compelled to expose the backs of my hands as I grasped pieces of both carriage handles to brace myself in place while he worked. Blood was shortly running in rivulets under my sleeves, sliding towards my elbows. The absurd thought flashed through my mind that regardless of whether I lived or perished, my Harris Tweed was irretrievably ruined.
I don’t suppose the entire procedure lasted more than two minutes, but the backs of my hands were a red-soaked, slippery mess as we clambered back aboard the train, as if I had donned a pair of crimson gloves. Blood from the cut in my forehead trickled into my right eye, prompting a repeated involuntary wink and a half-blind search for a towel in the lavatory. In the mirror above the pewter sink I was a sight to behold. As a battlefield surgeon I had certainly experienced gouts of hemoglobin during my time of service, but not since Maiwand, when Murray, my orderly, saved my life by throwing me over a packhorse after I’d been struck by a Jezail bullet, had that blood been my own. The sight made me momentarily dizzy and I clutched the basin to steady myself. As the carriage rocked in the skirling wind, I briefly saw myself as Lady Macbeth with chapped and flaking lips and tottered out of the washroom, wondering if the others thought so, too.
“Watson, dear man, are you alright? Let me see.” The detective, who generally eschewed displays of emotion, now let slip his mask of imperturbability if only for a moment, suggesting how problematic our situation must be.
“’Tis not so wide as a church door nor so deep as a well,” I managed, surprised and pleased by his concern.
We were shortly rejoined by the Americans who had successfully worked the coupling at the rear of the car. Their lips, I noted, were as cracked as my own.
Someone suggested we might be safer lying flat out of doors on the sand, but the prospect of being struck by flying debris discouraged any such recourse. I thought of Juliet and hoped I would live to see and smile with her again.
Eager hands now rushed to create ad hoc bandages using water and towels from the washrooms and items from other compartments to cleanse my wounds. Others had suffered injuries as well. As the khamsin continued to bellow and shove at the coaches, we endured as best we could in silence, for there was nothing that words could accomplish even had they been heard. Occasionally the distant crash of more window glass breaking sounded through the wind’s cacophony, punctuated as well by distant cries elsewhere on the train. As those who uttered them were beyond our reach, I for one tried to ignore them.
It was hard to judge the passage of time in all of this. I had not brought my watch, which would certainly have been destroyed, and as it was totally dark outside, it was impossible to say whether or not the sun had risen. The swirling sand obscured everything that might have been light.
And then we heard a distant crash unlike any other. This was accompanied by faint shrieks. Holmes understood at once.
“One of the cars behind us has rolled over.”
“Holy cow,” one of the Americans responded in his own tongue.
I stood unsteadily with the evident intention of heading towards the source of the noise.
“Not you, old man,” the detective stopped me. I was so feeble it didn’t take much effort to restrain me. “We’ll go and see what we can do. Might I trouble you to look in on my client?”
I nodded, too exhausted to argue.
“Say, maybe I should check on my old lady!” yelled another, but the rest, including Professor Tewfik, who, I realised, was in fact a vigorous, not to say athletic, figure, chose to follow the detective towards the rear of the train. The other cars must literally stand or fall on their own. For the rest, we would simply have to wait.
The roar of the sandstorm sounded not unlike a freight train rumbling through one’s drawing room, mingled with echoes of children sobbing in a distant chimney.
For a time I perched on one of the trembling leather armrests and let my mind wander. It flitted uncertainly, bouncing from one aspect of this mysterious business to another. There had been the missing suite 718 at Shepheard’s; there was Akhenaten, his repulsive features distorted by Marfan Syndrome, married to his elder brother’s attractive widow, what was her name? Nefer-something. Thence my idle associations drifted to the striking Duchess of Uxbridge and Lord Darlington, her improbable brother-in-law, who, like Akhenaten, was also heir to a kingdom, a dukedom at any rate, should his own brother predecease him. What had Tewfik said about “older than Hamlet”? And what of the murder weapon used on our hapless waiter, a dagger of ancient vintage? Surely the peculiar choice of weapon was what Holmes would term “suggestive.” But suggestive of what? And what of Bechstein, Phillips, and Jourdan, all of whom—professional or amateur plunderers—seemed to have met their fates on a quest for gold? Finally I settled on the enigmatic Fatima. Which thread in this tangled skein was hers? Was she indeed playing a double game—and if so, with whom? The duke? One-handed Major Haki and the Turks? Mycroft and his “clubmen” of the Diogenes? Or possibly herself? I longed to put a great many questions to her should we meet, but finally blinked away my speculations, rose, and clumsily made my way back to my berth. My compartment door remained unlocked and the duchess sitting where I had left her. And then, for the second time in my life, I fainted.*
Having lost all sense of time, I have no idea how much had passed before I came to myself. I found the duchess leaning over and sponging the cut above my eye with a cambric handkerchief soaked in cool patchouli. I remember being surprised to recognise it as the same scent Juliet wore. How had I not noticed this earlier?
“Is that better?” She now gently applied salve to my parched lips.
“Yes.” I struggled to sit up and she helped me.
“What time is it?”
“Where is your watch?”
I thought about this. “Under my pillow?”
I held the timepiece to my ear, relieved to find it still running. The fact that I could hear it suggested something else, namely a change in the velocity of the wind. Squeezing shut my eyes to distinguish more clearly, I thought it might be abating, or was that merely wishful thinking? I decided not to mention it, as I did not wish to raise false hopes.
“Can you wind this for me, please? I’m afraid my hands are—”
She took the watch from me and wound it.
Having sat up on the floor, we regarded each other in the faint glow of the blue night-light.
“Thank you for last night. I expect I lost my head.”
“Small wonder.”
“When I was ten years of age, my grandfather, assuming it would interest me, brought me down with him—the better part of a mile it must have been—into a shaft of one of his copper mines. Attempting his idea of a joke, he abandoned me in that dark, underground place for perhaps less than a minute, though to me it seemed an eternity. Regardless, the damage was done. Ever since that day I have nightmares of close confinement.”
She fastened my watch about my wrist.
I remained for the time being on the floor while she, tightening her robe, resumed her place on the edge of the lower berth. She was doing something with her hands, opening and closing them as if to flex the fingers.
“Why did you ask about my marriage?” The question popped unbidden out of my mouth before I knew what prompted me to ask it. It was curious how our situation had unleashed a different aspect of her personality, and, for all I knew, of mine, as well. The formerly icy and unknowable Lizabetta del Maurepas had been thawed by an onslaught of sand, going so far as to share childhood reminiscences with a comparative stranger.
“Did I?” She confessed dully, “I expect I was making comparisons.”
“With your own?”
“Mr. Holmes—is he alright?” she asked instead of replying. I had overstepped.
I considered her question, tentatively touching my scalp. “He was when I left him.”
“Try not to do that.”
I obeyed. The coach continued to quiver. Sucking air in jerky inhalations, she reached for one of the upper-berth supports.
“Where is he?”
“Holmes? One of the cars—perhaps more than one—has rolled over towards the rear. He has gone to help.”
She nodded, convulsively clenching and unclenching her fingers again. “I have done him an injustice.”
“He may have done you one as well. In any case, he is not one to carry a grudge.”
“What do you think he knows?”
“Knows?” I slowly got to my feet and in the gloom inspected the shambles of the compartment, crunching window glass shards under my boots.
“About my husband.”
“He has not communicated his thoughts along those lines to me,” I began, but held up a bandaged hand, forestalling her next question, “but even had he done so, it would not be my place to say.”
She accepted this answer with a philosophical shrug as much as to say she expected nothing different from me. It was at that moment that we both realised the wind was well and truly slackening. Indeed, as I looked again, patches of blue were appearing outside the broken window.
She followed my look, then directed her gaze at me, her features resuming their accustomed expression.
“It is over.”