Simon Green - Property of a Lady Faire

“What?” said Molly, sitting up straight. “Hours?” She stood up abruptly and planted herself before me with her fists planted on her hips, the better to glare down at me. “I am not sitting here, in this dump, freezing my tits off, for hours on end! And . . . I am hungry! Very seriously hungry. Eddie Drood, we are going to the restaurant car. Right now!”

I stood up, and smiled at her. “Your relentless logic has defeated me. I will admit, I am feeling just a bit peckish myself.”

“Then let’s go!” said Molly.

“Can we at least try to keep a low profile?”

“Who’s going to know us here? Let them look.”

“You’ve never been one for hiding your light under a bushel, have you?”

“Listen,” said Molly, “I am so hungry right now, I could eat a bushel.”

• • •

The door between the baggage car and the next compartment was of course very firmly locked, but a little firm pressure from a golden glove was all it took to persuade the door to open. Having Drood armour is like possessing a free pass to everywhere. Molly slipped her arm through mine, and we strode proudly on into the passenger carriage, which turned out to be a much warmer place, and far more civilised. A perfect re-creation of an early-twentieth-century railway carriage, with every conceivable comfort and luxury, and every relevant detail carefully preserved. Or at the very least, cunningly duplicated. The old original gas lamps in fact contained carefully concealed electric light bulbs, while hidden central heating soon took the chill out of our bones. The richly gleaming beechwood panels were stamped at regular intervals with the golden crest of the Trans-Siberian Express Company. The carriage was made up of spacious separate compartments, with padded leather seats and specially reinforced wide windows through which the rich and important passengers could enjoy glorious views of snow-covered scenery. Very nice views. If you liked snow. And not much else.

Molly and I sauntered down the narrow aisle, arm in arm and heads held high, as though we had every right to be there. The few people we encountered just smiled and nodded pleasantly to us. Molly and I nodded and smiled in return. No one raised a fuss, or asked any questions, because since we gave every appearance of belonging there, then obviously we must.

And there you have it. How to be a secret agent, in one easy lesson.

A steward in a blindingly white uniform with lots of gold piping and serious braid on his shoulders and rows of gleaming buttons came bustling forward to meet us. He smiled and bowed, and inquired how he might best be of service, in formal Russian he’d clearly learned from a book. I answered him in English, and he immediately responded in English he’d clearly learned from a book. Molly dazzled him with her smile, and asked for directions to the restaurant car. The steward bobbed his head quickly.

“Just follow the corridors through carriages second and third, honoured sir and lady, and you will emerge immediately into the restauranting car. Second serving of the day is just beginning.”

I gave the steward my best dazzling smile, to make up for the fact that I didn’t have any suitable money about me with which to tip him, and Molly and I moved on. The steward was gracious and understanding about it, and made a rude gesture at our backs that he didn’t realise I could see in the mirror on the wall. I wasn’t worried he might say something. The rich are often notoriously poor tippers. It’s part of how they got to be rich.

• • •

We reached the restaurant car without further mishap, and it turned out to be barely half full. Perhaps the constant lurching of the train had made the other passengers travel-sick. At least it meant we had no problems getting a table. Molly and I just marched down the aisle with our noses stuck in the air, and none of the exquisitely dressed people already at their tables paid us any attention at all. I chose the very best table, picked up the Reserved sign and threw it away, and pulled out a chair for Molly to sit down. She sank elegantly into it with a gracious smile, and I sat down opposite her and studied the setting details as the spoils of conquest.

Gleaming white samite tablecloth, luxurious plate settings, and first-class cutlery, all of it stamped with the Trans-Siberian Express company crest. I shook out the heavy napkin, dropped it in my lap, and pocketed the silver napkin holder. I glanced out the window, just in case anything had changed. Snow. Lots of snow. And even more snow. For a moment I thought I saw something moving, but when I looked more closely I realised it was just the train’s shadow, racing along beside us. Molly caressed the inside of my thigh with her toes, underneath the table, and smiled at me demurely.

I picked up one of the oversized menus. The heavy paper stock was bound in red leather, and everything on offer was in French. I can read French, but it was a sign the food was almost certainly going to be overcooked and underwhelming. That kind of food nearly always is, outside of France.

“There aren’t any prices,” said Molly, running her eyes rapidly over what the menu had to offer.

“If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it,” I said. “That goes as standard, in places like this. Ah, there’s an English translation at the back, if you need it.”

Molly glowered at me over the top of her menu, and withdrew her foot. “I’ll back my French against yours any day.”

“Splendid idea. Bring her on,” I said. “Baguettes at dawn?”

Molly giggled, and we turned to the menu’s back pages, honour satisfied. The English-language translation was in very small type, as though it was being presented only very grudgingly. I couldn’t say I was particularly impressed by any of it. Just because something is rare and expensive and fashionable, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s going to be in any way tasty. I can remember when baby mice stuffed with hummingbirds’ tongues was all the rage, in the most-talked-about London restaurants. I once outraged a celebrity chef by asking if I could have mine in a sesame seed bun.

“Oh look!” said Molly. “There’s going to be a caviar and vodka tasting later this afternoon.”

“Don’t get too impressed,” I said. “Unless it’s the real Beluga stuff, all caviar tastes the same. Salty. The trick is to get them to provide you with enough dry toast to eat it on.”

“Snob,” said Molly, not unkindly.

“I’m a Drood!” I said cheerfully. “We’re entitled to the best of everything the world has to offer. It says so in our contract.”

“You have a contract with the world?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Of course, we don’t let the world see it.”

“Of course,” said Molly.

“You can’t talk,” I said. “All the time you were staying with me at Drood Hall, you insisted the kitchens provide you with six boiled eggs for every breakfast, just so you could choose the best one.”

“I got the idea from Prince Charles,” said Molly.

“You’ve never met Prince Charles!”

“I read about it, in Hello! magazine. And if it’s good enough for him . . . Have you anything witty and informative to say about the vodka?”

“Only that vodka usually only tastes of whatever you mix it with. I’ve had peppermint vodka, paprika vodka, chocolate vodka . . . What an afternoon that was. I do remember a story my uncle James told me, from his time in Russia during the Cold War. He said he always used to drop a little black pepper onto the surface of a glass of vodka, let the pepper sink to the bottom, and then knock the vodka back in one, so that the peppered dregs stayed in the bottom of the glass. Because in those days you got a lot of homemade bathtub vodka showing up in Moscow, even at the best parties, a lot of it spiked with fuel oil. The fuel oil floated on the surface of the vodka, and the black pepper attached itself to it, and took it to the bottom of the glass. Made the stuff safe, or at least safer, to drink. Blind drunk wasn’t just an expression in those days.”