A Christmas Message Page 3

  For a moment she had been a trifle annoyed that Narraway had so instinctively stepped across the doorway so she did not see inside the room and catch a glimpse of the dead man with his throat slashed. Now that they were married, he protected her often, as if it were his duty or his privilege to guard her from unpleasantness. He had never done so before. For most of their long acquaintance, he had been Mr. Narraway, head of Special Branch: clever, often ruthless, and very much alone. She had been Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, daughter of an earl and possibly the most beautiful woman of her generation. He would not have taken the liberty! If he had dared, she would have raised an eyebrow, and he would have retreated and apologized, albeit with amusement. They had become friends at first, then been thoroughly taken aback to find they wished deeply to be more than that, very much more. But he really would have to stop treating her as if she were fragile! She had a will as strong as Toledo steel! Or perhaps she should come closer to home: as Sheffield steel?

  And yet the thought of the gentle old man so brutally murdered shocked her.

  “Victor,” she said quietly when they were at breakfast.

  He had been deep in thought. He looked up. “Yes?”

  “I dreamed about the old man most of the night. I’m glad you did not let me see him. I liked him very much.”

  “I, too,” he said quietly. “I wish he had had time to tell us a little more. I can’t make any sense out of the paper. There is no picture, no writing legible to us, and not enough of anything to even make out if it is part of a map.”

  “Presumably the person we take it to will know,” she suggested.

  “I hope so.” He looked beyond her, through the archway to the entrance hall. “There seem to be police all over the place today. I suppose it’s inevitable. I haven’t seen the French couple who sat by the window. I imagine they’ve found other accommodation. I’d have booked us a seat on another train if I could have, but I know there isn’t one.”

  “There isn’t?”

  “Just one train,” he replied. “Leaves Jerusalem in the morning, gets here in the middle of the day, and goes back in the afternoon. Something to do with the track.”

  She was puzzled. “I thought you said the railway was British? Why on earth did we do that?”

  “It is,” he agreed with a flicker of amusement. “And I’ve no idea why. Most things come down to money in the end. Would you prefer to leave the hotel and have an early lunch somewhere in the town?”

  She considered. She would far rather not stay here, but she also did not wish to sit in a café with a pile of suitcases, and rely on the erratic public transport to get them to the station on time. They must be in Jerusalem to deliver the curious piece of paper no later than Christmas Eve.

  “No, thank you.” It was the only possible decision. “And if we stay here in the hotel there is the very small chance that we may learn something of use, such as who could have killed the old man. I dislike it very much that I do not even know his name! It seems so…heartless.”

  He smiled at her across the table. “Then we shall have to give him one. How about Balthazar?”

  She was momentarily puzzled.

  “Did you not listen to him?” He raised his dark brows. “He was very wise…”

  She smiled and for a moment tears stung her eyes. “Of course. He was a wise man journeying to Jerusalem, with a gift, to be there in time for Christmas. Balthazar was the third named, at least in legend. Presumably he carried the myrrh, symbolizing sacrifice.” The tears now slid down her cheeks and she felt oddly vulnerable because of it. She was justifying every thought he might have that she was weaker than he. “It seems horribly appropriate.” She took a shaky breath, struggling to control herself. This fear was ridiculous, but as real as the hard wooden table in front of her, or the stone tiles of the floor. “What have we got ourselves into, Victor?”

  “Jerusalem.” He hesitated only an instant, glanced at her hand on the white tablecloth, then deliberately did not move to touch her. “City of promise, glory, and sacrifice—from Isaac to Christ, and only God knows how many others. This is your last chance to change your mind. We could find a ship home again, or to Alexandria, Rome, even Constantinople, which used to be Byzantium. I believe it is one of the most complex and fascinating cities in the world.”

  “Yes.” She heard her own voice as if it were that of a stranger. “I’ve heard so too. But I am going to Jerusalem.”

  “I know that, but I had to ask.”

  She did not look at him, in case emotion overtook her again. In the short space they had been together, less than two years, she had been happier than at any other time in her life. Every day was infinitely precious. Why should she take unknown risks to deliver a meaningless piece of paper for a stranger who would never know whether she did it or not?

  She knew the answer. Because to be alive is to risk; to care is to be vulnerable. The only safety there is lies in doing your best, being the bravest and most generous you can.

  She ate a piece of toast, which was strange and flat, not in the least like English bread, and finished her tea, not really tasting any of it.

  They remained in the hotel lounge all morning, apart from the brief time it took to pack their cases, including a picnic for the journey, which Vespasia ordered from the hotel kitchen. But, waiting there, they did not learn anything of interest, or observe more than the local police continuing to question various staff, and making searches that did not appear to yield any helpful results.

  They left a little after noon, and traveled toward the railway station in a fairly comfortable brougham drawn by a single horse. The journey was without incident until two blocks short of the station, when the driver made a sharp turn to the right and then another, away from the station altogether.

  Narraway leaned forward to attract his attention. “Railway station, please!” he said distinctly. Then when the man took no notice, he repeated it, first in French, then in German. The man did not even turn in his seat. Instead, he pulled the horse to a halt.

  Vespasia felt a chill of fear. A man in a dark robe was walking along the pavement to the right of them. He would be level with them in a dozen strides.

  She looked to the left and saw a tall, thin man walking, holding a long stick like a shepherd’s crook, the curved end of it level with his head. It was stout enough to lean on, and would make an excellent weapon.

  Suddenly she was deeply afraid. What could she use to defend herself? She looked around, but there was nothing. She was aware of Narraway, rigid beside her. She knew perfectly well that he had no weapon either. Were the men, now so close, ordinary robbers, looking to take their luggage, and any money they might have? Or were they somehow aware of Balthazar’s paper, and that was what they wanted?

  The luggage she did not care about. There was nothing in it she could not replace. The man with the staff drew level with her and moved off the side of the road to the center, shifting the staff to hold it as a weapon. Vespasia picked up the smallest piece of baggage, an attaché case with soft sides and hard corners.

  The man to the right continued walking closer.

  Narraway shot to his feet and lunged forward, seizing the driver, who was sitting motionless, and toppling him off his seat sideways, hard so that he fell to the ground. His weight knocked over the man in the street and sent both sprawling.

  Vespasia struck out as hard as she could with the attaché case, the reinforced corners of it hitting the man on the pavement on the side of his face as he came level with the brougham. He lurched sideways, putting his hands over his eyes, temporarily blinding himself.

  Narraway grasped the reins, shouting as loudly as he could, startling the horse and urging it forward. The animal obeyed, and the carriage wheels struck and then bounced over the men trying to get up from the road. One screamed in pain.

  Vespasia sat down very hard, sideways across the seat, still clutching the case.

  The carriage picked up speed, and another carriage came ou
t of an alley ahead of them. There was a man driving it, and two startled women in the seats.

  Vespasia righted herself with difficulty as they swept past the women and around the corner into the traffic again.

  They reached the railway station and drew up at the side of the road.

  A porter appeared to assist with luggage. Narraway somewhat awkwardly climbed down and offered his hand to Vespasia.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with concern, searching her face to read in it how badly shaken she was.

  “Perfectly, thank you,” she assured him with as much dignity as she could muster. “What are you going to do with the horse?”

  “Nothing,” he answered without hesitation. “It’s a good enough animal. Someone will be glad to care for it. We should get off the street as quickly as possible.” He kept his hand on her arm. “It’s still half an hour before the train leaves, but if it arrived on time we should be able to take our seats now. We need to be in a crowd.” He looked at her again, more closely, the anxiety clear in his eyes.

  “I’m a little dusty, that’s all,” she answered his unspoken concern. “And it appears to me that everyone else is either dusty or muddy. It seems to have rained.”

  He gave a quick bark of laughter, then became sober again. “How very English to consider the weather, my dear. Let us go into the station. I still have the tickets, fortunately.”

  She hesitated only a moment. “Do you still have Balthazar’s letter?”

  There was surprise and disbelief in his face. “Do you think it was because of that?”

  He was right. It was absurd. Who would know about it anyway?

  “No,” she agreed. “No, of course not. Nevertheless, do you still have it? We must deliver it if we can, for Balthazar’s sake.”

  He put his hand into his inside pocket. “Yes. I have it.” He looked uncomfortable.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  They walked through the graceful arches into the station building, on the heels of the porter. There were already considerable numbers of people milling around, calling out to one another, and of course the usual peddlers offering any number of useful or edible things for sale: sweetmeats, matches, bootlaces, almonds and pecans, dried fruit.

  He stood close to her, one arm around her shoulders, lightly, but she was very aware of it. It was comfortable, and at the moment she was more glad of it than usual.

  “Victor,” she said, staring straight ahead of her. “As you observed, Balthazar was murdered for something. Anyone looking at him would doubt he had much. We would be far more likely to have something to justify the risk of an ordinary robbery.”

  “You are right,” he agreed. “And he honored us with his trust and the mission to take the parchment to the bakery, or whatever it is, in Jerusalem. And at Christmas! Not a good time to break your word.” He said it lightly, but when she looked at his face it was unusually grave. He did not meet her eyes, as if his own seriousness embarrassed him slightly.

  “Actually, it is not necessarily a bakery,” she told him. “He calls it ‘the House of Bread.’ Symbolically, bread is life.”

  “I wonder if there is only one bakery on the Via Dolorosa,” he thought aloud. “I suppose a street so old doesn’t have numbers.”

  “It may not be the original Via Dolorosa,” she answered, watching the crowds pass by them. They were the passengers from Jerusalem arrived on the morning train. “But it doesn’t matter. The actuality is nothing. The meaning is all.”

  He was looking away from her, watching everyone who passed by.

  He glanced up at the station clock. “In a few minutes we’ll be able to board the train,” he said as the crowds thinned. “If we are lucky we’ll have a first-class compartment largely to ourselves.” He gave the porter a couple of coins and motioned him to follow with the luggage.

  It was noisy, crowded, and the engine belched steam at irregular intervals, but—like at all railway stations—there was a breath of excitement in the air, the promise of travel, broad landscapes, open spaces, cities new to the mind but old as history itself, and closer to the heart.

  When they were settled, they did indeed have considerable space and quite a bit of comfort. They sat next to the window, opposite each other, Vespasia facing forward.

  “The original wise men came on camels, I believe,” Narraway observed with a smile. “And from the east, I believe.”

  “Do you? Believe it?” she asked, realizing she did not know, and feeling an overwhelming sense that it was strange she did not. She had thought it mattered, but now the idea occurred to her that perhaps it was the “star” you were following that eventually dictated where you would arrive.

  “That wise men riding camels followed a star to Jerusalem?” he asked. His face was impossible to read. He did not want to hurt her, and he realized he did not know how literally she believed the charm and the symbolism of Christianity. Now that the question was raised, perhaps she did not know either. Suddenly it had all become very serious.

  “My dear, stars do not sit over a specific place,” he said gently. “The earth turns, giving us the illusion that the stars move. The Pole Star perhaps is fixed for us, precisely because it is above the pole, but not the others.”

  She considered what he was asking.

  The train engine belched steam. A whistle shrilled and they lurched forward, stopped, then began to move slowly, but gathering speed. They were outside the station in the winter sun, passing through the city of Jaffa with its busy streets. In minutes they would be beyond it, pulling away from the coast and inland.

  “It doesn’t matter where they came from, east or west,” she said. “What matters is that they followed a light. Perhaps it was an inner one. And they brought gifts uniquely appropriate.”

  “Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,” he agreed. “You told me their significance, remember?”

  She studied his face for a moment, wondering what he believed. It was something they had never discussed. One went to church on Sundays, now and then, and believed most of the morality of the faith. Beyond that, it was among the subjects that it was considered ill mannered to discuss in any depth. People were easy to offend.

  They were passing through farmland now, olive groves and occasionally fields of some grain crop. The earth was dry, but it held its own kind of beauty. Was that because the imagination peopled it with the stories from the Bible?

  “And what on earth is it we are bringing?” Narraway asked wryly. “A piece of paper that seems to make no sense at all!”

  “A promise,” Vespasia said without irritation. “Maybe it will mean something when we get there.”

  “To the House of Bread?”

  “That’s what he said, isn’t it?”

  “He wrote ‘House of Bread’ in English. But then he would assume we couldn’t either speak or read Hebrew,” he pointed out. “We can inquire.”

  “I think the paper would be safer if I carry it,” she said quietly. “You might have even an inside pocket picked, or take off your jacket for some reason.”

  “And where can you carry it?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

  “Oh, Victor, please! Use a little imagination.” She stood up. “I think I will go along to the cloakroom and place it there now.” She held out her hand.

  He was reluctant.

  “Please be realistic.” She lowered her voice still further, and smiled ruefully. “If they are going to tear my clothes off to search me, we are already something of a lost cause.”

  “Aren’t you placing faith ahead of wisdom?” he asked, all humor vanished.

  “With any courage at all, they will do the same thing,” she told him. “And this is not the time or occasion for a philosophical debate on the end gains of cowardice versus courage, and what one may lose or gain. It would be pointless anyway. We both know that we are going to take this paper to the bakery!”

  “House of Bread,” he corrected her. “Beit Lechem in Hebrew, or—if you prefer—Bethle
hem.” He passed her the parchment, folded into a small square and no thicker than two layers of ordinary paper.

  She took it with a slightly shaking hand and pushed it into her blouse, just below the neckline. She would conceal it better in the privacy of the cloakroom at the rear of the coach.

  She had just reached the cloakroom when she heard the noise of a compartment door. Turning, she saw a dark-robed figure come out of a compartment just ahead of her, and start to move forward. His head was bent a little, and he walked with surprising grace, considering the jolt and lurch of the train.

  There was something about him that gave her a chill of familiarity. She had seen him before! The black robes had hardly any dust on them, as if he spent his time within houses, never on the street, and he wore coal-black, soft leather boots.

  She lurched forward and caught up with him, touching his elbow to draw his attention.

  “Excuse me!”

  Startled, he turned and looked at her. He had an extraordinary face, with high cheekbones, empty eyes, lips like the slash of a knife. There was no expression in him at all, as if he could not see her, although he must be able to.

  The train wheels rattled under the sleepers and seemed to lurch dangerously as they hit a bend. The countryside beyond the windows changed; the distance became blurred.

  There were doors at the ends of all the carriages, for getting on and off. Vespasia was not far from the one behind her. If she turned away from this man she would pass it close enough that a quick lunge from him, if the handle turned, would hurl her out, as lost as if she were overboard from a ship.

  She could not help stepping back, nonetheless.

  He moved toward her, his terrible hollow eyes still on hers.

  She could not bear the thought of him touching her, and yet if she retreated she was certain she would end back at the door to the speeding track and death. Did he want the paper? Or only its destruction?

  She was still looking into his eyes. “I beg your pardon.” She found the words difficult to say. “I thought you were someone I know.”

  “I am,” he said. His voice was a whisper, but she could hear him perfectly, even above the rattle and clank of the wheels on the rails. “You have always known me—merely forgotten for a while.”