‘The Witchfinder.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Well, who do you think did it?’
‘The Witchfinder,’ said Calamity. ‘But I don’t know why. Just because I think he’s insane. Do you think he killed the students?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just do. He’s mixed up in all this, but I’m not sure what all this is. The bit where he goes to see Goldilocks on death row is the giveaway.’
‘Only if Goldilocks was innocent.’
‘He was innocent. No one kills a girl and buries her shoes in his own garden. Or at least, some people might but not someone from a criminal gang.’
‘We haven’t got much to go on, have we?’
‘No.’
‘Are we doing this to try and nail the Witchfinder for killing Arianwen, or to find out what happened to Gethsemane or because we really liked Uncle Vanya?’
‘All of them, I guess. But really because we owe it to Vanya. We have to try and if it doesn’t cost us anything . . . we have to try.’
The waiter cleared the soup dishes and asked if Mademoiselle Natasha would be joining us. Calamity explained that she had a slight headache but would be along shortly. After he went, she said, ‘I think you need to watch out for Natasha.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Honey-trapper. I’ve got a hunch.’
‘What do you know about such things?’
‘I’ve been reading the book. It’s all to do with the psychology. First thing they do is tell the guy he is different. Every man secretly thinks he is different.’
‘Haven’t you got better things to do than read such nonsense?’
‘It’s not nonsense. We can adapt some of the techniques in our own investigations.’
‘Somehow I doubt it.’
‘Then comes the saviour routine. All men dream of saving a damsel in distress. So the girl pretends to be in some kind of trouble and doesn’t know what to do. It sounds corny but men can’t resist it. Then there is some mushy stuff about the poor little sisters and brothers starving by the empty hearth at home.’
‘What happens if the guy guesses it’s a honey-trap?’
‘The girl just admits it and burst into tears. She tells him she has broken the cardinal rule of honey-trapping and fallen in love with the John. Works every time.’
A moment later Calamity kicked me under the table to warn of the arrival of Natasha. ‘Hi,’ she said looking up and speaking in that artificial tone of voice that indicates you have just been talking about the person arriving. ‘Hope your headache is better.’
Later, as Hungary faded unseen and Romania fused with it somewhere, Calamity made the excuse of tiredness and returned to her compartment to read more of her book. Natasha grabbed my hand and begged forgiveness for the performance of the previous night.
‘I’m so ashamed,’ she said, although I was not sure why. ‘Dragging you into all this.’
‘Into all what?’
‘No, no, no don’t! It’s my problem.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Please don’t make me say! Let’s get drunk and forget all our pain and woe. The night is still young – waiter! Waiter! Another bottle of wine, please!’ She emptied the one already on the table into our glasses, filling them to the brim and spilling the dark ruby wine on to the tablecloth. She gulped back half a glass and forced me to do the same. She did it again and again and soon we were drunk. I asked about Hughesovka and she told me about the mausoleum in which they kept the embalmed body of John Hughes. I said it sounded wonderful. I talked about the challenges facing someone in the spinning-wheel trade. Midway into the third bottle of wine the conversation dropped and she looked sad. There was silence.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said. I grasped her hand across the table.
‘Everything, everything, it’s all so . . . so . . . horrible.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I can’t, oh God! I should never have dragged you into it. You’re such a good, decent, kind man . . .’
‘Tell me about the trouble you are in. Maybe I can help.’
She stroked my hand and smiled through tears welling up. ‘It’s kind of you but what can a . . . a guy who sells little wheels do against . . . against them?’
‘But—’
‘Oh Louie, you are so sweet! A sweet old, dear old, salesman who spends his days looking at treadles and yarn and never even dreams of the sort of problems girls like me get into.’
‘Girls like you?’
‘You see! Two days and you still haven’t guessed. You’re such a sweetie.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Oh Louie, don’t look like that, it’s not a criticism. I like you being innocent. It’s so funny. That other gentleman knew straight away.’
‘What other gentleman?’
‘The one who murdered his wife and kids. Mr Edgbaston.’
‘Who told you he did that?’
‘The guard.’ She looked away bashfully. ‘He knew my game too.’
‘Are you saying you are a prostitute?’
She gasped in horror. ‘Louie, how dare you! Of all the . . . well . . . I . . .’
‘I’m sorry, I’m confused, it’s the wine. I didn’t mean it . . .’
She smiled. ‘Yes, now it’s me being silly. After all, there’s not a lot of difference, really, is there?’
‘Between what?’
‘You know, a girl like what you said, and what I do for a living.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a honey-trapper, silly!’
‘You are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who you trying to trap?’
‘Why, you of course!’
I blinked in astonishment.
‘Oh, you look so funny. Your face!’
‘But why?’
‘To pass my exams, why else? You see, I haven’t qualified yet, I’m still learning.’
‘But why on earth are you dressed in Welsh national dress?’
‘Because you’re from Wales. They told me it would turn you on.’ Her face fell. ‘But of course if you don’t think I’m pretty it doesn’t matter really how I dress, does it?’
‘But you are pretty.’
‘That’s exactly the sort of sweetheart thing I would expect you to say. That’s what I like about you, Louie, you’re different.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘You see! Every other man I’ve said that to has been secretly flattered.’
‘So you’ve said it to lots of men, have you?’
‘Only in class. This is my first . . . practical.’
‘I’m touched.’
‘As I say, it’s my first time, so don’t expect the earth to move . . . except outside the window, ha ha!’ She
