But Jeremy Faro's optimism was in vain, and his normally reliable intuition had taken early retirement.
They were awakened at daybreak by a waiter bearing a light repast of coffee and croissants, with fruit juices for the two boys. This was offered with due apologies as the passengers would receive a proper ‘petit dejeuner’ once they boarded the train waiting at the rail terminus by the ferry.
Their luggage already transferred to the baggage car, rejoined by Helga, the five travellers made their way across the quayside, with the smell of the sea still encompassing them and the shrill cries of seabirds, who were particularly attracted to ferries after the breakfast hour.
A porter ushered them into a six-seater compartment and soon they were under way, on the first stage of their journey across France where, unfortunately, the landscape was blotted out by heavy rain.
The boys and Dieter played cards, Helga frowned over her knitting, counting some complicated pattern, and Faro returned to his unsolved mystery of Edwin Drood.
At last the Club Train steamed importantly into Gare de l'Est railway station and the passengers were set down alongside the sleek gleaming exterior of the Orient Express.
This was the moment the two boys had been waiting for.
'I love trains, Mr Faro,' said George, clapping his hands and jumping up and down. He and Anton had to be restrained from tearing along the platform by Dieter dashing after them, grabbing their arms and muttered a warning in German. Something about causing embarrassment among the passengers. Whatever it was, it had some effect on George, who continued to regard Dieter with an odd, puzzled expression.
The spontaneous excitement and exuberance of two young boys faced with this wonder of the age, travel by train, was well understood by Faro. When he was young and trains were in their infancy, the thought of tearing through the countryside at fifty miles an hour was a daring prospect, not for the timid-minded.
Her Majesty, who now accepted trains as the most convenient means of travelling between London and Scotland, had originally refused to expose her royal person to such unnatural speeds, quite against what God had intended for those He had anointed to rule over ordinary mortals. At last prevailed upon to risk a short trial journey to Stroud and emboldened by escaping unscathed, in the summer of 1879 she ventured across the newly built Tay Bridge. In December it collapsed, taking 75 passengers to their death in the river far below.
Faro realised that this new generation would have very different attitudes to experiments with travel, if the two boys were any indication. Wild with excitement at the sight of the huge train steaming gently on the platform, George ignored Dieter's restraining hand and, turning to Faro, he said apologetically, 'I do adore trains. This is the most exciting moment in my whole life,' he added solemnly.
And Faro prayed fervently that was so, that nothing more hazardous lay ahead than a smooth-running uneventful train journey across France and Germany to the Luxorian border.
He was well-pleased with their compartment: comfortable seats padded against the motion of the train, to be adapted into small beds for the further comfort of passengers travelling by night, mirrors on walls of marquetried wood panels, curtains on the windows, a small table let down from the door frame for refreshments and an adjoining screened washbasin and water closet, much to the delight of the two boys.
'This is more luxury than we have in Glenatholl,' George pointed out.
The guard checked their tickets, followed by a porter wishing to stow away their hand-luggage and somewhat surprised that the older gentleman in the party preferred to keep his valise at his side.
Soon the two boys were bouncing up and down on the seats while staring out of the window at the platform crowded with onlookers watching out for the famous, or saying farewells to friends. Once or twice Dieter tried in vain to entreat the boys to remain seated, ‘not to be vulgar’ was how Faro's limited German translated his words. But even Dieter had not the heart to quell their enthusiasm. Indeed, looking at the man's slightly flushed countenance, devoid of its usual calm, Faro suspected that he too was suffering from Orient Express excitement.
Suddenly, as the train prepared to depart, he realised that Helga was missing.
Chapter 13
Faro turned to Dieter. 'Helga - where is she? Surely we aren't leaving without her?'
Faro's last sight of her had been trailing behind them as if she did not wish to be associated with the two boys' exuberant behaviour. It also suggested that she might be keeping a lookout for the ladies' toilet facilities on the platform.
Now Dieter shook his head. 'Did you not know, Mr Faro? I thought Anton had told you.' He darted a sharp glance at the boy, who merely shrugged at this matter of no importance.
Dieter gave an exasperated sigh. 'Helga has not been feeling very well, the crossing upset her badly. She is not a good traveller and she decided that she might be going down with a fever.'
'A fever?' Faro exclaimed. He found that hard to believe, Helga had looked perfectly healthy to him.
'Indeed yes. And a fever on the Orient Express could be a great embarrassment to us all, especially to other important travellers,' said Dieter, nodding towards the two boys who no longer had interest in anything but the train steaming out of the station. 'Cholera, you know,' he whispered.
Indeed, Faro did know. Cholera epidemics were the scourge of Europe, the haunting fear of every traveller on a long journey into foreign lands. There was a clause Imogen and he were now accustomed to encountering in all railway timetables, in very small print
