by macadmin | Dec 30, 2016 | Blog, Chapters
It took a while, but the wagons for the passengers were eventually filled. The first two were bound for the Hotel de Saxe, the others were to transport lesser mortals, and one the farmer and his son who had been rescued from the avalanche. Neither were badly injured, and Samantha Smith (who had ridden out on one of the wagons to help) was able to travel back on one of the wagons for the Hotel, assured that her patients were in the good hands of the village nurse).
Karl was as good as his word and procured seats in the first wagon for himself and Judy. Flora and Joseph were there too; Ashton chose to ski back to the hotel, but, as the horses moved at a walking pace, it was easy for most of the journey to ski alongside the wagon and exchange a little shouted conversation with Flora and Joseph – although, as they approached the hotel, he offered to ski ahead and arrange suitable accommodation, for the Hotel de Saxe was not that large.
“That would be so kind of you, Mr. Sherman,” Flora told him. “You’d better prepare them for quite the crowd!”
Joseph was enjoying the romanticism of a lantern-lit ride through the snow, and quite happy to see the local architecture. “I’ll have to get back here when it’s light,” he enthused, “but this is wonderful, isn’t it. Oh, I’m sorry, perhaps you had plans for Christmas you are missing?”
The question was addressed to Ms DeWilde, as Mr Sherman was here already, so presumably this was his Christmas plan.
Jack Adler was offered a ride back to the village in the second wagon with Samantha; of the passengers only Alder Bishop remained at the site of the avalanche. It appeared that the horse that had been caught in the avalanche had not been killed, and Adler remained, with a few of the villagers, to dig it out. Fritzel was one of those remaining – he scribbled a hasty note to his mother, which he sent by the first wagon, to inform her that a distinguished guest would shortly be arriving, and to make sure that she kept back one of the best rooms for him, and he assured Alder they could walk back together once the horse was freed.
“Much appreciated,” Alder replied in German. “Now, let’s see to this poor beast.” With the driver holding the horse’s head and crooning to him in some language Alder didn’t speak, but what appeared to possess a calming influence, the group bent to the task.
The diggers found their rhythm soon enough in the form of Christmas carols, most chorusing in German. Alder joined in, slightly off key but enthusiastic, in English. Snow flew, enthusiastically, everywhere.
In the second wagon wagon heading for the village, Jack was pleasant company at least, getting to know those he worked with and keeping jovial despite the situation.
The American nurse, Samantha Smith, was mostly quiet on the travel back. She listened to the conversations, nodding when appropriate, but seemed to have little to say at the time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The open wagons progressed at a stately pace through the crisp night air (although it was still early evening), but the village of Bad Bernsdorf was not far, and it was not long before they saw the lights and then found themselves making their way through the streets of the village, lined on each side by the picturesque Untergebingenhausen, characteristic of that part of the world. Despite the hour, villagers came into the street to cheer the arrival of the wagons.
At last they drew up at the Hotel de Saxe, a welcoming sight with its lanterns and the older retainers ready, with old world courtesy, to assist the ladies to alight.
All the passengers were ushered into the main room while the retainers ferried their luggage in, piling it into the centre of the room.
Frau Blauer was at the reception desk, a welcoming smile on her face, ready to check all the guests in. As they did so, the retainers asked them to point to their baggage so that it could be taken to their rooms, and their rooms prepared, although the guests were offered glasses of an excellent Glühwein to warm them after their cold excursion.
“That one’s mine,” Flora let them know, pointing to a single large steamer trunk pasted with labels acquired during her European trip so far.
Once the others had been greeted, Judi stepped hesitantly forward.
“Frau Blauer?” Outside the hotel a horse could be heard whinnying, no doubt unnerved by the storm. Judi proffered her paper again. “I made arrangements with your husband for a room.” She hesitated at the woman’s stern look, “The letter was signed, Fritzel Blauer?”
Frau Blauer frowned suddenly and seemed as though she was about to make a sharp reply when there was an intervention.
“Fritzel is the son,” Karl explained with a chuckle, appearing at Judy’s shoulder.
Frau Blauer seemed to relax, to medium frosty.
“Guten Abend Gutrun,” he continued smoothly in German. “You must forgive our English rose. She was not to know. So Fritzel is once more in the family business. You must be so proud.”
This elicited a genuine smile.
“Ja,” she said in the same language. “Fritzel is a good boy. He is helping at the hotel and continuing his studies as well. They thought very highly of him at the University. He was assisting Professor Szilard before … all that unfortunate business.”
“I know you never truly get time off,” Karl continued in German, “but if you can spare me a few moments we must talk later, once you have seen to your guests. It has been too long.”
Joseph was writing his name in the guest book. He kept his face neutral, as it would be impolite to listen in, but even though Professor Szilard was very much outside his own field of expertise, he recognised the name from the papers. As he straightened he smiled at Frau Blauer and Mr Stransky. He could understand the former being proud of a son who must be very smart indeed, and he was once again favourably impressed by the way the gentleman seemed to smooth things over.
“I apologize for our sudden appearance,” Joseph’s German was excellent. “I hope we’re not too much of an inconvenience, but I must say I’m happy to be able to see this place. Not just to get out of the cold! I’m looking forward to staying in the Hotel de Saxe; you have a stellar reputation.”
Ashton wandered back into the reception after changing out of his skiing clothes and into a modest suit. He had spoken to Frau Blauer hastily on his arrival at the hotel as Flora had suggested to warn her of the number of guests arriving. He gratefully accepted a warm glass of Glühwein and watched the arrival of the guests from the train with interest.
Attracted by the noise of a large number of arrivals, other guests began to appear – and there were some signs of recognition. A slight, handsome, fair-haired man, lounging near the door to the room set aside as a library (for reading newspapers and writing letters), nodded at Ashton – this wasFranz von Essen, a well-known German skier (for those who followed such things).
Ashton looked with surprise at Franz. Ashton intended his stay at the Hotel de Saxe to be low-key and private, but people he already knew were popping up everywhere. Ashton had met Franz von Essen while taking part in skiing competitions but found his presence here to be a less than pleasant surprise.
Franz inclined his head in recognition of Ashton. He seemed no more pleased to see Ashton than Ashton was to see him.
From the door of the Casino, several people appeared. A tall, moustachioed man who, despite the warmth of the inn, appeared to be wearing a fur lined cloak, spotted the tray of mugs of Glühwein stationed near the fire, gave a deep, thankful bellow of “Aha!” and headed forward to claim a mug for himself and, incidentally, the best seat by the fire. Only then did he glance around at the guests. He appeared to recognise no-one but, after taking a long sip – one might almost call it a swig – at the Glühwein, announced in a booming voice, “I am Count Vasily Dolgorukov, and I am honoured to make your acquaintances!”
Behind him were a man and a woman, both well-known to any who followed the newspaper reports: Chetwyn Glyde, the media tycoon, and his beautiful long-term mistress, Nellie Nolan, clinging to his arm. Chetwyn’s sharp glance swept the room – and rested on Joseph Lawrence.
“Ah good,” he said. “Don’t know why you are here, but you’ve saved me the bother of telegraphing. I’ve come across some of this so-called decadent art, and I want your opinion on it.”
“Mr Glyde,” Joseph replied, his voice a polite neutral as he spoke the name. He knew the man was in Europe, didn’t know he would be here. But the invitation to examine the works he brought warmed him up. “Of course, I would be happy to look them over. I think they said we would be here until after Christmas, so I am available.” His face was now far from neutral, and his expression clearly showed the inner debate he had about how polite it would be to offer to look at them right away.
“Miss Nolan,” he added, perhaps a tad later than Joseph would have if there hadn’t been any art in the offering.
“Ah, Herr Glyde has been to a Schandausstellungen. How daring,” Karl observed, speaking again in German. “No doubt the artists were keen to part with their work for a fraction of its value.”
“Actually,” Joseph postulated mildly, and in really quite accentless German, “Decadent art is an art movement of the end of the last century, mostly in France.” Less mildly, he continued, “A Schandausstellung is where I’m going. To several, I hope. The artists may not be compensated adequately, but at least if I buy it, it will be preserved, and I will try to help them as much I can. Should we just let it all be destroyed, instead?”
“Oh, I very much doubt it will be destroyed,” Karl replies lightly. “Not when it provides such a lucrative trade. It is just another means of exploiting those who don’t conform, nicht wahr?
“The German government will be so grateful for your contribution. Perhaps they will even film your visit for posterity.”
Joseph looked bleak. “They will destroy it. When Savonarola lighted the Bonfire of the Vanities, Botticelli came and burned his own paintings.” He spoke with the certainty of someone who had seen it happen before. Then he mde an effort to smile. “But perhaps this is not a discussion for this moment. My name is Joseph Lawrence, andI’m always available to discuss it later, Mr …?”
“Stransky, Karl Stransky.” Karl said, extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Herr Lawrence. I would be delighted if you kept me abreast of anything you recover. I am always interested in the fate of beautiful things.”
He cast a glance in Ms Nolan’s direction and offered a knowing smile.
Joseph gave Karl a firm handshake. “Likewise,” he said, “it seems we’re both interested in beauty.” He reached into his pocket and handed the other man a card with his name, and the address of his Chicago gallery.
As soon as he stepped back into the hotel Jack’s sodden hat was swept smartly off his head again and a polite nod given to the those present with appropriate greetings of ‘Sir’ ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Miss’ given out, even to the Count who for some reason drew a longer look. “I’d be mighty glad not to drink and something to line my stomach. Hard, cold work out there… And here’s me forgetting my manners again. Jack Adler the second. Pleased to meet y’all.”
The Count was clearly not unaware of Jack’s longer look. In response he gave a genial smile and called out, “Welcome! Welcome, Mr Adler! I am sure dinner will be served shortly … but in the mean-time, will you not join me in a drink?”
He gestured expansively – so that anyone might assume this was a party supplied by the Count’s generosity, rather than a kind gesture by the Hotel’s owner.
“I’d right be delighted to,” Jack replied with one last glance around the place before his coat was dispensed appropriately and he moved to the heat of the fire. But not to the Glühwein yet, for he was far too busy watching the various interactions and those occupying the hotel. Not that his gaze ever lingered too long, except maybe on Miss Miranda Glyde.
Down the stairs came two more people, the fragile young Miranda Glyde and, following her, the saturnine David Olson. Both paused near the foot of the stairs to survey the scene … and then Miranda gave a little cry, seemingly of joy, before racing across the room and positively throwing herself on to Flora de Wilde.
“You’ve come, you’ve come!” she was saying, half laughing and half crying.
“Good heavens! Randi!” Flora shrieked, catching up the other woman in surprised, but welcoming embrace. “Darling, it seems an age since I heard from you, and then it was ever such a queer letter. What are you doing here?”
David Olson looked at Miranda sharply at the reference to the letter, and then took a leisurely step towards the reception desk. It might have been to remove himself into the background. It also, however, placed him in an excellent position to read the register, albeit upside down.
Samantha Smith entered the lobby as with the last of the second cart. She watched the reunion with interest as she unbuttoned her long woollen# coat.
Miranda hugged her closer and breathed into her ear, “We must talk – soon.”
Flora responded to this suggestion with a firm nod.
Then she released Flora and stood at arm’s length, holding her hands and smiling at her.
“Daddy took it into his head to spend a few months touring Europe. And this is remote – but so friendly! The people are just to die for.”
“Are they really? They were very obliging about the avalanche, I must say,” Flora replied.
David Olson moved back towards them and said, smiling. “I believe it’s Miss De Wilde, isn’t it? Miranda’s journalist friend?”
Perhaps he laid a little unnecessary emphasis on the word “journalist”. It certainly had an effect on several present. Nellie Nolan released her breath in a sharp hiss; Chetwyn Glyde turned from Joseph Lawrence and frowned at his daughter. The Count coughed on his Glühwein (which might, of course, have been wholly co-incidental).
Flora turned to Olson with a faintly challenging air. “Why, yes. That is, naturally I wasn’t a journalist when Miranda and I were at school together, but I decided I’d rather be that than a dilettante. Maybe I’ll get a few good travel pieces out of this European junket,” she added hopefully.
Joseph had been aware of the two ladies greeting each other, of course (as he was aware of Mr Adler’s entrance, but not in a position to react right away), so as his conversational partners turned, following their look was natural. The look he had for the reunion was very different from the reactions of the others; he seemed mostly happy that other people were happy, and the young blonde woman did seem very happy to meet the lady he himself just met on the train. Yet, as he surveyed the room and the other guests, that contented look changed into something more quiet. Well, the reactions of those around him were hard to miss.
“Miss DeWilde, how nice for you to meet a friend,” Joseph chose to emphasise the other word in
Olson’s sentence. He, too, accepted a glass of Glühwein. “With good company, and beautiful things to look at, this will hopefully be a very enjoyable Christmas, yes?”
The presence of a journalist seemed to be of no note to the Texan Jack Adler at least, and finally at this exchange he helped himself to some wine, but remained standing. Perhaps he knows some manners after all.
Chetwyn seemed about to remonstrate with his daughter, but before he could say anything, there was a sudden scream from the middle of the room.
Most of the luggage had been cleared away; only a trunk, a hardshell case, two boxes and a medium-sized leather bag remained (and those closest could see they were labelled “ALDER BISHOP”. A maid who had been removing Joseph Lawrence’s bags, had sprung to a safe distance as she screamed and was now staring with horror at a small box with a series of holes drilled into it along both sides.
“Es bewegt sich!” she shouted. “Es bewegt sich!”
And, true to her words, the little box rocked to and fro.
by macadmin | Dec 26, 2016 | Blog, Chapters
The express from Vienna to Berlin seemed to be a singularly ill-named train. It dawdled across Austria, delayed at starter by apparent coal shortages, delayed later on by snow of the line. Passengers in Third Class carriages shivered in their coats as the heating proved inadequate; passengers in First Class were only a few degrees better off – unless they had provided themselves with footwarmers.
For Alder Bishop, this trip had so far been a busman’s holiday.
Nine long months he had toiled in the artificially glittered, soul-sucking morass known as Hollywood, USA. Someone – he suspected his evil agent in collusion with God-alone-knew-whom from the studios – had come up with the brilliant idea that a prolific mystery novelist could supply the movie industry with enough written material to keep the insatiable maw of the film industry stuffed full.
Then they got him out there and never let him write.
Instead he went to meetings. He was given assignments. To write romances. Where the bold hero was a dashing sea captain. But two days later was a hard-bitten police officer. Until it mysteriously became a period piece starring, it was guaranteed, the next Errol Flynn.
And the heroine was of course in turns plucky and scatter-brained, bluestocking and unconsciously sensual.
While you’re at it, Alder, don’t forget the Hays Code.
And the sun! All day every day without letup! Hateful! How did they bear it?
Finally Alder had escaped – though not home to the Big Apple. He’d felt too restless and unclean to desecrate the brownstone for long with his unhappy presence. Not, God knew, to accompany his father southward to the latest stage of his Floridian retirement contentment. No, he would stay well away from all he knew and loved until he yanked himself out of this funk.
So Alder booked passage on the first available ocean liner and set sail for Europe, there to catch the first train that came along.
If other than mere fancy was directing Alder’s decision to pass time on the Continent — the contents of a thick Manila envelope liberally spangled with foreign stamps, perhaps — his father had given him a shrewd ice-blue gaze, muttered “Hm,” and said nothing more.
Had Dad said something about…? No, whatever it was couldn’t be that important.
Alder’s journey had wound its way ever northward. Then, with the first snowflake…
Inspiration.
The title and its twist bloomed redly in his mind: “The Cerebrus Assignment.”
He dove for his Remington Noiseless.
But then, for the train and its passengers, there were the border crossings.
On some journeys, the border guards would board the trains to inspect passports and visas; on this journey, the guards preferred to stay snug and warm in their building; the passengers were required to disembark and queue twice in the cold – at the Austrian/Czech border, and then again at the Czech/German border.
“There’s a lot of tension at the moment,” one tall, lanky Englishman said to his stockier companion. “All this Sudentenland business has people on edge.”
Joseph Lawrence had travelled enough to know that he didn’t want to get into a political conversation with a stranger, certainly not a stranger who he might have to spend some more time with in confined quarters (like a train), and even more when you can’t be sure who is listening in. He was travelling on to Berlin, after all.
Flora DeWilde, as a journalist, had been keeping abreast of the news, so she listened interestedly to the two men’s conversation, but didn’t attempt to say anything about it.
The journey should have seen them arriving in Berlin in time for dinner; instead by 4pm on Christmas Eve, they were still moving through the mountains that bordered Northern Czechoslovakia and Southern Saxony.
And if that wasn’t enough ….
There was a sudden loud, long blow on the whistle and the train came to a precipitate halt. Anyone standing would have been knocked off their feet.
Alder never noticed the whistle, being as he was, as he had been for some days, Possessed by Story. Stories, actually. Three short stories and several plot twists.
What he did notice was the Remington Noiseless sliding out from under his finger-tips. Only a quick reflexive grab was all that stopped the faithful machine from upending itself and the tale in progress onto the limited floor-apace.
“Good God!” he said, sliding the Remington back into place. He stared at it, but his train of thought was irrevocably broken.
Train…broken…!
Belatedly he glanced at his recently acquired travel companion, whose habitat was well padded with blankets and hot water bottles. “Mike, are you all right-?”
His companion blinked large dark eyes at him reproachfully.
“Be right back. I’m going to see what is going on.”
The carriage attendants moved swiftly through the train, offering reassurance.
“Meine Damen und Herren … a n avalanche has brought down snow on the line. We regret … it cannot be cleared today – or until after Christmas.”
Flora had long since despaired of making Paris by Christmas, as she had hoped; on her European trip so far she had spent enough time on trains to realize that the kind of punctuality American railroads prided themselves on could not be hoped for. Nevertheless, it was a blow.
“However, there is a village ahead – Bad Bernsdorf,” the attendant continued. “There are inns there where you might stay … the Hotel de Saxe will provide admirable accommodation for First Class passengers. Wagons will be arriving shortly. Please remain in your compartments.”
Shortly after this, however, by the strange osmosis of gossip that strangely affects stranded travellers, they learned that it was not quite as simple as the attendants had led them to believe. The avalanche had not only blocked the railway track, but also a country road that ran next to it and it was feared that a farmer and his two sons had been caught in the avalanche and buried, together with their horse and wagon. Even now frantic efforts were being made to save them … indeed, despite the gathering gloom, these efforts could be witnessed by those bold enough to open the windows or, indeed, the doors.
Alder caught up with his cabin steward in the hall only a few steps from his door and quickly took in the news.
“I’ll help, Johan, of course,” he said quickly before the offer could be denied – and the steward was not that averse to denying him; Alder was a tall, muscular man in the prime of his life, well suited to handling a snow-shovel and other tools. “Let me grab my coat.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a wad of notes and pressed them into the steward’s hand. “See that my things get to the hotel, would you? Get me a room with some natural light. Don’t move the paper in the typewriter.” After a moment’s further thought he added another folded bill. “Mike has a traveling case – you remember, that’s how I brought him here. Put a few crickets in first, he should go in just fine. Don’t catch his tail. Put the case under your coat, make sure he stays warm.” After another moment — possibly spurred by the steward’s incredulous expression – he added more money to the stack, dived back into his cabin and quickly pulled on his parka and accoutrements
Johan, the cabin steward who had been looking after Alder and that verdamnt lizard for some weeks now, gazed dazedly after his charge, then stared down at the not inconsiderable sum of money in his hand.
He shrugged.
Crazy Americans.
Any other proposals to lend assistance were quickly scotched by the attendants, who were eager to ensure an orderly departure for their passengers. They were not quick enough to prevent one passenger – the tall, lanky athletic figure of Alder Bishop – who headed off, presumably to lend assistance, before he could be prevented.
Flora’s eyes widened in recognition as she peered out the window at the tall, lanky man.
Joseph was cold. He was bundled up in his overcoat, a large book, old-looking and exquisitely illustrated on his lap, and his face scrunched up in concentration as he studied it. In fact, examining one page took him so long, he had time to absend-mindedly fiddle with his gloves – on, off, on, off – before he had to turn in. He did so without thinking, to an almost comical effect to anyone watching him. When the train abruptly stopped, he instinctively clutched the volume to his chest with one hand, using his other one to push back the spectacles that came gliding down his nose.
First Class had its benefits, but Karl Stransky had long since pulled on boots as the cold began to creep across the floor of the compartment. He rubbed his hands and considered lighting a pipe.
He gazed out over the unblemished carpet of snow. The sudden stop hadn’t surprised him, and he was well-prepared for it. After all, he’d done this journey dozens of times before. Of course, it wasn’t so long ago there were no border guards to contend with, only the long sweeping expanse of Austria-Hungary from Vienna to Galicia. Perhaps soon this journey would become impossible.
He had a lot to say about Sudetenland, but didn’t engage the Englishmen in conversation, having neither the necessary command of the language nor the inclination to talk politics. Better to consider more peasant diversions.
The arrival of the news of the avalanche, and their proximity to the village made him smile. Bad Bernsdorf, and that meant the Hotel de Saxe. Ah, he wouldn’t mind staying there, not at all.
Karl rose from his seat, pulling on his gloves and dragged a small, perfectly buffed suitcase from the rack. He made his way out of the train both to see how best to proceed and to perhaps offer assistance to any unaccompanied young ladies who might need a hand.
Hunched and miserably cold in third class, Judy heard the announcement with dismay. Hotel de Saxe was designated for First Class passengers and there was no way that she would pass as one of Them. She anxiously scanned the road beside the track for any sign of a wagon. Perhaps she could persuade a driver to let her ride outside with him, although that meant risking frostbite.
She grabbed her small cardboard case and desperately hurried after the attendant, “Please? Hotel de Saxe. I must get there.”
“Pft,” he dismissed her with a hiss, “FIRST. Class. Only” He spoke slowly, as though to an imbecile, grimacing with narrow-faced scorn.
“Please!” She scrabbled through her purse, “I have a booking …” but he had already moved away and let the door to the next carriage slam in her face.
Then the attendant turned, and found him face to face with Karl Stransky (who should have been able to catch a glimpse of Judy’s face as the door slammed on it).
“A third class passenger,” he said to Karl, recovering his usual deference quickly. “They will be found alternative accommodation.”
Somehow, he managed to make the “alternative accommodation” sound singularly insalubrious.
“*Nonsense!* In this weather?” Karl replied in his perfect and most imperious German. “Are we barbarians?”
He grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, gesturing for Judy to disembark.
“Fraulein…Mademoiselle….My Lady?” He ventured, hoping this would elicit a response that would reveal the native language of the young woman.
“Sir, I’m Miss Judy Nowak, I speak English, I was raised there.” She bit her lip which momentarily stopped the nervous babbling, but did nothing to quell her shivers. “I have a booking for Hotel de Saxe. It’s a small room, nothing that anyone else would want.” She did not add that it was the cheapest, that was obvious from the thin wool suit she wore and pitifully battered case.
“Ah, eine Engländerin! Pardon me, my English is not so good. I am Karl, may I help? I know the Hotel de Saxe.” Karl smiled encouragingly,and unwinding his scarf he offered it to Judy. “Please, take.”
“Come to where the wagons will be arriving. We must get you somewhere warm, quickly! I can carry your bag, perhaps?”
After his initial look of confusion, Joseph quickly, but carefully, packed the book into a bag. A chance to see the local architecture with my own eyes! was one of his thoughts, before hearing about the farmer and his sons. He, too, rose to see whether he could be of help, slower than Karl and Alder had been, but no less sincere. His suitcase and bag seemed rather large, but from the way he handled them it was clear they didn’t weigh much. They reflected his traveling life, but they were of good quality and obviously well-cared for.
Steadying his glasses once more, he made his way to, and out of, the doors of the train.
Joseph sent the other gentleman an appreciative glance, agreeing with his actions. He looked around to see whether there was anything he could do for someone, keeping only half an eye on Karl and Judy, as things seem to progressing well there. He was, of course, available to translate, or to help with bags (and cardboard boxes), as the train attendants seemed to be busy.
The train attendants were mostly endeavouring – with a fair measure of success, to keep the passenger on or near the train until the wagons arrived to take them onwards to the inns of Bad Bernsdorf. Joseph inclined his head to the woman standing near him. “Joseph Lawrence. It seems we’ll have a chance to visit the renowned Hotel the Saxe, which I’ve heard is very nice.” He glanced towards the avalanche blocking their path. If there were people trapped there, he would very much like to help. But the train attendants kept telling him that, without knowledge of the snow and the mountains, he would only be in the way. It grated, but if he was more helpful standing here, stand here he would.
Flora was traveling with a trunk which was (she hoped) more or less safely stowed in the baggage car. Clutching her handbag, she made her way out of the carriage and looked up and down the line, spying out the lie of the land and exactly where the baggage car was.
When she appeared in the door behind him, Joseph held out his hand to help Flora down. The gesture was automatic, the smile as he looked at her was genuine. “Can I be of assistance, miss?” he asked politely.
“Thank you, kind sir,” Flora replied, returning the gentleman’s smile as she accepted the proffered assistance. “Do you happen to remember which one is the baggage car?”
“Over there, I think, at the back of the train. May I accompany you?” Joseph answered, arranging his own luggage with a practised gesture, leaving one arm free to assist the lady in the treacherous snow.
Ashton Sherman glided to a halt on his skis near the train attendants. He was a fairly unremarkable looking man and could often be missed in a crowd. He called out to train attendants in his best broken German “Can I help?”
He glanced along the train carriages that were slowly being emptied of their passengers. He noticed one well-dressed gentlemen that he thought he recognised from somewhere. Maybe an art gallery somewhere. Then with surprise he saw a young lady that he didn’t expect to see again.
“Good heavens, Miss DeWilde! What are you doing here?” he exclaimed aloud.
It took a moment for Flora to recognize Ashton Sherman in his skiing gear; it was actually more his voice than his appearance that she recognized. “Why, Mr. Sherman! I should be less surprised to see you here, I suppose. You look considerably more prepared for the conditions than I do!” she laughed. “As you can see, our train has been delayed by the snow. Do you know anything about this Hotel Saxe they’re talking about?”
“What a coincidence,” Joseph said, wonder at how the universe works in his voice. The name Sherman, combined with the face looking at them from the young man on ski’s, was familiar to him as well. “Mr Sherman, who would have thought to see you here? Did you enjoy the rest of the day at the Bellier Gallery in Paris?”
“Mr Lawrence. What a small world this is. Yes, I did enjoy my time at the Bellier Gallery, it was a most fascinating visit.” Ashton turned to look at the mass of snow in front of the train. “If you would both excuse me I should see if I can lend any assistance before heading back to the Hotel.” He moved off towards the train attendants to see what help he could offer them.
Of course he left room for the other man to answer Miss DeWilde’s question about the hotel, although the information he recalled about the fascinating Umgebindehäuser was burning on his lips.
It was about an hour later when the lights of five stout carts could be seen approaching. Well, not so much lights as lanterns, swinging from poles attached to the carts.
The train attendants could be seen to be sighing with relief that soon the passengers would be safely on their way to Bad Bernsdorf. The baggage car attendants had already piled up the cases to be taken to the inns.
At the exclamation Karl turned, made a quick assessment of the passengers, then returned his attention to where the lights are coming from.
He intended to be on the lead cart.
“Quickly, Miss Nowak! Let’s get out of this snow.”
A small smile spread across Joseph’s face. “Well, we may not be here by choice, but that is a beautiful, dreamlike, sight, isn’t it?”
After a moment of silently gazing at the dancing lights, Joseph shook himself awake, and made his way to the baggage car. “Leave those for now,” he suggested to the attendants, indicating several large crates bearing his name. “They are empty anyway, and I’m sure there are others who need their luggage.”
Flora was one of the people who certainly would need her luggage. She was curious about why anyone would be travelling with empty crates.
Joseph would be glad to assist her, and would be oblivious to her questions unless she made them more clear, as to him it’s so obvious. The crates are large, marked with his name, and seem to be custom-made.
Flora was never shy about asking questions when she wanted to know something, which was practically all the time.
“Why on earth are you traveling about with these very handsome crates, with nothing in them, Mr. Sherman?” she asked him. She gave a mischievous smile. “Will they have something in them eventually?”
“I hope so,” Joseph said, sounding hopeful as well. There was a curious mixture of anticipation and other emotions going on, briefly suspended as he first located Ms DeWilde’s bag, only to discover that it had been taken by the attendants, who put it in the carts. “” I’m travelling to Berlin, where I hope to buy some paintings and maybe some other pieces as well. I’m sure they have crates there, but these are made to preserve the art, so I can protect it from wear during travel.” He smiled broadly, fully expecting her to be as excited about preserving something beautiful as he is.
“Oh, I see! That makes perfect sense!” Flora said, an expression of enlightenment coming to her face.
by macadmin | Dec 25, 2016 | Blog
Evening came early in winter to the little villages that lie in the foothills of the Zittau Mountains, where Germany meets its borders with Poland and Czechoslovakia. On Christmas Eve of 1937, snow had fallen heavily in the passes and on the mountains. The little villages it had turned into the perfect representations of dwellings from folktales of long ago. Those wealthy enough to own cars had solicitously shut them up in garages till the weather should turn – even the much lauded people’s car, the manufacturing miracle of the Volkswagen, was jealously protected from the sharp bite of the winter weather. Once more the older formers of transport came into their own – horses and oxen were turned out to pull wagons and carriages for those who needed to be abroad.
In contrast to the cold white world outside, the great stoves of the local homes ensured that inside was snug and cosy. Even the largest building in the village of Bad Bernsdorf, the famous Hotel de Saxe, glowed with inviting warmth and cheer.
Of course, the maintenance of such heat as radiated from the great enamel stoves in all the public rooms could not be maintained without considerable labour. And Frau Gutrun Blauer, the owner of the Hotel de Saxe, looked up and pursed her lips as she saw that Fritzel, her only son, had brought up a pile of logs to supply the stove in the Saal that formed the reception and waiting area of the hotel, with comfortable cushioned wooden chairs as well as her own desk.
“Why are you doing that?” she called to him crossly. “You should let Hans do that!”
Fritzel straightened, pushing his butter-coloured hair back from his forehead, and smiled at her. “Hans is chopping the wood,” he told her. “And I’ve finished all the accounts … Johan has the casino in good order too.”
She sniffed, as though reluctant to acknowledge he had acted for the best. But as he turned to add the last of the logs to the firebox, she gave him a look of maternal pride.
“You should spend some time at your books,” she said now. “There won’t be much work this evening, Liebchen. Apart from the casino … ”
He nodded as he came across to her and swung the book to look at the names of those already staying there.
Mr Chetwyn Glyde and Party;
Count Vasily Dolgorukov;
Franz von Essen.
Then there was the name Samantha Smith; the American woman who’d come a week earlier. And – according to Frau Blauer – spent far too much time distracting Johan the dealer in the casino. Apparently, she had told her son, with a dismissive sniff, she was Johan’s cousin.
Another guest staying was Ashton Sherman. He’d been staying for the last few days and spent his time out skiing round the local area
“There may be some more, Mutti,” Fritzel said, still examining the register. “There’s usually a few strays when the snow’s this heavy.”
Before he could say any more, the door from the Eingangshalle banged open and a tall, beautiful woman, swathed in furs and smelling of heavenly luxury in her scent, stalked into the room and across to the desk, ignoring Fritzel entirely.
“Where is he?” she demanded, speaking in English.
“Mr Glyde is in the Salon, Madame Nolan,” said Frau Blauer in the same language.
“Not him!” she snapped. “Olson! Where’s Olson?”
“I believe he has taken Fraulein Glyde for a walk to see the village houses in the snow,” said Fritzel.
Nellie Nolan fixed him with a withering glare, then swept her furs about her body in a magnificent gesture that would have them open-mouthed in the fifty cent seats, and stalked off in the direction of the Salon.
Fritzel and his mother exchanged speaking glances.
“What a temper!” she said.
Fritzel nodded, and then hesitated. “Yet don’t you think, Mutti, sometimes … the way she says something in German … I would almost call it a local accent.”
“Perhaps it’s something she’s picked up here,” suggested his mother. “Actresses, they say, have to have a good ear … ”
“Perhaps,” agreed Fritzel, but he sounded unconvinced.
“And so jealous of that poor little girl,” his mother went on. “It was kind of that Mr Olson to take her for a walk. It’s a quiet life she lives here!”
“Yes but … ” Fritzel began and then stopped. The church bells were ringing loudly – a wild, uncontrolled ringing. Fritzel and his mother stood frozen for a moment.
“Avalanche!” they said it together, and then Fritzel was racing for the door, grabbing the warm jacket and hat that hung on a peg beside it.
“Be careful!” his mother called. He paused only for the briefest nod, and then hurried away into the darkening evening.
As Fritzel bolted from the inn a blonde short haired woman hurried into the lobby from the direction of the casino. “Is everything all right?” Samantha Smith asked anxiously in English, looking toward the main doors. “I heard a dreadful noise,” she added in passable German, addressing Frau Blauer directly.
Samantha Smith was dressed in a nice but plain blue sweater and matching dark blue woolen slacks. Unlike Miss Nolan her makeup was restrained, and her manner far more hesitant. “Is there anything that needs to be done?” she asked the Frau deferentially.
“Nein, Fraulein,” said Frau Blauer. “The men will look after things.”
Without saying so, her tone implied that it was clearly no job for a woman.
Before she could say any more, the door swung open again.
“Hell’s bells!” came the intonated drawl as a man, dressed in a full waxed coat, hat and all the accoutrements of winter exclaimed as he stepped through the door. “What in all that’s godly’s name is that racket?!” A Texan drawl, no less. At least Jack was quick to remove his hat once inside the place and on noting the presence of a woman.
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” he nodded with a smile that slowly dawned and began to warm his features. “But you have the most interesting weather around these parts. And what IS that noise?”
“There’s been an avalanche,” said Frau Blauer, acquiring a welcoming smile at the prospect of a paying guest arriving – and an American too!
“Oh my!” Samantha exclaimed.
“Avalanches are common of course,” continued Frau Blauer, “but if there’s a prospect of the main road or the railway line being blocked, the men of the village will go out to help. You may have passed my son as you came in.
“Now, how may I help you?”
Jack considered the door with a worried look, before popping his hat smartly back on his head again. “Man’s work it is, right enough. I’ll be needing a room and some of that fancy spiced wine you people are so good at. And a room with a good, deep hot bath. Fancy I’ll be needing it after this. Jack Alder’s the name, figuring you’ll need that at the very least. I’ll be back once I’ve helped out some. Bags were supposed to be along shortly, but I’m guessing they’re gonna wait a while now.”
There was a beaming smile for Miss Smith too, a tip of the hat before the American started to take his leave to help out in the snow.
“Mr. Alder!” the blonde called in an American accent as he moved toward the front door. “If there’s anyone hurt….” She took a step forward. “Please… I’m a nurse. If anyone is injured… Maybe I should go also,” she stated, pointedly ignoring Frau Blauer in favour of the Texan. “I can get my coat…” she added anxiously.
Frau Blauer gave Miss Smith a very hard look but said nothing.
The door opened again andin came a tall dark haired man with a faintly sneering expression, accompanied by an ethereally fair and beautiful girl, with wide cornflower blue eyes and a look of delicacy. Frau Blauer greeted them.
“Herr Olson. Fraulein Glyde.” Her voice noticeably warmed as she said the girl’s name.
“We heard the bells,” the girl said a little breathlessly. “That means there’s been an avalanche, doesn’t it? Was anyone hurt?”
“You don’t need to get into a fever fit over it,” said the man addressed as Olson. “There’s avalanches all the time round these parts.”
Miss Glyde ignored him. “Was anyone hurt?” she repeated.
“We don’t know as yet,” said Frau Blauer. “But my Fritzel he is gone to help – ja, and all the strong boys and men from the village. All will be well!”
“You see?” said Olson. “You should go up to your room and rest, Miranda. You wouldn’t want to upset your father.”
At this, Miranda Glyde turned away from the desk. The nervous excitement that had animated her dropped away – she drooped like a delicate flower.
“I guess not,” she said dully, and turned to make her way towards the main staircase. As she did so, she seemed to notice Samantha and Jack for the first time and gave them a shy, hesitant smile.
Samantha hesitated, then gave Miranda a small friendly nod. The glance she gave Olsen was a bit more frosty. Then she turned back to Jack Alder for his response to her query.
“Well Miss, I’m sure they’d be grateful of any help offered, but p’raps waiting down in the village might be best so you don’t get cold in the snow?” The Texan suggested with a smile that would melt the coldest of hearts, reassuring and glad at the same time. Jack’s gaze drifted sharply up to the new arrivals, that same emotion displayed upon his features. “Sir. Miss.” A hat dip greeted both of the new arrivals too. “If y’all will excuse me, I’ll go see if I can lend a hand.” And without further ado he headed out the door.
“If you are a nurse,” said Frau Blauer to Samantha, “you could travel out on one of the wagons that will be going out to collect passengers.” Her tone was grudging, as if she doubted that a reputable nurse would be quite so fond of a casino.
by macadmin | Dec 22, 2016 | Blog, Characters
Jim Hutton as Alder Bishop
Alder Bishop is the published (and successful) author of numerous mystery novels, novellas and short stories. As such, much is known about him- and you may have read much of what follows in the pages of the popular press.
He is Harvard-educated (Master of Science, Engineering). As an underclassman and grad student,he read mystery novels to blow off steam. After witnessing one too many occurrences of a book taking flight across the room and impacting into the nearest the wall, his best friend John J. McCaffrey happened upon a writing contest in a magazine and bet Alder $10 he couldn’t finish plotting and writing a novel in time to submit it. That bet led to the creation of Blockade, the first novel to feature college professor Julian Laufer. The magazine folded, but not until Alder had won the $10. John offered double or nothing that Alder wouldn’t submit the novel to an actual publisher. He did.
(The rest, as they say…)
Blockade by Alder Bishop
The artwork on the dust cover of Blockade represented a scene from the book, sort of, but for the most part left Alder scratching his head. On the other hand, it sold well enough that he decided he had better things to worry about…like kicking out the next two or three before the public sobered up. Since then he’s published at least one, sometimes two books a year. Alder’s publisher is after him to create a pseudonym and start a new series. His books have been translated into more than 20 languages.
He spent several months in Hollywood earlier in the year, writing screenplays; it was good money, but he wasn’t kept busy enough and grew to hate it (he did, however, use the experience in the plots for forthcoming novels, including the one he is currently writing, Prepared to Die).
He enjoys both travel and research. Currently he is on vacation in Europe to recharge his creative batteries. So far he has written three short stories and plotted the tricky bits of a locked-room mystery novel (fourth or fifth in line to actually be written). When Possessed by Story very little exists to Alder; he might not eat, sleep (much, if at all), bathe or shave for days.
Seven Salamanders by Alder Bishop
Related to this: unstoppable when sets his mind in pursuit of…well, whatever. Also related: among his practical skills is a knowledge of guns / gunplay; he can shoot reasonably accurately, a skill pounded into him by his father and Sergeant Vincente when he was growing up. He’s kept up his skill in order to write about it accurately. Like his main character/detective Julian Laufer, he currently doesn’t own a gun (though there is one in his apartment; it belongs to his father), though he does belong to a local gun club.
As an adult, he emulates many of the qualities of the boy scout he might have been: friendly and approachable, energetic and adventurous, generous, honorable, honest and trustworthy. Basically optimistic, positive and selfless; disappointments run off him like water off a duck’s back. Instilled with a sincere passion for justice, probably acquired from his father. A fun conversationalist (though when nervous is prone to awkward babble).
Not generally moved to anger (and even more rarely on his own behalf). It takes a lot to push Alder into a rare black mood; it takes even more provoking to flare his temper, and even then it is more likely to be on someone else’s behalf rather than his own. When angry he becomes hot-headed and outspoken. He does not usually express his anger physically; like many large men he is well aware of his size and his capability to injure others or break / smash things if not careful.
Poison for Two by Alder Bishop
He speaks affectionately of his father Edward (living, retired from the NYPD) and his mother Imelda (deceased). His older brother, Edward Jr., died in infancy. For many years he maintained an affectionate correspondence with his godmother Lisa, his mother’s dearest friend. His godfather, his father’s immediate subordinate and working partner, died two years ago; Alder still misses Sergeant Vincente and faithfully visits his grave when his father is snowbirding (every winter, in Florida; Alder bought him a house with his first royalty check).
Alder lives in a brownstone apartment on the Upper East Side of New York City. It is spacious enough to contain a (small, cramped) foyer, a living room/study lined on three sides with bookshelves and oddities (the fourth side has yellow silk wall hangings and a fireplace), a kitchen with dining nook (Alder is not known for dinner-parties), two bedrooms (one, with an oversized bed, is Alder’s; the other is mostly reserved for the use of his father when he comes to stay, which both of them expect he will when he is in town) and a full bathroom. He has a live-out housekeeper, Mrs. Harriet Tabalonsky, who keeps him in groceries and leaves reheatable meals in the refrigerator (that he has a refrigerator at all is a point of pride to “Tabby,” who worries incessantly about Alder’s imminent death-by-starvation). Alder enjoys cooking when not Possessed by Story. Tabby lives in fear of those spells – it takes her days to get the kitchen back the way she had it (ever the engineer, Alder rearranges things for better efficiency), and she never did find the pepper grinder.
Beyond the Pale by Alder Bishop
Heterosexual and open to love but not consumed by the pursuit; truth is, he is somewhat awkward about dealing with the fairer sex. He has had a couple of serious relationships, but they ended up going nowhere (probably appearing in the gossip columns did not help). The last one failed, spectacularly, because he got stuck inside his head writing Beyond the Pale, an Opponent (which had a spectacular multiple-solutions ending), leading to his rarely showing up on time as prearranged, despite fervent and regular promises to Do Better. It was amazing how the bits and pieces of a dozen red roses, when used as a weapon rather than a peace offering as intended, went everywhere. When he got home, his father thought he’d been mugged, and kept after him to report the matter properly to the police. Alder finally broke down and told him the truth. It was several hours before Edward Bishop stopped sniggering.
A political moderate; most recently he voted for Roosevelt.
Even Unto Death by Alder Bishop
Physically, Alder has rugged masculine good looks. He wears black-framed glasses for reading. He has a long, lanky body whose athleticism (he runs, and skis) is usually belied by the clothes he wears. Usually dresses more for comfort than fashion, though looks good in a tuxedo (i.e., when he bothers). Usually he is to be found draped over an easy chair, reading a book, in a posture that (from an outside viewpoint) can’t possibly look comfortable. Coat pockets often distended by at least one paperback mystery novel, napkins, candy bar wrappers, and other assorted scraps of paper. It is not unusual for his clothing to have ink splotches or cuffs to have notes jotted upon them. Casual speech patterns. Drinks Old Fashioneds or (less often) beer, but really prefers coffee. Was a cigarette smoker; broke that habit (too dangerous while distracted) and now only smokes the occasional pipe.
Favorite sports: baseball, boxing and hockey (not necessarily in that order). For team sports, favors New York teams. Is interested in the possibilities of the National Basketball League, but hasn’t started following it with any real interest.
Books by Alder Bishop:
|
Blockade
|
 Basic Endings by Alder Bishop |
Cauldron, Bubble! |
| Regardless of Lightning |
The Nine of Spades
|
| Poison for Two |
Opposite Colors (short stories) |
| Even Unto Death |
Cougar in the Mist |
| The Veil of Testimony |
Beyond the Pale, an Opponent |
| Basic Endings (short stories) |
The Seven Salamanders |
Lancehead
|
Prepared to Die (forthcoming) |
| A Good Time Dying |
Dark Bishop (novellas and short stories; forthcoming) |
| Dead by Reflection |
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alder Bishop is a Player Character in Murder at Christmas, created and written by Ree Moorhead Pruehs
You can learn more about other characters here.
Murder at Christmas is an online email game that will run over (approximately) the Twelve Days of Christmas – from December 21st 2016 until January 6th 2017. There are eight writers, working collaboratively (see the Rules of the Game). Regular updates will be posted on the website, with links that you can follow on Twitter, Facebook and Google+ so that people can follow the story, root for their favourite characters, and keep up with the twists and turns of the plot.
Followers can also apply to join the Gossip mailing list,where they can discuss the game with the writers!
by macadmin | Dec 22, 2016 | Blog, Characters
G Crabtree as Judy Nowak
Judy is a bank clerk returning from Poland to her home in Dorset England. She has very little luggage and was travelling third class. A very serious young lady and well aware of her lowly status. She is shy, somewhat awkward in the company of her betters and not as fashionably thin as she would like. Her dark brown hair and blue eyes are unremarkable. She is devoted to her mother and has no close friends. Her early mornings and evenings are spent running the small holding which helps sustain them.
Her only other relative was the uncle that she was trying to trace in Poland, she now has the task of returning to inform her mother of his death during the peasant uprising.
She gained a scholarship to her local grammar school. When reminded which clerk she was, the manager of her local bank described her as hard working, with neat penmanship.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Judy Nowak is a Player Character in Murder at Christmas, created and written by Pam Dee
You can learn more about other characters here.
Murder at Christmas is an online email game that will run over (approximately) the Twelve Days of Christmas – from December 21st 2016 until January 6th 2017. There are eight writers, working collaboratively (see the Rules of the Game). Regular updates will be posted on the website, with links that you can follow on Twitter, Facebook and Google+ so that people can follow the story, root for their favourite characters, and keep up with the twists and turns of the plot.
Followers can also apply to join the Gossip mailing list,where they can discuss the game with the writers!
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