Murder on the Orion Express

Class Wars

"Great that you took the case, Beckett. It's so horrifying what happened, but I have no doubt you'll get to the bottom of it before long." Grey had been deposited on the desk in Pilkington's office by an attendant who had now departed.

"I will certainly endeavour to do so ... Miss Grey."

"Please dispense with the titles, they aren't entirely accurate for Arcturians. Miss is somewhat correct, but from another perspective, it's not. Grey, will suffice."

"Of course. Please accept my apologies for my limited knowledge of your species and culture."

"Oh, that's all right. We like to keep ourselves to ourselves. You can't be blamed for that."

"That's very gracious of you. I have heard that your culture is still divided into classes and that it is almost impossible to move from the class into which you are born."

"Very true, Beckett."

"If I remember correctly, you told me last that that you are from one of the higher classes."

"It goes further than that. Would you believe, my family have ruled the planet for decades. It's a great responsibility, but a burden we are proud to carry."

Beckett bowed his head good-humouredly. "Forgive me, I did not realise I was in the presence of royalty."

Grey's translator made a sound equivalent to a human laugh. "Don't be silly, Beckett, the concept of something as archaic as monarchy does not exist in our culture. I am simply Grey, here to serve my people."

"Your people are somewhat newcomers to interstellar travel, are they not?" said Beckett.

"They are."

"But you are very technologically advanced, why wait all those centuries before venturing out beyond your solar system?"

"Because we didn't see the need until now."

A frown appeared on Beckett's brow as he pondered the answer. He stood up and strode to the window on the other side of Pilkington's office. Turning once more to Grey he asked, "So something happened on your planet to create that need." Grey did not respond. "Your lack of a response tells me enough. Let us return to the matter at hand. Did you know the murdered man, Virgil Black?" This time, Grey responded hesitantly.

"You have a startlingly effective way of making people feel uncomfortable, Mr Beckett."

"A talent of mine of which I am acutely aware. Again, I ask; Mr Black, did you know him?"

"I knew of him, but did not know him."

"Can you elaborate, please?"

"It seems I am backed into a corner by this line of questioning. Very well. Another passenger warned me of Mr Black. Told me to be wary of him."

"Virgil Black was the sort of person about whom it made a great sense to be wary. However, one does not usually offer such a suggestion without some additional knowledge. Onto the obvious next question then. Who was the passenger that provided the warning?"

"I won't tell you that, Beckett, I'm not a ... how do you say ... snitch."

Beckett fixed Grey with a stare. "I do not have such foibles when presenting stone cold facts, Grey. Let me tell you what I know of the man. He was a killer. No longer a soldier, he was an assassin for hire. He told me himself that he had been hired to murder one of his fellow passengers on this very ship."

Beckett left it like that, allowing a silence to develop. As he expected, Grey did not speak again. When his words had been sufficiently reinforced he spoke again. "I believe there is nothing further to be gained by continuing our interview. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other passengers waiting."