1947. Two years ago, the world exitted the worst war known to man. Soldiers were brought home. People all over the world rejoiced.
Last year, the daughter of war hero Alexander Lacey was kidnapped. She was found four days later, dead.
But the murder...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
JUDY did not get much time for herself. She never truly did, working for Mr. Dermott—he required her to attend to the majority of his whims, as the only servant at his disposal while traveling. Even back home, Judy had to give up spending time with her siblings in order to go to work for Dermott. He claimed to like that she was a hard worker—but Judy felt unsettled in her stomach when he said so.
After welcoming her roommate for the journey, Almera, into the berth and arranging her belongings, Judy ensured her clothing and hair were in perfect order (as a maid who looks disorganized reflects badly on her employer) and prepared to leave the cabin. Almera, busy stowing her own baggage, looked up. "To work?" she asked. The pair had talked some as they unpacked, discussing their work and purpose of travel. Judy found herself a little jealous of Almera—her employer was so permissive, allowing her to be his sole representation to the public, and paid for her to travel to Greece on her own. Mr. Dermott could never do the same.
Judy nodded, ensuring the key to the berth was safely in her pocket. "Yes," she said with a little smile, "Mr. Dermott is a rather demanding employer."
Almera huffed. "Of course he is," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Men."
Judy's smile turned sarcastic, and she nodded. "Indeed. Men."
—
THE dining car was quiet. Guinevere did not mind, of course. The quiet settled into her bones in a comforting way, a familiar one. The quiet of many dinners at home with her parents as a child, the only sounds being cutlery on crockery. It felt like that now.
She sat alone, though many other passengers sat in pairs. The young man from the lounge car, for example, was sitting on the other side of the car across from a thin, nervous-looking man. She couldn't tell if they knew each other—likely not, but one could not be certain. She did not envy either of them, to be clear. Guinevere liked her independence and introspection, and she could not have either with another person so close.
Instead, she observed. She could see most of the dining car from her seat, so she was able to observe the majority of the first-class passengers. Not that they were doing much besides eating, but she was still able to get a sense for them.
Such as the pair seated just ahead of her: a tall man, darker-skinned than most of the passengers, focused rather fully on his meal—sat facing Guinevere—and another man with dark brown hair. The pair were quiet, mostly due to the first man's attention being directed entirely at his plate, though the other did attempt to make conversation. His voice was smooth and low, American by accent, and he sounded almost nervous. As though he expected something to go wrong at any moment.
Guinevere would never admit to eavesdropping as often as she most certainly did. It came with being as quiet and observant as she was; hearing what others spoke of in her presence was nearly unavoidable. Thus, she did not even try not to listen to the pair of men seated before her. If they wished their conversation to be private, they should have it in private—that was her opinion.
"Sir," started the one with his back to Guinevere for perhaps the fifth time. This time, though, the other man looked up at him, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. Guinevere looked out the window, lifting her own glass.
"Don't call me 'sir,'" he said. His voice had a sort of drawl to it, though Guinevere could not place it. He was American as well, and she was not well-versed in the nuances of American accents. "Just Mr. Gomez is fine for me."
The first man sniffed a little, but seemed to accept it. "All right then, Mr. Gomez," he began again. "My name is Arthur Dermott." He paused, as though expecting some sort of response. When all Gomez did was nod, he continued, "I would like to hire you."
There was silence for a moment, and Guinevere looked back over to see Mr. Gomez staring at Arthur Dermott with one eyebrow raised. "You are aware of my line of work, aren't you, Mr. Dermott?" he asked. There was a hint of laughter in his voice. It made him sound more pleasant.
Mr. Dermott nodded. "You're a detective," he said. "A very good one, from what I understand."
Mr. Gomez nodded. "Correct. But the thing is, I solve crimes." He spread his hands and looked around the dining car. Guinevere kept her eyes on her own plate. "But I don't see a crime here."
"What about preventing crimes?" Mr. Dermott asked. He leaned forward a little and lowered his voice. "Because I'm afraid, Mr. Gomez. Afraid for my life."
—
830 words. A shorter chapter, but it's the Christie spirit. Plus, I wanted to end on the cliffhanger. Let me know your thoughts, and keep an eye out for that new af I mentioned either later tonight or tomorrow!
