The Secret of the Night Train by Sylvia Bishop

Author:Sylvia Bishop [Bishop, Sylvia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781407186566
Publisher: Scholastic UK
Published: 2018-02-15T05:00:00+00:00

Klaus was a suspiciously attentive nurse. When they pulled into Bucharest Nord, he was still at Sister Marguerite’s berth-side, clicking away at his endless knitting and telling her gentle-stories-to-cheer-up-an-invalid. Even when Max arrived to “look after her”, he wouldn’t go. He insisted on helping her off the train.

“Let’s get you some sweet tea,” he said firmly, once they were all on the platform.

To be fair to him, Marguerite was looking pale.

“No need,” she said, extra firmly. “I’m going to find the ladies’ toilets.” This was a small victory: Klaus couldn’t see a way to go with her, although he insisted on seeing her to the door.

Max was going to follow and find out what Marguerite was thinking, but Celeste sailed in ahead of them, so they still couldn’t talk privately. Instead, Marguerite handed her some crumpled Romanian money – leu. “We’ve only got fifteen more minutes before the Bosfor,” she said. “Get us some lunch, mon lapin, and we’ll talk on the train.”

Never had the word “talk” sounded weightier. “Talk” staggered out of Marguerite’s mouth, carrying the load of all the morning’s revelations, and of all the thoughts she was keeping to herself… But Klaus was still standing there beaming and remarking on the weather, so for now Marguerite just squeezed Max’s hand and disappeared down spiral steps to the toilets.

“Too cold for my taste,” Klaus concluded, “but so beautiful.”

“You shouldn’t be so happy,” Max snapped. “A man fell off our train. It’s bad.” And she stomped off to get lunch, leaving Klaus looking crestfallen.

Bucharest Nord was wide and grey, opening out on to a row of tracks that cut black curves through the snow, stretching out to the horizon.

Any other time, Max would have longed to explore. Now she barely even saw it. Rupert gone. Celeste possibly called Suzanne. Ester a friend – or, rather, rival – of her own great-aunt. And what had Sister Marguerite realized about Ester?

The Bosfor was already waiting for them. Max found her seat in a daze, and sat nose-to-window. It was strange to think that it was less than two days since she had sat like this on the TGV, just a girl feeling a bit homesick.

She was homesick again. At that moment, she would have given a hundred heartbreak diamonds for her own red armchair at the top of her own house. The memory of that chair was so overwhelming, so much more real than anything around her, that it took her a moment to realize the sickening, terrible thing that was happening. When she did realize, she nearly cried out.

The Bosfor was moving.

The Bosfor was moving, and Sister Marguerite was not in her seat.

They picked up speed. Bucharest Nord rushed away from them as the Bosfor pulled out, and out, and out, on unstoppably to Istanbul.

She’s probably just sitting in the wrong seat, Max told herself. But even though she was an optimist, there was a great yawning pit in her gut, because she didn’t believe that at all. She hurried up the train, scanning all the cars, praying for a glimpse of crumpled wimple, of long grey sock.

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