Murder, They Wrote

For over a century, the cloistered luxury of the Orient Express has mingled intrigue and decadence. Two mystery novelists board in search of inspiration.

The journey started as a scheme. Laura needed a new book idea. Rebecca was under a deadline. And both wanted to spend time together.

Staring at the ceiling one night, sleepless with anxiety, a train whistled in the distance and, just like that, Laura had a plan. It was incumbent on her, as a crime novelist, to ride the Orient Express. They could leave from London, where Rebecca lived, travel to Venice and then continue on to Tuscany, where Rebecca had a home. Laura was vaguely aware of what happened on the Express, but sometimes a writer has to do firsthand research to find inspiration. At least, that was the explanation she would give her editor and family.

Few settings generate more creativity — or pulp fiction — than trains. Intrinsically romantic, they bring people together and sequester them from the rest of the world, the enforced companionship inviting plotting and even murder. It’s no wonder there are so many famous thrillers and mysteries set on trains: “The Lady Vanishes,” “Strangers on a Train,” “North by Northwest,” “From Russia With Love” and, of course, Agatha Christie’s classic “Murder on the Orient Express,” which, to Rebecca’s great distress, Laura had not yet read.

Rebecca imagined tantalizing scenarios of black-tie dinners, attentive stewards, late nights in a bar car that stayed open as long as passengers desired. A quick Google search corroborated her fantasies and revealed that the Orient Express, introduced in 1883, is now a misnomer as it only follows the iconic Paris-to-Istanbul route once a year. Today, from London, travelers take a train and a bus before boarding the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express in Calais. Once one of the fastest ways to cross Europe, the Orient Express now requires two days to do the work of a two-hour flight from Heathrow. Leisure has replaced speed as the train’s ultimate luxury.

We left London, catching a graciously appointed Pullman from Victoria station and later a bus from Folkestone. The trip took seven hours, and by the time we arrived in Calais it was hard not to be cheered by the mere sight of the Orient Express, which seemed almost too sleek and beautiful for the provincial train station. The blue-uniformed staff lined up to greet us and, as we boarded, opened Prosecco.

Entering our sleeping compartment — perfectly restored to 1920s-era glory — we were reminded of what passed for opulence less than a hundred years earlier. The double room was very shiny — and very tiny. The shelf covered the sink; to use the latter, one had to clear the former. Toilets were at the end of each carriage. Paris-to-Istanbul travelers would be taken off the train halfway through to shower in hotels, but here on the London-to-Venice route, the complimentary “freshening up products” were essential rather than perks.

After managing to change in very close quarters, we entered the bar car. With its deep banquettes, gleaming Art Deco bar and grand piano, the setting conveyed old-fashioned glamour. The guests confirmed what the train’s information packet claimed, that it is impossible to overdress on the Orient Express. It was the ideal spot for an intimate evening — or, Rebecca mused, an elaborately plotted heist.

Over cocktails, the train manager told us that there were too many repeat customers for him to even guess at their number. One woman, he informed us, took the train every month from London to Venice. “And she loathes Venice!” he added. Rebecca ventured that the traveler was a jewel thief who smuggled diamonds from England to Italy as in “The Mystery of the Blue Train,” noting that Christie’s train novels very often hinge on jewel thefts.

Walking down the oak-veneered corridors to the dining car, we indulged in the writerly hobby of speculating about fellow travelers and their motives for taking this trip of a lifetime. Was the nervous couple seated across from us on the lam? Having an illicit affair? So far, the greatest mystery the Orient Express had posed was how guests seemed to stay within their own private bubbles. Over wine, lobster in jelly consommé, beef fillet with mustard sauce and chilled Grand Marnier soufflé, we couldn’t help but scan the room for signs of intrigue.

“I’d love a murder,” said Laura. If the train had been a place where people eavesdropped, eyebrows might have been raised.

“How about this,” Rebecca offered. “Someone falls off the train, but turns out to have been pushed?”

“Or someone falls off the ladder in her cabin and breaks her neck?”

We asked the manager whether anyone had had accidents climbing to their bunk.

“Not while climbing,” he said dryly.

“Yes! So clever!” Rebecca agreed. “Stage a death while in the throes of passion, then play the sobbing, grieving spouse. No one would ever suspect. Maybe one of your characters could murder the other that way?”

Laura paused. She could see how the train would work in one of Rebecca’s Jackie Collins-meets-P.G.-Wodehouse kind of books. Less so for her, though — a writer of psychological thrillers set in Baltimore.

By the next afternoon, Venice only a few hours away, it was as if the train itself had picked up speed while the passengers had ground to a halt. People dozed in their rooms, mouths gaping like goldfish. In the bar car, Rebecca listened to the pianist play while Laura finally began to read “Murder on the Orient Express.” As she became caught up in the novel, she had a sheepish epiphany. She had been looking for inspiration in the wrong place. The Orient Express’s enduring legacy, its place in the popular imagination — it didn’t come from the train itself, but from Christie. Her eye for detail and ability to weave a mystery out of anything, those were her gifts. The author had left a cultural mark that only a handful of writers would ever equal, and all crime novelists, whether they knew it or not, were indebted to her.

The train hurtled toward Venice, where we were spat out into the heat and chaos of the station, returned to the real world circa 2014 with disorienting swiftness. We wanted another adventure soon. Another Christie trip, perhaps? Rebecca pulled out a copy of “Death on the Nile” and glanced at Laura. “There’s a cruise that leaves from Cairo. . . .”