Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [4]
Baden-Powell was slumped in a heavy leather fauteuil with a sketchbook in his hands. As the chef de train led us past I noticed that the naturalist was painstakingly filling in patterns on a butterfly's wing.
Beyond the smoking salon, stairs had been lowered to the snowy ground.
The white train lay twenty feet away. Footsteps led from that train to ours and back again. There was a chill in the air, but no worse than the bite of an April morning in London.
The chef de train halted and turned to us.
'Gentlemen,' he began, his breath steaming in front of his face. 'In the history of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits this has happened not once before. Not once. We have been...' he searched for the right words, '...flagged down!'
'By whom?' Holmes inquired softly.
'By one whom I may not disobey,' the chef said, crossing himself briefly.
'Your presence is requested. We will wait for ten minutes. The schedule will allow no more.' With that he turned on his heel and strode back inside the salon.
'You saw it pass us by earlier?' Holmes asked, indicating the distant carriage. I nodded. 'That crest is familiar,' he continued. 'I have seen it before, on a letter or a document of some kind.' He shook his head. 'There is, of course, only one way to find out. Are you game?'
'I would consider it a privilege,' I replied.
We set out together across the snow-laden ground towards the white train.
The snow crunched underfoot. I could feel the cold begin to bite at the tips of my fingers. Behind us I could hear an increasing number of voices from the second-class compartments demanding to know of the chef de train what was causing the delay. I could not make out his answer.
Within moments we were approaching the train.
'Are you armed?' Holmes asked.
'No,' I replied. 'I had not anticipated the need. Are you?'
'My hair-trigger pistol is back in my valise.'
As we reached the steps leading up to the lone carriage a door opened above us. Back-lit by the light spilling from the carriage, a spindly, cloaked figure cast its shadow over us. I could make out nothing apart from the unnatural smoothness of its head. It gestured us inside, then retreated.
Holmes and I looked at each other, then Holmes climbed the steps. Casting a longing glance back at the Orient Express, I did likewise.
The bright light blinded me momentarily as we entered the carriage.
Shielding my eyes, I managed to make out three figures before us. One was seated in an ornately carved chair in the centre of the otherwise empty space. The others stood behind. As my eyes grew accustomed to the glare I began to make out more. The carriage was lined in white silk, with the scarlet velvet curtains across the windows standing out like splashes of blood. Three massive gas-lit chandeliers hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. The carpet was deep and red.
The figures standing behind the chair were tall and thin. Both wore long black robes with scarlet scarves draped across their shoulders, scarlet sashes around their waists and scarlet skullcaps half-covering what sparse hair they had. Each had a face that seemed to be made up of vertical lines.
Neither showed any expression.
The man in the chair, swamped by his white robes, was the least impressive thing in the carriage. Thin and greyhaired, he might have been a banker or a grocer. His tiny white skullcap looked as if it could fall from his head at any moment.
Holmes walked to the centre of the carriage and stood before the man in the chair. I expected one of them to say something, and so I was completely unprepared when Holmes knelt upon one knee. The man extended his hand, upon which I saw a massive gold ring. Holmes's face tightened for a moment, then he knelt and kissed the ring.
I was hit by a sudden crashing realization, and so when Holmes turned his head and said, 'Watson, may I introduce His Holiness, Pope Leo XIII,' I was at least half prepared. I bowed from where I stood. One of the men who flanked