Twelve Red Herrings Read online

  Duncan continued: “There will be an American family—mother, father, two teenage children—on their first visit to England; a young English couple who have just got married that morning and are about to begin their honeymoon; a Greek self-made millionaire and his French wife who booked their tickets a year before but are now considering a divorce; and three students.”

  Duncan paused as a Caesar salad was placed in front of him and a second waiter presented me with a bowl of consommé. I glanced at the dish Christabel had chosen. A plate of thinly cut smoked gravlax with a blob of caviar in the center. She was happily squeezing half a lemon, protected by muslin, all over it.

  “Now,” said Duncan, “in the first chapter it’s important that the reader doesn’t realize that the students are connected in any way, as that later becomes central to the plot. We pick up all four groups in the second chapter as they’re preparing for the journey. The reader discovers their motivations for wanting to be on the train, and I build a little on the background of each of the characters involved.”

  “What period of time will the plot cover?” I asked anxiously between spoonfuls of consommé.

  “Probably three days,” replied Duncan. “The day before the journey, the day of the journey, and the day after. But I’m still not certain—by the final draft it might all happen on the same day.”

  Christabel grabbed the wine bottle from the ice bucket and refilled her glass before the wine waiter had a chance to assist her.

  “Around chapter three,” continued Duncan, “we find the various groups arriving at Waterloo station to board ‘le shuttle.’ The Greek millionaire and his French wife will be shown to their first-class seats by a black crew member, while the others are directed to second class. Once they are all on board, some sort of ceremony to commemorate the inauguration of the tunnel will take place on the platform. Big band, fireworks, cutting of tape by royalty, etc. That should prove quite adequate to cover another chapter at least.”

  While I was visualizing the scene and sipping my soup—the restaurant may have been pretentious, but the food was excellent—the wine waiter filled my glass and then Duncan’s. I don’t normally care for white wine, but I had to admit that this one was quite exceptional.

  Duncan paused to eat, and I turned my attention to Christabel, who was being served a second dollop of caviar that appeared even bigger than the first.

  “Chapter five,” said Duncan, “opens as the train moves out of the station. Now the real action begins. The American family are enjoying every moment. The young bride and groom make love in the restroom. The millionaire is having another fight with his wife about her continual extravagance, and the three students have met up for the first time at the bar. By now you should begin to suspect that they’re not ordinary students, and that they may have known each other before they got on the train.” Duncan smiled and continued with his salad. I frowned.

  Christabel winked at me, to show she knew exactly what was going on. I felt guilty at being made a part of her conspiracy and wanted to tell Duncan what she was up to.

  “It’s certainly a strong plot,” I ventured as the wine waiter filled our glasses for a third time and, having managed to empty the bottle, looked toward Madame. She nodded sweetly.

  “Have you started on the research yet?” I asked.

  “Yes. Research is going to be the key to this project, and I’m well into it already,” said Duncan. “I wrote to Sir Alastair Morton, the chairman of Eurotunnel, on Newsweek letterhead, and his office sent me back a caseload of material. I can tell you the length of the rolling stock, the number of carriages, the diameter of the wheels, why the train can go faster on the French side than the British, even why it’s necessary for them to have a different-gauge track on either side of the Channel …”

  The pop of a cork startled me, and the wine waiter began pouring from a second bottle. Should I tell him now?

  “During chapter six the plot begins to unfold,” said Duncan, warming to his theme, as one of the waiters whipped away the empty plates and another brushed a few breadcrumbs off the tablecloth into a little silver scoop. “The trick is to keep the reader interested in all four groups at the same time.”

  I nodded.

  “Now we come to the point in the story when the reader discovers that the students are not really students, but terrorists who plan to hijack the train.”

  Three dishes topped by domed silver salvers were placed in front of us. On a nod from the maître d’, all three domes were lifted in unison by the waiters. It would be churlish of me not to admit that the food looked quite magnificent. I turned to see what Christabel had selected: truffles with foie gras. They reminded me of a Mirò painting, until she quickly smudged the canvas.

  “What do you think the terrorists’ motive for hijacking the train should be?” Duncan asked.

  This was surely the moment to tell him—but once again I funked it. I tried to remember what point in the story we had reached. “That would depend on whether you eventually wanted them to escape,” I suggested. “Which might prove quite difficult, if they’re stuck in the middle of a tunnel, with a police force waiting for them at either end.” The wine waiter presented Christabel with the bottle of claret she had chosen. After no more than a sniff of the cork, she indicated that it was acceptable.

  “I don’t think they should be interested in financial reward,” said Duncan. “They ought to be IRA, Islamic fundamentalists, Basque separatists, or whatever the latest terrorist group catching the headlines happens to be.”

  I sipped the wine. It was like velvet. I had only tasted such a vintage once before, in the home of a friend who possessed a cellar of old wine put down with new money. It was a taste that had remained etched in my memory.

  “In chapter seven I’ve come up against a block,” continued Duncan, intent on his theme. “One of the terrorists must somehow come into contact with the newly married couple, or at least with the bridegroom.” He paused. “I should have told you earlier that in the character-building at the beginning of the book, one of the students turns out to be a loner, while the other two, a man and a woman, have been living together for some time.” He began digging into his steak. “It’s how I bring the loner and the bridegroom together that worries me. Any ideas?”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” I said, “what with restaurant cars, snack bars, carriages, a corridor, not to mention a black crew member, railway staff and restrooms.”

  “Yes, but it must appear natural,” Duncan said, sounding as if he was in deep thought.

  My heart sank as I noticed Christabel’s empty plate being whisked away, despite the fact that Duncan and I had hardly begun our main courses.

  “The chapter ends with the train suddenly coming to a halt about halfway through the tunnel,” said Duncan, staring into the distance.

  “But how? And why?” I asked.

  “That’s the whole point. It’s a false alarm. Quite innocent. The youngest child of the American family—his name’s Ben—pulls the communication cord while he’s sitting on the lavatory. It’s such a high-tech lavatory that he mistakes it for the chain.”

  I was considering if this was plausible when a breast of quail on fondant potatoes with a garnish of smoked bacon was placed in front of Christabel. She wasted no time in attacking the fowl.

  Duncan paused to take a sip of wine. Now I felt I had to let him know, but before I had a chance to say anything he was off again. “Right,” he said. “Chapter eight. The train has come to a halt several miles inside the tunnel, but not quite halfway.”

  “Is that significant?” I asked feebly.

  “Sure is,” said Duncan. “The French and British have agreed the exact point inside the tunnel where French jurisdiction begins and British ends. As you’ll discover, this becomes relevant later in the plot.”

  The waiter began moving round the table, topping up our glasses once again with claret. I placed a hand over mine—not because the wine wasn’t pure nectar, but