If King’s Cross’s 9 3/4 is London’s most famous platform, then Victoria’s no. 2 must surely be its second. It achieves something similar, if not identical; transportation, almost as if by magic, into another world. No irksome lingering under the departure board, no snacking from M&S, no fast food corrupting from McDonalds, just an eyes-to-the-floor, avoid the hoi polloi, brisk stroll down Victoria station’s left flank. A sparse sign in elegant font says all it needs to: British Pullman, a Belmond Train. And, to confirm, a ’50s type wearing tweed jacket and checked trousers croons ‘Come Fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away…”
Check in is easy and accompanied with fresh apple juice. We’re here to step back in time, relax in unrivalled luxury, travel through the Kent countryside. We enjoy a velvety version of ‘Mack The Knife’ before finding our carriage, outside of which a wooden framed Daily News headline declares: ‘Scandal. Stone of Scone Switched?’ The date is Friday 10th August, 1951 and the country is pre-occupied with the spectacular cultural event that is the Festival of Britain.
Each carriage has a different name and history. Ours is the Ibis. Built in 1925, it’s the oldest carriage on the British Pullman and operated for decades on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express route. Its interior design is sumptuous, luscious and vibrant. Guests have varied from Queen Elizabeth II, the Queen Mother, King Charles III to Martina Navratilova and John Travolta. Bright yellow armchairs sizzle with green floral patterns, sit between tables for two prettified by white cloths, small vases of flowers and bronze lamps. French polished marquetry provides the space with an opulent sheen whilst sculpted metal luggage racks provide it with a robust charm. We have our own compartment for extra privacy, bragging rights and je ne sais quoi.
Andrew is our waiter for the day and is a man who loves his job, and, it’s fair to say, a man who is loved by his job. He’s been working on the British Pullman for twenty six years and has no intention of stopping. He pours us some Summer Berry wine, in, prohibition style, our tea cup; a sweet, lightly alcoholic aperitif to set us on our way. No sooner has the train pulled out of Victoria and crossed the Thames when a couple stumble into our carriage. 
If not rude, they’re certainly flustered, something which could also be said of their clothing. He wears a bright yellow shirt complimented by purple houndstooth trousers, waistcoat and bowtie. She wears sunglasses, a fern shaped silver brooch and sea blue A-line skirt and fitted jacket. They apologise for the interruption but ask if we’ve heard the news?
What news?
Kimberley Minerva. She’s been murdered! Do we know Kimberley?
Actually, we don’t.
It happened last night at Felicity Gwen’s charity event at the Riverside Rooms in Battersea’s Pleasure Gardens. You were probably there…?
Oh, actually, no, we wanted to go but weren’t invited.
Oh…Sorry to hear that. But yes, poor Kim, her body was found this morning. Bludgeoned on the side of her head. And if that wasn’t shocking enough, we’ve just found her necklace in one of the carriages. Look…
Crikey. Is that blood?
Isn’t it awful?
Is it dry?
Thankfully.
So…Hang on…You don’t…You don’t think the killer is on board, do you!?
That’s exactly what we think!
Crikey!
Exactly!
Crikey Moses!
Harry Audrey is a taxidermist who lives with his mother. Catarina Ione is a social butterfly who writes advice columns on subjects as diverse as travel and romance. They apologise for disturbing us, make their excuses, scamper off. And so the scene is set. Not only do we have the Pullman’s charisma and history to wallow in, a five course meal to indulge in, the Kent countryside to marvel at but now we have to solve a murder!
Just as we’re trying to make sense of it all, Andrew comes and offers us some Veuve Clicquot – presumably to finer attune our sleuthing senses. It seems to help. A Luxury Locomotives Magazine on our table contextualises the Festival of Britain and provides detail on the motley bunch of suspects, all of whom, naturally, drop in to chinwag, tongue wag, spill some beans, occasionally clean them up.
There’s Danny Zena and Angela Lucille, there’s Eddie Phoenix and Gordon Vera, there’s red herrings aplenty, practically a fish casserole full. Gossip, jealously, lies, blurring of truth, re-imagining of it, double crossing, arts, money, religion, love, lust, even the occult feature in testimonies and dialogue from these fascinating characters. In an attempt to track down the killer, we cross-examine everyone, take notes, confer with each other, check biographies all the while enjoying the intricate taster menu, sipping various wines and, from time to time, sneaking a peek out the window at the Kent countryside.
We’re whipping through West Malling, enjoying an asparagus salad with croutons and more Veuve Clicquot when the sultry actress Julie Ibis, with her piercing blue eyes and wild, arching make-up interrupts to show us a note from someone called Rose. The note is written in a frantic scrawl and says she’s scared. The note is addressed to the murder victim, implores her to meet at the band stand where she was fatally injured. We’re flying through Whitstable feasting on a Suffolk guinea hen with courgettes, new potatoes and tarragon chicken jus when the pencil moustached Ivan Perseus confides in us.
He a building magnate whose assistant professed her love for him last night but he wanted nothing to do with her so retired early. We’re snapping through Bromley, savouring the cheese board full of figs and quince jelly when Dr Bobby Cygnus sidles in and offers us some dubious pills which she was pedalling on the night of the murder. Bobby is a woman defined by bright red flares offset by crazy, turquoise shoulder pads. Some of the other characters have been less kind about her, called her a ‘quack’.
Bizarrely, a trip to the toilet is the only moment when the breath-taking madness that surrounds us slightly abates. This is no 21st Century locomotive gliding along slick tracks. As soon as you stand, the train’s jerking and jittering, its bumpiness and shakiness become immediately more apparent and hands flail all over the place in an attempt to remain afoot.
The stellar job Andrew and rest of his staff do, no spillage, no crashing plates, no smashing glasses, becomes even more apparent. And the toilet itself…With a stained glass window and a mosaic tiled floor, it’s surely the most lavish train toilet ever and leads back to the questions: Where am I!? How did I get here!? What am I doing here!?
As we return past Battersea Power Station almost five and a half hours later, actress Julie Ibis gathers our carriage and extolls a monologue on each and every character. Did they do it? Could they have done it? Why might they have done it? Whodunnit!? With a one in ten chance of deducing the killer, we fail. We come close, suspect the actual murderer, but, without understanding the motive, fail. One couple identity the correct suspect and receive a bottle of wine.
We pull into Victoria station and disembark. Time has flown. Sped by in the blink of an eye. The British Pullman Murder Mystery is a heady concoction. It’s an adrenaline rush of intrigue fuelled by fine dining and wine, a non-stop fascination, a crazy bubble in a crazy world, such an enjoyable live-in-the-moment experience that it’s surely, something everyone should experience once in their life.
British Pullman’s ‘Moving Murder Mystery’ starts from £585 per passenger on a table for two and includes a 5-course luncheon with wine and champagne. For more information, including journey times, and for bookings, please visit www.belmond.com. The next train departs on Friday 27th September…
Photos by the author and The Other Richard (courtesy of Belmond)
