Night Train to Memphis (11 page)

‘Gorgeous.’

‘He asked if I’d rather have diamonds,’ Mary said innocently. ‘But I prefer these. He has such wonderful taste.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I said. The enamelled golden rose, invisible under my blouse, seemed to burn into my hide.

‘There he is.’ Mary looked past me. ‘I guess it’s time to dress for dinner. I’m so glad we had this talk, Vicky.’

She didn’t ask me to join them. I watched her hurry towards him; he stood waiting, arms folded, like the Emperor preparing to receive a humble subject, and then I turned to go – the
other way.

There was no warning, not even a rush of running feet. He hit me hard and low, hurling me forward. I bounced off the rail with a force that knocked the breath out of me and crashed to the deck,
derriere first, the back of my head a close second. Bright specks darted through the blackness like pretty little shooting stars.

After a while I opened my eyes, and immediately closed them again when I saw a familiar face hovering over me. Then I opened them again. Not that familiar. It was Foggington-Smythe.

‘Good old Perry,’ I croaked.

‘Good,’ said good old Perry. ‘You know me. You’d better lie still, though; that was quite a crack on the head.’

‘She’s not got concussion.’ John was sitting on the deck next to me. He was rubbing his wrist and scowling like a gargoyle on a cathedral. ‘I think I broke my arm,’
he went on bitterly.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘You were the one who knocked me down. I should have known.’

‘I think I broke my arm,’ John repeated.

It was like old times, me bruised and prostrate, John whining. ‘God damn it, what’d you do that for?’ I demanded. I sat up and then grabbed the back of my head.
‘Ow.’

Perry put a manly arm around my shoulders and squeezed. ‘Ow,’ I said again.

‘I’ll carry you to the infirmary,’ Perry aunounced.

‘No, you won’t. I don’t have a concussion.’ I indicated John, who was still nursing his arm. ‘Carry him. I’ll take his feet. We can drop him, heavily, several
times along the way.’

The corner of John’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. I saw Mary, pressed up against the rail, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide and horrified. I saw the spattered dirt and
fragments of pottery and the broken remains of the jasmine that had been in the pot. It had hit the deck in the exact spot where I would have been standing if someone hadn’t knocked me out of
the way.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘Vicky, don’t be angry with him.’ Mary knelt beside me and put her arm around me, from the other side. A pretty tableau we must have made. ‘It was my fault, I saw the
flowerpot tottering on the edge and cried out. John acted instinctively, as any gentleman would.’

I glowered at John. His eyelids fell, but not in time to hide the fury that had darkened his eyes to sapphire. I wasn’t moved to apologize; at that point I wouldn’t have given him
credit for good intentions if the testimonial had come from the pope. ‘Oh, right,’ I snarled. ‘Thanks a lot. My head hurts worse than it would have done if that little bitty pot
had landed on it and I’ve got a bruise on my bum the size of a soup tureen.’

‘It might have hurt you badly, Vicky,’ Mary insisted.

I staggered to my feet, assisted by Perry. ‘Worse than this? Oh, well. I guess I’ll live. Excuse me. I’ve got to shower and change and find out who tried to brain
me.’

‘You aren’t implying that it was deliberate, I hope,’ Perry exclaimed.

‘An unfortunate accident,’ said John. ‘Or a warning.’

‘Warning?’ Perry repeated, staring.

‘To enjoy life to the full while one can,’ John said sententiously. ‘“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” This is a world fraught with peril; one never knows when the
axe will fall. Life is at best – ’

‘Darling, please.’ Mary abandoned me and hurried to take his arm. ‘Vicky will think you’re making fun of her.’

‘Oh, she’d never be mistaken about that,’ John said.

‘Never,’ I agreed, and let Perry lead me away.

I

T
ERRORISTS, LOW WATER,
or whatever, the change in schedule couldn’t have been more welcome. It would give me a
chance to collect my wits and nurse my bruises. I had exaggerated a trifle; the one on my butt was only the size of a salad plate. As I lowered myself very gently into a hot tub filled with bubbles
I tried to look on the bright side.

The flowerpot wasn’t a lethal weapon; even if it had landed square on the top of my head it wouldn’t have done lasting damage. As John had uunecessarily and condescendingly
emphasized, it had been meant as a warning. Not that there were certain individuals on the ship who wanted me off the ship – I had already known that – or even that they were willing to
use violence to achieve that end. It was a little more subtle: a reminder that I wasn’t safe anywhere on the boat, that ‘they’ had access even to my room. That was where I had
been standing when the pot fell – under my own balcony.

Too damn many people had access to my room. I let my toes float up to the surface of the water and studied them pensively, remembering the agitated faces of the staff members who had been
interrogated. Perry had insisted I report the incident immediately, and Hamid, the purser, had hauled the obvious suspects into his office.

Hamid was in charge of the domestic arrangements on the boat, the civilian equivalent of the captain. A slim, handsome man of indeterminate age, he radiated an air of calm competence. I had
already wondered if he might be Burckhardt’s mysterious agent; he had keys to all the rooms and a perfect excuse to enter them. He could always claim he was checking up on his staff.

If he was in disguise, the disguise was excellent. In his crisp, tailored uniform, his hair greying attractively at the temples, he was the perfect model of an efficient hotel manager. And, I
reminded myself, he wasn’t the only one who had a key to my room. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how many stewards there were. One replenished the liquor cabinet (he was a Copt,
since handling alcoholic beverages might have offended Muslim sensibilities); another picked up and delivered laundry; a third cleaned and changed the beds. Hamid lined them up in a cringing row
and questioned them in vehement Arabic. They protested their innocence volubly and passionately. The most obvious suspect was a kid named Ali, who was responsible for the overall cleaning,
including the care of the flowers. He looked no more than eighteen – a graceful, smiling boy with the thick dark lashes many Egyptians have. He denied everything. Yes, he had watered the
flowers and clipped the dead blooms; everything had been in perfect order when he left the room, he had made certain to replace the pots securely in the stand. He wrung his hands. Then he started
to cry.

That was when I put an end to the proceedings. They were a waste of time, and I can’t stand masculine tears. Ali cried even harder when I said I didn’t blame him.

Hamid and Perry went with me to my room. As I had begun to suspect, there was nothing wrong with the flowers on my balcony. Every pot was still in place and firmly anchored.

The most logical explanation, proposed by a visibly relieved Hamid, was that one of the passengers in an adjoining room had been fooling around with the flowers. He would investigate, of course
. . . I said fine, and got rid of him and Perry. He wouldn’t investigate very hard, not with this lot of passengers, and I knew perfectly well that the pot had fallen from my balcony even it
it hadn’t originated there.

I blew bubbles off my hand and decided I had better start looking for some more crooks. The sight of John had thrown me off balance and distracted me, but he obviously wasn’t the only
malefactor on board. I had suspected that before; the flowerpot incident proved it. I had a perfect opportunity to investigate, since this was like one of those old-fashioned English country house
murder mysteries: all the suspects gathered together, isolated from the outside world. I would interview all of them, including the ones I hadn’t had a chance to talk with; I would mingle and
be charming and very, very clever. And very, very careful.

II

Aside from the other distractions, such as wondering who was going to hit me next and with what, my luxury cruise developed another hitch. Mary wanted John and me to
‘make up.’ She began her campaign that night, leaving her chair and running to greet me when I entered the dining room. ‘We saved a place for you, Vicky. You’ll join us,
won’t you?’

Short of knocking her down and walking over her, there was no way I could get away from the little hands that clung to my arm and towed me with remorseless goodwill towards a table. John was on
his feet, waiting. No one had dressed for dinner that night, but even his casual clothes looked as if they had come from Savile Row – a white polo shirt with a discreet insignia on the breast
pocket, the creases in his slacks so sharp they could cut you. He looked me over, from my cheap sandals to the imitation Hermès scarf tying my hair hack, and then focused pointedly on my
throat, where the locket hung from its heavy chain.

‘How kind of you to honour us, Dr Bliss. You don’t appear to be limping; I hope that means the bruise you mentioned was not too extensive.’

He gave my chair a shove as I lowered myself into it. I had expected something of the sort, so I was able to catch myself before the edge of the table rammed me in the stomach. ‘And your
poor wrist,’ I said. ‘Not a thing wrong with it, I see.’

It went on that way through five courses. John was as smoothly offensive as only he could be, his voice the exaggerated drawl I particularly hated, his conversation studded with stinging barbs.
I thought Mary missed most of the double entendres, but when John commented on my locket – ‘So large and so
very
gold’ – she flushed and said quickly,

‘Now, darling, not everyone shares your tastes. Antique jewelry is one of his specialities,’ she explained to me.

‘Oh, is it?’ I said.

She was still wearing the Greek earrings. They glowed with a soft patina under the lights, and the tiny, exquisite faces had the same expression of aloof disdain that marked John’s
features.

‘Isis,’ he said, following my gaze – reading my mind, which wasn’t hard to do under the circumstances. ‘Though she was an Egyptian goddess, her cult was quite
popular in Greece during the Hellenistic period. Three hundred to thirty
B.C.
’

‘Thank you so much for telling me.’ I propped my chin on my hand and smiled sweetly at him. ‘They’re lovely. Where on earth do you pick up such things?’

‘Here and there,’ John said, smiling not so sweetly back. ‘I found that pair at an antiquarian jeweller’s in New York. You may know of the shop; it’s on Madison in
the seventies.’

Straight to the liver, that one. I did know of the shop. My golden rose had come from the same place.

I made one feeble attempt at criminal investigation during the meal, questioning them in guileless girlish curiosity about the other passengers. It wasn’t very successful. John knew
perfectly well what I was up to; smiling and suave, he gushed useless information. Mary was more helpful. She had already struck up acquaintances with most of the passengers. ‘The Johnsons
are from San Francisco,’ she said, nodding towards the elderly couple I had seen with Jen the first night on board. ‘He has something to do with the stock market.’

‘He is the dullest individual on board,’ John said. ‘With the possible exception of his wife. His hobby, if you can believe it, is miniature railroads.’

And so it went, with Mary identifying people and John making rude remarks about each and every one. When we retired to the lounge for coffee I excused myself and went out on deck for a
cigarette. John didn’t join me. However, I had a nice chat with Mr Johnson, who smoked cigars. He was even more boring than John had claimed. Luckily Alice joined us before he could tell me
more about HO or HQ or whatever; she had heard about my ‘accident’ and was full of questions.

‘Dirty things, flowers,’ Johnson declared. ‘Why not imitations, that’s what I say. Wife likes the damned things, though . . .’

A voice from the saloon suggested that the evening lecture was about to begin, so we went inside. The assistant purser was on the podium, making the official announcement of what everyone
already knew, and promising us varied forms of amusement to make up for the change in schedule. One of the passengers, a distinguished amateur ornithologist, had offered to talk to us about birds,
and Dr Foggington-Smythe would give an additional lecture, on Egyptian religion. In three days’ time there would be a grand Egyptian banquet and cabaret, at which passengers and crew would
entertain. Prizes would be given for the best costumes; if we had not already purchased Egyptian garb in Cairo, the staff would be glad to help us concoct an appropriate costume, or we could visit
the excellent shop of Mr Azad (who rose and smiled ingratiatingly) to select from his stock of clothing.

‘Sounds like fun,’ I said to Alice, who had signalled one of the waiters.

‘Chacun à son goût,’ said Alice enigmatically. ‘You want coffee? I strongly recommend it. Perry’s lectures are as effective as a couple of Valium.’