Night Train to Memphis (5 page)

Have I mentioned I am almost six feet tall?

Maybe it was the alcohol that cleared my head, but I doubt it; the damned thing was mostly orange juice. I turned to Jen – Guinevere? He had told me that was his mother’s name. I had
assumed it was a joke.

‘Guinevere,’ I said experimentally. My voice seemed to be working.

She didn’t question my knowledge. I suppose she thought she’d told me. She couldn’t possibly remember everything she said, she had been talking non-stop. Her chin lifted
proudly. ‘We are an old Cornish family. Tre, Pol, and Pen – you know the rhyme? Names beginning with those syllables distinguish the Cornishmen. There is a tradition that Arthur himself
was our remote ancestor. My father’s name was Gawain, his father’s name was Arthur. On my mother’s side . . .’

‘Mother’s side,’ I repeated, to show I was paying attention. I waved at the steward. Guzzling my second mimosa, I lost the next few sentences.

‘. . . only a distant connection with Egypt, really. So, when I decided to marry, I chose a cousin in order to carry on the family name. Poor Agrivaine. I didn’t see a great deal of
him; he was always running off to some war or other.’

‘Agrivaine?’

‘That was what I called him. He had been christened Albert, and I believed his friends referred to him as – as Al. So common! It was he who insisted on calling our son John. I wanted
to name him Percival or Galahad.’

I choked on my drink. Jen gave me a hearty slap on the back. Her brow clouded. ‘Oh, dear, I hope I didn’t offend the dear boy. Men are so sensitive about weakness, you know, and I
promised myself I would stop fussing over him, especially now that he has a wife to look after him, but he was so ill last winter . . . A skiing accident, and then pneumonia. He seems quite fit
now, but I worry.’

‘Skiing accident,’ I repeated, like a parrot. I guess it could have been described that way. John wasn’t the world’s greatest skier, and he had fallen flat on his already
damaged face while he was trying to reach the spot where a very unpleasant individual was about to do unpleasant things to me before finishing me off permanently. However, the worst of his injuries
had resulted from the hand-to-hand fight that followed his arrival and from the avalanche that had followed the fight. I had not known about his subsequent illness, but I wasn’t surprised to
hear of it. If he had stayed in bed for a few days instead of sneaking off the first time I left him alone . . .

Fortunately Jen didn’t notice my abstraction; she was perfectly happy to carry the conversation. I sat slugging down champagne and orange juice while Jen went merrily on, telling me how
she had feared her dear boy would never settle down – ‘he is so attractive to women’ – about the whirlwind courtship – ‘he didn’t bring her to meet me
until a few weeks ago’ – and about their insistence that she join them on their honeymoon.

‘Honeymoon,’ said the parrot.

‘Yes, they were married last week. Such a lovely ceremony, in the family home, with only their close friends present . . . of course I refused when they first suggested I come along, but
Mary was so insistent, and John assured me she would be deeply wounded if I did not agree. Naturally I mean to stay out of their way as much as possible.’

I don’t remember what else she said.

The others had checked in the day before, so I didn’t have to wait unmercifully long before a steward was assigned to show me to my room. I was vaguely conscious of its elegance – a
long curved window, with a small railed balcony beyond, a private bath. My suitcases had been arranged at the foot of the bed. I got rid of the steward and collapsed into the nearest chair.

Sometimes, especially in the middle of the night when you wake up and stumble sleepily through a darkened room, and stub your toe or bang your elbow, it takes several seconds for the pain to
reach your sluggish brain. I had managed to keep it at bay for much longer than that.

I

A
BADLY BRUISED
ego can hurt just as much as a broken heart. When one is young and stupid and romantic and vulnerable,
one is inclined to confuse the two. I was none of the above, except possibly stupid, but God knows I had made that mistake on a number of occasions.

Not this time, though. Shock, anger, humiliation, shame – to mention only a few of the emotions that boiled inside me – had been responsible for my reaction. I must have managed to
conceal it from Jen; she hadn’t seemed to see anything unusual. I only hoped I hadn’t betrayed myself to John.

I pulled myself to my feet. The cocktail hour would begin shortly and I was supposed to attend. It would be my first public appearance, my first chance to connect faces and forms with the names
on the passenger list. A waste of time, since I had already found the ‘individual’ I had been asked to identify, but I’d have to face him sooner or later and I was damned if
I’d let him know how badly he had shaken me.

The accommodations lived up to the advertisement. In addition to the twin beds there was a couch long enough for even me to stretch out on, and two comfortable chairs. The bathroom had not only
a shower but a tub (not quite long enough for me to stretch out in, but few of them are), and the dressing table was lined with fancy bottles bearing the labels of a famous French cosmetician.
Methodically and mechanically I unpacked, showered, and settled myself at the dressing table, ready for action. Usually I don’t bother with much makeup, but I planned to use every speck of
artificial assistance I could get that night. I wanted to look gorgeous, cool, calm, and indifferent.

With luck I might manage the last three, anyhow. My hands were still unsteady; I tried to calm myself by recalling all the dirty, low-down tricks John had pulled, but my mind kept wandering off
the track, remembering . . .

Remembering times like the Christmas Eve we had spent in the abandoned church, huddling close to the feeble fire while a blizzard raged without, drinking tea made in a dirt-encrusted flowerpot
with a crumpled tea bag from the hoard I carried in my backpack. John had laughed himself sick over the contents of that backpack, but he had been hungry enough to eat the crumbling gingerbread and
the squashed chocolate bar. He had played Bach on a tissue-covered comb, and when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer he had sat up at night holding me in his arms to keep me warm, and
patiently feeding the tiny fire . . .

I didn’t need blusher. My cheeks were bright red. I went to work dulling the flush of anger with foundation and covering up a few lines that hadn’t been there last time I looked.

There had never been a commitment or even a promise. But it is, to say the least, disconcerting to kiss someone goodbye after he has made tender, passionate, skillful love to you, and have him
show up with a brand new wife the next time you meet.

He hadn’t set me up for that shock, though. His pallor might have been due to rage, consternation, or fear, but it had been genuine. He hadn’t expected to see me.

I selected a dress and slid into it. It was black and slinky, with long sleeves and a neckline that plunged lower than Aunt Ermintrude would have approved. I filled in some of the space with a
heavy (faux) gold necklace and pendant, stuck a couple of gold-headed picks into the hair coiled at the nape of my neck, and stood back to study the effect.

My cheeks were still flushed. I would have to claim it was sunburn. Jen had warned me about wearing a hat, hadn’t she?

A delicate chime of bells sounded and I started nervously before I realized that it was the summons I had been waiting for. It was five minutes before five, time for the opening reception and
cocktail hour. Some of the guests had come on board the day before, but others, like myself, had joined the cruise later; for the first time they would all be together, inspecting me as I would be
inspecting them. I don’t often suffer from stage fright, but my fingers froze on the doorknob and I had to force myself to turn it.

I plunged out into the corridor and found myself in the arms of a strange man who had emerged from the room next to mine. My timing was perfect, but the strange man was not; he was a good six
inches shorter than I, and I had an excellent view of his balding cranium, across which a few strands of hair had been arranged with pathetic optimism. Clutching me to his stomach, he staggered
back into the grasp of another man who was as tall and thin as he was short and pudgy. After a brief interval, which seemed to last a lot longer than it actually did, we got ourselves sorted out
and began a chorus of apologies.

‘My fault,’ I said. ‘I should have looked before I leaped.’

‘I do beg your pardon,’ said my first encounter simultaneously. He began to laugh merrily. ‘Allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Sweet and this is Bright.’

The tall, thin man bowed. He had a nice thick head of hair. It slipped a little when he inclined his head.

‘Bliss,’ I said. ‘Victoria Bliss.’

Sweet chuckled. ‘It was meant to be!’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Bright, Sweet, and Bliss!’

‘Oh,’ I said. Sweet beamed. Bright beamed.

The corridor was too narrow to allow us to walk arm in arm, so we proceeded single file, with Bright leading the way and Sweet following me. They managed it very neatly. In fact, the whole
business had been carried out with consummate skill; if I hadn’t been on the alert I would never have spotted them.

Burckhardt had refused to tell me how I could identify his agents. ‘It is a matter of security, you understand,’ he had said solemnly.

‘It is a matter of my neck,’ I had pointed out.

‘Fear not,’ said Burckhardt. ‘They will make themselves known to you.’

Well, they had, and very deftly at that. I would not have expected subordinates of Herr Burckhardt’s to have such crazy senses of humour. The cleverest part of the performance had been
when Sweet pressed me close, and the hard object in his breast pocket had jabbed painfully into my ribs. A bruise was a small price to pay for that kind of reassurance.

The central lobby, into which the corridor led, was magnificent. I hadn’t been in a fit state to take in the details earlier; now I admired the lush greenery in the centre, the miniature
waterfall that tumbled through it, the soft chairs and sofas and little marble-topped tables scattered around. Bright and Sweet swooped in on me, one on either side, and led me towards the
stairs.

The lounge, or saloon, occupied the entire front section of the boat. Curving windows gave a magnificent view of the city, its high-rise hotels and minarets and bridges blossoming with lights,
and glass doors opened onto the deck. Waiters were circulating with trays of glasses. The beverage of choice that evening appeared to be champagne. Since I do not care for champagne, and since I
wanted to get rid of Sweet for a few minutes – he had been talking incessantly, about God knows what – I accepted his offer to get me something else from the bar.

Bright and I settled down at a table. He smiled bashfully at me and tugged at his grizzled moustache, which was as luxuriant as his hair. Either it was real or the fixative was more effective
than the stuff he used on his head.

I inspected the other guests with unconcealed interest. They were doing the same. There were only thirty of us, and we would be in close company for several weeks.

I had been warned that this crowd would probably dress more formally than was usual on such cruises. People who are embarrassingly rich like to show off. My mail-order cocktail dress looked
pretty insignificant next to the designer gowns many of the other women were sporting, and the dazzle of diamonds dimmed my faux gold locket. Many of the men wore tuxes or dinner jackets.

Jen and her new daughter-in-law were sitting at a table on the other side of the room, with two other people – a married couple, I cleverly deduced. The woman’s pink hair matched her
dress and his bald head. When she caught my eye Jen waved and gave me a tight-lipped smile. John wasn’t with them, but as I returned Jen’s wave he came sauntering towards their table,
as infuriatingly casual as always. He looked very much the bridegroom, with a flower in his buttonhole and a matching crimson cummerbund. Catching me in mid-wave he raised an eyebrow, nodded
distantly, and sat down with his back to me.

Sweet returned with a glass of chablis and a man stepped up onto the podium in the centre of the floor. At the sight of him I forgot Bright, Sweet,
and
John. The tux set off his lean body
and broad shoulders, but he ought to have been wearing flowing robes and a snowy bedouin headdress that would frame his walnut-brown skin, hawklike nose, and sharply cut features. His black eyes
were fringed with lashes so thick they looked artificial.

A chorus of involuntary sighs came from every woman in the room. Some of them looked old enough to have seen the original Rudolph Valentino film. I wasn’t old enough, but I had read the
book. I have read every soppy sentimental novel ever written. To look at her, you wouldn’t think my sharp-tongued, practical grandma had an ounce of romance in her soul, but she owned all the
old novels. In her day,
The Sheik
had been pretty hot stuff. ‘‘‘Ahmed, mon bel Arabe,” she murmured yearningly,’ I murmured.