Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Four

I

TERRORISTS, 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.’

I was glad I had taken her advice. Perry went droning on about Isis and Osiris and Mut and a lot of other people with improbable names; when he started discussing the differences between pantheism, monotheism, and henotheism, my head began to droop. I was saved from shame by Alice, who kept pinching me.

There were not many questions. Nobody wanted to get him started again.

The crew hauled away the screen and podium and our dance band – a grand total of four – ambled in. Perry asked me to dance, but I was able to use my bruises as an excuse for refusing. As I hobbled towards the door I saw the Johnsons solemnly gyrating; he was holding her at arm’s length and moving about as fast as a sluggish snail. The newlyweds were not dancing.

III

I had breakfast in my room next mornmg. From what I had heard, room service was not usual on tour boats, but Ali was now my best friend in the whole world and would – he earnestly assured me – lay down his life for me anytime I wanted. I told him I’d settle for a couple of boiled eggs and coffee. He was back in record time, with an array of food that looked like samples of the entire breakfast menu. I had to push him out of the door. Then I took food, coffee, and a pad and pencil out onto the balcony.

The views were pastoral – green fields, water buffalo knee-deep in the shallows, black-garbed women washing clothes and keeping a watchful eye on the children in their bright brief garments. I waved back at a group of kids who were lined up along the bank waving and calling.

I didn’t want to think about crime. Why the hell should I? I had done what I was supposed to do. All I was supposed to do. Maybe the flowerpot had been an unfortunate accident. Maybe John didn’t have a confederate on board. Even if both those comfortable assumptions were wrong, there was no reason to suppose I would recognize any of his henchmen.

I had met more crooks than I would have liked, but one is more than I would have liked. I made a list.

Some of the names on that list were out of the picture – dead, or in jail. The people in Rome who had been happily selling fake jewellery until I so rudely interrupted them were neither of the above. They had pinned the blame for that caper on John and were still leading la dolce vita, which just goes to prove that crime often does pay and that justice frequently doesn’t triumph. However, that had been a purely local operation, run by amateurs; it was most unlikely that they had extended their activities abroad.

The group I’d encountered in Sweden were another kettle of fish. They were all professionals and cold-blooded as sharks: big stupid Hans, who wasn’t really bad, just awfully good at obeying orders; Rudi, who was built like a ferret and had the same mind-set (kill things, kill lots of things); Max, who cut silhouettes as a relaxing hobby after a day of bumping people off; and their boss, Leif, the man who had been slashing at me with a long sharp knife before John removed him forcibly from my vicinity. No doubt about Leif’s death; I had identified the body.

I had a couple of Max’s silhouettes – souvenirs, presented to me by the artist himself. Mine had been fashioned of the traditional black paper, and very fine likenesses they were. Occasionally Max used red paper – for ‘a particular collection.’ He was a soft-spoken, harmless-looking little man, and he’d always been very pleasant to me up to and including the moment when I waved bye-bye to him just before they carted him off to the prison. He had even . . . Well, he hadn’t actually thanked me for helping to get rid of his boss, not in so many words, but he had implied that Leif’s death opened up new and interesting possibilities of advancement for him ‘If I can ever do you a favour, Dr Bliss,’ he had said . . .

I had never met anybody who scared me more than Max. I hoped and believed he was still in prison. But in any case, Max wouldn’t have collaborated with John if John had been the only other crook on earth. The antipathy was personal as well as professional. Max had absolutely no sense of humour and John drove him up the wall even when John wasn’t trying to, and he often was trying to.

The Trojan gold affair . . . I could forget about that one. All the villains were dead. Very, very unmistakably dead, including the head villain, who had fallen fifty feet onto a pile of rocks. John had been indirectly responsible for his demise, which had occurred in the course of one of John’s nerve-racking, impromptu rescues.

For the first time I found myself wondering how John had felt about killing those two men. Neither had been deliberate, premeditated murders; he could reasonably claim self-defence or maybe justifiable homicide. But he had always insisted he disliked violence, even when it wasn’t directed at him. Did he ever have bad dreams?

I shifted uncomfortably and then tore the list into a heap of unreadable scraps.

John’s confederate couldn’t be anyone I knew, so it must be someone I didn’t know. (Brilliant deduction, Vicky.) I turned my attention to the passenger list.

I could now attach faces and personalities to most of the names. There were only thirty names in all – twenty-nine, now that Jen had left. I started to cross her name out and then stopped myself. She might not be on the boat, but she was not out of the picture. Difficult as it was to imagine her as a criminal mastermind, I couldn’t dismiss the odd coincidence that had left her on the loose in Cairo.

After considerable thought I eliminated sixteen people. I wasn’t credulous or prejudiced enough to think that old age put a person above, or below, suspicion, but a minimal degree of physical agility is one necessary qualification for a master thief – at least I’d have insisted on it if I had been hiring one – and a round dozen of the passengers had to be in their seventies or older. I also eliminated Louisa. Her name was a permanent fixture on the best-seller lists, so she didn’t have to turn to crime to make a living, and she was unquestionably the real Louisa Ferncliffe. The picture that adorned all her book jackets had been retouched but it was recognizable.

Sweet and Bright were two of the good guys. So who was left? Blenkiron was too rich and too famous to be a suspect, but I hadn’t eliminated his bodyguard or his secretary. I’d have to find out how long they had been in his employ. That. was the sort of set-up John specialized in, forging impressive credentials to gain access to a person or a place. Suzi? She was a little too good to be true. I was unacquainted with the social elite of Memphis, Tennessee; she could be a ringer. The unsociable German was another possibility. Somehow I’d have to get to know him better.

Mary and John made twenty-one. That left eight people I hadn’t spoken with except to exchange names and casual good-mornings. I was inclined to eliminate them too; they were all members of an amateur archaeology organization from Dallas, and they were travelling together. They were also rich and not exactly spring chickens.

How about the staff? Alice and Perry were who they claimed to be. They knew one another and they were known to others, including Blenkiron. Could either be corrupted? In theory, yes. In theory Feisal was also corruptible. Or he could be in league with one of the fundamentalist groups who wanted to rid Egypt of foreign influence. Promoting a scheme that would arouse public indignation, riot, and insurrection was the sort of thing fanatics might do.

I seemed to be long on hypothetical motives and very, very short on actual clues, and all too well supplied with possible suspects. John’s ally (or allies) might be one of the housekeeping staff or one of the crew. There was no way I could question them.

The hell with it. I got dressed and went up to the lounge to hear the lecture on birds. It would be a pleasure to hear about pretty, harmless things like birds. Bugs, that was what birds ate. Nothing wrong with killing bugs.

I had forgotten about owls. They eat a lot of things, including cute little mice and an occasional unwary kitten. There was an unexpected bonus, though; the lecturer turned out to be the unsociable German gent and he certainly knew a lot about birds. If he wasn’t a genuine enthusiast, he gave a good imitation of one; he talked about the creatures the way another man might talk about his mistress. Long slim legs were mentioned, and delicate flushes of pink. Some birds, he was sorry to report, were rather secretive in their habits. He’d even brought a collection of slides, all two hundred of which he showed us. Oh, well, maybe it wasn’t two hundred. It seemed like more.

A passion for birding would account for his presence on board. However, it did occur to me that it’s easier to bone up on Egyptian ornithology than Egyptology or – as I knew to my sorrow – Islamic art. A clever man could learn enough about it in a few weeks to convince nonexperts that he was one.

When questions were invited, I asked a lot. They were all stupid questions, the only kind I was capable of asking about that subject. He answered glibly and with assurance – if that proved anything. Unfortunately he decided my interest was so intense and my ignorance so abysmal that I deserved special coaching, and I didn’t manage to shake him off until after lunch, by which time I knew more about the nesting habits of wigeons than I wanted to know – and I still wasn’t sure whether he was on the level or not.

The sound of music struck my ears when I got off the elevator. Someone was playing the piano, and playing quite well. It was a stormy, violent piece of music – Chopin’s ‘Revolutionary Etude.’

He had his back to me and the music covered the sound of my footsteps. I couldn’t resist. I moved close and spoke.

‘How nice. You’re playing our song.’

His hands came down on the keyboard with a crash and he bent his head. I couldn’t see his face, but his ear was bright crimson. After a moment he said under his breath, ‘Don’t do that!’

‘Where’s your dear little wife?’ I inquired.

He looked directly at me. His face was still flushed and his expression was so savage I stepped back. ‘Drop it, Vicky. Leave me alone.’

There were a number of other people in the saloon, including an elderly German couple from Hamburg, Suzi Umphenour, and Sweet and Bright, their heads bent over a chessboard.

Recovering, I said softly, ‘You don’t have to be so rude. Or do you?’

Several heads turned in our direction. John’s hands went back to the keyboard, covering his next words with a series of emphatic but rather ragged arpeggios. ‘Apparently I must. Subtle hints are wasted on you. Excuse me.’

He stopped playing and rose. I took the hint. As I walked away I heard a spatter of applause and the Frau from Hamburg called out in English, ‘Beautiful! Will you be performing for us at the cabaret?’

John answered in German. ‘Valen Dank, gnädige Frau, aber nein.’ In the same language, pitched so I could hear, he added, ‘I try never to perform in public’

The phone woke me at the unholy hour of 6 a.m. next morning. It was my wake-up call. I grunted an acknowledgment into the phone and reached out a languid hand for the button that would summon my room steward. I was going to miss this kind of service when I got home and was wakened at about the same hour by Clara sitting on my face and Caesar licking any part of me he could reach. Neither of them would bring me coffee.

The response was slower than usual, and when I answered the tactful tap at the door it wasn’t Ali. This man was darker-skinned and older and not so pretty.

‘Madame wishes breakfast?’ he inquired.

‘Where’s Ali?’

The fellow’s eyes shifted. ‘I am here instead, madame. Mahmud is my name. What is it the lady wishes?’

I didn’t pursue the matter. Maybe it was Ali’s day off. I had just finished showering when Mahmud came back; slinging on my robe, I told him to take the tray onto the balcony.

The boat rocked gently at its moorings. We had reached El Till, as promised, and at seven-fifteen would disembark to visit the site of Amarna. My room faced west, so all I could see was the river and the opposite bank. It was a beautiful morning, as usual. I wouldn’t need a jacket today. Already the breeze felt warm.

When we assembled in the lobby, Feisal began shouting directions. He seemed a little on edge that morning and reminded us twice, rather sharply, that we were to stay with the group and not wander off alone.

‘That doesn’t apply to me, of course,’ said Perry, edging up to me. ‘If there’s anything particular you want to see – ’

‘It sounds to me as if the regular tour covers as much as I want to see.’

And that was the truth. It was going to be a long, hot, tiring day. We were to spend the morning visiting part of the ruins of the city and a few of the nobles’ tombs. We would then return to the boat for an early lunch, and the weaker vessels would stay on board while the enthusiasts returned for a visit to the royal tomb in its remote wadi and, if time permitted, a few more nobles’ tombs.

I had a feeling that by lunchtime I would be tempted to join the weaker vessels. I had read about Amarna, and Perry’s lecture the previous evening had brought my memories into sharper focus.

The site is a great empty plain shaped like a half-moon, with the river forming the straight side and the cliffs of the high desert forming the curve. Amarna had been the capital city of the heretic king Akhenaton. He was one of the most interesting and enigmatic of ancient rulers; I had seen dignified scholars turn purple in the face and threaten to punch one another out when they got to arguing about whether Akhenaton was a monotheist or a pacifist or an idealist or a crazy religious fanatic or a disgusting ‘pre-vert.’ The artistic conventions of the period intrigued me, but the best examples of the painting and sculpture were elsewhere – in museums and private collections – since the site had been thoroughly vandalized in ancient and modern times.

I was not looking forward to enjoying Perry’s company all day, especially when we visited the city ruins. I knew what it would be like, since I’ve seen a number of archaeological sites: boring mud-brick walls, some as low as foundations, some as high as my head, in a confusing maze. The guide would say things like, ‘And this was the great reception hall,’ and we’d all gape at a square of dirt bounded by more of the bare brick walls and then he’d go on for hours pointing out things that had once been there but weren’t there now.

Feisal interrupted my thoughts with a sharp, ‘Vicky, please don’t dawdle,’ and I trotted obediently after him. Perry trotted after me.

‘Has he got a hangover or what?’ I whispered.

‘He doesn’t drink,’ Perry said. ‘Muslims don’t – ’

‘I was joking. What is bugging him?’

‘We’re in Middle Egypt now,’ Perry said soberly. ‘This is the area where terrorist attacks have been most frequent. But every precaution has been taken.’

They sure had. The first thing I saw when I stepped out onto the gangplank was a truck full of soldiers. ‘An armed escort?’ I exclaimed.

‘If anything happened to a member of this group, there’d be hell to pay,’ Perry said. ‘Ignore them and be thankful they’re here.’

I tried to follow his advice. The view was rather wonderful, unless you were of the school that insists on things like trees and flowers and grass and babbling brooks. It was a beauty of line and subtle shadings of colour, shadows that deepened from violet to blue-black, rugged rock walls turning from golden pink to paler silver as the sunlight strengthened. I wasn’t awfully taken by our means of transport – a tractor pulling an open metal trailer with rows of benches – but I didn’t suggest walking. Not with those grim-faced guys in uniform watching me.

The trailer proved to be just as uncomfortable as I had expected. I held on to the edge of the bench as we bumped along over a track that was barely distinguishable from the surrounding desert. I had managed to escape Perry, but when Sweet offered me a seat next to him (and, I hardly need say, Bright), there was no way I could refuse without rudeness. John obligingly shifted over to give me plenty of room. He also gave me a smile that indicated he was well aware I would have preferred another place.

‘I haven’t seen much of you lately,’ I said, turning my back on him and favouring Sweet with my most seductive smile.

‘We were shy,’ said Sweet, giggling. ‘You are so popular, Vicky. With all the handsome young men following you we thought you wouldn’t want to associate with two old bores like us.’

Bright grinned and nodded. Could he talk? Maybe he had some painfully embarrassing speech defect, a bad stutter or a lisp.

We exchanged a few coy jokes – about their good looks and my irresistible appeal – and then I said, ‘I haven’t seen Larry this morning. Did he stay on board?’

‘My dear, he was first off the boat!’

‘He has a schoolboy crush on Nefertiti,’ said John.

I would have ignored this, but Sweet leaned forward, including John in the conversation. ‘I thought Tetisheri was his dream girl.’

‘And Nefertari and Ti and all the other beautiful romantic queens of Egypt. He has succumbed to the legends and the portraits, all of which, one may reasonably assume, bore only a distant resemblance to their subjects.’

Sweet nodded sympathetically. ‘It is not difficult to understand why a shy, sensitive man, a lover of beauty and of art, would prefer a dream to reality.’

‘Or why a man might prefer a woman who has been dead for four thousand years to certain of the living specimens,’ said John.

‘Why, John, how cynical!’ Sweet exclaimed.

Mary had heard; her lips tightened and colour darkened her cheeks.

The trailer stopped and we climbed out. A hot breeze whipped the ends of my scarf across my face.

We were at the foot of the cliffs. High above I could see the entrances to the tombs. Once visitors had had to scramble up the steep, dangerous slope at the base of the rocks, but the need for tourist dollars and pounds, marks and yen had prompted the building of easier paths and several flights of steps. Straight ahead the trek began with a flight of long shallow stairs. Some of our party had already started up.

Perched on one of the steps was a figure wearing a pair of enormous sunglasses and the biggest, snowiest pith helmet I had ever beheld. He was surrounded by a pride of mewing cats and he was feeding them scraps which he took from the innumerable pockets of his khaki jacket. His comments, addressed to the cats, came to my ears like the tolling of a funeral bell.

‘Do not push; it is rude. There is plenty for all. Ach, you are a bad Mutti; let the little ones eat first.’

Behind me a voice said hollowly, ‘I don’t deserve this. Admittedly I have not led a wholly exemplary life, but no one deserves this. Even Jack the Ripper or Attila the Hun . . .’

My sentiments exactly. I couldn’t say so because my vocal cords were paralyzed. Please, God, I thought, let me be suffering from sunstroke or schizophrenia or something harmless like that.

Schmidt looked up. His bushy white moustache flapped and his cute little pink mouth opened in a broad grin.

‘Excuse me,’ John said, shoving me aside. He set off with that deceptively leisurely stride that could cover ground faster than a run. Intent on me, Schmidt didn’t notice him at first; when he did, a look of rapture spread over his face. John reached him before he could bellow out a greeting and bent over him.

‘Isn’t that adorable?’ The speaker was Mary. I had recovered enough to turn my head.

‘Adorable,’ I repeated, in the same doom-ridden voice John had employed.

‘That dear old gentleman feeding the cats.’ Mary slipped her arm in mine. ‘I should have thought of bringing some scraps; all the animals here are so neglected, so hungry.’ She let out a fond little laugh. Her eyes were shining as she looked at John, who had seated himself on the step next to Schmidt. John was doing the talking; Schmidt listened, open-mouthed.

‘John is so tenderhearted,’ Mary went on. ‘He loves cats.’

That was news to me. John certainly didn’t love Clara, who had disliked him on sight. She was an astute judge of character.

The cute little pussycats had given him an excuse to have a private and vital conversation with Schmidt, though. By the time we reached my boss, John had gone on ahead and Schmidt had finished serving breakfast to the pride. He heaved himself to his feet and let out the shriek the sight of John had aborted.

‘Vicky! Grüss Gott, good morning, hello! I am so glad to see you!’

‘What are you doing here, Schmidt?’ I inquired. My voice was very calm.

‘It was Fate, no less. I will tell you all about it later.’ Schmidt glanced at Mary and then back at me. His grin faded and he blinked rapidly. John must have told him. He’d have had to, in order to forestall any embarrassing references to former acquaintanceships. I wished to God I knew what other confidences had passed between the two.

I introduced Mary. Schmidt didn’t say much; he was very gallant with her, though, studying her pretty face intently. They were almost the same height.

She excused herself, saying that her husband was waiting for her. He hadn’t waited; he was already some distance ahead. She hurried after him.

‘My poor dear Vicky,’ Schmidt said gently. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his eyes. ‘Do not allow evil to enter your heart, my child.’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Schmidt?’

‘You are not in despair?’ Schmidt peered up into my face from under the brim of his hat. ‘Well. Perhaps you are not. A woman with so many lovers as you – ’

‘Shut up, Schmidt,’ I said.

Schmidt paid no attention; he’d heard me say that so often, the words just washed past his ears. ‘And it is not to be expected that all your lovers would remain faithful when you do nothing to encourage them and are, in fact, often very rude to them. Nein, nein, do not deny it, I have seen it myself. I only hope that Sir John did not marry this poor child on the rebounce, for that would not be fair to her. She seems a charming young lady.’

‘Schmidt . . .’ He waited expectantly; but I couldn’t think what to say. It was probably safer to say nothing at all until I had had a chance to find out what pack of lies John had told Schmidt. So I finished lamely, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘This is not, perhaps, the best place for an intimate conversation,’ Schmidt agreed. Feisal was bearing down – or up – on us, shepherding the last and slowest of the group – a very elderly English lady whose physical strength didn’t equal her zest for living.

Gallant as always, Schmidt whipped off his pith helmet and bowed from the approximate region of the waist. That part of him doesn’t bend easily. I introduced them and Feisal nodded. ‘Yes, Herr Doktor Schmidt; we were told you would be joining us here. Willkommen.’

‘But how well you speak German,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘You are our guide, my friend? Excellent! I have many questions. You can tell me – ’

‘It would be better, Dr Schmidt, if you waited until we reach the tombs. The others are already far ahead.’

‘My fault, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Blessington (she had told me to call her Anna, but I couldn’t manage it yet) said cheerfully. ‘You young things are most kind to put up with my infirmities.’

Her smile included Schmidt, who puffed up to twice normal size and exclaimed, ‘I will carry you! Yes, yes, it will be a pleasure, an excuse to hold a beautiful woman in my arms!’

He’d have tried it, too. I looked meaningfully at Feisal, who said quickly, ‘No, no, Herr Schmidt, that is not fair; I saw her first. Anna, if you will allow me – ?’

Laughing, she allowed him. She couldn’t have weighed much, she was all bones and skin and gumption; even so, the ease with which Feisal mounted the stairs was an impressive demonstration of muscle. Schmidt trotted alongside, offering to take over whenever Feisal tired. They seemed to be having a very good time, so I said, ‘I’ll just run on ahead,’ and did so.

It was a long climb, up stairs and along winding paths, and the interval gave me time to think. The only positive aspect of the disaster of Schmidt was that in this at least John and I were on the same side. He didn’t want Schmidt involved any more than I did.

On an earlier occasion John had somehow managed to convince Schmidt that he was an ‘undercover agent’ of some variety, even though Schmidt was well aware that John had been trying to pull off an illegal deal involving antique jewellery when I first encountered him. John and Schmidt were perfectly matched: one the world’s most accomplished teller of tall tales, the other happy to believe any lie so long as it was ‘romantic’

John wouldn’t dare tell Schmidt he was on another ‘secret mission’ this time. But Schmidt wasn’t stupid, even if he was romantic. How could I, or John, possibly explain how we happened to turn up on the same cruise?

Coincidences happen. This was a pretty hard coincidence to swallow, but John might have been desperate enough to insist on it. He had only had about ten seconds to come up with a story that would convince Schmidt we weren’t engaged in some dangerous, exciting bit of undercover work, in which Schmidt would of course want to participate.

Then another explanation occurred to me and a cold chill froze the sweat on my heated body. I had read a mystery novel once – one of Agatha Christie’s, I think – in which the abandoned fiancée, intent on revenge, follows her faithless lover and his new bride on their honeymoon – a Nile cruise, by another of those strange coincidences. Schmidt had undoubtedly read that book or seen the film, he loved thrillers. The chilly sweat congealed as I remembered what Schmidt had said. Something about letting evil enter my heart?

John must know that story too. If he had dared imply to Schmidt that I had pursued him and Mary out of jealousy I would not only kill him, I would dismember him and strew pieces of his admirable anatomy all over the boat. Mary could try putting him back together, like Isis with Osiris.

Schmidt would fall for it, too. If he couldn’t be James Bond, he would settle for Hercule Poirot. Maybe . . .

The fact that for a few seconds I actually considered encouraging Schmidt to believe that fantasy as the lesser of two evils should be sufficient indication of how dangerous the little imp was.

‘There you are.’

I glared wildly at the tall blond individual who had taken my arm. It was Perry. Peering into my face, he went on, ‘You look a bit done up, Vicky. The climate can be difficult if you aren’t used to it.’

I looked around. I had reached the top of the path where a ledge stretched along the cliff face. The tombs opened onto it. Several of our group were standing around fanning themselves with their hats. From a nearby tomb, whose metal gate stood open, came the sound of a voice lecturing. One of the local guides, I assumed.

‘You don’t want to join the tourist types,’ Perry said condescendingly. ‘Let me give you a private, personal tour.’

The robed and turbaned custodian of the keys flapped towards us and unlocked another gate. I let Perry lead me inside. There is some excuse for me, I think, if I wondered whether he had an ulterior motive for wanting to get me alone.

If he did, he had no opportunity to act upon it. Schmidt was hot on my trail. I started to introduce them, but Schmidt interrupted me. ‘I know this gentleman. Have I not told you, Vicky, that I never forget a face? It was at a symposium on Egyptian art, five years ago, in Rome. He spoke on Amarna portraiture. Grüss Gott, Dr Foggington-Smythe. You may remember me – Schmidt is my name – ’

‘I remember you very well, Herr Direktor,’ Perry said coldly. ‘You took up the entire question period disagreeing with every point I had made.’

Schmidt chuckled. ‘Yes, it was a very friendly professional discussion. I look forward to continuing it.’

He did continue it. Before long Perry excused himself and fled. I may have been prejudiced, but I enjoyed Schmidt’s commentary a lot more than I had Perry’s. For one thing, Schmidt isn’t afraid of expressing his emotional reactions. Some of the details – a group of blind musicians, a pair of vibrant, prancing horses – moved him so much he actually stopped talking, which was more than Perry had done.

After we had seen the tombs we all gathered around Feisal and one of his flunkies for a spot of refreshment. Drinking lots of liquids was a necessity in that climate; dehydration had felled a number of ignorant tourists. As I had come to expect from Galactic Tours, we were offered a variety of beverages as well as water, plus cookies and biscuits.

Schmidt was so happy. Friends, antiquities, and now food. He had been crooning to himself, and after we had collected our lemonade and cookies he burst into song. It is easier to let Schmidt sing than try to talk him out of singing, so I gritted my teeth and let him go on. ‘“Frankie and Johnny waren Liebende,”’ he bellowed. ‘“Mein Gott, wie verstanden sie sich auf die Liebe!”’

Several of the more nervous passengers jumped spasmodically, and John, standing nearby, actually reeled back a few steps. Schmidt took his pained stare for fascinated interest. ‘It is old American Volk musik,’ he explained. ‘The gnädige Frau from Hamburg has told me what a fine musician you are, Sssss . . . Herr Tregarth; no doubt you are familiar with that song?’

John shook his head. For once, he appeared to be incapable of speech.

‘Oh, but it is very well known. In English it goes, “Frankie und Johnny were lovers, Oh, lordie – ”’

‘Ah, yes.’ John blinked.

‘It is a most interessante variety of music,’ Schmidt explained. ‘Songs of the country and of the Wild West, blues and bluegrass . . . These are not the same, you understand; they have different roots.’

‘Bluegrass,’ John repeated blankly.

‘Many are deeply and touchingly full of religion. Have you heard the one about the crash on the highway, when whisky and blood mixed together?’

John edged closer. I had seen the same look on the face of a cat when a small energetic child cornered it – horrified disbelief mingled with unwilling curiosity. ‘Fascinating. Tell me more, Herr Schmidt.’

I went quickly away. Not quickly enough, alas, to miss the next verse.

Eventually we retraced our steps to the waiting trailer, which was to take us to the next stop, the ruins of the Northern City. Schmidt caught up with me there, and Perry, who had been edging towards me, veered away. Feisal, counting heads, called to the stragglers to hurry up and urged the rest of us to take our places.

Schmidt gave me a hand up, which I accepted, and then turned to Mary. She was alone for once, and her anxious gaze was fixed on the upward path.

‘So, he is slow?’ Schmidt said pleasantly. ‘All the better for me, you will allow me to assist you into the seat.’

‘I don’t see him.’ She shielded her eyes with her hand, ignoring the one Schmidt had offered.

Feisal turned. ‘He decided to walk. It isn’t far, he’ll be there soon after us. Get in, please, we only have forty-five minutes at the site.’

Forty-five minutes was long enough for me, and even Schmidt wandered off after a while. I caught sight of him talking to a man who appeared to be an archaeologist – he was dressed sloppily enough – working in one of the areas blocked off to tourists. I didn’t see John – not that I was looking for him – until we were almost ready to leave. Mary’s face lit up at the sight of him, and she hurried to take his arm.

‘Darling, I was worried about you. Where have you been?’

‘Having a look round,’ John said vaguely. He caught my eye and added, ‘And avoiding certain people.’

The hints were becoming less subtle. I took this one too.

In the space of a few hours Schmidt had managed to become best friends with most of the others. He was particularly taken with Suzi, whom he described, as I might have expected, as ‘a fine figure of a woman!’ Safely surrounded by listening ears, I managed to stick to generalities during the ride back to the boat.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were joining the tour, Schmidt?’ I asked.

‘I wanted to surprise you.’ Schmidt beamed at me.

‘You succeeded.’

‘I wanted all along to come. I told you that.’

‘At some length.’

‘But duty came first.’ Schmidt was talking at the top of his lungs, inviting the interest and admiration of his newfound friends. ‘So to Amsterdam I went. But it was a fiasco, Vicky, the gentleman could not make up his mind, he kept putting me off, and anyhow he did not have anything of great interest. So finally I said, “Vielen Dank, auf Wiedersehen,” and I put a call to the travel bureau and they said there had been a cancellation. I arrived last night in Minya, by the train, and hired a boat to carry me across the river first thing this morning, because I wanted to be here waiting for you. They were to bring my luggage to the boat later.’

He turned to answer a question from Alice – whom, of course, he had met at some conference somewhere, sometime – and left me a prey to painful reflections. Apparently the travel bureau hadn’t mentioned – why should they, after all? – that a space had been made available by the illness of one of the passengers. John had said Jen would be joining us at Luxor. Did this mean she wasn’t going to, or had there been an earlier defection, another cancellation? I wanted, rather badly, to find out.

I didn’t have the opportunity until after lunch. There was barely time for a much-needed shower and change of clothing before the gong rang, and when I reached the dining room Schmidt was already seated, waving and yelling at me to join him – and Louisa. I might have known he’d latch on to her.

For once she didn’t monopolize the conversation. She didn’t have to, Schmidt talked of nothing but her wonderful books and how thrilled he was to meet the author he had admired for so long.

I think it was Mark Twain who outlined the three steps to a writer’s heart: 1. tell him you have read one of his books; 2. tell him you have read all of his books; 3. ask him to let you read the manuscript of his forthcoming book. Schmidt did all three, and added the culminating compliment which Twain didn’t mention: 4. know the names of all the characters in all the books and remember every detail of the plots.

Having noticed Louisa’s shape, I was not surprised to see her stow away almost as much food as Schmidt did. Swollen with calories and pleased conceit, her face was not a pretty sight.

‘Vicky is also a writer of romances,’ Schmidt said.

‘Oh?’ Louisa’s smile turned sour. If I hadn’t taken such a dislike to her I would have sympathized; she probably thought I was going to ask her to read my manuscript, give me the name of her agent, or recommend my book to her publisher. I was tempted to do all three, in order to annoy her, but dignity prevailed.

‘I just do it for fun,’ I said modestly. ‘My heroine’s adventures are too improbable for publication.’

Rosanna’s adventures weren’t much more improbable than those of most romance heroines, including Louisa’s, but they had got a little out of hand in recent years. It was Schmidt’s fault; he egged me on. Nothing was too improbable for him so long as there were lots of sword fights and ripped bodices and heaving breasts.

Louisa dropped the subject of my manuscript with a thud and started to tell Schmidt the plot of her forthcoming book. She hadn’t written it yet, so she didn’t have a manuscript (see Twain, above, number three).

I excused myself, leaving Schmidt listening with prurient fascination to Louisa’s description of her heroine’s struggles with the lustful priest of Amon. I had some hope of waylaying John before the afternoon tour left. Instead I was waylaid, by Mr Hamid the purser. I thought he was looking rather grave, and when he drew me aside I expected . . . well, I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t what I heard.

‘You remember young Ali, your room steward, Dr Bliss?’

‘Of course I remember him. He wasn’t on duty this morning . . . Oh, good heavens. Don’t tell me he’s jumped ship, or whatever you call it?’

‘That was what we believed, when he did not report for duty this morning. It would not have surprised me; if he was responsible for the accident of the flowerpot, his guilty conscience and fear of punishment might have driven him into flight.’

That would have been bad enough, but I could tell by Hamid’s frown that it was even worse. I didn’t say anything. I suppose I had a premonition of what was coming.

‘He fell, or jumped, overboard, sometime during the night,’ Hamid said slowly. ‘The body was found a few hours ago.’