Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Two

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.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Sweet.

‘Ssssh,’ I said.

His name wasn’t Ahmed it was Feisal. His accent suggested he had been educated in England. The underlying traces of his native tongue gave his velvety baritone a fascinating touch of the exotic.

‘I am your leader and your devoted servant, ladies and gentlemen. I will be with you on the boat and on shore, wherever you go. You will come to me with all your troubles, questions, and complaints, and I will pass them on to your crew, which I now have the honour to introduce.’

He presented the captain, the purser, the doctor, the chef, and a few others; I lost track of what he was saying as I studied the blonde at the next table. Her eyes were fixed in a glassy stare and she seemed to be having trouble breathing. It might have been her corset. She had to be wearing something formidable under the white, draped silk jersey; it moulded, not moving flesh, but a substance as rigid as concrete.

I caught a name and returned my attention to Feisal. ‘Dr Peregrine Foggington-Smythe, our expert on Pharaonic Egypt,’ he announced.

So there were parents cruel enough to saddle a kid with a name like Peregrine. If I had seen him from a distance I might have taken him for John – briefly. He was a stretched-out, washed-out version of the Great John Smythe – taller and skinnier, with ash-blond hair and pale blue eyes. He informed us with magnificent condescension that he would be lecturing on Sakkara, the site we would visit the following day, as soon as Feisal finished his introductions.

He stepped back and Feisal, whose face had frozen into a look of barely contained dislike, turned on the charm again as he presented Dr Alice Gordon, who would be delivering the lectures on Hellenistic Egypt. Dr Gordon rose and raised her hand but remained modestly in her place at a table near the back of the room. She was a plump little woman with a mop of unkempt greying brown hair and thick glasses

The boat was certainly overloaded with experts, or at least with Ph.D.s. When my name was announced I followed Dr Gordon’s example, rising and subsiding without comment but with a modest smile.

I was the last of the staff to be introduced. A babble of conversation broke out as several of the crewmen started setting up a slide projector and screen, and Sweet exclaimed, ‘So it’s Dr Bliss? We are honoured! I have always been fascinated by Islamic art. Tell me – ’

I got quickly to my feet ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to sneak out for a smoke before the lecture starts. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.’

Several other sinners followed me. Smoking wasn’t allowed in the lounge during lectures, and it was only permitted in a small walled-off area at other times. I was rather proud of myself for having realized that this habit, which is approximately as socially acceptable as spitting in public, might come in handy if I needed to extricate myself from a sticky situation. Avoiding the other lepers, who were clustered defensively at the rail, I walked on till I found myself alone.

But not for long. ‘Permit me,’ said a too-familiar voice. A lighter materialized in front of me. The hand holding it was equally familiar, though it wasn’t as well-tended as usual. The knuckles were scraped and rough. He must have run into a pyramid or something. Or slammed his fist into something? Maybe I had shaken that cultivated cool of his, as he had shaken mine. I’d have loved to think so. Taking a firm grip on my temper, I inhaled, coughed, and turned.

‘Where’s Schmidt?’ he asked.

I had assumed he’d want to have a private word with me, and I had carefully composed sarcastic (but very cool) replies to the questions I thought he’d ask. Waste of time. I should have known he wouldn’t start out with anything as obvious as ‘What are you doing here?’ Caught off guard, I told the truth. ‘Uh – in Amsterdam. Some rich Dutchman is considering offering the museum his antique-jewellery collection.’

‘Oh, jolly good,’ John said, not so enigmatically. His eyes moved from my face to the V of my dress. Reflexively my hand closed over the locket.

John’s lip curled. It was one of his better sneers. ‘Don’t bother switching it on.’

‘I already did. How did you know?’

‘It’s a tasteless trinket, my dear. Not your style.’

I bit my lip to keep from swearing. He was fighting dirty, hitting below the belt where it hurt the most. Had he seen the thin gold chain under the heavier chain that held the locket? Almost certainly. But it had been a shot in the dark; he couldn’t possibly know I was wearing the little enamelled rose he had given me, because I had tucked it securely down under, out of sight. That trinket was not tasteless; it was an exquisite example of antique Persian goldsmith’s work. I wasn’t wearing it for sentimental reasons. I was wearing it because I didn’t want to leave it lying around where someone might see it.

John’s eyes shifted. ‘You’re on the wrong track, Vicky,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t know what imbecile impulse persuaded you to join this cruise, but I strongly suggest you accept my assurance that it is nothing more and nothing less than it appears to be.’

‘A romantic honeymoon?’ I inquired evenly.

‘With the girl who swept me off my feet,’ said John.

He had seen her coming and pitched his voice so she would hear the last sentence. Laughing, she slid her arm through his and leaned against him.

‘Isn’t he a dear? Sorry to disturb you, darling, but the lecture is about to start.’

John gave me a smile that went nowhere near his eyes. ‘That’s just an excuse. She doesn’t approve of my habits.’

Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t approve of your smoking, no. It’s so dangerous.’

‘Not nearly so dangerous as certain other habits,’ said Mary’s husband.

I declined Mary’s invitation to join them, claiming I wanted another cigarette. The only drawback was that I had to let John light it for me and pretend not to notice his amusement when I tried to inhale without turning purple. After they had gone, I unclenched my left hand. My nails had left dents in the skin of my palm.

I missed the first few minutes of Foggington-Smythe’s lecture, which turned out to be a smart move. He was the most boring speaker I have ever heard. My interest in the development of the pyramid form is decidedly limited, but he could have made a lecture on pornography (with slides) dull.

When the lights went on, several people snorted and started and blinked. Not my new friend Jen; bright-eyed and full of vim, she headed straight for me. She was wearing a salmon-coloured silk frock that would have looked absurd on any female less superbly indifferent to the opinions of womankind; the uneven hem waved around her ankles.

‘I had no idea when we met that you were a distinguished scholar,’ she cried. ‘You don’t look like one, my dear, you are far too young and attractive.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, since that is just about the only way one can respond to a dubious compliment of that sort. I assumed it was meant as a compliment.

The others were drifting towards the doors, except for a few presumed archaeology buffs, who had gathered around the lecturer. ‘Won’t you join me for dinner?’ Jen asked. There is no assigned seating, you know; I do think that’s an excellent idea; it gives us a chance to make new friends and change about if we like. I’d love to have you tell me all about yourself.’

I rather doubted that. Nor did I feel I was quite up to munching my way through six courses in the company of the lovebirds.

‘I’d like to, but – ’ I indicated Bright and Sweet, who had punctiliously risen to acknowledge her arrival.

‘Yes, I know Mr Bright and Mr Sweet. That will be splendid; four of us will complete the table.’ She gave me a conspiratorial wink. ‘I don’t want my dear children to feel they are obliged to entertain me all the time.’

Relieved of that anxiety, I was pleased to agree. Not that I had much choice; Jen had taken my arm, in a grip as firm as that of a prison guard. I had realized early on that she was one of those women who will get her own way by one means or another, and I wondered whose idea it had been to make the honeymoon a ménage à trois. Surely not John’s. Unless he was ruthless and unprincipled enough to use his own mother and his bride as a means of diverting suspicion?

We wended our way down the stairs to the lowest deck and the dining room. The decor reminded me that this wasn’t just any old cruise; there were fresh flowers on every table, and a row of wineglasses at every place. A waiter led us to a table for four and presented us with menus stiff with gilt print. The napkins had been folded into intricate shapes; I was reaching for mine when the waiter whipped it out of my grasp and spread it neatly across my knees. I tried to look as if I had expected it.

Sweet and Bright took forever deciding on an appetizer; I had already ordered so I had leisure to inspect the room. The murals covering the walls were copies of famous tomb reliefs – not scenes of death and judgement, but bright, cheerful depictions of birds and animals and scenes of daily life. The one on the wall next to our table showed two pretty Egyptian maidens with long black hair and diaphanous robes, playing musical instruments. The third pretty maiden wasn’t wearing anything except a few beads. Sweet goggled appreciatively at her.

Jen was speaking to me. I turned to her with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I was admiring the murals. They are excellent copies, aren’t they?’

‘Morbid,’ Jen said decidedly. ‘Pictures from tombs are not suitable for a dining room.’

Her lips had tightened and her brows had drawn together. It was a forbidding expression, and I remembered a comment John had made about his mother: ‘She looks like Judith Anderson playing a demented housekeeper.’ The wild surmise that entered my mind was equally demented. Ridiculous, I told myself. Chicanery isn’t hereditary.

Sweet had finished ordering. ‘But Mrs Tregarth, the paintings show the Egyptians’ enjoyment of the pleasures of life. What could be more appropriate for such an occasion as this?’ Jen turned The Look on him; he swallowed and said, ‘People are much more interesting though, aren’t they? Tell us about yourself, Dr Bliss.’

‘I will if you will,’ I said coyly. ‘What business are you in, Mr Sweet?’

He manufactured nuts and bolts. Very special nuts and bolts, for a specific kind of machine. Don’t ask me what kind. I was no more interested than Mr Sweet appeared to be. After rattling off a description of the process, he explained that he and Mr Bright were partners in business as well as in their passion for archaeology. ‘When we heard of this cruise we knew it was an opportunity not to be missed,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘To see so many sites that are normally closed to tourists, and of course the pièce de résistance – the tomb of Queen Tetisheri. We are the first visitors to behold the restoration of the paintings. The work has taken years – ’

‘And a great deal of money that might have been spent on more worthy causes,’ said Jen, with a loud sniff.

‘Mr Blenkiron has contributed munificently to a number of worthy causes,’ Sweet protested.

‘That is a matter of opinion,’ Jen said. An opinion, her expression made clear, that she did not share.

‘Is he here? Which one is he?’ I swivelled around.

‘Don’t stare,’ Jen said.

My head snapped back into position. It was pure reflex – shades of Aunt Ermintrude. Sweet gave me a wink and a knowing smile. ‘We are all staring,’ he said amiably. ‘It’s only natural, Mrs Tregarth, that we should take an interest in our fellow travellers. For long weeks we will be together in a little world all our own, separated from our friends and families, thrown together in an artificial intimacy. Which of these strangers is to be cultivated, which to be avoided? Will some of these passing encounters result in lasting friendships, or even in – er – more intense relationships?’

‘You have quite a gift for words, Mr Sweet,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you aren’t a famous writer in disguise?’

Sweet laughed. ‘Alas, no. We do have a well-known writer with us; she is travelling under her own name, but she has made no secret of her pseudonym. No doubt she means to make copy of us all! Mr Blenkiron is the tall, dark-haired gentleman at the table under the painting of the fellow spearing fish.’

Jen had given me up as a bad job and was devouring smoked salmon, so I proceeded to stare to my heart’s content.

The activities of most excessively wealthy individuals bore me to tears, but Blenkiron was an exception. Unlike some of his billionaire peers he shunned publicity; he didn’t attend fund-raisers or hoity-toity social functions, or hobnob with politicians and rock stars. He didn’t give interviews, or even get divorced. I knew his name because he had been a generous and unobtrusive supporter of many cultural enterprises – the rebuilding of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence after a bomb blast, the conservation of the water-rotted monuments of Venice, to name only a few. His chief interest, however, was ancient Egypt. I had read of the restoration of Tetisheri’s tomb, and I admit that the prospect of visiting it was one of the few plus entries in an otherwise negative agenda. To see the famous paintings restored to their original freshness, with the film of grease and grime removed and the damaged sections repainted, would be a unique experience.

I had expected Blenkiron to be older. There was grey in his hair but it was only a sprinkling of silver against dark brown, and the lines in his face, fanning out from the corners of his deep-set eyes and framing a long-lipped flexible mouth, were those of good nature and maturity. He too was inspecting his fellow passengers; catching my eye, he nodded and smiled.

‘The person on his right is his secretary,’ Sweet informed me in a conspiratorial whisper.

The person wasn’t a blond female but a bald male. I couldn’t see his face, since he had his back to me.

‘Who’s the other guy at the table?’ I had a pretty good idea. He resembled all the lean, lined heroes of western films and his dinner jacket didn’t fit quite right.

Sweet rolled his eyes. ‘Bright and I have dubbed him The Bodyguard.’

‘How clever of you,’ I said.

By the time we had finished (five courses, not six), Sweet had identified some of the other passengers for me, and supplied capsule biographies for many of them. The blonde in the tight corset was a Mrs Umphenour from Memphis (Tennessee, not Egypt), who had taken the cruise to console herself for the death of her third husband. The misanthropic reader alone at a nearby table was a German surgeon who specialized in urology. What he was doing on the cruise Sweet could not imagine; he was not a friendly person and he appeared to be only mildly interested in Egyptology.

I sincerely hoped he was not interested in medieval Islamic art.

Jen had eaten her way through all five courses and was looking a trifle bloated by the time we prepared to return to the lounge for coffee and after-dinner drinks. Sweet announced he and Bright would have to deny themselves that pleasure, since the group was to leave for a shore tour at seven the next morning. ‘You young ladies can do without sleep,’ he said, with a gallant bow, ‘but if Bright and I don’t get our eight hours we are good for nothing.’

Bright nodded and smiled. He hadn’t said a word.

Jen took me by the arm. I winced. John had mentioned that his mother was a dedicated gardener; I had no idea that form of exercise could develop such formidable muscles. I don’t like being manhandled, even by women, so I said, ‘I’m a little tired myself. I think I’ll skip the coffee.’

‘But it’s included,’ Jen exclaimed.

Bright and Sweet had faded away. I was on my own. I let her tow me towards the stairs. Not until she had settled us at a table and waved imperiously at a passing waiter did I remember I had an excuse to escape.

‘I’m going out on deck to have a cigarette,’ I announced, rising.

Again that imperative hand closed over my arm. ‘No need for that, my dear. We’ll move to the smoking section. You should have told me. Waiter!’

‘But you don’t – ’

‘I do indulge occasionally. My son smokes,’ Jen said, as if that were justification for any evil habit. (Any evil habit?)

The sinners had gathered in a railed-off area near the open doors. Among them, I was surprised to see Mr Blenkiron. His secretary was not with him, but he was surrounded by Mrs Umphenour and her fur coat. It was the biggest damned coat I’ve ever seen, some sort of long, silky white fur I couldn’t identify in the dim light; she had tossed it over her shoulders and it appeared to be eating Blenkiron.

Jen dragged me to a table as far from the pair as she could get. ‘Disgusting,’ she muttered. ‘Her husband not dead a month and she’s already looking for number four.’

I took out a cigarette. I supposed I had to smoke the damned thing.

Jen accepted one when I offered it. She also had brandy (included). She was decidedly glassy-eyed by the time. the newlyweds turned up. They must have been strolling the deck. Mary’s hair was bewitchingly windblown.

‘Still at it?’ John inquired of his mother, as the waiter delivered another glass of brandy.

Jen giggled. ‘Darling, you’re such a tease. What will you and Mary have? It’s all – ’

‘Included,’ John finished. He held a chair for Mary but remained standing, an inimical eye on his maternal parent. ‘The doctor warned you about your spastic colon.’

‘Delicate stomach,’ Jen corrected.

‘You’d better take some of that ghastly medicine,’ her son said resignedly. ‘I watched you at dinner. You were shovelling it in like a stevedore.’

‘Darling,’ Mary said. ‘Aren’t you being a little rude?’

‘He’s just teasing,’ Jen explained, rummaging in her bag. ‘And taking good care of his old mum. I will take a dose, right this minute. I brought the bottle . . . I thought I had . . . Oh, never mind, it can wait. I feel quite well.’

‘I’ll get it,’ John said. ‘Give me your key.’

She handed it over and he left. He hadn’t acknowledged my presence except by a brusque nod.

‘He’s so thoughtful,’ Jen murmured.

‘What does your son do for a living, Mrs Tregarth?’ I asked.

Mary gave me an odd look. The question had been somewhat abrupt, but Jen was in no condition to notice nuances, and John was obviously her favourite topic of conversation.

‘Why, my dear, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him, since his line of work is so closely related to yours.’

I inhaled involuntarily and burst into a fit of coughing. Jen slapped me on the back and went on, ‘He began in a modest way – a little shop in Truro – but his business has expanded at such a rapid rate that he has just opened an establishment in London. I am informed that he is regarded as one of the most reputable authorities in all of England.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ I wheezed. ‘Let me guess. Antiques?’

‘And works of art.’

‘Of course.’ Gasping for breath, I covered my face with my hands.

‘There’s plenty of this revolting stuff to go round,’ said John. ‘Would you care for a nip?’

I fumbled for a napkin and looked up. He stood over me, one eyebrow elevated, both lips curling.

‘Darling,’ Mary said reproachfully.

‘It’s all right. I just inhaled the wrong way.’ I wiped my eyes.

John handed his mother a bottle filled with a virulent pink liquid. ‘Here you go, old girl. Would you care to try one of my cigarettes, Dr – er – Bliss, isn’t it? Yours appear to be a trifle too strong.’

II

By the end of the evening I had managed to meet most of the other passengers. Jen had been guilty of unkind exaggeration when she described them as senile, but ‘elderly’ wouldn’t have been inaccurate; the majority of them had to be at least seventy.

One of the exceptions was Suzi Umphenour, the bleached blonde from Memphis (Tennessee). I hadn’t expected to like her, but I did, perhaps because she cheerfully admitted that she had joined the cruise only because it was hideously expensive and very exclusive. ‘All my friends in Memphis were green with envy,’ she had declared with naive satisfaction.

‘Then you aren’t interested in Egyptology?’

She emitted a fat chuckle and grinned, displaying an expanse of expensively capped teeth. ‘I’m interested in men, honey. Young men. All my husbands were old and boring. I figure now I’m entitled to a little fun. There aren’t as many cute guys on this trip as I’d hoped, but some of the Egyptian boys are kind of sweet, don’t you think?’

I agreed that they were, and left Suzi closing in on Feisal.

By the time I got back to my room I was tired enough to die, but I knew I was too uptight to sleep, so I went out onto the balcony. The lights of the city glowed like jewels against the dark – diamond white, ruby and emerald and sapphire. The night breeze was cool, and if it was polluted – there was no ‘if’ about it, in fact – I didn’t notice.

The worst was over, I told myself. I hadn’t lost my temper or my dignity, and there was no danger of my doing so now – not when I had him dead to rights, under my thumb and in my power.

I had replaced the tiny tape reel in my gold locket, but the old tape was still on the table. It was supposed to be in the little safe under the dressing table.

Every suite had such a safe – not an ordinary lockbox, but specially designed safe with a specially designed key that could not be reproduced by an ordinary locksmith. I’d heard of luxury hotels that provided such a service, but never a cruise ship. However, this was a special ship in every way, and people who were rich enough to take the cruise probably expected such amenities.

We had been warned that if we lost the key the safe would have to be drilled open, at our expense, since there was only one. In my case that wasn’t true. At least one other person had a key to mine. I was supposed to leave messages in it and he – she – it? – would communicate with me in the same way.

Nobody would be entering my room that night The door was equipped with enough hardware to stop a tank. People were nervous about travelling in Egypt, and this was only one of many additional security precautions our management had provided. My mysterious ally wouldn’t open the safe until after I had left the room the following morning. I could leave the tape anytime before then.

There was nothing on that tape that could be of use to Burckhardt and his pals. John hadn’t admitted anything, except that he and I had known one another before.

But that conversation might be enough to identify him to other people who knew him only by one of his innumerable aliases. My acquaintance with Sir John Smythe, et cetera, ad infinitum was a matter of record in the police departments of at least three countries, and I didn’t doubt that Interpol was one of the organizations involved in this investigation.

I sat with my elbows on my knees and my chin propped on my hands and tried to think clearly. That mysterious message of Burckhardt’s had been rather vague. Maybe his informant had been mistaken. Even hot-shot secret agents are mistaken sometimes. Suppose that for once John was on the level. He had a job – a nice, honest job – and a nice little wife. Maybe he had turned over a new leaf. Maybe he was trying to go straight. He must realize that he’d have to find a new profession before arthritis and/or the cops caught up with him, and surely he wouldn’t involve his mother and his bride in one of his forays into crime.

A voice from the not-so-distant past jeered, ‘And if you believe that, you are as innocent as a new-laid egg.’

So maybe I was. I’d rather be innocent (translation: stupid) than vindictive.

He had told me once that he loved me. Only once – and I had badgered him into saying it, at a time when he was too battered and bruised to fight back. I owed him for those bruises, and for a couple of other times when he had risked his precious hide to get me out of a nasty situation. Perhaps he had meant it at the time. Perhaps he had only said it to shut me up.

If I betrayed him now I would stand accused, if only by my own conscience, of revenging myself on a man who had wounded my pride and my vanity. My initial protest to Burckhardt was still valid. Even if I identified John as the thief and swindler half the police of Europe were looking for, they couldn’t arrest him on my word alone. From what I had heard about the Egyptian security forces, they weren’t always too scrupulous about legal formalities, but John was a British subject, protected by the noble code that proclaims a man innocent until proven guilty. I believed in that code, even if it did seem at times to give crooks an unfair advantage.

There was no hurry. The tour wouldn’t return to Cairo for three weeks. If John did mean to have a shot at the museum I’d have to turn him in, there was no question about that. But I could afford to wait a little longer.

I decided to go to bed. A book I had brought along, on the medieval mosques of Cairo, had my eyelids at half-mast before I had read two pages. At that rate, I’d never become an expert on Islamic art in time to lecture on the subject. Cheer up, Vicky, I told myself; you may not have to. Once they put the handcuffs on your ex-lover, you can pull out. With a clear conscience.

III

The horrors of rising at dawn, an activity I try to avoid, were mitigated by the handsome, dark-skinned youth who tapped at my door less than a minute after the chimes had wakened me. I was in no condition to appreciate him, but I certainly appreciated the tray he carried. After two cups of coffee and a cool shower I was ready to face the day.

I made it to the dining room ten minutes before the tour was to leave. Breakfast was buffet-style; there was still plenty of food on the table, but only a few people lingered in the room. One of them was the German urologist, still hunched over his book.

My professional colleagues were gathered in one corner. I deduced that they were waiting for me; as I contemplated the lavish spread, trying to decide what to eat, Feisal rose and joined me.

‘An embarras de richesse, is it not?’ he said, giving me a dazzling smile. ‘I don’t recommend the eggs Benedict; they are a trifle overdone.’

‘I’m late, I know,’ I said. ‘All I want is a roll and – ’

‘No, no, take your time. Sit down and relax, I will select something for you.’

I joined my ‘colleagues’ and we shook hands all around. Foggington-Smythe graciously informed me that I could call him Perry, and returned to his breakfast. Alice Gordon gave me a friendly grin.

‘It’s difficult to get used to this schedule,’ she said. ‘One is tempted to linger in the saloon, but dawn comes all too soon. How nice you look! Very professional.’

I had tried to control myself with Burckhardt’s money, but I hadn’t been able to resist the safari outfit. The pants were modestly loose – we had been warned not to offend Egyptian sensibilities by wearing scanty or skin-tight garments – and the jacket had more pockcts than a shoe bag. It made me feel like Amelia P. Emerson, but when I saw Alice’s calf-length cotton skirt and casual shirt I realized I had made a fool of myself. Professional archaeolosts didn’t dress like that. Not these days, anyhow.

‘I resisted the pith helmet,’ I said with a sheepish smile.

Alice let out a booming laugh. ‘You shouldn’t have. Why not enjoy yourself?’

Feisal returned with a loaded plate. I buttered a croissant and began eating. Perry (I wondered if I would ever be able to call him that) pushed his plate away. Having concluded the primary business of the morning, he was ready to give me his attention.

‘I look forward to your lectures, Dr Bliss,’ he said solemnly. ‘I confess I have not read any of your publications – ’

‘It isn’t actually my field,’ I said. I had known this would happen, and it would have been a waste of time trying to fool these people. ‘I – uh – I cheated a little bit.’

Perry frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘Don’t be such a stick, Perry,’ Alice said easily. ‘I don’t know what strings you pulled to be selected for this cruise, but I wasn’t exactly forthright either. My specialty is New Kingdom literature. There are at least a dozen people who know more about Ptolemaic temples than I do. But I’d have cheerfully murdered all of them to get a chance of living like a millionaire for once in my life. Ths is a far cry from the Hyde Park Holiday Inn.’

Feisal laughed. He really was gorgeous – even white teeth; glinting dark eyes – and he had a sense of humour. ‘A pity one can’t claim bribes as legitimate business expenses, isn’t it?’

‘I always do,’ I said.

Perry looked blank. ‘Really,’ he began.

‘Time we were off,’ Feisal said. ‘Forward!’

He bustled us out. The antisocial reader remained.

Alice fell in step with me. ‘I’m sure you were warned about lecturing on site. You can answer questions, but only licensed Egyptian guides are allowed to lecture.’

‘There’s very little danger of my breaking that rule,’ I assured her.

She laughed and gave me a friendly pat on the arm. ‘Some of these people don’t know the difference between the nineteenth dynasty and the nineteenth century; if they back you into a comer, just refer them to me or Perry or Feisal.’

The passengers had assembled in the lobby. I joined the fringes of the group – which, I was sorry to see, included the Tregarths. Avoiding them, I found myself standing next to Suzi Umphenour. She hailed me like an old friend, and I studied her in consternation. She had ignored the guidelines about dress, and was attired in a jumpsuit that clung lovingly to her posterior and bared her arms, shoulders, and cleavage.

‘Don’t you have a jacket?’ I asked.

‘It’s on the chair.’ She gestured carelessly. ‘But I don’t see why – ’

‘You’ll get a horrible sunburn. If nothing worse.’

‘Feisal said if I didn’t wear it somebody would drag me off behind a pyramid and rape me,’ Suzi said hopefully. ‘He’s such a bully.’

Feisal overheard, as she had meant him to. Frowning masterfully, he handed Suzi her jacket and hat, and ushered us down the gangplank.

‘Let’s sit together,’ Suzi said. ‘And have some girl talk. I adore men, but sometimes it’s a terrible bore having them cluster around.’

‘I seldom have that problem.’

‘Oh, now, honey, you’re just being modest. You know, if you’d spruce yourself up a little bit, you’d be real attractive.’

We took our places on the bus. By the time we reached the site my ears were ringing. Suzi had made helpful suggestions about my hair – ‘those little picks you have stuck in your bun are right cute, but you ought to let your hair hang loose instead of pulling it back’ – my makeup – ‘you ought to wear eyeliner, honey, and a darker-colour lipstick’ – and every article of clothing I had on. She had also analyzed, with devastating accuracy, every man on the boat. Feisal was the sexiest, but that Tregarth man had a certain something; a pity he was newly married.

I was determined to dump Suzi at the earliest possible moment but first I made her put on her jacket – a billowing big shirt of gauze so fine it did very little to fend off possible rapists – and her hat, a broad-brimmed straw that tied under her chin with a huge bow à la, I suppose she thought, Scarlett O’Hara. Then I fled. We had been told to stick with the group, but I figured that didn’t apply to me, and by that time I didn’t give a damn if it did. I don’t like listening to lectures, I’d rather wander in happy ignorance.

Taking my guidebook from my bag, I headed towards a corner of the enclosure, where massive walls of pale limestone towered high above my head. Solitude was impossible to attain; there were a dozen different tour groups present, clustered around their guides like flies on spilled sugar. I fended off a few importunate vendors of souvenirs and services and found a relatively quiet spot and a rock on which to sit.

It was still early; shadows lay cool and grey across the pale sand. The sky was a brilliant blue. Rising up against it, soft gold in the sunlight, was the Step Pyramid – the earliest example of monumental stone architecture, over four thousand years old. Worn and weathered, simple to the point of crudeness, it had more than sheer age to stir the imagination; there was something right about it, the slope and the proportions and, above all, the setting. One of my beloved medieval cathedrals would have dwindled in that immensity of sky and sand. This was a dream trip all right, a trip I had hoped to take one day. But I’d have traded the luxurious suite and the fancy food for an ordinary tourist excursion. How could I concentrate on pyramids and tomb paintings when my stomach was churning and my nerves were twanging like Grandad’s guitar strings? My eyes kept wandering from the carved lotus columns of the Southern Colonnade to the people gathered around Feisal.

I forced my eyes back to the guidebook and read a long paragraph about the Sed festival, but if you want to know what it was you’ll have to look it up, because I’ve forgotten everything except the name. Many of the fallen columns and walls had been restored, with original materials, and there was now enough to indicate how impressive the structure must have been in its prime. The slender fluted columns and gracefully curved cornices had a classical elegance. I was staring dreamily at them when I saw Jen heading in my direction.

I bent my head over the book, hoping she wouldn’t join me. I didn’t want company, especially hers. For a couple of minutes I had actually been enjoying myself.

She passed fairly close to me but she didn’t stop. Fumbling in her bag, she disappeared from sight behind a low wall. What could she want back there? It was unlike her to wander off alone. She hadn’t looked her usual energetic self, her steps had been slow and dragging.

I got to my feet and followed.

The space was dark and shadowed. Jen was sitting on the ground, her open bag beside her. ‘Jen?’ I said uncertainly ‘Are you – ’

She turned a blank, grey face toward me and toppled over onto her side.