Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [17]
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