Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [18]
‘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.