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By Root 883 0

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