Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [35]
‘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