Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [79]
‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Mary said. ‘So kind of Larry.’
‘Uh-huh.’
From the far end of the pool two voices blended – to use the term loosely – in song. Apparently they were delving deep into the historical roots of country music, for this was a real oldie. ‘“If I had the wings of an angel, Over these prison walls I’d fly . . .”’
Not bloody likely, I thought. There was no way he’d get out of it this time. And nobody deserved it more.
II
When I got back to my room I found that my freshly pressed clothes had been returned to the closet. They smelled faintly of jasmine.
It wasn’t a closet, in fact, but an enormous gilded and painted cupboard, serving the same function as an armoire. My pitiful wardrobe occupied less than half of the vast interior. The cupboard was lined with sandalwood, and like every other piece of furniture in the room it was old, beautiful, and probably extremely valuable. I examined the paintings appreciatively, wishing I knew as much as I had claimed about medieval Islamic art. Like orthodox Judaism, Islam avoids the use of the human form in art. These designs featured flowers, animals, and the ornamental Kufic script. An ornate grille, gilded and pierced so cleverly that the openings formed part of an overall pattern, covered the top half of the doors. A good idea that, in a hot climate; it allowed air to circulate among the garments hanging inside.
In contrast to the bedroom, the adjoining bath was completely modern. There was even a built-in hair dryer, and I blessed Larry as I worked on my dank locks. I’d been a fool to let my hair grow long, it was thick and heavy and took forever to dry. I promised myself I’d have it cut as soon as I got home.
We were to dine, en famille, with our host at seven-fifteen. The reception started at nine. I figured it would be pretty fancy, but the best I could do was my good old, slinky black cocktail dress. I had just slipped into it when Schmidt banged on my door. He was ten minutes early. I padded on stockinged feet to the door and opened it. Schmidt’s face fell. He’s always trying to catch me with my clothes off.
‘You are ready,’ he said sadly.
‘Not by a damn sight. Sit down, Schmidt, I’ve got to do my hair.’
‘It is very pretty hanging over your shoulders like that. Leave it so.’
‘It gets in my mouth when I eat.’
In white tie and tails Schmidt looked like a portly penguin. He wandered to the mirror and began preening, straightening his tie and adjusting the ribbon that stretched diagonally across his chest. The ribbon was purple. I’d been with him when he bought it. I had talked him out of buying a medal to hang on it.
I decked myself out in my jewels, including the gold locket and not including the enamelled rose. The locket had never looked tackier. Watching, Schmidt opened his mouth and then decided not to comment. He’s tried several times to buy jewellery for me, and in that area, as in anything to do with art, he has superb taste. He also has more money than he knows what to do with. So why hadn’t I accepted his gifts? Not because I suspected his motives. Schmidt loves me like a daughter and a friend. I suppose it was because I didn’t want our friendship to be contaminated by expensive and one-sided presents.
I can be a damn fool at times.
At the top of the stairs Schmidt offered me his arm and we strutted down them with slow dignity. I knew he was seeing us, not as a cute little fat man and a tall gangly female, but as King Rudolf and Princess Flavia descending to the ballroom between rows of curtsying courtiers. In a sudden burst of affection I squeezed his arm. He squeezed back but he didn’t look at me. He was smiling with regal condescension and matching his steps to the strains of the royal anthem of Ruritania.
I can’t say that intimate dinner party was particularly enjoyable. Whitbread and Schroeder weren’t present; I assumed they were supervising the final arrangements for the reception. Schmidt devoted himself to Mary, whose slim arms and delicate collarbones were