Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

by Elizabeth Peters

I would have ignored this, but Sweet leaned forward, including John in the conversation. ‘I thought Tetisheri was his dream girl.’

  ‘And Nefertari and Ti and all the other beautiful romantic queens of Egypt. He has succumbed to the legends and the portraits, all of which, one may reasonably assume, bore only a distant resemblance to their subjects.’

  Sweet nodded sympathetically. ‘It is not difficult to understand why a shy, sensitive man, a lover of beauty and of art, would prefer a dream to reality.’

  ‘Or why a man might prefer a woman who has been dead for four thousand years to certain of the living specimens,’ said John.

  ‘Why, John, how cynical!’ Sweet exclaimed.

  Mary had heard; her lips tightened and colour darkened her cheeks.

  The trailer stopped and we climbed out. A hot breeze whipped the ends of my scarf across my face.

  We were at the foot of the cliffs. High above I could see the entrances to the tombs. Once visitors had had to scramble up the steep, dangerous slope at the base of the rocks, but the need for tourist dollars and pounds, marks and yen had prompted the building of easier paths and several flights of steps. Straight ahead the trek began with a flight of long shallow stairs. Some of our party had already started up.

  Perched on one of the steps was a figure wearing a pair of enormous sunglasses and the biggest, snowiest pith helmet I had ever beheld. He was surrounded by a pride of mewing cats and he was feeding them scraps which he took from the innumerable pockets of his khaki jacket. His comments, addressed to the cats, came to my ears like the tolling of a funeral bell.

  ‘Do not push; it is rude. There is plenty for all. Ach, you are a bad Mutti; let the little ones eat first.’

  Behind me a voice said hollowly, ‘I don’t deserve this. Admittedly I have not led a wholly exemplary life, but no one deserves this. Even Jack the Ripper or Attila the Hun . . .’

  My sentiments exactly. I couldn’t say so because my vocal cords were paralyzed. Please, God, I thought, let me be suffering from sunstroke or schizophrenia or something harmless like that.

  Schmidt looked up. His bushy white moustache flapped and his cute little pink mouth opened in a broad grin.

  ‘Excuse me,’ John said, shoving me aside. He set off with that deceptively leisurely stride that could cover ground faster than a run. Intent on me, Schmidt didn’t notice him at first; when he did, a look of rapture spread over his face. John reached him before he could bellow out a greeting and bent over him.

  ‘Isn’t that adorable?’ The speaker was Mary. I had recovered enough to turn my head.

  ‘Adorable,’ I repeated, in the same doom-ridden voice John had employed.

  ‘That dear old gentleman feeding the cats.’ Mary slipped her arm in mine. ‘I should have thought of bringing some scraps; all the animals here are so neglected, so hungry.’ She let out a fond little laugh. Her eyes were shining as she looked at John, who had seated himself on the step next to Schmidt. John was doing the talking; Schmidt listened, open-mouthed.

  ‘John is so tenderhearted,’ Mary went on. ‘He loves cats.’

  That was news to me. John certainly didn’t love Clara, who had disliked him on sight. She was an astute judge of character.

  The cute little pussycats had given him an excuse to have a private and vital conversation with Schmidt, though. By the time we reached my boss, John had gone on ahead and Schmidt had finished serving breakfast to the pride. He heaved himself to his feet and let out the shriek the sight of John had aborted.

  ‘Vicky! Grüss Gott, good morning, hello! I am so glad to see you!’

  ‘What are you doing here, Schmidt?’ I inquired. My voice was very calm.

  ‘It was Fate, no less. I will tell you all about it later.’ Schmidt glanced at Mary and then back at me. His grin faded and he blinked rapidly. John must have told him. He’d have had to, in order to forestall any embarrassing references to former acquaintanceships. I wished to God I knew what other confidences had passed between the two.

  I introduced Mary. Schmidt didn’t say much; he was very gallant with her, though, studying her pretty face intently. They were almost the same height.

  She excused herself, saying that her husband was waiting for her. He hadn’t waited; he was already some distance ahead. She hurried after him.

  ‘My poor dear Vicky,’ Schmidt said gently. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his eyes. ‘Do not allow evil to enter your heart, my child.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Schmidt?’

  ‘You are not in despair?’ Schmidt peered up into my face from under the brim of his hat. ‘Well. Perhaps you are not. A woman with so many lovers as you – ’

  ‘Shut up, Schmidt,’ I said.

  Schmidt paid no attention; he’d heard me say that so often, the words just washed past his ears. ‘And it is not to be expected that all your lovers would remain faithful when you do nothing to encourage them and are, in fact, often very rude to them. Nein, nein, do not deny it, I have seen it myself. I only hope that Sir John did not marry this poor child on the rebounce, for that would not be fair to her. She seems a charming young lady.’

  ‘Schmidt . . .’ He waited expectantly; but I couldn’t think what to say. It was probably safer to say nothing at all until I had had a chance to find out what pack of lies John had told Schmidt. So I finished lamely, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘This is not, perhaps, the best place for an intimate conversation,’ Schmidt agreed. Feisal was bearing down – or up – on us, shepherding the last and slowest of the group – a very elderly English lady whose physical strength didn’t equal her zest for living.

  Gallant as always, Schmidt whipped off his pith helmet and bowed from the approximate region of the waist. That part of him doesn’t bend easily. I introduced them and Feisal nodded. ‘Yes, Herr Doktor Schmidt; we were told you would be joining us here. Willkommen.’

  ‘But how well you speak German,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘You are our guide, my friend? Excellent! I have many questions. You can tell me – ’

  ‘It would be better, Dr Schmidt, if you waited until we reach the tombs. The others are already far ahead.’

  ‘My fault, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Blessington (she had told me to call her Anna, but I couldn’t manage it yet) said cheerfully. ‘You young things are most kind to put up with my infirmities.’

  Her smile included Schmidt, who puffed up to twice normal size and exclaimed, ‘I will carry you! Yes, yes, it will be a pleasure, an excuse to hold a beautiful woman in my arms!’

  He’d have tried it, too. I looked meaningfully at Feisal, who said quickly, ‘No, no, Herr Schmidt, that is not fair; I saw her first. Anna, if you will allow me – ?’

  Laughing, she allowed him. She couldn’t have weighed much, she was all bones and skin and gumption; even so, the ease with which Feisal mounted the stairs was an impressive demonstration of muscle. Schmidt trotted alongside, offering to take over whenever Feisal tired. They seemed to be having a very good time, so I said, ‘I’ll just run on ahead,’ and did so.

  It was a long climb, up stairs and along winding paths, and the interval gave me time to think. The only positive aspect of the disaster of Schmidt was that in this at least John and I were on the same side. He didn’t want Schmidt involved any more than I did.

  On an earlier occasion John had somehow managed to convince Schmidt that he was an ‘undercover agent’ of some variety, even though Schmidt was well aware that John had been trying to pull off an illegal deal involving antique jewellery when I first encountered him. John and Schmidt were perfectly matched: one the world’s most accomplished teller of tall tales, the other happy to believe any lie so long as it was ‘romantic’

  John wouldn’t dare tell Schmidt he was on another ‘secret mission’ this time. But Schmidt wasn’t stupid, even if he was romantic. How could I, or John, possibly explain how we happened to turn up on the same cruise?

  Coincidences happen. This was a pretty hard coincide
nce to swallow, but John might have been desperate enough to insist on it. He had only had about ten seconds to come up with a story that would convince Schmidt we weren’t engaged in some dangerous, exciting bit of undercover work, in which Schmidt would of course want to participate.

  Then another explanation occurred to me and a cold chill froze the sweat on my heated body. I had read a mystery novel once – one of Agatha Christie’s, I think – in which the abandoned fiancée, intent on revenge, follows her faithless lover and his new bride on their honeymoon – a Nile cruise, by another of those strange coincidences. Schmidt had undoubtedly read that book or seen the film, he loved thrillers. The chilly sweat congealed as I remembered what Schmidt had said. Something about letting evil enter my heart?

  John must know that story too. If he had dared imply to Schmidt that I had pursued him and Mary out of jealousy I would not only kill him, I would dismember him and strew pieces of his admirable anatomy all over the boat. Mary could try putting him back together, like Isis with Osiris.

  Schmidt would fall for it, too. If he couldn’t be James Bond, he would settle for Hercule Poirot. Maybe . . .

  The fact that for a few seconds I actually considered encouraging Schmidt to believe that fantasy as the lesser of two evils should be sufficient indication of how dangerous the little imp was.

  ‘There you are.’

  I glared wildly at the tall blond individual who had taken my arm. It was Perry. Peering into my face, he went on, ‘You look a bit done up, Vicky. The climate can be difficult if you aren’t used to it.’

  I looked around. I had reached the top of the path where a ledge stretched along the cliff face. The tombs opened onto it. Several of our group were standing around fanning themselves with their hats. From a nearby tomb, whose metal gate stood open, came the sound of a voice lecturing. One of the local guides, I assumed.

  ‘You don’t want to join the tourist types,’ Perry said condescendingly. ‘Let me give you a private, personal tour.’

  The robed and turbaned custodian of the keys flapped towards us and unlocked another gate. I let Perry lead me inside. There is some excuse for me, I think, if I wondered whether he had an ulterior motive for wanting to get me alone.

  If he did, he had no opportunity to act upon it. Schmidt was hot on my trail. I started to introduce them, but Schmidt interrupted me. ‘I know this gentleman. Have I not told you, Vicky, that I never forget a face? It was at a symposium on Egyptian art, five years ago, in Rome. He spoke on Amarna portraiture. Grüss Gott, Dr Foggington-Smythe. You may remember me – Schmidt is my name – ’

  ‘I remember you very well, Herr Direktor,’ Perry said coldly. ‘You took up the entire question period disagreeing with every point I had made.’

  Schmidt chuckled. ‘Yes, it was a very friendly professional discussion. I look forward to continuing it.’

  He did continue it. Before long Perry excused himself and fled. I may have been prejudiced, but I enjoyed Schmidt’s commentary a lot more than I had Perry’s. For one thing, Schmidt isn’t afraid of expressing his emotional reactions. Some of the details – a group of blind musicians, a pair of vibrant, prancing horses – moved him so much he actually stopped talking, which was more than Perry had done.

  After we had seen the tombs we all gathered around Feisal and one of his flunkies for a spot of refreshment. Drinking lots of liquids was a necessity in that climate; dehydration had felled a number of ignorant tourists. As I had come to expect from Galactic Tours, we were offered a variety of beverages as well as water, plus cookies and biscuits.

  Schmidt was so happy. Friends, antiquities, and now food. He had been crooning to himself, and after we had collected our lemonade and cookies he burst into song. It is easier to let Schmidt sing than try to talk him out of singing, so I gritted my teeth and let him go on. ‘“Frankie and Johnny waren Liebende,”’ he bellowed. ‘“Mein Gott, wie verstanden sie sich auf die Liebe!”’

  Several of the more nervous passengers jumped spasmodically, and John, standing nearby, actually reeled back a few steps. Schmidt took his pained stare for fascinated interest. ‘It is old American Volk musik,’ he explained. ‘The gnädige Frau from Hamburg has told me what a fine musician you are, Sssss . . . Herr Tregarth; no doubt you are familiar with that song?’

  John shook his head. For once, he appeared to be incapable of speech.

  ‘Oh, but it is very well known. In English it goes, “Frankie und Johnny were lovers, Oh, lordie – ”’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ John blinked.

  ‘It is a most interessante variety of music,’ Schmidt explained. ‘Songs of the country and of the Wild West, blues and bluegrass . . . These are not the same, you understand; they have different roots.’

  ‘Bluegrass,’ John repeated blankly.

  ‘Many are deeply and touchingly full of religion. Have you heard the one about the crash on the highway, when whisky and blood mixed together?’

  John edged closer. I had seen the same look on the face of a cat when a small energetic child cornered it – horrified disbelief mingled with unwilling curiosity. ‘Fascinating. Tell me more, Herr Schmidt.’

  I went quickly away. Not quickly enough, alas, to miss the next verse.

  Eventually we retraced our steps to the waiting trailer, which was to take us to the next stop, the ruins of the Northern City. Schmidt caught up with me there, and Perry, who had been edging towards me, veered away. Feisal, counting heads, called to the stragglers to hurry up and urged the rest of us to take our places.

  Schmidt gave me a hand up, which I accepted, and then turned to Mary. She was alone for once, and her anxious gaze was fixed on the upward path.

  ‘So, he is slow?’ Schmidt said pleasantly. ‘All the better for me, you will allow me to assist you into the seat.’

  ‘I don’t see him.’ She shielded her eyes with her hand, ignoring the one Schmidt had offered.

  Feisal turned. ‘He decided to walk. It isn’t far, he’ll be there soon after us. Get in, please, we only have forty-five minutes at the site.’

  Forty-five minutes was long enough for me, and even Schmidt wandered off after a while. I caught sight of him talking to a man who appeared to be an archaeologist – he was dressed sloppily enough – working in one of the areas blocked off to tourists. I didn’t see John – not that I was looking for him – until we were almost ready to leave. Mary’s face lit up at the sight of him, and she hurried to take his arm.

  ‘Darling, I was worried about you. Where have you been?’

  ‘Having a look round,’ John said vaguely. He caught my eye and added, ‘And avoiding certain people.’

  The hints were becoming less subtle. I took this one too.

  In the space of a few hours Schmidt had managed to become best friends with most of the others. He was particularly taken with Suzi, whom he described, as I might have expected, as ‘a fine figure of a woman!’ Safely surrounded by listening ears, I managed to stick to generalities during the ride back to the boat.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were joining the tour, Schmidt?’ I asked.

  ‘I wanted to surprise you.’ Schmidt beamed at me.

  ‘You succeeded.’

  ‘I wanted all along to come. I told you that.’

  ‘At some length.’

  ‘But duty came first.’ Schmidt was talking at the top of his lungs, inviting the interest and admiration of his newfound friends. ‘So to Amsterdam I went. But it was a fiasco, Vicky, the gentleman could not make up his mind, he kept putting me off, and anyhow he did not have anything of great interest. So finally I said, “Vielen Dank, auf Wiedersehen,” and I put a call to the travel bureau and they said there had been a cancellation. I arrived last night in Minya, by the train, and hired a boat to carry me across the river first thing this morning, because I wanted to be here waiting for you. They were to bring my luggage to the boat later.’

  He turned to answer a question from Alice – whom, of course, he had met at some conference somewhere, so
metime – and left me a prey to painful reflections. Apparently the travel bureau hadn’t mentioned – why should they, after all? – that a space had been made available by the illness of one of the passengers. John had said Jen would be joining us at Luxor. Did this mean she wasn’t going to, or had there been an earlier defection, another cancellation? I wanted, rather badly, to find out.

  I didn’t have the opportunity until after lunch. There was barely time for a much-needed shower and change of clothing before the gong rang, and when I reached the dining room Schmidt was already seated, waving and yelling at me to join him – and Louisa. I might have known he’d latch on to her.

  For once she didn’t monopolize the conversation. She didn’t have to, Schmidt talked of nothing but her wonderful books and how thrilled he was to meet the author he had admired for so long.

  I think it was Mark Twain who outlined the three steps to a writer’s heart: 1. tell him you have read one of his books; 2. tell him you have read all of his books; 3. ask him to let you read the manuscript of his forthcoming book. Schmidt did all three, and added the culminating compliment which Twain didn’t mention: 4. know the names of all the characters in all the books and remember every detail of the plots.

  Having noticed Louisa’s shape, I was not surprised to see her stow away almost as much food as Schmidt did. Swollen with calories and pleased conceit, her face was not a pretty sight.

  ‘Vicky is also a writer of romances,’ Schmidt said.

  ‘Oh?’ Louisa’s smile turned sour. If I hadn’t taken such a dislike to her I would have sympathized; she probably thought I was going to ask her to read my manuscript, give me the name of her agent, or recommend my book to her publisher. I was tempted to do all three, in order to annoy her, but dignity prevailed.

  ‘I just do it for fun,’ I said modestly. ‘My heroine’s adventures are too improbable for publication.’

  Rosanna’s adventures weren’t much more improbable than those of most romance heroines, including Louisa’s, but they had got a little out of hand in recent years. It was Schmidt’s fault; he egged me on. Nothing was too improbable for him so long as there were lots of sword fights and ripped bodices and heaving breasts.