As the man approached, Mayles took a second, longer look. He liked what he saw. The man was refined, aristocratic, and strikingly handsome; he was dressed in a splendid cutaway with an orchid boutonniere on his lapel. His face was shockingly pale, as if he were recovering from a deathly illness, and yet there was a hardness, a vitality, in his lithe frame and gray eyes that showed anything but physical weakness. His face was as finely chiseled as a Praxiteles marble. He moved through the crowd like a cat threading its way across a set dining table.
But even more striking than Pendergast was his so-called ward. She was a beauty, but not in any way common or modern—no, hers was a Pre-Raphaelite beauty, the spitting image of Proserpine in the famous painting by Rossetti, but with her straight hair cut in a flapperish bob. She wore a formal gown by Zac Posen that Mayles had admired in one of the galleries along St. James’s on Deck 6—the costliest one there. Interesting that she would purchase her First Night dress on board rather than select one from her own wardrobe.
He quickly recalculated the seating and placed Pendergast at his side, and Constance opposite. Mrs. Dahlberg went on the other side of Pendergast; Mayles had put her on the list because she had divorced two English lords in a row and ended up with an American meatpacking mogul, who then died a few months after the nuptials, leaving her a hundred million richer. Mayles’s febrile imagination had gone riot with that one. But as he contemplated her in person he was disappointed to see she did not look like the vulgar fortune-hunter he had imagined.
He sprinkled the others about—a dashing young English baronet and his French wife; a dealer of impressionist art; the lead singer for the Suburban Lawnmowers and her boyfriend; the author and bon vivant Victor Delacroix; and a few others who, Mayles hoped, would make for a brilliant and amusing table. He’d wanted to include Braddock Wiley, a movie star aboard for the mid-atlantic premiere of his new film, but his stature as an actor was waning and Mayles had ultimately decided he could invite him on the second night.
As he seated people, Mayles deftly introduced them to each other, to obviate the need for a round of vulgar introductions once they were seated. Soon everyone was in place and the first course arrived: crepes Romanoff. They chatted about nothing for a moment as the waiters laid down the plates and poured the first wine of the evening.
Mayles broke the ice. “Do I detect a New Orleans accent, Mr. Pendergast?” He prided himself in his ability to tease out even the most reluctant conversationalist.
“How clever of you,” responded Pendergast. “And for my part, do I detect, behind your English accent, a touch of Far Rockaway, Queens?”
Mayles felt the smile freeze on his face. How in the world did the man know
?
“Don’t be concerned, Mr. Mayles—I’ve made a study of accents, among other things. In my line of work I find it useful.”
“I see.” Mayles took a sip of the Vernaccia to cover up his surprise and quickly turned the conversation away. “Are you a linguist?”
A certain amusement seemed to lurk in the man’s gray eyes. “Not at all. I investigate things.”
Mayles had his second surprise of the dinner. “How interesting. You mean, like Sherlock Holmes?”
“Something like that.”
A rather unpleasant thought ran through Mayles’s head. “And are you . . . investigating now?”
“Bravo, Mr. Mayles.”
Some of the others were now listening, and Mayles didn’t quite know what to say. He felt a twinge of nerves. “Well,” he went on with a light laugh, “I know who did it: Mr. Mustard in the pantry. With the candlestick.”
As the others laughed politely, he again turned the conversation away from this potentially difficult line. “Miss Greene, have you ever seen the painting
by Rossetti?”
The woman turned her eyes on him, and he felt a shiver of disquiet. There was something distinctly strange in those eyes. “I have.”
“I do believe you resemble the woman in the painting.”
She continued to look at him. “Should I be flattered to be compared to the mistress of the lord of the underworld?”
This bizarre answer, its intensity—and her resonant, old-fashioned voice—put Mayles out. But he was an expert at riding any vagary of conversation, and he had a ready reply. “Pluto fell in love with her because she was so beautiful, so vital—as you are.”
“And as a result Pluto kidnapped her and dragged her into hell to be his mistress.”
“Ah well, some people have all the luck!” Mayles glanced around and received an appreciative laugh for his little bon mot—even Miss Greene smiled, he was relieved to notice.
The dealer, Lionel Brock, spoke: “Yes, yes, I know the painting well. It’s in the Tate, I believe.”
Mayles turned a grateful face toward Brock. “Yes.”
“A rather vulgar work, like all the Pre-Raphaelites. The model was Jane Morris, the wife of Rossetti’s best friend. Painting her was a prelude to seducing her.”
“Seduction,” said Miss Greene. She turned her strange eyes on Mayles. “Have you ever seduced, Mr. Mayles? Being cruise director on a luxury ocean liner must be a marvelous platform from which to do it.”
“I have my little secrets,” he said, with another light laugh. The question had cut rather closer to the bone than he was accustomed to. He didn’t think he would put Miss Greene at his table again.
“
” Greene recited.
This was followed by silence.
“How lovely,” said the meatpacking heiress, Mrs. Emily Dahlberg, speaking for the first time. She was a strikingly aristocratic woman in a gown, draped in antique jewels, slender and well-kept for her age, and—Mayles thought—she looked and spoke exactly like the Baroness von Schrader in
“Rossetti,” said Greene. “The poem he wrote about Proserpine.”
Brock turned his gray eyes on Constance. “Are you an art historian?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m a pedant and an obscurantist.”
Brock laughed. “I find pedants and obscurantists charming,” he said with a smile, leaning toward her.
“Are you a pedant as well, Dr. Brock?”
“Well, I . . .” He laughed off the question. “I suppose some might call me that. I’ve brought along some copies of my latest monograph, on Caravaggio. I’ll send a copy over to your stateroom—you can decide for yourself.”
A hush fell over the table as a distinguished man with silver hair, in uniform, came up to the table. He was slender and fit, and his blue eyes sparkled under his cap. “Welcome,” he said.
Everyone greeted him.
“How is everything going, Roger?”
“Just shipshape,
