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 gnadige 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, sometime – 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.
Louisa dropped the subject of my manuscript with a thud and started to tell Schmidt the plot of her forthcoming book. She hadn’t written it yet, so she didn’t have a manuscript (see Twain, above, number three).
I excused myself, leaving Schmidt listening with prurient fascination to Louisa’s description of her heroine’s struggles with the lustful priest of Amon. I had some hope of waylaying John before the afternoon tour left. Instead I was waylaid, by Mr Hamid the purser. I thought he was looking rather grave, and when he drew me aside I expected . . . well, I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t what I heard.
‘You remember young Ali, your room steward, Dr Bliss?’
‘Of course I remember him. He wasn’t on duty this morning . . . Oh, good heavens. Don’t tell me he’s jumped ship, or whatever you call it?’
‘That was what we believed, when he did not report for duty this morning. It would not have surprised me; if he was responsible for the accident of the flowerpot, his guilty conscience and fear of punishment might have driven him into flight.’
That would have been bad enough, but I could tell by Hamid’s frown that it was even worse. I didn’t say anything. I suppose I had a premonition of what was coming.
‘He fell, or jumped, overboard, sometime during the night,’ Hamid said slowly. ‘The body was found a few
