Blue Damask (10 page)

     But her confusion made it easy to reply to the note.  She picked it up and in her best handwriting wrote, “
I am sorry, but I will be dining alone in my cabin
.”  She put on a dressing gown and rang the bell for the steward.  She answered his knock and told him where to take the note and gave him a coin.  There.  All anxieties were extinguished.  She breathed a great sigh of relief. 
How easy it is to solve problems by avoiding them
, she smiled to herself.

     Close to eight o’clock there was another knock at her door.  She opened it slowly and only a few inches, as she was in her nightgown.    Both Mr. Marshall and Sonnenby stood on the other side.  In evening dress.  She stood there staring at their tuxedo jackets and crisp white shirts and black ties.  Sonnenby had been shaved and had a haircut. The swelling over his left eye was reduced to mere puffiness. Mr. Marshall’s tiny mustache was even neater and tidier than before.

     They looked at her in surprise.  Mr. Marshall cleared his throat.  “I see you need a few more minutes,
fraulein
.”

     “Did you not get my note?”  She put a hand to her throat and fingered the ties to her gown.

     “Yes.  Very nice handwriting.”

     She lifted her chin.  “Then you know I do not plan to leave my cabin tonight.”

     “Yes.  We know.  I have taken the liberty of bringing your dinner to you.”  He stepped a little to the left so she could see two of the ship’s serving staff flanking a large wheeled trolley crowded with covered silver dishes.  Bottles of wine and crystal glasses were interspersed among the silver domes as well as two vases filled with bouquets of mixed flowers and some squares of folded white linen.

     “Ah…”

     “Yes.  Quite right,” Marshall said.  “If you would retire to the dressing room,
fraulein
, I will have the staff set up in the parlor.”

     “Ah.”  Elsa backed up and fled to the bedroom.  She closed the door between the two rooms and put a hand in her hair.  She could hear them talking quietly and the clanking of the silver and glass as the stewards set up the table.

     She moved quickly to the suitcase and lifted the blue damask.  White stockings and the white satin pumps.  Anything else in that case would not be fine enough to match the tuxedos.  She put everything on as quickly as possible.  There was not time to fix her hair properly.  She ran the comb through it one last time, twisted it and rolled the long tube around her hand and pinned it folded to the back of her head in a quick chignon.  That would have to do.

     The blue eyes in her mirror were sad.  She looked like a hausfrau holding up a fancy gown so the dressmaker could make the final touches.  Her breasts mounded up out of the bodice.  Even with a good eye, Marshall had underestimated this dress.  She rounded her shoulders a little, hoping the mounds might squeeze back into the silk.  She forced herself a little smile of encouragement.  At least she would not have to walk among the glittering ladies in the first class dining room.

     Once she heard the stateroom door open and close and she was fairly certain the stewards had gone, she opened her door.

     Sonnenby and Marshall were leaning against the wall, each with a snifter of brandy in in their hands.  They both stood up straight when she entered.  Sonnenby gave her a warm smile and Mr. Marshall seemed embarrassed.  Sonnenby pulled out a chair for her.

     The table was laid out beautifully.  It was all silver and white.  The wine had been poured.  Not wine, she noticed. Champagne.  Graceful flutes held a golden liquid that moved with tiny shining bubbles.  Elsa had seen champagne before but never tasted it.  Sonnenby saw her looking at it and laughed softly.  He sat across from her and Marshall seated himself to her left.  Sonnenby lifted his champagne and raised the glass.

     “A toast, Elsa Schluss. To you, my dear.”

     Marshall lifted his glass and they both waited for her.  She held the flute gingerly, trying to pinch the stem as she saw them do it.  Sonnenby tilted his glass and took a long sip.  She followed suit, tasting the bubbling wine with a small sip at first. Her eyes widened with pleasure.  Perhaps she was supposed to merely sip it, but it was so good.  She set an empty glass down in front of her as Sonnenby laughed.  He stood a little to refill her glass.

     “Do have some more, Elsa.  There is plenty.”

     There was polite conversation.  The weather and the service on the ship were discussed. The first bottle of champagne was gone between them and another bottle opened with a pop.  She giggled as she held her glass for more.  Marshall and Sonnenby toasted the ship, then stood to toast their king, then sat again and toasted the end of the war.  They toasted the unfortunate Mr. Jones and then they toasted her again. Even the absent Mr. Davies was warmly toasted and glasses upended in his honor.  After another bottle had been emptied the more somber topics of politics and war and the recent events were discussed.

     Elsa tasted some of the food on the plates.  There was some flaky baked fish in a cream sauce and some steamed asparagus and some round rice cooked in a strange way almost like soup and beautiful baked rolls and creamy butter.  She touched a strange square on a little plate and put her finger to her mouth, not wanting to fork something new that might taste horrible.  She had not liked the caviar.

     “By God, Elsa, you are beautiful.”

     She looked up.  Both men were looking at her.  She did not know which one had spoken.  She blinked at both of them and took her finger from her mouth.  Marshall must have spoken because now Sonnenby was glaring at him.

     “You look very….handsome tonight… as well, Mr. Marshall.”  At least that is what she meant to say.  The words that came out of her mouth sounded like she was saying them backwards.  She giggled.  Her champagne glass was empty.  She glanced at it meaningfully and Marshall filled it again.

     “That dress needs a diamond necklace.”

     She swung her head.  It was hard to know who was talking.  That seemed to be Sonnenby because he was looking at her neck.  Or close to her neck.  She looked down where a diamond necklace would be if she had a diamond necklace.  She saw only the round mounds of her unruly breasts trying to escape the blue damask.

     Marshall set down his fork.  He looked at Sonnenby.  “She needs stability and a man who can take proper care of her.”

     Sonnenby picked up his fork and gestured with it across a joint of capon, “And who better than a lord of the realm?”

     “An agent of his majesty’s service.  A practical man.”

     Elsa tried to follow this.  It seemed her ears had some kind of delay going with her brain.  She had some more champagne in the hopes that it might clear her head.  It had worked with the whisky the night the Turk broke into the train compartment with his long hunting knife.  No.  Apparently champagne did not work the same way as whiskey.

     “Practical?  Is that your way of reminding me that I am considered insane?”

     “Not insane,” Elsa interrupted.  She pointed her empty glass at him.  “You have a new roses.”  She shook her head.  “
Gott im Himmel
, I mean to say ‘new whoa siss’.  She set down her glass and focused her eyes on him, concentrating.  “You are neurotic, Mr. Sinclair,” she finished carefully.

     This declaration was met with silence for a few moments before both men burst out laughing.

     “Very well, then.”  Sonnenby wiped his eyes and then lifted a bottle to fill Marshall’s glass.  “Here is to my diagnosis, Mr. Marshall.”

     “And here is to my intent, Lord Sonnenby.”  He raised his glass.

     This last statement must have meant something ominous, for Sonnenby stopped smiling.  She looked from face to face.  They reminded her of schoolboys facing off over the last cookie in the jar.

     “Gentlemen,” she said, changing the subject, “please tell me what this is.”  She pointed her fork at the square thing on the plate.  The sauce had been sweet and tasted a little burned.  She was afraid to taste the quivering square without more information.

     “That is a flan,” Sonnenby said without taking his eyes from Marshall.

     “Flan.”  She put down her fork and picked up her spoon.  Flan seemed to need a spoon to keep it still.  It was wavering all over the table.

     “Elsa.”

     She looked up, she had still not caught the flan.  It jumped away from her spoon.

     “I think you need to go lie down now.  Dinner is over.”

     “Just this one more taste,” she pointed at the wiggling square.  “But it doesn’t want me to taste it.”

     Sonnenby took her spoon from her fingers and caught the flan neatly on one corner.  He did it like it was easy.  He must be very powerful.  Yes.  Powerful and clever.  Look how he made that flan obey his spoon, and it had been defying hers for hours.  The spoon moved closer to her mouth.  Elsa opened her lips and the little taste of flan jumped onto her tongue.  Oh.  Flan is good.  She licked her lips to get the last bit of sweet that threatened to drip onto her breasts if she didn’t catch it. Oops.  It did.  Syrup dripped on one white mound and she had to slide her finger over it to get it off.  There.  The syrup would not get away.  She pulled her finger slowly from her mouth.  Flan is good.

     “Good God.”

     She lifted her head to see who had said that.  Whoever it was, he sounded hungry.

     Marshall was looking at her like she tasted like flan.  She turned her head the other way.  Sonnenby was looking at Marshall like he would like to beat the government man dead like he did that Turk.  She turned back to Marshall.

     “Mr. Marshall,” she made herself say.  “Flan is very good.  I am going to have it again tomorrow.”  Then the ceiling called to her and she waved at it.  It was carved in little gold and white circles.  Something lifted her closer to it so she could see it better.  The room spun and in a little while soft blankets and pillows seemed to form on her back and head.

     A rich baritone voice said, “Good night,
Schatze.
”

     Elsa woke up with pain everywhere.  Her head, her stomach, even her arms and legs hurt.  She groaned as she flapped her hand over the blankets, searching for her dressing gown.  She realized she was still wearing the blue damask.  “
Gott
,” she murmured.  She sat up and looked at her watch.  Past noon.  The dress came off quickly. She went to the bathroom and bent over the sink.  She wanted the aspirin powders that she had in her briefcase.  Where was it?

     She groped her way back into the bedroom and fumbled with the catch on the leather briefcase until she had it open.  Getting a glass of water from the tap seemed almost too complicated.  She mixed the powder with the water and drank it down, then sat in her slip on the edge of the bed and took deep breaths while she waited for the pain to fade.

     The events of the past four days rushed in where the pain had been.  She rubbed one elbow that hurt more than the other and saw a large purple bruise on the back of her arm.  She looked in the mirror and found several others.  Her neck hurt.  She rubbed that too.  She tried to remember last night.  She remembered the champagne and winced.  Sonnenby and Marshall.  She winced again.

     One of them would soon be checking on her.  She pushed herself off the bed and tried to get dressed but her clothing would not cooperate.  The blouse would not button and the skirt would not fasten.  Her fingers seemed to have forgotten how to function properly. She swore to herself that she would not have any more champagne.  Ever.

     “Miss Schluss?”  The words were accompanied by a soft knock at her door.

     She opened to look up at Mr. Marshall.  “Yes?”

     His face registered sympathy.  “I was hoping you would be feeling better by now.”

     “Do I look like I feel terrible?”

     “Well, yes, actually.”

     She tried to smile, but her face was as disobedient as her fingers.  “I have had a rough few days, Mr. Marshall.”

     “May I come in?  Or perhaps you would like a stroll around the deck to clear your head?  Fresh air helps.”

     The idea of fresh air was tempting, but Elsa looked down at her blouse and skirt.  She had not put on shoes or stockings yet.

     “I will wait,” Marshall followed her gaze.

     “Please come in,” Elsa opened the door and returned to the bedroom to look for shoes and stockings.  Her hair was in a tangle again.  Mr. Marshall seated himself in the other room and spoke through the door as she finished dressing.

     “Lord Sonnenby has spoken to me about what happened yesterday.  I wanted to send you back to Vienna, but he tells me you do not want to go.”

     Elsa pitched her voice to carry through the door as she rolled a stocking up one leg.  “I do not want to go back.  I have not completed my work, Mr. Marshall.”

     “I disagree.  Sonnenby looks better then I’ve seen him in months.  I would say you have done your job admirably.”

     Elsa’s fingers stopped working the garter belt.  She thought carefully before replying.  “He is…”  She frowned.  Sonnenby was not cured.  His behavior had stabilized and he seemed to have more control of himself.  It seemed to her that the attempts on his life had been the catalyst, not her talking treatment.  She finished attaching her stocking.  “He is responding to the adrenaline, Mr. Marshall.  He has been trained to function under difficult situations in the war.”  She slipped the shoes on and then worked quickly with the comb.  “But when the danger stops, his mind will slide back again.”

     There was no comment from the other room.  Elsa finished brushing her hair and rolled it up and pinned it.  She came out of the bedroom to find Mr. Marshall deep in thought.  He rubbed his chin and stood quickly as she entered.

     “Yes, I believe you are right.  I have seen that before in military men.  They snap to attention and carry on.”

     “Duty calls and they answer without thinking,” she agreed as she took his offered arm.  “But when the battle is over…” she didn’t finish, remembering the look in Sonnenby’s eyes in the back seat of the car.

     “What is it,
fraulein
?”

     She raised her chin.  “I will feel better when I have had some of that fresh air you promised.”

     The air
was
fresh.  It blew from the west over the deck of the ship and mussed her hair further.  It blew her skirt and gave her chill bumps on her arms.  It was cool over the water as much as it had been warm over the land.  She put her face to the breeze and inhaled the clean scent.  Not as fresh as the mountains after a snowfall, but different.  Fresher than the train.  Fresher than her cabin.

     She saw Mr. Marshall enjoying it as well.  “Mr. Marshall, who is trying to kill Lord Sonnenby?”

     He shook his head.  “I don’t know.  There is no good reason to kill him.”

     “Spoken like a man who is familiar with good reasons to kill men.”

     He tilted his head so his bowler would not catch the breeze.  “Yes.  In war.”

     She prompted him, “And in politics.”

     “Not so much.  Assassinations cause more problems than they solve.”

     “Again, spoken like a man who knows what he is talking about.”

     “I am in His Majesty’s Foreign Service,
fraulein
.”

     She repeated her question, “Why would someone want to kill Lord Sonnenby?  Who will inherit?”

     Marshall turned back to the glistening sea and the wheeling gulls.  “He has a cousin, his father’s brother’s child.  He is twelve.”

     “The uncle?”

     “Dead.”

     “I see.”  A twelve year old child would be unlikely to be causing this intrigue.  “The child’s mother?”

     “A stupid woman.”  Marshall shook his head.  “She lives with her elderly mother on a comfortable estate in Shropshire.  Unlikely and definitely
unable
to orchestrate such an attack.”

     “Who else will benefit from his death?”  She rubbed her nose where strands of hair had come loose and tickled it in the breeze.  “Obviously someone will make piles of money if he does not make it to Damascus.”

     “Yes,” he drew out the word to the length of a sentence.  He turned to her.  “You don’t think Sonnenby paid those men to try to kill him?”

     She opened her mouth, then quickly closed it.  “Absolutely not.”

     “He is very intelligent.  I could see him doing that. An elaborate suicide.  He has a sense of humor.”

     Elsa sputtered, “No.  It would not be funny. No.  I saw his face.  He was not acting.  He beat the Turk to death with his bare fists.  He could have accepted the knife.”

     “Actors can be very convincing.”  Marshall’s eyes were far away.  “You did not see him in the asylum.” Marshall’s voice was gentle.  “He was very ill,
fraulein
.”

     “No.”  She insisted, but began to doubt herself.  The thought that Sonnenby would permit innocents to die in order to play out such a suicide sickened her.  She thought about Jones and Davies.  Her stomach turned.  It wasn’t the champagne.  She put a hand over her middle.

     “I hope not,” Marshall agreed.  He was a fine man in the war.  Decorated.  Promoted to major after a stunning mission.  Admirable.”  His voice showed his admiration, then his disappointment.  “But something happened to him out there.”  He turned to her.  “Many men went to war.  They did not all come back with their minds broken.”

     “Many did.”  She disagreed.  “They can hide it well.  When I worked in the hospital I saw that their wounds were tended and healed in time, but no one was putting salve on their minds.  That is why I became a psychologist.”

     Marshall nodded.  “He has been to many psychologists,
fraulein
.”

     “Yes,” She agreed.  Sonnenby had told her on the train.

     “Have you read their reports?”

     She nodded and leaned on the rail to put her face in the breeze.  “I have read all their reports.  Twice.  They say he is shell-shocked.  A weak conclusion.  His condition is much more complicated.”

     “He would not talk to them.”

     “No.  Because they were all men.  Older men.  They were too much like his father, or his commanding officers.”

     “Has he talked to you, then?”

     “Not as much as I’d like.  We keep getting interrupted.”  She gave him a sideways look.

     “If you think you are making progress, by all means continue.  We arrive in Beirut tomorrow, then overland to Damascus by car.  I will work to make sure there are no further…interruptions.”

     “Will you tell me exactly what is at stake here?  What would make him such a target?”

     “Don’t worry yourself about it, Miss Schluss.  I have it firmly in hand.”

     Elsa bit her tongue to keep it from saying what she thought about that.  Perhaps Sonnenby suspected the truth.  If Marshall wouldn’t say, then he might.  She inhaled the fresh sea breeze and said, “Please send Lord Sonnenby to my cabin.”

     He did.  Davies knocked around tea time and she let Sonnenby in.  Davies met her eye and she understood that he would be outside the door.   She closed it and leaned against it, giving Sonnenby her best professional smile.

     “Lord Sonnenby.  Please be seated.  Have some tea.”

     “I see you have some coffee,
fraulein
.”

     “We prefer it in Vienna.  I find it more warming and certainly more stimulating.”

     He poured himself a cup of the coffee from a silver pot on the tray and sipped it black.  His eyes darted around the small sitting room as though he expected to see something different from the last time he was there.  When the eyes finally rested on her, he smiled over his cup and said, “How are you feeling today?”

     She shrugged and regretted it.  Her shoulders still ached.  “Not so bad as expected, considering.”

     “You come from sturdy stock, then.”

     She stiffened a little.   “I am no consumptive waif, if that is what you mean.”  She was aware her voice was sharper than she intended.

     His eyes widened a little as he took his second sip.  “It is not what I meant,” he said gently.  He sat down in a plump wingback chair and crossed his legs.  “Marshall sent me over.”

     “Has he spoken to you about your meeting in Damascus?”  She sat across from him on the two-seated divan.

     “Of course.  I have been well rehearsed.”

     “I am curious.”  She took her own cup and sipped.  It was cold.  She tried to keep from grimacing.  “Someone would like you to miss that meeting.”

     He set his cup down and stared at her.  His voice was very low when he answered.  “Yes.  Not knowing who is behind this is driving me mad.”

     She looked at him sharply.  He tried to keep a straight face.  She blew out her breath and leaned back against the divan.  “Mr. Sinclair—“

     “Henry.  You were calling me ‘Henry’ a few days ago.  Now we are back to ‘Mr. Sinclair’ and worse, ‘Lord Sonnenby’.”

     She didn’t care that he saw her blush.  “I fear I have become too familiar.”

     “We have been through murder together, Elsa,” he put a slight emphasis on her name.  “We have earned the right to be familiar.”

     She changed the subject.  “Is Mr. Marshall still considering this mission to be a charade of diplomacy?”

     Sonnenby put down his coffee and stretched.  “At least you are not calling him ‘Archie’,” he said.

     “Please…” Elsa sighed.

     “Are you trying to solve a mystery?  Is that where you are going with these questions?”

     Elsa was not amused.  “Lord Sonnenby.  There have been two attempts on your life.  Both when I have been sitting next to you.  Do not pretend that it is none of my concern.”

     His face became serious and he looked away.  “I should not make light of it.”

     “No,” she agreed. They sat in silence for a few moments.

     He nodded to himself as though he had made up his mind about something.  “In a case like this one should follow the money.”

     “Yes.”  Elsa poured herself some more coffee and lifted the pot in his direction with a raised eyebrow.

     He nodded and handed her his cup and said, “The person most likely to benefit from these derricks is not a person, but a company.”

     “Every company has a majority shareholder,” she offered.

     He frowned and took another sip.  “Not necessarily.”

     She thought for a few moments.  “You have been committed.  In Germany this means you would not be legally able to buy and sell property.  Is this true in England?”

     He nodded.  “I have no legal rights whatsoever.”  He took another sip. “I thought I was being used as a diplomatic tool to placate the ‘savages’.  Now I wonder.”  His eyes took on a faraway look and Elsa did not interrupt him.  She knew little to nothing of the politics details, only that Britain and France were arguing over the boundaries of the new states they were creating out of the old Ottoman Empire and who would rule them.