Dr. Keith Gladstone muttered gruffly before looking up from his deck chair to see who it was interrupting his reading. "Eh, What?"

Hovering beside him was a young man wearing a pillbox hat and maroon uniform lined with more buttons than an adding machine. A clipboard was clamped under his armpit.

"I only said, good morning, sir," the bellhop repeated.

The sixty-one-year-old Cambridge professor of archaeology was tempted to argue but held his tongue.

The viewing deck windows surrounding them on three sides were a mottled blur of salt stain and sea spray, and the mid-Atlantic weather was unseasonably wintery. No one with a smidge of common sense could rate this morning better than poor. Forcing a smile, the professor's moustache sneered as he puffed the tobacco pipe which, owing to the damp air and his numb fingers, had taken three matches to light. "Morning," he begrudged.

The professor hoped that his tight-lipped smile adequately implied that there were ample excuses for his moodiness.

First, he had spent an almost sleepless night inside a cramped, bug-infested, tourist-class cabin with two odd-smelling foreigners—long-bearded, dark-skinned types, who shared the single creaking bunk above his own. He supposed they might be religious zealots, perhaps even monks of some obscure religion, because they wore cowled, black robes and, apparently shunned sleep, chanted almost constantly while making enigmatic, ritualistic hand gestures. Though he was an expert in ancient religions and dead languages, Gladstone's knowledge was not comprehensive, and he could make neither head nor tails of their singsong jabbering. As the night hours passed and fatigue and agitation mounted, his increasing paranoia assigned sinister meaning to their utterances, so that every syllable made his skin crawl. Had he not been an atheist, the professor might even have prayed alongside them, given how badly the war in Europe seemed to be going, and to dispel unnerving visions of the upper bunk collapsing onto his head.

Second, when Gladstone awoke the next morning, itching, grumpy, groggy, and pining for nicotine, he headed toward the tourist lounge for his usual breakfast of tea and porridge, to be followed by a restorative smoke. Arriving, however, he discovered that the ship's crew had cordoned off the whole area pending another murder investigation—the second in a week. A shocking amount of spattered blood stained the cushioned chairs and carpets he had hitherto associated with comfort, quickening his pulse and exacerbating his nicotine craving.

Third, upon returning, unsatisfied, to his cabin, Gladstone had discovered the door partially blocked by one of the monks playing on the floor making chalk symbols, like some child. Not seeing the second monk, he had panicked, imagining the unseen cabinmate tampering with the lock on his banded yellow suitcase. Shoving his way roughly inside, he had unwittingly injured the unseen monk who had been standing in the corner, changing into his robes. His heart sank with humiliation and remorse. A good morning? I think not.

Gladstone had spent several minutes apologizing to the bewildered pair in every language he knew, most of which, inconveniently, belonged to dead civilizations understood only by fellow academics or ghosts. When tempers eventually calmed sufficiently that it seemed companionable to sit down and light up his pipe, this initiative triggered a fresh outburst during which the elder monk revealed he spoke broken English. He did this in the rudest possible way: framed by belligerent gestures and conveying that the professor's therapeutic habit must happen outside.

Finally, Gladstone had lugged his yellow suitcase forward half the ship's length, through the cold sea air, across a slick, windy deck to locate the only enclosed viewing lounge with available seats—which happened to be in the first-class section. After fighting the wind to open and close the lounge's outer door, he had needed to wrestle a rusty, humidity-swollen chair to make it recline. After stretching both feet up on the suitcase and then lighting his tobacco pipe at long last, Gladstone commenced reading a recommended Harvard colleague's academic treatise on Sumerian cuneiform. Sadly, the writing proved so labyrinthine and opaque that he had been forced to read the same pages multiple times before making any sense of it.

And now, Gladstone's hard-won concentration had been disturbed by this over-buttoned maroon buffoon too witless to tell a good morning from a botched and soggy one. Bother!

Impatient to resume reading now that social forms had been satisfied, the professor was dismayed to recognize from the corner of his bloodshot eye that the chipper bellhop had not yet hopped along. To fill the awkward silence, he cleared his throat and inquired, "Will the breakfast tea be coming around soon, lad?"

"I think so, sir, although you would do better to ask one of the stewards." The bellhop sawed at his ribcage with the side of his hand to represent a hem. "Those are the fellows in the high-cut, white jackets." Brandishing the clip board importantly, he continued, "Begging your pardon, sir, but may I ask to see your fare ticket, please?"

"My fare ticket?"

"Yes sir, begging your pardon, sir."

Gladstone fumbled exaggeratedly with the pipe and loose papers to demonstrate his encumbrance, then, shrugging and shaking his head, countered, "A spot inconvenient just now, lad, but I'll tell you what—why don't you ask me again after my cuppa?"

"I'm very sorry, sir" said the bellhop, "I must insist you show it now."

Gladstone was taken aback. "Must you? Why must you?"

"Frankly, sir, the bell captain noticed your resemblance to one of our tourist class passengers and ordered me to check your name against this list. There was a felony incident last night, and the ship's Master-at-Arms is keen to keep everyone in his place. I'm to report back when I've completed my task."

"A felony, you say?"

"Yes sir."

"I've heard rumors about a bloody scene in the tourist-class lounge, this morning. Another murder, I fear. Most reasonable precaution, then, I suppose. That list, eh?"

"Yes sir. These are the first-class stiffs. He bet the purser that you're not on it."

"Did he! Oh, bother!" Gladstone patted his frown as he fought back a yawn. Clutching the papers to his chest, he leaned towards the bellhop. "See here, my good fellow. You look like a shrewd, Yankee capitalist. Orders must certainly be obeyed, what, but all things considered, suppose there were a tuppence in it for you to simply come back later?"

Skepticism and confusion merged on the bellhop's face. "What's a tuppence?"

Gladstone fished an English penny out of his jacket and held it up as if it were a tempting pearl. "Money, lad. Spendable coin. You Americans accept tips, don't you?"

The bellhop studied the object doubtfully. "Some kind of Limey money?"

"Recognized and coveted around the globe. The sun never sets—"

"Keep your foreign copper, Tommy. I'll do it for a half-dollar."

The professor's bleary eyes widened, and the corners of his moustache drooped as he finished the conversion in his head. "Why, that's almost two bob, you cheeky scally!"

The bellhop threw down his hat and clipboard and then put up his fists, waving them about threateningly. "What did you just call me, fink? On your pins and put up your dukes."

"Calm down, calm down," pleaded the professor. "I'm not going to box you, boy!"

"Well then, you'd better take back what you said, you crumb, or I'll boff your noggin, and I mean what I say! A man's got a right to defend his honor."

"Oh, bother." Gladstone fumed, gripping the pipe in his jaw and fumbling to keep the papers somewhat together while dumping them onto the empty deck chair to his right.

As they were still arguing, a pretty face appeared at the small round window high on the door connecting the adjacent, first-class dining cabin. The door pushed open and the entire woman, a dark-eyed blonde, apparently in her mid-twenties, stepped into the lounge and, nodding briefly at the startled company, sashayed to the railing to peer through the fogged windows at the waves. Judging from her long coat with fox-fur collar and the stylish hat on her bleached coif, she was American, preferred Lombard to Garbo, and was no stranger to first-class accommodations. Her only jewelry was a set of jade earrings and matching, neck scarf clasp—no wedding ring.

In haste, the bellhop snatched the hat back onto his head and deftly combined a chivalrous bow with a tuck of the chinstrap. "Good morning, Ma'am," he said.

"Good morning, Madam," the professor joined, cringing at the dual indignities of retreat and hypocrisy foisted upon him by circumstances. With each chirping utterance of that ironic phrase, the morning seemed less good.

The mysterious woman's red lips formed a smirk. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said, glancing over her furry collar. Noticing the smoking pipe in the professor's other hand, her dark eyebrows arched with interest. Opening her clutch purse, she withdrew a silver cigarette case and matching holder. "Excuse me, Mister, would you mind if I borrowed an ember?"

"Oh, but certainly! With pleasure, Madam." He gamely held up the pipe before directing it back into his mouth. As she readied a cigarette in the holder, he puffed several times rapidly and then canted his head to aim the glowing pipe bowl conveniently near her face. Leaning in to complement his motion, their tobaccos touched, and there was a satisfactory exchange of sparks and contented smiles.

"Thanks, Mister—?"

"Professor, actually. Keith Gladstone, PhD, Cambridge. Archaeologist, at your service."

"An archaeologist at my service? What am I? An ancient ruin?"

Gladstone blushed. "Oh, no, madam!"

The bellhop guffawed.

"Only teasing. Glad to meet you, Professor. I'm Madam Sonya Zosi, soothsayer and spiritualist." She extended an elegant hand. "I guess we both talk to the dead."

Gladstone raised one black eyebrow but gladly kissed the slender hand.

"And I'm Francis Bradstreet" intruded the bellhop. "And I always carry matches," he added, resentfully.

"Thank you, Francis," said Zosi, "I shall certainly seek you out the next time." She was about to find a coin in her purse for him when Gladstone waved her off. Reaching towards the bellhop with a conciliatory palm, slightly curled, he said, "I shouldn't have lost my temper, young Mr. Bradstreet. I sincerely apologize. I hope this small token smooths things over."

The bellhop warily accepted Gladstone's hand and then looked at the object which had been pushed into his own.

"More phony money?"

"Why, that's British sterling! An entire shilling!"

"Well thanks," said Francis, dripping sarcasm. Pocketing the coin, he headed for the inner door, turning back to declare, "Never mind about showing me your ticket, Pally." He glared at Gladstone's shoes. "If your cheesy stompers weren't already proof you belonged in tourist, your chintzy tipping proves it. Now, I suggest you skedaddle aft with the other murder suspects before I come back with the bell captain, and maybe a couple of sailors."

"The cheek!"

"Francis, wait! Stay a moment, please," said Madam Zosi, fishing around in her purse again while stepping towards him. Plucking out a pair of dimes, she pushed them into his hand. "Please take these."

"Mercuries. Now that's more like it," he enthused, eyes glinting.

"Before Professor Gladstone leaves my company, we must finish our smoke and have a chat. Would that be alright?"

The bellhop sighed. "I reckon it's okay if he's your guest, Madam Zosi."

"You're a good egg, Francis."

"Thank you, ma'am. I try."

"One more thing. Please tell the headwaiter for me that Professor Gladstone will be my guest at the dinner before tonight's séance. I intend to see if I can help the Master at Arms with his investigation by summoning the murdered passengers' ghosts."

***

Continued in Part Two of Four: A Perilous Invitation

-