"I will speak to the bell captain specially," she promised. "No charge to you, of course!"

"Thanks!" Francis strode off happily, comparing his coins.

Gladstone spoke up. "Madam, you honor me with your gracious invitation, but I must regretfully decline."

"You have other dinner plans?"

"No, Madam, but young Francis is right. My place is aft, eating stew below decks with the brown-shoe bourgeoisie. The Master of Arms is rightly concerned that we all stay in our places, while a murderer roams."

"Well, we've crossed that concern off already. Francis and I have your back. Besides, I'm helping with the investigation, remember?"

A séance! Gladstone dreaded the idea of being party to such a sham. He gestured desperately towards the pile of papers behind him. "There are also my conflicting duties, not the least of which is a colleague's treatise I pledged to finish reading before we port at Alexandria."

"We're another two days out, at least, not even considering the forecast of rough weather tonight. Plenty of time."

"As you say. However, I should warn you lastly that I'm poor company. I've been advised by my sister and many other women, that I'm stiff and boring, and occasionally chew food with my mouth open."

She laughed. "Well, I think you're anything but stiff and boring, and that dashing moustache of yours could almost entertain an art lover for hours."

Gladstone felt himself being seduced. He smiled at the thought, despite himself.

"As for chewing food with your mouth open, Professor, you must certainly master restraint through practice." She smiled playfully. "I shall offer myself as your teacher by example."

Gladstone chuckled. The morning was beginning to improve.

"Very well then," he agreed. "Is that all you wanted to discuss, Ms. Zosi, or is there something else immediately? Yon deck chair is available if you would care to sit. I can scoop those papers up in a jiffy."

She gave a firm shake of her blonde locks and then took a smiling drag on her stemmed cigarette before responding. "No, for as briefly as I expect us to be out here, unfastening all the buttons on this coat aren't worth the bother. Anyway, I prefer to face that door to make sure our conversation stays private."

"Oh?" Gladstone was intrigued. He smiled and puffed his pipe. The morning kept getting better. "Very well. What shall we discuss?"

"War," she said.

He hesitated, surprised. "You're joking, of course."

Her eyes widened. "I'm quite serious."

"Then I fear you've netted the wrong chap for that conversation, Madam Zosi."

"Why so?"

"Not my field. Oh, I have my opinions like every Tom the Grocer, naturally: how Chamberlain ought to deal with Hitler, and how you Yanks should come off the bench and join the fray, but no special insights."

"You're just being humble, Professor."

"Alas, madam, since we've been at sea, I've literally been figuratively at sea, if you understand me." He laughed at his own joke. "I'm very keen to learn how our boys are faring in France."

"I'm quite positive Lord Thackeray has a much higher opinion of you."

The smile left Gladstone's face and his voice lowered to a hush. "Indeed. How is it you know his Lordship, Madam Zosi?"

The soothsayer smiled mischievously. "I know he has enlisted you as a spy, if that's what you mean."

Gladstone coughed and then whispered hotly. "Balderdash! Now see here, Madam! Such jests are highly inappropriate during wartime.

"Calm down, dear Professor. I have no interest in betraying you."

"Who do you claim to work for? American Intelligence? Perhaps the Germans?

"Oh, for pity's sake! I introduced myself as a soothsayer and spiritualist. But I'm much more." Mindful to keep cigarette ashes away from her fur, she tapped her temple with an index finger. "I just know things."

"Because of mystical powers, you mean?"

"I have many gifts."

Gladstone shook his head soberly. "With respect madam, while I bear no contempt for entertainers of your sort—"

"Entertainers!" She put her hands on her hips.

"Yes, Madam. I do not say quack or con artist, because you are plainly a lady of refinement—honorable, I'm sure, as well as intelligent and charming, but in good conscience, I must identify my position as a sceptic."

"Your position, is it? So then, it's fixed?"

"Quite."

She harrumphed. "Do you teach students, Professor?"

"Ordinarily, yes. For years, in fact. But I am on an extended research hiatus, as you can see."

"Yet, as an academic elite, you plainly think learning is a worthwhile endeavor."

"Obviously."

"Then allow me to teach you a lesson. I know that the Smithsonian recruited you for this expedition at the request of the BSC, on Lord Thackeray's recommendation. I know that your real mission is to monitor German covert activities around the Suez, and I know that your suitcase contains a radio."

At this, Gladstone inhaled sharply and grabbed her wrist. He hissed, "Who are you really, Madam, and what are you after? Blackmail? Sabotage?"

Zosi's expression hardened, and she touched the tip of her lit cigarette to the back of his hand, forcing the professor to snatch it back in pain.

"Yow!" He shook the hand and then rubbed it, scowling.

"Do not play the heavy with me, Professor. You are not that kind of agent, nor am I your enemy. I know things because I see past the mortal veil. For example, I know that an attempt will be made on your life tonight."

The professor's eyes widened. "What's that? Why? Have you overheard something?"

"Don't worry. I sense it will fail."

"Oh! I can sleep soundly, then."

"No."

At that moment, the dining room door opened, and a dark-haired man with a white waistcoat leaned out. A gust of wind howled and shook the lounge windows, and the ship rocked in reaction to a large wave. The waiter gripped the door frame, while Zosi gripped the rail. Gladstone did an unintentional jig to keep his balance, almost fumbling his pipe, but salvaging his dignity in the end.

"Madam Zosi? Your breakfast is prepared," said the waiter.

"Thank you, Dexter. I'll be right there!"

As Dexter departed, Zosi coolly plucked the spent butt out of her cigarette holder, dropped it onto the deck and crushed it under a shoe. As she put away the holder, Gladstone positioned himself between her and the door, shuffling sideways to maintain his balance.

"Do you mean the murderer will be seeking me out tonight?"

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Life is but an illusion. You have nothing to fear, Professor. Or may I call you Keith?"

"What?"

"And you must call me Sonya. That's settled. Meet me in the first-class dining lounge at six bells, Keith. You can choose between the poached salmon or prime ribs of beef, and then after dessert, you'll ring your glass, announce the séance to the other guests, and introduce me as Madam Zosi."

"Introduce you?"

The captain had promised to do it, but I think after tonight's storm, he'll have other priorities.

"But we've only just met, madam!"

"Please, Keith. Call me Sonya, remember? We're already smoking buddies and I foresee us becoming lifelong friends." She kissed him on the cheek and then laughed as the sloping deck guided her towards the exit. "Lifelong!" she echoed. "That could easily mean only for tonight, Keith, if you prefer to meet the murderer instead of being my guest."

Gladstone paled. Gripping the door handle, Sonya cast a sympathetic look back over one shoulder. "Don't worry. I already know you'll show." She tapped the side of her face.

"Right, right," he said. "You know things."

"Yes, that too," she said, adjusting to tap her temple before re-aiming at her cheek again, rosy and rounded from smiling. "But actually, I meant to point out my lipstick mark on your cheek."

##

Making his way well aft towards his tourist-class cabin, Gladstone detoured past the tourist lounge, to confirm whether the spattered blood had yet been cleaned up. Relieved to find it so, he helped himself to a breakfast of porridge and a cup of tea he couldn't put down. Putting the cup down would have been tantamount to tossing it into the floor, given the slowly swaying deck, tilting first one direction and then the other. Given the tea's abominable quality, however, he was tempted.

As he ate his porridge, Gladstone considered how to proceed. A coded message to the BSC in New York, or to Thackeray at MI6 seemed of the highest priority, although there was no hope of a successful transmission until after the storm.

Returning to his tourist-class cabin after breakfast, Gladstone was relieved to discover himself alone. Recalling Madam Zosi's warning about the murderer, he locked and then dead-bolted the door behind him. Let his cabinmates knock if they wanted back in. A dark thought occurred to him. Suppose one of his cabinmates was the murderer? Suppose the pair were Satanists, or barmy occultists like that Crowley chap? Looking for the chalk symbols on the floor, he saw that they had been mostly erased. White dust remained, but the smears were indecipherable.

Gladstone laughed nervously and shook his head. Superstitious nonsense. After shoving his locked suitcase under the bunk, he removed his tweed jacket and travel-worn shoes then lay down on the thin mattress to order his thoughts. The ship continued to sway, and he knew the trick to avoid seasickness was to close his eyes. But no sooner had he done so, then he felt an unnatural chill. Opening his eyes, he noticed a stain on the bunk above him he hadn't noticed earlier. He stared at it in disgust. Soon, it seemed to stare back at him, becoming an evil face. His fists gripped the sheets in terror, and he contemplated rolling out of bed, but felt paralyzed. He shut his eyes hard for a moment, willing the vision away, and when he opened them again, the stain was only a stain. His heartbeat slowed and he sighed, relaxing his fists. His eyes grew heavy, and his lips smiled once, forming the words "Sonya" as he drifted off to sleep.

Moments later, he awoke in pitch darkness to a shuddering crash that hurled him roughly out of his bunk.

Continued in Part Three: Night of Catastrophe

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