At least that’s how he’d tell it for Wentworth … just for the pleasure of seeing her shocked reaction. Bacchus was disconcerted to find that it was the face of the constable his imagination had conjured up for the rehearsal of his tale. He shrugged. If she was still haunting the Yard when he returned, that is. But he wouldn’t get involved with this pair of firecrackers unless something quite untoward happened. Sandilands hadn’t needed to remind him — no feelings! He’d made his plans.
Bacchus was still lounging at the rail outside his cabin, toying with the idea of a sherry before dinner, when she arrived. He checked his watch. On the move already? She ought to be just getting round to unpacking and having a shower. He noted that she was still wearing the blue linen dress she’d had on when she came aboard. No hat, no gloves, no bag, sandals on her feet. Hardly decent, really. She’d left her stateroom in a hurry and came, not striding with confidence for once, but walking tentatively, looking about her like a wild creature. He realized she was checking the numbers on the cabin doors. Her eyes were wide with … could that be fear? Nervousness, at least. Bacchus thought he’d have been looking at her a long time before the word assassin came to mind. Nevertheless, his professional eyes skimmed her slender figure, seeing no evidence of a hidden gun or knife to precipitate his instant intervention. Better stay on watch, though. A killer out on business, as a last gesture, checked his weapon, the hand going towards the pocket or holster a dead giveaway. The very best, and Bacchus counted himself among these, knew they didn’t need to. Her hands performed no such manoeuvre — they were twisting together in anxiety.
She found the door she wanted, stared at it for an age, then knocked.
A bad moment. She’d caught her man dressing for dinner and he appeared at the door flustered, a tiny bloodstained patch on his cheek and in his shirtsleeves.
A series of unintelligible exclamations followed. Gasps and snorts and giggles. And then, at last, a few words that Bacchus, by straining his ears, could just make out. Nothing out of the ordinary. Boring stuff.
‘You’re looking well, Anna.’
‘You too. Oh, you’ve cut your face again!’
‘And you’ve cut your hair …’
‘Oh, it’ll grow … At least I’ve managed to get rid of the hair dye.’
‘Glad about that. We never did say goodbye, did we?’