Mr Francis produced a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his sweaty face. “We had a furious row about her Scottish attacker. She seemed...” He glanced around and opened the door wider. “Would you mind coming in?”
We slid into the wide cabin—it was twice as big as mine with an impressive king-size bed—and he shut the door.
“What were you saying?” I said gently when he tormented his handkerchief, pulling it between his hands.
“Well, she didn’t seem distressed at all. A man had attacked her, and she was swooning over him, saying how handsome he’d looked, how strapping he’d been, and how he’d spoken with bold words that she’d loved. I scolded her and told her that wasn’t the behaviour of a woman in distress. She became angry and said I didn’t understand her. These were the last words we exchanged.” His voice cracked. “And now she’s probably with him.”
I grimaced. Poor chap. He might be right.
“Do you think she knew where to find the Scot?” Rennie asked, unfazed by the man’s distress.
Mr Francis lifted a shoulder. “Where else could she be if not with him?” He shook his head. “She felt sick a few weeks ago before we left Southampton. The doctor said her heart was having problems, but she dismissed the diagnosis, saying it was simply her nerves if she didn’t feel well and that she wanted to take the cruise all the same. But I don’t think she felt sick. Someone would have found her by now. No, she’s with him, somewhere on the ship.” His dark eyes hardened.
“Well, that’s an interesting theory,” I said, strolling around. A lurid Gothic novel lay on the night table.The Laird’s Captive, the title read. A hunky, red-haired Scot in a kilt filled the cover. His thick locks of hair fell over his piercing blue eyes. Interesting.
Rennie’s gaze followed mine, and he frowned. “Thank you for your time, Mr Francis. We’ll take a look around and tell you if we find your wife.”
“And the Scot. Don’t forget the devilishly handsome Scot,” he said with enough fire to boil water. “Find him, and you’ll find her. Foolish woman.”
“We won’t forget about him.” I smiled and opened the door.
We left poor Mr Francis and headed towards Norton’s office.
“Do you think she found him? The Scot?” I asked, stepping closer to Rennie.
“Or he found her.”
“Did you see the novel?”
He scratched his unshaven chin, and a fleeting thought about how the stubble would feel on my skin crossed my mind. “Yes, and I don’t like it.”
“Well, that proves it. She made the Scot up, or her imagination played a trick on her.”
He clicked his tongue. “I hope it’s something as simple as that.”
“I mean, who doesn’t want to be kissed by a Scot like that on the cover?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Rennie’s expression was tightening with jealousy.
After Norton joined us, we knocked on every door on the third level with the help of a few members of the staff. Even other passengers volunteered to search for Mrs Francis when the news about her disappearance spread. Everyone was up and about, looking for the missing woman, but Mrs Francis seemed to have truly vanished. While Norton and Rennie were searching the cabins on the left side of the passageway, I headed towards the other side.
I lost sight of Rennie after I rounded a corner and found myself in front of the theatre. Every day, three different plays were staged. I hadn’t seen any, but since I was here, I wanted to take a look. Besides, Mrs Francis might be there, with or without her Scot. The set of double doors opened with a soft swish when I pushed them. The theatre was empty. Only a few lights were on, casting a yellow glow on the red-velvet seats.
“Mrs Francis?” Likely, the staff had already searched the theatre, but it wouldn’t hurt to search it again. “It’s me, Monia.”
I strolled down the shallow stairs towards the stage. It was smaller than the stage of the Royal Theatre in Oxford, but the details of the carved decorations were exquisite.
“Mrs Fr—” I stopped as my foot touched something soft.
Heart in my throat and half-expecting to see Mrs Francis’s pale hand sticking out from underneath a seat, I crouched. No. No cold hand or other body parts. It was a blob of a sticky silver substance that glittered in the light from the sconces. I touched it with a finger. It was warm and semi-solid like jelly. Perhaps it was something the actors used for their make-up, but I’d never seen anything like it. The blob was thick and sticky. I had to rub my finger on a handkerchief to clean it off. I had barely time to exit the theatre before Rennie was on me like a bloodhound.
“Where have you been?” he asked, searching my face. “Did you feel sick again?” He cupped my cheek, cutting off what I was about to say. “Did someone hurt you?”
I put my hand on his. “Calm yourself. I simply had a look at the theatre.”
His shoulders sagged. “I thought you’d left me again.” He wrapped his arms around me and held me close to his body. Twice in a row. I couldn’t say I didn’t like it. I relaxed in his embrace. It was familiar, but exciting at the same time. As if realising he was touching me, he released me and stepped back.
I shifted my weight. “Any news?”
