“No,” said Townsend, without missing a beat. “That would spoil the surprise.”
“If you would like to leave your bags with me, sir, I’ll see they are taken to your cabin as soon as the ship docks.”
“Thank you,” said Townsend. “Can you tell me how to get to the center of town?”
As he strolled away from the dockside he began to think about Kate, and wondered if she had managed to place the article in the ship’s paper.
He dropped into three newsagents on the long walk into Kingston, and purchased Time, Newsweek and all the local newspapers. He then stopped at the first restaurant he came across with an American Express sign on its door, took a quiet table in the corner and settled down for a lengthy lunch.
Other people’s newspapers always fascinated him, but he knew he would leave the island without the slightest desire to be the owner of the Jamaica Times, which, even with nothing else to do, was only a fifteen-minute read. In between articles about how the agriculture minister’s wife spent her day and why the island’s cricket team had been losing so consistently, his mind kept returning to the information Sally Carr had recorded in Sydney. He found it hard to believe that Sharon could be quite as incompetent as she claimed, but if she was, he also had to accept her judgment that she must be remarkable in bed.
Having paid for a lunch best forgotten, Townsend left the restaurant and began to stroll around the town. It was the first time he had spent like a tourist since his visit to Berlin back in his student days. He kept checking his watch every few minutes, but it didn’t help the time pass any quicker. Eventually he heard the sound of a foghorn in the distance: the great liner was at last coming into dock. He immediately began walking back toward the dockside. By the time he arrived, the crew were lowering the gangplanks. After the passengers had flooded down onto the quay, looking grateful for a few hours of escape, Townsend walked up the gangway and asked a steward to direct him to his cabin.
As soon as he had finished unpacking, he began to check the layout on level three. He was delighted to discover that Mrs. Sherwood’s stateroom was less than a minute away from his cabin, but he made no attempt to contact her. Instead he used the next hour to find his way around the ship, ending up in the Queen’s Grill.
The chief steward smiled at the slight, inappropriately dressed man as he entered the large, empty dining room being set up for the evening meal. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked, trying not to sound as if he felt that this particular passenger must have strayed onto the wrong deck.
“I hope so,” said Townsend. “I’ve just joined the ship, and wanted to find out where you’ve placed me for dinner.”
“This restaurant is for first class passengers only, sir.”
“Then I’ve come to the right place,” said Townsend.
“Your name, sir?” asked the steward, sounding unconvinced.
“Keith Townsend.”
He checked the list of first class passengers who were joining the ship at Kingston. “You’re on table eight, Mr. Townsend.”
“Is Mrs. Margaret Sherwood on that table, by any chance?”
The steward checked again. “No, sir, she’s on table three.”
“Would it be possible for you to find me a place on table three?” asked Townsend.
“I’m afraid not, sir. No one from that table left the ship at Kingston.”
Armstrong took out his wallet and removed a hundred-dollar bill.
“But I suppose if I were to move the archdeacon onto the captain’s table, that might solve the problem.”
Townsend smiled and turned to leave.
“Excuse me, sir. Were you hoping to sit next to Mrs. Sherwood?”
“That would be most considerate,” said Townsend.
“It’s just that it might prove a little awkward. You see, she’s been with us for the whole trip, and we’ve had to move her twice already because she didn’t care for the passengers at her table.”
Townsend removed his wallet a second time. He left the dining room a few moments later, assured that he would be sitting next to his quarry.
By the time he had returned to his cabin, his fellow-passengers were beginning to come back on board. He showered, changed for dinner and once again read the profile of Mrs. Sherwood that Kate had compiled for him. A few minutes before eight he made his way down to the dining room.
One couple were already seated at the table. The man immediately stood up and introduced himself. “Dr. Arnold Percival from Ohio,” he said, shaking Townsend by the hand. “And this is my dear wife, Jenny—also from Ohio.” He laughed raucously.
“Keith Townsend,” he said to them. “I’m from…”
“Australia, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Townsend,” said the doctor. “How nice that they put you on our table. I’ve just retired, and Jenny and I have been promising ourselves we’d go on a cruise for years. What brings you on board?” Before Townsend could reply, another couple arrived. “This is Keith Townsend from Australia,” said Dr. Percival. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Osborne from Chicago, Illinois.”