Chapter 12 Chapter Eleven

Nothing further exciting happened that night.I had breakfast in bed the next morning and stayed up late.Mrs Blair greeted me when I came on deck. "Good morning, gypsy girl. Come, sit next to me. You look like you didn't sleep well last night." "Why did you call me a gypsy girl?" I asked as I sat down obediently. "Do you mind? That seems to suit you. I called you that in my head from the beginning, and it's just because you have something gypsy about you that makes you so different from the rest. I thought to myself, you're the only one in the whole boat." The two of you, Colonel Race, don't make me think talking to you is boring as hell."

"That's funny," I said, "I thought about you the same way—it's just easier to understand for you. You're—you're such an exquisite work of God." "That's not so bad," said Mrs. Blair, nodding. "Tell me all about you, Gypsy girl. Why are you going to South Africa?" I told her something about Dad's life's work. "Then you are the daughter of Charles Beddingfield? I knew you were not an ordinary girl! Are you going to the mines to find more bones?" "Perhaps," I said cautiously, "I have other plans in the meantime."

"You're such a mysterious girl. You look really tired today. Didn't sleep well last night? I couldn't stay awake once I got on the boat. They say an idiot can sleep for ten hours! I can sleep for two Ten hours!" She yawned and looked like a sleepy kitten. "A stupid waiter woke me up in the middle of the night and returned the roll of negatives that I dropped yesterday. In a very dramatic motion, he reached through the transom and dropped the negative right in the middle of my stomach. Thought it was a bomb!" "Here comes your colonel," I said when the tall military figure of Colonel Race appeared on deck.

"He's not just my colonel. In fact, he adores you, gypsy girl. So don't run away." "I'm going to tie something on my head, it's more comfortable than a hat." I slip away quickly.For some reason, I didn't feel comfortable with Colonel Race.He's one of the few people I can embarrass myself. I went down to my cabin and started looking for something to tie my untamed hair.Now that I've become a neat person, I always like to organize my things in a certain way and keep them.As soon as I open my drawers, I know someone has messed with my stuff.Everything was turned over and scattered.I checked another drawer and a small wardrobe, all the same.It looks like someone was looking for something in a hurry and couldn't find it.

I sat on the edge of the bed with a heavy face.Who searched my room?What are they looking for?Is it the half-slip with some words and numbers on it?I shook my head dissatisfied.That, of course, is history in the past, for the present.But what else could it be? I have to think about it.Although the incident last night was exciting, it did not clarify anything.Who is that young man who broke into my room?I hadn't seen him on a ship before, either on deck or in the dining room.Is he a member of the shipping company or a passenger?Who stabbed him?Why stab him?Also, why is Cabin 17 so prominent?It's all a mystery, but there's no doubt that something special is going on aboard the Gillmorden.

I've put my finger on the following people who deserve my attention. In addition to my visitor from last night--but I promised myself to find him on board by today--I've selected the following as deserving of my attention: (1) Sir Eustace Peterler.He's the owner of "The Mill" and it seems like a coincidence that he's on the "Gillmorden". (2) Mr. Pagett.A secretary with a sinister face, he tried his best to make the seventeenth cabin so attractive.Pay special attention—find out if he accompanied Sir Eustace to Cannay. (3) The Reverend Edward Chichester.My dislike for him was only due to his obstinacy with regard to Cabin 17, and that may have been entirely due to his own idiosyncratic temper.Stubbornness can often be a funny thing.

But I don't think it would do any harm to talk to Mr. Chichester.I hastily bound my hair with a handkerchief, and returned to the deck, full of thoughts.As luck would have it, my subject was leaning on the cable, drinking beef juice.I go forward. "I hope you've forgiven me about Cabin Seventeen," I said, putting on my best smile. "I don't think it's unchristian to hold a grudge," said Mr. Chichester grimly, "but the purser did promise me that room." "Pursers are busy people, aren't they?" I mumbled. "I guess they forget sometimes."

Mr. Chichester made no answer. "Is this your first time in Africa?" I asked as if chatting. "To Africa, yes. But I've been working with cannibal tribes in inner East Africa for the past two years." "Wow, that's exciting! Have you ever had a lot of thrilling escapes?" "escape?" "I mean, so as not to be eaten?" "You should not speak so lightly of such sacred subjects, Miss Beddingfield." "I didn't know cannibalism was a sacred subject," I retorted, prodding him. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, another thought came to my mind. If Mr. Chichester really spent the last two years in the interior of Africa, why didn't he get tanned by the sun?His skin was still as pink and white as a baby's.Naturally, there must be fraud in it?However, his tone of voice and attitude are quite similar to that.Too much the same thing, maybe.Is he a bit of a stage priest?

My mind went back to Little Hampshire, the curate I had known.Some of them I liked and some I didn't, but of course none of them looked like Mr. Chichester.They were all mortals - and he was the type to be worshipped. While thinking of this, Sir Eustace Peterle came up, and when he was almost shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Chichester, he stooped down, picked up a piece of paper and handed it to him, saying: "You Something dropped." He went on walking on after he had finished speaking, and did not stop, perhaps not noticing Mr. Chichester's angry expression.I noticed.Whatever he dropped, it came back to him rather annoyed him, turning green and crumpling the paper.My suspicions increased a hundredfold.

Seeing the look in my eyes, he quickly explained: "A—a—a sermon I'm writing," he said with an awkward smile. "Really?" I said politely. A sermon, really!No, Mr. Chichester—you are too good at lying! He quickly murmured excuse me and walked away from me.I wish, oh, how I wish I had picked up the paper and not Sir Eustace Peterler!It is obvious that Mr. Chichester cannot be removed from my list of suspicions, and I would like to place him first. After lunch, when I went to the drawing room for coffee, I found Sir Eustace, Pagett, and Mrs Blair and Colonel Race sitting together.Mrs Blair greeted me with a smile, so I went over to join them.They are talking about Italy.

"But that's a misunderstanding," Mrs. Blair insisted. "Of course the aqua calda is supposed to be hot water—not cold water." "You're no Latin scholar," said Sir Eustace, smiling. "Men think they have good Latin," said Mrs. Blair, "but I've found that when you ask them to translate inscriptions in old churches, they're all the same grunting and haha. Can't do it!" "Yes," said Colonel Race, "that's what I am." "But I like the Italians," continued Mrs. Blair, "they're so helpful—although that has its embarrassing side. When you ask them the way, they don't say 'Turn right first, Turn left again' or something you can do, but instead spout out directions, and when you look confused, they kindly take your hand and just take you there. " "Is this something you had in Florence too, Pagett?" Sir Eustace asked his secretary, turning to his secretary with a smile. For some reason the question seemed to embarrass Mr. Pagett, who blushed and stammered: "Oh, yes, it's—like that." Then whispered "Excuse me", got up and left. "I began to suspect that Pagett had done something ulterior in Florence," Sir Eustace said, looking at Pagett's leaving figure, "every time Florence or Italy is mentioned, , he would change the subject, or avoid it hastily.” "Maybe he killed someone there," said Lady Blair cautiously, "he looked—I hope I don't hurt you, Sir Eustace—but he did look as if he had killed .” "Yes, like pure sixteenth-century Italian art! It amuses me sometimes—especially when other people know as well as I do how law-abiding and respectable the poor fellow is in essence." "Has he been with you some time, Sir Eustace?" asked Colonel Race. "Six years," said Sir Eustace with a deep sigh. "He must be quite invaluable to you," said Mrs. Blair. "Oh, priceless! Yes, quite valuable." The poor man's voice sounded more dejected, as if Mr. Pagett's value was a hidden worry to him.Then he added: "But his face should inspire confidence in you, my dear lady. No murderer ever looks the same. Now, I believe, Cliburn is the most inspiring One of those guys that makes people happy." "He was caught on a ship later, wasn't he?" murmured Mrs. Blair. There was a slight crunch behind us, and I looked back quickly to see Mr Chichester's coffee mug fall to the floor. We parted shortly after, Mrs Blair went to bed and I went up on deck.Colonel Race followed me. "It's hard to find you, Miss Beddingfield. I couldn't find you anywhere at the ball last night." "I went to bed early," I explained. "Are you going to hide again tonight? Or are you going to dance with me?" "I'd love to go dancing with you," I whispered shyly, "but Mrs. Blair—" "Mrs. Blair doesn't like dancing." "how about you?" "I like to dance with you." "Oh!" I said nervously. I'm a little afraid of Colonel Race.Anyway, I'm still enjoying myself.It's better than discussing fossil bones with those stuffy old professors!Colonel Race was my ideal silent and strong Rhodesian man.I might marry him!He hasn't proposed to me yet, it's true, but, as the Boy Scouts say, plan ahead!And all women think that every man they meet is likely to be her own husband, or the husband of their best friend. I danced with him a few times that night.He dances very well.When the dance was over and I wanted to go back to sleep, he suggested a walk on the deck.We circled the deck three times and ended up in two deck chairs.There was no one else, and we chatted casually for a while. "You know, Miss Beddingfield, I think I met your father once. A very interesting man--of his own subject, which fascinated me. I too, in my humble way, Put some effort into that. Why? When I was in Dodong--" Our conversation becomes specialized.Colonel Race wasn't just bragging.He knows a lot.Meanwhile, he misspoke once or twice—I almost thought it was a slip of the tongue.But he quickly covered it up.On one occasion he speaks of the Mustilian period as being after the Auregnacian period—a very egregious error for anyone with a little common sense on the subject. It was twelve o'clock when I got back to my cabin.I'm still baffled by those weird errors.Is it possible that he set me up on purpose?Could those little mistakes be just a test - to see if I really know what I'm talking about?In other words, he suspects that I'm not really Anne Beddingfeld. Why?