one reason or another. It’s got a lot of trade names, but clinically speaking, it’s a variety of benzodiazepine.”
Agnes swallowed the pill with some water.
“There, now,” Bryce said, patting her hand. “I’ll bet you feel better already.”
“I do, actually,” Agnes replied.
London couldn’t help but smile. Of course the pill couldn’t possibly have taken effect yet. But Bryce’s kindly manner and even his suggestion of music were already producing positive results.
“You’ll feel just fine shortly,” Bryce said to Agnes. Handing the medicine bottle to Walter he added, “I’m giving your husband four more pills for you to use as needed. I don’t imagine you will need all of them during the rest of this trip, but if you do and you need more, come to the infirmary or give me a call.”
Walter and Agnes both warmly thanked Bryce, and he and London left the room.
“It’s nothing unexpected,” Bryce said to London in a reassuring voice. “Mrs. Klimowski’s death naturally has everyone aboard on edge—me too, to be perfectly honest. And now we’re all confined to this boat, which is swarming with police. Nerves are rattled. But we’ll all get through it, I promise. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to the infirmary. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ll be having similar cases in the next little while.”
As Bryce headed toward the elevator, London was seized by a renewed wave of exhaustion. She felt herself jump nervously when the elevator doors opened and a pair of the roaming police officers marched off.
How much more of this would it take, she wondered, for me to have my very own panic attack?
She hurried into the elevator before the doors closed again and took it down to the Allegro deck. Maybe she could find a few moments of peace and quiet in her own stateroom.
When London opened her door, she found Sir Reginald sitting on the bed looking at her rather expectantly, as if he was curious to hear where she’d been and what she’d been doing. She sat down on the bed and stroked his silky coat.
“It’s a long story,” she said. “It would only bore you.”
Sir Reginald let out what sounded like a grunt of disagreement.
London sighed.
Here I go, talking to the dog again.
But maybe talking to the dog would help put her own roiling thoughts in order.
“Things aboard this ship are crazy,” she told him. “Everybody’s upset. And poor Mrs. Shick just had an awful anxiety attack. Fortunately, Bryce came right away to take care of her. He seems like an excellent medic.”
Sir Reginald let out a quizzical little growl.
“OK, so he’s also good-looking. So sue me for sort of getting a crush on him. I’m only human.”
Continuing to pet the dog, she thought back over all that had just happened.
“But I just don’t know, Sir Reginald,” she said. “I can’t help feel like there was something odd about Agnes’s attack. And she actually called her husband Brian. His name’s Walter. What do you suppose that was all about?”
Sir Reginald whimpered noncommittally.
“Walter seemed anxious about her calling him that. And he also seemed anxious when she mentioned being upset by all the police on board. What does she find so upsetting about police? I feel like … well, maybe they’re hiding something.”
London shook her head.
“But that’s crazy. What am I even thinking? That they might have had something to do with Mrs. Klimowski’s death? That’s just ridiculous. Walter and Agnes are two of the nicest people aboard the Nachtmusik. They’d never hurt a soul …”
She paused, then added, “Or at least I don’t think so. But what do I know about them, really? They were right there at the table with Mrs. Klimowski yesterday. What if they’re not who they seem to be?”
Sir Reginald was looking at her with seemingly rapt attention.
“And anyway, what about Gus?” she said. “He was sitting at that table too. And so was Honey. And so were …”
London fell silent.
Then she scratched the dog’s head.
“I’ve got to get back to being Nancy Drew,” she said. “I’ve got to do my best to solve this case on my own.”
She tilted her head and looked into the dog’s eyes.
“Whatever happened, you saw it, didn’t you?” she said.
Sir Reginald let out a whimper. London sighed.
“It’s like Honey said a little while ago—if only you could talk.”
But as she sat and studied the dog’s face, an idea started to occur to her.
“Maybe you can talk, in your own way.”
Before she could think her idea through, her phone rang.