by M. M. Kaye
‘Ill?’ said Miss Moon sharply. ‘Who told you that she was ill?’
‘Mr Barton. That’s why I’m here. I was to have stayed with the Bartons in Nicosia. My uncle arranged it. But they couldn’t have me after all because Mrs Barton was ill. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘Yes he did, now that you mention it, dear. But I never thought that he would really do it. Pretend that she was ill, I mean. So much better to stick to the truth, however unpleasant. I cannot see why Glenn should try and shield his wife at his own expense. He did ask me not to tell you, but now that they will actually be here in Kyrenia of course you are bound to find out.’
‘Find out what?’ inquired Amanda, puzzled. ‘Isn’t Mrs Barton ill?’
‘She most certainly is not!’ said Miss Moon with an indignant clash of bracelets. ‘On the contrary, it is her poor husband who appears to be heading for a nervous breakdown. I cannot understand it—she seemed such a nice girl. But in my young days there was a good old-fashioned word for people who behaved as Anita Barton is behaving. We called them trollops.’
‘Anita?’—the name struck a sudden chord of memory.
‘That is her name,’ said Miss Moon, and sighed. ‘I should never have thought it of her. But I suppose that she found Glenn dull. He has been sadly overworked. And she is so good looking. Perhaps she felt the need for more excitement and attention and admiration than he could offer. No, she is not ill. She has merely left Glenn and run away with a painting person who calls himself Lumley Potter. She has not even left the Island. They are living together quite brazenly, and she has attempted to justify her flagrantly immoral behaviour by spreading scandal about her husband and his secretary, Miss Ford.’
‘Oh!’ gasped Amanda, her eyes wide with horrified dismay. ‘So that was why____’ She was remembering her light-hearted remark of that morning on the subject of Uncle Oswin and flagrant immorality. Could they possibly have imagined that she had said anything so cruel and unkind on purpose? A hot wave of colour mounted to her cheeks at the very thought.
‘What is it, dear?’
‘Nothing,’ said Amanda hastily. ‘I was just thinking of–of something I said to Miss Ford.’
‘You have met her then?’
‘Yes. We stopped at the office on our way through Nicosia.’
‘Then you will know what I mean when I say that Anita must have taken leave of her senses. If she felt that it was necessary to slander Glenn in order to justify her own quite unjustifiable behaviour, she should have picked on a more plausible story. Monica Ford is a nice, sensible woman and a most efficient secretary—and she worships Glenn. But speaking entirely without malice, she possesses no feminine charm whatsoever. There are plenty of pretty girls in Cyprus, and if that was what Glenn Barton was after he could have taken his pick. But Monica Ford____!’
Amanda was suddenly reminded of Julia Blaine and her equally senseless suspicions, but she pushed the thought quickly from her, and said lightly: ‘She isn’t exactly glamorous.’
‘Glamorous! The poor girl is Plain! If she had even been ugly she might have stood more chance. Ugliness is at least arresting. The trouble with Glenn Barton is that he is too soft. You need to be hard if you marry a girl like Anita—as hard or harder than she is. She has accused him of carrying on with all sorts of people. Claire Norman for one. I would put nothing past Claire, and I am well aware that she cast a handkerchief in Glenn’s direction—oh very discreetly of course; Claire is always discreet—and that she is not likely to forgive him for not picking it up. Dear me! What a lot of scandal I have been talking. So stimulating! You know, dear, there are a great many people—women of course—who will assure you that they never gossip, and that in fact they detest and abominate gossip. It is hardly ever true (the ones who say that are always the worst I find!) but if it were true, what a lot they must miss! Just think how much we should all have missed if people like Somerset Maugham had refused to listen to gossip? What would you like to do this afternoon, dear?’
‘Sleep,’ said Amanda promptly. ‘I know that sounds very dull of me, but I feel as if I could sleep for hours. So much has happened, and–and I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘Not a rough crossing, I hope?’
‘No,’ said Amanda slowly; and for the third time that day told, with reservations, the story of Julia.
‘You poor, poor child!’ exclaimed Miss Moon in horrified sympathy. ‘But how terrible! How too shocking. How fortunate that it should be a Tuesday. I should never have forgiven myself if I had been wearing orange or yellow when you arrived. So upsetting for you. Blue perhaps—blue is so soothing. But not orange. Certainly you must sleep. So sensible.’
She accompanied Amanda to her room at the conclusion of the meal. ‘Just come down whenever you wake up,’ urged Miss Moon. ‘We pay no attention to the clock in this house. Time is our servant here, Amanda. We are not the servants of Time. Amanda! such a pretty name. So unusual. Amanda—“worthy to be loved”.’
Amanda said abruptly, following a sudden train of thought: ‘Did you ever hear of anyone called Amarantha?’
‘Now I wonder who has been calling you that!’ said Miss Moon, beaming. ‘A man, of course. And one with a very pretty taste in compliments. Not Glennister Barton; he is lamentably unread. Amarantha was the subject of a charming poem by a cavalier named Richard Lovelace. He addressed some verses To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her hair. I am not sure that I remember them aright. My memory is not what it was, alas. Let me see—“Amarantha sweet and fair, braid no more that shining hair. As my curious hand or eye hovering round thee, let it fly____” something like that. Ah, I see that you are blushing! Such a charming accomplishment. You must tell me all about him when you wake up.’
Miss Moon withdrew, leaving behind her a scent of heliotrope to mingle with that of the lilies, the syringa, the dry rot and the dust. And Amanda, barely pausing to remove her dress and kick off her shoes, wriggled in under the mosquito net and was instantly and deeply asleep.
7
Amanda had awakened too late to be able to see anything of Kyrenia that day, but shortly after breakfast on the following morning Toby Gates called at the Villa Oleander.
‘I heard you were here,’ he told Amanda. ‘Mrs Norman told us. They asked us all to dinner at their house last night; those of us who were on the boat; and she’d heard that you were staying here. We came here from Limassol in their car. The hotel had a car laid on for us, but a jeep ran into it just outside Nicosia, so we all piled into the Normans’ car.’
‘Who’s “we”?’ asked Amanda, sniffing ecstatically at a foaming torrent of jasmine that tumbled over the edge of the verandah rail outside the french windows of the drawing-room.
‘Claire and Persis and Howard and myself. Claire—Mrs Norman—said that she was sure you wouldn’t be staying at the Bartons’ house, because Mrs Barton has run off with that painter chap and you couldn’t very well stay in the house with just Barton there. Funny that we should have seen them on the boat.’
So Steve Howard was staying in Kyrenia! Amanda said quickly: ‘What happened to Mr Norman? Or did he have to come by bus?’
‘Oh he stayed behind to help out Alastair Blaine. They didn’t get in until late last night. I gather the body was taken to a hospital in Nicosia for a post-mortem, and he’ll have to go over there this afternoon for some sort of an inquest. But they had the funeral yesterday evening.’
‘So soon?’ said Amanda, startled and distressed. Somehow, although she could have not explained why, Julia had not seemed really dead until this moment. Now that she was buried—hidden under six feet of foreign soil in an alien country—the fact and the finality of her death came home to Amanda with a renewed sense of shock.
‘It’s a hot country,’ said Toby uncomfortably. ‘You have to bury people pretty quickly in this sort of climate.’
‘What is he going to do? Alastair, I mean.’
‘He’s staying on with the Normans. No point in his doing an
ything else, really. He and Norman got in about ten o’clock and he went straight off to bed. Claire met Barton in the town yesterday afternoon and he told her you were here, so we rang up to ask you to join us, but the Moon woman said that you were asleep, and she wouldn’t wake you. I say____’ Toby sank his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—‘she’s a bit peculiar, isn’t she? She told me that I shouldn’t be wearing a blue shirt because it was Wednesday. Do you suppose she’s all there?’
‘She’s not dangerous, if that’s what you mean,’ said Amanda laughing. ‘She just has a theory about wearing different colours on different days. If you’d turned up in cerise you’d have been dead right.’
Toby looked relieved. ‘Oh I see. I thought the old girl was bats. She asked me if I had called to see Aramathea—sounded rather Biblical to me—must be one of her servant girls I suppose. I said no, as a matter of fact I’d called to see Miss Derington, and she said “Ah, I thought not. You do not look at all the sort of man who could quote loveless to the point.” I began to think I’d got into the local looney bin. What on earth do you suppose she meant?’
‘I haven’t an idea,’ said Amanda shamelessly.
‘By the way,’ said Toby diffidently, ‘I–er–asked her if she’d mind if I took you out to luncheon and she said not at all. So would you come? It’s not really just me—I wish it were—I mean, we arranged last night to have luncheon together at the Dome. Claire—Mrs Norman—thought it would cheer Alastair up, and it’s their cook’s day off. I said I’d like to ask you along too, and____You will come, won’t you?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘That’s marvellous,’ said Toby enthusiastically. ‘Let’s go now!’
‘It isn’t ten yet,’ pointed out Amanda, ‘and there are lots of things I want to do this morning. I want to prowl around and explore.’
‘I’ll come with you. I must get hold of a car. Howard’s hired one. A pound a day and you drive yourself; something like that. You know he’s really an astonishingly good type, for an artist.’
‘What do you mean—for an artist?’ demanded Amanda, unaccountably annoyed.
‘Oh I don’t know. So many of them look like that bearded blighter in sandals; the one Barton’s wife ran away with. Well I mean to say! if you’re any good, surely you don’t have to go about practically in fancy dress just to show what you are?’
‘Nonsense!’ said Amanda briskly. ‘Look at you when you’re on duty. You wear a weird khaki outfit with pips here and badges there and a peculiar hat with feathers that would make a man laugh his head off if he saw his wife wearing it. If you can go around in fancy dress just to show what you are, why can’t he? It’s the same idea. Which reminds me—wait while I get a sun-hat and I’ll be with you!’
They spent the morning exploring Kyrenia, and towards twelve o’clock came down to the little harbour where the pastel-coloured houses, the ancient, glowing walls of Kyrenia castle, the minaret of a mosque and the white walls of the Greek Orthodox Church reflect themselves in the clear, luminous greens and blues of the harbour water and look as though they had been designed by an inspired artist as a Mediterranean mural.
A voice hailed Amanda from one of the small tables outside a café on the quay, and there was Persis, as decorative as the morning.
‘Hi there, honey! I hear you’re parked right here in Kyrenia after all? Nice work. I thought nothing of Nicosia from what little we saw of it. Nothing at all. Now this!—this is quite a town, and I shall write a romance that will go into half a dozen editions in as many months. Why, it’s just made for love! I must get me a beau.’
‘Won’t your imagination do?’ inquired Toby solicitously.
‘No, honey. My imagination is Grade A plus, but when it comes to Love, I like ’em over six foot and solid.’
‘What about me?’ offered Toby.
‘That’s just sweet of you, honey, but I prefer my beaus to keep both eyes on their work; and if you watch Amanda over my shoulder I can’t see myself getting really in the mood. Still, there’s a lot of talent lying around; as well as some pretty stiff competition.’
‘Meaning me?’ inquired Amanda showing her dimples.
‘Of course, honey. Who else? Though to tell you the truth I was casting a mental eye over Mrs Norman. That gal is a smooth worker. I am no amateur myself, and Lord knows I count my calories. But when she’s around I feel just a shade like Sophie Tucker’s twin sister; and say what you like, that is lowering to the morale. Besides, she has the edge on outside operators. It’s her own ground and it kinda looks as though she’s worked it well. Remember that guy with the beard and an outfit like sunset in technicolor?’
‘Lumley Potter,’ said Amanda, recognizing the description.
‘That’s the boy. The one who beat it with your pal Barton’s ball and chain. Well, who do you suppose was whispering to him on the boat deck at two o’clock in the morning the other night? Lil’ Claire, no less.’
Toby said sharply: ‘That’s impossible! I mean—how can you know?’
‘How? By using my great big eyes, Grandma. That two-by-four cabin of mine was as hot as Broadway in a heatwave, and I slid out for a breath of air. I passed No. 31—that was the Normans’ cabin—on my way. George was snoring fit to shift the deck plates and I spared a sympathetic sigh for his life partner. I need not have wasted my sympathy. The little woman was on the boat deck—taking, we must suppose, an intelligent interest in Art. She’s quite a gal!’
‘But he’s run off with Barton’s wife!’ said Toby indignantly.
‘Maybe the guy’s a Mormon.’
Amanda said slowly: ‘So that’s how she knew____’
‘About Julia? I guess so. The Potter had probably gotten the dirt from the first officer or the doctor or someone by that time. I imagine that there must have been quite a ruckus going on about it, and most of those who were out and about probably got an ear full. Yes, little Claire is certainly stiff competition. I shall have to brush up on my technique.’
‘Who are you thinking of starting on?’ inquired Toby, interested.
‘Well there’s always Major Blaine; and though it may be bad taste to pursue a bereaved widower, we heard plenty last night from his hostess about not letting the poor boy mope, so I guess I may as well try my hand at a little light consolation. And then there’s Steve Howard. He’s quite a guy. Plenty of looks and charm—and has he got that certain something! Claire seems to have noticed it too.’
‘He’s not good looking!’ said Amanda with something of a snap. ‘His face is out of drawing.’
‘Well as far as I’m concerned, honey, it can stay that way. I never could draw anyway.’
Toby said: ‘Persis darling, I never remember you sounding so aggressively American when I knew you in the States. Or did you always talk that way?’
‘Not when I’m back home,’ said Persis placidly. ‘I keep it for foreign travel. It amuses the natives.’
Toby laughed. ‘You’re just a highly coloured fake and I adore you!’
Persis gave him an odd, slanting look and said: ‘Do you, honey? Well maybe you did once. Or maybe you’re like this guy Potter—or any other guy for that matter!—just a Mormon at heart.’
For a moment there was an unexpected tinge of bitterness in Persis Halliday’s clear incisive tones and Toby said quickly: ‘What’s that stuff you’re drinking? It looks like ammonia.’
‘Maybe it is, at that. The boy with the dinky white apron calls it oozoo or ouzo—and is it filthy! Still, I’m all for trying anything once. Drag up a chair and join me.’
‘Do you mean to tell me that you’re knocking back drinks alone and unprotected?’ demanded Toby, astounded.
‘Not quite. I am not entirely lost to all sense of what is due to me. My escort is in back—trying to get something under the counter if you ask me. Ah, here he is. Okay, George?’
George Norman appeared from the interior of the café bearing a bottle of beer. ‘Got it!’ he announced triumphantly. ‘I knew they ha
d some stored away. Good morning, Miss Derington. ’Morning, Gates. I’m showing Mrs Halliday the sights.’
Toby said: ‘Is your wife here?’
‘She’ll be along in a minute. Alastair had to send off some cables and she went along to the Post Office with him. Here they are now.’
Claire Norman, still in black and wearing a wide-brimmed black hat that shaded her small face in a most becoming manner, appeared round the corner of the quay, her hand through Alastair Blaine’s arm. Major Blaine looked tired and grim and as though he had had remarkably little sleep, if any, during the last forty-eight hours.
‘Why—Amanda,’ said Claire in her soft, light voice. ‘How nice to see you. And Toby. Have you two been exploring the harbour?’
‘No,’ said Amanda. ‘We’ve been exploring the town. I’m going to look at the harbour now, from the sea wall.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Toby.
‘I don’t want you, Toby,’ said Amanda perversely. ‘I just want to sit and look at it and not talk. I’ll be back.’ She turned on her heel and walked quickly away.
Toby made a move as though to follow her, but Claire Norman laid a small hand on his arm and asked him prettily to fetch a chair for her, and by the time he had done so Amanda had gone.
A long stone wall with a small lighthouse on the end of it protected the tiny horseshoe-shaped harbour of Kyrenia from the seaward side, and walking along it Amanda looked across the translucent harbour water to the towering walls of the old Crusader castle, golden in the sunlight, and the beautiful curving coastline that faded into the shimmering heat haze beyond the age-old buttresses.
There were several other people on the sea wall, one of whom, a man who was sitting on the edge of the wall at the harbour side with his legs dangling above the water, was surrounded by an interested crowd of children. He was sketching swiftly with quick, bold strokes of a conté pencil on a large loose-leaf drawing block, and Amanda paused involuntarily, attracted by a burst of childish laughter.
