Geoffrey knew this perfectly well. ‘What did you and Pound and Troutbeck want that the Kostases supplied?’ Geoffrey asked with curiosity.
‘My own needs were simple,’ McGrath said modestly. ‘Now Pound and Troutbeck, they had more refined tastes, if you know what I mean.’
Geoffrey wasn’t sure he did.
‘They were,’ McGrath chose his words carefully, ‘collectors. Connoisseurs, if you take my meaning. Especially Troutbeck … They liked old things. Old buildings, bits of china, things you find in antique shops. There’s a set of mountains in the north part of the island. On top of each mountain there’s a castle, and below each castle you’ve got a monastery. Neat and symmetrical, you understand. The castles were ruined but the monasteries now, some of them were still in use. Commander Pound and Troutbeck, they spent one leave climbing each of these mountains in turn and visiting the monasteries.’
‘I can’t see—’ Geoffrey unwisely began.
‘They came off in a hell of a hurry.’ McGrath speeded up his delivery to suit his tale. ‘It was an awful mess. Nobody expected it. There wasn’t any warning. The Turks rolled down the road on Tuesday 10 July and mopped up as they went. They just herded the Greeks in front of them as though they were herding goats down a road. They picked out the blokes who could fight and put them in camps in the villages – corralled them. The rest, the women and the kids they didn’t want, they rolled them back south. Then they stopped.’
McGrath stopped and licked his lips before resuming. ‘It’s odd, but I hadn’t seen any fighting before. At sea you practise for a certain sort of combat, but it’s all long-range with guns.You don’t expect to have to meet the enemy, eyeball to eyeball. And after all, it was peacetime I joined up. You don’t expect violence. It’s a shock. No one knows what to do. No one knows the conventions, like. It took time for orders to come through. But we knew our friends. The Kostases. We had to help, naturally. They’d packed everything they had into a couple of trunks and got themselves rowed out to the frigate after dark the second day. Like I said, we hadn’t any orders. They had British passports, of course. Commander Pound said to put them in the bow locker room and say nothing.’
‘But what …?’ Geoffrey tried again.
‘They brought off what they could. Anything that’d make a price.’
‘Like?’
‘They knew from Pound and Troutbeck what would sell in the West. And they were easily packed.’
‘What were?’
‘Pictures. Holy pictures.’ McGrath’s eye went to his mother’s crucifix.
‘Icons? How do you know?’
‘I organised the transport both ends, didn’t I? They had a packing case full of them, and when they got to London they put them through with our luggage and caught them up the other side of customs.’
‘And you’re saying that’s what the Kostases used for capital when they got here?’
‘Seems logical.’
‘But wouldn’t that have made them richer than they appear to be? If they were valuable?’
‘Depends how easy they were to dispose of, ‘McGrath said judiciously.
‘You mean if they were stolen? If the Kostases didn’t have a proper provenance for them?’
‘Right.’
‘So what has this to do with the death of Paul Kostas?’
‘Reckon those lads had gone into the trade.’
‘Selling icons?’
‘They were carrying one round the school in that bag of theirs on Monday.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I had a look.’
‘When?’
‘Troutbeck wouldn’t let that class take their bags into the lesson. I expect it’s difficult to do drama with forty plus holdalls littering the place. So he made them all leave their bags outside. There was an argument. Lad’s don’t like to be parted from their bags, there being such a lot of thieves about. However, after a bit of argy-bargy they left them. I just happened to be passing and I had a peak at the Kostases’ one.’
Geoffrey drew a deep breath. ‘Let’s get it straight, McGrath. Are you saying that Troutbeck killed one of the Kostases to get his icon?’
McGrath snorted with contempt. ‘What, him? He’s not the man his dad was. He didn’t kill Kostas. He couldn’t kill a fly.’
‘Who then?’
‘Who pushed the Greeks out of north Cyprus?’
‘The Turks.’
CHAPTER NINE
Holy Images
Early afternoon light touched the heads of twenty-five of the pupils of St Veep’s, bent, with religious concentration, over attempts to render the different textures of bread, wine flagon, candle-stick and linen cloth of the still life arranged on the table in the middle of the studio. Theodora took in the space with pleasure. Three walls were bare and white, the fourth was covered with the colours of pupils’ work. The slight smell of turpentine, the orderly circle of easels, the white walls and light from a central overhead window, reminded her of Nonconformist chapels. Had Jessica known and enjoyed its peculiar atmosphere, she wondered? Of Cromwell there was no sign.
She edged cautiously round the periphery of the room, unwilling to disturb the pupils’ silent concentration, and made for a door set in the fourth wall and leading, she surmised, to Cromwell’s sanctum. Before she reached it, the door opened towards her, and through it came Clarissa Bennet. There was a moment’s hesitation on both their parts. Clarissa eyed Theodora in much the same way as she had done over the banisters two days ago on Theodora’s first arrival at the school. Only this time, Theodora noticed, Clarissa was less composed.Then, with a quick, almost petulant movement, Clarissa turned and made for the door by which Theodora had entered.
Cromwell’s room was the opposite of the studio; the vestry, Theodora thought, to the main church. It was smaller, darker, and cluttered with the detritus used for running the main show. There were objects which could have no meaning in themselves – gourds, a colander, a piece of satin cloth – and some such as a mask and a skull which were macabre, which would perhaps take on significance, even beauty, when combined into a still life. Out of nothing, Cromwell’s eye, his expertise, would connect and disconnect objects to create a small universe.
Theodora took in Cromwell seated at his table, a wooden board in front of him, a strong smell of cedar oil surrounding him like a halo of incense. Is he priest, magician or craftsman? Theodora wondered. Certainly she was aware of his power.
Cromwell was embarrassed. He got to his feet and sought in vain for a seat for Theodora. None offered. At a loss for a moment, he finally lifted up a pile of blank canvases and disclosed a stool beneath.
‘Ah, the she-deacon. Or is it priestess?’ Theodora hated this sort of thing and hadn’t yet found a way of dealing with it.
‘Is Clarissa Bennet artistic?’ she asked by way of revenge. She knew the term ‘artistic’ would grate on him.
Cromwell thawed a little. It seemed, if she gave as good as she got, he might come round. ‘She has an excellent critical eye. Her actual execution tends to be derivative.’
‘She parodies?’
‘In life as well as art, I suspect.’
‘Did she know Jessica Stephanopoulos?’ Theodora got down to brass tacks. ‘I mean, was she a friend?’
‘Jessica didn’t have friends. She was a solitary, not a conventual.’
‘But Jessica was one of your group?’
‘She came along to our club meetings, yes. She went on the gallery trips, did the extra bits of work which qualify you for membership of our exclusive women’s club.’
Theodora noted how quickly Cromwell was embarrassed, and how he dealt with his feelings by facetiousness. Perhaps, she thought, he’s not so formidable as he gives out to be. ‘Had your club been on any visits which focused on religious art?’
Cromwell eyed her. It had been a shot in the dark on Theodora’s part, but Cromwell might not know that, ‘You mean our trip to the Resurrection?’
Theodora loo
ked keen.
‘Well, of course, it was her sort of thing. Icons are in her blood. And she was obsessed with them. She’d dozens of copies of them, beautifully done, beautifully observed.’ Cromwell was passionate. ‘And of course she knew Kallistos Bury, the Greek papa there; so it seemed a good idea.’
‘When did you go?’
‘First week of term. We trotted down one wet Saturday morning.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Only the art club.’ Cromwell looked surprised. ‘No point in having an exclusive club if you open it up to the polloi.’
‘And that would have been?’
‘On that occasion I seem to remember two or three middle-school children, Jessica of course, and from the top of the school Clarissa, the Hapgood twins, that charming American girl, Eulalia Topglass, and that irritating child whose uncle is a canon of Exeter which makes her an expert on anything ecclesiastical.’
‘Has the Church of the Resurrection got a good collection of icons?’
‘The iconostasis isn’t outstanding, but being a composite with icons from different places and periods, it’s really rather good for teaching purposes.’
‘Different places?’
‘Well, it’s a Greek Orthodox church, of course, but they’ve got icons from all over the place, donated by different ex-patriot Orthodox communities. There are some Russian and Cypriot ones as well as the Mount Athos factory output.’
‘I don’t know much about icons.’
Cromwell looked at Theodora as though he thought she might be being disingenuous. Then his enthusiasm got the better of him. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you can get some idea from this. It’s only a copy but still good enough to learn on.’
He got up and went to a press on the other side of the room behind Theodora. Before she could turn to watch him, he had slipped a square object about two foot square, wrapped in oiled linen, on to the table between them. Carefully he unfolded the wrapping to reveal an icon of the Virgin at the moment of the annunciation. The mother of God, in the traditional deep blue mantle against a silver background, was turned outwards to receive the prayers of the faithful. In the top right-hand corner a winged Gabriel, considerably smaller to denote his status, reached down towards her with a gesture which was half designation, half blessing.
Theodora gazed at it carefully for some time. She could see it was a copy, but it was also the product of some skill and, she thought, of love.
‘They’re wonderful things, aren’t they?’ Cromwell was warmed by her appreciation. ‘Every stage in their making is a religious act. You know how, when a priest vests for a service, he prays particular prayers as he puts on each liturgical garment, so that he’s literally clothed in prayer. Well, it’s rather like that with an icon. The preparation of the wood on which they’re painted, through the mixing of the pigments to the execution of the figures, is the product of a consecrated life. Only monks produce icons. Not nuns.’ He grinned maliciously at Theodora.
‘And the end product?’
‘Highly stylised beauty. No ego, no self-expression, no whimsical innovation. And because egoless, fit for worship, windows to heaven. Creation only from existing elements. Like God.’
‘It depends how you interpret the texts,’ said Theodora, ever one for accuracy.
‘I’m not a theologian, only an artist. Art combines existing elements to make significant wholes.’
‘Do your pupils grasp this?’
‘Jessica did. Most go for self-expression. No discipline, no self-denial in the modern world.’
Theodora was rather intrigued by this religious view of things from so exuberant and, she had judged, ego-filled a personality as Cromwell.
‘Whose is this?’ She gestured to the icon on the table.
‘It’s Jessica’s copy of the one she has at home.’
‘It’s very carefully done.’
‘I supervised its every stage,’ said Cromwell with satisfaction. ‘Jessica knows how to prepare boards, mix pigment and, as you can see, draft. Her spiritual life I am not qualified to comment on, but I’d say there was a glimmer there, wouldn’t you?’ He glanced sideways at Theodora for an informed opinion.
‘Have you seen the original?’
Cromwell looked regretful. ‘She wouldn’t let me do that. I imagine the family might have objected to her bringing it in, and she, perhaps, didn’t quite feel up to introducing me to her family. Her father’s a soldier, I gather.’ Cromwell seemed to think that this explained Jessica’s reluctance.
‘Where would a work like this have originated? Could you tell from a copy?’
‘It depends how accurate Jessica has been. If she’s got it right, it’s not the best period, that is, tenth-century Byzantine or twelfth-century Russian. It could be latish, fourteenth century, Greek certainly, by someone who has seen a bit of Italian.’
‘Corruption setting in?’
Cromwell grinned. ‘As you gather, I like the more austere early stuff rather than the more luscious later. Still – ’ he gave a last look at the admirable piece and lovingly replaced the wrapping – ‘it’s pretty good, all the same.’
‘When did Jessica give it to you?’
‘Last thing Monday, just before she was snatched. Poor kid. Where on earth is she now, do you suppose?’
Theodora glanced at Cromwell’s exaggeratedly beautiful head, its abundant dark hair curling and full, his expression of nobility on a wide brow, his lips chiselled, his chin cleft. He’d be seen as a desirable object of worship by adolescent girls.
‘That icon you showed at your lecture; the Virgin and child. Where would the original of that be?’
‘It’s a slide Jessica gave me. Something she’d picked up on her travels, I suppose. It’s a particularly good teaching slide to contrast with the Laslo portrait of your grandmother.’
Theodora considered what she had seen. Jessica had a relationship with at least two icons. She had her own bedroom one, a Virgin & Child, and now this new one of the Annunciation which had moved her enough to make her want to make a careful copy. Where had Jessica found this latter, Theodora wondered. Should she tell Cromwell that she had seen the original of the slide recently and in Jessica’s bedroom. She decided against it and instead asked, ‘Why did Clarissa Bennet faint at your lecture yesterday?’
Cromwell blushed and shook his head like a horse. ‘Probably my magnetic presence,’ he said angrily.
Geoffrey strode briskly across the playing fields of SWL Comprehensive towards the two tower blocks of the school. McGrath’s words, or rather his hints, preoccupied him. They shed a new light on things. The only question was, did he trust him?
He remembered McGrath’s small piggy eyes, veiled in drink, but then suddenly keen and intelligent. He’d an Irishman’s delight in a tale, a drama. His talk about past politics provided a background, a landscape of violent events from which it was possible to imagine a concatenation of cause and effect which might lead to the present outrage, the death of a boy. But if so, if McGrath were pointing in the right direction, could McGrath himself be excluded from suspicion? he’s been present in Cyprus; he was present at SWL Comprehensive. He’d actually been on the corridor when the boy’s death occurred. He really ought to have pressed McGrath for more information, especially about the Kostases. How many of the Cyprus generation were active and still about? Did McGrath keep up with them? Had he indeed renewed an acquaintance with the older Kostases, the original twin brothers whom he’d helped out of Cyprus, one of whom was presumably the father of Peter and Paul?
Geoffrey broke into a trot as his thoughts gathered pace. Would what McGrath had said help Troutbeck, or would it increase the possible reasons for the killing? He reflected on what he knew about Troutbeck. Troutbeck was a fish out of water, so to speak. It wasn’t clear what he was doing at SWL Comp. If McGrath’s tale about Troutbeck’s father’s connection with the Kostas family was right, had something, some knowledge perhaps, been passed on from father to son which might give cause
for Kostas to taunt Troutbeck or for Troutbeck to kill Kostas?
And what of McGrath’s cryptic remarks, on which he had refused to elaborate, about Turks? Geoffrey changed gear into a serviceable crosscountry canter, his stride lengthening as he settled into a rhythm and rounded the goalposts of the last of the three football pitches. He was sure there would be Turks in Betterhouse, but he was equally sure that he didn’t know any. The only Turks Geoffrey knew about were those you prayed for in the collect for Good Friday. Perhaps he’d better check on that. Who would know? Who was nearest to hand? Springer might. Springer had a big network of useless information tapped into that database of his in his awful office. He’d start there.
Before that, however, he really must have a word with the other Kostas twin. Given that his mother had said she didn’t know where his father was, and clearly the mother herself wasn’t in the know, the Kostas youngster was the only person who probably knew everything Geoffrey needed to know. Needed, that is, if he were to exonerate Troutbeck. It was simply that Geoffrey doubted if he could be made to speak. Still, he must try.
Geoffrey found he’d worked himself up to a splendid final sprint as he reached his decisions. He pelted across the remaining twenty yards of mud and took the cracked paving towards the glass entrance doors at a punishing pace.
In front of the secretarial guichet with its minatory notice, NO PUPILS BEFORE ELEVEN, Geoffrey stood with his hands on his hips waiting for his breathing to return to normal before embarking on his inquiries. Since the death of Kostas, rules about all visitors reporting to the office had been tightened. In theory the secretary on duty was supposed to survey everyone as they came past the glass. In fact, the secretarial staff were much too busy to do any such thing. When he’d panted his way back to having enough breath to frame his questions, Geoffrey tapped on the glass to attract attention.
A school secretary’s tasks are not few. Apart from the day-to-day typing of letters and lists, and the immense amount of work that the DFE had created by its demands for statistical information on everything, from numbers of pupils whose first language is not English to the number of times the boys’ urinals were flushed in every twenty-four hours, there are the ongoing demands of pupils who are bleeding from various parts of their anatomies, parents who are angry with the school about pupils who are bleeding, parents who need to see the head, parents whom the head would rather not see, workmen who need to be directed to parts of the building which need their attention, workmen who need to be prevented from attending to parts of the building where it is not convenient for them to be or might be downright dangerous for them to be. The visitors alone could keep a full reception staff busy throughout the day, Education Welfare Officers come early, publishers’ reps later, visiting governors at any time so long as it is inconvenient, educational psychologists, peripatetic music staff, and local authority advisers are all regulars. Either you deal with all or you deal with none. Mrs Eveready had chosen the latter course. Her mother had been a good plain cook; Mrs Eveready was a good plain typist. All else, apart from a little first-aid for the juniors, she eschewed.
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