“Well, if the Prof was knocked off well before the opening, the killer could guarantee that no one was going to mess about with the body until some time into the performance.”
“An hour at least,” said Letty.
“So, that gives the villain between one and two hours to get away or establish an alibi or just blend with the crowd, going about his usual business,” said Perkins thoughtfully. “That means it was done by someone who knew his routine. What time he’d arrive … where he spent the time before and during the play.”
“Well, that reduces it to a couple of dozen or thereabouts,” muttered Letty, and then, more helpfully: “Andrew had given rather particular instructions that he wasn’t to be alerted for anything other than a dire emergency,” she remembered. “‘Over to you, Hugh,’ he’d said. ‘I’m not your puppetmaster. This is the final rehearsal. Just think for yourselves and turn in a damned good performance,’ he said to everyone.”
“And someone did,” said Montacute. “Someone he knew came in and closed the door, then stabbed him with a weapon he’d brought along for the purpose. And, to gain time—I think it must, as you say, Harry, have been a practical impulse-undressed him, bound his head, and put him in the tub outside, hiding the original occupant here in the wardrobe. It would have been hot in here, mid-afternoon. Merriman was working in his shirtsleeves, so—not too taxing a job to get him out of his loose summer gear and into the bath. At that point the attacker could have slathered the corpse with stage blood without making a mess of himself. And then he went about his business for anything up to two hours unchallenged before Clytemnestra shook the corpse by the shoulder.”
“So what are we saying, then, sir?”
“That this crime was either carefully worked out to the last minute by a cool and—one almost inserts the word ‘professional’—character …”
“Or was an impulsive attack which just happened to be accompanied by a huge amount of luck,” Letty corrected.
The inspector flashed her an approving smile. “As you say!”
“By a man or a woman,” added Perkins disconsolately. His shoulders slumped in mock despair, then he grinned. “In other words—”
“Harry! Don’t say what you’re going to say,” reprimanded Montacute. “Lady present!”
“Well, now, if there’s nothing more the lady can do, Inspector—I’d really like to return to my lodgings.” And Letty added silently, “To bury my face in my pillow and be alone with my grief.”
“Remind me where you’re staying … Oh, Lord! Not with the Merrimans, I hope?”
“Not on this occasion. I’m just passing through Athens on my way home to Cambridge. I was to report to Andrew on the success of the dig he fixed up for me in Crete in the summer. My travelling companion and chauffeur—the Reverend Gunning—has been given a room at the British School and I’m in digs with an English landlady and her husband not far away-just off Stadiou Street, near the British Embassy. Mrs. Rose and her husband were, until three years ago, in the employ of the Embassy. A housekeeping couple. To the joy of many, when they retired they decided not to return to England but to buy a house and set up as a private hotel. Their business is flourishing.”
“I know the lady you speak of. Just round the corner from Klafthmonos Square. The neat house with the green shutters? Handy for the police station.”
“And the Embassy.”
“I think I’d better try to stop a cab for you on the avenue.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Montacute.” Gunning’s voice broke in before Letty could reply. The vicar appeared out of the shadows, smiling, concerned. “I left the Dodge up on Kolonaki at Lady Merriman’s disposal but—as the lady says—it’s not far and we’re used to walking it. I’ll take Laetitia home now.”
Instead of the relief she’d expected to see at the offer of saving the inspector a precious hour of his time, she saw indecision. Montacute chewed his lip and hesitated, a beady eye on Gunning. Finally: “Look here,” he said, “you’ll think me an awkward old cuss but I’m not comfortable with the thought of the two of you wandering off through all that scrub and then making your way north through the alleyways of the Plaka after dark—No! Listen to me … I know more about the underbelly of this city than either of you. I’m going to send you off with an escort. Sergeant Perkins. Harry!”
The sergeant appeared and stood by ready for further instructions. “Harry, you know where the Embassy is—would you accompany Miss Talbot and Mr. Gunning as far as Klafthmonos Square and then come back here?”
“Right-oh, sir. Forty minutes the round trip?”
“Sounds about right. You may take my torch,” the inspector said, handing it over. “Armed?”
Letty thought this question was asked not to check up on the sergeant but to reassure herself and Gunning.
Harry Perkins tapped his right hip and grinned. “Service Browning, as usual, sir.” He put on his cap and squared his shoulders. Letty thought he looked frighteningly effective. “Madam. Sir. If you’ll kindly follow me …” And he set off down the overgrown pathway at a brisk march.
Chapter 12
Drat!” said Gunning, leaning close to Letty’s ear. “I thought that just for once we were going to be able to snatch a few minutes by ourselves. So much to say and now it’ll have to be a series of ‘And how are you enjoying Athens?… Wonderful weather for the time of year…’ and suchlike stuff. Grr!”
“I thought we’d go as straight as we can through Plaka—which is about as straight as a dog’s back leg …” commented Perkins when they had cleared the confines of the ancient theatre. “Come out on Voulis, then take Stadiou up to the Embassy. More brightly lit, not quite so dusty.”
Letty saw in his eye the same knowing gleam she’d seen in many a London cabby’s.
“And how are you both enjoying Athens, may I ask?” the sergeant went on blandly. “We do seem to be having rather wonderful weather for October, don’t you think?”
Stifling a laugh, Letty trotted forward into the widening pavement to take Perkins’s arm, carefully choosing his left. “You’re awfully young to have made it to sergeant,” she said. “Congratulations!”
“Oh, thank you, miss. Yes, four months ago I was just a constable. But then this Athens job came up—riding herd on the Chief Inspector and generally tidying up after him. That was the way he described the job, you understand.” Perkins hurried to dismiss any suggestion of criticism of his boss. “And the promotion went with it. I’d have snatched at the chance anyway … always wanted to travel the world, and I missed out on the war.”
“Have you got a good billet in the city or have they put you into barracks?”
“I’m a guest in the family of one of the Greek coppers, madam. Inspector Montacute insisted. Best way of learning the language, he reckons. And he’s right. I love the Greeks … well, those I’ve met outside my professional sphere, if you take my meaning. The lady of the house is cut from the same cloth as my old ma—honest, house-proud, tough as last Sunday’s joint, but she’s a much better cook.” He smiled at Letty, and seemed about to be wondering whether he could make a confidence.
Guessing his secret, Letty asked casually: “And are there daughters in the household, Sergeant?”
He laughed. “I’ll say! Three beauties!”
“Then I think I should offer some really practical advice: It saves a lot of trouble if you pick the eldest! Were you aware that the poet Byron of scandalous repute spent some time in Athens with a family much as you describe? He went too far with his versifying and had to flee the country when he was assumed to have made an indiscreet declaration regarding the youngest daughter—Theresa, I think her name was—”
“‘Maid of Athens, ere we part
“‘Give, oh give me back my heart!’” the sergeant intoned. “His lordship was a fool not to take up the offer, if you want my opinion, madam. Might have saved himself a lot of inconvenience in later life … with a good Greek wife to keep him on the straight and narr
ow. She wouldn’t have put up with his nonsense.”
Gunning smiled and sighed and settled to bringing up the rear guard as they made their way through the narrow lamp-lit streets of the Plaka. Perkins glanced back anxiously.
“Don’t be concerned for Mr. Gunning,” Letty advised. “He knows the way and he has a fine right hook.”
Perkins grinned. “Did I hear someone call him a vicar? Funny, that … I’d have taken him for a military man, the way he walks.”
“He’s seen his share of action. He was an Army chaplain serving on the front line. Gunning’s a tough man … much decorated. He frightens me sometimes.”
Café tables still crowded the pavements and were filling up with predinner drinkers ordering their ouzo or their wine. Strong tobacco vied with scents of spicy cooking and from most of the oil-lamp-warm interiors came the sounds of native instruments tuning up for the nightly sing-song. In this street the plaintive, plucked notes of the Turkish outi remembered its Asian homeland with sorrow, anchored, in the background, by tambourine and shepherd’s flute. Crowds of thin children, large-eyed, hands extended, dogged their steps and Gunning began to empty his pockets of the coins he always carried for the purpose.
Perkins, becoming aware of the excitement behind him, turned with a reproving smile for Gunning. “We’ll make faster progress, I think you’ll find, Reverend, if you keep your hands in your pockets. Give to one and you find there’s another hundred in front of you. I don’t know how they pass the signal down the line. Poor little whippersnappers! Immigrants, most of ’em. Still homeless after five years. Fair makes your heart bleed! I always advise those of a giving nature to put their money where it’ll do most good—into the hands of the American Ladies. Perhaps you know them, madam?”
“The nursing charity, you mean? Yes, I’ve met one or two of their organisation. Splendid women! I was thinking of offering my services while I’m in the city, though I’m not sure exactly what I could offer.”
The sergeant looked at her, assessing her appearance. The well-cut skirt and jacket, the handmade ankle boots, the silk blouse and pearl necklace, told their tale. “Only two things worth the offer, madam,” he said. “Money and energy. You can’t feed thousands of starving nippers with a pat on the head. I’ve not got much of the former but I’ve got plenty of the latter and I spend my day off working at the orphanage. Perhaps you’d like me to give you the address …?”
“Thank you, I’d like that,” Letty said quietly.
The journey passed quickly in Perkins’s company, and Letty was not surprised that Montacute had chosen this man to be at his side during his spell in Athens. But she did rather wonder if the sergeant would be still by his side for the return journey. He looked to her like a man who has unblocked his ears and listened to the Sirens’ voices. Everything about the city seemed to please him. The food, the wine, the architecture—all came in for a few glowing words from Perkins.
“Ever been to Paris, madam?” he asked. “Never been there myself, but the Guv’nor says this is every bit as smart as Paris in places. Truth is, I think he was as surprised as I was when we fetched up here. Hadn’t been expecting sights like that, for instance …” He paused and gestured towards a house occupying every inch of a corner site. Its perfect proportions, restrained decorative details, and elegant balconies made Letty sigh with admiration. “And that’s nothing special,” Perkins went on in his proprietorial tone. “Ten-a-penny these grand houses … streets and streets of ’em.”
“And have you seen the Schliemann mansion?” Letty was interested to hear his opinion.
“Mansion?” He grunted. “Palace, more like! A trifle overblown for my taste, madam. And all that indecent statuary posing about on the roof in full view of anyone who passes by! If I were Greek I’d suspect the old feller was ’aving a larf. Surprised they put up with it.” He sniffed.
But the British Embassy, when they turned off Stadiou into Klafthmonos Square, received an approving comment.
In spite of their eagerness to be home, they all stood for a moment at the gates, peering into the courtyard like three urchins, enjoying the spectacle of the Legation building en fête. Under a full moon bathing the scene extravagantly in glamour, the dark pine trees of the garden were silhouetted against brightly lit windows; ranks of lanterns marched up the wide steps leading to the grand entrance. Both doors were standing wide open onto the great hallway and footmen were greeting late arrivals, ushering them forward into the pool of light cast by a chandelier. The scene had all the allure of a Bakst setting for some magical ballet—Cinderella or The Nutcracker, perhaps.
“They never asked us to the ball,” grumbled Perkins, staring in fascination.
They stood listening to the bursts of chatter and gusts of laughter as doors opened and closed; they enjoyed the sound of a string band which was suddenly joined by a bandonéon, guiding the players seamlessly from the Merry Widow waltz into a throbbing Argentinian tango.
“No,” said Letty. “We weren’t invited, but two of the cast told me they were expected here for a party. They weren’t deceiving me, evidently.”
“Probably on their third tango by now,” Gunning commented.
“I wonder what’s going on,” said Letty.
“Some shindig or other,” said Gunning. “They don’t need much of an excuse to shake out their epaulettes, starch their ties, and slip into their glad rags. I think it’s to do with an anniversary of something international … the Entente not-so-Cordiale most probably. Diplomats!” He spat out the word. “Oozing around, flattering and fascinating each other … oiling the wheels of their own state’s juggernaut! Do they ever notice the vehicle they’re servicing so assiduously is heading straight for a war zone?”
“William! I don’t think …”
“Sorry, Letty! It’s my theory that if you got rid of all the embassies in the world you’d have a better chance of peace. They’re probably all in there negotiating alliances, planning invasions, redrawing borders, arranging transfers of populations. Doesn’t it occur to you that all those starving scrappits we passed on the way here were uprooted from their homelands by bureaucrats and their political masters?”
“William!”
Again he ignored her. Hadn’t even heard her, she thought. “How would you like your nationality assigned by a new line drawn on a map? One day you go to sleep knowing you’re Greek, speaking Greek, your family has tilled the land around you for generations, your friends and neighbours are all around you, but you wake up and find that overnight, you’ve become a Turkish citizen and must return to that homeland, leaving everything behind. And it’s all been decided according to your religion. If you worship in a mosque—that does it. Off you go. And, no—you can’t suddenly change religion … not allowed … not playing by the rules …
“If someone’s omitted to sharpen his pencil before the planning meeting, which will, of course, be convened thousands of miles away in a congenial place—like Lausanne—your village is no longer Greek and Christian, it’s Turkish and Muslim. And vice versa. You take to the roads in your donkey cart. And you pass other displaced souls coming in the opposite direction. Life or death at sea doled out by the pencilling-in of an arrow. Peacemaking? Warmongering? Do they make any distinction? Do they care so long as they get their patent-leather dancing shoe on the next rung of the ladder?”
Letty was speechless with embarrassment at his outburst, and it was the sergeant who picked up the pieces.
“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” he said, puzzled by Gunning’s bitterness. “I think it’s just a bunch of nobs in there getting as drunk as skunks, having a good time. Dressing up. Showing off. Harmless enough sort of entertainment. And at least while they’re in there annoying each other with their gossip and scandal they’re not out here bothering us in the real world. That’s what the inspector thinks at any rate. Good luck to ’em, I say.”
Chapter 13
The butler tracked down his quarry, spotting his highly polished size twelves tap
ping in time to a tango behind a lemon tree on the terrace. Sipping his third glass of champagne and flirting merrily with the wife of the French ambassador, Thomas Wentworth, His Britannic Majesty’s First Secretary at the Embassy in Athens, was not pleased to be found. The mischief died in his eyes, the smile slipped from his lips, as he became aware of the discreetly coughing presence at his elbow.
“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” murmured the butler, with an apologetic bow to the Countess. “I have a message for Mr. Wentworth.”
Wentworth concealed his rush of alarm behind a tetchy sigh. Notes would be delivered during an Embassy soirée only in the utmost urgency and then by a footman. If Grant had taken it upon himself to appear with his silver tray, then the piece of folded paper being offered to him must contain something of moment. Wentworth bit back an urge to make a jocular and nervous remark … “What ho, Grant! Serbs and Bulgars decided to have a go at each other at last, have they? Balkans on the brink again?” He tightened his lips. Might just as well chuck a grenade into the middle of the floor. Any indiscreet remark, even delivered in jest and under the influence, would be picked up by these raucous vultures and passed around the Foreign Offices of Europe to be picked over, swallowed, or spat out by the hundreds of spies and hangers-on who infested them.
“Pull yourself together, Wentworth!” he silently told himself. Three glasses, was it? He counted them up, then remembered the large glass of Talisker he’d shared with the Ambassador before the junket had started. He had mentally taken himself off watch for the evening and here was Grant with his granite features putting him on the spot, warning him to raise his guard.
Inspiration struck. “The Wellington Cup at Newmarket … got a horse running, my dear …” he muttered to the Countess. “I only hope the result warrants the interruption to my evening, Grant?” He accepted the note with a convincing show of disapproval.
The butler caught his cue. “You asked to be informed, I believe, sir. It came through on the wire moments ago. I trust the news will in no way detract from your evening. Sir.” Grant permitted himself a reassuring smile.
A Darker God Page 12
