Freddy’s guard dog, uncomfortable with the grouping, Letty judged, was prowling the stage behind them.
Louis Adams was suddenly at her elbow. “More champagne for the ASM?” he asked. Members of the cast had volunteered for the task of carrying around the refreshment trays on the insistence of Montacute. No strangers in the role of waiters had been allowed on the set. Everyone at present in the theatre was known by name and reputation to the Greek and British authorities.
“No, thanks, Louis. I’m saving myself for the red wine. It’s rather special. We’ll have that in—about five minutes. Can you warn the other waiters to stand by?”
The signal came from Hugh Lattimore. Positioned behind Dionysus, he waved to Letty to indicate that all was in order.
Jugs, bowls, bottles, and drains were ready for the libation ceremony. Letty caught Freddy’s eye and nodded. He stepped forward, the immaculate host, and announced that it was high time the God of the Theatre received his due.
His due. His due! Too late, Letty remembered the one traditional offering they had never thought to serve up for the god that evening.
Chapter 42
Letty accepted a glass of bloodred wine from the tray when it appeared at her side, as did everyone else. Everyone apart from Melton and Thetis, she noticed uneasily. Both refused with a discreet shake of the head. Then she remembered Thetis was to hold the silver bowl while Helena Venizelos poured the libation into it before tipping it away into the channel in the earth. She would need to keep her hands free and her head clear. A sensible precaution.
Freddy was at his charming best. His clear tenor penetrated even Letty’s distracted brain. “An ode to the god of the evening—a modest offering, courtesy of those wonderful bards: Homer, with a bit of help from Orpheus and patched together by dubious rhymester Wentworth. Not often I have the chance of speaking in such a sonorous amphitheatre … it makes even my voice sound godlike.” He waved an arm around the theatre in an encompassing gesture and stopped suddenly, his attention caught.
“But—ah!—I see we have an audience of one? A solitary spectator!” He shielded his eyes from the glare of the lights and looked upwards into the auditorium. “Sir! Welcome!” he called out with the jovial aplomb of a Master of Ceremonies.
“Yes, you, sir, in the back row. What shall we guess you are? Aficionado of Aeschylus, Devotee of Dionysus? Or did you merely fall asleep in the last act? Whoever you are—do stay for a while. I press you into service as adjudicator. Which of the players wins the laurel wreath for elocution this year? That is the question. And the required answer is: Wentworth!”
As Freddy prepared to launch into his ode, Letty turned and sneaked a glance upwards at the stray spectator on whom Freddy had so firmly (deliberately?) turned the spotlight. A lonely figure on the topmost rank of seats got to his feet and bowed in a stagey way, responding to the challenge. Did Letty imagine that he was looking directly at her? The man raised both his empty hands in a meaningful gesture of innocence or surrender. It occurred to her that this harmless figure who appeared, thanks to Freddy’s joking inclusion in the ceremony, to everyone else to be a plant, a part of the proceedings, was known to only one person in the gathering. To her.
Soulios Gunay.
Lying, murderous Gunay. Anonymous Gunay. No one else had ever set eyes on him.
Letty froze. She licked her dry lips and looked frantically about. What to do? Scream? Cut Freddy off just as he was getting started? She turned her head once again to Gunay. Quietly seated now, he was calmly watching. He’d indicated by his gesture to her that he was no threat. He was simply watching a space from which his target had been withdrawn. No danger. Why then was she feeling such a paralysing terror? Why hadn’t she launched into a hysterical denunciation? Shouted accusations of kidnapping and murder?
An unarmed man was watching a space empty of interest for him, she told herself again.
A hand reached for hers and dragged her towards the edge of the orchestra.
“William! Up there … That man! It’s—”
“Shh! Quiet! Keep your head down! Don’t interfere, Letty. Stand behind me and don’t move. We’re just the chorus in all this. Leave it to those who wrote the script. Freddy has him in his sights. Listen! He’s just getting into his stride,” Gunning said.
Clearly revelling in his priestly role, Freddy began to belt out his tribute to Dionysus:
“I call upon the roaring god,
Ivy-crowned, splendid son of Zeus!
Savage, secretive, shape-shifter,
Dual-natured Dionysus!
Lord of Laughter and of the Dance!
You delight in the fruit of the vine,
You feast on raw flesh!
Come blessed and leaping god
And bring much joy to all!”
Everyone turned, raised a glass, and drank a toast to the god. Thetis and Helena moved towards him, gliding along with the dignity of priestesses. They looked up dutifully at the sneering stone features, they poured and lifted with large gestures in a ceremonial way and murmured a chant, as had been rehearsed. The classical beauty of the women, the colour of the costumes, the musical sound of the ancient Greek they were uttering, were casting a considerable spell, attracting all eyes.
The newsman, for one, was beside himself with rapture. He brandished his camera and elbowed a guest out of his way to get the angle he wanted just as Helena held out the bowl and tilted it away from her. The red wine glinted and gleamed as it streamed down into the earth.
A shot, a scream, a blinding flash. The column rocked forward. The stone god crashed to the earth a split second before the single shot sounded. The weight of stone smashing onto pavings and the blast of a high-calibre revolver combined to deafen and knock the breath out of everyone who heard. Their eyes were dazzled by the magnesium flare of the flashbulb. Letty darted forward, blinking and moaning, moving against the crowd of onlookers pushing their way in panic away from the scene. Men and women, in their terror, were rushing to hide wherever they could and, finding little in the way of cover, were throwing themselves to the ground.
She was horrified by the sight of Helena, a spreading red stain on the front of her white gown, flying sideways and down away from the statue. She had fallen and now lay motionless on the floor. The silken wings of Thetis’s robe fluttered down protectively over her, inches from the column and the splintered head.
In hurling her friend to safety, Thetis had put herself straight into danger. Letty saw her try to wriggle free of the weight of marble that pinned her to the ground by one leg. But Thetis seemed to be wriggling with another purpose. She pulled the Webley from her robe, swivelled as best she could, and raised her weight onto one elbow. In an agonising effort of concentration, with a steady hand, she fired off all six rounds into the bushes behind them. An unfathomable roar rang out and a body crashed through the undergrowth beyond the arc of lights.
“Stay!” One word from William kept Letty back as he dashed with Montacute across the arena. Wentworth was already there, struggling with the column.
“Lever!” yelled Gunning. “Louis! Get that plank over here!”
“Raw flesh!” Letty cursed the god in her heart. “You had to have your raw flesh! Your human sacrifice. A body torn to shreds and bleeding before you!”
She looked around desperately. Were she and Thetis the only ones who’d heard the first shot, eclipsed as it was by the more dramatically visual collapse of the statue? Was that stain on the front of Helena’s dress spilled wine as she’d assumed, or was it more sinister than that? But someone else had noticed. The guards were on their feet, crouching, guns in hand. At a signal from their officer they hurried to form a protective circle around the floor while he charged across the arena in the direction of Thetis’s shots, to plunge, in lone pursuit, into the undergrowth behind the statue. A shot and a scream rang out. The finality of a calculated second shot from the same deep-throated gun followed and then silence.
Was it all over? Letty wa
nted it to be all over. But Dionysus was a god who demanded a triple sacrifice. And he was not yet satisfied.
Geoffrey Melton, revolver in hand, had run on silent feet to the edge of the orchestra. Placing himself behind the stem of one of the lamps, he twisted it around until he had what he wanted in his sights.
Soulios Gunay, still smiling, squinted affably into the searchlight. He got to his feet, presenting himself, a standing target, and he began, sardonically, to clap: a Roman Emperor applauding a performance put on in his honour. He seemed content with the scene of carnage and chaos on the stage. At the moment the Browning boomed he held out both arms, directing the bullet to his chest, welcoming his death. One shot. Gunay’s shoulder jerked. A second. Gunay collapsed soundlessly, sideways onto the marble seat.
When Letty turned back to the arena, it was to see two guards returning from the wilderness, carrying along between them a lifeless body. Directed by their fighting cock of an officer, who still had his gun in his hand, they dropped it in the middle of the stage.
The terrified cast and their guests picked themselves up from the floor, sensing that the last shot had been fired, and began to creep slowly forward, eyes watchful and staring, drawn to see who had uncorked the bloodbath.
Chapter 43
Peebles! Are you there?” Montacute put back his head and shouted. “Dr. Peebles!”
“I’m right here at your side, man,” said a calm voice. “I’ve checked the First Lady and she’s fine. Just winded from being hurled on her back by this valiant Valkyrie here. Not hurt in the least. The dramatic red stain is no more than a bowlful of red wine. Careful! Careful!”
He hovered over Thetis, hands reaching for her limbs while the stone rocked dangerously above.
“One more heave!” yelled Gunning. Many hands strained down on the end of the plank and others pushed at the tipping column. “Clear the area!” They skipped out of the way as it crashed down inches from Thetis’s feet.
Peebles leaned protectively over her, feeling the limbs with delicate hands, calling out instructions and telephone numbers for the ambulance. “No significant bleeding,” he reported. “These stiff robes were some slight protection. Silk? It can keep out an arrowhead! But it can’t do much against a heavy weight. I’m afraid there are broken leg bones. Crushed kneecap. The foot seems all right—the wooden-soled sandals she’s got on saved her from the worst. Pass me my bag. I left it over there in the front row. She’s going to need a shot of morphine.”
Someone was trying to lead Helena from the scene but she broke away and came back to kneel by Thetis’s side and clutch her hand.
“Don’t worry. I’m fine! Go now! Get away from here,” Thetis managed through gritted teeth. “God, it hurts! Who did I shoot? Was it that little shit, Lattimore? Creeping about in the shrubbery! This is the moment where I spit on the corpse if someone’ll help me over … Percy! I can’t …” She groaned and lapsed into unconsciousness.
“Me? I heard that! She’s blaming me?” Hugh Lattimore struggled forward, pushing his way through the crowd, spluttering with indignation. “How dare she! Will someone kindly tell this lady when she wakes up that I had nothing to do with any of this. I didn’t push the statue over. In fact no one did! I was watching. There was no one but the two ladies within twelve feet of it! Wentworth was nearest and he didn’t touch it! It just crashed down! Act of God, you might say!”
At his words, Gunning exclaimed and moved over to the base of the column, eyes covering the ground. He tore up festoons of green foliage and stirred about until he found what he was looking for. He picked up an object, winding out a length of rope that held it. “A wedge,” he said. “Tug this out and the whole thing collapses. You!” He rounded on Lattimore. “Shut up! Stay exactly where you are and hold yourself ready for questioning by the inspector. At the very least, you’re a close witness of all that transpired this evening.”
He returned to Montacute, who was holding out Thetis’s arm for the doctor’s needle. “Stay with her. I’ll go and see what the guards have brought in. Don’t worry, Percy—that young major seems to have everything under control … though you may need to put the cuffs on Melton, who’s gone quite mad and has been taking potshots at the one-man audience. Now, where the hell is he?”
Chapter 44
There was no sign of Melton, but the man he’d shot was coming into the spotlight, descending the marble steps, carried along like a wild boar by arms and legs. The body bumped and swayed with the stately tread of the four troopers who held it.
They put him down by the side of the first victim.
The crowd approached tentatively. No one called out in horror or even surprise. Heads were shaken, a puzzled murmuring began. Montacute tore himself from Thetis’s side and made his way over to take charge. He moved people back a short way from the two bodies, knelt, and checked to confirm that they were, indeed, both lifeless.
He got to his feet, cleared his throat, and voiced the question on the tip of everyone’s tongue: “Who in blazes have we got here? Will someone kindly put a name to these two?”
Shrugging shoulders, raised eyebrows, bleating denials, and finally silence were his response.
Letty pushed through to the inspector. “I can identify this man. The solitary spectator. His name’s Soulios Gunay and he’s a tobacco merchant. From Turkey.” She felt bound to add, out of a scarcely understood respect: “But he’s really a native of Macedonia.”
“Good God! This is him?” Montacute snorted and harrumphed. “I had imagined someone more formidable. Um … thank you, Miss Talbot. Perhaps you would hold yourself ready to make a statement later?”
Freddy Wentworth was suddenly with them, leaning over the other body. He stood up again, a spectral figure, white in the face, his evening suit thick in stone dust, his shirt stained with spilled wine and blood from his cut hands. “And I can identify this man. The one in the shrubbery.” He spoke quietly to Montacute. “But would prefer to do so in private, Inspector, if you wouldn’t mind. I will just say that he is known to the authorities. And those same authorities will expect you to deal … diplomatically … with the remains in the prescribed manner.”
Unsatisfied and in a mood to challenge any authority that got in his way, Montacute shouldered Wentworth aside. Deliberately trying to puncture the diplomat’s discretion, he began a provoking recital of the victim’s wounds. “Shot through the shoulder … small-calibre weapon … probably a consequence of Miss Templeton’s sharpshooting.”
A murmur of approval went up from the crowd.
“Another …” He turned the corpse over onto its front. “The second, I’m assuming … from a more powerful pistol, caught him in the back as he fled.” He looked at the major’s gun, which was still, discreetly, being held in his hand. The major nodded crisply in acknowledgement of his contribution.
“Well done, sir!” someone said from the crowd, and this was echoed by other admirers.
“The third—and the coup de grâce, I’m thinking—was administered by a steady hand and the bullet passed through the victim’s temple.” Again the major nodded.
“He got what he deserved!” a voice commented stoutly.
“Assassin! That’s what he was. Here to shoot the Prime Minister, no doubt. And as he wasn’t present, the fiend went for his wife, poor lady. You’re jolly lucky he didn’t have a go at you, too, Wentworth!”
“Scum! Thank God the military were here!”
“Albanian, probably. Troublemakers! Look at that evil face! Makes you shudder! Odd, though, don’t you think? Anyone noticed? He’s an elderly bloke … What would you say? Fifty? I thought assassins were all young hotheads? University students and the like.”
“If we were told his name we probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce it,” someone drawled. “I expect we’ll have to wait and read it in the Times.”
Hating them, hating the place, Letty reached for Gunning’s hand and whispered in his ear.
“I simply can’t think why London b
othered to issue you with handcuffs, Montacute! You don’t appear to have made much use of them! One young heroine incarcerated for the best part of a day by mistake and that’s about the sum total of your law-enforcing, what?”
Wentworth was blustering, Letty considered. Probably nerving himself to tell them a walloping great lie to cover up some machinations his diplomatic staff had been involved with. She decided not to ask him to marry her. The thought of being hitched to a man who lied for a living was unappealing.
They were sitting around a polished table in one of the state rooms of the Embassy in bright morning light. Civilised, reassuringly official surroundings. Murmuring staff had supplied them with pens and notebooks and blotters. Coffee and shortbread had been served. An aide had apologetically slid under their hands a government form, which Wentworth had waited for them to sign before he began the meeting. “Would you mind? Official Secrets Act and all that nonsense. Can’t even begin until you’ve scribbled on it and returned it to Swinton … Thank you all so much. Now I can stick you in the Tower and cut your throats or something if you divulge a word.”
The First Secretary, clearly fully recovered from his ordeal of the previous evening, was freshly bathed and smelling faintly of Trumper’s best hair oil. Freshly briefed also, she didn’t doubt. The telegraph between Athens and London must have been running hot overnight. She, Gunning, and Montacute had been summoned to appear before him to be fed the official line.
“But first—may we hear the latest news of Miss Templeton? You were at her bedside for most of the night, I understand, Montacute? Very devoted.”
A Darker God Page 35
