He felt frustrated at being unable to communicate with the driver. Each had discovered in the friendliest manner that neither spoke the other’s tongue, and that seemed to be the end of it. Patrick thought of all sorts of remarks he could make in French, German, or Italian, but he could say nothing except simple words of greeting in Greek, and it was too dark to consult his phrase book. The journey seemed interminable, spent in silence. Ahead, the lights of another car showed at intervals as they travelled along the twisting roads. What Patrick could see of the countryside was rocky and barren.
At last the road began to drop down and he saw below them the lights of a small town.
‘Challika?’ he asked.
‘Nai, nai,’ agreed the driver.
Not a soul was about, and the sea was like black glass as they drove along the coastal road. A few fishing boats lay at their moorings in the harbour, and there was one large yacht with riding lights at anchor further out. When they drew up outside the hotel, another taxi was already parked there.
Patrick’s driver shepherded him inside and handed him over to a youth of about fifteen who seemed to be in charge of the hotel. At the desk, surrendering her passport, was the white-haired woman. She, too, had driven alone through the night.
Patrick thanked the driver with a confident ‘efkaristo’ and tipped him generously, which pleased the man since his fare had been paid in advance by the travel agent. The hall of the hotel was dimly lit, and a small maid was swabbing the tiled floor with a mop; the scene was bleak, and Patrick’s heart sank, but the wide smile on the face of the youth was warm enough.
‘Please to follow,’ he said, leading the way to the lift. ‘I bring the baggages,’ and he picked up their two suitcases.
Patrick stepped back to let the white-haired woman precede him.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and went ahead. Then she said something to the boy in Greek, at which he beamed and broke into a flood of speech. The woman laughed and answered. Patrick caught the phrase ‘sigha, sigha’ which he knew meant, more or less, ‘slow down please,’ and indicated that the boy spoke too fast for her to follow. He looked at her with new interest.
Her room was on the second floor. The boy led her away to it, asking Patrick to wait as his was on the one above. After some time he returned and they continued upwards. Patrick by now was tired enough to have slept on the marble floor of the landing without complaint; the boy, who had, after all, to remain awake throughout the night, insisted on showing him all the glories of his apartment, with its bathroom and range of cupboards. There was a balcony, and beyond the garden could be seen the lights of the town shining on the sea. The scent of flowers rose from below, and the sound of cicadas filled the air.
‘You like?’ said the boy, with a sweeping gesture which embraced the whole vista around them, as if he owned it all.
Patrick did.
IV
Now that he could at last indulge it, Patrick’s desire for sleep fled. A swim would be wonderful; it would relax his stiff muscles after the journey. He thought about it, as he stood on the balcony after the boy had gone. The swimming- pool was just below; he could see the shimmer of the water. However, he might astound the lad if he went out at this hour; it was, after all, almost three o’clock. Better wait till daylight.
He had a bath, hoping the gurgling pipes would disturb no one, then stood on the balcony again listening to the cicadas and inhaling the scents of the night: flowers, pine trees, and the sea. Light showed from another balcony below, where someone else must be awake; he wondered if it was the white-haired woman.
The bed was made up with only a sheet, and Patrick found even that superfluous, as he lay in the darkness with the sound of the cicadas still loud in the air. He decided that he was too tired to sleep.
He slept.
At a quarter-to-six he was wide awake. He got out of bed and went on to the balcony. Now, in the clear light, he could see mountains in the distance. The pool, surrounded by geraniums, looked inviting, but the sea would be better.
Ten minutes later, in towelling jacket and canvas shoes, Patrick padded down the marble staircase and into the hall. The lad was still on duty at the desk. He hid a yawn as Patrick appeared, and said ‘Good morning.’
An open door led into the garden, and beyond stone steps went down to a terrace where there were flower beds planted with asters, dahlias and love-lies bleeding. A further flight of steps continued to the beach. Bare hills stretched on either side, dotted with olive trees. Rocks bordered the water’s edge to one side of the beach, and here, Patrick stopped. There was no one else to be seen. He took off his shoes, put his glasses in the pocket of his jacket, which he removed and laid neatly on the ground; then he went to the edge of the rocks and peered into the water. Without his glasses it looked blurred, but it was aquamarine blue, translucent, and deep. He dived in.
It was not cold, just chilled enough after the night to be refreshing. He swam out towards the nearby headland of rock with his easy, not very stylish crawl, then lay on his back looking at the sky as he cruised slowly along. Already Oxford seemed a world away; he would have to make an effort even to remember about Yannis in this peaceful place. He rolled over and swam parallel to the shore for a while, then lifted his head from the water. Towards the rocks, he saw a blob; another swimmer had arrived. Patrick swam slowly in that direction, wondering if it was a solitary-minded person or someone who would exchange a greeting when they met.
The other swimmer was a slow mover. The head remained well down in the water, and there was no sign of action from the limbs. He was like a snorkel swimmer, lying motionless on the surface gazing into the depths.
Patrick swam closer, until even without his glasses he was sure that there was no snorkel tube. The swimmer lay unmoving, face downwards in the water, arms floating outstretched, and there was something very wrong about him, for the figure – it was a man – was fully dressed. Patrick knew before he turned him over that he was dead.
V
Swimming on his back, Patrick towed the body to the shore. There might be some life left. But when he had dragged it out on to the sand, there was no doubt of its condition.
He stumbled back to where he had left his glasses, shoes and bathrobe; then, his focus restored, went quickly into the hotel. The boy had gone off duty, and a pale young man with a neat moustache was now behind the desk. Patrick hoped his English was as good as the boy’s.
‘Good morning, sir?’ An inquiring inflection of the voice, and a smile, slightly anxious.
‘There’s a dead man on the beach,’ said Patrick, bluntly.
‘Sir?’ The clerk gaped at him and a blank look came into his eyes.
No doubt it did sound crazy at half-past six in the morning.
‘A man is dead on the beach,’ Patrick repeated, distinctly.
‘Dead?’
Patrick wondered for a lunatic instant if his phrase book covered this contingency. Instead, he sought aid from philology.
‘Nekros,’ he tried, and added, gesturing, ‘come with me.’
The already pale clerk turned even paler. He hastened out from behind his counter. Had the Englishman gone mad? In silence, they walked quickly to where the body lay.
‘Christos!’ The young man crossed himself and stared in dismay at the still figure which rested near the water’s edge, the head turned to one side. Dark hair was plastered to the skull and covered the face.
‘You get help. I’ll stay here,’ said Patrick.
The clerk looked at him desperately.
‘I tell the manager,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Patrick.
The young man dashed away and Patrick looked down at the body once more. Now, seen through his glasses, it was no longer a blurred mass. It wore dark trousers and a cream linen jacket. He stooped and moved the strands of hair away from the face. There was something familiar about those blotched and puffy features: with rising horror Patrick stared down at what he now recognised as the remain
s of Felix Lomax, senior member of his own college and at present supposed to be aboard the S.S. Persephone lecturing about ancient historical sites.
In minutes, the clerk, whose brain had clicked into efficient motion, was back with a blanket and two sturdy men. They wrapped up the body and bore it away – without difficulty, for Felix was not a big man – finally bundling it into the hotel through one of the service doors. Once it was out of public view the clerk looked relieved.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘The other guests.’
Patrick understood only too clearly. The sudden sight of that corpse in such surroundings was shocking indeed.
‘The police come,’ the clerk added. ‘And the manager.’ This was said with foreboding; the young man seemed more in awe of the manager than of the law.
Patrick still felt numb with the shock of recognising Felix.
‘My name is Grant. Room 340,’ he said. ‘I will get dressed now.’ He indicated his towelling robe. ‘Then I will go to the dining room. You will find me there if you want me.’ Despite his attire, his habitual air of authority clung to Patrick and the clerk responded to it.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. He looked as shaken as Patrick felt.
Patrick rode alone in the lift and stepped from it in a state of unbelief: Felix Lomax, dead in Crete. It was Felix, there could be no mistake; he had recognised the cameo signet ring which Felix always wore.
What a terrible thing. His mind ranged over their last meeting at Alec Mudie’s funeral only a week ago. Felix had renewed his suggestion that Patrick should join the cruise; he was flying to Venice himself the following day.
‘You can’t get away from people in a ship,’ Patrick had said.
What on earth was Felix doing in Crete when he should have been aboard the Persephone?
No doubt the ship called at Heraklion, so that the passengers could visit the museum and the palace at Knossos. Felix must have seen both many times; if he were not the duty lecturer he might have decided to spend the day elsewhere on the island.
But how had he drowned? And when?
The big dining-room was almost empty when Patrick came downstairs later. It was still early, and most people probably chose to have breakfast on their balconies. He’d do so in future, though he didn’t propose to spend many nights in Challika. Several waiters were talking together, their sibilant voices low but their gestures dramatic; by this time all the staff would know that a dead man had been found in the sea.
He ordered coffee and hoped the management ran to rolls, and not the limp toast, wrapped in a paper napkin, which was the normal Greek hotel breakfast.
Jane, who had been to Greece too, had advised taking his own supply of crispbread.
‘Nonsense. Crusty old thing I may be, but I’m not so set in my ways yet that I can’t take things as I find them,’ Patrick had said.
But when the waiter returned and spread before him two individual foil-wrapped measures of instant coffee, pots of hot water and milk, pale toast and a slice of madeira cake, Patrick began to wonder if her advice was not sound after all.
‘Parakalo,’ said the waiter, with a proud smile, as if he were serving the crispest rolls in Europe. And Patrick could never wound his philotimo.
‘Efkaristo,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’
At least there was plenty of jam.
VI
While he ate his languid toast, Patrick thought about Felix Lomax. He was a quiet man, sometimes moody, and at times, unreasonably impatient with his pupils. He had married a large, brisk girl who had turned into a commanding woman. They had produced one meek daughter, a plain gosling who had never turned into a swan; she had married a young man of, according to Gwenda Lomax, a morose disposition, and they lived in Surbiton. Gwenda spent her energy in many voluntary activities for the good of the community; and when she became a grandmother, she adopted her new role with gusto. Felix spent more and more time in college, and for some time now had gone on two Mediterranean lecture cruises each year. It was alleged that he and Gwenda seldom met except at functions both felt obliged to attend. Patrick hoped, basely, that Gwenda would not come tearing out to Crete when she heard about Felix for he would feel obliged to look after her.
Poor old Felix. What a tragic way to end. How could such a thing have happened? Well, no doubt the police would soon discover.
In spite of the rude shock he had had, Patrick was hungry after his swim. He ate up all his toast, and was just finishing his slice of cake when the pale clerk appeared, looking for him. Patrick followed him through the hall and into an office where a uniformed police officer and the hotel manager were conferring.
The manager spoke excellent English, and Inspector Manolakis spoke English too, though less fluently. Both listened attentively to Patrick’s account of how he had found the body.
‘Dr Lomax wasn’t staying here, was he?’ asked Patrick. He couldn’t have been. He could only have left the cruise for the day.
The two Greeks exchanged glances.
‘You know the dead man?’ asked Manolakis.
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘He was a Fellow of St. Mark’s College, Oxford.’
‘Ah, Oxfordi, I have been to this fine city,’ said the manager, who was a thickset man with grey hair and many gold fillings in his teeth.
‘There were papers in his pocket,’ said the policeman. ‘Very much wet, but good. His passport, too. You, Mr Grant, are from Oxford also?’
Patrick’s passport, surrendered the night before, lay on the desk. It disclosed his profession and place of birth, but not his address.
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘Dr Lomax and I are—were—members of the same college.’ He asked again. ‘Was he staying here?’
‘No, Mr Grant. Not in this hotel. We do not yet know which one was his, but that will be moments only,’ said the police officer. ‘We have no news of any missing person.’
Wouldn’t the captain of the Persephone have reported Felix’s absence? He must have been missed by this time. The state of the body indicated that he had been dead for several days. Patrick decided not to mention the cruise; Felix might, for some reason, extraordinary though it seemed, have changed his plans and left the ship. Gwenda, when she heard what had happened, would soon say where he should really have been. Meanwhile, he would not complicate things; what mattered was how Felix had met his death. Was it an accident, or suicide?
Patrick was given permission to spend the morning as he liked, but was asked to return to the hotel for lunch. The police might need to ask more questions. This would give time for the doctor to examine the body and for enquiries to be made at the other hotels. Clearly, all would be concluded with speed and discretion.
His passport was returned to him; he would need it for cashing some traveller’s cheques later to pay for the car. He wondered who would break the news about Felix to Gwenda; the police, probably, primed by some embassy official. He would not volunteer to telephone her. Before now he had found himself deeply involved in such affairs through being over-eager. This time he would remain passive.
Yet what was there to be involved with, in this instance? A sudden death by drowning was sad and hard to accept; it need not be mysterious. But there was a puzzle here, for the captain of the Persephone had put out no alarm for Felix after leaving Crete; if he had, Manolakis would have known about it. What had happened? Why had Felix come to Challika?
VII
As, the hotel manager ushered Patrick from his office, Inspector Manolakis picked up the telephone and spoke curtly into it. He was a man of about Patrick’s age, slightly built, with an aquiline nose and alert, intelligent eyes. The death of a foreigner must be a great headache for the police; it could happen so easily; one often heard of people on holiday dying of heart attacks, Manolakis had doubtless dealt with such cases before.
Patrick resolved to put the whole tragic business at the back of his mind for the moment. His original plan had been to hire a car at once, and that was what he would do.
Accordingly, he set out to walk the mile or so to the town where it could be arranged.
It was already very hot. The sun beat down on the nape of his neck and his shirt stuck to him. He would have to buy some sort of hat. He’d see to it after fixing the car.
There was a choice of travel firms offering tours of Crete and other services, in offices facing the water-front. Patrick went into the first one. It was busy, and he stood at the back to wait his turn. Bright posters on the walls advertised island holidays and trips to Olympia.
An American tourist was having a complicated session with the clerk discussing hotels in Athens and Delphi. Some change of plan was being arranged. The American was short and slim, with crisp grey hair; he was strung about with expensive cameras and wanted to stay at the Athens Hilton. Patrick listened idly while the business was concluded.
Two French girls wanting tickets for the next coach trip to Knossos was a minor matter after that. Patrick’s turn came at last and he was soon dealt with, the car would arrive in half an hour.
This was efficient; Patrick said so, at which the clerk beamed, and they parted amiably. Patrick went to cash a cheque and seek a hat while the car was delivered.
There were a number of shops along the water-front and more in streets running inland to a square with a red-tiled, white-washed church of Byzantine style. Patrick browsed around and eventually bought a lightweight straw affair of conventional shape with plenty of holes for ventilation, and then visited the bank. After all this effort he felt thirsty. There was a kafenion on the water-front, so he sat at a table in the shade and ordered coffee, meaning to ask for metrio in the manner advised by his phrase-book, but was unnerved when the waiter dashed off saying, ‘Yes, sir, Nescafe, amesos,’ leaving him no time.
Mortal Remains Page 2
