by Gavin Scott
“I gather General Alexandros was married when he had his fling with Helena Spetsos,” said Sophie.
“He was very happily married,” said Forrester, “until his wife shot him.”
It was Sophie’s turn to look surprised. “Because of the affair?”
“No, not at all. She shot him because she objected to him joining the resistance. Did it in public view at a farewell dinner when he was about to leave Hydros, where they had an estate. Missed. Killed a goat. Alexandros left for the mainland that same night. Penelope, her name was. Penelope Alexandros. Story spread around the whole Aegean.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Greek women can be very passionate. Think of Clytemnestra or the maenads.”
“The maenads? Who were they?”
“Women driven mad by Dionysus. They roamed the woods and tore men to pieces.”
“All the same, it seems a pity to shoot one’s husband when he wants to go off to war. Especially if he’s a professional soldier.”
“The army had surrendered by then. He was going to join the irregulars.”
“So he’s divorced now.”
“I’m not sure it was ever formalised. He had other things to think about during the war, as we all did. And Penelope Alexandros is far away on her island. Rules it like a feudal potentate, I’m told.”
“How very anachronistic,” said Sophie. Forrester grinned. He had forgotten, momentarily, that as Countess of Bjornsfjord, Sophie Arnfeldt-Laurvig was also effectively the ruler of a small and almost medieval domain.
“Touché. But I’m sure you allow your peasants some rights.”
“They aren’t peasants, they’re farmers. And they have the same rights as anybody else in Norway. They just look to me for…”
“Leadership?”
“Reassurance. Especially during the last few years.”
Forrester, who knew a little about life for civilians in occupied Europe, put his hand over hers. “They were damn lucky to have you,” he said. “And I’m damn lucky you’re with me now.”
And for a moment, amid the glare and noise, they were silent, enclosed in their own world. Then, returning to the present, they reconstructed the scene at the Archbishop’s residence, considering in turn Aristotle Alexandros, Charles Runcorn, Keith Beamish, David Venables, Leigh Fermor and the rest.
“The fact is, whether it was the kouros or the hors d’oeuvres, any one of them could have done it,” said Forrester.
“But apart from the General, which of them had any motivation to do so?” asked Sophie.
“That,” said Forrester, “is what we have to find out.”
“Well,” said Sophie, “I know who I want to talk to first.”
“Who’s that?”
“Why, Helena Spetsos, of course. I think she’s the key to the whole thing.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Forrester. “But I agree we ought to talk to her, and you’d probably be best for that. Do you know where to find her?”
Sophie smiled. “Mr. Lancaster was most helpful. He even made me a little drawing of her building and the street it’s in.” She showed it to Forrester. It was spare, elegant and subtly subversive, as if sending up the pretensions of everyone who lived in that particular location.
“I’d keep that,” he said. “It might be quite valuable one day.”
5
GOING TO SEE THE GENERAL
Moments after Sophie left in a cab, Forrester spotted Venables and Beamish strolling along the square and beckoned them over. He told them of Inspector Kostopoulos’s theories and his own.
“You have been thinking hard,” said Venables.
“I’m anxious to get to Crete. I can’t leave until this has been cleared up.”
“Point taken,” said Venables. “The kouros thing points to another Greek, doesn’t it? Someone who knew about that particular tradition and planned to take advantage of it.”
“It would take some doing, though,” said Beamish. “I mean, you’d have to get the poison onto the statue without your victim noticing what you were up to.”
“And before anybody else put his hand there.”
“And how would you conceal the poison?” asked Venables. “In the palm of your hand?”
“I entirely agree,” said Forrester. “I think our man doctored one of the hors d’oeuvres.”
“Perhaps you could hide the poison in an Elastoplast or something,” said Beamish. “Or, you know, using one of those burn dressings, with liquid inside them.”
“Bit far-fetched,” said Venables.
“It’s not my theory,” said Beamish. “I’m just trying to help your friend here find out what happened.”
“Friend?” said Venables. “I’ve always thought of him as just some chap I met under a pub table during the blitz. And then he passed himself off to me, as I recall, as a soldier-scholar, not some sort of Hercule Poirot.”
“I’ve no desire to be Hercule Poirot,” said Forrester. “But the sooner we can get this cleared up the sooner I can get off to Crete.”
“I’m all for that,” said Venables. “Larry Durrell has invited us to come over to Rhodes and we can’t go until that bloody policeman gives us the nod. What about that chap Prince Atreides? Bloke with the medals and the brilliantined hair. He was near the kouros and he looked to me as if he’d poison anybody soon as look at them.”
“He and Michaelaides were both with the government in exile during the war,” said Forrester. “On the same team, so to speak.”
“Well it’s always chaps on the same team who you want to kill most,” said Venables. “During the war I hated my producer at the BBC much more than I hated Hitler.”
Keith Beamish nodded sagely. “And I’ll probably murder Venables long before we finish writing this book.”
“I’m writing the book,” said Venables. “You’re just doing the pictures.” He turned to Forrester. “These artists! So bloody full of themselves, don’t you find?”
“Compared to writers,” said Forrester judiciously, “I find artists almost saintly.”
* * *
He found Constantine Atreides finishing a long and leisurely lunch in the Temple of the Golden Dawn, Athens’ most elegant restaurant, his panama hat beside him on the table, like a portable shrine. The prince’s face lit up as Forrester entered, and he immediately ordered two cognacs in addition to those a neat row of glasses revealed he had already consumed. When the brandy came he raised his glass to Forrester.
“To the late, great poet,” he said.
“To Jason Michaelaides,” said Forrester, and drank. The cognac, even at two in the afternoon, was very good.
“Did you know him well?”
“We worked together for years during the time of exile,” said Atreides. “He was as steady as a banker.”
Forrester raised his eyebrows.
“That doesn’t sound very poetic,” he said.
“I think your T.S. Eliot worked in a bank, didn’t he? Jason was like that – a patient diplomat by day, then, at night, in the silence of his own room a wild poet crying out to the heavens.”
“Did you get on well with him?”
“I admired him hugely. He saw me as part of the furniture. An amusing part of the furniture, certainly, but not to be taken seriously.”
“That must have been rather annoying.”
“Not annoying enough for me to poison him.”
“Connie! I’m not accusing you. Just trying to find out—”
The prince held up a restraining hand, and then leant forward confidentially. “You know Michaelaides had an affair with Helena Spetsos?”
“I did know that, yes.”
“And you know why?”
“No.”
“Because of Ari Alexandros.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ari and Helena were lovers during the war. When they were not killing Germans they were making passionate love in caves.”
“I’d heard that too
. I don’t see what it has to do with Michaelaides.”
“I will tell you. After the war ended, Ari suddenly became unavailable. Of course he had many excuses – supervising demobilisation, visiting army units on the Yugoslav border, all that sort of thing. But the fact was he dropped Helena like a hot brick. That is your English phrase, isn’t it? A hot brick. I like that, which is why I use it.”
“And the affair with Michaelaides?”
“Was simply Helena’s way of forcing Ari Alexandros to pay attention to her again. After all, Michaelaides is – was – famous. Alexandros couldn’t help but notice.”
“It doesn’t seem to have worked,” said Forrester, “if what I saw at His Beatitude’s last night is anything to go by. Alexandros clearly wanted nothing to do with her.”
For the first time, Atreides looked troubled. “I think the General’s mind was on other things,” he said, darkly.
Forrester remembered the briefing from Osbert Lancaster. “You mean whether he should stay with the army or join ELAS.”
“Alexandros is the most intelligent and efficient general in the country,” said Atreides. “If he joins ELAS and civil war breaks out again, ELAS will win and Greece will become communist. It’s as simple as that.”
“Which makes it all the more puzzling that the army is treating him so badly,” said Forrester.
“They are bloody fools,” said Atreides bitterly. “They are ashamed that they surrendered to the Germans and Alexandros fought on with the resistance. He is a standing reproach to them. They are determined to freeze him out.”
“Even if it means him joining ELAS?”
“He cannot be allowed to join. It would be a catastrophe for Greece.”
“What are you doing to stop him?”
“Drinking cognac and talking, as always. You know me, Duncan, a dilettante, a man of straw.”
“I don’t entirely buy that, Connie. I know King George places a great deal of faith in you to make sure he’s invited back.”
“I do what I can. But I rely on the wisdom of the Greek people to understand that their best hope for freedom is the return of their rightful king.”
“Do you really believe that, or are you just saying it because George is your cousin?”
“I truly believe it,” said Atreides, taking another mouthful of cognac. “Our politicians are self-interested fools. Our army – well, you know our army. All they are good for is staging coups. Greece needs her king back if it is to remain a democracy, it’s as simple as that.”
“So who do you think killed Jason Michaelaides?”
Atreides looked him in the eyes. “This is between you and me? You swear not to repeat it?” Forrester nodded. “It was Ari. Helena was his woman. Michaelaides had stolen her. He does not like to be beaten, the General. As I think you know. And why else did he leave in such a hurry?”
He signalled the waiter, and Forrester knew he was about to order more cognac.
“Thanks for the brandy, Con,” he said, “but I have to go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“Well, to see the General, of course. I’ve got to bring this thing to some sort of conclusion if I ever want to get to Crete.”
* * *
While Forrester was in the Temple of the Golden Dawn, Sophie was squinting in the sunlight, comparing Osbert Lancaster’s drawing of Helena Spetsos’s house with the reality, and smiling to herself at the uncanny accuracy with which the press attaché was able to bring out the building’s essential features. His descriptive note said: “Turkish Art Nouveau combined with Minoan Revival” and somehow, in its glorious pretentiousness, that was exactly what the house was. Stepping out of the glare of the street with some relief, she opened an elaborately wrought metal gate and found herself in a garden so thickly populated with trees and flowers it was like entering a kind of Eden. It was large too, and it was some time before she found her way through the shade of the lush foliage to the front door. She knocked, waited, called out and received no reply, but convinced there was someone home, walked around the side of the house through ever thicker and more fragrant vegetation, and suddenly she was staring through open French doors into a room at the back of the house, her eyes open in shock.
In the middle of the room a naked woman was bound against a Corinthian pillar, her hands tied above her head, another rope securing her feet, a third around her waist. Her head was slumped sideways on her chest, her blonde hair covering her face. For a moment Sophie stood frozen, immobilised by a combination of astonishment and horror.
And then the bound figure raised its head and smiled at her.
“Darling, I think we have a visitor,” said Ariadne Patrou, and Helena Spetsos stepped out from behind an easel.
“Who the hell are you?” she said. “And what the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Sophie. “I knocked and called out at the front door, but nobody came.” Taking advantage of the woman’s momentary uncertainty, she advanced into the room, her hand outstretched. “My name is Sophie Arnfeldt-Laurvig. We met briefly at the regent’s reception last night, but I don’t expect you’ll remember me.”
“I don’t,” said Helena.
“It’s the Norwegian lady,” said Ariadne, helpfully. “You’re a countess, aren’t you? A friend of Captain Forrester. I’m sorry I can’t shake hands. I’m a captured naiad, you see. She’s painting the Minotaur separately.”
“The countess from Norway? That sounds like something from a film,” said Helena Spetsos, wiping the paint from her hands on a rag. “So what does the countess from Norway want in my studio? Have you come to ask to have your portrait painted? Or perhaps you too would like to be a captured naiad?”
As if considering this offer, Sophie came further into the studio, which, just as the garden was over-filled with plants, was jammed to overflowing with all the props of the artist’s profession, from plaster casts of famous statues to rich Turkish rugs, dismantled altars and massive weathered pieces of block and tackle. “First of all, of course, I want to offer my condolences,” said Sophie. “About poor Jason Michaelaides. I was with him when he died, you see.”
A shadow passed briefly across Helena Spetsos’s face. “It was very sad,” she said. “He was a great man.” There was a slight noise from the pillar and as Sophie glanced across at the naked woman, she could have sworn there was a fleeting smile on her face; but almost before it had registered she had turned the smile into a slightly theatrical grimace of discomfort.
“If you’re going to talk to our visitor, Helena, could you let me down for a minute?”
“No,” said Helena Spetsos shortly. “The countess will not be with us for long.”
But Sophie made no move to go. “It must have been a terrible shock. I gather you were very close.”
“I have seen a lot of death in the last few years,” said Helena. “It has ceased to shock me.”
“I wish I had some last words to pass on,” said Sophie, determined, for reasons she was not entirely certain of, to break through the woman’s reserve. “He actually died in my arms, you know. But sadly he wasn’t able to speak.”
“They said he was poisoned,” said Ariadne, from her pillar. “Is that true?”
“Be quiet, girl,” said Helena. “It’s none of your business.”
“The police say he was poisoned,” said Sophie, “but it may not have been at the restaurant, you understand.”
“No, I don’t understand,” said Helena, fixing her with a level stare.
Sophie answered her gaze. “The poison was probably given to him at the Archbishop’s reception.”
“But we were there too!” said Ariadne. “How terrible!”
“Will you keep quiet?” said Helena with sudden, explosive harshness. “Or do I have to make you?” Then, as if embarrassed by her own outburst, she leant towards Sophie and spoke quietly. “She talks too much. She’s a good model but too chatty. Do you find that with girls?”
“I don’t kno
w,” said Sophie. “I’ve never tried to paint them.” Helena looked at her speculatively. “I think you would be a good model,” she said. “I like mature women, I like their shapes. Have you ever posed?” She fixed Sophie with eyes which, from close up, Sophie saw were a deep, dangerous sea-green, and hard to turn away from.
“I haven’t,” said Sophie at last. “I’m not sure my husband would have approved.”
“Would have? He is dead, the count?”
“Yes,” said Sophie. “For a long time now.”
“So you’re a free woman.”
Sophie smiled. “Not free enough to become an artist’s model,” she said.
“Good for you,” said Ariadne. “It’s a dog’s life.”
Sophie did her best to get the conversation back on track. “I saw General Alexandros with Mr. Michaelaides at the reception just before you arrived. Were they friends?”
From her pillar, Ariadne gave a short, barely suppressed laugh, and Helena’s lips compressed in a thin line.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Look, it was kind to bring your condolences for my friend’s death. Very kind. But now, as you see, I have things to attend to. You can show yourself out through the front door.” She turned back to her easel.
As Sophie left the room Ariadne caught her eye and winked, but as she was closing the front door behind her, she heard a high-pitched squeal from the studio, as though Helena had found a way to make her model pay for her impertinence.
She hesitated, decided it was none of her business, and firmly closed the latch. But as she turned a bend in the path towards the front gate, a tall figure appeared before her. It was a moment before she realised it was Professor Charles Runcorn.
He stared at her, just as startled as she was. “Countess!” he said. “What are you doing here?” He seemed flustered and defensive.
“I was talking to Helena and Ariadne about what might have happened last night. To Jason Michaelaides.” Sophie spoke reassuringly and she was certain she saw a look of relief on the professor’s face.
