Doctors Wear Scarlet

by Raven, Simon

  Piers and I looked across at him, inviting him to provide the answer.

  “Tomorrow,” said Roddy, “we catch a plane to Athens. The police, who still think Richard is in Crete, will then assume we have got nowhere in our search for him, that we are bored or at a dead end and probably never cared very much anyhow whether or not we found him. In any event, they forget all about us and leave us alone. Right?”

  “Right…with a little luck.”

  “We then,” said Roddy, “take a boat to the island of Hydra, where, unattended by watch dogs, we set about finding Richard… So we will now go and pack, and Piers, in his fluent Greek, will make enquiries about aeroplanes. After which we shall play a rubber of three-handed bridge, drink two large glasses of brandy each, and then go to bed.”

  So it was; and the next day, at five in the afternoon, we boarded the aeroplane from Heraclion to Athens.

  VII

  The island of Hydra is rocky and barren. Nothing grows there, no vines, no olives and no fruit. Everything comes by boat to the small town of Hydra, which, but for a few hamlets by the sea and the scattered monasteries in the hills, is the only inhabited portion of all the island. So the harbour at Hydra is the centre of the island’s life. Here, on the waterfront, are the only restaurants and cafés worth speaking of: the cinema itself is only fifty yards away – down a narrow passageway leading direct from the quayside. It is a pleasant harbour, almost archetypal in pattern; the sun beats down on the shining sea beyond the bar, the Hydriots lounge and chatter, little boats go aimlessly in and out, and the white town, with its splendid eighteenth-century houses, rises on to the hills in gleaming tiers above one. There are no cars or motor vehicles of any kind; for the climbing town is intersected only by alleys and winding stairways; and the tracks which lead from it along the coast or away into the mountains are still only fit for mules. So there is peace on the waterfront for all the bargaining and banter of the Hydriots: and here, at half past two on the day after we reached Athens, having booked ourselves in at a little hotel which seemed about to tumble into the water among the fishing boats, we sat down to have a drink.

  Before catching the boat that morning, I had had time to call at the Athenian branch of Cook’s, to which conveniently central point all my letters were being forwarded from London, to be kept or sent on to Crete or elsewhere, as I might request when our plans were clearer. There were several letters of no interest, but one from Walter Goodrich; and this I now read out to Roddy and Piers.

  Lancaster College, Cambridge.

  July 1, 1957.

  My dear Anthony,

  I must confess to being slightly puzzled by your behaviour. The other day, when you were in Cambridge, you told me that Richard was coming back from Greece this autumn – a fact which, I must admit, I found surprising. You did not tell me, however, that you yourself were going out to accompany him home, nor that you were taking Piers Clarence with you, two items of information which Penelope has just thrown off at me, not without implying that she had deliberately withheld them until you were safely on your way.

  Now of course it is not really any business of mine who goes to see Richard in Greece or what other purpose they may have in going. But since you, more than anyone, know of my interest in Richard’s career and well-being, I find it odd that you seem purposely to have concealed your plans from me. I have additional reason for thinking you to have been deceitful, firstly in that you are accompanied by Clarence, Richard’s association with whom, as you almost certainly know, I deplore most strongly; and secondly in that Penelope has indicated, without being at all precise, that your journey is far from being a mere affair of pleasure or routine but has some mysterious and disagreeable reason behind it.

  Now, Anthony, would it be too much if I were to ask you to let me know just what is going on? If only you will do so, in fair round terms, then I am quite willing to assume that you have not been deliberately misleading me hitherto, but have simply been wholly preoccupied with your arrangements to meet whatever problems there may be and have thus lacked for the leisure to consult me. Apart from anything else, it is most important that I should have some idea of what is wrong with Richard (and I infer from Penelope’s manner that something is wrong), so that I can see things are made all right here with the Provost and my other colleagues. A year ago I had heavy weather arranging for Richard to change the subject of his research the last minute before he left; and his present determination to return this year instead of next, though I grant you this was always a possibility, is a most unhelpful factor – partly because I surmise that his research will have been inadequately attended to in only the one year, and partly because there are several excellent and practical reasons for keeping him out of Cambridge till the end of 1958.

  (“Deceitful bugger,” interjected Piers: “he means me.”)

  If, on top of all this, there is to be more trouble sprung on me without warning as to its gravity or its nature, then I really cannot answer for the consequences; and I am sure you do not wish that Richard’s career should be laid in ruins any more than I do.

  It is annoying to reflect that this letter may not reach you for a considerable time. (I am sending it to London, but I have no notion, nor, apparently, has Penelope, what arrangements you have made for the forwarding of your correspondence.) But if you should get it in good time, then for Heaven’s sake, my dear boy, do the following things for me.

  Firstly, and if it is at all possible, try to persuade Richard to stay for another year after all: I assure you it will be for the best.

  (“So evidently he has absolutely no idea,” said Roddy Longbow, “of what sort of thing is in the air.”)

  Secondly, do try to see that Richard does not respond too fully, or at least not too openly, to the detrimental influence of Clarence – who will probably urge him to return with you, quite apart from any other damage he may do.

  (“He takes you seriously at all events,” said Roddy to Piers.)

  Lastly, Anthony, and above all, do send to tell me what is the matter. I don’t wish to appear self-congratulatory, but I have considerable experience, as you very well know, in arranging even quite difficult affairs to everyone’s satisfaction; and if I only know what is going on, however unfortunate it may be, then I am confident that I can deal with any problems which might arise at this end or even at yours. For the point is this: I love Richard and I believe in him and I want to make his life a success, and I do not propose to allow anything at all, let alone some minor scandal on the other side of Europe, to prevent me from so doing. Give me the facts, Anthony; and if these amount to anything short of murder (as they say), then you may safely leave the rest to me.

  We have had little rain and the Backs are rather dried up; but the sun suits Cambridge, which somehow seems lovelier than ever.

  Penelope sends her best wishes.

  Yours ever,

  Walter.

  “I’ll say this for your Doctor Goodrich,” said Roddy Longbow: “he’s dead loyal.”

  “He is very jealous of his possessions,” said Piers moodily.

  “The ironic thing is,” I said, “that on his own terms I believe him. He really does want what is best – what he thinks is best – for Richard. And he really could sort out almost any difficulty under the moon. I’ve seen him at work before now…‘Anything short of murder,’ as he says.”

  For a moment a chill fell over the warm, happy quayside and we all looked aside and away.

  “We don’t really know–” began Piers.

  Roddy made a sharp gesture with his hand.

  “We don’t,” he said. “I’ve told you both before that we must stick to what we do. You intellectuals are too fond of speculation.”

  “A Greek vice,” said Piers, and looked out over the harbour to the deep blue sea. And then–”

  “What do you propose to do about Walter’s letter, Anthony?”

  “He himself is doubtful when I will get it. I could pretend not to have done so.”
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  “But,” said Piers rather surprisingly, “that letter deserves a fair answer.”

  “Any danger of him following us out here?” said Roddy.

  “Very little. The long vac term is just coming up. And Walter has so many intrigues running in England at any one time that it’s as much as he dare do to go away for a week in September. He’s terrified the threads may slip from his loving grasp.”

  “Then tell him,” said Roddy, “that you appreciate his worry, but that Richard is just…unhappy. So that there is nothing Goodrich can do except leave us to provide what comfort we may.”

  “Yes,” said Piers, “I like that. It has a good measure of the truth.”

  He looked at Roddy with gratitude.

  “I’m glad you understand him,” Piers said.

  “I’ve known Richard longer than you have,” said Roddy coolly, “if never so closely. It is a mistake to assume that soldiers are devoid of sympathy.” He made another impatient gesture of the hand. “So what’s to do? Anthony will write and reassure Goodrich. And we’re here…in Hydra…”

  He looked dispassionately at the gently rocking boats in front of him; and then answered his own question.

  “There are a limited number of Englishmen here,” he said, “even in the summer. One of them will know about Richard. Tonight they will come out of their holes to start drinking. And tonight we will drink with them, and enquire.”

  And indeed we were lucky enough, though it was not from an Englishman that we had our information.

  In Hydra there is a pleasant tavern run by a bulky, smiling Hydriot called Spiro and his pretty twelve year old son. Here one may take an evening meal of sorts; here come sailors to dance and foreigners to watch them – though later in the evening the foreigners will drunkenly ape the sailors’ graceful movements on the floor, after which the sailors, now drunk themselves, will ape the foreigners. Here one may drink until the island’s electricity is switched off at midnight; and here one may continue drinking, while the oil lamps hiss and the sailors sing sad songs, until the rosy-fingered dawn climbs over the hill behind the harbour. Here we came to dine, and were approached with little ceremony and much friendliness by an American who said his christian name was Milton and who, in the true fashion of the senior expatriate he was, wished to know whence we came and why, and how long we would stay.

  “You’ll like it here,” Milton said. “The people are friendly and there’s a lot of English about. Why don’t you stay awhile?”

  “We haven’t much time,” Piers said.

  “Time doesn’t matter here.”

  “It does to us.”

  “If you say so…”

  He rapped his wine-can hard on the table, then flung it over his shoulder without even troubling to turn his head. It soared over the dancing sailors to where Spiro’s pretty son, alerted by the rap, caught it on the other side of the room and scurried away to the barrel.

  “If you say so,” Milton repeated; “but what’s the hurry?”

  “We are looking for a friend,” said Roddy straight out, “and we must find him without delay. That’s the hurry.”

  “And you think he might be on the island?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well then… Describe him.”

  “He is called Richard Fountain,” Piers said. “He is tall and well set, with dark hair, green eyes of great brilliance, and a rather arrogant expression about his mouth. He walks with the bearing of a soldier; and he speaks with the assurance of a prince.”

  Milton looked curiously at Piers.

  “Quite something,” he said lightly. “Noticeable, one might have thought. There’s no one like that in this town. When do you think he arrived?”

  “Mid to late June.”

  “You’ll pardon me. But might he have arrived…in such a way as to avoid notice? People sometimes do, you know.”

  “He might.”

  “And perhaps a woman with him?”

  “Very possibly.”

  Milton paused. Then he rapped again with his already emptied wine-can, and again flung it without looking across the room to Spiro’s nimble little son.

  “There is…something,” Milton said. “It’s an odd story and worth hearing in any case. It may fit in with what you’re after.” His can was restored to him by the enchanting Ganymede, who tickled his neck before leaving the table. “Insolent brat,” said Milton in a friendly parody of English tones: “he’ll charge a drachma extra on the can for that.” Then he settled himself forward on his elbows.

  “It’s a little tricky this,” he began, “especially as it may concern a friend of yours. Still, you asked for it. The first thing to know is that some three miles up the coast to the North there’s a fine natural harbour, ’most as good as the one here, which the natives use as a kind of crude ship-building yard. There’s boat houses and a row of stone buildings, but mostly no one sleeps there. They just work there by day, tearing up the old craft that are sent to be junked there and using the sound timbers to patch the newer boats. Then in the evening they row back here. But sometimes, in the springtime, in the summer, some of the boys take food and stay up there the night as a kind of adventure, I reckon, or to get quit of their scolding old mothers for a while. So one day this June young Michaeli, who’s the son of the shipwright Thalassides, took his friend Nico and three bottles of wine and two lobsters, and off they went telling everyone they were going to camp out the night at Thyrias – which is what they call this shipyard.”

  He took a long draught of wine.

  “So no one thought anything of this – until the boys got back the next day and told everyone what they thought they saw. And it was a night, I may tell you gentlemen, with a beautiful round moon, so there’s reason enough to suppose they saw it. And what they told everyone was this. They were sitting drinking outside a hut up on the far end of the quay they have there, and because of the moon being so bright they weren’t bothered with a lamp, so probably no one would have noticed them. And as they sat there a small sailing boat came round the Northern point of the harbour. Well, at first they thought nothing of this, because it might have been some fisherman who had gone out for a night’s fishing, or it might have been some tourist who’d taken a fancy to the moonlight and hired the boat to take him around in it. Anyway, they just watched it without bothering much – until they saw it was putting in towards the quay. So then they got all anxious to see who might be coming to spoil their privacy, and they walked along a strip of beach which lies under the quay for a way; but they kept themselves hidden behind the hulks and all that were lying about, because whoever was coming they weren’t keen to be involved with them.

  “The next thing that happened was that this sailing boat nosed up on to the strip of beach about twenty yards from where they were hiding behind a rowing boat. Out gets some ragged character whom they don’t recognize and ties up the boat to one of the old cannons, which are stuck muzzle down into the sand to act as bollards. Then he looks around him and apparently finds everything in order, so he calls back to the boat. And then… Well, I reckon this is the difficult bit, so I’ll try and get it right and you gentlemen must hear me out in peace, so’s I don’t lose it.”

  He drank again, a magnificent swig straight from the can that would not have disgraced Jack Falstaff.

  “What happened, so Michaeli and Nico said, was this. A tall young woman stepped off the boat, dressed in a sweater and pants, and with a kind of cloak hanging from her shoulders. She too looked around, and apparently she was happy about the beach and all, because she then spoke, very tight and cold, only they couldn’t hear the words, back in the direction of the boat. Then there was a deal of fumbling about in the bottom of the boat, and after a bit three other men come up with a kind of stretcher, which they ease forward over the bow, till the tall woman and the man who got out first are able to help them, and they get this stretcher thing lying on the beach. Then the woman kneels down by the stretcher and starts making soft sort of croon
ing noises, and the boys get to busting themselves to see what’s on it, and what they think they see is this.

  “They reckon it’s a man on the stretcher, wrapped in blankets right up to his chin, and with a face which is bold and proud but…but sort of dead-looking. That is, it’s so white, in the moonlight, that it looks like the face of a figure on a tomb – you know the sort of thing, alabaster face looking straight up at the sky, eyes closed, immobile… And they reckon the hair is dark, but it’s not a Greek face; while Nico, who’s been to Athens once or twice, said it was rather like a picture he saw there of your Lord Byron. Handsome, and proud like I said. But all the time looking so dead. White, they said, with the hair falling over the forehead, and these blankets, held by straps, wrapped tight and coming right up to the chin, so that the body – the man – is rather like some kind of mummy.

  “Well, they don’t find this any too nice to look at, but they can’t move, what with this woman and four men and all, so they just sit tight. Meantime the woman goes on crooning and sort of caresses this figure on the stretcher, strokes him all over, only of course she’s only stroking the blankets. She starts at the feet and works up along the body. When she comes to the face, she touches it with the ends of her fingers and tidies the hair back from the forehead for a bit; till suddenly she bends over to kiss the face – or it looks as if she’s going to kiss the face, but just as her lips get down there her whole head sort of slips aside and her mouth seems to nuzzle in under the ear, as though she’s got some secret to whisper first… But just then one of the men comes up and tugs her to her feet, and starts talking, fiercely but very low, so that once again the boys don’t get what’s being said.