The Tomb of Zeus

by Barbara Cleverly

  George hurried to correct this flippant assessment of his passion. “I'm sure Laetitia knows her skull is a delightful, though by no means emphatic, example of the latter, Phoebe. Like yours, like mine. My father offers an example of the former, round-headed variety. Ancient British ancestry, I understand. But I don't, I assure you, categorise and judge everyone by the shape of his head! Don't, Phoebe, present me as a dilettante! There is a point to what I've been doing. I'm preparing a paper which I'm hoping will be taken up by Nature, a paper which will have the courage to refute a quite barmy theory—a dangerous theory—that's sweeping unchecked through the capitals of Europe. Perhaps you are aware of the National Socialist movement in Germany, Laetitia?”

  Startled, Letty dropped her knife, and Gunning on her right silently bent to retrieve it.

  But George was not expecting an answer and swept on: “These thugs—what's the German for ‘thug,’ William?—are putting about the theory that there exists in central Europe a race of supermen, descended from a socalled Aryan' race. Well—fine—they're welcome to entertain us with their vivid imaginings, so long as the rest of the sane world may be allowed to shoot them down with clear evidence that the whole thing is a preposterous invention. But we're not to be allowed that academic freedom if they have anything to do with it—Nazis, they call themselves. And what really sticks in the craw is the inevitable corollary that if one race (of which they claim to be members, though you'd be looking for a long time before you'd spot a blond, blue-eyed giant amongst them) is superior—then all others must be inferior. This rancid theory condemns, by Nazi calculation, nine tenths of the population to oppression and slavery—to the dustbin of history.”

  Theodore coughed a warning. Phoebe wriggled with embarrassment at the outburst she had provoked in her stepson. Politics and passion were jarring notes at this very English dinner table. The swirling intrigues of the European capitals were kept well away from the shores of this sunlit island, Letty observed. Perhaps because it had problems enough of its own.

  Gunning lightly defused the tension. “Fighting oppression with a tape measure! Good man! We must all use whatever weapon comes to hand…Miss Talbot, I know, favours a Luger. But have you thought, George, that you could well be applying your skills and insight to a much worthier subject? Ancient Man! Now, I saw being unearthed this afternoon a skull—several skulls—which seemed to me to differ in some respects from the usual run. Long-headed, narrow facial features. Where on earth can they have sprung from? Perhaps tomorrow we might go and take a look?”

  The arrival of an orange trifle in an elaborate glass dish further raised the spirits. Theodore looked round the table, gathering murmurs of appreciation, noting that even Letty was spooning her way through the offering with evident enjoyment.

  “I fell in love with this dish in London,” he told her genially. “I was introduced to it by Waldorf Astor. Ah! If I close my eyes I'm transported back to Boodles, looking out over St. James's Park.” He paused, evidently savouring a Proustian moment, eyes half closed but trained on Gunning.

  “I think you mean Green Park, Theo. The Club at Number Twenty-four looks out onto Green Park,” said Gunning.

  Letty's attention sharpened. Something was going on that she didn't quite understand. Some undercurrent was running between the two men facing each other from opposite ends of the table. It was uncharacteristic of the suave and peaceable Gunning to contradict his host. And both men had got it wrong. You couldn't see either park from Boodles, Letty was quite certain of that. Not when she'd last looked. They were playing a game.

  “Yes, of course you're right, William. Very handy for old Waldorf—he and Nancy live quite close by, I remember. Number four, St. James's Square. Right-hand side. Wonderful house. Rather distinguished architect involved, I seem to recall…?”

  “Couldn't tell you who the original seventeenth-century architect was,” Gunning replied placidly, “but after it burned down it was rebuilt by Hawksmoor. I expect that's the name you're searching for, Theo? Jolly convenient place to park your motor, George, when you're next in London. Plenty of space.”

  “You know that charming corner well, William?” Letty said, impulsively feeding him a line. From her research into his past she'd established that he'd been a member of one of the London clubs, though she'd forgotten which.

  “Oh, yes! Blindfold, I could lead you from my club—that's the Army and Navy on the north side of Pall Mall (modelled on Sansovino's Palazzo Cornaro, did you know that?—rather overblown for my taste)…up St. James's Street, across Piccadilly, up Old Bond Street to the Royal Institution of British Architects in Conduit Street. My stamping ground, you could say. Ah! London! Do I miss it? Only when a dish of Boodles Fool triggers a flash of homesickness. Otherwise I'm content to go on lotus-eating. Like you, Theo.”

  Suddenly she had it. These two men disliked each other. Their hostility was disguised, transformed into a stately ritual. Not a dance…something more sinister—a bullfight! She looked to her left and saw Russell's dark head lowered, thick eyebrows gathering, aggression camouflaged with an interested smile. On her right, his barbs concealed by a cloak of unconcern, Gunning was playing to the crowd, his sword held out of view of victim and audience alike. Only Letty seemed aware of its presence. Only Letty had experienced its sharp edge. And at last she understood the seating around the table. The two opponents were at opposite ends, keeping each other in full view; the boys and the women were on the sidelines as arbiters, chorus, witnesses.

  But Letty could not be content to sit by in a passive role. If Gunning had chosen to play matador to Theodore's fighting bull, she would be his picador, diverting attention and deftly sticking in a weakening pic at just the right moment. She recognised that this was not entirely selfless. Instead of the anticipated tears and recriminations of an abandoned woman, William Gunning would find a forgiving and unexpectedly friendly accomplice. Much more disconcerting! And perhaps, in the interests of tormenting him as he deserved, it wouldn't do any harm to pay extravagant attention to young George? She would demonstrate that she was heart-whole, confidence undented. But was George capable of holding up the other end of a flirtation? Letty caught the earnest flash of his grey eyes in the candlelight as he outlined his theory that the Basques of northeastern Spain could be descended from the Eteocretan race and she sighed.

  She could swear that the young man hadn't noticed what was clear to everyone around him—that he was the very type of superman he was determined to discredit. There was about him a purity which would surely repel any attempt at romantic intrigue, however lighthearted. If George had called her a sea nymph, it was in poetic response to the clinging green silk confection she was wearing and not in lust for the flesh under it. His remark had been guileless. She had instinctively understood that. Like the Achilles statue in Hyde Park, whom he much resembled, she thought, hiding a smile, George Russell commanded attention. But, like that handsome warrior, he carried around with him his own pedestal, his own bronze shield, and his own bronze fig leaf. You could look up and admire, but she was not certain that there was blood coursing through those sculpted limbs. Ah, well, she would try. Any woman would try!

  “Letty, can I tempt you to more pudding?” Phoebe asked, at once recapturing her attention and moving the meal along. “There's the teeniest spoonful left.”

  On hearing her acceptance (a polite compliment to Theodore's cooking rather than a desire for a second helping), Phoebe reached across the table towards the trifle dish but her trailing sleeve caught the neck of the bottle of Clos de Vougeot, which tumbled sideways. She gasped in dismay, watching in horror as the burgundy gushed dramatically across the white tablecloth. Dickie made a grab for the bottle and righted it, but the damage was done. All eyes followed as the blood-red trail oozed towards Theodore. All eyes lifted to focus on him. For a moment, Letty had an unaccountable feeling that he was in some odd way gratified by his wife's clumsiness. But she must have been mistaken, she thought, as he rose brusquely to his
feet, face expressionless, voice cold.

  “Well…Dimitri was right—I should have allowed him to use a decanter. Much more stable when there are awkward people about. But—in the modern way, I had thought to impress my guests with the sight of an incomparable label.” He sighed. “The last of the prewar vintage I had left in my cellar. 1913. I was about to call for the cheese to accompany that excellent wine—a particularly good Roquefort—but we can't continue in this mess. Ladies—perhaps you would make your way to the drawing room directly, and gentlemen—we'll join them there for the coffee without delay.”

  He made an angry gesture to the footman who had stayed frozen at his post, then he stalked to the door and held it open.

  Hardly able to believe that she had witnessed such rudeness, Letty looked around the table for some guidance, unsure how to respond. As the newcomer, and a lady, it was certainly not her place to pick up the épergne and crown her host with it. Dickie and Stewart looked at each other, anxious and embarrassed, then turned to George for a lead.

  George was staring, apparently hypnotised by the spreading stain, clenched hands grasping the table edge, lost to them. But not adrift. Across the devastation, Letty sensed a silent and gathering power, an energy just held in check. Watching him, there sounded in her memory the decisive metallic clunk of her brother's Luger as he showed her how to reload. She shivered.

  Then she calmed herself. This man was, if she judged him rightly, a pacifist and a son who loved his father. George was not about to challenge Theodore over a wine spill at the dinner table. And yet he was not about to defuse the situation either, it seemed, lost as he was in his own dark thoughts.

  Gunning was the first to throw down his napkin. Though it could just as well have been a gauntlet, Letty thought, admiring the panache of the gesture.

  “A moment, Theodore,” he said firmly, not deigning to look back at his host, left stamping impatiently at the dining room door, but lightly collecting the attention of everyone still hovering at the table. “A good meal deserves a good grace, wouldn't you say? Why don't we allow old Horace to give it an appropriate send-off?”

  He bowed his head in a parody of the formal manner of a college dean at the conclusion of a dinner in Hall, and, clearly disguising a smile, intoned with clerical gravity:

  “Lusisti satis, edisti satis atque bibisti.

  “Tempus abire tibi est.”

  While Letty struggled with this, it was Phoebe with her throaty voice who was instantly up to the challenge of a translation. “ ‘You've had your fun. You've eaten and drunk enough. Time to go now.'” Dickie tittered nervously; Stewart allowed himself a deprecating smile.

  “Phoebe, may I lead you on to the next pleasure?” said Gunning, offering his arm. Smiling up at him, she took it, and, chattering lightly, they went to the door without a glance for Russell. As they passed in front of him, Gunning bent his head to hers, denying her husband the sight of the tears beginning to trace a mascara-tinged course down her cheeks. His hand, as they left the room, was already moving to the pocket in which Letty knew he kept his spare handkerchief.

  George came back to his senses and offered to escort Letty from the room. She conveyed what silent comfort she could by squeezing the arm offered and was relieved to feel an answering brief pressure. Unconsciously falling in with her schemes, he settled her in an armchair in the drawing room, kicking up a foot-stool for himself at her feet. When she refused coffee, pleading insomnia, he rang the bell.

  A servant appeared at once. Surprisingly, after the parade of male employees, this was a young woman. Before his father could speak, George addressed her: “Eleni, the gentlemen will all have coffee, I think?”

  Four heads nodded agreement.

  “But our guest, Miss Talbot, doesn't care for coffee at this late hour. Can you put together a tisane for her? Something soothing after the day she's had!”

  Letty could just make out the woman's response in Greek before George translated for her.

  “Dittany!” decided Phoebe. “Eleni, brew up some dittany. It's extremely soothing. We could all do with something soothing…I'll have a cup, too. And you may serve it in the Wedgwood, Eleni.”

  “Thank you, I'd like that,” said Letty. “Though I have to confess I've never heard of dittany.”

  “It's a Cretan herb,” said Theodore, rousing himself and stepping in as the authority on all things Cretan. “Very ancient. Healing. Good for anything from arrow wounds to acid stomach, they claim. The list of curable complaints is endless: insomnia…nausea…heartache…Phoebe finds it invaluable.”

  “Origanum dictamnus or erotas are its local names,” George told her.

  “Erotas?” said Letty doubtfully. “I say, does it have qualities an innocent girl should have warning of?”

  George laughed. “Well, you've guessed the root of the word. Yes—Eros, God of Love, but don't worry, it's quite safe. Eros merely makes a post-factum appearance in the rather charming story that goes along with it. Dittany is hard to come by—it's a shy herb that grows in the least accessible crevices of the mountain ranges. The sort of places a wild mountain goat would think twice about attempting. But it's much valued on the island and if a young man is so deeply in love with a girl that he thinks nothing of risking life and limb, he will climb a cliff face and gather a bunch for her. So that's where Eros comes in. It's a proof of love, not the cause.

  “A branch of healing Dittany she brought

  Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought…”

  The sound of Gunning's voice, reciting John Dryden's translation of Virgil, was tormenting.

  “Rough is the stem, which woolly leaves surround,

  The leaves with flowers, the flowers with purple crowned

  Well known to wounded goats, a sure relief

  To draw the pointed steel and ease the grief.

  “But have a care, Laetitia!” Gunning wagged a playful finger at her. “In a bid to ‘ease the grief you may find yourself one day in the hills on the point of accepting a gift of herbs from a golden, curly-haired boy. I warn you to take a look at his feet! He may well have cloven hooves!”

  Unable any longer to suppress her yawns, Letty excused herself before the rest of the party seemed ready to break up, making her apologies to Phoebe. Gunning was instantly on his feet, volunteering to light and carry an oil lamp for Letty, and with rather a bad grace she accepted his offer.

  He took a lamp from a row on a table in the hall and busied himself with matches and wicks until he was happy with the result. He held it aloft and, passing the other arm through hers, walked her up the stairs talking about and occasionally illuminating the ranks of portraits and seascapes along their way.

  The door of her room was already standing open, the flicker of candles dimly to be seen inside. Taking the lamp from him she thanked him briefly, made a play of stifling another yawn, and said good night, closing the door behind her.

  As she turned from the door she was startled by a movement in front of the dressing table. Her heart lurched in her chest and she just managed to turn a scream of terror into an embarrassing squeal of surprise.

  A dark figure of antiquity stood there, back to her, face reflected in the looking glass, eyes seeking hers. Dark-clad from head to foot, black hair curling down to her waist, the woman raised her arms in the slow stiffness of a ceremonial gesture. Letty recoiled, fearing to see the writhing snakes of a Cretan goddess twining their way about the apparition's arms. A candle guttered, and across the room Letty caught faintly an ancient scent, a blend of orris root and perspiration. The woman was holding up to her neck not serpents, but a thick golden necklace which gleamed in the soft glow of the two candles set in front of her. The proud and lovely face stared back at Letty in the glass, amused and challenging.

  Letty managed to gasp: “Eleni? It is Eleni? How you frightened me!”

  Eleni paid no attention, raising and lowering the necklace, head tilted to one side, admiring its effect. Finally she spoke in Greek: “A
beautiful thing! And valuable, I'd say. May I recommend that Mademoiselle does not leave it lying about? The servants are perfectly trustworthy but we have many Europeans through the house.” She put it firmly back into its case, clicked it closed, then handed it to Letty. “Mrs. Russell has a safe in her room. I'm sure for this she will be able to find a corner amongst her pretty things.”

  Letty could just about follow, and tried to respond in the same language. “I'm glad you like it. It was a present from my father. For my twenty-first birthday. A bit modern in design but I'm fond of it…” She soon faltered to a halt and filled in with English, which she was pleased to notice seemed to be readily understood. With Letty speaking in English and Eleni in Greek they found they were getting along with ease.

  “Mademoiselle retires early? You catch me just finishing putting away the clothes. I have unpacked your things.”

  Letty glanced around, noting that her trunk and small Vuitton suitcase had already been removed.

  “These…” said Eleni, throwing a pile of creased and dirty clothes over her arm, “will be washed and returned to you in the morning. And what kind of tea would Mademoiselle require on waking?”

  Suppressing a giggle at the notion of such a mundane question from a dark figure of mythology, Letty replied, “Any old English kitchen tea. Whatever you have.”

  Eleni smiled, nodded, wished her good night, and let herself out.

  Letty sank onto the turned-down bed, still disturbed by the meeting. Her nerves were stretched further by a tap a moment or two later on the door. Without waiting for a reply, Gunning stepped inside.

  “Letty, are you all right? I thought I heard you scream?”

  “Go away at once!” Letty bristled. “I might as well be bunking down in Piccadilly Circus! How dare you barge in?”

  “I just wanted to—”

  “Leave! I'm about to grease my face.”