The Tomb of Zeus

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Ah. Yes. Dr. Stoddart must have found you a very useful substitute for a nurse, Miss Talbot. Not surprising that, after this valiant effort, you needed to take a breath of air. Well, I think that's all I need to know. For the moment. You have given me a clear and objective picture of the day's sad events.” He closed his notebook and—unexpectedly—smiled. “I understand that you are to go off adventuring with a spade tomorrow? Digging about on old Juktas? Disturbing the last resting place of the Father of the Gods? Never forget, Miss Talbot, that Zeus is the brother of Poseidon the Earth shaker. Some say they are two halves of the same god. He—or they—may not take kindly to having the sleep of centuries disturbed. If I feel the ground stirring below my feet I shall know whom to blame!”

  “Oh, I wasn't expecting to go off straight away! If I'd thought at all. Not with all this going on!” protested Letty. “Not with Phoebe's death still unresolved.”

  “May I recommend that you go?” he said, and Letty instantly recognised this for the command it was. “All is arranged, I hear. And there are others dependent on the schedule being adhered to.” He softened the forcefulness of his suggestion by adding with a smile, “…If you can bear it, of course? And you will be no more than…oh…ten cigarettes' journey away from Herakleion.” He stood and offered her his hand. “I will send a runner for you if your presence here should be necessary. And you will be returning in any case for the weekend. Would you now summon Mr. Gunning for me as you leave?”

  Letty loitered unashamedly outside the door while Gunning was interviewed, even put her ear to the gilded panels when the coast was clear, but heard nothing more than the indistinct murmuring of the confessional, certainly not the snap of handcuffs.

  The door opened after only ten minutes—a fraction of the time the inspector had taken to speak to her, she noticed. She caught a startled Gunning by the hand and tugged him down the corridor. “Come to the library, William, and explain to me why you're still at large!”

  “Now tell me,” she said when she'd closed the door and window and placed two books, randomly selected from the shelves, open on a table in front of them, “did you reveal that George went AWOL for most of the afternoon?…William?” And, seeing his confusion: “You didn't! I bet you didn't! But why not?”

  “It never came up,” he said tersely. “I answered the inspector's questions…told him nothing less than the truth. He asked me what time George and I had arrived back at the house and I told my story from that point. He didn't seek to know what I'd been doing earlier. He'd obviously already spoken to George. If he asks me—I'll tell him,” he finished defiantly.

  “Defending Saint George? Well, I can see why you wouldn't feel able to tweak the inspector's sleeve and hiss: ‘Hey! Here's something you ought to know! Take this down: The man Mrs. Russell's note involved in her death was actually gadding about town for the best part of three hours out of my vision at the crucial time…’ Difficult thing to do—point the finger at someone you're fond of. You are fond of George, aren't you, William?”

  “Quite obviously,” he answered sharply. “And I respect him. I got to know him well last autumn before he went off to Europe, and my opinion hasn't changed. I've been closely involved with all types and conditions of men, most of them under unbearable stress. I think I can tell a good 'un when I come across one, and George is one of the best. A golden man,’ they say in the village. He wasn't involved in Phoebe's death, I'm certain of it. I don't think he even understood the significance of that suicide envelope—it was not a note, remember, Letty. I think he was aghast and astonished like the rest of us.”

  “But you heard Theo's comment as plainly as I did—Phoebe was apparently in the habit of passing him cheques. Perhaps she'd got fed up with underwriting her husband's expenses and supporting her stepson into the bargain. That Bugatti wasn't cheap, you know.”

  “And in a fit of pique George climbed up the wisteria and hanged the golden goose, are you saying? Then he arranged to incriminate himself by leaving a supposed suicide note just where everyone would look for one? This isn't a parlour guessing game, Letty, and I want you to stop this silly speculation. It does you no credit to smear the reputation of people who are not yet known to you.”

  “Can you say you know George as well as all that? He seems to me a pretty inscrutable character. I've never met anyone like him before.”

  “Listen—George is not a taker of life. My faith in him is as simple as that. He couldn't begin…He's a defender and saver of life, if anything. And any life! It's slow progress going out into the town with him, I can tell you—he stops to berate anyone he catches beating a donkey. Any creature's pain he seems to feel as his own. I've seen him rescue a cat from tormenting boys and then kneel in the dust to talk to the villains. The neighbourhood dogs fawn on him and escort him about the streets.”

  Gunning paused in his eulogy, uneasy, wondering whether to confide further. “I think I can account for the cheques that so worried you, Letty. They weren't for his own use, I suspect. He's involved with something he doesn't want generally known, and you must promise, Letty, that you will try to curb your tongue and not pass on what I'm about to tell you!” He waited for her nod. “George—with, I do believe, the support both moral and financial of Phoebe, who was as good-hearted as himself—is the driving force behind the rescue mission for lepers.”

  It took a moment for Laetitia to absorb the word with its medieval associations of death, despair, and exclusion. “Lepers? Great heavens! Do they still have them out here?”

  “I'm afraid so. In large numbers. But you won't see them about the streets anymore—not for the last twenty years. They've been herded together from all parts of Greece and the Aegean as well as Crete, and sent to finish off their existence on an island to the east of here. It's called Spinalonga. They live in the old Venetian fortifications, building their own houses from whatever materials are to hand, dependent on the charity of people like George. He's helped to organise a daily handout of bread, rebuilding on the island, and a medical service. It's a hellhole but it's a shelter of sorts where they can organise themselves into some sort of civilised life. He's constantly over there working with them, with absolutely no regard for his own safety. And he's been doing it from a very young age. One of his objects in going to Europe was to grill the medical world and find out where they'd got to in working on a cure for this disgusting disease. He's knowledgeable and he's impressive. You can imagine the effect his storming into a meeting, claiming to represent the unfortunates of the Aegean, would have!”

  “Clatter of tumbling ivory towers heard for miles around, I shouldn't wonder!”

  “You should hear him on the subject of ‘experts'! ‘Sitting on their bloody arses—holding symposia, listening to the sound of their own voices while there are people here on Crete, good people, crumbling and falling apart!’ He doesn't always talk like a saint,” said Gunning, smiling faintly. “The best saints swear fluently.”

  “I had no idea,” said Letty softly. “Isn't it very dangerous? I mean—he must realise he risks infection himself?”

  “He doesn't talk about it much, for obvious reasons. People still believe that leprosy can be transmitted by physical contact, with all the ease of influenza. Perhaps they're right. The villagers note that family members often fall victim. There are grandparents, parents, and children from the same family in isolation over there, sent away into exile as soon as their symptoms become evident. Sometimes—and this is the most heartbreaking thing—a child will be sent over by itself, separated forever from the rest of its family who are unaffected, and left to the care of the other outcasts there on the island.”

  “What you say is truly appalling,” whispered Letty. “I don't wonder that Phoebe should have involved herself with this. It must have touched her deeply.”

  “From her first week of living here, George says. He was escorting her while she explored along the coastline of her new home when she witnessed a sending into exile. At the centre of a wailin
g crowd, a small boy, no more than eight, was being torn from his mother's arms and hurried into the ferryboat to make the crossing to Spinalonga. Hideous scene! Phoebe demanded to know what was going on—what was happening to the boy. The upshot was, George told her exactly what went on, then confessed his involvement. Phoebe began at once to encourage him and, with the underpinning of large amounts of her cash, to extend his interest.”

  “Is George in danger, William? Is he in contact with the sick?”

  “Frequently. He makes no social distinction between lepers and the rest of us. He's one of those who maintain the disease is not transferred by contact. And he cites his own impeccable state of health in evidence. But, get him in a corner, and even he admits that physical proximity does, time after time, seem to be a factor. And yet, there are people like himself, like the island doctor, like many nurses and workers in leper hospitals who've been in contact for years with pus and gore and sores of every description and remain unaffected. I've seen him shake their hands, exchange hugs and kisses with the little ones. ‘They like to be touched,’ he'll tell you, ‘to feel that they aren't ghosts to the rest of us.’”

  “You argue on both sides?”

  “The truth is, Letty, nobody knows how leprosy spreads. What they do know is that there isn't a cure. Once contracted, isolation and a lingering, painful death are the only possible outcome. So— any man confiding that he spends his days in the company of lepers is likely to find his friends shuffling uncomfortably away from him in short order.”

  “But you don't shuffle away, William,” said Letty. “You would never abandon someone close who needed you?”

  He looked back at her steadily. “No,” he said. “I would not.”

  A thudding of boots down the tiled corridor made Letty pull her chair away from Gunning's. They both looked up innocently from their unread books when the door banged open.

  “Aha! Getting in a little practice for a season of intimacy—with Minoan culture, I see,” said Stewart with heavy innuendo. “Been all over the house looking for you. Aren't you the lucky ones—getting away from all this doom and gloom! There's a welcoming party formed up on the square outside waiting for you. At least I think they're welcoming!” He mimed cutting his throat. “You must decide for yourselves. Theodore's laid it on. You've got to hand it to the man—in the thick of all this grief and drama he thinks of his guests. The chap who'll be running the dig for you has turned up with some of his merry men to say hello. And to fix a departure time for tomorrow, as he's eager to get this little junket under way as early as possible. They've been loitering about the place all day. The sooner you start digging, the sooner they start earning. They're all waiting to get a look at the new director. So—jump to it! Off you go—I'll put your books away…” He glanced at the titles. “Good lord! What's this? A closet lepidopterist, Gunning? And Miss T, I see, is halfway through the Erotokritos? In the seventeenth-century Cretan? I say, well done!”

  Laetitia could have sworn the eight men lounging in the shade of the plane tree had arranged themselves deliberately with a thought to the effect they would produce on a female stranger. For a moment she was torn between clapping with delight and taking cover in a cowardly way behind Gunning as she hesitated on the steps.

  The men in the square had all the self-mocking dash of the chorus of The Pirates of Penzance, she thought. All were in Cretan dress. Baggy dark blue vrakes were tucked into high boots; gleaming white wide-sleeved shirts were confined by body-hugging embroidered waistcoats. Around their waists were wound lengths of mulberry silk, and tucked sideways into each cummerbund was an assortment of weaponry; ivory-hilted daggers and silver pistol butts gleamed in the folds. All had luxuriant moustaches and thick hair under fringed black kerchiefs twisted around the head at a jaunty angle. The packs they wore casually slung over their shoulders were woven and brightly coloured, crimson, purple, and orange.

  Their leader wore a cape thrown negligently over his shoulders. He swaggered forward, putting out his cigarette, on seeing them. Impossible to slouch in such a getup, Letty thought, admiring. All you could do was stride to centre stage with the panache of a Cyrano de Bergerac.

  Gunning was swept instantly into a whiskery embrace by this man, whom she took to be Aristidis, and the hugs and back-slappings were repeated seven more times as they all greeted him. The moustaches grew less formidable as Gunning progressed down the line until he arrived at the youngest man, who sported a very creditable Ronald Colman. A good deal of banter followed until the moment came for Gunning to introduce her. He managed this in Greek with a bit of prompting from Aristidis.

  Eight pairs of lively dark eyes considered her with undisguised curiosity. They were friendly; they were not deferential as an English digging team would have been. She would be looking at this crew for a long time, she thought, before she saw anyone tug a forelock.

  “We are delighted to meet you, Miss Laetitia.” Aristidis made her name sound like a sneeze. His men grinned appreciatively. “We come to greet you and show ourselves so that tomorrow morning in the thick mist of dawn you will know you start out with friends and you will not fear you are being kidnapped by brigands. The supplies have been going out to Kastelli all week and all that remains is to move the people out to the site. I have hired horses for yourself and Kyrie Gunning. Englishwomen, I know, do not like donkeys.”

  She murmured a few polite phrases in reply and then the talk clicked back into Greek once more. It was Gunning who was consulted, informed, and advised. The conference broke up with laughter and noisy good-byes, and in seconds the team had swirled away, leaving Letty amused and intrigued.

  “Did they dress up just for me?” she asked Gunning.

  “Not at all!” He was laughing at her. “Sunday best shirts, perhaps, but otherwise their everyday gear. If you'd looked closely you'd have seen that those dashing breeches were worn and much patched, the boots resoled many times, the cummerbunds and armament hand-me-downs. Most of them are shepherds and farmers. They work, travel, and sometimes sleep out on the hill in the same outfits.”

  “Ah, that explains it,” said Letty, waving a negligent hand in front of her nose, “that feral odour.”

  “Those men have hiked ten miles under a hot sun over rough terrain just to come and get a look at you, Letty! A bit strong for you, is it—the honest stink of a working man? Are you regretting already the bay rum and lavender water of a London drawing room? It's not too late for you to turn your delicate nose to the north and beat a retreat.”

  “Not at all, William. You mistake me. I expressed myself badly. I was thinking, rather—the enticing scent of a herb-covered mountainside, underlaid with the sweat of a vigorous man in his prime and, floating over all, a tantalising top note of Balkan tobacco. My senses are telling me a wolf pack has recently passed this way.” She shivered and had little difficulty in conjuring up the shiver: “Alarming—but exciting!”

  The tight line of his mouth told her he was trying not to laugh. “Balkan tobacco, eh? I can see,” he muttered, “that I must get in a supply of Sobranies.”

  As she stood waiting with Gunning on the steps, luggage at her feet, Letty was relieved to be escaping the brooding stillness of the dark house at dawn. She had, nonetheless, a moment of trepidation as her escort loomed into view down the mist-shrouded street. The cavalcade approached as quietly as a file of six donkeys, eight mules, two horses, and eight men could manage, and their silent purposefulness contrasted with the noisy joviality of the previous evening.

  At the sight of them, lines of poetry that had thrilled Letty as a child with their sinister meaning came back to mind. Shivering with sudden chill, she whispered the chorus of “A Smuggler's Song” to Gunning:

  “ ‘Five and twenty ponies

  Trotting through the dark

  Brandy for the Parson

  'Baccy for the Clerk

  Laces for a lady, letters for a spy…’”

  He smiled, leaned close, and added, “ ‘And watch the wal
l, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!’” The warning of a Cornish father, suddenly aware of smugglers abroad below in the street.

  The men, now in black shirts and short woollen cloaks, were each leading a mule, its wooden saddle covered with a scarlet blanket. The two horses, sturdy-looking animals, were led forward for her and Gunning. Lean brown hands snatched away their bags and the luggage disappeared into the donkey file. Greetings were hushed, movements and gestures spare.

  Holding her horse steady by the head as she prepared to mount, Gunning touched her shoulder. “You'll be all right, Letty. You're with friends.”

  They were well beyond the city gates and clattering down the Arkhanais road before Letty broke the silence. Drawing level with Gunning, she asked, “Didn't Theodore mention a fourth member of the team? Who is it we're to meet in the village?”

  “I'll leave it to Aristidis to introduce you when we arrive. It's his surprise!”

  She knew he would say no more. “Then tell me about Aristidis. Theo sings his praises. Another goose or a swan, would you say?”

  “For once Theo does not exaggerate. If he's had any success on the island—and he's had considerable—he has Aristidis to thank for it. The man has an uncanny ability to sniff out productive sites. I've seen him do it. He can stand and survey a tract of countryside for a few minutes and then point and say: ‘I'd dig there, if I were you.’ And he's invariably right.”

  “Well, he has lived here all his life. I should expect a native to be familiar with the terrain.”

  “There's more to it than that. You should understand, Letty, that Aristidis is more than a clerk of works…the gaffer. He is truly interested in the world of Cretan archaeology and extremely knowledgeable. He has a natural ability and enthusiasm. If he'd had a sliver of the advantages that Theo and Arthur Evans have—money and connections—he could have been the authority on the Minoan age. He was raised in a village and was practically illiterate—”