‘Yes—but three of us—suppose she’s having a party?’
‘We’ll join in,’ said Patrick blithely.
Dimitris did not understand why Liz was objecting. Greeks loved meeting one another.
‘You do not like Patrick’s sister?’ he enquired.
‘Of course I like her – I haven’t seen her for ages, though. Anyway, I must think about getting back to London.’
‘Why? You have someone to meet?’ demanded Dimitris.
‘No—no. Not this evening.’
‘Liz, I thought you’d make a whole weekend of it,’ Patrick said. ‘Spend tonight in Oxford.’
Where, she wondered. Surely he did not mean at St Mark’s?
‘You haven’t really got to get back?’
‘I needn’t, I suppose,’ she said.
‘Good, that’s settled, then.’
‘But I must leave tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to a concert in the evening,’ Liz said firmly.
‘Very well.’
With whom, Patrick wanted to know.
Jane, who was out in the garden cutting the withered blooms off daffodils, was surprised when a shabby Triumph Herald drew up outside the house, and at first she did not recognise Liz as she was helped to get out by a slight, dark man who sped round from the passenger’s side to aid her. It was some seconds before the bulk of her brother extricated itself from the rear.
Liz hung back, shy now that they had arrived, but Manolakis was smiling eagerly, waiting to be introduced. Jane did her best to wear a welcoming expression; how like Patrick to turn up without even a telephone call; did they all expect to be fed? She shook hands with Manolakis, and told Liz how pleased she was to see her, which was true.
‘Well, Patrick, what’s happened to your passion wagon?’ she enquired drily, and to Liz, ‘Have you seen his new car?’
‘Yes.’ Liz began to laugh. ‘Is that what you call it?’
‘I do – the colour, and the room-for-two-only bit,’ said Jane. ‘It’s his bird-catcher.’
‘Jane, really—’ Patrick looked cross and confused.
‘Liz has known you forever. I don’t see why I have to censor my speech before her,’ said Jane.
Manolakis was looking puzzled through this exchange.
‘I do not understand, please,’ he said.
‘It’s just as well,’ said Patrick.
‘I’ll explain, Dimitri,’ said Liz, who was still laughing.
‘We’ve been to Stratford. There wasn’t room for three of us in my car,’ said Patrick sourly. ‘Where’s Michael?’ At least he might expect some support from his brother-in-law.
‘Fetching Andrew from a friend’s house. He took Miranda with him,’ said Jane. ‘Come in. I’m sure you want a drink.’
She did not sound very hospitable, Patrick thought, as she led the way into the house. He turned to let Liz and Manolakis go ahead of him, but they were in a huddle, with Liz busy talking and Manolakis listening intently, his hand on her arm; she must be explaining about the car.
‘Have they been friends for long?’ Jane asked, nodding towards the two.
‘They met for the first time a few days ago. They get on very well, as you see,’ said Patrick in an acid voice.
‘Good,’ said Jane. ‘It’s awkward when one’s friends don’t like each other.’
When Michael and the children returned, Manolakis was describing the Morris dancers and making a serious comparison between their performance and Greek dancing.
‘The bells are—’ he sought for the word.
‘Quaint,’ supplied Patrick.
‘It’s pretty energetic,’ Jane said. ‘Very good exercise for those taking part.’
‘Bit folksy for me,’ said Michael. ‘Can’t say I care for it.’
‘Greek dancing’s quite different,’ Jane said. ‘And so is the music – less jiggy . . . all that haunting melody. Bouzoukis aren’t at all like concertinas.’
She went away to put the children to bed, and when she returned found that the three visitors were staying for supper, which Patrick had gone to buy at a Chinese takeaway place nearby. By the time he got back, more plans had been made.
‘Dimitri’s very keen to go to Woburn, and so’s Liz,’ Jane told him. ‘So we’re all going tomorrow. Liz is staying here for the night, but you and Dimitri will have to go back to Mark’s – we haven’t room for you all.’
Patrick gaped at Liz. What sort of betrayal was this? All the same, it did solve the problem of where she was to sleep, a matter to which he had not yet turned his mind.
‘I thought you wanted to get back in good time tomorrow,’ he said to her, nevertheless.
‘I can go straight to London from Woburn,’ said Liz.
‘She’s meeting her friend at the Festival Hall,’ Jane informed him, spiking in a fresh barb. ‘We must leave in good time – you must both get here promptly,’ she added. ‘We’ll take a picnic.’
Patrick viewed the whole expedition with gloom. He was silent while they ate sweet and sour pork, chop suey and the various other dishes he had provided, but no one seemed to notice for they were all so busy talking themselves. At one point Jane asked Liz about the concert she was going to the next day, and learned that the London Symphony Orchestra, with Ivan Tamaroff, would be playing Mozart.
‘Lovely. Wish I could come too,’ said Jane.
‘That is the man we saw at Stratford?’ asked Manolakis.
‘Yes.’
‘I tried to get tickets for one of the concerts he’s giving with his son – they’re coming to Oxford,’ said Jane. ‘But they’re sold out.’
Liz said she had two for their first London appearance.
Patrick was not knowledgeable enough about the music world to be familiar with more than the merest outlines of the Tamaroff story. Ivan, the father, had sought asylum in Britain eight years before when he came on a tour of Europe. His son was then still a student. The young man had never left Russia until two years ago, when he had played in Paris but without meeting his father. Now he was to be allowed to leave again.
‘I hope they’ll be able to play harmoniously together,’ said Patrick.
‘Why shouldn’t they?’ asked Jane.
‘Two star performers.’
‘You mean they might steal each other’s thunder? Like actors sometimes do?’ asked Liz. ‘Surely not – they’re father and son.’
Michael, listening to all this, thought that Patrick seemed to be in rather a bad mood. He decided it was time for a diversion, and switched the television on for the news. There was not much of interest on the political front, but there had been another art robbery in the Midlands. Porcelain, and a small painting by Corot, had been stolen from a house in Broadway.
‘Broadway? We have been to this place today,’ said Manolakis.
They had, but there had been no sign of police activity. The news report went on to add that the owner of the stolen articles had been at the theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon at the time of the robbery.
Part XII
1
St Mark’s was impressive in the moonlight. The stonework, recently refaced, had a luminous look. Gargoyle faces stared down from the guttering as Patrick and Manolakis walked through the quadrangle to the staircase where Patrick had his rooms.
The two men paused to gaze at the pool in the centre of the quad, where fat carp lurked among lily leaves. The air around was fresh, and carried the scent of new-mown grass, for the gardeners had given the lawns their first cutting. Patrick loved the college at night, when it looked much as it had done for centuries.
‘It is very good to spend your life in this place,’ said Manolakis. ‘And with young people – helping them to form wise thoughts – that is very good.’
Patrick thought that the most he could aspire to was opening their minds; any wise thoughts came in spite of him, and very often his pupils caused him to develop new opinions himself.
‘But it is good to go to other places also,’ said Manolakis,
who was appreciating the effect of travel.
Patrick agreed.
‘What is for the future? You will stay here always?’
‘I don’t know – maybe I’ll look for a chair – apply for a senior post at another university eventually. But I don’t know. I don’t look very far ahead. What about you, Dimitri? Will you be Chief of Police in Heraklion one day? Or would you go to Athens?’
‘I think I stay in Crete. Much happens there,’ said Manolakis. ‘It is good work. It is pleasant, too, for Ariadne and the children.’ He had not thought of them for hours. ‘And I make friends with the English visitors.’
Neither was tired. They sat in Patrick’s sitting-room drinking whisky and talking. Each was content with his profession.
‘If you had not been a teacher, Patrick, you should have been a policeman,’ Manolakis said. ‘Your friend Colin said that, too.’
Patrick could never imagine himself as a police inspector.
‘Inspired guesswork is more my line,’ he said. ‘But I’m baffled about this business of Sam’s. What do you make of it, Dimitri? It was you, after all, who sent me chasing this hare when you said I should find out about the body I’d seen. Should I go on, or do you think I should just forget it?’
‘I think you must satisfy yourself, if it can be done. Otherwise you will be always wondering. Am I not right?’
He was.
‘But if I can’t find the answer?’
‘Time will bring more events with him,’ said Manolakis.
‘It seems so extraordinary that Sam should have no real friends. No one really grieving. Very sad. And makes it difficult to learn about his life.’
To Dimitris it was dreadful.
‘Yet he was your friend,’ he said.
‘You mean I should have known more about him? Seen him more?’ It was easy to feel guilty now, when it was too late to change things. ‘But we weren’t really friends, Dimitri. Just acquaintances. He was in Austria – so was I – so was Liz. A man died, and we were all involved in the enquiries.’ But Sam kept apart from everyone else. He had never sought an audience – surely an unusual trait in an actor? Others Patrick had met enjoyed holding the floor off the stage, as well as on it. ‘Your Greek directness – Anglo-Saxons do not have it in the same way,’ he explained.
‘It is a pity. It is your weather, perhaps,’ said Manolakis.
‘He should have gone to Greece – I know – that’s what you’re going to say,’ said Patrick with a laugh.
‘I am having an interesting holiday, Patrick, with this mystery with which you are concerning yourself,’ said Manolakis earnestly.
What a complicated sentence, thought Patrick with admiration.
‘Busman’s holiday for you,’ he said, and had to explain the saying.
Manolakis entered the phrase in his notebook.
‘I thought perhaps you might have some professional excuse for your visit, yourself, Dimitri. Checking up on someone: something like that.’
Manolakis nodded.
‘I have, perhaps, to go to Edinburgh. But we will see,’ he said. ‘It is a question of identity.’
2
Ten minutes before the appointed time the next morning, Patrick and Manolakis drove up to Jane and Michael’s house in convoy, the Greek at the wheel of the MGB and Patrick in Liz’s car, in which they had returned to Oxford. They were welcomed by Miranda, who was careering up and down the lawn pushing a small cart and chanting a strange song, while Andrew rode round on his bicycle uttering whooping cries.
The adults were in the kitchen, packing up the picnic. Patrick watched with approval as Michael loaded beer, orange squash and two bottles of wine into a basket.
‘Can we help?’ he asked.
‘No. Just keep out of the way,’ said Jane. ‘Go away and read the papers.’ She smiled kindly at Manolakis to show that she did not mean to seem harsh towards him.
Liz seemed remote, dressed in blue slacks and a paler blue shirt, and wearing a large apron printed with exotic fruit. Patrick hovered, wanting to be noticed, but she spared him no more than a glance as she sweepingly said ‘hullo’ to both him and Manolakis. He left Manolakis frowning over the Sunday Times and went out to clean the windscreen of her car. By the time she came out he had made a good job of the side and rear windows too, and was rubbing up the lights.
‘I checked the oil and water this morning,’ he told her. ‘So she’ll be all right for you to go back to London. She’s done a big mileage this weekend.’
‘Thanks.’ Liz knew he would have filled up with petrol, too; after borrowing the car the day before to go to Pear Tree Cottage, he had returned it with a full tank. He was thoughtful and generous in so many ways, but he held back just when one expected, even hoped, that he might not. She had met plenty of men who were both material and emotional spongers, and Patrick was neither, so she smiled at him, and said again, ‘Thanks very much, Patrick.’
Deciding how to travel took some time. Michael’s Peugeot estate car would hold everyone, for the children were small, but Liz insisted on taking her car so that she could go straight on to London.
‘You come with me, Dimitri,’ she said, disposing of all argument. ‘I’m sure you’ve had enough of Patrick for an hour or two.’
Manolakis climbed eagerly into the Herald, and as the small car drove off the others took their places in the Peugeot. Patrick sat in the back, with Miranda strapped into her seat on one side of him and Andrew on the other. All the way, the little boy kept watching for Liz’s car and crying out ‘There it is, no it isn’t,’ echoing Patrick’s thoughts. When at last they did pass the Herald, the two dark heads looked much too close together, and he was sure Manolakis had an arm along the back of Liz’s seat.
But before they reached the game reserve, Patrick’s conviction that the day would be a failure took a knock, for the approach was through acres of park-land where, in the spring sunlight, herds of deer could be seen grazing among the trees. So it must have looked, centuries ago.
Inside the safari park, however, he began to fret lest some lunatic beast set upon Liz’s car; Manolakis, like all Greeks, would no doubt be valiant, but courage against a lion would not be enough. He was cheered at the sight of a warden in a zebra-striped Land Rover patrolling near the entrance.
‘Animals shouldn’t be taken out of their context,’ he grumbled.
‘But, Patrick, they’re preserving them. They breed here,’ said Jane.
‘Jungle beasts belong in the jungle.’
‘Look!’ said Jane.
Huge animals, weird as creatures from another planet or another age, stood grouped in the sunlight ahead of them, their dull hides dun-coloured, their massive limbs looking as though they were built of armour-plating, not flesh and bone.
‘Rhinoceroses!’ Andrew cried.
The beasts were enormous. They looked peaceful, standing there. Ahead, Liz and Manolakis had stopped beside a pool in which two hippos were wallowing in the manner of the song.
Patrick’s disapproval fell away, and he helped the children identify the other creatures they passed as they drove on. Andrew was intrigued by the electronic gates to the lion area; cars were admitted into a no-man’s-land between two gates, the second, which let them into the section of the park where lions and tigers roamed, not opening until the first had closed behind them. A warden’s cabin overlooked them both, and the whole area was securely fenced.
The first tiger they saw lay on a grassy bank under some trees; its coat shone sleekly, orange-coloured, with its black stripes gleaming.
‘But it’s splendid,’ cried Patrick, in spite of himself. So far he had not seen a single monkey, although Andrew and Miranda kept pointing them out; he hated their all-knowing, human faces. He kept his eyes glued to the tigers. More could be seen, pacing slowly or lying about, impassive.
‘Rhesus monkeys,’ said Jane, and Patrick saw a little creature with a wrinkled old-woman face staring at him from a tree. He looked away, back at the tigers.
‘They must be very well cared-for, here,’ said Jane. ‘They look so glossy, don’t they?’
They did. The lions, by contrast, seemed drab, their colour dull and the males’ manes looking unkempt, like tangled wool.
‘Their ruffs should be made of silky hair,’ said Jane. ‘It’s matted stuff, like sheep’s wool.’
All agreed that the king of beasts looked less spectacular. Patrick was relieved when they emerged into the outer area, leaving the monkeys behind. Liz drove on in front, and after a while stopped so that they could get out and admire the elephants and the giraffes. Michael parked the Peugeot behind her car.
‘Were they not fine animals?’ Manolakis cried.
‘Which did you like best, Dimitri?’ Andrew asked him. ‘I like the tigers. Grrr!’ and he roared in imitation.
Patrick approached Liz.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘You don’t really like this sort of thing,’ she said.
‘You don’t either – at least, you don’t like circuses,’
She was surprised that he remembered this.
‘You can’t equate this with a circus. It’s quite different, and today, with so few people about, it’s rather splendid,’ Liz said. ‘But I wouldn’t like to come when it’s hot and crowded. We chose the best time.’
‘Yes. I’ve quite enjoyed it, in fact,’ said Patrick, and added, ‘to my surprise.’
‘You three go on to the house,’ said Jane. ‘We can’t drag the children round it. We’ll meet you near the entrance.’
They arranged a time, and Patrick clambered into the back of the Herald. He felt isolated, an outcast from the family group in the other car, and now playing gooseberry here. Gloomily, he stared out of the window as they drove past massed rhododendron bushes, not yet in bloom, towards the abbey.
‘The first duke was a Roundhead. Did you know that, Patrick?’ Liz remarked.
‘A Roundhead? What is that, please?’ asked Manolakis.
‘He was against the king,’ said Patrick.
‘Oliver Cromwell served under him,’ Liz said. ‘Of course, he wasn’t made a duke till much later.’
Cast For Death Page 9
