Lament for Leto (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “This,” said Dame Beatrice, “is very interesting, and so is the Stop Press news.”

  “I did not read that,” said Simon. He scanned it. “Now that is interesting, too,” he said. “My soul informs me that here is a great mystery.”

  “ ‘Here be dragons,’ ” quoted Dame Beatrice. At this moment Dick came into the lounge.

  “On Leukas have been tragedy and mystery,” said Hero.

  “The tragedy cannot affect us,” said Simon. “A woman has thrown herself over Sappho’s Leap. The mystery is nearer to us. Mrs. Cowie has disappeared.”

  “Papa Ronald,” said Hero, “I think the tragedy does affect us. Please tell me how it seems to you. Was not Madame Metoulides my mother?”

  “Your mother?” said Dick. “Oh, you mean because of the name. No, no, she was not your mother. You have no need to think that. I daresay Metoulides is not an uncommon name. But the news of this disappearance is most disquieting. Our real concern must be for Mrs. Cowie.”

  “I do not feel so much of this concern,” said Hero. “I think she has quarrelled with Mr. Owen, or has found the boys too much for her. There would be nothing more in it than that. She has perhaps taken the steamer and gone across to Italy. It is no great distance from Leukas.”

  “Nothing is said in the newspaper about Mary,” said Simonides. “Would Mrs. Cowie go away without her?”

  “Perhaps Mary has accepted Julian to be her husband,” said Hero. “I think that might upset Mrs. Cowie very much. She will still need an unpaid secretary, even after she has married Mr. Owen. Do you not think so, Dame Beatrice?”

  Dame Beatrice declined to comment, and had the best of reasons for this, although she did not immediately disclose them.

  “I wonder,” said Dick, “whether I ought to go to Leukas and find out whether I can be of any help to Henry? On the other hand, if I do so, he may already be on his way here, and, in that case, we should miss one another. What do you think, Beatrice?”

  “Newspaper reports are often exaggerated,” she replied. “I think you would do better to remain in Athens. Mr. Owen can easily contact you if he needs help. He knows the name of this hotel.”

  “As for going to Italy,” said Simonides, “yes, if she had left from Corfu. There is a good and frequent service of steamers to Brindisi. But if she disappeared on Leukas it would be more difficult, perhaps. But I am more interested in this lady who suicides at Sappho’s Leap.”

  “Oh, well, we must do as Dame Beatrice says. We will wait and see,” said Hero. “And now, Simon, did you get tickets for son et lumière on the Acropolis? Let us have lunch, and then we will show you and Papa Ronald all our beautiful shopping, and after that we will all go to the beach and swim and lie in the sun and sit under big umbrellas. Oh, how much I like to be in Athens!”

  “I don’t think I’ll accompany you to the beach,” said Dick. “I’d prefer to stay here in case the others turn up.”

  Dame Beatrice elected also to remain at the hotel, so the twins went off after lunch, disdaining the hour of siesta, and their elders settled down in armchairs in the cool and curtained lounge, Dame Beatrice to read and Dick to sleep. At half-past four he opened his eyes and said,

  “It isn’t Mrs. Metoulides, you know, Beatrice. I’m very much afraid it’s Chloe Cowie. They are very much alike to look at, and I have good reason to think that a mistake may have been made.”

  “So Mrs. Metoulides is Megan Hopkinson,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “How did you guess?”

  “Well, the resemblance is striking, as you say, and I noticed it from the first. I remembered Megan clearly from that ill-fated expedition on which you and I accompanied Sir Rudri Hopkinson all those years ago, and, of course, I came to certain conclusions when I realised that you had adopted one twin and were the official guardian of the other. Megan, however, can hardly be their mother—or can she?”

  “Oh, no, she is not their mother. She is their great-aunt. They are the grandchildren of her older sister Olwen, but, of course, they were born out of wedlock.”

  “Oh, Olwen, yes. I remember Marie Hopkinson’s telling me that Olwen was married to a schoolmaster and was expecting her first child.”

  “Well, that child was Chloe Cowie. It’s not a long story and, until now, not really a sad one. Olwen married a Philip Bosfield, an Englishman. That was in 1935. In 1937 Chloe was born to them. In 1939 Philip joined up and was killed at Dunkirk. Olwen was in England with the child, but after the war she came back to Athens to live with her parents. Well, at the age of fifteen, Chloe, always headstrong and rather foolish, allowed herself to be seduced by a Greek, who, of course, deserted her when he knew there was a baby on the way, and at the age of sixteen she bore the twins. Marie and Rudri did what they thought was best, and fostered the babies on a Greek wet-nurse. When they were a year old, or thereabouts, Megan offered to have them, and they lived with her until she married. That was a couple of years later. Her husband, also a Greek, was named Metoulides. He did not want the children, and one cannot blame him for that, so they were fostered again. Hero kept the name Metoulides, but I have no idea what Simon was called, because I adopted him when Megan wrote to me and he took my name. Of course, he has been brought up mostly in Greece, and went to school here, so what with that, and the fact that he takes after his natural father in looks and temperament, he is much more Greek than English or Welsh.

  “I lost track of Hero for many years, but before Sir Rudri died he wrote and begged me to become her guardian. I made enquiries, discovered that her Greek foster-mother had remarried and returned to Greece with the child, and so I claimed her, the woman and her husband being more than willing to give her up, although they had been good to her, and she has been a member of my household ever since.”

  “And you did not tell the children that they were twins?”

  “No. It would have meant telling them the whole story, including, I was afraid, the news that they were illegitimate.”

  “So Chloe Cowie was their mother,” said Dame Beatrice. “And, of course, she did not realise that when she met them.”

  “They were fostered out almost as soon as they were born. Strange how they both disliked her, and she them,” said Dick, shaking his head. “So much for natural affection! Of course, when I first made her acquaintance, I had no idea of all this, but the resemblance to her Aunt Megan was sufficiently striking to set me thinking, and her age and the age of the twins was about right, and she has always been reticent about her early life, so I put two and two together. When she married this man Cowie I have no idea, nor do I know exactly when he died, but both matters are beside the point. I admit, though, that at one time I was strongly attracted to Chloe. However, having come to know more about her since we came to Greece, I consider that I have had a lucky escape, unkind though it may be to say so.”

  “What makes you think that the woman who committed suicide on Leukas is not Megan Hopkinson?”

  “Because Megan Hopkinson should have left Leukas, where she has been living in seclusion, almost as soon as our party arrived there. I had advised her that some of us were proposing to visit the island and she thought it better not to meet Chloe again, just in case something should crop up. Megan is a singularly honest and forthright person, and she was afraid of what might happen when Chloe realised how very much alike they were. Of course, with our common interest in the twins, Megan and I have kept in touch.”

  “I see. But when she reads about the suicide in the newspapers, will she not come forward?”

  “Oh, undoubtedly. But, if it is Chloe, I wonder what on earth possessed her to do it? Do you suppose—but, no! It was all such a long time ago—twenty years or more—and she has built up for herself a reputation and a small fortune since then. It would not really matter now if that old affair did come out. Nobody would blame her in this day and age, and, after all, she was scarcely more than a child at the time the twins were conceived.”

  “I can think of nobody less likely to
commit suicide, though. Is the theory of accident quite ruled out?” asked Dame Beatrice.

  “I should not have thought so. Oh, well, perhaps we shall know more about it when Henry gets here.”

  This happened at six o’clock, before Hero and Simon returned to the city from the beach. Julian and the boys went straight up to their rooms as though by some pre-arranged plan, and Henry and a very subdued Mary joined Dick and Dame Beatrice in the lounge. Henry, far from being subdued, was in blustering mood.

  “So there you are,” he said. “What a business! What a business, eh? Whatever can have come over the wretched woman? That’s what we’d all like to know. Where on earth has she managed to get to? Most inconsiderate I call it.”

  Dick was about to speak, but Dame Beatrice prevented him by saying:

  “We know nothing except what we have read in the English papers, and that was little enough. Pray give us your own account of what has happened.”

  “Don’t know that I can. My head—my brain—won’t function. Don’t know when I felt so upset and all at sea.”

  “You got back to Patras and went on to Leukas from Olympia quite safely, then?” said Dame Beatrice, turning to Mary. “Was your aunt there when you arrived?”

  “I don’t know,” said the girl, almost inaudibly. “I kept out of her way, because I knew how angry she would be with me for going off alone like that. But, of course, when she wasn’t in our room when I went up to change for dinner, I felt sure that something must have happened and when she didn’t appear at table I asked Mr. Owen . . .”

  “And, of course, I could tell her nothing,” said Henry, “and I was horrified when I found that she could tell me nothing, either. Well, I suppose you’d better have the whole story from the beginning. The trouble is that the local people are so full of this woman who committed suicide at Sappho’s Leap, as they call it, that we couldn’t get any help from them in finding out where Chloe had got to. Could she have had a brainstorm or something, do you think? I mean, it seems such a dashed uncomplimentary thing to do, to leave us all flat like that, without so much as a word.”

  “Henry,” said Ronald Dick, “you were going to tell us the whole story. I am particularly anxious to hear it, for a reason I will disclose to you later. Do begin at the beginning, my dear fellow, and let us have all the details. You know of Beatrice’s reputation for solving mysteries. Do give her the opportunity of helping us to solve this one.”

  “Eh? Yes, of course. That’s what I said I was going to do, didn’t I? Trouble is, where do I begin?”

  “Begin,” said Dame Beatrice, “from what was our last sight of Mrs. Cowie when she drove off with the rest of you from Andritsena.”

  “Well, we did as Edmund suggested and took the coast road by way of Pyrgos to Patras. Chloe wanted to spend the night there, but I suggested that, as we’d driven only just over a hundred miles, it was silly to break our journey before we got to Leukas. We had a bit of an argument, as a matter of fact, and when she first went missing I thought she was indulging in a fit of sulks. She never could bear to be thwarted. Of course I never dreamed she’d cut her stick and opt out altogether. Then came the second upset. We couldn’t make out where Mary was.” He stared accusingly at her. “Of course, I know the answer now. She’d given her aunt and the rest of us the slip so as to sneak back to Olympia. She must have done it as soon as we landed. So Chloe had two of us to be mad at.”

  “Well, why not?” asked Mary defiantly. She turned to Ronald Dick. “Wasn’t I justified? What’s the use of coming to Greece if you have to miss one of the most important sites? I was sick and tired of being Aunt Chloe’s yes-woman. Wouldn’t you have been?” She fired this last question belligerently at Dame Beatrice, who replied composedly,

  “The point does not arise, but I can understand your reactions. How did you obtain the money to make the necessary journey?”

  “Oh,” said Mary bitterly, “I suppose you would say I stole it. As though, over and over again, I haven’t earned it! All right, then, I did steal it. Anyway, I got it, and, for once, I wasn’t afraid to use it. I hated that woman! Hated and hated and hated her! And I wanted her dead.”

  “My dear Miss Mary!” cried Dick, appalled. “Whatever makes you say such a thing?”

  “Because I believe she is dead, although you’d call that wishful thinking,” said Mary, “I suppose.” She spoke quietly, the venom gone from her voice, and glanced nervously at Dame Beatrice.

  “The body was identified as that of a Mrs. Metoulides,” said Henry slowly. “You don’t really think, do you—?”

  “You didn’t see it, of course,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “No. And you really mustn’t pay any attention to that poor girl,” said Henry. “Naturally she’s upset—we all are—about Chloe’s going off in the extraordinary way she seems to have done, leaving the poor child high and dry, but there can’t be any doubt about the identification of the body.”

  “There is very great doubt about it, Henry,” said Dick. “It is not for me to alarm and worry you, but I have good reason to believe that a mistake has been made. You see, I happen to know this Mrs. Metoulides, and, so far as I am aware, she is still alive and well.”

  “My dear chap, that’s impossible! She’s well known, it seems, as a political trouble-maker. Probably committed suicide because the powers that be had caught up with her. At least, that’s the rumour which was going the rounds.”

  “The physical resemblance between herself and Mrs. Cowie is striking. As I have known both of them I can be a witness to that. I—I suppose the body had suffered some ill-effects when it was recovered?” asked Dick.

  “I haven’t seen it, I tell you. By the way, this name Metoulides. I seem to have heard it before.”

  “Yes. It is the name of my ward Hero, but no doubt it is a common name enough.”

  “Of course, of course. These coincidences occur. I daresay it’s a common enough name hereabouts, as you say. But what makes you think that the body is not that of this Mrs. Metoulides?”

  “Because I have been in correspondence with Mrs. Metoulides for years.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “I can show you her latest letter, in which she states in unmistakable terms that if our party was going to Leukas she had the best of all reasons for leaving it.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything, either. No, my dear chap, Chloe has simply run out on me. It’s of no use for you to make these melodramatic statements. What possessed her, as I say, I don’t know, and if you were a friend of this Mrs. Metoulides, well, all I can say is that I’m very sorry. But there it is. Those islanders can’t be wrong. Why should they say it’s Mrs. Metoulides if it isn’t?”

  “Because there is this strong resemblance, as I’ve told you, to Mrs. Cowie. Surely you can see that if Mrs. Metoulides left Leukas some days ago, and Mrs. Cowie has disappeared, the likelihood is that the one has been mistaken for the other?”

  “Then what do you propose we should do?”

  “Wait for Mrs. Metoulides to proclaim herself alive and well,” said Dame Beatrice, “and, if she is suspected of subversive activities, I doubt whether she will.”

  “But, if you’re right, Chloe Cowie has been buried under the wrong name, and that is terrible,” said Henry.

  “Oh, the funeral has already taken place, has it?”

  “Oh, yes. You see, the fatality happened on the very evening of our arrival. I thought I’d made that clear.”

  “I wonder whether I ought not to go to Leukas myself and make some enquiries,” said Dick. “After all, as a member of my party, Chloe was my responsibility.”

  “Forgive me for asking,” said Dame Beatrice, “but was it only about staying the night at Patras that you had a disagreement with her, Mr. Owen?”

  “Well, Dame Beatrice, as to that, it was about Mary, among other things, that we had what you call a disagreement. It began with a discussion about Chloe’s books. She still seemed determined to continue with her
writing after we were married. We’d already argued about it, as you probably know, and I thought I’d made my views quite clear. I consider that a wife has a duty to her home and her husband, and a duty which is incompatible with sitting up half the night writing trashy novels. Then there was the question of Mary’s future.”

  As though on cue, Mary joined in.

  “All I want,” she said, “and Mr. Owen is in full agreement, is to be independent of Aunt. All I asked was to be sent to a decent commercial college where they would give me a secretarial training. It wouldn’t have cost her all that much, but, of course, she preferred just to pay for my bread and butter and keep me at her beck and call. Besides, I wouldn’t want to live in the same house as the boys. I don’t doubt they’re nice boys, but they’re dreadful teases and Edmund is very rough and uncouth and Roger plays silly pranks. I shouldn’t have a minute’s peace with them, especially if Julian leaves to get married.”

  “I think that outcome is rather less likely than it was,” said Dick. “If I am not mistaken, Hero has changed her mind about him.”

  “That makes it all the more unsuitable to have him and Mary living in the same house,” said Henry. “Besides, I could get Chloe to see things my way, and make a proper home, if she didn’t have Mary to do her typing and look up her references and deal with her correspondence. She gets a ton of fan-mail from idiot women with nothing better to do than write half-baked letters asking for her advice—advice, indeed! As though such a feather brain would have any advice to give that was worth the notepaper it was written on!”

  “I used to supply the advice—under orders, of course,” said Mary. “But I wouldn’t call my aunt feather-brained. She was too good a business-woman for that, and as hard as granite.”

  “Well, in the end, and to conclude the argument,” said Henry, “I told Chloe flatly that I expected her to act as my hostess and housekeeper and not as a ruddy penny-a-liner. I made it clear that I would marry her on those terms and on no other.”