Cast For Death (11 page)

‘Perhaps she bought them on spec, hoping they’d come into vogue later and be worth a fortune. Things do happen like that. Like McGonagal,’ said Liz, and had to explain to Manolakis about the poet.

‘It’s the only explanation, I suppose,’ said Patrick.

‘I think this is one of your hares, Patrick. Lots of people like Earl Grey tea. I do—don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She was right, and someone with Tina’s tastes might be expected to do the same. ‘Let’s forget it now. Have you two enjoyed yourselves?’

They had had a happy morning. They had watched the Morris dancers, and had had a good view of the procession and the unfurling of the flags, even finding the Greek one. Liz had been able to identify many of the distinguished guests; besides the official representatives from different countries there were actors, writers, and even an American senator. Manolakis felt satisfactorily caught up in the excitement of the occasion.

‘It is a great British festival,’ he said.

He was right, they supposed, though neither Liz nor Patrick would ever have described it as one.

‘Well, what shall we do now? Run round the other Shakespearian shrines or go somewhere else?’ asked Patrick. ‘Dimitri, what would you like to do?’

‘I am at your commands,’ said Manolakis.

‘There’s such a crowd – let’s get out of the town and have a spin round the Cotswolds,’ said Liz. ‘It’s a famous part of England, Dimitri, and on a day like this it will be beautiful.’

It was. They passed orchards full of trees about to burst into blossom, and hedgerows bright with young growth. Soon they were among rolling fields where lambs, now nearly as big as their mothers, were grazing.

‘Ah—the walls of stone. We have these too,’ said Manolakis, pleased to find yet another bond with Britain. ‘It is all so green.’

He appreciated the names of the villages they passed through, and made notes in his little book about the Swells and the Slaughters when they stopped for tea in a café where tulips and forget-me-nots were in full bloom in the garden.

‘Shall we visit my sister now?’ said Patrick, as he finished the last scone.

Liz looked taken aback.

‘What an invasion for Jane,’ she said.

Patrick’s plans for the weekend had extended only as far as his visit to Pear Tree Cottage; he had given no thought to Saturday evening, nor to how they would spend Sunday. If he didn’t know what to do at weekends, he usually visited Jane.

‘Dimitris hasn’t met her yet. It’s a chance. She’s used to me just turning up.’

‘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.

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.’

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.