Mortal Remains (21 page)

Vera Hastings arrived soon after Patrick, in a taxi. She paid it off, then stood looking rather bemused on the pavement in a crowd of Swedes all going to Hydra. Patrick approached her.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘You’re going to Mycanae and Epidaurus, aren’t you? Shall we sit together?’

‘Oh, that would be nice. The Loukases are coming too. Did you know?’ she said.

‘Yes, indeed. They told me last night.’

Even so early in the day, plump Vera Hastings was flushed and heated. Patrick, who wore a linen jacket because he needed its pockets, not for warmth, patted the torch, safely in his pocket; in another were the sweets, and a paperback copy of
The Lion’s Gate.
He took reading matter about with him wherever he went as another man would cigarettes.

‘I think this is our coach,’ he said, taking Vera’s arm and leading her through the Swedes who divided for them like the Red Sea before Moses. A group of Germans blocked the way next, and Patrick would not be baulked nor go round, when they did not move.

‘Bitte,’
he said, tapping a stout man. ‘
Bitte schon.’
He forged a path, and checked their destination with a slim lad who stood by the coach door holding a list, although the vehicle was clearly labelled.

‘Your name, sir, please?’ The youth searched on his list and eventually passed them in. They picked a seat near the front and had been there for almost ten minutes before the Loukases arrived. By then the coach was filling up.

Patrick saw a middle-aged man in a flowered shirt eagerly join a younger one who gave him a sharp, calculating glance, then brightened; well, their day was made already.

Elsie and George had to sit near the rear of the coach. When it moved off at last, Patrick relaxed; there was nothing to do now but wait. Meanwhile he might as well enjoy the trip.

They stopped at Corinth, where the coach drew up outside a Sprawling modern
kafenion
and the passengers walked back to the bridge spanning the canal. The sheer rent in the earth, with its steep red sides and the brilliant blue of the sky above, was a dramatic sight, marred by one of the ubiquitous signs proclaiming the anniversary of the events of 1967 strung across the ravine in an eye-catching position. After observing the scene from both sides of the bridge the party trooped back to the
kafenion
for refreshments. It was a bad moment for Patrick when Vera Hastings went off to the cloakroom, he could not follow her there. But Elsie was sitting at a table with George drinking coffee. They had seen the canal before, they said, when they visited George’s cousins.

From Corinth they went on through beautiful rolling scenery among groves of orange trees and lemons, and little white villages perched on the hills. Mrs Hastings fell asleep.

One of the first things Patrick saw when the coach stopped at Epidaurus was Nikos’s car; he recognised it with relief. He had not seen it pass the coach, for Vera was on the window side. There was no sign of Ursula or of Nikos, but that was the plan. They were to be waiting, strategically positioned, in the theatre, having carried out a small experiment.

The beauty of the setting took Patrick by surprise; he almost forgot his grim mission as he looked across to the distant mountains. Here it was verdant and green; no doubt the natural attributes of the place helped Asclepius with his cures. Their guide led them along past the stadium, tiny by comparison with the vast area of Delphi, and on to the Tholos, where they learned of the snake-pit remedy; drastic indeed. After a short time in the museum, where Elsie Loukas found the ancient surgical instruments interesting, they wandered on towards the theatre. She had been a dental nurse when George and she met, Patrick remembered; such things would hold a professional appeal for her. Learning to give herself insulin injections must have been easier for her than for a lay person. She would have an expert knowledge of anatomy, if she were a fully-trained nurse.

She was walking along beside him and Vera now; George had gone on ahead and was filming the three of them as they approached. He retreated steadily as they advanced, holding the camera as it turned; behind him, as they reached the limits of the theatre, Patrick saw Ursula’s white head. She and Nikos were standing at the foot of the great semi-circular range of tiered seats. One other group of tourists with their guide were standing in a cluster on the stage; a few people on their own moved among the seats or wandered about, staring at the great theatre in its tranquil surroundings. The guide began to tell them about the annual drama festival held here; what a wonderful thing to attend, thought Patrick. But he was in the midst of a contemporary drama, and must forget Euripides for it was time to play his part.

‘Why look! There’s Ursula Norris,’ he cried, striking, as Ursula told him later, an attitude. ‘You met her on the journey to Athens, Vera. Do you remember?’

‘Yes – oh, how nice.’ Vera, always prim, was nevertheless pleased.

‘And you met her in Crete,’ Patrick reminded George and Elsie.

‘Patrick! What a lovely surprise!’ exclaimed Ursula, and to his amazement, kissed him warmly. She gave his arm a little squeeze and breathed into his ear, ‘It’s fine.’ So their test had worked. ‘And Mr and Mrs Loukas,’ she went on, with almost no pause. ‘May I introduce Nikos Hadzimichalis?’

Nikos, looking bashful, stepped forward.

‘He speaks very little English,’ said Ursula.

Patrick blinked. This was new. What had they been plotting without him? But he seized the opportunity, put out his hand, and said firmly, ‘
Hero poli.’

‘How are you?’ said Nikos, with an affected thick accent, gripping his hand.

George immediately broke into rapid Greek; soon the two men were chattering away, sounding excited; they could only be discussing trivialities yet their voices and gestures might lead the observer to suppose they were arguing about life and death, such was the Greek manner of conversation.

Life and death.

Vera Hastings was talking to Ursula. Nikos said something to George, who answered,
‘Nai, nai,’
in vehement tones, and the two began to ascend an aisle dividing the blocks of seats; while they climbed they continued to talk and gesticulate. Patrick moved close to Vera; Ursula stood on her other side; Elsie faced the three of them, a little apart. Only words could be used as weapons here, before so many possible witnesses, but the manoeuvre had psychological importance. The guide, with the rest of the group had crossed the stage to the further side and was addressing them.

Nikos and George had reached a considerable height now; Patrick glanced up, saw Nikos make a quick gesture to George for silence, and point below. It was time to begin.

‘How odd that you three ladies were all in the Wrens during the war, yet never met,’ he said.

Elsie’s head shot up.

‘Were you, too?’ she asked Ursula.

‘Yes. I was an administrative officer,’ Ursula said. ‘What were you?’

‘A clerk,’ said Elsie.

‘Oh – a writer, do you mean?’ Vera asked.

‘You left under a cloud, didn’t you?’ Patrick said.

Elsie had stiffened. Her eyes looked very black, the pupils dilated.

‘I was thinking about that,’ said Vera, now playing her part as if she had rehearsed it. ‘Why were you afraid of being court-martialled? You mentioned it at Delphi. Wrens never were. We used to joke about it. That’s right, isn’t it?’ she appealed to Ursula.

‘Perfectly correct,’ said Ursula. ‘And there were no Wrens in North Africa until 1942.1 worked on the scheme for sending out the first group.’

‘You were not in the British Forces at all,’ said Patrick, but he said it in German. Vera looked bewildered, Ursula determined, and Elsie, who seemed now to be surrounded by the others in a threatening group, looked hunted.

‘I don’t speak German,’ she said, in English.

‘I think you do,’ said Patrick. ‘You understood it in a shop in Crete and you’re understanding me now.’ No one knew if George understood German, so the conversation must go on in English, and he switched languages. ‘What’s that tune? How does it go? Beethoven wrote it. He was another German.
Fur Elise.
For Elsie.’ And he hummed the opening notes. ‘You knew Felix Lomax, didn’t you? You met him in Venice and he recognised you, in spite of your dyed hair. What had you done, Elise, that made him follow you to Crete, and was so terrible that you killed him to prevent George learning about it?’

Vera was looking at him in horror, quite uncomprehending. But Elsie rallied.

‘You must be mad,’ she said to Patrick and pushed past him. ‘We’re missing the guide’s talk.’ And she walked away from them towards the rest of the group.

‘She’s cool, you have to admit,’ said Patrick, looking after her.

‘What—what’s going on?’ asked Vera. She looked shocked.

‘I wonder if it worked,’ said Ursula. She and Patrick were both looking up at Nikos and George, who were now talking together, Nikos with a hand on George’s arm. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Anyway, we must get you out of this, Vera. You must come back with Nikos and me. I’ll explain in the car. It’s all right, really it is. But you mustn’t stay with the tour.’ She looked at Patrick. ‘She’ll hardly tackle all of us, but she’ll be desperate now. Won’t you come too?’

He shook his head.

‘No. I’m staying with George,’ he said. ‘But please go with Ursula, Vera. I’ll tell the guide you felt ill.’

And indeed she had gone rather pale.

‘Felix Lomas was that friend of Lucy Amberley’s. The one who died,’ she said.

‘You knew him?’ Patrick asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said Vera. ‘He came into the bank with her once. And I read about his accident in the
Athens News.’
She stared at Patrick and then looked over at the group of tourists, in the midst of whom stood Elsie, apparently intent on the guide’s discourse. ‘But—?’ her voice trailed away.

‘We don’t know the whole story. Ursula will tell you what we think happened,’ Patrick said. ‘Now, please will you do as we ask? You could be in danger, because you were a genuine Wren and you know that Elsie was not.’

The group was moving off now towards the coach, Elsie on the heels of the guide. George and Nikos were coming down the steps between the tiered seats back to the stage, in silence; Nikos, a pace behind the other man, nodded at Ursula and Patrick. Owing to the remarkable acoustics of Polyclitus’s enormous auditorium, they had heard every syllable of what had been said below them; and Elsie, because she had not read about this nor witnessed the guide’s paper-tearing demonstration, did not know what had happened.

George was ashen under his normal olive colour; when he looked at Patrick, there was agony in his eyes.

‘Niko, I’m taking Vera to the car,’ said Ursula. ‘You come when you’re ready.’

‘Yes.’ Nikos had time to give her a warm look; then he spoke urgently to George in a low voice. The two women went off together and Patrick walked along behind the two Greeks; Nikos seemed to be advising George, who looked as if a thunderbolt from Jupiter himself had struck him, and no wonder.

There was someone following along behind Patrick. It was not Elsie; she was ahead with the rest of the tour. He glanced over his shoulder and was astounded to see Inspector Manolakis, last seen in Crete, wearing tourist clothes and huge dark glasses. He opened his mouth to speak, but Manolakis shook his head very slightly and went on walking.

Patrick took his cue and looked away. The policeman had been up in the auditorium and heard the whole thing too.

George followed Elsie into the coach and they took their former seat, at the rear. Patrick hung back so that he was one of the last to board; he could not bear to look at George, whom he had just destroyed. He resumed his seat.

A figure loomed beside him and took the vacant place; it was Manolakis. The guide cast them an anguished look; she was a plump woman of about forty, upset already because her flock had got separated in the theatre, and now she had exchanged a British lady for a policeman in plain clothes. She feared for her job and described the next stage of their journey, which would take them to Nauplia for lunch, with extra diligence in several languages on her intercom.

‘May I introduce myself? My name is Dimitris Manolakis and I am on holiday for a few days in Athens. I am a bank clerk,’ said the inspector suavely. ‘I missed my own coach, so the guide kindly said I was to take this place. You are English, sir?’

‘Yes, from Oxford. You speak very good English,
Kirie
Manolaki,’ said Patrick, hoping he had used the vocative correctly and scored a point thereby.

‘I like to practise,’ said the other, with calm.

And he did, for the whole journey to Nauplia, talking about trivialities and asking precise questions about grammar every few minutes. Patrick wondered what Elsie and George were discussing. Or were they silent? He felt the packets of sweets in his pocket. It had been wise to bring them, but they wouldn’t be needed now. No one was going into an insulin coma. But Elsie might have contrived to lead Vera apart from the rest; somehow she had done this to Felix, so that if he had screamed he had not been heard.

They had lunch in a large, modern hotel overlooking the sea at long tables especially laid up for the party.

‘It’s marvellous how the hotels cope with all these tourists,’ Patrick said to Manolakis as they entered the hotel and were greeted by flagging but still smiling waiters.

‘Cope? Cope? What is that, please? A bishop’s robings, yes?’ asked Manolakis.

Patrick patiently explained the verb.

‘Ah yes. I remember that.’ Manolakis took a small book from his pocket and wrote in it. He passed it to Patrick, who hoped to read a cryptic message therein, but all he saw was a crabbed script and the words
cope, manage,
with a Greek word alongside.

‘Quite right,’ he sighed. He felt the initiative had gone from him, but at least Vera was safe. He went into the men’s room.

George was there. He was washing his face with cold water. Patrick decided that the best course was to behave as if he did not know George had overheard the scene in the theatre, unless George himself did otherwise.