Mortal Remains (4 page)

But Felix was robust. He had no reason to pine away; Gwenda had never succeeded in crushing him, and Patrick could not imagine him harbouring suicidal tendencies; even if he had, why come to Challika to indulge them? His death must have been an accident. Had he simply been walking along the cliff top and slipped? It was high enough for such a fall to prove fatal, especially if he had struck his head on the way and entered the water already unconscious.

There was something about this idea that bothered Patrick, but he could not pin it down. Meanwhile, it was too hot to walk with much pleasure, so he went back to the car and drove into the town again. Perhaps he could buy an English paper.

This was an optimistic notion, but he learned that they would arrive in the early evening. He returned to the
kafenion
by the water-front and ordered a beer. While he sat there a caique came in filled with passengers who had been to one of the tiny off-shore islands where there were some traces of very early civilisation. The tourists trooped on to the jetty looking hot.

A slight, dark girl went past the tables. She wore a white shirt and a yellow skirt, and her legs were tanned.

He shouldn’t be here alone; that was the trouble.

He watched her out of sight. Funny how he always noticed slight, dark girls. He should react to blondes; he might have better luck.

As he drove back to the hotel he saw a woman in a blue dress trudging along. A silk scarf was tied round her head and she wore dark glasses. It was Patrick’s white-haired travelling companion of the night before. He stopped and offered her a lift.

‘Thank you,’ she said, getting in beside him. ‘It’s very hot walking.’

‘It was a tiring journey last night,’ said Patrick.

‘I suppose it was. I never sleep much the first night anyway. Over-excitement, I expect. But in this heat I collapse every afternoon.’

‘You’ve been to Crete before?’

‘No, never. But to several islands and various parts of the mainland. I know Athens well.’

‘That’s where you learned Greek?’

‘No. I made a serious effort at home, since one feels so inadequate being unable to communicate,’ she said. ‘But it’s a difficult language. So many syllables. You don’t speak it?’

‘No.’

‘You had a dreadful experience this morning, I understand. The waiter who brought my breakfast up told me. They’ve been ordered not to discuss it, because of upsetting the visitors, but when I spoke to him in Greek, out it all came. He’d seen the body in some inner fastness of the hotel. It must have been a shock – he was only about fourteen. “The new English
Kirios
found him,” he said. That could only be you.’ She did not tell Patrick that she, too, had woken early and had seen him walk down to the beach. ‘Was it someone from the hotel?’

‘No. They don’t know where he was staying,’ Patrick said. ‘But he was a colleague of mine. A friend.’

‘Oh no! How awful! What a terrible thing!’

Patrick recognised that he was suffering badly from a lack of human contact; he needed to talk.

‘Are you in a hurry, or shall we go past the hotel and see what lies round the headland?’ he asked her.

‘Let’s do that,’ she agreed, at once.

The road wound on past their hotel parallel to the shore; on either side pines and olive trees sprouted from the dry soil, and there were occasional fields of carob bushes now being harvested. A woman dressed in black worked in one, her donkey standing beneath a tree. Some chickens scratched nearby. Soon they reached a stretch where there was room to park off the road in the shade of an olive. Far in the distance, across the gulf, high arid mountains, grey and tipped with wisps of cloud, met the wide sky. They got out of the car and stood under the tree, looking at the view.

‘Africa’s over there. Imagine it,’ said Patrick. ‘One forgets how close it is.’

The sea beyond them was whipped up now into little waves, and a strong, very warm breeze blew around them.

‘Look at the sea. This is the hot wind from the desert,’ said Patrick’s companion.

‘The sirocco.’

‘Yes. Tell me about your poor friend.’

‘Yes, well, let me introduce myself first. My name’s Grant, Patrick Grant. I’m a university lecturer.’

‘And mine’s Ursula Norris. I’m an art historian,’ said the woman. She took off her dark glasses and regarded him steadily. Evidently she approved of what she saw, for she smiled warmly. Patrick smiled back. Then he told Miss Norris about Felix, but he did not mention the cruise.

‘I suppose he slipped while walking on the cliff. It looks a pleasant stroll along the promontory, but if one lost one’s footing—? There’s very little tide, to wash him in from further off,’ she said.

Suddenly, Patrick realised what had bothered him earlier about this idea. Into his mind sprang the image of Felix, green-faced, hastily leaving the roof of St. Mark’s where they were both, as members of the same committee, inspecting the lead covering.

‘I can’t believe it happened like that,’ he said. ‘Felix suffered from vertigo. He’d never walk willingly near the edge of a cliff.’

‘Some boat, then? A dinghy? He might have hired one.’

‘It must have been something of the sort, I suppose.’ But if a tourist in a small boat didn’t come back, someone would look for him, surely? And Manolakis said no one was missing. ‘But if so, what on earth was he up to, out in a small boat alone wearing flannels and a jacket, and his Vincent’s tie?’ said Patrick.

‘Was he dressed like that?’

‘Yes.’

Ursula was silent.

‘Was he married?’ she asked, at last.

‘Yes, but his wife never went away with him. She’s quite a tough nut,’ said Patrick.

‘She’s in for a shock,’ said Ursula.

‘She’ll bear it.’ Patrick could imagine Gwenda in her role as a widow.

‘People do act out of character sometimes,’ said Ursula slowly.

‘You mean Gwenda Lomax may mourn?’

‘She may – but no. I was thinking there may be some reason for your friend’s landlubberly attire aboard a small boat.’

‘I wish I knew what it was,’ said Patrick.

‘The police will probably have some theory or other by now,’ said Ursula.

Patrick hoped she was right. As they drove back to the hotel he discovered that she was staying in Crete for only a week. Then she was going to Athens.

‘I come out every year,’ she said. ‘This time I’m staying indefinitely.’ She did not explain any more.

When they reached the hotel Inspector Manolakis’s car and driver were waiting outside, and the manager was looking for Patrick.

The authoritieshad accomplished a good deal during the morning. Felix’s death had been caused by drowning; there were contusions on the body consistent with a fall from the cliffs, including a bruise on the back of the head. He had had a good deal to drink before death: ouzo, it seemed. The assumption was that, under the influence of excess alcohol he had lost his footing and fallen into the sea. He had been dead about four days.

‘In this heat, Mr Grant, you understand me, the body would rise to the surface quickly,’ said Manolakis. He sat at the manager’s desk, his clever eyes watching Patrick’s response.

Patrick nodded. He was satisfied that Felix had drowned; he had noticed a little froth issuing from the dead man’s nostrils before he was bundled into his blanket, after that dreadful moment of recognition.

‘He is to be sent home for burial,’ added the policeman with evident relief. ‘It is the wish of the widow.’

She would stage a tragic funeral. Well, at least Patrick need not attend.

‘Was he staying on the island?’ he asked.

‘Ah, that is the puzzle. We find no record, and he was not reported missing. It is very strange.’

‘He didn’t come over for the day and go out in a small boat—? No.’ Patrick saw Manolakis’s expression.

‘No small boat is lost,’ said Manolakis.

It was quite impossible for Felix to have vanished from the
Persephone
without a hue and cry being raised; therefore his absence from the ship had been explained. Ursula had said that people acted out of character at times; so they did, but not balanced men like Felix. Yet there were his moods, the times when he was silent, brooding. And he was only a moderate drinker; why was he full of ouzo? To beat the vertigo? Why not avoid the cliff?

Would this satisfy Gwenda, or would she demand further enquiries? Would she even care enough to wonder?

‘You are not happy, Mr Grant,’ said Manolakis. ‘There are lonely men who give no reason for their actions and are not missed swiftly.’

So Manolakis thought that Felix had jumped.

‘An accident. It is better so,’ added the policeman. ‘There is no evidence to prove otherwise.’

That was true, anyway. Felix’s thoughts in his last hours would never be known, it seemed. It was tragic, but there was nothing more to be said. Patrick himself was to be let off lightly; arrangements were already in hand for flying the body home as soon as the official enquiry was over, and he could put the whole thing out of his mind and concentrate on Yannis.

He took
Phineas Finn
in to lunch with him and scarcely lifted his eyes from its pages while he plodded through a hefty
moussaka.
Afterwards he went up to his room. The shutters were drawn but the room was still warm. He played about with the air-conditioning; opening the window presumably defeated the whole object of it, but one could not shut out this glorious day. He flung the windows wide.

It was too hot to sit out for long, even in the shade.

Ursula Norris was doubtless having her siesta. It wasn’t a bad idea.

Patrick lay down on his bed and immediately the image of a slight, dark girl floated into his mind.

It was ridiculous. He’d got over it months ago. It was just the effect of this place – the sun and the surroundings, and the sight of at least four honeymoon couples in the hotel restaurant.

It was better to think about Felix.

Patrick slept for an hour, and woke feeling heavy-headed. He put slacks and a shirt on over his swimming trunks and went outside.

The hotel beach was strewn with toasting bodies. Some slept, some read; a few heads bobbed in the sea. A fat, middle-aged woman spread oil on the back of her still fatter husband. A few people glanced up as Patrick passed. He felt a sharp revulsion from so much naked flesh and walked on towards the promontory below which Felix’s body had been floating.

On the cliff top, there were patches of shrivelled grass and scrub. He was no botanist, but he knew that these withered bushes must be bright with blossom in the spring. Close to the sea’s edge, the ground was bare, just grey rock above the water. At the tip of the small peninsular, there was an old wartime pillbox set into the rock. It was easy to imagine sentries inside it, watching for the submarines that brought supplies to the
andartes.
Patrick wondered why it had not been demolished. It was still a solid structure. Perhaps it served as a warning. More likely it was a refuge for local lovers, since the present chaste regime forbade public display. There were some cigarette ends on the ground inside it, and various
graffiti
scratched on the stones of the inner walls, but nothing of interest. Patrick strolled slowly on, and soon, seeing a flat rock beneath him, climbed down to it. It made a secluded retreat, so he stripped to his trunks and stretched out there for a while, reading. When he grew too hot he dived off the rocks into the deep, clear water, and swam for a long time.

He dried out in the sun, and then went back to the hotel. The evening yawned ahead, full of empty hours. He would invite Ursula Norris to join him for a drink.

But when he came down later to the terrace bar she was with an elderly couple and did not seem to notice him. Patrick, sulking slightly, ordered an ouzo, and sat with his back to her, facing an enormous
amphora
which was securely cemented into the flower bed among the geraniums. One of the honeymoon couples appeared, each partner totally absorbed in the other; they looked about eighteen years old. Patrick felt old and bitter. There were three girls chattering together at another table. They glanced at him, then very obviously began to discuss him; one girl stared at him boldly. Patrick turned away from them and opened his book.

Once he’d started his programme he’d be all right. An expedition to somewhere of interest each day, that was the thing, and enquiries about Yannis; then he would leave Crete. In Athens there was plenty to do; he had met people at the Embassy when he was there before and might renew contact with them. And he wanted to explore the Pelponnese.

He decided to go down to the town for dinner. It would be more amusing than the hotel restaurant, where there were only the other guests to watch. Hotel life was not for him.

He had a second ouzo, which made him feel better, then drove down to Challika. The lights were coming on now: darkness swept down suddenly out here; there was no twilight. He parked the car and went to the paper shop. Today’s
Times
had arrived. Tomorrow’s might carry a paragraph about Felix; he would surely merit a few lines. He tucked the paper under his arm and went for a stroll.

The little town, which had seemed half-asleep earlier, had come alive. People wandered about the streets; the shops and harbour were brightly lit; tourists examined embroidered fabrics, jewellery, woven bags, and other attractions. Patrick saw a flight of steps leading steeply away from the water-front between the houses that faced it, and climbed them. A dark-eyed child clasping a scrawny cat watched him go by with a solemn gaze. Patrick smiled rather self-consciously and said,
‘kalispera.’
The child stared back at him, silent. A youth in jeans and a striped singlet came out of a doorway ahead of him, sandals flapping on the dusty path. A long-haired couple, dressed alike in frayed cotton shirts and trousers, the man carrying a sleeping baby, went past arguing in English about where to eat.