The Tomb of Zeus (13 page)

“Now tell me,” she said when she'd closed the door and window and placed two books, randomly selected from the shelves, open on a table in front of them, “did you reveal that George went AWOL for most of the afternoon?…William?” And, seeing his confusion: “You
didn't!
I bet you didn't! But why not?”

“It never came up,” he said tersely. “I answered the inspector's questions…told him nothing less than the truth. He asked me what time George and I had arrived back at the house and I told my story from that point. He didn't seek to know what I'd been doing earlier. He'd obviously already spoken to George. If he asks me—I'll tell him,” he finished defiantly.

“Defending Saint George? Well, I can see why you wouldn't feel able to tweak the inspector's sleeve and hiss: ‘Hey! Here's something you ought to know! Take this down: The man Mrs. Russell's note involved in her death was actually gadding about town for the best part of three hours out of my vision at the crucial time…’ Difficult thing to do—point the finger at someone you're fond of. You
are
fond of George, aren't you, William?”

“Quite obviously,” he answered sharply. “And I respect him. I got to know him well last autumn before he went off to Europe, and my opinion hasn't changed. I've been closely involved with all types and conditions of men, most of them under unbearable stress. I think I can tell a good 'un when I come across one, and George is one of the best. A golden man,’ they say in the village. He wasn't involved in Phoebe's death, I'm certain of it. I don't think he even understood the significance of that suicide envelope—it was not a note, remember, Letty. I think he was aghast and astonished like the rest of us.”

“But you heard Theo's comment as plainly as I did—Phoebe was apparently in the habit of passing him cheques. Perhaps she'd got fed up with underwriting her husband's expenses and supporting her stepson into the bargain. That Bugatti wasn't cheap, you know.”

“And in a fit of pique George climbed up the wisteria and hanged the golden goose, are you saying? Then he arranged to incriminate himself by leaving a supposed suicide note just where everyone would look for one? This isn't a parlour guessing game, Letty, and I want you to stop this silly speculation. It does you no credit to smear the reputation of people who are not yet known to you.”

“Can you say you know George as well as all that? He seems to me a pretty inscrutable character. I've never met anyone like him before.”

“Listen—George is not a taker of life. My faith in him is as simple as that. He couldn't begin…He's a defender and saver of life, if anything. And any life! It's slow progress going out into the town with him, I can tell you—he stops to berate anyone he catches beating a donkey. Any creature's pain he seems to feel as his own. I've seen him rescue a cat from tormenting boys and then kneel in the dust to talk to the villains. The neighbourhood dogs fawn on him and escort him about the streets.”

Gunning paused in his eulogy, uneasy, wondering whether to confide further. “I think I can account for the cheques that so worried you, Letty. They weren't for his own use, I suspect. He's involved with something he doesn't want generally known, and you must promise, Letty, that you will try to curb your tongue and not pass on what I'm about to tell you!” He waited for her nod. “George—with, I do believe, the support both moral and financial of Phoebe, who was as good-hearted as himself—is the driving force behind the rescue mission for lepers.”

It took a moment for Laetitia to absorb the word with its medieval associations of death, despair, and exclusion. “Lepers? Great heavens! Do they still have them out here?”

“I'm
afraid
so. In large numbers. But you won't see them about the streets anymore—not for the last twenty years. They've been herded together from all parts of Greece and the Aegean as well as Crete, and sent to finish off their existence on an island to the east of here. It's called Spinalonga. They live in the old Venetian fortifications, building their own houses from whatever materials are to hand, dependent on the charity of people like George. He's helped to organise a daily handout of bread, rebuilding on the island, and a medical service. It's a hellhole but it's a shelter of sorts where they can organise themselves into some sort of civilised life. He's constantly over there working with them, with absolutely no regard for his own safety. And he's been doing it from a very young age. One of his objects in going to Europe was to grill the medical world and find out where they'd got to in working on a cure for this disgusting disease. He's knowledgeable and he's impressive. You can imagine the effect his storming into a meeting, claiming to represent the unfortunates of the Aegean, would have!”

“Clatter of tumbling ivory towers heard for miles around, I shouldn't wonder!”

“You should hear him on the subject of ‘experts'! ‘Sitting on their bloody arses—holding symposia, listening to the sound of their own voices while there are people here on Crete, good people, crumbling and falling apart!’ He doesn't always talk like a saint,” said Gunning, smiling faintly. “The best saints swear fluently.”

“I had no idea,” said Letty softly. “Isn't it very dangerous? I mean—he must realise he risks infection himself?”

“He doesn't talk about it much, for obvious reasons. People still believe that leprosy can be transmitted by physical contact, with all the ease of influenza. Perhaps they're right. The villagers note that family members often fall victim. There are grandparents, parents, and children from the same family in isolation over there, sent away into exile as soon as their symptoms become evident. Sometimes—and this is the most heartbreaking thing—a child will be sent over by itself, separated forever from the rest of its family who are unaffected, and left to the care of the other outcasts there on the island.”

“What you say is truly appalling,” whispered Letty. “I don't wonder that Phoebe should have involved herself with this. It must have touched her deeply.”

“From her first week of living here, George says. He was escorting her while she explored along the coastline of her new home when she witnessed a sending into exile. At the centre of a wailing crowd, a small boy, no more than eight, was being torn from his mother's arms and hurried into the ferryboat to make the crossing to Spinalonga. Hideous scene! Phoebe demanded to know what was going on—what was happening to the boy. The upshot was, George told her exactly what went on, then confessed his involvement. Phoebe began at once to encourage him and, with the underpinning of large amounts of her cash, to extend his interest.”

“Is George in danger, William? Is he in contact with the sick?”

“Frequently. He makes no social distinction between lepers and the rest of us. He's one of those who maintain the disease is not transferred by contact. And he cites his own impeccable state of health in evidence. But, get him in a corner, and even he admits that physical proximity does, time after time, seem to be a factor. And yet, there are people like himself, like the island doctor, like many nurses and workers in leper hospitals who've been in contact for years with pus and gore and sores of every description and remain unaffected. I've seen him shake their hands, exchange hugs and kisses with the little ones. ‘They like to be touched,’ he'll tell you, ‘to feel that they aren't ghosts to the rest of us.’”

“You argue on both sides?”

“The truth is, Letty, nobody knows how leprosy spreads. What they do know is that there isn't a cure. Once contracted, isolation and a lingering, painful death are the only possible outcome. So— any man confiding that he spends his days in the company of lepers is likely to find his friends shuffling uncomfortably away from him in short order.”

“But you don't shuffle away, William,” said Letty. “You would never abandon someone close who needed you?”

He looked back at her steadily. “No,” he said. “I would not.”

A thudding of boots down the tiled corridor made Letty pull her chair away from Gunning's. They both looked up innocently from their unread books when the door banged open.

“Aha! Getting in a little practice for a season of intimacy—with Minoan culture, I see,” said Stewart with heavy innuendo. “Been all over the house looking for you. Aren't you the lucky ones—getting away from all this doom and gloom! There's a welcoming party formed up on the square outside waiting for you. At least I
think
they're welcoming!” He mimed cutting his throat. “You must decide for yourselves. Theodore's laid it on. You've got to hand it to the man—in the thick of all this grief and drama he thinks of his guests. The chap who'll be running the dig for you has turned up with some of his merry men to say hello. And to fix a departure time for tomorrow, as he's eager to get this little junket under way as early as possible. They've been loitering about the place all day. The sooner you start digging, the sooner they start earning. They're all waiting to get a look at the new director. So—jump to it! Off you go—I'll put your books away…” He glanced at the titles. “Good lord! What's this? A closet lepidopterist, Gunning? And Miss T, I see, is halfway through the
Erotokritos?
In the seventeenth-century Cretan? I say, well done!”

Laetitia could have sworn the eight men lounging in the shade of the plane tree had arranged themselves deliberately with a thought to the effect they would produce on a female stranger. For a moment she was torn between clapping with delight and taking cover in a cowardly way behind Gunning as she hesitated on the steps.

The men in the square had all the self-mocking dash of the chorus of
The Pirates of Penzance,
she thought. All were in Cretan dress. Baggy dark blue
vrakes were
tucked into high boots; gleaming white wide-sleeved shirts were confined by body-hugging embroidered waistcoats. Around their waists were wound lengths of mulberry silk, and tucked sideways into each cummerbund was an assortment of weaponry; ivory-hilted daggers and silver pistol butts gleamed in the folds. All had luxuriant moustaches and thick hair under fringed black kerchiefs twisted around the head at a jaunty angle. The packs they wore casually slung over their shoulders were woven and brightly coloured, crimson, purple, and orange.

Their leader wore a cape thrown negligently over his shoulders. He swaggered forward, putting out his cigarette, on seeing them. Impossible to slouch in such a getup, Letty thought, admiring. All you could do was stride to centre stage with the panache of a Cyrano de Bergerac.

Gunning was swept instantly into a whiskery embrace by this man, whom she took to be Aristidis, and the hugs and back-slappings were repeated seven more times as they all greeted him. The moustaches grew less formidable as Gunning progressed down the line until he arrived at the youngest man, who sported a very creditable Ronald Colman. A good deal of banter followed until the moment came for Gunning to introduce her. He managed this in Greek with a bit of prompting from Aristidis.

Eight pairs of lively dark eyes considered her with undisguised curiosity. They were friendly; they were not deferential as an English digging team would have been. She would be looking at this crew for a long time, she thought, before she saw anyone tug a forelock.

“We are delighted to meet you, Miss Laetitia.” Aristidis made her name sound like a sneeze. His men grinned appreciatively. “We come to greet you and show ourselves so that tomorrow morning in the thick mist of dawn you will know you start out with friends and you will not fear you are being kidnapped by brigands. The supplies have been going out to Kastelli all week and all that remains is to move the people out to the site. I have hired horses for yourself and Kyrie Gunning. Englishwomen, I know, do not like donkeys.”

She murmured a few polite phrases in reply and then the talk clicked back into Greek once more. It was Gunning who was consulted, informed, and advised. The conference broke up with laughter and noisy good-byes, and in seconds the team had swirled away, leaving Letty amused and intrigued.

“Did they dress up just for me?” she asked Gunning.

“Not at all!” He was laughing at her. “Sunday best shirts, perhaps, but otherwise their everyday gear. If you'd looked closely you'd have seen that those dashing breeches were worn and much patched, the boots resoled many times, the cummerbunds and armament hand-me-downs. Most of them are shepherds and farmers. They work, travel, and sometimes sleep out on the hill in the same outfits.”

“Ah, that explains it,” said Letty, waving a negligent hand in front of her nose, “that feral odour.”

“Those men have hiked ten miles under a hot sun over rough terrain just to come and get a look at you, Letty! A bit strong for you, is it—the honest stink of a working man? Are you regretting already the bay rum and lavender water of a London drawing room? It's not too late for you to turn your delicate nose to the north and beat a retreat.”

“Not at all, William. You mistake me. I expressed myself badly. I was thinking, rather—the enticing scent of a herb-covered mountainside, underlaid with the sweat of a vigorous man in his prime and, floating over all, a tantalising top note of Balkan tobacco. My senses are telling me a wolf pack has recently passed this way.” She shivered and had little difficulty in conjuring up the shiver: “Alarming—but exciting!”

The tight line of his mouth told her he was trying not to laugh. “Balkan tobacco, eh? I can see,” he muttered, “that I must get in a supply of Sobranies.”

A
s she stood waiting with Gunning on the steps, luggage at her feet, Letty was relieved to be escaping the brooding stillness of the dark house at dawn. She had, nonetheless, a moment of trepidation as her escort loomed into view down the mist-shrouded street. The cavalcade approached as quietly as a file of six donkeys, eight mules, two horses, and eight men could manage, and their silent purposefulness contrasted with the noisy joviality of the previous evening.

At the sight of them, lines of poetry that had thrilled Letty as a child with their sinister meaning came back to mind. Shivering with sudden chill, she whispered the chorus of “A Smuggler's Song” to Gunning:

“ ‘Five and twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark
Brandy for the Parson
'Baccy for the Clerk
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy…’”

He smiled, leaned close, and added, “
‘And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!’
” The warning of a Cornish father, suddenly aware of smugglers abroad below in the street.

The men, now in black shirts and short woollen cloaks, were each leading a mule, its wooden saddle covered with a scarlet blanket. The two horses, sturdy-looking animals, were led forward for her and Gunning. Lean brown hands snatched away their bags and the luggage disappeared into the donkey file. Greetings were hushed, movements and gestures spare.

Holding her horse steady by the head as she prepared to mount, Gunning touched her shoulder. “You'll be all right, Letty. You're with friends.”

They were well beyond the city gates and clattering down the Arkhanais road before Letty broke the silence. Drawing level with Gunning, she asked, “Didn't Theodore mention a fourth member of the team? Who is it we're to meet in the village?”

“I'll leave it to Aristidis to introduce you when we arrive. It's his surprise!”

She knew he would say no more. “Then tell me about Aristidis. Theo sings his praises. Another goose or a swan, would you say?”

“For once Theo does not exaggerate. If he's had any success on the island—and he's had considerable—he has Aristidis to thank for it. The man has an uncanny ability to sniff out productive sites. I've seen him do it. He can stand and survey a tract of countryside for a few minutes and then point and say: ‘I'd dig there, if I were you.’ And he's invariably right.”

“Well, he has lived here all his life. I should expect a native to be familiar with the terrain.”

“There's more to it than that. You should understand, Letty, that Aristidis is more than a clerk of works…the gaffer. He is truly interested in the world of Cretan archaeology and extremely knowledgeable. He has a natural ability and enthusiasm. If he'd had a sliver of the advantages that Theo and Arthur Evans have—money and connections—he could have been the authority on the Minoan age. He was raised in a village and was practically illiterate—”

“Was?”

“He just about knew his numbers and letters when he left the village school, but he wasn't content to spend the rest of his life herding the family goats. He took a job in the city and educated himself to an impressive standard. He was driven by an intense interest in his island's culture. Many of the villagers combine this interest with a phenomenal memory. I've heard—I've actually sat through—a recitation by a very old man of the hills, quite illiterate, of the
Erotokritos.”

“The book I was pretending to read in the library?”

“Yes! Bad choice! Their national saga. And you saw the length of it! It's a thousand lines longer than the
Odyssey!
You can imagine the bardic stamina required to memorize that. A constant supply of the local
raki
seems to fortify them. Three glasses are my limit, I'm afraid! They think I'm rather a weed.”

“Yet they seem to like you?”

“I take the trouble—not that it is a trouble, it's a joy—to learn their language. I enjoy swaggering about in boots. And I find much to admire in their character and in their history. They have a good deal in common with the English—we're both an island race-sailors, soldiers, odd sense of humour, fiery, honourable, generous, irreverent—I could go on! They'd appreciate all our heroes—Robin Hood, Francis Drake, King Arthur, Thomas à Becket—name whom you like.”

“Toad of Toad Hall?” Letty suggested with a smile.

“They'd love his dashing style! It's hard not to think of Cretans in heroic terms; they're men you'd choose without a second thought to fight shoulder to shoulder with.”

“That's quite a eulogy coming from you, William.”

“I love them,” he said simply.

“Surely they have
some
faults?”

He frowned. “Well, yes, they're human like the rest of us. They have quick tempers—it goes with the pride. And they're as fierce as they look! They'll readily seek vengeance for injuries done to them or their family. So stay on the right side of Aristidis! It shouldn't be difficult—he's easy to admire.”

“And one hundred percent Cretan.” She smiled, watching Aristidis dash by, cloak flapping, as he spurred the length of the convoy, shouting abuse at the men at the rear. They responded with a laugh and returned the abuse, but, she noticed, put in an extra effort to do as he asked.

“In fact it's more like seventy-five percent Cretan. His paternal grandfather was Turkish, a Turk who married a Greek girl. Quite a lot of that went on during the two hundred years of Ottoman occupation. And, before that, four centuries of Venetian rule. Acculturation and miscegenation occurred. And it's been going on since the Stone Age.”

“And it hasn't finished,” said Letty thoughtfully. “Look at George. English father, German mother, but born here on the island. What on earth does that make him?”

“I don't think he gives it a thought!”

“Well, I rather think, if he had to choose, he'd decide to be Cretan. In spite of the drawbacks. What did you say—quick temper and pride? And didn't someone else say All Cretans are liars'?”

“It was my least favourite saint—Paul—who was responsible for spreading that nasty little calumny,” he replied angrily. “But he missed the point! The original statement came from a philosopher from Knossos, in fact—Epimenides. Himself a Cretan! And so—”

Letty laughed. “The old logic problem? A paradox? If a Cretan says that all Cretans are liars—then he's presumably lying himself?”

“You have it! The humourless Paul wouldn't have seen that!”

“I think there's a rather unphilosophical interpretation of the charge. I'd say Epimenides was making a sweeping and tetchy statement about his countrymen and, in a superior way, excluding himself from the lineup. Do you know what he actually said?”

“Not sure anyone does. His works have disappeared. We just have quotations from other writers to go by.” He paused for a moment, suddenly thoughtful. “But I can give you a taste and, Letty, you may find our man has something important to say to you, down over the centuries. Good lord! I wonder…? He's talking about Zeus. Listen…something like this:

“ ‘They fashioned a tomb for thee, o holy and high one—
The Cretans, always liars, evil beasts, lazy gluttons!
But thou art not dead: thou livest and abidest forever,
For in thee we live and move and have our being’”

Letty mulled this over for a moment, then asked: “And when was he saying all this?”

“Oh…about 600
B.C.
?”

“So it's been common knowledge for centuries that the Cretans claim Zeus to be mortal. They build a tomb for him on his death. Or do they? Are they lying about that too?” She reined in her horse and sighed. “This is a wild-goose chase, isn't it, William? We're being sent away to play where we can't do any harm!”

“Very likely. My suspicions also.”

“And at just the time I would have wanted to be in Herakleion. We ought to be there, William. Standing witness for Phoebe.”

“Some things just have to be left to the family, Letty. There'll be funeral arrangements to make, her people in Paris to be informed and summoned. Believe me, there was little you could do at the Europa but get in the way.”

“I'm not sure the family can be trusted to pursue the truth of her death. And Harry Stoddart must have felt the same. Why else would he ask
me
to help him examine her body? Because he sensed that I am the one person in that household, recently arrived and impartial, who retains an open mind.”

“Impartial, eh? Well, if it's any consolation, I formed a good opinion of Inspector Mariani during our short interview. I don't think he's in Theo's pocket and I didn't get the impression that he was going to let the matter rest ‘under six feet of earth’ as you put it. I promise you that we'll go back to the villa at once, should it become necessary.” He glanced back at the troop riding behind and grinned. “Aristidis and I have devised a useful messenger service between Kastelli and the city. A sort of donkey express! And, look at them, Letty! You've got a skilled team with you—the best! Even if you don't manage to dig up the King of the Gods, you'll have learned a good deal.”

“And enjoyed
your
company for the length of the digging season,” she said. “Something to be thankful for?”

The little convoy paused at a roadside
kafenion
five miles into the journey, and Letty tactfully distanced herself from the male company, waving a dismissive hand at Gunning, who was evidently torn between dutifully staying with her and joining the men in the café.

“It's quite all right, William. When in Crete…I wouldn't want them to take you for my poodle, so go and join them. You'll find me over there under that fig tree when you're ready.”

She made herself comfortable at a table out of earshot of the company and, lulled by the murmur of male voices punctuated by the occasional shout of laughter and the distant tinkling of bells as goats moved about in the surrounding hills, she felt guiltily at peace. The sun was well up, warming her bones and coaxing scents from the tussocks of herbs that seemed to seize a handhold in every crevice. The eye was enchanted by the colours, springtime yellow and purple, and Letty thought she recognised mimosa, bushy rockroses, and wild iris. She picked a spray of rosemary and ran it through her fingers, bruising the slender needles and breathing in the astringent perfume.

She must have started to nod off, she thought, minutes later, and shook herself fully awake as a more aggressive scent assaulted her. Coffee! A small white earthenware cup was being waved tanta-lisingly under her nose. It was accompanied by a frosted glass of chill water. “William tells me you enjoy Greek coffee, Miss Laetitia,” Aristidis said. “And this is wondrous coffee.
Metrio—
not too sweet. I hope that is what you like.”

She sipped and sipped again the sticky black brew. “Wondrous indeed! One of these and I'm ready for anything!”

He smiled his pleasure and settled down on the chair opposite. “Then I will ensure you are served coffee every morning in Kastelli. I added a kilo or two of beans to the supply list,” he added with quiet satisfaction.

“No one's told me, Aristidis—am I to stay in a hotel? Or a guest house?” she asked.

A short bark of laughter greeted her question. “None such on offer in a small village like Kastelli, I'm afraid. But you will be comfortable and welcome. Don't worry—all is arranged.”

“I'm prepared to sleep on a pew in the church or on a schoolroom floor like my pioneering predecessor if I have to,” Letty told him lightly. “I was thinking of Miss Harriet Boyd, the American archaeologist.”

“Oh, that was twenty years ago, and we have had good warning of your arrival, miss. We can do better. I met Kyria Boyd,” he confided. “I was a very young man away from home for the first time, earning money where I could, and she gave me a job digging on one of her excavations. I was promoted to classification, and when she returned the following year she remembered me and made me a foreman. My interest in archaeology began with her. An exceptional woman!”

“She certainly is,” Letty agreed. “And she owes her start to Arthur Evans, who pointed her in the right direction and smoothed the way to her first dig.”

Did he pick up the slight question behind her bland comment? Aristidis considered for a moment and then said carefully, “I wonder if you have noticed that the so-obliging Dr. Evans directed the eager but inexperienced Kyria Boyd to a very remote part of the island—far from his own centre of operations at Knossos? And—the site he encouraged the lady to explore was an Iron Age site. Not nearly so fascinating to the world as a Minoan one!”

Letty laughed. “Dr. Evans's prejudices are no secret! Harriet Boyd struggled against two drawbacks in his eyes: She was a woman and an American. But she was nobody's fool. It wasn't two minutes, I understand, before she had abandoned the recommended site near Kavousi, wandered a mile or two down the road, and discovered Gournia! Hailed in the English press as ‘the Cretan Pompeii.’ But you were on the spot! Tell me—do I have that right?”

“Almost! Miss Boyd didn't ‘wander.’ She listened to advice from the local people and followed her own sure instincts. And they led her to Gournia. A whole Minoan town! The oldest town in Europe. We had to hire a hundred extra workmen to do the digging. Roads, houses, shrines—even a palace—were lying there just inches below the surface. You must take time to go and study it! There are still lessons to be learned from the experiences of Miss Boyd.”