The Tomb of Zeus (18 page)

T
he coroner's court was declared open at ten o'clock on Friday morning and Gunning and Laetitia slipped into their places, still breathless from their dash down to the city from Kastelli. Summoned by runner the day before, they had preferred to make an early start that morning rather than give up precious digging time the previous day to travel back, and Letty was having some difficulty in pulling the two sides of her life together. Her head and her heart were still on the breezy promontory on the slopes of Juktas.

She looked with misgiving at the coroner. If this scene were being played by English rules, she was contemplating a gentleman combining the decisive authority of a judge and the opportunities for curiosity of a policeman. A layman, but a man charged with a duty to weigh evidence and make a decision that would, at the end of this day, either close the lid on Phoebe's suicide or unleash whatever hounds Inspector Mariani chose to whistle up in pursuit of her murderer.

To her surprise, the elderly Cretan chosen for the job, Professor Sokratis Perakis, addressed the assembled company in English. In a few words he had made plain his scholarship, outlined his task, set out a timetable, stated his objectives, and taken account of every person in the room. From the way he consulted his pocket watch, Letty guessed he was not a man who planned to be late for his lunch. The morning session would close at one and proceedings would restart, he announced, at three o'clock precisely.

George, pale and disoriented, came over before the inquest opened to sit by Gunning, and the two men exchanged a few soft words. Including Letty in the conversation, George leaned over and whispered, “Professor Perakis! They've rolled out the big gun for this, it seems. Good man. A bit idiosyncratic but—sound.”

The gathering consisted only of family, immediate witnesses, and a stranger sitting next to Eleni—a woman so like her she could only be her older sister. Here for moral support, Letty guessed. Evidence was heard first from Mariani, resplendent in uniform and crisply authoritative. Dr. Stoddart followed, calm and thoughtful. Theodore, dramatically dressed from head to foot in mourning black, gave a resonant performance outlining the events of last Sunday afternoon as he had witnessed them. Laetitia, the first to discover the body, gave her account and was asked a few sharp questions. George also, as second on the scene, was called to give his evidence.

Though rather quenched, he spoke in a calm voice, replying without hesitation to the questions. Even struggling with his grief, he was impressive, Letty thought. The coroner took him through the events of Sunday afternoon, nodding and noting the clear terse answers. Answers delivered with raw honesty, with a gaze so assured it could have locked with that of owl-eyed Athena and the goddess would have looked away first.

Yes, Charles St. George Russell had spent the afternoon in the company of the architect Mr. Gunning, returning with him to hear Miss Talbot's screams from the first-floor landing.

The coroner stifled a yawn and scratched on his note pad. Letty managed to stay still and silent throughout the account, trying to control her dismay. She even managed not to throw an incredulous glance sideways at Gunning. Of the two men she had a liking and a respect for in this sorry business, one was lying. But was it the saint in the box or the sinner on the bench at her elbow?

Gunning followed, speaking economically and saying much the same thing as George. His brief contribution appeared not to draw much official attention. Finally, after a further swift consultation of the pocket watch, Eleni was called on.

Undaunted by her surroundings, she stood, a regal figure, black-clad and beautiful, and granted the suddenly alert coroner five minutes of her time. Yes, all had proceeded as the doctor and Miss Talbot had said. She herself had been alone in the house from midday when she had dismissed the last of the staff. It was the custom for the family to wait on themselves on a Sunday, though when there were guests—and Miss Talbot was freshly arrived—she, Eleni, generally stayed on. The master had retired to his room.

“Ah, but which one?” Letty had thought, with an unkind look at Theo.

And Eleni had been peacefully polishing the silver in the pantry when the doctor and the mistress had returned unexpectedly early in the Bugatti just after two. She had rendered what assistance she could—fetching fresh water to Mrs. Russell's room—and had been dismissed by the doctor with orders not to disturb the mistress as she'd taken a sleeping pill. Miss Talbot had arrived nearly an hour later. She had gone to her own room, and the next event was the ringing of the bell in the servants' hall at five o'clock to summon help. Mr. George and Mr. Gunning had arrived immediately afterwards. Eleni had at once sent a runner to fetch the doctor.

Professor Perakis adjusted his gold-rimmed pince-nez and scanned a sheet in front of him. He made several ticks with his pencil. The coroner thanked Eleni for her evidence and followed her with admiring eyes as she swayed back to her seat, as did every man in the courtroom, Letty noted crossly. Her companion, the older woman, welcomed her fussily back to her seat, clucking quiet encouragement.

Five minutes before one o'clock the coroner passed out to each of the principal players a copy of the autopsy report, with a request that they would make themselves familiar with the contents, which would be discussed when the enquiry resumed later. By this action, Perakis declared with authority, not only would time be saved but, in consultation with the grieving family, the embarrassment of a public reading would be avoided.

Letty detected Theo's hand in this. Perhaps the professor was a bridge partner? Or was this a demonstration of the idiosyncrasy George had warned of? she wondered, and raised an enquiring eyebrow to Gunning, who shrugged.

The coroner informed them with a bland smile that he had no objection to this. If any of the gathering thought otherwise, would they make known at once their objections? He raked the gathering with a basilisk stare. No one took up his challenge. George glanced at his copy briefly, then whispered to Letty and Gunning that he would go to his father, take him home, and look through the no doubt distressing document with him. He'd be delighted if they'd come back for lunch. They were expected; all was prepared and they would be very welcome.

They both tactfully declined, assuring George that they could pick up some lunch at the hotel on the seafront.

There they asked for and were led to a discreet table, a large one, at the back of the dining room where they would not be observed. A not unusual request, Letty judged, as the waiter scurried about creating a screen of potted plants between them and the rest of the diners. After ordering dishes of salad and cheese and olives, in which neither was very interested, they spread out the sheets of their autopsy reports and began to read, sharing a comment or two as they worked through it.

“Those bruises on her thighs. It would seem quite possible that they were made by
my
fingers and thumbs, then, William?”

“Or George's. He hoisted her body up rather violently, I remember.”

They read on steadily, keeping pace with each other through the pages until, suddenly, Gunning grunted in surprise. Letty gasped at the same moment. They looked at each other in concern over the table.

“Did you have
any
idea about para six page ten?” Letty whispered.

“Of course not! Did you?”

They fell silent, their thoughts running down the same channels.

“She was on her way to or in Europe for the whole of December,” said Gunning. “She was at her father's funeral on the twelfth and she spent the rest of the month in Paris. She was in the company of her friend Olivia for most of that time. Though the Stoddarts left her with her family in the boulevard des Capucines over Christmas when they went off to Surrey. Ah!”

“Some old flame reappearing in her life, do you suppose?”

“Could be. She wasn't inclined to share details of her love life with me. Other people's—yes. She was a woman who was always delighted to gossip—but she was very reticent about her own. If, indeed, she had one. I mean, an illicit one.”

“So. The child wasn't Theo's. I'd guess she was hoping to pass it off as his, wouldn't you? It would account for her starving herself. No one suspects a woman who's losing weight to be, er, you know. It's what I'd have done.”

“All the same—a strong reason for committing suicide, I'm thinking. Suppose Theo twigged? Very unpleasant scene of a Dickensian nature could ensue…mother and babe cast out into the winter snow…‘Never darken my door again, you trollop’ and all that.”

“Oh, pouf!” Letty could hardly contain her anger. “Shall we try to remember what century we're in—and who's paying the rent? Phoebe, if what you tell me is true, could well have ejected Theo! And let's not lose sight of the fact that this person she is avowedly so keen to avoid upsetting is actually himself
bracketed
with—”

“Shh!”

Letty held her tongue impatiently, anxious to deliver her broadside, while the waiter poured out a glass of lemonade. “Morally he had no hold over her,” she persisted. “And she had the financial clout to tell him to go hang—oh, you know what I mean…These things are not the problem they used to be—she could have not simply walked out but
driven off in
style, taking her lover with her. In a smart little green sports car!”

“What the hell are you getting at? Speak plainly!”

“We both know who was in Paris at the time in question. And perhaps we can acknowledge the reason for the generous present. I bet they chose it together.”

He glared at her, not even deigning to respond. Letty pressed on. “When he was travelling in Europe, George went to a night-club. He told us over dinner on my first night at the Europa. He went to Chez Joséphine. But he also said he'd seen the winter review at the Moulin Rouge. Now, that starts in December. So that places him in Paris at the
crucial
time. It would have been possible. The question is—if all this is so, why on earth would she kill herself?”

“Do you really need to put the question?”

“Well, I do, actually. She might have killed herself, but never her baby. Phoebe was in love. A woman doesn't kill herself and the unborn child of the man she loves—not when she has the means to support them all. She could have changed her identity and taken a villa in Antibes. Plenty of widows about with young children, wives of military men who never seem to return from…oh…the North West Frontier. Women with mysterious pasts! She could have made a life outside or inside society. With a protector or by herself. A life of her choosing. A better life. I for one would have preferred it,” she finished defiantly.

“You're thinking Theo found out—goodness knows how—perhaps she even told him? That she confessed all before doing a bunk? And the thought that his wife has not only deceived him but has deceived him with his own son and—poisoned arrow this— is expecting his
grandson—was
too much for him to accept?”

“The very stuff of Greek tragedy, I'd have said. And the sheet torn out from the play and left as a suicide note? Doubly appropriate, it would now seem. But who left it? Who really wrote the name ‘George’ on the envelope?”

“I've been thinking about that. Phoebe gave regular amounts to him for the purpose I've already outlined. She always put them in such an envelope. They were not exactly hush-hush—everyone knew—they appeared on the hall table with the post sometimes. It wouldn't have been difficult to get hold of one.”

“George was roving about town that afternoon out of your sight, William. He could have returned, entered through the coach house, nipped in through the back door, and gone up to Phoebe's room. She could have told him the news. Perhaps the doctor had just confirmed it? Harry told the coroner he had no idea but—do you think that's likely? He looked a bit shifty to me when he was denying all knowledge. I don't think he's a very accomplished liar. George may not have been prepared for it, may have been totally unable to cope with the situation. Perhaps this was all the result of an unfortunate slipup in Paris. Wouldn't be the first. Christmas, you know—the champagne flows. Perhaps the saintly George was undone by the titillations of all that female flesh on display at the nightclub? All banana skirts and bottoms! And now, three months later and hoping all was forgotten, Phoebe throws this bomb at him.

“He may have refused point-blank to do what she was asking him to do. Perhaps running away with his stepmother was the last thing he wanted? He's unaccountably fond of his ghastly old father. When Phoebe began to fade with the effects of the sleeping pill, he decided to do away with his problems and make it look like suicide.”

“That still doesn't account for the suicide envelope,” Gunning objected. “George is a bit strange but he's not stupid. And—I told you—he's not a murderer. I won't listen to another word of your nonsense. In fact, I'll give you a bit of nonsense of my own and see what you make of it.” He narrowed his eyes. “George, according to your fantasy, rejects Phoebe. He is in no way prepared to disgrace his father, throw up his life here, and flee with his stepmother under a cloud of sin. He storms off. Left alone with her secret, abandoned in a foreign land by the man she loves, about to lose everything familiar along with her reputation, and with the additional burden of what society will regard as a monster-child, she takes the only possible way out. She hangs herself. And, in a Phaedra-like spurt of animosity for the man who's just deserted her, she plans retribution from beyond the grave. She tears that incriminating sheet from the play, writes the name of the now despised culprit on the envelope, and makes her exit. Leaving a tidy little time bomb behind her. The explosion can only involve the two men she hates: Theo and George…Well? What have you to say to that piece of nonsense?”