The Tomb of Zeus (24 page)

“You're right. I had noticed it,” said Letty. “George carries a sort of immunity with him. Eleni has rendered him untouchable by any other woman. He doesn't quite qualify for the virginal Hippolytus— but very nearly! But Theo—aren't you going to go inside and tell her the news of George? We sit here knowing he's still alive—she must be uncertain even of so much. I really think you ought to—”

But Theodore was already making his way across the square.

“Perhaps we should order more coffee,” said Letty, joining Gunning on his side of the table. “This could take a while. Crikey! Did you have any idea?”

“Lots of ideas,” said Gunning, shaking his head, “and all the wrong ones! Poor old George. I sensed he had troubles but I didn't guess of what magnitude. It's funny, you know—there's a real split here—I mean back at the Europa—between upstairs and down. I'll swear none of the students, guests, or other European hangers-on had a clue what was going on. But the servants did! That kitchen maid with her embarrassed giggles and her ‘entertaining the master’ stuff—she knew! Any of the manservants would have known but they never let on. I can admire that!”

“Do you suppose Phoebe was aware?”

“She and George were pretty close, you know. I think he would have confided in her. She knew how to keep a secret.”

“And how would she have reacted?”

“Knowing Phoebe, I would expect her to have thrown herself wholeheartedly into the intrigue. George's children, had she met them—and I'll bet you she did!—would have engaged her full, loving attention. And, Letty, this makes the terms of her will more comprehensible if you think about it. She did her duty by her family and, grudgingly (wonder if he knows yet?), by her husband, but she left a good deal to George. And I think you said—with no strings attached. I had supposed she meant him to use it to make the life of leprosy victims more comfortable, put it towards research, that sort of thing but, the way things are—he could equally well use it to assert his own independence and support his family himself.”

“I'm sure that would have been her intention,” said Letty. “But for that to happen—George must stay alive.”

She was struck by a sudden chilling thought. “William? I can't imagine that George has ever bothered to make a will.”

“Not the first thing on your mind when you're a twenty-four-year-old bachelor in perfect health—and having no resources of your own to worry about.”

They fell silent and watched as Andreos and Teodoro returned with bulging shopping bags and a train of village boys of all sizes, chattering excitedly. After some good-natured skirmishing, the gang settled down on the marble ledge below the central fountain and looked on expectantly as the older brother unwrapped a large confectioner's box full of pastries. He passed it around and each boy made his choice. Then he handed the box to Teodoro, who repeated the process until it was empty.

“Well!” said Gunning, touched by the scene. “Baklavas all round! Those boys have certainly inherited one of their father's qualities. They're as open-handed as George! I wonder if Theo realises his contribution has just been used to treat the lads of the village?”

“William?” Letty's voice was uncertain, full of misgiving. “What on earth do you suppose would happen if George were to die on Stoddart's operating table? Those poor boys! What future would they have without their father? Do you suppose they've been told how ill he is?”

“He's not going to die, Letty! He's a strong fellow and he has much to live for. He'll fight back.” Gunning's attempt at reassurance did not convince Letty and, she suspected, did not even convince himself. “But yes, I see where you're headed…The money he's just inherited would pass on to his next of kin. Not to those boys because they're, I presume, illegitimate. No, it would go to his father. To Theodore.”

I
shall pray for her,” said Maria. “And for his boy. He is not a good man, but I can feel sorry for any man whose wife dies and whose only son is injured in such a short time.” Aristidis's mother was holding the photograph of the three diggers in her hands while listening eagerly to Letty's account of the weekend's proceedings, her eyes on Theodore Russell in the centre, her voice betraying decision but not a note of sympathy.

They were sitting on either side of the table on Sunday evening, sipping a glass of Maria's homemade mulberry raki, and Letty could feel her revelations becoming more outspoken with every sip of the strong spirit. She made an effort to remember that some of her information was undoubtedly confidential and not meant to run the length of the Cretan grapevine. But gossiping was proving so seductive, she thought she had probably been lured into going too far. And Maria was the perfect audience, listening without interruption, absorbing and asking just the right questions to draw out the story. Certainly by tomorrow morning the affairs of the House of Russell would be common knowledge in Kastelli, traded over every doorstep.

“You don't like Aristidis's employer, I think?” Letty inquired blandly.

“My son dislikes him and does not trust him,” said Maria, and Letty smiled at the simple reply. No further explanation was needed. The son's judgement was clearly enough for the mother.

“Have you ever met him?”

“I don't care for the city and never go there…but I went to my niece's wedding at the Cathedral of Saint Minas last month. While we were gathering in the square before the ceremony, an elegant man walked by with his pretty wife. Such a striking couple—he so dark, she so fair—I asked Aristidis who they were. He told me that the gentleman was his employer, the Englishman, Russell. The one who has treated him so badly. His wife I understand to have been a good woman. Aristidis spoke warmly of her.”

Maria filled up Letty's glass and offered a dish of mezedes. “Englishmen are so very different, one from the other, Aristidis says.”

Letty pursed her lips. The son of the house was certainly Maria's porthole on the world outside, and she acknowledged that anything she confided to the mother would be, at the soonest possible moment, relayed to the son. The trouble was, Letty thought with rueful amusement, that she was rapidly heading in the direction of dependence on Aristidis herself. In the short time they had worked together, he had already established himself as a trusted and knowledgeable figure. Never in her way but always at her elbow when she needed him, never patronising, always encouraging. Theodore must have been mad to antagonise such a valuable foreman.

“He has nothing but praise for
this
man. Gunning,” said Maria, pointing to Gunning's grinning face. “I think William has your respect and affection, too, Laetitia,” she added subtly, with a slight question in her voice.

“Gunning? Respect and affection? Not in the least!” said Letty. “He is a useful and well-informed professional chaperon, a man who is in my father's confidence. But he is not a man who inspires affection and, indeed, I know very little about him. He's an army man—very much a man's man, I'd have said. He doesn't easily get along with women. Not had much practice, I suppose. He finds me very irritating and I think him awkward and overbearing.”

Maria listened to this churning outflow, trying to understand. “I see. I think I see. But he is quite a good-looking man, wouldn't you say so?” she persisted, twinkling. “I may be elderly, but I still have an eye for a handsome man and I have good judgement. I cannot understand why such a fine fellow would be still unmarried at his age. It would not be so, here on the island. Perhaps it is on account of his injury that he goes unclaimed?”

“Injury? Oh, his foot, you mean? I forget about it, he makes so little of it. No, I don't think it can be that. There are so many spinsters and widows in England left behind by the war, any unattached man putting his head over the parapet is pounced upon and marched up the aisle. It is really very strange that even Mr. Gunning should have managed to avoid matrimony for so long. I understand him to have spent the years after the war travelling on the continent instead of doing his duty and returning to plunge into marriage with some unfortunate girl.”

Maria looked bemused. She reached out and put her hand over Letty's. “I think the girl he chooses will be fortunate,” she said, nodding wisely. “And I've decided to do something about it. I am making a list of suitable candidates. You know him better than anyone, I think…you must help me. We'll start with Angeliki. My young friend Angeliki is recently widowed and beginning to look around. She still has her looks, even after six children, and it would be a blessing for her to find kindness and culture after the ten years she spent married to that wild boar of a husband.”

Maria burst into triumphant laughter at the agonised and betraying expression she had provoked.

* * *

Aristidis was full of pride next morning as they stood together on Juktas surveying the dig. The extra men they had hired to work at the end of the week had cleared the site of concealing grass and most of the shrubs, though any protruding stones had been left in place. Tapes had been stretched from pegs outlining the plots they had agreed should be dug, and the men were standing by with picks and shovels and wheelbarrows ready for the off.

The first of the
sondage
pits had revealed such a wealth of finds, they had decided to extend their luck by extending its sides and follow the intriguing suggestions of masonry walls where they led. Stone ledges had come to light, pottery sherds and what Letty thought might prove to be a small shrine. She was confident they had prepared well. All was ready. At least, not quite all. Where was the recorder and photographer?

Gunning strolled on site, a shepherd's twisting staff carried across his shoulders, his two hands hooked over the ends in the island manner. One of the men shouted a derisive comment and burst out laughing. Gunning instantly went into a parody of a swaggering Cretan walk, provoking more amusement and some crude suggestions. He responded by lowering the stick and swinging it in his hand like a cane, moving into a Charlie Chaplin routine. He tipped an imaginary bowler, he tripped over his stick and landed on his behind in a wheelbarrow.

This was a side of Gunning Letty had not so far caught a glimpse of, and she suddenly understood that this was a sample of behaviour learned in the trenches of Flanders. The sight of a padre fooling about would have been a boost for morale, perhaps the only incitement to laughter for days, in that hellish place. And these men liked him. Following on his performance, they'd gone smoothly into action, each with his appointed task, each with a smile on his face. They felt free one minute to seek his opinion, the next to deride his ignorance. An easy relationship. And one she could never, whatever her wealth, influence, or talent, emulate. She felt a familiar flash of anger.

Well, physical activity had always been a release for frustration. She grabbed a pick and a spade and made for an outcrop of stones breaking the surface a few yards away from the main dig, thinking to sink a test pit of her own and leave the rest of the oiled machine to run on without her. With a sharp memory of Knossos and Phoebe she pulled up a root of feathery fennel to clear her way, and began to dig. The stones she removed seemed to have been cut and used as part of a wall or a building of some sort. No pottery fragments came to light, in fact, nothing of interest as in the other pits. She glanced around and decided that if she was right about the position of the main activity site, she was now working on one of its outlying areas.

She was on the point of giving up and slinking away when a change in colour and texture was revealed by her slicing spade. Terra-cotta. A man-made object. Intrigued, she knelt and peered more closely. She took a trowel from her pocket and poked the enrobing earth away from it. It fell away cleanly, and she put out her hands to grasp the artefact and gently move it with the idea of drawing it from its bed in one unbroken piece. Heavy and some eighteen inches long, the tubular shape came away with surprising ease, revealing a hole, beyond which lay another terra-cotta pipe of the same diameter. Sewage system? These were well known in the palace at Knossos. Sanitary engineering of a quite sophisticated quality had been undertaken there. But up here on a hilltop in the wilderness? What would they need to pipe away?

With her fingers she began to clean off the earth, fascinated to see that what she held was a decorated pipe. And therefore probably not meant for sewage or water overflow dispersal. What would you call this decoration in pottery terms? She racked her brain. Repoussé? Not quite right. Appliqué, that was it! Gunning would know for sure. Or Aristidis. She stood and held up the heavy pipe and waved in their direction, hoping to catch their eye. Strips of the terra-cotta clay had been moulded into thickish ropes and attached with fanciful Cretan sinuosity to coil around the body of the cylinder. Not even the arty Minoans would bother to do that for something utilitarian that they intended to bury under the floor, surely?

Perhaps it was a container? She raised the open end to her eye to look down the length of it, certain that there was something inside.

A hard body crashed into her from behind with a shout of warning, knocking her off balance. With one fist Aristidis smashed the pipe from her grasp, a split second before the occupant shot out with the speed of a hurled lance, mad eyes seeking a target, pink mouth open wide, sticky white fangs gleaming, head darting in attack.