The Tomb of Zeus (3 page)

Letty moved quickly aside, enjoying the sight of two men embracing with easy freedom. Theodore was a good deal shorter than George; in fact, you would never have taken them for father and son, would not even have placed them in the same tribe, Letty thought, but there was no mistaking the pleasure the pair had in seeing each other again after George's six months' absence.

“Come up with me, Laetitia, and I'll get you settled in,” said Phoebe. “Student quarters? Is that really what you were expecting? Certainly not! I wouldn't hear of it. You are to have a guest room here in the villa kept for you for the season, or as long as you choose to stay. I have little enough female company—I intend to have you close by. We do keep rooms for students in the wing across the courtyard and we have three gentlemen with us at present. You'll meet them at dinner.

“Well—here you are! I've put you in a room overlooking the avenue. If you open the shutters and lean out you can see the Morosini Fountain to your left, and to the right, the sea and harbour. The plumbing's not bad. Not up to Minoan standards, perhaps!” Her grin was spontaneous and involving. “But it's adequate. The bathroom's right next door. The bed's pretty but a bit hard. You'll get used to it.”

Letty looked about her. The high-ceilinged room was sparely but elegantly furnished with matching dark wood pieces of French workmanship. The highlight of the white room, drawing and fixing the attention, was a screen of dark red lacquer with an abstract design of black and silver slashing its way across the three leaves. The effect was as pleasing as anything she'd sampled in Paris and she said so. An artless remark, but it seemed to give great pleasure. Phoebe's large blue eyes, lighting up with joy, transformed her pale features, and suddenly Letty realised she was looking at a woman with all the ethereal beauty of Lillian Gish. She'd seen
La Bohème
before leaving London and had sniffed and sobbed along with every other woman in the cinema's audience (and not a few of the men) as John Gilbert held his Mimi in his arms, attempting, by the intensity of his feelings, to keep her alive.

“Ah! Paris!” A gusty sigh of nostalgia. “You see—I've attempted to bring a little of the style back with me, Laetitia. I'm English— from London—but my parents have lived in France for the last ten years. My father was a diplomat—that's how I met Theodore. Sadly, Father died last December and I travelled to Paris for his funeral. A local couple were returning home for Christmas, luckily, and I was able to go most of the way with them. The Stoddarts are such fun— you must meet them! Theo was too busy with his book to come with me, but he was able to spare me for a month. Rather pleased to have me out of the way for a bit, I suspect! And I made the most of my time in Paris! It wasn't all doom and gloom! The shops! I spent such lots of Theo's money having fabrics and china shipped out to us.”

Phoebe smoothed down the white silk counterpane and moved a bronze figure half an inch along a table with a smile and a showman's gesture.

Her interest so deliberately invited, Letty looked more closely. “Oh, I see! How clever of you to find it!” she said. “This is Europa herself, isn't it? Riding her bull.” She ran a finger over the proud naked figure reclining almost negligently the length of the bronze bull's back, her flowing hair tangling around its horns.

Phoebe laughed. “I simply had to have it! Theo thought it a little bold for the drawing room so I keep it here in the spare room. To scandalize or titillate our guests.”

“Bold? Beyond bold!” Letty found herself responding to the mischief in Phoebe's voice. “It's downright indecent! And, what's more…” She picked up the gleaming object, admiring its balance and flowing lines. “…it's subversive!”

“What can you mean?” Phoebe asked with mock innocence. She raised eyebrows that had been plucked out of existence and pencilled in with more than a touch of Hollywood style.

“Well, according to the legend, this is supposed to be a scene of abduction and rape—yes?”

“It is! You know the story: A young princess is discovered walking, all unsuspecting, along the shore of her homeland in Asia Minor when, prinking out of the surf, there comes a darling, docile little white bull with gilded hooves and breath scented with roses. Well, could anyone resist?” Phoebe purred.

“Europa evidently can't! She climbs onto the bull's back and it swims away with her. And naughty Zeus—for it was he!—in disguise!—makes off with her to his lair on his own island—Crete! And here he has his wicked way with her…”

Phoebe burst into a peal of laughter. “My own story exactly! And very saucy! The princess Europa seems to have plumbed depths of sexual perversion no modern girl would have the imagination, let alone the courage, to explore. And her unfortunate female descendants inherited her taste for the outré. But the story may have deeper significance—Theo says it's a traditional way of preserving a historical truth. It accounts for the assimilation of a race from Asia Minor into ancient Cretan society. Or perhaps establishes the precedence of a male god over the mother goddess. Theo's got a bee in his bonnet about that, I warn you. He seems quite prepared to stake his career on proving his theory right.”

“Well, it would certainly mark out a distinction between him and his illustrious predecessor,” said Letty thoughtfully.

“I keep telling him,” Phoebe confided cheerfully, “Theo—you're going the wrong way about this. You shouldn't
first
have your theory and
then
dig up the evidence to prove it. Dig somewhere interesting and then listen to what the evidence is telling you—whether it suits you or not. But a wife is the last person he would listen to.

Well,
this
wife! I imagine he might have listened to his first wife, who really did know what she was talking about—you know—dirt-under-the-fingernails sort of knowledge.
I
have to feed him
my
theories through his architect. William, at least, seems to be able to get my husband's attention. Lord! Poor Letty! With all this petty politicking you'll begin to think you've fetched up at the court of the Sun King! Villa Europa's not
quite
as bad as that. Though rather male-dominated, you'll find.”

They both peered again at the figurine, seeing clearly why it had been banished to the spare room.

“I do wonder a bit about this artist's message,” said Letty thoughtfully. “I'm not at all sure that that's what this particular Europa is telling me. Who is the seduced here and who the seducer? This is a powerful little bull, with all his bits and pieces proudly on display, but if you allow your eye to wander, you can see his front feet are about to step into a snare. And the languorous Europa is smiling. She
knows.
She's well aware that her tumbling locks are spilling down over the bull's eyes, blinding him to traps, and that his horns are caught up in the golden net of her hair. Watch out, Zeus! You've taken aboard more than you can handle!”

She replaced the statue on the table. “Spirited and lovely! A fresh and modern vision.”

“So glad you like it! It was a great indulgence!”

“Worth every franc!” said Letty stoutly. “Whatever it cost.
I've
never regretted spending more than I should.” She scrabbled in the satchel she had kept slung over her shoulder. “Thinking of frivolities—I brought you something.
Harper's Bazaar—
wonderful Erté designs—and the latest
Vogue.
The spring millinery number.” At that moment Letty caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror and fought back a squeak of horror. “Gracious! I look like the victim of a Viking raid!”

Phoebe eagerly accepted the magazines with murmured words of thanks and added: “I can't deny you look as though you've been gone over with a rake. But I'd have said, more poetically, the victim of the Sea God…toyed with for a moment and thrown back into the surf. And what does my stepson think he's about, involving a lady with his awful little toy?” She pointed accusingly to a smudge of engine grease across Letty's forehead. “I see George has been
initiating
you into its inner mysteries. He really has a very sketchy idea of what is appropriate to sex, age, class, or even
species,
you'll discover. He treats everyone the same. It can be jolly awkward—but it can be funny and it can be touching. Anyway—I apologise for him. Though—if he thought about it at all—George would consider my remarks condescending and presumptuous. He's a boy who will make his own impression!”

“Oh, he already has,” said Letty and the two women laughed together in easy friendship.

Hearing a clunking on the stairs, Phoebe moved to open the door for two manservants carrying up Letty's baggage. “Your things! That's a relief! You're a tall girl, Laetitia—I wouldn't have felt confident in offering you one of my cocktail dresses to wear. We don't stand on great ceremony here, you'll discover, but Theo likes to make a splash on the first evening at least. Tonight's meal will be quite formal, but the rest of the time it's come-as-you-are when the gong sounds, and the food is catch-as-catch-can. Have you brought a little dinner dress? Good. Oh, and I'd advise—do as I do! I put on a good pair of thick stockings and something warm to slip around the shoulders. This stone house can be as cold as the tomb these spring evenings.”

Phoebe hesitated, perhaps wondering whether to speak further, decided against it, and then began to slip away with an invitation to come down in an hour's time for an aperitif before supper. “You'll find everyone gathered in the drawing room on the first floor or, as Theo insists on calling it: the
piano nobile.”
She excused his pretension with an indulgent smile. “Well, he's a stickler for tradition and it
was
the Venetians who built this echoing old mausoleum, after all…I'm just thankful they had the sense to leave out the canal under the window.” In the doorway she turned and said again, “So glad you're here, Laetitia!”

Letty eyed with disfavour the chalky white mound of animal tissue folded in tightly curling waves and sitting in the middle of her plate. It looked like nothing so much as her aunt Dotty's permanent wave, she thought, and for a dizzying moment she was unsure whether she would burst out into giggles or noisy retching. This culinary delicacy was surrounded by a moat of reddish-brown fluid, flecked with something vegetable that might have been mushrooms and onions. Her stomach clenched in a familiar pain. It seemed her body had retained a memory of the recent affliction at sea and was inconveniently sending her a warning.

She'd been looking forward to her supper. She'd bathed and dressed in a little green silk frock from her trunk, a new pair of stockings, and a pearl necklace. With the example of Phoebe's artfully coloured face in mind, Letty thought it would very probably be acceptable to liven up her own washed-out pallor with a dab of rouge on her cheekbones and a touch of the warm coral lipstick she'd brought with her to impress or astonish Athenian society. Hearing the gong sound, she'd flung a soft green and blue fringed Kashmiri wrap over one shoulder and hurried down to the
piano nobile.
Gratifyingly, George and Theodore had stared when she'd entered the drawing room where they stood sipping dry sherry.

“Good lord! The girl's a beauty!” George had exclaimed, stepping forward to welcome her. “I had no idea I was smuggling a sea nymph into the house.”

“I think I shall have to greet you all over again, Laetitia. I had mistaken you for George's motoring engineer,” said his father. “Sherry, my dear? Ah, here come your fellow diggers. Boys, both. And a year or two behind you in experience, but capable—very capable. Dick! Stewart! Come! Let me introduce you to Laetitia Talbot. This is the young lady you're to escort around the museum tomorrow. Help her to get a feeling for the culture and understand the exhibits before she goes off to add to their number herself.”

He paused and cocked a speculative eyebrow. “Laetitia will tell you she was up at Cambridge and she's a protégée and student of Professor Merriman—yes, another one of those. We are indeed favoured! Can it be that my old friend Andrew is becoming a little overprolific with his generous references? We shall have to wait and see! Laetitia would have us know she's worked in Egypt and France so, my boys, she's well ahead of you both in experience.” He smiled indulgently at Dick and Stewart. “But this is to be her first opportunity of
directing
a dig. In Crete. A good career move.” After the slightest hesitation, he added: “I take it a
career
is what the young lady has in mind? An excellent choice of site, if so. Well away from any mainstream excavations. And, of course, wherever you stick your spade in this rich earth, you turn up something notable. With a skilled team to back her, this young lady can hardly go wrong, I'd say.”

Letty decided to hoard this statement, delivered with deceptive bonhomie, for closer inspection at her leisure.

Dick Collingwood was the first to hurry forward with words of welcome. Studious-looking with an abundance of floppy dark hair, a slight stammer, and the earnest manner and aristocratic accent of Old Oxford, he was very like dozens of young men she'd worked with in London and Egypt. “Do call me Dickie,”
he told her, and went on to establish that one of his cousins had roomed at college with one of hers before the war…If she was one of the Cambridgeshire Talbots, that is…

She thought she'd do well to reserve judgement on the second student, Stewart McGill. He held back, polite but cool, sifting every syllable she uttered, silently taking in every aspect of her appearance. She was entertained to see that the dark Scotsman, by his stance and his gestures, by the way he went to take up a position at Theodore's side, by the very cut of his hair, was emulating his employer. The prize pupil.

“No architect?” she enquired, looking beyond them for the third man George and Phoebe had mentioned.

“Not yet. He's been working at Knossos all day with the students from the Ariadne. We had some rain earlier…I expect he's taken shelter and stayed on to finish,” Dick replied. “That would be like him. Meticulous, you know.”

“ ‘Meticulous' doesn't begin to describe him,” said Stewart dryly. “I do believe he'd ignore the last trumpet call to Judgement if he'd an elevation to finish drawing. ‘Sorry, God, old man—busy, don't you know—you'll just have to wait,'”
he drawled. “That's rather his style. Lofty, wouldn't you agree? Typically English.”