Angel of Death (15 page)

Pandora laughed. ‘As normal, then!’

‘The French say:
comme d’habitude
!’

‘You know my French isn’t good! I am useless at languages.’ She turned to Miranda. ‘This is Milo, who has worked for us for years. He really runs the hotel, hires and fires staff, keeps an eye on things for us, I don’t know what we would do without him.’

He was not very tall, his hair thinning slightly, but very black and shiny. He had olive skin, very weatherbeaten, a big nose, big ears, a face which was not goodlooking, slightly comic, in fact.

How old was he? Fifty? Older? Hard to tell. But he was very likeable.

‘Milo, this is Miranda, who has come to work for us, doing my job.’

He bent his head forward at the neck in a sort of bow. ‘Welcome to Delephores. I hope you will be happy here.’ His English was very good; she was impressed and felt stupid, knowing no Greek.

She shook hands, shy and flushed. ‘Thank you. How do you do? I’m hoping to have some Greek lessons while I’m here – can you recommend anyone?’

‘Me,’ Pandora said, laughing.

Milo gave her a sideways smile, his eyes very warm, then turned towards Charles. ‘Mr Leigh, welcome back. I hope you are well.’ The formal note told her that he did not know Charles very well, and was keeping him at a distance although there was no hostility in face or voice. Simply a coolness, a wariness – didn’t he trust Charles? Or was he jealous of him? Clearly Milo was deeply attached to Pandora – he may well have resented her marriage to an Englishman.

Charles was polite, too, but brisk. ‘I’m fine, but I want to get my wife into bed immediately. Could you deal with the luggage, Milo, while I take her to the room?’

‘Of course.’

Remembering Miranda, Charles added, ‘Will you show Miranda to one of the rooms? She is going to translate for us, and work in the office. Tonight, she can stay here, then she is to move into a bungalow, tomorrow.’

Milo gave her a brief, measuring glance, half-smiling politely, nodded.

‘I will take care of her.’

He watched Charles steer Pandora towards a door behind the reception desk, then turned to a young man waiting for orders, spoke in Greek to him. The younger man nodded. He brought forward a luggage trolley on to which he piled the various cases which had been brought in from the car.

‘Which is your luggage, miss?’ asked Milo and Miranda pointed. Milo picked up her case.

‘This way, miss.’

They walked along a quiet, red-carpeted corridor, Milo setting a slow pace she could keep up with, leaning on her stick. He stopped at last, at a door. ‘Here you are, miss, this will be your room for tonight.’

He produced an electronic key card, and unlocked the door, standing back to let her enter, then laid the key on the bed.

‘I’ll leave you the key. If you lose it, come to reception and we will make you a new one. I had this ready for you.’

So he had known she was coming – she had wondered if he had been informed.

He explained the contents of the room to her. ‘You have a mini-fridge, which contains bottled water and soft drinks, only. There will be no charge, of course. There is a telephone so that you can talk to reception, or other rooms. Dinner is at eight; the dining room is off reception.’ He put her case down. ‘If there is anything you need, please telephone me. The air-conditioning is set low, but you can turn it up if it isn’t cool enough for you. I can have some tea or coffee sent along, if you want it.’

‘Thank you, but I will be quite happy with the cold water,’ she said, adding rather shyly because she wasn’t sure how he would react, ‘Please, call me Miranda.’

He smiled; she saw gold gleam among his white teeth and was startled. She had heard that some people had gold false teeth but she couldn’t remember ever seeing it before.

‘I hope you will enjoy working here, Miranda.’ He whisked out of the room, closing the door almost silently.

She stood, looking around her curiously. The room was small, but well furnished. There was a neat, narrow bed covered with a white cotton cover; lime-green curtains, a small white wardrobe, a white counter with a mirror above it, and a chair pushed under it, and a polished hardwood floor on which lay one lime-green cotton rug. The effect was springlike, cheerful.

She walked over to look out of the window. Outside a tree moved, throwing shadows on the white wall, trembling leaf patterns in black. Gardens stretched in front of the hotel; smooth, manicured turf, small beds of roses hedged with lavender, the elegant sway of silver birch trees and hazel, the sun shining down through them, and behind them the white bungalows, half-hidden by leaves.

Miranda’s heart lifted. She began to feel happy. But despite the air-conditioning she was very hot after that drive and she would die for a bath.

She investigated her en-suite bathroom, which was the size of a cupboard; there was no bath, just a shower and toilet. Stripping off, she took a long, refreshing shower, put on white shorts and a pink t-shirt, and lay down on top of the bed. Within minutes she was asleep.

When she woke up there were shadows in the room, but outside it was still bright, the sun had not yet gone down. She changed into a thin summer dress; a blue-and-white tunic just covering her knees, slid her bare feet into white sandals, and went out to explore the gardens before dinner.

As she came out of the hotel she saw Milo walking very fast through the trees, carrying a covered tray; and idly followed in the same direction. Was he delivering room service to one of the bungalows? she wondered.

The air was mild and slightly salty, a faint breeze blowing off the sea ruffled her hair and whipped her dress against her warm body as she set off with her stick, swinging her plastered foot.

There was another scent, too, less identifiable – herbal, pungent. Thyme, marjoram, mint, and was that basil? Charles had said it grew wild here and that smell was unmistakable.

The tall birches gave her a strangely pied appearance, arms and legs now black, now white, her dress chequered like a chessboard, the shadows shifting over her as she moved. At least it was cool under the leafy trees.

She walked past bungalows and heard voices, splashes in a pool beside one, saw people moving about inside the buildings. The she was back among trees, thicker, now, closer set. Ahead of her from time to time she caught another glimpse of Milo, like the White Rabbit, hurrying along with his tray. Where was he going? They had left the bungalows behind now, and the carefully tended gardens. They were in wilder territory, bushes, trees, long, rough yellowish grass, like over-ripe corn, which rustled as she walked through it, the bearded stems rasping her bare legs.

She was some distance behind Milo when she saw him entering a house. Not a bungalow, a rather elegant house built in something akin to a Georgian style, with well-proportioned windows and a small portico, resting on two white pillars, above the dark wooden front door.

Miranda hesitated – should she turn back now, before Milo returned and caught her, realised she had been following him?

Well, she hadn’t, really – why should she? He had merely been a marker for her to follow in her exploration. Where he could go she had assumed she could safely go.

She was curious, though – who lived in that house? Pandora’s father, who owned the hotel? Or perhaps this was accommodation for richer guests who did not wish to stay in a bungalow and who demanded privacy, set apart from everyone else. She could see the blue gleam of a pool to one side, and they were near the sea out here on the furthest extent of the hotel grounds.

But she couldn’t hover here, staring. Inside the house Milo or whoever was staying there might be watching her, in turn, wondering what on earth she was doing.

Turning back among the trees she wandered back to the hotel and went to her room for half an hour to do her make-up and brush her hair, before making her way to the dining room.

Milo met her as she entered it, bowing slightly. ‘Are you more rested, Miss Miranda?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Good, good. I’m afraid you will be alone at dinner. Miss Pandora is too tired to get up, and her husband is staying with her. They will be having room service tonight.’

‘I’m not surprised. It was a long journey and Pandora hasn’t been at all well.’

He sighed. ‘It is very sad, she and her husband long to have a child, as I am sure you know. Let us hope she will carry this one to a birth. We must take great care of her now.’

‘You must have known her for many years,’ Miranda said, liking him very much. He had a steely centre, she realised, but he was a kind and sensitive man, his smile was gentle and sympathetic.

‘Since she was a child,’ he agreed. ‘Would you like a table by the window looking out into the garden? It won’t be dark for several hours. You’ll have a wonderful view while you eat.’

She followed him to a small table and sat down, glancing out of the open window at a bed of dark red roses whose perfume drifted into the room. There was a fine-meshed net stretched across the window.

‘What is that there for?’ asked Miranda.

‘Mosquitoes – you have been warned to be careful to keep your doors and windows shut? This is not a malarial area, thank heavens; but if you get bitten it could still cause problems. The itching is a nuisance, and if you scratch, you can get blisters, or even worse, it could lead to blood-poisoning. Walking around the gardens after dusk isn’t a good idea.’

‘I saw you coming out of the hotel with a tray, earlier, and walking in among the trees,’ she said, watching him. ‘Don’t you get bitten?’

‘Very rarely. They prefer to bite women, especially fair-skinned women. Our skin is tougher, our blood full of garlic.’

‘Like vampires!’ she said, laughing.

‘Exactly. Garlic is good for keeping insects at bay.’

Casually, she asked him, ‘Were you taking room service to someone?’

She saw his black eyes flicker, his face stiffen, there was the briefest pause, then Milo said blandly, ‘Yes, I was delivering food to one of the bungalows. Would you care for an aperitif, Miss Miranda?’

‘Just some sparkling mineral water, thank you. I drink very little wine or alcohol.’

‘A glass of wine is good for you with your dinner. Helps you sleep, is excellent for your blood. But I will send water to your table right away.’ Milo gave another of his little bows and smoothly glided away. She stared after him, brow wrinkled.

He had lied to her. But why?

It was raining heavily as Terry Finnigan went to the hospital with a very expensive bouquet of flowers only to discover he was a day too late.

‘She left yesterday, a nurse briskly told him, hovering obviously to get back to whatever she had been doing when he interrupted.

‘Where did she go?’ he asked and got an impatient look.

‘No idea. Ask the hospital administrator. Excuse me. I’ve got a lot to do.’

He went straight to Miranda’s flat, got no answer there and started knocking on doors in the building. Most people seemed to be out, but at last he found a young woman in a dressing gown with sleepy eyes and the pink nose of someone who has a cold. She told him that Miranda was away.

‘I saw her yesterday, when I was on my way to see my doctor. She was going out with a suitcase. She was on crutches, poor girl. She’d had an accident. I expect she’s gone somewhere to convalesce.’

‘She didn’t say where she was going?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Maybe she went down to stay with her mother, in the country? Her mother was staying here and disturbed a burglar who attacked her. So she went back home, but I don’t know where she lives.’

Terry took the flowers back to the office and gave them to one of the typists who was expecting her first baby without benefit of a husband or even the boyfriend she had had but who had vanished the minute she spoke the dreaded word ‘baby’. Flushed and startled, she held them cradled in her arms as if rehearsing for motherhood.

‘Ooh . . . they’re lovely, thank you, Mr Finnigan.’

‘All men aren’t rats, Sharon,’ he said paternally.

The other girls in the office exchanged looks, raised eyebrows. Could the baby be Sean’s? they wondered, not for the first time, since Sean had had a go at all of them, with varying rates of success. Or was Terry simply a very kind and generous man?

In truth, he had not known what to do with the flowers, but, seeing Sharon’s swelling figure as he walked by her desk he was hit by a sudden inspiration and acted on it at once. He felt sorry for her, poor girl.

He was too busy to have time to leave London for a few days, but the following weekend he drove into Dorset, took a room at a pub in Dorchester, and waited until Sunday morning to drive over to Miranda’s mother’s cottage.

He found her in the garden pruning and weeding, wearing old blue denim dungarees and a t-shirt. She managed somehow to make them look like the very highest fashion.

Terry was programmed to buy women flowers or chocolates when he visited them, so he had bought flowers again, en route, a great polythene-wrapped spray of red roses, but looking around the garden he could see he had brought coals to Newcastle. Dorothy Knox lived surrounded with flowers, like a princess in a fairy tale in an enchanted bower.