Mortal Remains (15 page)

‘He’s her son. She’s very lame, and she can’t climb any of the steps or precipices we have to tackle daily,’ said the younger woman. ‘Her son stays with her in the coach at every stop.’

‘Good heavens. Why have they come?’

‘I can’t imagine. You’d think mama would let him off, at least, to see what they’ve travelled all this way for,’ said the older woman. ‘They live in Tunbridge Wells.’

Patrick stared at the pair, amazed.

‘I’ve met men like that before,’ said the younger woman. ‘There are plenty about.’

Patrick had too. What happened when their mothers died and at last, they were cast adrift?

The two women, who had started their meal before Patrick and the others, finished first, and left, apologising. They were too tired to stay up a minute longer and intended to collapse instantly into their beds.

‘Nice ladies,’ said George, when they had gone. ‘Widows, I suppose.’ Both had worn wedding rings. ‘It’s sad, isn’t it, to see so many lonely ladies?’

‘They didn’t seem particularly lonely,’ said Patrick. ‘They’re enjoying their trip, even if they are tired.’

‘I know. But what a pity.’ George looked at Elsie, who was talking to Mrs Hastings. ‘They’re brave, of course. So was Elsie, when we met.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘In Seattle. I was there on a business trip and got toothache. She was the dentist’s nurse.’

Elsie was telling Vera Hastings that although she was British, she had not been back to England since the war and would not know it now. She was an American citizen, naturally, after living so long in the States.

‘But we’re going there this trip,’ said George. ‘We’re going to see Elsie’s home town.’

‘Where was that?’ asked Vera.

‘Reading,’ said Elsie.

‘Oh, I know Reading well,’ said Vera. ‘I don’t live far away.’ She named her small Berkshire town, which Elsie did not remember.

‘I went abroad with the forces as soon as I was old enough,’ Elsie said. ‘I was married in North Africa.’

‘How exciting,’ Vera said. ‘Were you in the A.T.S.?’

‘No. The Navy.’

‘She was sent back to England after her husband was killed, weren’t you, honey?’ George said.

‘Mm. I went kind of crazy after that,’ Elsie said. ‘I deserted. Then I found I was pregnant – but my baby died, so I was afraid of being picked up and court-martialled.’

‘Surely no court-martial would have been very hard on you?’ Patrick said.

Vera seemed about to speak, but Elsie got in first.

‘I guess not, but when you’re young you don’t understand these things,’ she said, and laughed. ‘What a shady past.’

‘I’m sure we’ve all done things we’re not very proud of,’ Vera said, looking at Elsie in a considering way.

‘What are everyone’s plans for tomorrow?’ George asked, seizing a chance to change the subject. He had looked uncomfortable during Elsie’s moment of self-revelation.

Patrick intended to keep his plans to himself.

‘I’ve got a date,’ he said, mysteriously.

‘That’s all right,’ said George. ‘We’ll be happy looking around.’

‘I’m longing to see the Charioteer,’ said Elsie. It was the first remark she had made that one would expect from an archaeologist’s widow; even if she had not been old enough to have developed a knowledge of the subject before her husband was killed, it might have followed later. But perhaps that was sentimental, Patrick told himself: the man was dead, and the girl looked ahead, not backwards.

The four had coffee together on the terrace. Then George and Elsie said they would like to go for a stroll. Vera said she was too tired to go with them.

‘I feel rather like those women we met at dinner,’ she confessed. ‘I’ll sit here for a bit, then go to bed. I haven’t worn as well as you, Elsie, and we must be much the same age. I was in the Wrens too.’

‘Were you? Where did you serve?’ asked Elsie.

‘Oh, I didn’t go abroad. I was in Scotland for most of the time,’ said Vera.

‘Oh. Then we wouldn’t have met,’ said Elsie.

She and George went off, arm in arm, for their stroll, and when they had gone Patrick asked Vera if she were really content just to sit, or would she like to go for a drive?

She was too tired to stir, she said, but he must go.

‘I’m tired, too,’ Patrick said, not altogether truthfully. He felt no urge to move; it was pleasant and cool, looking out over the mountain-side towards the Bay of Corinth and the lights that now twinkled in the distance.

‘How old are your grandchildren?’ he asked.

Out came the photographs then, and he learned about Eleanor, now twenty-six, and her elder brother, an accountant in Manchester. Eleanor and her family would be in Greece for three years; then the company would send them somewhere else.

‘It’s wonderful having this trip,’ said Vera. ‘The family paid; otherwise I couldn’t have done it.’

Her husband, she told him, had died when both the children were quite young; she had obviously had a difficult life. She worked in a bank in the small country town where she lived.

Patrick asked her if she knew how to get to the stadium by the upper path. She didn’t, so he arranged to take her there in the car as soon as it opened in the morning, which was at half-past nine. She could then walk slowly through the sanctuary in a downhill direction, which would save her a lot of exertion. He could not, he said, promise to bring her back to the hotel from the lower gate or the museum, but she could probably catch a bus, or certainly take a taxi. She accepted gratefully and they arranged to meet after breakfast. She got up and said goodnight, then seemed about to say something else, but changed her mind.

When she had gone off to her room Patrick strolled alone in the garden. This was an awesome place. All that had happened here had left its mark in the atmosphere, but it was not horrific; mystic, rather.

Why was he meeting so many solitary ladies? There was Mrs Hastings and poor Celia; even Ursula Norris was alone.

Why was none of them a luscious but lonely blonde girl?

Patrick had breakfast early and went for a walk. He could not bear to stay near the hotel where already the porters were starting to line up the baggage for the morning’s departures; at any minute he would be helping them. The two women he had met at dinner were in the dining room, and he learned that they were returning to Athens this morning, with a stop on the way at Ossios Loukas. Then they were going to Rhodes.

The
Persephone
would soon be arriving off Itea. He had decided against meeting her when she docked; it would make a production of his encounter with the ship, when he wanted it to seem mere accident. He had met some of the other lecturers more than once; his plan was to intercept the party and express surprise at the coincidence of their being in Delphi together.

The sky was again as blue as a harebell; just a few tiny wisps of cloud scudded across. The mountain air was fresh and invigorating at that hour, before the sun rose high. When he got back to the hotel, Vera Hastings was waiting for him and the two porters were mercifully absent. Long lines of suitcases, neatly stacked, showed part of their Herculean labour accomplished.

‘You’ll have the stadium to yourself,’ Patrick said as they went out to the car.

‘It’s nice of you to take me,’ said Vera. She looked rested, and said she had slept well. It was good to escape from the heat of Athens.

‘Not at all. I’d like to come with you, but I’ve got to be down by the museum fairly promptly,’ said Patrick.

They soon reached the upper gate. The young man selling tickets remembered Patrick from the evening before, when they had exchanged a few words of goodwill in mixed languages, with the aid of Patrick’s phrase book. Patrick explained to Vera that if she kept straight on along the woodland path before her, she would eventually reach the stadium, and promised to look out for her below, later on. He told her that there was a
taverna
across the road beyond the Castelian Spring, at the start of the route to the Tholos, and looked at her shoes. They were sensible canvas ones, with rubber soles.

‘It’s worth going down there,’ he said, ‘But the path’s a bit rough.’

She was grateful for his advice, and they parted.

Patrick drove straight round, through the town, and down to the main entrance of the sanctuary. When he had parked the car he walked back to the museum and sat under a tree to wait till the passengers from the
Persephone
arrived. They would surely begin at the museum, he thought.

Elsie and George went past in a taxi. They did not see him under his tree. He watched them go through the entrance gates to the sanctuary and start to climb upwards. Then two large coaches arrived with stickers marked S.S. PERSEPHONE plastered across their windscreens. They stopped quite near him and the passengers emerged.

Most were elderly; a few were middle-aged. It was an expensive cruise, the sort of holiday couples raising families could not afford. As Patrick had anticipated, they assembled outside the museum and then trooped through the doors in an orderly file. Patrick tagged on at the rear. Luck was with him, for the man who seemed to be in charge was Giles Marlow, an ancient historian from Cambridge with whom Felix had carried on an amicable postal war over their differing views on some Persian finds. Patrick had met him with Felix on various occasions; the two had liked and respected each other, he knew.

Marlow’s flock was well drilled. Everyone knew what to look for, presumably because Giles had lectured on the museum and its contents the evening before. They went round at a brisk pace, observing the most notable objects on display. Patrick benefited from this selective tour himself. They all ended up in an awed semi-circle around the Charioteer. He was a strangely moving figure, the broken reins in his outstretched hand, his eyes with their intent gaze seeming to be alive.

Marlow had noticed Patrick earlier. Now, with his immediate duty over, he left his charges and greeted him.

‘Hope you didn’t mind me latching on to listen to you,’ Patrick said.

‘Not a bit – I’m flattered,’ said Marlow. ‘What a surprise to find you here.’

‘Indeed,’ said Patrick, mildly.

Marlow glanced at his watch.

‘Sorry – our schedule’s a bit tight and we’re off to the sanctuary now,’ he said. ‘Coming?’

‘Yes,’ said Patrick.

Marlow addressed his followers and they all moved out into the sunshine where they set off down the road at a sedate pace. The sun was high now and the heat struck them fiercely.

‘What an impressive place this is,’ said Patrick.

‘It is, indeed. I come here twice a year and I find it more awesome every time,’ said Marlow. ‘You heard about Lomax? A terrible business – he fell off some cliff in Crete. He should have been with us now.’

‘Yes, it was shocking. Why did he leave you?’

‘I can’t tell you. Opted out in Venice. We’d only just joined the ship, in fact. Said something unexpected had cropped up and he couldn’t come. I thought he’d gone home – someone ill, I imagined. Though one can’t imagine Gwenda ailing.’

‘Even she must have a weakness,’ Patrick suggested.

‘Mm. But it can’t have been that, since he went to Crete.’

‘Did he seem himself? Not disturbed?’

‘Agitated, because he was changing his plans. Not out of his mind, if that’s what you mean,’ said Marlow.

‘Have you replaced him?’

‘No. It was too late to find someone else. We’re doing his bits between us. Italy’s his speciality – he’d have come into his own on our final leg. We go to Syracuse next. He said he’d be back by then. I suppose he did go off his rocker, in fact, jumping over that cliff?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Patrick. ‘The police said it was an accident. I found his body.’

‘Good God! I didn’t know that!’

‘No. Luckily there was almost no commotion at the time. It was all managed very discreetly,’ said Patrick.

‘Nasty for you.’

‘Very.’

‘Staying here long?’

‘I’m not sure. It depends.’

‘Doing a bit of a tour, are you? If you were in Crete, last week?’

‘You could say that.’

Things that Felix had told him about Patrick were coming back to Marlow’s mind. There was that funny business in Athens the year before; some old lady was involved.

‘An astute chap,’ Felix had called Patrick. High praise, in his terms.

Marlow took Patrick’s elbow and edged him a little apart from the nearest
Persephone
passengers, who were clearly bursting to talk to their erudite guide but too polite to interrupt.

‘Something odd must have happened. It’s been very much on my mind, but there seemed to be nothing one could do about it. Too nebulous,’ said Marlow. ‘Men like Felix don’t toss aside plans made months before for a whim. Either he was unhinged, or something important happened. There’s a Mrs Amberley. Lucy. Ever heard of her?’

‘No.’

‘She always comes on these cruises when Lomax does—did. I’ve been on the same cruise myself five times. She’s here now – in Delphi. She didn’t come to the museum. We dropped her off in the town. She said she wanted to go up to the stadium. We don’t all go there – it’s such a climb, only the energetic try it. She’s been there lots of times, of course. She’s pretty depressed. One hasn’t known quite what to say to her. He could have been fleeing from her. But she’s a charming woman. And there’s Gwenda—’ he looked at Patrick, thoughtfully.

‘I’ll go and look for her,’ said Patrick, at once.

‘My dear chap. There’ll be hundreds of people up there now.’

‘Not in the stadium. I’ll find her. What does she look like?’

The other thought.

‘Smallish,’ he said at last. ‘Nothing special about her. Fairish hair, going grey. Forty-ish. Pleasant-looking,’ he added.

‘Wearing what?’

‘Oh, goodness. Sort of bluey-mauve – like lavender. It matches her eyes. I noticed that,’ said Marlow, inspired. ‘And a hat, a straw affair.’ He looked at Patrick, sharply. ‘You’re not satisfied that Lomax died by accident?’

‘Not really. It seemed a bit improbable.’

‘I agree. He was a cautious sort of chap. And he’d that limp. He had to be careful clambering about. Not keen on heights, either. Noticed it at Sounion, once; he tried to hide it, but he didn’t like admiring the temple with the cliff at the back of him. And suicide—’ he shook his head. ‘It doesn’t fit. Not like that, anyway.’