A Darker God (12 page)

“Next, please. Ah, yes, Mr. Melton.”

She hoped her voice had not betrayed the dread she had been feeling at the thought of facing the figure of Aegisthus in his spreading black and gold regalia. To her surprise, he made
her brief interview unremarkable. He waited for her questions, answered them smoothly, and immediately fell silent. Though not appearing evasive, all he revealed about himself was that he could be contacted at the British Embassy. His eyes, she noticed, never engaged with hers, remaining trained over her shoulder into the bushes beyond. She dismissed him and watched him glide away with the same relief she might have felt on seeing a king cobra decide she was not worthy of his royal attention.

“And you are …?”

“Patterson, Miss Talbot. Zoë Patterson. I know who you are, Laetitia—I may call you Laetitia?—and I’ve seen you from a distance but no one’s had the time to introduce us yet. I work with Sarah. She’s at the back of the queue under
W
for Williams. She’s a student at the American School of Classics and I’m next door at the British. We do the wardrobe together—you know, repairs and that sort of thing—and we help the double-ups out of their costumes and into their new ones.”

“Tell me about Geoffrey Melton, Zoë.” She looked about her to check that he hadn’t stayed in earshot. “He walked off the orchestra as Agamemnon, to have his bath backstage—we saw all that from out front—but he was supposed to get ready to come onstage again almost at once as Aegisthus, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right. When he’s finished with his sound effects—you know, the screaming-in-his-death-throes part—he changes the purple silk for the black velvet and the gold necklaces. From king to villain. Sarah and I heard him yelling and rolled our eyes—we always thought he enjoyed that bit a little more than was natural—and stood by in what you might call the robing room with the Aegisthus outfit. He took longer than usual to arrive and Sarah and I were just standing about making silly jokes about him having been picked off—with a bit of luck—in the shrubbery by bandits. Hoping he’d never turn up.” The girl gave an exaggerated shudder. “There’s something about the
way he stands there with his arms stretched out, just waiting for us to attend to him … I mean, he could easily put his own jewellery round his neck but he insists on us doing it for him … He tells us to tighten the laces on those boots of his—can you imagine? He has us on our knees like serving maids!”

“Hang on a minute! ‘Picked off’? Zoë, what did you mean by ‘picked off’?” Letty had been all attention at the words.

The girl shivered and looked anxiously about her, then leaned in closer and confided: “Been attacked by thugs. I don’t exaggerate! There could be anyone hanging about in those bushes. Quick exit from the theatre, straight onto the avenue. I’ve seen strangers wandering in just to see what was going on, and out again, unchallenged—it’s completely unfenced and unguarded. There are two watchmen on duty at night and the three wooden huts have locks but in the afternoon, when we’re all performing, everything is left open.”

“The three huts are used for what purposes, Zoë?”

“The big one in the centre, at the hub of everything, is Andrew Merriman’s room. He sits in there whenever we’re here in case we need him, but he doesn’t throw his weight about … not always poking his nose in, you know. The second is the one on the right, which we call ‘Wardrobe.’ Rather grand name for a cupboard where we hang the cloaks. No need for makeup or changing space—people just come along in something light and summery and pop a cloak or a robe over the top. Then they put on the mask they’ve brought with them … they hate using each other’s masks and they’ve written their names on the inside to discourage borrowing. We keep a few spares in case of forgetfulness. The third is for the mechanical stuff. Ropes, pulleys, axle grease, you know the sort of thing.”

“It’s guarded at night, you say. Is the site under threat of some sort, would you say?”

“Oh, yes. Leave any sort of building unattended and you’ll
find six families have moved in. It can be pretty lawless about here, you know. Plenty of desperate people on the streets—all those refugees from Asia Minor … a million and a half have been sent over with nowhere to go. And then there are men displaced by the war—fighting men, dangerous men, some still armed, not all willing to just curl up and die quietly … Dodge City, Sarah calls it! At least it
was
before the British advisors got here. I must say they’ve worked wonders! They’ve hounded out most of the gangs and tamed the traffic. It used to be a free-for-all in the streets, cars everywhere, ramming one another, running over pedestrians. Now it’s a ballet! Smooth and orderly and a handsome young Greek officer in white gloves at every junction. People come in on Sundays from the country just to stand at the crossroads and admire them!”

Zoë looked over her shoulder, tracking the inspector.
“He’s
advising the criminal brigade. World authority, is what they say. Attached to the International Criminal Police Organisation and all that. They’re setting up a CID squad, I believe. You know—like the one they have at Scotland Yard. If this should turn out to be a crime … well … it could be the very first of its kind the new department has had to deal with.”

“Reputations to be made—or broken?” Letty guessed.

“Or repaired,” Zoë commented thoughtfully.

“Repaired?”

“Yes. The inspector was unfortunate enough to arrive in Athens in the middle of the most awful crisis! You weren’t here in the summer, were you? No? In Crete? Ah, then you very probably won’t have heard … Most distressing! Towards the end of June, a bunch of foreigners—English, American, and French—were kidnapped during a Cook’s tour to Delphi. Hard to imagine. In this day and age! A repeat of something dreadful that happened fifty years ago, they say. They were
marched off at knifepoint, poor souls! The brigands responsible held them to ransom. The international outcry was something formidable, of course! Montacute got straight off the boat and joined the chase through the mountains. He’s very … um …
fit
for a policeman. Don’t you think?”

Zoë’s eyes were drawn again to the magnetic figure of the inspector, at that moment striding between two blocks of polygonal masonry. “Well, they caught the kidnappers, hiding in the back of beyond. Albanians, was it? From over the border, apparently. I’m not sure—but somebody from over some border. Borders are a bit confusing out here, you know. Anyway—hand-to-hand fighting broke out.
He
shot two of the bandits dead, by all accounts. Two got away but the others surrendered. Well, you would, wouldn’t you … with the inspector waving his Browning at you?” Her eyes skittered sideways again, keeping the policeman in view.

“But what happened to the tourists?” Letty was anxious to hear the outcome.

“Ah … too late, I’m afraid. They were all found in a shepherd’s hut, dead, with their throats cut. In no way his fault, but they say the inspector took it badly.”

“I see,” Letty murmured. “A man with something to prove?”

“Hey! Will you get a move on up front! This is no time to be swapping gossip!” someone called rudely from the rump of the queue, putting an end to a conversation Letty would have liked to pursue.

“Next! Ah. Clytemnestra. Miss Templeton, I think?” said Letty, scribbling down the name.

She was uneasy at the prospect of coming face-to-face with the queen in her distressed state. At close quarters and without her mask, the woman was even more impressive than Letty had guessed. She moved forward and stood before her, undisturbed by the bright light, her black hair hanging in
gleaming coils onto her shoulders and dark eyes ablaze. Her nose was as straight as a statue’s, her forehead broad, her mouth generous.

And Letty could not turn those features into the cold killer’s face of Clytemnestra. She had last seen that profile in a carving on a Gothic cathedral in France. Not on the etiolated outline of an austere saint but on the rounded shape of one of the more roguish female characters of the Bible. One of the beauties whose inclusion in Holy Scripture was licence enough for the medieval mason to display his earthy appreciation of womankind. Salomé? No, there was a nobility as well as strength about this face. And then Letty remembered. The likeness was of Judith, the virtuous widow who had, at risk of her life, crept into the camp of the Assyrian general besieging her town, seduced him, and beheaded him with her sword to save her people. Letty almost looked for the linen bag, dripping blood, in which she’d carried his head back in triumph.

The woman gave no sign that she was aware of Letty or that she intended ever to vouchsafe any information. Her focus was on infinity, and Letty’s presence in front of her was at best an irritating distraction.

“Miss Templeton?” Letty asked again.

“Thetis Templeton.” A mechanical response, followed by silence.

“Wonderful performance, Thetis! May I say how much I was enjoying …” Letty heard herself, with confusion, nervously filling the conversational void with unthinking chatter. She stopped, taken aback by the ferocity of the glare turned on her.

“Do you hear what you’re saying? Must we next expect to listen to you heaping praise on Andrew for his convincing portrayal of a corpse?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Templeton. So sorry. I intended no offence. I was merely gauche and thoughtless. I am hardly
trained for this … The inspector asks too much, I believe. Would you like me to call him over to take your details himself? I’m sure that would be the more professional approach.”

Thetis Templeton shrugged. “We’re all stretched to the limits this evening,” she whispered, unbending a little. “I’m sorry I snarled … not your fault.” She extended a hand and touched Letty’s briefly. “Keep going. You’re doing well and the inspector needs all the help he can get. Don’t distract the man on my account—he’s doing what he must do and with some skill, it seems, in the circumstances. Carry on with this pantomime. Let’s get it over with, shall we?”

“Would you mind telling me where you’re staying in Athens?”

“In Kolonaki Square, number twenty-five.”

“But that’s the Merriman house!” Letty’s astonishment was evident.

“And I am their guest,” said Thetis Templeton. “Where else would I be likely to be staying? Maud is my cousin.”

Chapter 10

L
etty was watching for the right moment to present her completed notes when the eagerly awaited contingent from police headquarters arrived. Two or three heavy motor vehicles rumbled to a halt on the Avenue of Dionysus: a presence more substantial than the couple of gendarmes on bicycles she had been expecting. She threw a speculative glance at the inspector, this foreigner who had influence enough to call out the big guns. Doors banged and heavy boots crashed through the wooded area separating the road from the theatre.

“Harry! You thought to bring my murder bag! Good man! Quite lost without it!” Letty thought she heard the inspector say. And then: “Sarge, a light over here, if you would?”

Montacute picked up his Gladstone bag, tracked his way to the centre-front of the orchestra, and sank to his knees, peering at the floor. The sergeant followed, torch in hand. Satisfied that he had the right spot, Montacute opened his bag, plunged in up to the elbows, and selected from the contents a small paper envelope, a pair of tweezers, and a magnifying glass. He slipped on a pair of gloves and set to work. No one could make out exactly the nature of the tiny objects he was picking up with such care and slipping into the packet. The
audience peered down, intrigued by this bravura display of detective behaviour. Apparently oblivious of their interest, he took a ball of cotton wool, dampened it with liquid from a small bottle, scrubbed it around on the interesting patches, and popped the resulting mess away in a screw-capped jar.

“And for an encore, they tell me, he polishes the brasses,” drawled a voice from the audience.

Letty was inclined to share Louis Adams’s scepticism. From her brief association with the inspector she could quite believe Montacute was putting on a performance calculated to distract and reassure his audience. If so, it was a manoeuvre much appreciated by the god of the place.

Dionysus himself was presiding over the day’s dramas. Set up by Andrew in position of honour, not in the central altar place in the orchestra but off to the right, perched on a six-foot-high stone column, the tutelary deity sneered down. Letty had no idea how Andrew had come by the marble bust and she couldn’t even be quite certain that the subject was, as he had claimed, the God of Theatre. The traditional ivy leaves crowned the god’s luxuriant curls and his expression of slightly crazed merriment was authentic, but his was not the bloated face of the elderly lecher which Letty associated with Dionysus. This god was in his prime. In control. Manipulative and up to no good. An agitator if ever she saw one.

Hearing Louis Adams’s quip, Montacute raised his head and grinned. Amused? Surprised? Menacing? All of those. Letty was relieved not to be the target of that brief baring of teeth. Was she the only one who’d noticed the resemblance? Stick a wreath of ivy leaves on the inspector’s handsome head and he could have sat as model for the dark god.