Mortal Remains (17 page)

Gwenda had been at home when given the news of Felix’s death. That much Patrick knew from what Inspector Manolakis had told him. But he’d been dead for several days. Gwenda could have travelled out, killed him, and returned home in time to receive the news.

It was fantastic. How would she have contrived to lure him to Crete?

‘The Greek police don’t think he was—murdered, do they?’ said Lucy.

Patrick thought of the clever, industrious Inspector.

‘They seemed quite satisfied,’ he said. He would have to go back to Crete. If necessary, he must describe this conversation to Manolakis. There would be a way of tracing Gwenda’s movements; her passport would be stamped if she had used it. There was Interpol and Scotland Yard.

He could get hold of Scotland Yard himself. Before stirring up the police in Crete again, he would get Colin to find out what Gwenda had been doing lately.

Thinking of Colin reminded him of the other odd business, which had been driven from his mind by thoughts of Felix. By now, Jeremy Vaughan and his party of students would have arrived at Gatwick, and the mystery of the island of Mikronisos might have been revealed.

Patrick took Lucy back to the hotel for lunch. It was only a short walk from the
taverna
to where he had left the car; she was glad to get into it and he saw that she was wrung out with emotion.

Once more, the hotel lounge seemed blissfully cool. Another coachload of Americans had just arrived; some Britons were there too, and a party of Swedes. To and fro plodded the porters. Patrick’s muscles screamed in silent sympathy.

He took Lucy to his room so that she might use his bathroom, which he thought she would like better than the cloakroom; then he left her, saying he would meet her by the bar.

He was waiting there for her, having ordered beer for them both, when Vera Hastings appeared; she came and sat beside him.

‘I’ve had a lovely morning,’ she told him. ‘Those friends of yours, the Loukases, brought me back in a taxi. Wasn’t that kind?’

‘I’m so glad. Let me get you a drink,’ Patrick suggested. ‘What shall it be?’

She pondered a bit, then chose ouzo, which she said she was learning to like. Their drinks had just arrived when Lucy Amberley came up to them. She looked refreshed; the traces of her tears had all been washed away. Patrick began to introduce them, but both were smiling in a surprised but pleased manner.

‘We know each other,’ Lucy said.

It turned out that Lucy taught French part-time at a school near her home; she was a customer of the bank where Vera Hastings worked and they had been meeting over the counter several times a month for years. They all lunched together; there was really no option, and perhaps it was as well to form a trio and keep the emotional temperature down. After her ouzo Vera ceased to be shy, and enthused about Greece; she was bound for Mycenae on Wednesday but planned to rest the day before.

‘You can’t do excursions every day,’ she said. ‘I must see all I can – I’ll never have another chance to come to Greece.’

While they were lunching the Loukases joined them. They had decided to go back to Athens that afternoon on the coach; Vera would be on it too. Patrick did not offer to drive them; he meant to take Lucy back to Itea to rejoin the ship and he did not want to be tied to a definite schedule. It might be, when they talked again after the others had gone, that she would decide to leave the cruise and press for more enquiries into the manner of Felix’s death.

They discussed their holiday experiences during lunch. Lucy had collected herself again; she made an effort to be bright; only now and then Patrick saw her attention slide away and a blank expression come into her eyes. Continuing the cruise must be very painful for her.

The other three hurried away after lunch to pack up their things and find the coach; Vera was nervous in case it went without them, and was clearly glad to cling to the Loukases.

‘It’s odd how you keep running into people on this sort of holiday. I met the Loukases in Crete originally,’ said Patrick.

They hadn’t referred to Crete for almost two hours.

‘Had you thought of leaving the ship? Going home, perhaps?’ he asked Lucy.

She nodded.

‘But what could I say? How could I explain? It’s better to see it out. After all, there’s plenty to do, and people are being kind – the few who knew, like Giles Marlow. The ordinary passengers know nothing about it, so they behave quite naturally to me. They may think I’m slightly demented, I seem to be so forgetful, but that’s about all. By the time we get back, I’ll have had a chance to get used to it.’

‘I wish there were some way to help,’ said Patrick. He wondered about her; was she a widow, or divorced? He could see why Felix had been drawn to her for she was the antithesis of Gwenda: fair, where Gwenda was dark; gentle, where Gwenda was bossy; tender, he was certain.

She saw him looking at her with concern, and smiled.

‘I’ll be all right. I’ll manage,’ she said. ‘It’s just going to take some adjustment.’

She would go back to her life as it had been before Felix: the school; her house; and spasmodic, doubtless diminishing contact with her adult sons. There were widows all over the place; people were often alone. But if you found this rare thing, this other person who made you come alive, and then lost him – how dreadful.

‘I don’t suppose I’ll come back to Greece,’ Lucy was saying.

‘You’re content about Felix? To know no more, I mean?’

‘No, not really. But I don’t see what can be done. It’s over, finished – nothing can bring him back.’

‘But if Gwenda—’ he did not finish. It could not be the answer.

‘There’s the daughter to be thought of,’ Lucy said. ‘You can’t be right about Gwenda, it’s too horrible to contemplate. But suppose you were, what would that girl think? She’s a nice child, I’ve met her several times. And her husband’s a good young man, quiet but determined. They’re emigrating. Gwenda won’t leave them alone, so they feel it’s the only way. They’re not telling her until just before they go. So it may be better not to probe.’

She seemed to accept it. Perhaps she was right. But she had not seen Felix sodden, bloated, undignified in death.

‘I’m glad we met,’ she said. ‘You’ve helped me.’

He took her down to Itea to rejoin the ship. He had accomplished very little, but he too was glad they had met.

He stopped for a swim before going back to Athens. On the way, he passed numerous coaches; he was not sure which one carried the Loukases and Vera Hastings. He was glad to be alone; he had had enough of people for the day.

By the time he reached the outskirts of Athens he had decided to ask Colin Smithers to discover the terms of Felix’s will and to make discreet enquiries about Gwenda’s movements the week before. It would do no harm. Once that idea was disposed of, one way or the other, he would make up his mind whether to talk to Manolakis.

He took the car back to the garage from which he had hired it, settled his expenses, and then went back to his hotel. The English papers had arrived and he bought one. A tiny paragraph on an inside page announced that police had arrested a man on a plane arriving from Athens at Gatwick on Sunday evening. No details were given.

He wondered, somewhat uneasily, if he was still a target for a contrived accident. He had felt free from threat in Delphi; the idea of personal menace was not pleasant.

The reception clerk at the hotel looked anxious when Patrick asked for his key. The police had been enquiring for him; he was to telephone them as soon as he returned. He gave Patrick a slip of paper with the number he was required to ring. There was a cable, also. The man was too worried even to ask if he had enjoyed Delphi: this did not look the type of visitor to get mixed up in any trouble, but the clerk had seen enough of life to be surprised at nothing. Patrick said he would telephone from his room, and walked away, apparently unconcerned; but the clerk watched gravely until he had vanished into the lift.

The cable was from Colin Smithers and said, tersely:

GRAVEN IMAGES NOT WEEDS.

So Arthur Winterton was not carrying drugs: that was a useful piece of information to have before he rang the Greek police. Scotland Yard must have had to communicate with their Greek counterparts no matter what the smuggled cargo, for they would have to get to the bottom of the trouble. He remembered that Elsie Loukas had said her husband was an archaeologist; he had been interested in Mikronisos before the war, and apparently it had been subjected to a volcanic eruption many centuries ago. Someone must have come upon some antique remains and be doing a corner in them. He recalled how the woman had suddenly appeared from below him that day, and the reflected light that he thought came from the glasses of someone watching.

Murcott might have gone further and found what lay below the sheer drop, and Murcott had died. It would have been easy to take his body back to the top on a donkey and toss it down to the spot where it was found. Someone had tried to push Patrick in front of a bus. But did people who stole art treasures dabble in murder? Were they so ruthless?

Was Felix’s death linked in some way with Murcott’s? If so, why Crete? But the
Psyche
had been in Crete and then at Mikronisos.

He was tired, and he wanted a shower and a drink. It was tempting to postpone telephoning the police until the next day; he had not definitely planned to return to Athens that night so they might never know when, in fact, he did get back. But they might ring again, and ask the clerk. And the matter was urgent. A man had died: two men, if there was a connection between their deaths; and someone had tried to harm Patrick himself. He telephoned.

Twenty minutes later, a large black police car swept up to the hotel to collect him. He had snatched a quick shower in the interval, and his hair was still wet, slicked back for once from his forehead, as he hurried downstairs in response to the desk clerk’s agitated summons.

The driver of the car spoke very little English so conversation on the way to headquarters was limited, but the officer into whose presence Patrick was taken was clearly very senior and he spoke good English. With him was a younger man whose English was fluent. They greeted him courteously, offered him a cigarette and a chair, and asked why he had got in touch with Scotland Yard.

‘We thank you for it, Dr Grant. You must know that,’ said the senior officer, earnestly. ‘But we want to know how you found out about the contraband.’

‘What was he carrying? I thought it might be drugs,’ said Patrick. ‘Archaeological finds of some sort?’

‘Votive offerings. Small figures, grave ornaments and jewellery. All very small, but worth very much money,’ said the officer. ‘Very, very old. You have to help us, please, Dr Grant. How did you know about this?’

Patrick thought the Greek officer showed great restraint in not giving him hell for tipping off the British police instead of the Athens force. He described what he had seen from his hotel window and how he had then met Arthur Winterton.

‘I was in darkness in my room. They were not. When Winterton took the bag,’ he said, ‘they didn’t see me.’

‘They were careless, for professionals,’ said the younger policeman.

‘Perhaps they were not so professional in this matter,’ said the older man.

‘I think their plans must have miscarried,’ said Patrick. This needed some help from the fluent young man before the older officer was clear about the meaning. Patrick explained that the incident in the hotel might have had a perfectly innocent explanation; it was only when he went to Mikronisos himself and felt he was being watched that he became really suspicious. He recounted the whole story.

‘There was, some days before, that unfortunate accident on the island,’ frowned the senior officer.

‘Yes,’ said Patrick. He added, ‘The man who took the parcel – Arthur Winterton – is deaf. Now I realise that he is an expert lip-reader. He sat facing me at dinner, but some way further down the table, when I told Miss Watson I was going to the island the next day. He could have interpreted our conversation.’

‘Hm. So you think he warned his associates to watch for you?’

‘Yes.’ Or he could have come himself, aboard the
Psyche,
after the funeral. He said he was going to the Benaki museum; no one would have doubted him. The
Psyche
had been at Mikronisos at twelve: no, it could not be done in the time. If Arthur Winterton had gone to the island he had taken some other boat to get there. So he need not mention the
Psyche
even though there was some connection between Spiro’s friend, the young man with the moustache, and the man who had given Arthur Winterton the parcel, for he had seen them together on the Acropolis. Patrick was hoping very much that the
Psyche
was not mixed up in this affair; he did not want to find that Jill McLeod was involved with thieves, and even murderers.

‘This will not be the first time that precious remains have left the country in this way,’ said the senior police officer. ‘But we must stop it. We will see what there is on Mikronisos.’ He said something in Greek to the other man, who nodded. ‘Before the war some German archaeologists were planning to dig on that island. But the war came and it was never done. No one has tried since, but we believe the British have expressed interest.’

‘So someone who knew about that might have had a go alone,’ said Patrick slowly.

‘Yes. Or something might have been found by accident. There are plans for building a hotel. While surveying, some traces may have been found. We will discover the truth, Dr Grant. There is much to do.’

Patrick could see that there was. They let him go at last, when he had given as full a description as he could of the man whom Arthur Winterton had visited. He promised not leave Athens without telling the police, and he was escorted back to the hotel by the younger officer, who inspected his room, identified the one opposite where the transaction had taken place, bade Patrick a brisk goodnight and then went into a huddle with the management about the identity of recent guests.