Mortal Remains (19 page)

Jill tugged at his sleeve.

‘Come on, if we’re going,’ she said. ‘But I wish we could ride down in the funi.’

They certainly could not, now. Patrick would never willingly embarrass Ursula, although there was nothing in the least furtive about her manner with her companion. After all, why should there be?

‘We’re walking,’ he said, firmly.

They set off through the darkness, Jill clinging tightly to Patrick’s arm. The path wound spirally round the mountain, and at the base Patrick turned the wrong way. They went down some wide steps into an unfamiliar street, and he realised that they were too far north. In the end, they took a taxi back to the centre of the city. Jill curled up against him in the cab and laid her mane of curly fair hair on his shoulder. It smelt of the sea. He let it remain, and took her hand, patting it paternally.

‘You must get yourself into lots of trouble, Jill, behaving like this with strange men,’ he said.

‘You’re not strange. I’ve known you a week,’ she said, drawing closer. He resisted the urge to put an arm around her, and detached her when the taxi stopped. The driver looked at him with some admiration as he paid. Am I so advanced in age that it is a matter for marvelling if a young girl seems to like me, he wondered indignantly, paying.

They collected their keys. The clerk had secured a booking on a plane that left for Montreal at ten minutes to ten in the morning, with a change at Frankfurt. Patrick made Jill draft out a cable to her parents telling them to expect her, and the clerk promised to send it. That way, if she did not arrive, someone would start wondering where she was. Then they went upstairs.

Patrick took Jill to her door, opened it, and made sure that all was well inside.

‘Now get to bed, Jilly,’ he said. He knew her name, but she had never asked his; funny girl.

‘That’s what my Dad calls me, Jilly,’ she said.

It had slipped out; how odd.

‘I’ll see you get up in time for the plane,’ he said.

Before he could escape, she latched on to him and twined her arms round his neck, with her warm mouth on his. She was young and soft, and very unhappy; she needed consoling. Patrick’s reflexes started to function but he unwound her firmly. Some nice young Canadian lad could do the consoling in twenty-four hours.

‘Lock yourself in,’ he commanded, and let himself out. He stood outside her room, recovering, and mopping his face with his handkerchief. After a few minutes, he heard the key turn and then the bed creak. She would sleep till he woke her.

He went back down to the hall to check on the plane. The ticket could be collected on the way to the airport and the cable had gone. The clerk had been very efficient and Patrick tipped him generously. Then he went up to bed.

What a day it had been.

Martin Chuzzlewit
was no companion tonight. lt was a long time before he slept.

Tuesday and Wednesday

Athens

Though muted because his room was at the back of the building, the increased traffic noise of early morning woke Patrick soon after six. He could hear a bulldozer nearby. Wherever one walked in the city, concrete blocks were being raised or demolished, workmen toiled under bamboo shades, and the air was full of white dust and the din of machinery. It added to the general feeling of vitality that abounded; that was it: that was the mainspring of the Greek enchantment: the people’s zest for life. Despite all the disasters that had struck their country throughout its long history their spirit survived triumphant. Cheered by this philosophical conclusion, Patrick fell briefly asleep again, but a sound like a house falling down roused him once more; it probably was a house falling down. He telephoned for breakfast to be brought to his room, ordered Jill’s to be sent to hers, too, and then rang her up. It was time she woke.

It occurred to him that he should have sunk his scruples the night before; who would have lost, if he had? At least he would have made sure that she did not change her mind and do a moonlight flit.

But she hadn’t. Her voice answered, sounding sleepy.

He told her breakfast was on its way and she must get up.

‘Oh—’ Yawn. ‘Can’t I have it with you?’ But it was said, half-heartedly.

‘I’ve finished mine,’ he lied. ‘Besides, you’ll need a bath, won’t you, before the journey?’ It was a hint. Her bare feet in their thonged sandals had been distinctly dusty the night before, though he hadn’t found their grubbiness the least repellent. The impression she gave was one of wholesomeness; he would like to think that this was why he had not succumbed.

‘What time must I be ready?’ she asked, like a child.

He told her, and said he would collect her from her room.

She was waiting when he knocked on her door. Her hair was tied into a pony-tail and she looked below the age of consent, attired in faded but clean jeans, a clean cotton sweater and holding an anorak.

‘Well, breakfast all right?’ he asked heartily. My God, I sound like a hospital nurse, he thought.

‘Mm, fine, I was glad of the egg,’ she said. He had ordered her one. Unlike the hotel in Crete, this one provided crisp breakfast rolls, but a couple of them were not enough foundation for a long journey. It might be some time before she was fed on the plane.

‘Right, then.’ He picked up her case. ‘We’ll collect your ticket on the way to the airport.’

She had her fare money in travellers’ cheques. Patrick thought she had done well to keep them intact, and also not to have lost them during her adventures. But doubtless Spiro had supplied her with food as well as a share of his berth in the boat. All went without a hitch; the ticket was waiting and they reached the airport with time to spare.

‘It’s nice of you to see me off,’ she said.

‘It’s not much fun, travelling alone,’ he answered.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Things kind of happen,’ she said.

Patrick hoped she would not get deflected from Montreal by anything that happened on the way. They filled in the time before her flight was called by having more coffee. He was not going to leave until he was certain that, short of fleeing when on the runway, she had gone. He hoped her nerve would last during the stop at Frankfurt. Once she saw the Air Canada plane there, with its red maple leaf emblem, the thought of home might keep her going. He asked her about her family, and soon she was telling him, happily enough, about her two younger brothers, her doctor father, and their summer lakeside hut. The rather forlorn look she had worn on the ride to the airport disappeared while she talked.

Jill was sitting strapped into her seat in the Lufthansa jet before she realised that she did not know the Englishman’s name.

Patrick felt oddly bereft when the plane was safely airborne. Although he was relieved to see the last of her, she had certainly been an invigorating companion. He cleaned his glasses and wondered what to do next. The urgency of getting Jill away from further involvement in whatever her former companions had been doing, had driven deeper thoughts about their activities out of his mind. Alec Mudie would not have been pleased to know that his godson had been busy smuggling antiquities out of Greece. Why had Yannis involved his mother in his malpractice? It was easy to see why he had misled Alec about his reasons for not leaving Greece; he would know which sort of offence Alec would prefer him to commit. The attitude of the men of Ai Saranda was explained, too; they may not have known just what Yannis was doing, but they clearly suspected something not far from the truth.

He decided not to go back into Athens at once. He would go in the other direction, towards Sounion; he was on the way there already and a bus would soon take him further. He would get off when he saw a spot that looked pleasant and not too crowded, where he could walk and think.

An hour later, he was sitting on a rock overlooking the sea while a gentle breeze blew. The sun beat down, but his head was protected by his Cretan straw hat. By this time Jill’s plane would be somewhere over Italy. She would soon forget, or, if she did not do that, recall, after the hurt had gone, the good part of her Greek experience. If Yannis and Spiro were caught, as they probably would be, she would have had a great deal to regret; now she need never know about their shady activities. His own part in the business was over; he saw no need to tell the police about the
Psyche,
though they might find it out on their own; others had seen her off the island.

But had Felix known about the discoveries on Mikronisos? Had he met someone else carrying illicit treasures? If so, why Crete? And why not cancel his trip in the
Persephone
from England? Why wait till he got to Venice?

Felix had changed his plans because of something that had happened after leaving England. Since he had flown out with Lucy, and only left her a short note in the ship, the vital event must have taken place in Venice. He had toured quickly round with his pilgrims, visiting the most obvious places.

They had doubtless had drinks in the Piazza San Marco after visiting the Basilica. Everyone did.

What happened when you had drinks there?

Pigeons abounded, music played, and you met either your next-door neighbour or someone you had not seen for twenty years.

He was looking for someone, Jill had said. So he had met someone in Venice whom he wanted to see again. In the note to Lucy he had not mentioned Crete, so at the time of writing it, he could not have known his ultimate destination. Was he following someone? Why had he chosen to go to Challika aboard the
Psyche
and not by bus or by taxi? Had he wanted to keep his arrival secret? He had strangely elected to climb ashore over the rocks, rather than land reasonably at the jetty. It looked as if he wanted to arrive unobserved.

It was too hot, sitting here in the sun, in spite of his hat. Patrick got up and strolled on.

Ursula Norris was staying near here. Why not ring her up and see if she would be free for lunch? She could always refuse, if she were too busy with her Greek friend. He could discuss the puzzle of Felix with her and see if she thought his death could be connected with the events on the island, about which she knew nothing. She would be interested to hear of them, he was sure, and anyway it would be pleasant to see her again.

Perhaps that had subconsciously been his intention when he decided to come out in this direction.

You wonder too much about why things happen, he told himself crossly.

Would he be able to manage the Greek public telephone system?

He was; it proved simple indeed, and Ursula answered at once. She was delighted to hear him and invited him round.

Perhaps he had hoped for that too, thought Patrick, in the mood to question every motive.

He accepted, was told how to find the villa, and soon arrived.

There were oleander trees in the garden, the blossoms fresh but the leaves dusty now that summer had lasted so long. A wide flight of shallow steps led up to the front door; geraniums bloomed in narrow beds close to the house. Ursula saw him coming up the path and opened the door before he could ring; she greeted him with obvious pleasure. He peered about furtively for signs of her companion of the night before, but she seemed to be alone.

‘The maid’s just gone,’ she said, apparently reading his thoughts. ‘Such luxury – she comes for three hours every morning. Come along.’

She led the way across a tiled hall into a small sitting- room. The floor was marble, with three rugs scattered on it; one set of windows, shuttered, overlooked the front of the house where the sun shone; another set, including a french door, led out on to a terrace shaded by a vine. Here there were several comfortable garden chairs and a table made of wrought-iron. A copy of
Clea
lay on the table. Ursula saw him look at it.

‘Are you enjoying it?’ he asked.

‘A
tour de force,
but unpalatable,’ she said, promptly. ‘I felt it had to be done. I’m going back to
Persuasion
next. It will be such a relief.’

Patrick laughed at this.

‘Though lives do get muddled, and do intertwine most strangely,’ Ursula allowed.

‘Indeed they do,’ said Patrick.

‘Let me give you a drink. Then you can tell me what you’ve been doing in Athens,’ she said.

‘A bit of intertwining, you could say,’ he said.

He told her about Delphi and the tourists worn out by the extent of their sight-seeing, and how he had met Vera Hastings again. She listened with interest. She had changed in the few days since they had last met; somehow, she was sparkling. Patrick felt cheered at the thought that the man he had seen her with was responsible for the alteration in her; was one never too old for love? Perhaps he need not, after all, settle for academic distinction and emotional famine.

‘Ah – you look brighter. You walked up the path as if you were Atlas under his load,’ said she. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Patrick.

‘Never mind. Begin. Then we’ll have lunch – just salad and cheese, and quite nice bread which Xanthe – that’s the maid – brings. And fruit.’

‘Xanthe. That’s charming. Is she nymph-like? It sounds like the name of a nymph.’

‘It means blonde. She’s not a nymph, she’s fifty and stout,’ said Ursula. ‘And she’s not blonde, either.’

‘I thought Greeks were all named after saints?’

‘They are, mostly. There aren’t as many female saints as men.’

Patrick laughed again; he had found Ursula a good companion in Crete; now he felt she was a perfect one, witty and stimulating.

‘I don’t know what my parents had in mind when I was christened,’ she went on. ‘I can tell you that my life has not followed that of the saint whose name I bear.’

‘Thank goodness,’ said Patrick. ‘Don’t get transfixed by an arrow, please.’

‘Too late,’ she said. ‘The damage is done,’ and once more Patrick started laughing.

‘I feel as if we’ve been friends for years,’ he said.