My Brother Michael (13 page)

‘I’d like to, of course, but isn’t it awfully late?’

‘Not for this country. As far as I can make out nobody goes to bed at all, except in the afternoons. When in Greece, you know … Are you tired?’

‘Not a bit. I keep feeling I ought to be, but I’m not.’

He laughed. ‘It’s the air, or the light, or the simple intoxication of being alive in Hellas. It lasts, too. Then you will come?’

‘I should love to.’

As I picked my way across the temple floor with his hand under my arm I had time to feel surprise at myself, and a sort of resignation. Here I went again, I reflected … Just in this way I had drifted along at Philip’s bidding, in Philip’s wake. But this was different. Just what the difference was I didn’t stop to analyse.

I said: ‘Aren’t we going down to the road? Why this way?’

‘We don’t need to go down. The studio’s away up above the temple, just over the mountain’s shoulder towards Delphi. It’s easier to go up through the rest of the shrine.’

‘But the car?’

‘I’ll go and get it later when I’ve seen you down to your hotel. It’s no distance from there by the road. This way, and watch your step. It’s easier here … These steps lead up towards the little theatre. That thing on the right was put up by Alexander the Great after a narrow escape in a lion-hunt … Here’s the theatre. It’s tiny compared with Athens or Epidaurus, but isn’t it a gem?’

In the starlight the broken floor looked smooth. The semi-circular tiers of seats rose, seemingly new and unbroken, towards their backdrop of holly-oak and cypress; it lay, a little broken marble cup of a theatre, silent except for the tiny scuffling of a dry twig that the breeze was patting idly along the empty flags.

I said on an impulse: ‘I suppose you wouldn’t – no, I’m sorry. Of course not.’

‘What do you suppose I wouldn’t do?’

‘Nothing. It was silly, under the circumstances.’

‘The circumstances? Oh, that. Don’t let that worry you. I suppose you want to hear something recited here in Greek, even if it’s only
thalassa! thalassa!
Is that it? … What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. Only that if you go on reading my thoughts like that you’re going to be a very uncomfortable companion.’

‘You ought to practise too.’

‘I haven’t the talent.’

‘Perhaps that’s just as well.’

‘What d’you mean?’

He laughed. ‘Never mind. Was I right?’

‘Yes. And not just
thalassa
, please. Some lines of verse, if you can think of anything. I heard someone reciting in the theatre at Epidaurus and it was like a miracle. Even a whisper carried right up to the topmost tier.’

‘It does the same here,’ he said, ‘only it’s not so stupendous. All right, if you’d like it.’ He was feeling in his pockets as he spoke. ‘Half a minute; I’ll have to find my lighter … If you want to get your voice properly carried you have to locate the centre of the stage … it’s marked by a cross on the flagstones …’

As he pulled the lighter from his pocket I heard the small musical chink of metal on stone. I stooped quickly after the sound. ‘Something fell; some money, I think. Here … not far away, anyway. Shine the light down, will you?’

The lighter flicked into flame, and he bent with it near the ground. Almost immediately I saw the sharp gleam of a coin. I picked it up and held it towards him. The orange-coloured flame slid alive and sparkling across the little disc in my palm. I said: ‘That’s surely –
gold
?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ He took it and dropped it into his pocket. He might have been discussing a lost half-penny, or at most a threepenny stamp. ‘That was one of the souvenirs that Stephanos sent us. I told you he
sent what was on Michael’s body when he died. There were three of these gold sovereigns.’ He moved away from me, holding the lighter low over the flags, searching for the central mark. You’d have thought there was nothing in his mind except the pleasant task of showing a girl over the Delphic ruins.

‘Simon …’

‘Here it is.’ He straightened up, the lighter still burning in his hand. He must have seen my look, because he smiled at me, that sudden, very attractive smile. ‘You know, I did tell you it was no longer a present tragedy, didn’t I? I told you not to worry. Now, come here to the centre, and hear how your voice is picked up and carried high over those tiers of seats.’

I moved forward to the spot. ‘I know you did. But when you told me that, you didn’t know that your brother Michael had been murdered. Doesn’t that make a difference?’

‘Perhaps. There, do you hear the echo?’

‘Glory, yes. It’s weird, isn’t it? As if the sound was coming back at you from those crags up there, and swirling all round you. It’s like something tangible; like – yes, like sound made solid … Are you really going to recite something, or would you rather not?’

I thought he misunderstood me deliberately. ‘With this lack of audience, I think I might. What’ll you have?’

‘You’re the classicist. I leave it to you. But wait a moment. I’m going up into the back stalls.’

I climbed the narrow aisle and found a seat two-thirds of the way up the amphitheatre. The shaped
marble of the seat was surprisingly comfortable, and the stone was still warm from the day’s sun. The circular stage looked small below me. I could just make out its shape. Simon was nothing but a bodiless shadow. Then his voice came up out of the well of darkness, and the great rolling Greek lines rose and broke and echoed, rounding like a wind among the high crags. A phrase, a name, swam up from the flood of sound, giving directions to the music, like flights to an arrow.
Hades, Persephone, Hermes
… I shut my eyes and listened.

He stopped. There was a pause. The echo went up the cliff, hung like the murmur of a gong, and died. Then his voice came clearly and softly, speaking in English; music translating music:

He had stopped speaking again. The words died into silence high above me, and in the wake of the echo, it seemed, the night wind moved. I heard the hollies rustle behind me, and then, further up the hill, a scatter of dust and pebbles under the foot of some wandering beast, a goat, perhaps, or a donkey; I thought I heard
the clink of metal. Then the night was still again. I got up and started down the steep aisle.

Simon’s voice came, pitched quietly and perfectly clear. ‘That do?’

‘Beautifully.’ I reached the bottom and crossed the stage. ‘Thank you very much: but – I thought you said the tragedy was over?’

For the first time since I had known him (some seven hours? Could it possibly be only half a day?) he sounded disconcerted. ‘What d’your mean?’ He left the centre of the stage and came to meet me.

‘That speech was a bit – immediate, wasn’t it?’

‘You recognised it?’

‘Yes. It’s from Sophocles’
Electra
, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ There was a pause. He had a hand in his pocket, and now as he withdrew it I heard the chink of coins. He jingled them absently up and down. Then he said: ‘I was wrong, then. It’s not over … at least not until Stephanos shows us the place tomorrow, and—’

He stopped. I reflected that Simon Lester seemed to have a remarkably royal habit of using the first person plural. I should have liked to say ‘Shows
us
?’ but didn’t. I said merely: ‘And?’

He said abruptly: ‘And I find what Michael found – what he was killed for. The gold.’

‘
The gold?
’

‘Yes. I told you I’d an idea what it was that Michael might have found. I thought that, as soon as I read his letters, and remembered the sovereigns he was carrying. And after what Stephanos told us I’m sure. It was
gold he found. Angelos’ little hoard of British gold, stored away against the day of the Red Dawn.’

‘Yes, but Simon …’ I began, then stopped. He knew Michael better than I did, after all.

The sovereigns clinked together as he thrust them back into his pocket. He turned away towards the side of the amphitheatre.

‘This is the way up to the path. I’d better go first, perhaps; the steps are badly broken in places.’

He reached a hand back to me, and together we mounted the steep flight. At the top he paused and seemed to reach up into the darkness. I heard the rustle of leaves. He turned back to me and put something round and polished and cool into my hand. ‘There you are. It’s a pomegranate. There’s a little tree growing behind the topmost seats, and I’ve been longing for an excuse to pick one. Eat it soon, Persephone; then you’ll have to stay in Delphi.’

The path led us out at last above the trees, where we could see our way more clearly. It was wide enough now to walk side by side. Simon went on, speaking softly: ‘I think I’m right, Camilla; I think that’s what Michael found. I’d suspected it before, but now I know he was murdered by this man Angelos I’d bet on it for a certainty.’

I said rather stupidly, still following my own thoughts: ‘But Stephanos said he was killed in a quarrel. Angelos and he—’

‘If Michael had been quarrelling with a type like that he wouldn’t be very likely to turn his back on him,’ said Simon. ‘I’m surprised Stephanos didn’t think that one out for himself.’

‘But if it was an old quarrel, and Michael thought it was forgotten, but Angelos—’

‘The same applies. I just don’t see Michael trustfully turning his back on a man who’d once had – or thought he had – the sort of grudge that leads to murder.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘But take all the bits of the picture and put them together,’ said Simon, ‘and what d’you get? I told you that we – the British – were flying in arms and gold during the Occupation, for the use of the
andartes
. Angelos, as we now learn from Stephanos, was working for the Communist
putsch
at the end of the German Occupation of Greece, therefore we can assume that he had an interest in holding back arms and supplies for later use. That’s an assumption; but what facts have we? Angelos, when his men scatter northwards to avoid the Germans, comes south – alone. He meets Michael and kills him. He is interrupted before he can search the body, and on Michael are found gold sovereigns, and a hastily scribbled letter indicating that he has found something.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but—’

‘If Angelos had such a cache of guns and gold, and Michael, the BLO, had found it, would it not be the complete motive for Michael’s murder?’

‘Yes, of course it would. You mean that Michael, when he met him, tackled him about it and – oh no, that won’t do, will it? There’s the same objection – that Angelos wouldn’t have had the chance to hit him over the head.’

‘I can’t help thinking,’ said Simon softly, ‘that
Angelos saw something that told him Michael had found the cache. It’s probably in some cave or other – Parnassus is honeycombed with them – and supposing that Michael, after he left Stephanos’ house, had taken shelter in the one where the stuff was hidden? He’d stay there a few days till the Germans left the area, and then Angelos, doubling back to his treasure-chest, would see the British officer coming out of the cave, his cave … It could be, you know. And if Michael didn’t see Angelos, as seems obvious, the Greek waited and took his chance and tried to wipe him off then and there. Which means—’

‘Which means that, if you’re right, the cache was very near the place where Michael was murdered,’ I said.

‘Exactly. Well, we shall see.’

‘If there was anything it’ll have been taken long since.’

‘Probably.’

‘Angelos would come back and take it. If not immediately, then later.’

‘If he lived to come back. Three months after Mick’s death he was out of the country for good.’

I said, as casually as I could: ‘Was he? And what if Niko was possibly – just possibly – right? If he
were
still alive? Now, I mean?’

Simon laughed. ‘It’s in the lap of the gods, isn’t it?’ One of the coins spun in his hand as he tossed and caught it. ‘What do you say? Shall we offer gold to Apollo if he’ll bring Angelos back to Delphi now?’

‘Aegisthus to Orestes’ knife?’ I tried to speak equally
lightly, but in spite of myself the words sounded harsh and hollow.

‘Why not?’ The coin dropped into his hand again and his fingers closed on it. He was a shadow in the starlight, watching me. ‘You know, I told you the truth when I said the tragedy was over. I don’t feel chewed up or dramatic about Mick’s death, even after what I’ve learned tonight. But, damn it all, he was murdered, in a filthy way, and – if I’m right – for the filthiest of motives. And the murderer got away with it, and possibly with a fortune into the bargain. I’ve no particular desire to find the fortune, but I want to know, Camilla. That’s all.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘I came here to talk to Stephanos and see Michael’s grave, and to leave it at that. But I can’t leave it now, not till it’s really over, and I know why it happened. I don’t suppose there’ll be anything left to tell me, after all this time, but I have to look. And as for Orestes—’ I heard the smile in his voice—‘I’ve no particular ambition for revenge, either, but if I did meet the murderer … Don’t you see that I’d quite like a word with him?’ He laughed again. ‘Or do you share Niko’s opinion of my abilities?’

‘No. No, of course not. But this man Angelos … well, he’s—’ I floundered and stopped.

‘Dangerous? So you don’t think that – if I do meet him – I ought to have it out with him?’

‘An eye for an eye?’ I said. ‘I thought we didn’t believe in that any more.’

‘Don’t you believe it. We do. But in England there’s
a fine, impersonal, and expensive machinery to get your eye for you, and no personal guilt except your signature on a cheque to the Inland Revenue. Here, it’s different. Nobody’s going to do the dirty work for you. You do it yourself and nobody knows but the vultures. And Apollo.’

‘Simon, it’s immoral.’

‘So is all natural law. Morals are social phenomena. Didn’t you know?’

‘I don’t agree.’