The Tomb of Zeus Page 23

  Letty got up and strolled to the broken photograph. She picked it up gingerly and examined it. “Ah, yes, a memento. Carefully framed. Happy memories? Not, it would seem, for someone? It's been stamped on. Is this heel mark Olivia's?”

  She put the photograph down on the desk and resumed her seat. “We've concluded that this affair of Phoebe's could well have started on her journey to Paris. On the boat! She had taken a first-class cabin, of course. And you'd need the comfort and privacy if you were going to have a prolonged bout of seasickness—or spend a week curled up in your lover's arms. Phoebe told me you were ‘wonderful with seasickness.’ I wonder, Doctor, if you ministered solely to Phoebe that week? Olivia was obviously completely taken in by whatever stories you concocted to account for your absences.”

  “Didn't need to ‘concoct’ anything. Ollie was the one who suffered—she spent most of the time groaning in her cabin, begging to be left alone. She understood I was doing the rounds of the ship, ministering to the suffering.”

  “And the affair continued in Paris. You all stayed at the same hotel. Phoebe chose to spend her time there rather than in the comfort of her family home. She must have valued the anonymity—and the proximity of her friends.”

  “Ollie did a lot of shopping…Christmas coming up, you know…She was rather pleased to get rid of me,” the doctor said dismissively. “Our interests were never the same. She understands that I like to go off round the museums. Not her cup of tea.”

  “You are admitting that the child conceived in December was yours?”

  Stoddart's head drooped, his reply was almost unintelligible. “I had no idea until Sunday! She dropped her bombshell in the car on the way back to Herakleion. She sent me a note, arranging the meeting at Knossos. It was getting increasingly difficult to plan time together. Ollie made it very awkward. Oh, not that she suspected anything—she didn't. They say the wife's always the last to hear…and she wouldn't have believed any such gossip. She'd have laughed! Doesn't regard me as love's young dream, exactly. Problem was—Ollie seemed to think it was her Phoebe was keen on seeing.”

  He studied his fingers for a moment. “Phoebe's mad idea, that! Get close to Ollie and it would be a good cover for our…um…And now it's doubly backfired! Ollie isn't a woman who makes friends easily, and when Phoebe started to make overtures she was thrilled and flattered. And now she's dead and Ollie's worked out who the Parisian Lothario was—she feels twice betrayed. I deceived her. Phoebe deceived her. And I'm not certain which of the two offended her more. I'm not going to get out of this alive,” he mumbled in misery.

  “Why did she arrange to see you that morning, Harry?” Gunning asked.

  “To tell me she was pregnant. It was beginning to show and she'd have to come clean. She wanted me to pack and leave for Europe with her straight away. I couldn't.”

  “Why on earth not? Sounds like a good offer to me,” said Letty to provoke him.

  “And give up my profession forever? I'd have been struck off! And doctoring's what I do. It's the only thing I've ever wanted to do. I've very nearly finished my research here on the island and I'm about to publish the results. I could be a world authority on…Oh, never mind! To go away with her would have meant giving up everything, and for an uncertain future. Suppose she found a younger model next year and left me high and dry? Many more seductive blokes to be found in Paris. Not so much competition here.” He shot an assessing glance at Gunning. “At one's time of life…well, one begins to lose confidence in that department, I'm sure you'd agree, old boy.”

  “Nothing wrong with Mr. Gunning's department,” Letty snapped, impulsively.

  “Oh, indeed?” He looked from one to the other, speculation beginning to dawn. But he had weightier matters on his mind and, to Letty's relief, did not pursue his thoughts. “Er—very well—I'm a coward. There, you have it.”

  “A coward and an adulterer,” said Letty in a neutral voice. “Yes. But are you also a murderer? Did she threaten to expose you, Harry?”

  “You didn't know her well. Phoebe would never have done that! She would have protected my good name. And—no—I didn't murder her. Nor did anyone. She committed suicide. I'm very clear on that now all the evidence is in. My rejection was part, I don't doubt, of her motivation and to that extent I am culpable. We heard the decision in court. Leave it alone, Laetitia. Let the dead rest in peace.”

  Letty's eyes went to the paper knife and she allowed herself a moment's fantasy.

  “You flatter yourself, Doctor. I don't think being rejected by you would tip a woman like Phoebe over the edge! She'd have laughed and got over it. She'd have fled to Europe and remade her life.”

  Gunning had been very silent. Suddenly, he began to make the movements a man makes when he's about to stand and take his leave. “Look, really, Letty—you have your answers—nothing more to be said, I think.” He put his hand under her arm, hauling her to her feet. He turned to Harry casually. “One more thing, before we leave you in something like peace. A bit of medical information-would you mind awfully?”

  He reached into his pocket and put the Minoan votive offering onto the desk in front of the doctor. “Something very wrong with these legs. Are you up to a diagnosis of a condition three thousand years old? Or perhaps you've seen something very similar recently?”

  Stoddart turned grey and his jaw dropped. He gasped for breath, unable to speak, and Letty said urgently, “Get Ollie! He's having a heart attack! Oh, William, what on earth have you done?”

  No! No! For God's sake, don't call Ollie! I'm quite all right,” Harry croaked unconvincingly. “Rather a shock. Just pass me that glass of water, would you? Thank you, my dear.” He stared at the pale clay legs in revolted fascination, making no move to examine them. “Silly of me to react like that. Got so used to hiding it…but I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore. How on earth did you ever manage to— She didn't leave a journal, did she…? No, she wouldn't have been so careless…How did you find out?” he asked again.

  Letty could only glance from one to the other, deeply puzzled.

  “It was Letty's sharp observation,” said Gunning, baffling her further. “She described to me the condition of Phoebe's legs. Skin macules, lesions, ulcerated in places. Like the ones on this model. And all hidden under the boots she insisted on wearing. Letty was alarmed to see her stumble around Knossos. Assumed she was in pain from blisters but, of course, she was in no pain. Probably numb from the knees down. But muscle weakness would have led her to drag her toes, to trip. There were symptoms, however, that she couldn't hide from the world. In the seven months I was living in the household, and constantly in her company, I couldn't help noticing that her skin deteriorated, became blotchy…she lost her eyebrows. Skilfully pencilled in, it was hard to spot.”

  “But there were no tweezers on her dressing table,” Letty murmured, still mystified. “One of the early signs, I understand, of Hansen's disease?”

  At the name Stoddart gave a bitter smile and, in an echo of Mariani's quiet but deadly accusation, said, “When, Doctor, did you become aware that your patient had leprosy?”

  Letty reached for Gunning's hand, unable to speak.

  “And the answer to that is—unbelievably, unprofessionally late in the day,” Stoddart continued. “Her family remains unaware. She herself had no idea for a long while. She dismissed the first signs as a mild skin complaint…was looking forward to stocking up on all manner of cosmetic unguents when she got to Paris…was planning a visit to an Alpine spa…We'd—we'd been intimate for two or three weeks before I began to suspect. Devastating, of course. All relations of that sort had to stop, naturally.”

  He looked at the clay legs and, finally, reluctantly, reached out to examine them. “An ancient disease. It's mentioned in Pharaonic Egypt, nearly four thousand years ago. And, yes, these show the symptoms quite clearly. Poor soul! Alexander's soldiers brought it back to Macedonia with them; the Romans imported it from the Middle East. All those centuries of suffering and ther
e's still no cure.”

  “None? Are you quite certain?” Letty asked desperately. “William—you gave it a name just now…?”

  “Hansen's disease. It's named after the Norwegian who, last century, identified the bacterium that causes it. Gives it a certain scientific flavour, doesn't it? Belies the ugly truth of the matter. Leprosy. It's still leprosy. We don't know how it's caught and we don't know how it's cured. The only certainty is death—following on exclusion from society, lasting anything from one to forty years. Phoebe knew all too clearly what her fate was. She'd taken an interest in George's efforts to improve things in the leprosarium on the island, even accompanied him on occasions, though she would never admit it to me—or anyone—for quite obvious reasons. But— Phoebe being Phoebe—loving, demonstrative, heart on sleeve—I'm quite certain she wouldn't have held back the hugs for the children. I blame George when it comes down to it—you know what he's like—believes himself unassailable, even by disease. Or is he one of those men who courts death? I've come across them in the war. I expect you have, too?” he said, exchanging a glance with Gunning.

  “Oh, yes,” said Gunning, remembering. “The ‘Follow me, chaps! Everything'll be all right!’ type. And no one can understand why he always returns unscathed while his men litter the battlefield. Sometimes he really is as brave as he appears—is it a kind of numbness or a genuine feeling of God-given invincibility that protects him? Is it an antidote for fear?”

  “Perhaps it's just what it appears,” said Letty, fed up with the pair of them. “A determination to do the right thing whatever the odds. To offer your life to protect what you hold dear. The fact that the gods don't choose to take you up on the offer in no way diminishes it!”

  “But this time, one of the peripheral victims of this careless bravery was Phoebe. Why? How? It's not the easiest thing, contracting leprosy. It's hardly the 'flu,” Gunning reminded her brusquely. “One sneeze and you're infected. That's not the way it happens—but you'll correct me if I've got that wrong.”

  “I told you—we don't know. For thousands of years medical men have been saying that!” Stoddart's voice was desperate. “I could burble on about genetic variation in susceptibility, transfer of bacilli via nasal droplets. No one knows! Perhaps if the disease struck London or Paris or Vienna, someone would come up with something. But still we wait. And still the patients crowd into the leper hospitals. Cut off, barely cared for, their lives suspended, waiting to die.”

  “Phoebe wouldn't have wanted to do that,” said Gunning. “Spend the rest of her days knitting leprosy bandages.” He looked speculatively at Stoddart. “She was asking you to run away with her to Europe, wasn't she, Doctor? But not to live with her and raise a child. To find medical care? Some discreet sanatorium somewhere?”

  Stoddart nodded miserably.

  “A terminal and hideous condition, a baby on the way—a child for whom there could be no future—and a lover who washed his hands of her,” Letty said softly, her heart aching. “Too much. Yes, the noose and the beam would have made sense. Professor Perakis had it right, but for all the wrong reasons. What did he say? She died to ‘prevent the poison from spreading to those close about her.’ He couldn't have known just how pernicious the poison.

  “But the thing that tipped her over the edge, that turned her brittle cheerfulness into utter despair, was your betrayal,” she finished bitterly. “Your abandonment.”

  “I say! That's rather harsh. I've admitted my part in all this, but do bear in mind I've sworn an oath.” He began to quote: “ ‘I swear by Apollo the Healer, that I will use my power to help the sick to the best of my ability and judgement. I will not give a fatal draught to anyone if I am asked, nor will I suggest such a thing Neither will I give a woman means to procure an abortion,’” he said, murmuring the ancient oath of Hippocrates.

  “Phoebe asked you for that? An abortion? And you refused?”

  “Out of the question. Against all my principles.”

  “Interesting piece of moral correctness, that venerable oath,” Gunning said. “But you quote selectively, Stoddart. You're silent on a further paragraph: ‘I will not abuse my position to indulge in sexual contacts with the bodies of women or men whether they be freemen or slaves…’ Pity you didn't observe all the conditions with equal rigour.”

  Even Letty flinched to hear his condemnation. The doctor sat, head bowed, still as a stone.

  Letty picked up the votive offering and put it in her pocket. “Come on, William. We were looking for George, do you remember?”

  “I say—you're not intending to bother Mariani with this, are you?” Stoddart asked. “I haven't even told Ollie. The fewer the people aware, the better, wouldn't you say? We don't want to start a panic…”

  His desperate voice followed them to the door, unregarded.

  “All the same,” said William, as the front door banged behind them and they hesitated on the pavement, “and considering the weight of guilt he carries—that was quite a performance from the doctor!”

  “Performance? What do you mean? Wasn't he telling the truth?”

  “Oh, yes. Every word he spoke, I think, was the truth. It's just that not every word of the truth was spoken. It's all right, Letty. It wasn't Stoddart who murdered Phoebe. But I'm sure he thinks he knows who did.”

  Letty had a sudden and vivid memory of the doctor's reaction to the sound made outside the window of Phoebe's room. “At the time, he genuinely believed there was someone lurking about, you know. He was very tense, all senses twitching, while I was in the room with him. Expecting someone to burst in, you'd say. And when he heard you climbing the tree—somehow it was no more than he expected.”

  “In the circumstances—wound up like that—I'm lucky he didn't knock my head off…Great heavens! What on earth's this?” He pivoted to look up the street in the direction of the noise of a clattering cart and men's voices shouting in fear and concern. “Oh, no! This couldn't be— Oh, no! Letty—bang on the door again! Quickly! Get the doctor out!” And he raced off towards the sinister cortège.

  Letty's urgent knocking and her voice, shrill with apprehension, finally managed to bring Harry Stoddart to the door, just as the cart with its hideous burden stopped in front of it.

  The panting spokesman addressed the doctor, though what he had to report was evident enough. “Car crash…coast road…He was only yards from the turnoff to the village. Car went right over the cliff into the sea, throwing him out. Bones broken…unconscious but still breathing…He'd have still been there unnoticed if it hadn't been for the women. My wife was on the road home with her sister and her ma and they saw it all. We've been very gentle-pulled and pushed the cart ourselves, two up front and two behind. Didn't want to risk donkeys or wait for them to harness up. We know who it is—it's young Master George.”

  The man leaned over the pale features and murmured, “Hang on there, lad! We've done it! You've done it! The doctor's right here. He'll see you're all right.”

  And their confidence was not misplaced, Letty thought, seeing a different doctor from the hopeless figure they had just left. Instantly in charge, unsurprised, the battlefield surgeon was on parade, swiftly beginning to check what he could there and then in the street, his skilled hands moving with authority.

  Tenderly, under Stoddart's direction, four men lifted the improvised stretcher of willow boughs, bearing George from the cart. They'd covered him over with a scarlet saddle blanket and it was impossible for Letty to make out how badly he was injured.

  Stoddart paused to catch Gunning by the arm. “His father must be informed. Could you go back to the villa and break the bad news straight away? I think Theo ought to come at once. I'll summon Olivia to help with this.” And he hurried inside ahead of the stretcher.

  Gunning exchanged a few words with the rest of the village men before they set off, hearing further details of the accident and their fears for the young man's condition. Letty could make out that Gunning was thanking them and saying that if George su
rvived, it would be due to their care and speed. He promised them that he would bring news of George as soon as there was something to report, most probably in the morning.

  “Thank God those men were on the spot,” said Letty, hurrying along beside him. “They saved his life. Aren't you going to give them a reward for doing what they did?”

  “Heavens, no! They'd be offended. George is one of them. I shall go to the village sometime later. I'll take a bucket of raki with me and we'll have a night-long party with a good deal of heroic storytelling. And I pray that George will be of the company.” His grim features belied the positive tone of his voice, adopted, she guessed, to jolly her along. “But now, Letty, we have an impossible duty to perform. We've got to go and find out what state Theodore is in. We may even have to shake him awake. And then we must try to find the words to tell him his son's life may be hanging by a thread.”

  On Crete, even the gods may die. Letty shuddered, remembering.

  He's dead, surely?”

  Theodore Russell stared at the motionless body laid out on the treatment bed in Dr. Stoddart's surgery. Letty had been afraid that he might refuse to see the son he had so recently and so vehemently disowned but he had agreed to go with them to the Stoddarts', the somber news cutting through his gin-induced fog.

  His emotion at the sight of the bruised and bloodied face and closed eyes was betrayed by an unnaturally quiet tone and an occasional mistimed gesture.

  “Who did this?” He spoke again, breaking the silence. “Some other poor bugger whose wife he seduced?”

  “Russell!” Harry brought him up swiftly, indignant and disapproving. “Your son has had a motoring accident. I insist that you moderate your language and adjust your response in the presence of the injured. And I say—injured. Your son is not dead.” For a moment, Letty had a glimpse of the man Phoebe might have loved: forceful, calm, and principled. Before he compromised his honour.