A Darker God Page 7

  “Ah! We descend into bathos … But don’t take it to heart, my dear,” advised Maud. “This is, after all, exactly why we have a dress rehearsal. Something always goes wrong. This is it. You’ll have plenty of time to reinstate the wig before the actual performance.”

  The old men of the chorus ought to have wailed in shock and pity and held their hands before their eyes as though unable to bear the sight. So the stage directions instructed. But they stayed silent and still. Torches wavered and drooped. Then, with the sudden flashing movement of a shoal of fish, the members of the chorus made a concerted advance on the bathtub.

  What on earth was going on? Letty, for once, would have been glad of an explanatory footnote from Maud. One or two of the actors snatched off their masks, the better to see what lay before them. Gasps exploded, comments were muttered. Letty thought she heard an injudicious and very Anglo-Saxon exclamation. Weirdly, still behaving as a chorus and moving with purpose together, they began to close ranks, packing themselves in a double circle protectively around the corpse.

  Clytemnestra, sensing herself being physically edged away from centre stage, hesitated. “What are you doing? What is all this?” Letty heard her hissing and then, receiving no response, her voice rang out, imperious and angry: “I say, you chaps! Have you all gone barmy? Get out of my way, you clowns! I’ve not finished yet. This is where I spit on the corpse!”

  No one moved an inch to accommodate her. The queen raised her sword and advanced on the grey figures. Confused but still apparently acting in role, she picked out the tallest. The leader of the chorus. She jabbed him in the ribs. “Hey! You! Bossy Boots with the loud voice! I’m talking to you!”

  The man moved reluctantly to one side with a shocked protest: “No, madam, no! Believe me—this is not a sight for …” And, in firmer tone: “Madam, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave the stage …”

  Clytemnestra ignored him and pushed herself swiftly forward into easy spitting distance of the corpse before they could close the gap. She peered down at the bloodstained wreck. Her regal left hand went out and grasped Agamemnon by the shoulder. She shook him.

  “Geoffrey? Is that you, Geoffrey? What on earth do you think you’re doing there?” And, surprisingly: “This isn’t the time for playing stupid games!… Oy! Geoffrey!”

  The warrior’s muscled brown arm flopped, lifeless, over the edge of the bathtub, knuckles grazing the rough slabs of the orchestra floor as the naked body, unbalanced by her shaking, folded at the hips and lurched forward.

  “Oh, my God!” wailed Clytemnestra, and she slid in a silken whisper to her knees.

  Chapter 7

  The young lighting manager, hidden behind the scenes in the buildings to the rear of the orchestra, came suddenly to life. Confused and wondering how he’d managed to lose his place in the text—had he nodded off? turned over two pages at once?—he decided the sensible thing to do was to respond to the drama of the moment. He turned on the additional stage lighting and bathed the scene of confusion in an unkind glare. A second later, Letty found herself distracted from the events unfolding before her by the arrival at her side of a large and very welcome masculine presence. William Gunning settled on the stone bench and leaned across her, managing a fleeting but affectionate squeeze of the hand as he did so and whispering: “Lady Merriman … Laetitia … I’ve brought the car. Thought you’d appreciate a lift back. Ah—I see the ekkyklema worked … Now—where’ve we got to? Running a bit late, aren’t they? Good Lord! What’s going on?”

  Maud replied, “You may well ask, William! They’ve gone mad. They’ve all forgotten their lines and they’re inventing their own rubbish. I believe on the London stage it’s called improvisation … Isadora Duncan has much to answer for! The queen has launched an unprovoked attack on the leader of the chorus and has now sunk to her knees yelping over the king’s corpse. Where’s the stage manager? Where’s Hugh? And where’s my husband? I can’t believe he authorised this. Someone must fetch Andrew to deal with them.” She looked pointedly at Gunning.

  Letty had to agree. Professor Sir Andrew Merriman, director, scriptwriter, and moving force behind this amateur entertainment, should at this moment be striding around the stage, boxing a few ears.

  “William, my dear—would you mind? Go and roust him out! I’d go myself if only …” Maud’s voice trailed away and they filled in the unspoken: “… if only it weren’t for my weak heart … my palpitations … my arthritis … my nerves …”

  Gunning had got to his feet and was standing tensely absorbing the scene. Letty was sure he hadn’t heard a word Maud said, but he was already starting towards the stage. Letty put down her script and scuttled after him, aware that Maud was staying firmly in her seat, tut-tutting with exasperation and clutching her bosom. Obviously, this was a palpitations day.

  Gunning stalked to the centre front of the stage and held up his arms like a conductor. “Quiet! All of you!” he commanded. “Stand still. Stay exactly where you are.” The response to the crisp officer’s voice was automatic and immediate. “No one is to move until we’ve got hold of Professor Merriman. Now … anyone know where he is?”

  “Sir … he’ll be backstage having a nip of brandy before the last scene,” offered a tremulous voice. The young man who’d been playing the part of Cassandra came back onstage again. He pushed up his white mask and looked over his shoulder towards the higgledy-piggledy arrangement of tents and wooden huts that served for a skena behind the orchestra. “He keeps it in the dressing room. Er … would you like me to go and do a recce?”

  “That would be kind of you. It’s Simon, isn’t it? Thank you,” said Gunning, dismissing him with a nod. “Steady, the rest of you.” And then, tentatively: “I think you’re all aware that we may be looking at something of a problem …” He turned to the queen, who was still on her knees gasping and moaning in front of the bathtub, and held out a hand. “We haven’t yet been introduced, Your Majesty. William Gunning … loosely attached to the British School of Archaeology.”

  The queen stifled her gasps long enough to mutter: “Thetis Templeton. How do you do?”

  “Would you mind moving aside, Miss Templeton?”

  At last she took his hand and, suddenly clumsy in her long robes, struggled to her feet.

  With the queen’s presence removed, Letty had a clear view of the bathtub. She stepped closer, expecting at any moment to be ordered away by some bossy male voice, most probably William’s.

  She’d guessed what the tub contained.

  The slumping movement of the body seen from the audience benches had not been that of the stiff-jointed mannequin she’d worked on a few hours earlier. She’d become intimate with every limb of that doll and knew that she was not looking at it now. These legs and arms were not the smooth white waxen ones she’d daubed. They were tanned and muscled. This torso had flopped with what she imagined would be the heavy downward and forward motion of a real man who’d suffered a real death.

  Fearful but drawn on towards the horror, she braced herself for the sight of Geoffrey in his agony. The recently exposed face was bloodstained and almost obscured by the black wig, which had slipped its moorings and been dragged down over the nose by Clytemnestra’s jerky unwrapping.

  Someone was going to have to remove it.

  Laetitia felt a residual responsibility for the contents of the tub, whatever or whoever they were, and she readied herself for the task.

  Within two yards of the body, she stopped. She gasped and stared and her limbs began to shake. With a low moan of disbelief and protest, she flung herself the last few feet, sinking to her knees in front of the corpse, in unconscious repetition of Clytemnestra’s performance. Murmuring softly, she reached out to remove the wig, but her arm was firmly grasped by a strong hand before she could touch it.

  The leader of the chorus spoke gently in her ear: “I’m awfully sorry, Miss … er … Talbot, isn’t it? You really mustn’t disturb anything, you know. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible
disaster … In fact, I rather think we ought to clear the stage.” He released her into the protective custody of Gunning’s arms before leaning over to search with expert touch for a pulse behind the right ear of Agamemnon. After a few moments he stood up again, shaking his head in an unmistakable gesture. “Gunning, would you …?”

  William took Letty by the waist and led her as far away as she would allow him, then he turned to face the leader. “I’m sorry … you have the advantage—and the additional concealment of a mask. You are …?”

  The actor fished about under his grey cape and produced a card. He held it out to Gunning, and there was a distinct but instantly suppressed flash of irony in his voice as he announced: “Deus ex machina. At your service. I think you’re going to need some divine help. I’ll be glad to be of assistance.”

  He swept off his mask, revealing features which, though certainly not godlike, were impressive. A clever face with a decisive nose, was Letty’s first impression. Intense eyes below straight black brows were the most striking feature in a face moulded in strong, smooth planes. Not in the first flush of youth, he had frown lines between his brows, but this severity was offset by a slight ironic lift of the mouth. It was a face the equal of the voice she had admired. The slyly confident face of an opponent who is just about to pronounce “Checkmate!” A face ruthless enough to make her want to look aside.

  Gunning looked from the card in his hand back to the man, who was quietly watching for his reaction, and he read out, loudly enough for Letty to hear and clearly struggling to master his disbelief: “Chief Inspector Percival Montacute, Scotland Yard, Whitehall, London. Well, I’m blowed!”

  “Percy,” said the leader affably. “Or Chief Inspector … depending on how our relationship develops.”

  “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you? But what the devil …? How on earth do you come …? I don’t understand …”

  Gunning was cut short by Montacute. “Later. We’ll go into all that later. There are excellent reasons for my being here, lurking in the shrubbery so to speak, but first things first, eh? Corpse on our hands … Sure you’ve realised that much. Where’s that Greek boy assistant got to? The one who does the lighting effects?” Montacute shouted his name and when the lad appeared he instructed him in fluent Greek to run to the police station, alert the officer in charge, and request backup at once in the form of a murder squad.

  “And now, I think Miss Talbot was showing us the way … preparing to take the next step … We all know what has to be done,” he said. “Gunning, would you join me at the tub? You know the cast, I believe? You will be able to identify the poor fellow who’s concealed below that frightful wig.”

  The two men went to stand one on either side of the bathtub, and carefully Montacute began to peel the fall of black hair upwards over the forehead. With a last tug, he separated it from the thick mass of greying fair hair underneath.

  A chorus of exclamations burst from the spectators, and Gunning, shaken and trembling, made the sign of the cross over the body, murmuring instinctively the ritual phrases of farewell to the departed.

  Identification had been at the forefront of everyone’s mind—an imperative—and yet, strangely, with the familiar features exposed for all to see, no one breathed his name. The discovery had the effect of silencing every member of the group, isolating each in his own shock and disbelief. Grief and mourning would come much later, with acceptance; for now, all they could do was stare and look aside, praying that their senses were misdirecting them, and stare again and be forced to confront the truth.

  Stage left, Clytemnestra made low keening noises into a trailing sleeve of her robe. Stage right, Letty stood frozen in an unnatural rigidity, eyes huge in her pale face and focussed on the bloodied body, making no sound.

  The inspector looked from one to the other with interest. And looked again.

  “That’s quite enough! You’ve had your fun! Now will you please all stop larking about and put an end to this.” The clarion voice rang out, sounding a note of farce. “It’s an absolute disgrace! I resent wasting another moment on your buffoonery! Whatever will you come up with next? Pigs’ bladders and water pistols? This is a drama, not a satyr play …” Maud Merriman had, at last, decided to make her appearance. She advanced, with a torrent of complaints, limping along with the aid of her stick (a support on those days when arthritis struck), and the cast moved aside to let her through. In minutes, all roles had been reversed and the audience was onstage, acting out a tragedy, while the actors could do no more than look on, aghast, dreading the outcome.

  Maud joined Gunning at the bathtub and peered in.

  “I thought as much! This prep-school humour is undignified and has to stop!” She struck the side of the bath with her stick and the ringing note triggered a quiver of distaste that ran through the crowd. “Get up! Ugh! The man’s quite naked under all that paint! Will someone please pass him a robe?” She bent her head and spoke directly to the body of Agamemnon in an eerie echo of the queen’s waspish address to her dead husband.

  “Andrew! You begin to be an embarrassment! Joke’s over. You’re to get out of there at once!”

  Chapter 8

  It was Montacute who moved to respond to the first of Maud’s commands. The inspector took off his own grey cape and draped it, shroudlike, over the limbs.

  The formality of the draping and the finality of the age-old gesture seemed to convey its stark message and Maud fell silent. Her face showed the fearful resignation of someone who has seen a flash of lightning and is now waiting for the thunderclap that must follow it.

  “Lady Merriman …” he began.

  “Montacute,” she interrupted, “you knew my husband. In Salonika. You came to dinner with us … What are you telling us?”

  “I did indeed know him, madam. And I can, of course, identify him myself. I counted him my friend. But it would be more fitting, perhaps, if you were to confirm that the man you have just seen is your husband—Professor Sir Andrew Merriman?”

  “Of course I can. I recognise my own husband!” And then, softly: “He’s not play-acting … he’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid he is.”

  “This is ludicrous! Andrew has no business being in the bathtub! Why isn’t it that obscene dummy of Laetitia’s in there? Or Geoffrey? Geoffrey Melton was the one supposed to die … Geoffrey!” Maud called out, rapping her stick sharply on the stone flags. “Where are you?”

  “I’m here, madam. Did I miss my cue?”

  Already nervous, the cast jumped perceptibly as the voice that had only minutes before shaken them with its prolonged death screams responded to her challenge. Geoffrey Melton, still adjusting the black velvet robe of the villain Aegisthus around his shoulders, made his way out of the shadows and onto centre stage. The other players instinctively shuddered away from him as he moved between them. He stalked on careful feet to the bath and there was a rustling sigh from the gathering as Aegisthus with terrible inevitability produced his entrance line:

  “‘What a brilliant day this is for retribution! My eyes feast on this man, this victim, snared by the vengeful Furies’ net!’”

  He paused and peeled off his linen mask, though Letty thought he might just as well not have bothered; the face beneath was no more revealing than the emotionless, chalk-white painted fabric.

  “Hey! What’s going on here?”

  “It’s you who must answer that, man!” Maud snapped. “How do you account for this? What do you have to say for yourself? You were on the spot. Andrew’s dead. You must have seen or heard him expire. Could you not have called for assistance? Did you just stand by and let him die? Were you too involved with your own dramatic death rattle to notice his dying gasp?”

  Her staccato demands betrayed to all onstage an irrationality out of character with the calculating and correct lady they knew, and their drooping heads and averted eyes expressed a quiet understanding. The challenge on Melton showed a certain mad gallantry which impress
ed but alarmed Letty. Geoffrey Melton was not one to tolerate such an attack, even from a distraught woman. He was a splendid actor, but he kept himself apart from the rest of the cast by means of a cold and supercilious attitude. And here he stood, improbably tall in his built-up leather theatre sandals, towering over Maud, even dressed as the very figure of villainy.

  Letty moved forward to stand protectively by Maud’s side, though she could not rationally explain her impulse. She was not alone in feeling the threat, apparently, as Montacute held up a warning hand and stepped himself between the widow and the object of her scorn. Once again, the London policeman found himself, in rôle, squaring up to a figure of royal authority.

  There was obvious relief when Melton chose to make a soft response. He leaned over the body, his gold chains clanking, and moved the cloak aside to take a close look at the remains, taking his time. Then he straightened, made the sign of the cross, and murmured in his light baritone:

  “‘Who dies in youth and vigour dies the best,

  Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast.’

  “A fine man, Lady Merriman. I am truly astonished and devastated to see Andrew like this. A huge loss.”

  “We thank you for your sentiments, Mr. Melton,” said Montacute, responding for all. “But now, may I ask you to step aside, join the rest of the cast, and hold yourself ready for questioning?” He turned back to Maud and took her comfortingly by the arm. “Now, madam, you may have heard me send for my colleague in the Athens police force. The moment he arrives, we will instigate an enquiry into the circumstances of your husband’s death.”

  “The Athens police force?” Maud’s eyebrows shot up. “I wasn’t aware they had one. And why would you be needing them? You should summon a competent doctor.” She shrugged off his arm. “May I recommend, Montacute, since you appear to have put yourself in charge of some sort of an enquiry, my friend Dr. Peebles, who has his offices on the Queen Sophia Avenue? He is Andrew’s doctor also, and if you send for him he will be pleased to come along and ascertain the circumstances for you.”