A Darker God Read online

  “That’s right. When he’s finished with his sound effects—you know, the screaming-in-his-death-throes part—he changes the purple silk for the black velvet and the gold necklaces. From king to villain. Sarah and I heard him yelling and rolled our eyes—we always thought he enjoyed that bit a little more than was natural—and stood by in what you might call the robing room with the Aegisthus outfit. He took longer than usual to arrive and Sarah and I were just standing about making silly jokes about him having been picked off—with a bit of luck—in the shrubbery by bandits. Hoping he’d never turn up.” The girl gave an exaggerated shudder. “There’s something about the way he stands there with his arms stretched out, just waiting for us to attend to him … I mean, he could easily put his own jewellery round his neck but he insists on us doing it for him … He tells us to tighten the laces on those boots of his—can you imagine? He has us on our knees like serving maids!”

  “Hang on a minute! ‘Picked off’? Zoë, what did you mean by ‘picked off’?” Letty had been all attention at the words.

  The girl shivered and looked anxiously about her, then leaned in closer and confided: “Been attacked by thugs. I don’t exaggerate! There could be anyone hanging about in those bushes. Quick exit from the theatre, straight onto the avenue. I’ve seen strangers wandering in just to see what was going on, and out again, unchallenged—it’s completely unfenced and unguarded. There are two watchmen on duty at night and the three wooden huts have locks but in the afternoon, when we’re all performing, everything is left open.”

  “The three huts are used for what purposes, Zoë?”

  “The big one in the centre, at the hub of everything, is Andrew Merriman’s room. He sits in there whenever we’re here in case we need him, but he doesn’t throw his weight about … not always poking his nose in, you know. The second is the one on the right, which we call ‘Wardrobe.’ Rather grand name for a cupboard where we hang the cloaks. No need for makeup or changing space—people just come along in something light and summery and pop a cloak or a robe over the top. Then they put on the mask they’ve brought with them … they hate using each other’s masks and they’ve written their names on the inside to discourage borrowing. We keep a few spares in case of forgetfulness. The third is for the mechanical stuff. Ropes, pulleys, axle grease, you know the sort of thing.”

  “It’s guarded at night, you say. Is the site under threat of some sort, would you say?”

  “Oh, yes. Leave any sort of building unattended and you’ll find six families have moved in. It can be pretty lawless about here, you know. Plenty of desperate people on the streets—all those refugees from Asia Minor … a million and a half have been sent over with nowhere to go. And then there are men displaced by the war—fighting men, dangerous men, some still armed, not all willing to just curl up and die quietly … Dodge City, Sarah calls it! At least it was before the British advisors got here. I must say they’ve worked wonders! They’ve hounded out most of the gangs and tamed the traffic. It used to be a free-for-all in the streets, cars everywhere, ramming one another, running over pedestrians. Now it’s a ballet! Smooth and orderly and a handsome young Greek officer in white gloves at every junction. People come in on Sundays from the country just to stand at the crossroads and admire them!”

  Zoë looked over her shoulder, tracking the inspector. “He’s advising the criminal brigade. World authority, is what they say. Attached to the International Criminal Police Organisation and all that. They’re setting up a CID squad, I believe. You know—like the one they have at Scotland Yard. If this should turn out to be a crime … well … it could be the very first of its kind the new department has had to deal with.”

  “Reputations to be made—or broken?” Letty guessed.

  “Or repaired,” Zoë commented thoughtfully.

  “Repaired?”

  “Yes. The inspector was unfortunate enough to arrive in Athens in the middle of the most awful crisis! You weren’t here in the summer, were you? No? In Crete? Ah, then you very probably won’t have heard … Most distressing! Towards the end of June, a bunch of foreigners—English, American, and French—were kidnapped during a Cook’s tour to Delphi. Hard to imagine. In this day and age! A repeat of something dreadful that happened fifty years ago, they say. They were marched off at knifepoint, poor souls! The brigands responsible held them to ransom. The international outcry was something formidable, of course! Montacute got straight off the boat and joined the chase through the mountains. He’s very … um … fit for a policeman. Don’t you think?”

  Zoë’s eyes were drawn again to the magnetic figure of the inspector, at that moment striding between two blocks of polygonal masonry. “Well, they caught the kidnappers, hiding in the back of beyond. Albanians, was it? From over the border, apparently. I’m not sure—but somebody from over some border. Borders are a bit confusing out here, you know. Anyway—hand-to-hand fighting broke out. He shot two of the bandits dead, by all accounts. Two got away but the others surrendered. Well, you would, wouldn’t you … with the inspector waving his Browning at you?” Her eyes skittered sideways again, keeping the policeman in view.

  “But what happened to the tourists?” Letty was anxious to hear the outcome.

  “Ah … too late, I’m afraid. They were all found in a shepherd’s hut, dead, with their throats cut. In no way his fault, but they say the inspector took it badly.”

  “I see,” Letty murmured. “A man with something to prove?”

  “Hey! Will you get a move on up front! This is no time to be swapping gossip!” someone called rudely from the rump of the queue, putting an end to a conversation Letty would have liked to pursue.

  “Next! Ah. Clytemnestra. Miss Templeton, I think?” said Letty, scribbling down the name.

  She was uneasy at the prospect of coming face-to-face with the queen in her distressed state. At close quarters and without her mask, the woman was even more impressive than Letty had guessed. She moved forward and stood before her, undisturbed by the bright light, her black hair hanging in gleaming coils onto her shoulders and dark eyes ablaze. Her nose was as straight as a statue’s, her forehead broad, her mouth generous.

  And Letty could not turn those features into the cold killer’s face of Clytemnestra. She had last seen that profile in a carving on a Gothic cathedral in France. Not on the etiolated outline of an austere saint but on the rounded shape of one of the more roguish female characters of the Bible. One of the beauties whose inclusion in Holy Scripture was licence enough for the medieval mason to display his earthy appreciation of womankind. Salomé? No, there was a nobility as well as strength about this face. And then Letty remembered. The likeness was of Judith, the virtuous widow who had, at risk of her life, crept into the camp of the Assyrian general besieging her town, seduced him, and beheaded him with her sword to save her people. Letty almost looked for the linen bag, dripping blood, in which she’d carried his head back in triumph.

  The woman gave no sign that she was aware of Letty or that she intended ever to vouchsafe any information. Her focus was on infinity, and Letty’s presence in front of her was at best an irritating distraction.

  “Miss Templeton?” Letty asked again.

  “Thetis Templeton.” A mechanical response, followed by silence.

  “Wonderful performance, Thetis! May I say how much I was enjoying …” Letty heard herself, with confusion, nervously filling the conversational void with unthinking chatter. She stopped, taken aback by the ferocity of the glare turned on her.

  “Do you hear what you’re saying? Must we next expect to listen to you heaping praise on Andrew for his convincing portrayal of a corpse?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Templeton. So sorry. I intended no offence. I was merely gauche and thoughtless. I am hardly trained for this … The inspector asks too much, I believe. Would you like me to call him over to take your details himself? I’m sure that would be the more professional approach.”

  Thetis Templeton shrugged. “We’re all stretched
to the limits this evening,” she whispered, unbending a little. “I’m sorry I snarled … not your fault.” She extended a hand and touched Letty’s briefly. “Keep going. You’re doing well and the inspector needs all the help he can get. Don’t distract the man on my account—he’s doing what he must do and with some skill, it seems, in the circumstances. Carry on with this pantomime. Let’s get it over with, shall we?”

  “Would you mind telling me where you’re staying in Athens?”

  “In Kolonaki Square, number twenty-five.”

  “But that’s the Merriman house!” Letty’s astonishment was evident.

  “And I am their guest,” said Thetis Templeton. “Where else would I be likely to be staying? Maud is my cousin.”

  Chapter 10

  Letty was watching for the right moment to present her completed notes when the eagerly awaited contingent from police headquarters arrived. Two or three heavy motor vehicles rumbled to a halt on the Avenue of Dionysus: a presence more substantial than the couple of gendarmes on bicycles she had been expecting. She threw a speculative glance at the inspector, this foreigner who had influence enough to call out the big guns. Doors banged and heavy boots crashed through the wooded area separating the road from the theatre.

  “Harry! You thought to bring my murder bag! Good man! Quite lost without it!” Letty thought she heard the inspector say. And then: “Sarge, a light over here, if you would?”

  Montacute picked up his Gladstone bag, tracked his way to the centre-front of the orchestra, and sank to his knees, peering at the floor. The sergeant followed, torch in hand. Satisfied that he had the right spot, Montacute opened his bag, plunged in up to the elbows, and selected from the contents a small paper envelope, a pair of tweezers, and a magnifying glass. He slipped on a pair of gloves and set to work. No one could make out exactly the nature of the tiny objects he was picking up with such care and slipping into the packet. The audience peered down, intrigued by this bravura display of detective behaviour. Apparently oblivious of their interest, he took a ball of cotton wool, dampened it with liquid from a small bottle, scrubbed it around on the interesting patches, and popped the resulting mess away in a screw-capped jar.

  “And for an encore, they tell me, he polishes the brasses,” drawled a voice from the audience.

  Letty was inclined to share Louis Adams’s scepticism. From her brief association with the inspector she could quite believe Montacute was putting on a performance calculated to distract and reassure his audience. If so, it was a manoeuvre much appreciated by the god of the place.

  Dionysus himself was presiding over the day’s dramas. Set up by Andrew in position of honour, not in the central altar place in the orchestra but off to the right, perched on a six-foot-high stone column, the tutelary deity sneered down. Letty had no idea how Andrew had come by the marble bust and she couldn’t even be quite certain that the subject was, as he had claimed, the God of Theatre. The traditional ivy leaves crowned the god’s luxuriant curls and his expression of slightly crazed merriment was authentic, but his was not the bloated face of the elderly lecher which Letty associated with Dionysus. This god was in his prime. In control. Manipulative and up to no good. An agitator if ever she saw one.

  Hearing Louis Adams’s quip, Montacute raised his head and grinned. Amused? Surprised? Menacing? All of those. Letty was relieved not to be the target of that brief baring of teeth. Was she the only one who’d noticed the resemblance? Stick a wreath of ivy leaves on the inspector’s handsome head and he could have sat as model for the dark god.

  He got up from his knees, took off his gloves, and squinted into the light, grunting: “See more in daylight tomorrow morning, I hope. Ah! Now, who’ve we got …?” he said to no one in particular.

  Two older men in civilian clothes—dark suits and hats-were arriving together at a more dignified pace than the constables had, and they held back at a careful distance, taking in the scene. One carried a soft bag, the twin of Montacute’s, the other a doctor’s attaché case.

  “Gentlemen! Come around this way, would you? Glad you’re here. Superintendent Theotakis,” Montacute announced to the crowd. “My colleague in the Greek C.I.D. Over to you, Markos!”

  The superintendent took in the situation, raised his hat, and bowed briefly to the gathering.

  “And Dr. Petropoulos!” Montacute greeted. “Pathologist extraordinaire. Delighted! Sir, if you wouldn’t mind stepping over here? Our problem is centre stage. I think a swift preliminary examination of the deceased would answer some essential questions. I believe you know him?”

  Petropoulos, oblivious of the crowd, went straight to the corpse and delivered a series of staccato exclamations in Greek, so fast Letty could only just follow.

  “Good Lord! Of course I know him! It’s Andrew! They didn’t tell me it was Merriman … Poor chap! What a barbaric scene! How on earth did he end up like this? In a bathtub?” The doctor flung an accusing glare at the inspector. “And with you here, Montacute, in the thick of it, I’m told? How could you let this happen under your nose, man?”

  “Steady on, Doctor!” Montacute replied in the same language with what seemed to Letty’s ear a perfect accent. “It looks worse than it is. Dramatic performance, don’t you know … He died offstage. The widow declares her late husband to have succumbed to a heart attack. If she’s right, then we may all disperse and go home with no further ado. We wait on your decision, Doctor.”

  Petropoulos began to mutter, stating the usual caveats concerning a postmortem. Poor conditions … inconvenience … lack of equipment … no guarantees. Montacute conveyed the gist of this in English and he was heard with nods of acceptance, all willing the pathologist to press on and pronounce the hoped-for words: “natural death.” Everyone noted that he approached the corpse and set about his task before he had even finished speaking his preliminaries. The two inspectors stood at his shoulders, quick exchanges of question-and-answer batting between them in two languages as Montacute put them in the picture.

  Letty was aware of a practised efficiency and camaraderie-even friendship—and aware also that all three men were perfectly conscious that their every syllable was being relayed to the audience with clarity. No swearing, no exclamations, the very minimum of information was exchanged. After several minutes of grumbling and sighing, redirecting of arc lights and flourishing of shining and mysterious pieces of surgical equipment, the doctor was ready to pronounce his initial findings.

  “The gentleman’s heart did indeed—and in this his widow was expressing nothing less than the literal truth—stop beating,” he began. “But not as the result of an infarction or any natural cause. No, no! He’s suffered a penetrating cardiac injury. It’s the single thrust with a blade of some sort through the chest that did for him. Here, you see? Wound looks like a closed-up doll’s mouth. Haemorrhaging occurred, but there’s a complication. Yes, this is odd … The rest of this … um …” They consulted briefly over the choice of word and Montacute came up with: “Muck?” The doctor waved a dismissive hand at the red stains on arms and legs. “… Substance is not associated with the death wound. And there’s rather a lot of it … Any ideas?”

  “Ox blood,” said Montacute. “Or so it’s asserted. We’ll need to have a sample tested.”

  “So—poor old Agamemnon meets his fate again,” said the doctor, shaking his head sadly. “And just three hours ago.”

  “What was that? Are you telling us he’s been dead three hours?”

  “Does that surprise you? Well … as far as I can tell—yes. Again I say it … I’ll know more later. For now, shall we say death occurred between two and four hours ago? And, to be on the safe side, I’ll say—nearer four than two. That is to say at about your teatime. Five o’clockish. Well, if you can get a squad of your stout fellows to help out, Markos …” The doctor looked down dubiously at the body. “We have to get him to the morgue … lucky we came in the hospital van. Look, why don’t we just carry him off in the bathtub? Agreed? It’ll keep a
ny evidence intact and in one place and it seems to have done a good job of containment so far.” He began to pack his equipment away.

  Superintendent Theotakis, dramatically moustached and authoritative, took over with a few clear gestures of command, assigning four of his men to bathtub transport duties. The Greek inspector turned in surprise as the witnesses on the audience benches, without a word spoken, performed their last act as a chorus. As the policemen, two on each side, lifted the tub, the actors rose to their feet in silent homage and remained standing while the professor was carried offstage. Theotakis fell in with their observance, taking off his hat and bowing his head as the cortège staggered in front of him. He then set other constables to seal off the area and stand guard in shifts until first light. He himself, he announced, would take the opportunity of going over the crime scene for his own satisfaction and would confer with Montacute when he’d dealt with the assembled witnesses. If the chief inspector was agreeable, they might all just as well be sent off home after a routine search for concealed weapons by his officers, of course, and not left at large to trample over the theatre, compromising potential evidence.

  This was greeted by a sigh of relief from the actors but they stayed in their places, docile and watchful. Some were murmuring, some were weeping, and no one protested when Montacute gave the expected advice to hold themselves available for interview and not to contemplate leaving the city until further notice. They finally began to shuffle off when released, after running the gauntlet of two Greek policemen who patted them down with brisk efficiency. The three ladies, Montacute had improvised as an afterthought, could well present themselves to Miss Talbot, who would perform the same service.

  Thetis, Zoë, and Sarah came to stand in line in front of Letty, each raising her arms with a conspiratorial smile and a forgiving shrug. They’d endured greater indignities at school. Thetis even murmured: “Poor you! Here—let me save you the trouble.” She held out her sword, presenting the jewelled hilt. Letty checked that it was the stage piece being offered, a confection of wood and glass, and she handed it back. None of the three girls was concealing anything sinister under her light summer clothes. No blade bulged in bra or knickers or garter. Letty discovered not so much as a nail file when they turned out their pockets.