‘You haven’t seen a cross-section of British life,’ Patrick told Manolakis over breakfast the next day. ‘We must put that right.’
‘You don’t know what I have done when I have been in London,’ said Manolakis, his large dark eyes glittering. ‘Nor do you know what I shall do with Elizabeth. She will take me about. Her friends will be other.’
They would, but in what way? Patrick realised he had not met many of them and knew little of what she did between their meetings.
‘Dimitri—’ he said, and paused. He had no right to warn Manolakis off. What Liz did was her own affair, literally; he had no business to interfere.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh—nothing.’
How long did he mean to stay in London? More than one night? Patrick hoped not. Soon the college would be working at full stretch; the kitchen staff would be back on duty; Manolakis could be feasted off the college plate emblazoned with the winged lion of St Mark, and given the full treatment before he went home. He would like that. Or would he? Were there other things he might prefer?
‘I have enjoyed it all so very much. It has been a privilege,’ said Manolakis, looking earnestly at Patrick.
Patrick felt ashamed of his thoughts. He looked at The Times crossword to avoid the penetrating eye of the Greek.
‘You might, perhaps, ask who made the identification of your friend Sam?’ Manolakis suggested. ‘There could be a way, through that person, to find out more of his life?’
Patrick sat up and threw down The Times.
‘Good idea. Why didn’t I think of it?’ he exclaimed. ‘But the police will have done it.’
‘Yes, but you may have a new thought,’ said Manolakis.
It was possible.
‘I’ll do as you suggest,’ Patrick said. ‘And I’ll go back to Pear Tree Cottage for a look at those paintings. That will keep me busy while you’re in London.’
He put Manolakis on the eleven forty-eight train to Paddington, and watched till he had vanished, giving an occasional restrained wave of the hand to acknowledge the Greek’s less inhibited gestures from the window of his coach. Then he went back to St Mark’s and rang up the Evening Standard. After that he set off for Stratford-upon-Avon, turning over in his mind what possible significance there could be in the fact that it was Leila Waters, the theatrical agent, who had officially identified Sam at the inquest, and that she had not told him this when they met.
Why should she? It was no secret. She probably thought that he knew.