Sunday and Monday
Delphi and Athens
Early next morning, George Loukas telephoned to discuss when they would leave for Delphi. Elsie was tired, he said, and wanted to lie-in for a while. Would eleven o’clock suit Patrick?
This was what happened when you contracted to do things with other people. Patrick sighed inwardly; he wanted to get on with the day. But he agreed with fair grace, and dawdled about packing the few things he would need for a night or two in the mountains, trying not to feel irritable.
At half past eight Jeremy rang to apologise for his conduct the night before.
‘I ought to have coped without bothering you,’ he said.
‘My dear chap, don’t give it a thought,’ said Patrick. ‘Was everything all right?’
‘Yes. Joyce had gone when I got back. And she didn’t appear at breakfast. Celia said she had it in bed.’
‘Very wise. Well, after today you need never see her again.’
Feeling himself to be the ultimate in hypocrites, Patrick wished Jeremy a good trip back. Colin had cabled saying:
STEPS WILL BE TAKEN.
A nice reception would, therefore, be waiting for the party when they reached Gatwick. As for himself, perhaps it was as well he was leaving Athens for a time; he did not want to be the victim of another accident. He was still unsure of his own propriety: instead of cabling Colin, perhaps he ought to have told the Greek police about Arthur Winterton; the smuggling of narcotics was one of the most serious crimes in the book, and how better to do it than in the baggage of a seemingly inoffensive elderly tourist? Pounds of the stuff could get in that way, dispersed through various groups. But the matter might have a totally innocent explanation; Arthur Winterton might have been collecting a book or some other harmless object that night.
Celia telephoned next. She wanted to thank him for everything, she said, sounding tearful.
Patrick demurred; he needed no thanks.
‘Oh, but I had such a lovely day yesterday. And the bracelet. And then last night; you were so kind.’
‘You managed.’
‘Yes.’ There was no need to describe the abuse Joyce had hurled at her. In the end, Celia had made her swallow a sleeping pill. ‘She’ll be all right. It’ll be forgotten.’ After days of punitive silence.
‘Good luck,’ said Patrick. He managed to fight down an impulse to ask her to call on him at Mark’s if she were ever in Oxford.
‘I’m going to think seriously about Elsie Loukas’s idea of going to America,’ Celia said, earnestly.
‘You do that.’ The climate might suit her better, or the charms of her British accent outweigh her lack of other allure. Anyway, a change could only do good.
*I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.’
‘I’m sure I will. I’m going to Delphi today.’
‘Oh. I mustn’t keep you, then.’ She sounded wistful. They did not leave until after an early lunch so perhaps she had hoped for another meeting.
‘Goodbye,’ said Patrick, firmly.
Sadly, Celia hung up. He pictured her grimly facing the silent Joyce. Before anyone else could get at him, he went out. There was time to visit the Acropolis again before he picked up the car.
He walked swiftly through the busy streets, past the shoe-shine men and the people in neat clothes going to church, keeping a look-out in case anyone seemed to be trailing him; it felt slightly ridiculous, as though he were in some gangster film, but at least he could keep a physical gap between himself and anyone following him.
There were only a few people up on the great citadel so early. The breeze was fresh, and the sun not yet at its zenith. It was a good time to come. He sat down on a slab of marble well away from any slope or step, so that no one could approach him unseen, and began to think about Felix.
Suicide. Could Inspector Manolakis’s suspicions, unvoiced though they were, be right?
Felix was an able scholar, much respected even if not among the top flight in his field. He had published numerous papers and two books on Roman History, and was preparing another. Surely he would never kill himself with an unfinished job like that on his hands?
What else did he know about Felix? There was his weakness about heights, and his limp. He’d been in the army during the war and was captured in the Western desert. He had been wounded in the leg and had spent some time in a German field hospital before being sent to a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany, where he had remained until the war ended. Patrick had never heard him talk much about those days; he seemed to remember some vague rumour that Felix had escaped from the camp once, but had been recaptured very quickly, and that someone who had escaped with him was shot, but Patrick was uncertain if that was in fact just what had happened. Could some sort of delayed, suppressed depression have caught up with him now? If so, why go to Crete to indulge it? He could have thrown himself over the side of the Persephone equally well. It didn’t make sense. No, either it was an accident, however hard to explain, or it was something much more sinister.
His elbow felt bruised this morning.
He thought back to the evening before and the feel of that hand in his back. He hadn’t imagined it. But either the pusher had lost his nerve or the attempt had been meant merely to incapacitate, not to kill, for these people were experts: their accidents ended in fatalities.
It was time to go.
He walked carefully back into the city, but no one came near him.