‘So is ours. Vouniki’s got a good little corner there. If we dined there we might pick up something. Vouniki’s is a centre of gossip. I’ve noticed the old man knows what’s happening in the docks, and he’s well informed about border crossers.’
‘So they do cross the border?’
‘There’s a black market here as well as in most places.’
Mrs Littlejohn produced rice pudding and strawberry jam.
‘If we’re going to eat at the Paradise, we ought to save ourselves,’ she said, ladling out very small quantities of rice into the willow-pattern dishes. Theodora hoped that the Cyprus version of the Paradise Garden was as good as the Betterhouse one.
‘How good is your Turkish?’ Theodora ventured. If they were to make progress, they would need to be assured in that area.
‘He’s very good,’ said Gwyneth with pride. ‘He’s been taking lessons.’
‘Well, I’m serviceable, I think. I can certainly pick up whether a family of Greeks called Kostas have infiltrated the border clasping an icon in either hand and with a young English girl in tow. If they’ll talk, that is. Did Geoffrey …?’ Tim approached a delicate subject delicately.
‘He suggested a certain amount of sterling.’
‘You’ve got it with you?’
‘Do you want it?’
‘Keep it until required.’
The Reverend Littlejohn seemed to think the business side of things was at an end. He leaned back in his chair and discarded his napkin. ‘We do follow the local custom of the siesta.’ He glanced meaningfully at the china cottage on the mantelpiece, in the middle of which could be seen a clock face.
The vicarage’s guest room was filled with early afternoon light. Theodora lifted the jalousies and gazed up at the mountain, grey and sheer, about fifty kilometres away. The lower slopes were covered with dark pines, the upper were bare rock. With difficulty she discerned first the monastery and then, perched above it, the castle. They were so much part of the stone that they looked more like natural features than the work of human hands. Military and religious power had, after a thousand years, merged into one harmonious whole with the natural world.
She ought to have been tired after the flight and exertions of the journey. But she could not settle. The bookcase was the usual set of guests’ leavings and family cast-offs. There were two or three ancient crime novels: Clerical Errors, Unholy Ghosts. Tim’s geography textbooks, and something entitled Travels in the Isle of Cyprus by the Reverend Canon J. F. Hetherington-Pollock, published privately in a limited edition with steel engravings in 1925. Just the job, thought Theodora. If that didn’t send her to sleep, nothing would. Idly she turned the thick pages, dipping here and there into the canon’s description of castles and monasteries, his disquisitions, on the etymology of place names and his remarks on the bird population and flora. Her eyelids were beginning to droop when she came to the chapter called ‘History and Legend’ and read:
On 1 May 1425, a Venetian mercenary captain, Giovanni Dionisotti, threw his Greek wife, Maria, off the battlements of the castle of Montevento in northern Cyprus. When he discovered that she was innocent of the adultery of which he had accused her, he spent a considerable part of his ample fortune on commissioning what came to be known as the Venetian Triptych. This splendid work depicted an annunciation and a madonna with child flanking a maesta. This the repentant soldier lodged in the tiny Greek Orthodox church of Ayia Maria in the village of Montevento at the foot of the castle.
The work, which was generally admitted to be of the highest quality, was, despite its Italian origins and style, taken to the hearts of the local Cypriots. For five hundred years it served the worshippers of that country as a window into the heavenly order, receiving their prayers and petitions, working its modest quota of miracles. But in the early morning of 1 May 1920 the area round the church was shaken by the tremors attending a minor earthquake, and when the church was inspected the triptych was gone. A thorough search was made far and near, for not only was the honour of the village at stake, but so also was its prosperity. The withdrawal of the image was felt as keenly as would be the withdrawal of the patronage of heaven itself. How could the village flourish if the Mother of God had left it? The villagers felt themselves to be accursed. And so it proved. The triptych failed to come to light and a series of disasters rendered the village a desolation within a decade.
Theodora raised her head. So that was it. The Venetian Triptych was what they were all after: the Kostases, who regarded it as an object of superstition, as indeed their own personal luck, or who perhaps saw that luck in concrete terms of dollars; the Greek Cypriot government, who would like to be able to use it as a focus for nationalistic feeling; the Turks, who would be concerned to prevent either of those courses.
How had each of the three icons been dispersed? Had the original theft after the earthquake been perpetrated by the Kostases, or had they come by it later? Had they kept the maesta, the crowning glory of the piece, and sold the other two panels to the Stephanopouloses? And had that family in time sold the annunciation to Lady Helena in 1924 in Athens, and passed the other to Jessica in due course in the 1980s? How had Troutbeck and Pound been able to photograph the maesta in Cyprus in ’74?
And what was going to happen now? Who had which icons with what intentions, and why had one boy been killed and a girl kidnapped? Theodora thought of the note which Stella Stephanopoulos had received. It suggested that one party at least had the idea that Jessica had access to two of the icons, presumably the Virgin and child, which was her own from her grandfather, and the annunciation, originally Helena’s. Well, thought Theodora as she lay back on the Littlejohns’ covers and closed her eyes, perhaps this evening will reveal more.
Geoffrey lay back on his bed and gazed at the ceiling. It was cracked and he found himself tracing the coast of Cyprus in its crazy lines. He clasped his hands behind his head and flapped his elbows a couple of times. He felt full of energy; he ought to find someone to play squash with. Thursday was his day off. He’d driven Theo to Gatwick at six and now at eight-thirty he didn’t know what to do with himself. He wondered if he’d been right to wave Theo off on her flight to Cyprus. Something, he felt in his bones, was due to happen there, but still there were gaps. If Theo was going to track down Jessica and deal with the Stephanopoulos side of things, the least he could do was to follow up the Kostas affair in Betterhouse.
Someone in Betterhouse had killed young Kostas. They had killed, Theodora and he had agreed, to get their hands on an icon. Who would kill for such an end, and how had they done it? Geoffrey shook his head. He didn’t want to play detective. He was a priest not a policeman. His own concerns were pastoral. He could look to and help to assuage the grief of Mrs Kostas at the death of her son. He knew how to do that. He could sympathise and support the maladroit young Troutbeck in prison and, if need be, through a trial. He knew how to do that too. In all else he had resolved he would be no more than a spectator. His training both as a naval officer and as a priest had taught him that nothing is achieved without prioritising. Set your goals and make them achievable, his spiritual director always told him, and leave the rest to God, otherwise you’ll dissipate your energies and do more harm than good. And he quite agreed with that. But still someone had killed Kostas and he couldn’t help feeling that if he thought hard enough he could put his finger on them. He had enough information, it was just a matter of bringing the bits together.
Could it really have been Troutbeck? His father had known young Kostas’s father and had known, certainly known about (if Oenone’s photograph meant anything) the provenance of an icon. What was it McGrath had said? ‘Who drove the Greeks out of Cyprus? The Turks.’ But Geoffrey didn’t know of any Turks in Betterhouse. And when he had at last caught up with Springer in the school dining hall, he’d affirmed he didn’t know any either. ‘How about your database?’ Geoffrey had urged. They had watched the green script scroll down the screen, first under ‘ethnic origin’ then
under ‘religion’. Neither category yielded up any Turkish pupils.
‘Why did you want to know, Geoff?’ Springer had asked. ‘Just a hunch about Kostas’s killer,’ Geoffrey had replied. Springer shook his head sagely and laid his hand on Geoffrey’s arm
as though to comfort one who cannot face the truth unsupported. ‘I think we know, Geoff, don’t we, you and me, that young Troutbeck just wasn’t up to things. He wasn’t a fully mature and integrated personality, and you’ve just got to be all that and, yes, more, in today’s education context. It’s not just demanding, it’s not just challenging, it’s a—’
Geoffrey had freed himself from Springer’s grip and plunged down the concrete stairs. Now, eight hours later, he looked at his watch and wondered if Springer was right. McGrath had said Troutbeck wasn’t up to it, wasn’t the man his father was. Geoffrey had wondered if he should try and see McGrath again, but when he’d inquired for him he was told he’d taken a day’s leave. What had he meant by Turks? Perhaps, Geoffrey told himself with a sigh, there really was nothing he could do. He sprang off the bed and made for the kitchen. Food would be sensible.
Competent though he was in many spheres, Geoffrey was no cook. He didn’t like to admit it, but recently he’d come to rely on Theodora providing sustenance at least to the level of the odd bacon sandwich. With her away, he didn’t fancy his own larder. Paradise Garden would be the best bet at this time of night.
Outside the vicarage, it was raining steadily. He marched swiftly past the church which loomed up at him out of the spring darkness, and strode past the retreat house of St Sylvester. He wondered briefly if Gilbert Racy might be free. Then he decided he wasn’t up to Gilbert’s mixture of scholarship and gossip, and instead pressed on down towards the high street.
He almost missed the entrance to the restaurant. The flashing sign with its red neon palm tree and fountain in green and blue was dark. But when he pushed open the door and edged inside, all was as usual. Harry hurried forward to take his umbrella; a couple of the younger editions were instantly at hand to conduct him to his usual table next to the bar and produce a menu.
‘What’s up with your sign, Harry?’ Geoffrey asked when he had ordered the usual.
‘Ah, Reverend Geoffrey,’ Harry wrung his hands in the-atrical anguish, ‘we have such trouble. First the palm tree does not light, and now it is the fountain and bowl. The bowl works but not the water, then the water and not the bowl. Now all are gone, dark.’
‘Trade affected?’
‘I think I shall survive, but it looks bad. Without the sign it looks like we do not welcome our customers.’
‘Oh, I don’t think anyone would think that,’ Geoffrey assured him, looking round for the bartender. The usual man wasn’t on, but a young apprentice materialised rapidly, eager to meet his wishes.
Harry brightened. ‘They come, the electrics, they promised they come this morning. Now they phone me and it will be tonight. We shall see.’ He was grim. ‘My cousin, the electric, he is very busy, he says.’
‘Hasn’t affected the cooking, I hope.’
Harry was scandalised. ‘The reverend gentleman knows we do everything on charcoal.’ Then he went on delicately, ‘Your colleague, she will be joining you perhaps later?’
‘Oenone? Oh, Theo. No, she’s taking a holiday.’
‘Ah, a spring holiday. How very delightful. Somewhere healthy perhaps?’
‘Cyprus,’ said Geoffrey, who felt he’d had enough of this desultory conversation and wanted his kid.
‘That is a very beautiful and very healthy place,’ Harry declared. ‘You know it?’ Geoffrey was polite.
‘Of course, in my youth—’ Harry began. But he was interrupted by the arrival of Geoffrey’s food. At the same time the street door opened and yet another Harry looka-like stood on the threshold, a metal tool-carrier in his hand. Harry flicked his napkin and hurried to greet the electric cousin.
Geoffrey murmured his grace and then tried and failed to eat slowly. Eight years at boarding school, followed by twelve years in the navy, had formed his eating habits irredeemably. In record time he pushed the last piece of pitta round his plate and raised it to his lips. As he did so the lights in the dining room went out. There was, however, no kerfuffle. The candle on his table was augmented almost without pause by an oil lamp placed by an invisible hand. Harry could be heard giving orders in the back kitchen. The two other tables which were occupied were similarly served. It was time, Geoffrey felt, to leave them to their troubles.
‘The electrics, they have come,’ Harry said as he handed Geoffrey his umbrella at the door.
‘That’s good, then,’ Geoffrey answered as he stepped out into the night. Outside, by the kerb and under the street-lamp, a battered-looking Bedford van with its back door open revealed a mass of cables and copper wire. Geoffrey glanced at the side. On it was painted ‘Smith and Vouniki, Electricians, Installations and Maintenance’.
‘Good Lord,’ said Geoffrey, who was never profane. He swung on his heel and turned rapidly back towards the already closing door of the restaurant. Harry was conversing loudly with the electrician. ‘Yok,’ he was saying ‘Yok, yok, yok.’
‘Oh heck,’ said Geoffrey. Of course, he thought, Turkish Cypriots. And – he made the final connection – the contractors’ board outside South West London Comprehensive School showed just where these Turkish electricians had been operating recently.
The prevalent impression was of cats. Large ones quartered the dining room territorially between them. Smaller ones scudded in and out through the open doors. Waiting cats perched on the wall of the tiny courtyard, lurking ones slid in and out from the lee of old kerosene drums which, painted white, held either geraniums or electric lamps. It wasn’t quite warm enough to sit out once the sun had gone down, but Vouniki’s large, kitchen-like dining room had its door and windows open on to the garden.
Theodora found it a most sympathetic ambience. There was a more leisured pace than at the Paradise Garden in Betterhouse, a more scholarly and negotiated approach to the choosing of food, but it sounded familiar when the Reverend Tim Littlejohn leaned over the menu towards her and said, ‘The choice of meat is more apparent than real. It may say chicken or rabbit or whatever but in fact it’s always—’
‘Kid,’ said Theodora.
‘And always—’ said Mrs Littlejohn.
‘Delicious,’ said Theodora.
Tim disappeared into the kitchen to order, talk and listen. He returned,
clearly pleased with himself. ‘Vouniki père isn’t here at the moment, but he’s expected soon. Also, they expect someone from the port who has news from the Greek side. He’ll be here soon. So really that’s about as good as we could hope for in the circs.’
Theodora agreed. She wondered whether to share her researches about the Venetian icon with the Littlejohns and decided against it for the moment.
They had come early. Service was leisurely. Gradually the rest of the tables began to fill up. English was heard, German was heard, Turkish was heard. Paradise Gardens were clearly as popular in Cyprus as they were in Betterhouse. Rightly so, thought Theodora, as she attacked her kid.
Conversation was naturally of ‘home’, of England. Gwyneth Littlejohn evinced an interest in the doings of the royal family which Theodora was unable to satisfy.Tim would have liked to explore church politics, including women’s ordination, but felt constrained by not knowing Theodora’s views and settled safely for a run through common acquaintances.
At nine-fifteen sharp all the lights went out. There was no perceptible increase in noise. Nobody, indeed, raised an eyebrow. There was an interval of a couple of minutes. When the waiter brought the kerosene lamp and removed their plates, a long brown envelope had appeared in the shadow of the wine bottle. This was the response, Tim intimated, to his inquiries in the kitchen, though there was no name on it. Tim opened it and read it. Then he translated from the Turkish for the benefit of his womenfolk.
‘Greek Major Ste
phanopoulos arrived yesterday evening at Larnica airport to attend a conference on reunification. Greek-Briton staying in Nicosia intends crossing the border as a pilgrim tomorrow and going to Montevento’.
‘So what’s Stephanopoulos doing here, would you suppose?’ Gwyneth asked.
‘Why not take him at his word and accept that he’s come to the conference, and also presumably to see if he can hear word of Jessica?’
‘How would he know she’s here?’
‘Perhaps,’ Theodora answered, ‘he did what we did and rang the airline to see who was going out on Greek flights. His wife seemed to think he was taking his own measures and not relying on the English police.’
‘And how about the “Greek-Briton”? Who would that be and what would he be doing coming from the Greek side to the Turkish for a pilgrimage to Montevento?’ Gwyneth tried again.
‘If he were Greek, the Turks wouldn’t let him in this side: he’d have to start from the Greek.’
‘Would that mean a Kostas?’ Gwyneth inquired.
‘Well, perhaps,’ Theodora answered. ‘Though I’m not too sure about their devoutness. But of course their village is St Mary’s at Montevento. Anyway, it looks as if I ought to go to Montevento and see what’s brewing.’
Gwyneth Littlejohn put her napkin down and leaned forward. She looked deep into Theodora’s eyes, as though she were about to read her fortune. Her thick dark bobbed hair swung round her cheeks and she said, her Welsh accent strengthening, ‘I’d really very strongly urge you to be careful. Cyprus isn’t like England. You can get killed very much more easily.’
Theodora wondered when they’d last lived in England. It seemed to her that Betterhouse was also an easy place to get killed in. However, she recognised the kindness of her hostess’s intentions.
‘I’m sure all will be well, Gwyneth. My guess is that there’s going to be some icon swapping at Montevento, and if that means I can get news of Jessica, then I think I should go.’
Holy Terrors Page 17