A Darker God

by Barbara Cleverly

  He turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “Now! Come along, Miss Laetitia! A few words for the editor, please, on your feelings at coming under gunfire …”

  “Not sure I like the idea of being confined to barracks,” said Letty when the superintendent finally took his leave. “I haven’t been gated since I was at school. Still, there’s my old room all ready for me here, and if one has to be kept under surveillance it’s as comfortable a place as any. Will someone tell Mrs. Rose what I’m up to?”

  “Don’t worry about the details.” Montacute was his old peremptory self. “I’ll have a quiet word with Maggie. And look on the positive side—it’s likely that you would have been spending most of your time by the telephone anyway over the next days.”

  She looked at him, questioning his certainty.

  “Being Maud! The last thing we heard the old girl say was that you were her stand-in, Miss Laetitia. I don’t suppose she ever thought it would go so far, but …” He shrugged his shoulders. “Here you are. At the centre of it all. You’ll have to field enquiries about ceremonies, memorials, where to send the flowers, and so on, but, more important, it falls to you to reorganise the performance of Agamemnon.”

  “Reorganise the play? Me? Don’t be silly! I hardly know it. You’ll have to do it yourself!”

  He ignored her and pressed on. “I think it was sensible of the superintendent to agree to the rescheduling of the first night of the play. Mrs. Venizelos was much looking forward to it … guest of honour, friend of the leading lady, and all that.” He added confidingly: “It would never be made public and you’re both to keep very quiet about it—but there is more than a chance that her husband will be accompanying her. The two central priests’ marble seats will be held ready, anyway. If Prime Minister Venizelos doesn’t turn up, then the spare seat will be seamlessly occupied by the British Consul or his representative. Some smooth-talking gent from the Embassy, Frederick Wentworth if she’s lucky, will slip on his white tie, polish up his small talk, and offer his arm to the lady.”

  “I’d better take notes,” said Letty, bewildered and uncertain. “Can it be acceptable to put on a theatrical performance a week after the deaths of the two moving forces behind it? It doesn’t seem quite right to me …”

  “Our views are hardly important. It’s been authorised—indeed, insisted on—by the Ambassador himself, with the encouragement of the Greek authorities. The new First Lady, never forget, is half Greek, half English. There’s a lot of symbolism involved, reputations at stake.” He gave Letty a bland smile. “I didn’t reveal the whole of the First Secretary’s briefing to me this morning. But, believe me, a lot of behind-the-scenes fixing has gone on … before Andrew’s murder and after it. What we’re now saying is: Memorial Ceremony. Let’s not forget that, for the Ancients, plays were beyond entertainment—they were a form of religious ritual. An offering from Man to the Gods and all that. They would have approved. It’s this aspect that we’d like you to stress when you discuss it with friends, well-wishers, and guests alike … possibly the press. What better tribute to the professor and what better affirmation of the close cultural ties between our two countries? It will go ahead exactly as planned and rehearsed, down to the candlelit party on the orchestra floor afterwards, the champagne and the canapés, the carefully staged libation-pouring ceremony to Dionysus, and all the rest of the pretentious palaver …”

  “I see. And if I miss out the last few words, I have my telephone speeches ready. I think I’ll take a leaf out of the super’s book and rent some space in the local newspaper. Suitably edited as to guest list, of course, I’ll ask them to publish the information on the rescheduling. Date and time. Admission with invitation card only, we’ll remind them. Though I suspect that security measures will be something fierce on the night?”

  Montacute glanced heavenwards. “Heaven forbid that Venizelos should take it into his head to turn up! There have been several attempts on his life over the years—the ones that we know of. It makes any public appearance a problem. Steps are being taken—I can say no more than that—pressures and persuasions being applied … to ensure that the great man does not turn up and occupy the centre front row of the stalls on opening night. General Konstantinou, in whose lap has fallen this little surprise package, has come out strongly against an appearance by the P.M. As head of the protection squad, he’s declared roundly that the site is a bear trap.” The inspector breathed in deeply to emphasise his frustration. “Though you know what the man’s like! All pride and dash and courage, even at his age … Listens to advice, smiles, nods, and ignores it. It can make guarding him a nightmare. State ceremonies are not difficult. People expect to see Konstantinou and his lads there in force, reassuring in their uniforms. It’s the unscheduled sorties into the outside world for purposes of private enjoyment that land the protecting services with the biggest headaches.”

  Gunning nodded his agreement. “It was nothing more than a quiet afternoon walk in the park that gave an assassin his moment to shoot dead the Greek king, the first George, just before the war. Up there in Salonika. They caught the man. A vagrant they said. A madman with a grudge.”

  “Exactly what they would say,” huffed Montacute. “To cover up a political assassination. The man was a Socialist and anti-Royalist. Tortured for six weeks before they threw him from a police station window to his death. We’re always on the lookout for reprisals. Time for the Royal faction to make its riposte? Their hatred of Venizelos has grown no less venomous during the present King George’s exile.”

  Letty narrowed her mouth in distaste. “I’m finding all these tales of death and vengeance depressing. And the next man who says ‘Salonika’ in that doom-laden tone gets a kick in the shins from me. Can we get on?”

  “Well, you’ll understand that if the Prime Minister does decide to throw caution to the winds and enjoy a night out with the wife, we’ve got trouble. Still, we’re not short of seating. That place will hold thousands but the invited audience is small and select. The bulk of the seats will be occupied on the night by hundreds of police and army squaddies, all bored out of their brains, I dare say! Better order in more cushions, Laetitia! We can’t risk them getting restive and fiddling with their pistols.”

  “Well, here’s a bit of lighter entertainment!” said Gunning from the window. “If I’m not mistaken, this is Letty’s box arriving. Escorted by at least half a dozen of the heavy brigade! And bang on time. Shall I ring for a cup of tea before we embark on Act Three of the professor’s dramatic offering?”

  Chapter 30

  The small chest, still wrapped in its ancient rug, slipped neatly back into its place on the library floor. When the squad of bank officials had been dismissed and asked to stand ready for recall in about an hour, the two men lifted the rug by the corners and folded it away.

  They stared in disappointment for a few moments at the very ordinary black-lacquered box that was revealed.

  “Ah. A useful footstool,” said Letty. “Though I think it may have started out as a larnax, don’t you, William?” She flashed a glance at Montacute and added: “Burial chests. We encountered these in Crete. They usually contain cremated remains—charred bones and suchlike.”

  “Look at the length and the width,” said Montacute. “Wouldn’t you allow it might be a scroll chest? But the pattern on the lid—what are we to make of that?”

  “I’ve never seen the like …” Letty ran her fingers gently over the raised decoration. “The sun in splendour? Or a sixteen-pointed star? Centred on a rosette. More rosettes, swags of greenery, and floral sprays twining their way around the four sides … stubby legs ending in lions’ paws at the four corners …”

  “It’s postclassical, I think, and rather dull,” Gunning decided. “Look, why don’t you open it up and hope that the contents at least will be more rewarding?”

  “No sign of a lock. I shall just lift it. Are you ready?”

  “Here, let me take it. It may be heavier than we think,” said Mont
acute. “Gracious! Give us a hand, will you, Gunning?” The men proceeded to heave up the lid on Letty’s inheritance.

  They peered down into the box in silence.

  “Looks like the contents of a modest hope chest,” said Letty. “All the contents of a girl’s bottom drawer, carefully wrapped in white tissue paper and piled up in size order. You know—sheets on the bottom, then pillowcases, two dozen hankies so generously embroidered by Auntie Alice on top. There’s probably mothballs in there, too, between the layers. But at least there’s no doubt that it’s intended for me. Look.”

  She picked up a large envelope lying across the top of the bundles and bearing her name.

  Two pairs of eyes were trained steadily on her, willing her to open it.

  “I’ll read it aloud, whatever it is. Reserving the right to stop if it becomes what I consider personal or none of your business,” she said. “It’s dated a month ago. Ready?”

  “My dearest Laetitia,

  “I can’t tell you how ridiculous I feel writing this letter of farewell and yet—I tell myself—if you do find yourself reading it one day soon, you will, indeed the world will, be thankful for my forethought and for my intelligent anticipation of dire events. ‘He always had an uncanny sense of impending doom!’—yes, that’s how you must tell it! But—‘craven fear and a suspicious mind’ might be a more accurate diagnosis of my condition. You know me, Letty, to be a belt-and-braces man. I calculate risks, plan ahead, devise a Plan B, flirt with Plan C, and then take the plunge. Here goes!

  “I promised you once a Thracian diadem. Here it is, on top, wrapped in tissue paper and cotton wool. Approach with care! It’s very delicate and supremely lovely. I like to think the holy bard Orpheus himself (who was from those northern parts) might have worn it or something like it, setting the golden oak leaves atremble as he plucked his lyre. Or perhaps the witch Olympias, Alexander’s fierce mother, might have slipped it over her golden hair (I’m quite sure she had fair Celtic colouring—how else to explain her son’s flaxen beauty?) in order to emphasise her queenly status over the tribes of rough warriors into which she had married.

  “I bought it from a trader in Thessalonike in 1917. He and his shop were destroyed in the fire of that year, though I have thought it worth keeping his bill of sale and you will find this along with other necessary documents in a file at the bottom of the box. The diadem is worth a very great deal of money but I know this will have little significance for you. It is yours now to keep or dispose of however you wish. Knowing you as I do and aware of your views on ‘archaeological piracy’ (I heard you call it once) I can imagine that, after a few sighs and regrets, it will make its way straight to the museum in Athens with a neat label: Gift of a Philhellene. Am I right? I cannot think that your friendship with that excellent Gunning will have done anything to reduce your high ideals and sense of fair play! (He’s very ascetic, you know. He will never know how to indulge you, Letty. Are you sure you can live with that? Better send him out to play while you unpack this lot!)

  “The rest of the box (which I will return to last of all) contains a mystery. Run your fingers through the contents and wonder!

  “I came by them in the most extraordinary way. During the war I was given light duties by my regiment while I was recovering from war wounds. They gave me a good horse and a wide-ranging brief and a title. I was made Surveyor of Ancient Monuments, Northern Division. I had my French counterparts, and my Italian and Greek confrères, of course. Fellow academics, boon companions, but rivals, not working in cooperation. We were all of us ranging about in buccaneering style, getting shot at quite frequently (from all sides!) for our pains, sticking our fingers into the recently revealed layers of a fascinating but scarcely known culture. When you have a standing army as diligent as the British, with its tip-top engineers and squads of stout lads needing to be kept busy, set to dig miles and miles of trenches across a countryside rich in history, then what you have is more than a defensive system—you’ve got the most extensive archaeological dig in progress!

  “They were not officially digging with discovery in mind, of course, but their spades turned up some wonderful objects. Many went straight into the pockets of the sappers. Some (most) turned up in the hands of the Thessalonike dealers, sold for a fraction of their value and the cash squandered on girls, Balkan tobacco, and beer. We archaeologists learned to follow the engineers. We got to know them; they got to know us and our very particular interests. The clever or disreputable among them began to anticipate our needs. (One, I’m proud to say, was seduced by the science of archaeology and went on to become a student of mine after he was demobbed.) We told them what to keep an eye out for, hinted at the most productive places to dig. You can imagine! A latrine to be sited? Well, why not put it over there behind that rather interestingly shaped mound? And as long as you’re over there why not divert a couple of your best diggers to take a slice out of the cake as it were … You never know … Crude, but it was war.

  “This part of Macedon is thick in burial mounds. Most, it pains me to say, were pillaged many centuries ago by the Goths and their like, passing through on their way south. Local farmers have also carried out exploratory and inexpert digs with interest solely in any contents that glittered. But—we made some valuable acquisitions. Goths and farmers didn’t have my trained eye. And I was looking for other things than gold. (Though I didn’t sneeze at it on the few occasions it dropped into my lap!) All my finds are accompanied by the requisite drawings, photographs, and locating diagrams. You’ll find these in the large brown foolscap envelope. The best of the things I came by, working on the firm’s time, went straight to the British Museum.

  “You’re scowling Letty! Let me explain! We were in the middle of a war! Five armies tramping all over the ancient land of Macedon, the Mussulman banging on the front door, the Bulgar on the back, borders shifting under our feet, capital cities going up in flames around us—I did what I could! The province of Macedonia was a very unsafe place for man and beast in those days—to say nothing of its ancient relics. My one thought was to get what I could into a packing case and on board a ship bound for London and a safe haven. If I hadn’t sent them, they’d be lost to the world by now or in the Louvre or the Rome museum. And we wouldn’t want that.

  “The contents of this chest were acquired by the most amazing piece of luck and by using my own money to perform the transaction. Valuable as they are in themselves, it is their historical significance which is paramount. They will lead you—or any archaeologist you may designate—to the solution of one of the classical world’s greatest mysteries.

  “I’ll tell you how I came by them. I say again—I came by them honourably. (Am I protesting too much?) To tell the truth, Letty, I’ve always had a bad conscience about it. Did I behave badly? You must decide. It didn’t feel or look like bad behaviour at the time, though war and the aftermath of war distort perception like ancient glass. They set different standards and expectations, I know that. I am conscious that I speak to a girl whose family traditions are formed by military duty and who, had she been born a boy and a few years earlier, would most probably be now lying in some soldier’s grave. But I’m conscious also that, through the clear eyes of youth, she looks forward with courage and optimism. Here the generations divide. And here is one survivor who is alarmed, but in the end content, to be judged by the next generation.

  “Now, my girl, I dash away a tear and ask you to set aside this letter for a moment and do what I know you’re dying to do—unwrap some of the contents …”

  Laetitia had been reading the letter out loud to Montacute and Gunning, who had uttered not a single word as she proceeded. She paused and looked questioningly at the pair.

  “Our old friend’s here in the room with us,” murmured the inspector. “Don’t you feel it? Better do as Andrew says. He doesn’t take kindly to disobedience.”

  “He’s still playing Director.” Gunning smiled. “I think we should obey the stage directions. If you can
bear it, Letty? Pretty emotional stuff! Is this something you’d rather do by yourself?” He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, which she did not refuse.

  “No. No. Please, both of you—stay. This letter is personal, yet not so personal that it may not be read out loud. I know he’s written it in the expectation that at least William would be present. He sort of says hello, doesn’t he? Did I imagine that?”

  “More than hello … There was a distinct dig in the ribs aimed at me in there, I think,” murmured Gunning.

  “No,” said Montacute. “I’m sure you’re right. He loved an audience. The professor is playing to the crowd. An invited crowd. And I, for one, intend to have a front seat in the stalls. Not often the investigating officer manages to get a victim’s-eye view of events leading to a murder. And it’s happened to me twice in twenty-four hours. He’s going to spin out the suspense but in the end he’ll give it to me—the name of his murderer! But first, this is—and I do need to remind all of us of this at this point—a crime scene. I’m going to ask you both to put any wrappings or envelopes into this wastepaper basket and any precious items onto … um … this velvet cloth.” He took a length of dark blue cloth from the top of a piano and spread it on the floor by Letty’s side. “Now. Where do you want to start?”

  “Here. With this.” Letty picked up the topmost wrapped object. It was flat and thin, the size of a pudding plate, and surprisingly heavy in her hand. “Wait a moment, there’s a label stuck over the seam, a sort of seal.”

  “And there’s something written on it.” Gunning was already reaching for it. He looked at Letty in surprise. “It says: ‘No jammy fingers!’”

  Letty made a soft sound and looked aside. The men caught each other’s eye and decided it would be kinder not to notice her emotion. It was left to Gunning to strip away the tissue paper. They each nervously warned the others to take care and not to expect too much and then all held their breath as the object came sparkling out into the light.