The Age of Olympus

by Gavin Scott

  “Ah, yes, of course. That poor fellow. How lucky we all were!”

  “Lucky? That he died?”

  “No, of course not, dear lady. Of course not! But we were all at the same table in that dreadful taverna. If we had eaten whatever Jason ate or drank what he drank, we might have been poisoned too.”

  Sophie considered this, realising that not everybody in the party knew yet that Michaelaides had probably been given the fatal dose while they were all at the Archbishop’s. On the other hand, if Runcorn himself had administered the poison, he’d want to stick as long as possible with the idea that the crime had been committed later. She decided to leave the issue unresolved.

  “Who do you think might have done it, Professor?” she asked. “You’ve been in Athens longer than I have. Do you know of anybody who might have wanted to see Jason Michaelaides dead?”

  Runcorn considered. “My focus has been entirely on the activities of the British Council and what little spare time I’ve had, of course, has gone into the Third Crusade.”

  “Is that why you’ve come to see Miss Spetsos?” said Sophie and was gratified to see the play of emotions across Runcorn’s face as he considered grasping at the lifeline she had offered – and then realised it had a hook at the end of it.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “By no means. I fear Miss Spetsos has very little knowledge of the Crusades and less interest. I came to see her on British Council business. About her paintings.”

  “An exhibition?” said Sophie. “That would be interesting.” Runcorn nodded gratefully, and Sophie went on. “I’ve just seen the painting she’s doing with poor Ariadne tied to a pillar. I think she’s a captive nymph. It should be very exciting.”

  “It sounds rather risqué for the British Council,” said Runcorn carefully. “But I suppose it’s a classical theme.”

  “Very classical,” said Sophie. “Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer, but if you do have any ideas about who might have been behind last night’s events, please do let me know.”

  This time Runcorn’s smile was a little more confident. “Of course, dear lady,” he said. “Though I suppose it might be my duty to let the police know first.” And with that he strode off down the path with the air of a man who believes he has scored a neat point against an opponent. Sophie noted that she did not hear his steps at the front door or the sound of the bell being rung; apparently he was sufficiently familiar a visitor to be able automatically to navigate his way to the study where Helena was creating her art.

  What, she wondered as she stepped back into the brightness of the street, were the three of them getting up to now she was gone? If she was certain of anything, it was that the British Council’s cultural programmes had very little to do with it.

  * * *

  General Alexandros was in the stables of the 6th Cavalry Regiment when Forrester finally found him. Forrester had started his search at army headquarters, round the corner from the palace, and had been struck by how unhelpful every senior officer had been when he asked where the General was. Only the lower ranks and junior officers seemed to have any affection for their old commander, and even they were reluctant to show it. It was late afternoon by the time Forrester found himself among the dim, pungent horse boxes, watching Alexandros gently stroking the nose of a big bay that must have been at least seventeen hands high. The General grinned as he saw Forrester approaching.

  “My men prefer tanks, these days,” he said. “They must be mad.”

  Forrester looked appreciatively at man and animal: both magnificent specimens, and both, as Forrester knew, bred for battle.

  “How did you track me down?” asked Alexandros.

  “Couple of helpful NCOs,” said Forrester. “The top brass seem determined not to acknowledge your existence.”

  Alexandros laughed. “I embarrass them,” he said. “Don’t mean to, but there it is. They surrendered, I didn’t. Can’t blame them, really, but they are quite determined to keep me out in the cold.”

  “I’m trying to find out what happened to Michaelaides,” said Forrester. “I was there when he died and the police say I have to stay here in Athens until it’s all sorted out. Have you any idea who did it?”

  “None at all,” said Alexandros. “He was a damn good poet.”

  “Somebody told me he pinched Helena Spetsos off you.”

  Alexandros walked away from Forrester to the next stall. “How are you, my girl?” he said to the gleaming black mare as he held out a piece of carrot. “Any old friends accusing you of murder these days?”

  “Good God, Ari, I’m not accusing you of anything,” said Forrester, joining him. “I’m just trying to find out what happened. Michaelaides died in front of me and it looks as though it was because he was poisoned at the reception. The police think it might have been something smeared on the head of the kouros.”

  Alexandros said nothing, and went on stroking the horse’s nose.

  “I saw you near the kouros with Michaelaides,” said Forrester. “Not you alone, of course – Venables was there, Connie Atreides, any number of people. But you were in an excellent position to see if anything untoward happened and that’s what I’m asking.”

  “I saw nothing,” said Alexandros. “That is, I saw a room full of people eating, drinking, conspiring, politicking, showing off, including those you mention. I saw plenty of people patting the kouros on the head. But I saw nothing that would suggest anyone had put poison there, or was trying to get someone else to put his hand on the damn thing against his will. Michaelaides had to push several people aside, including me, to take up his pose and start declaiming. Pompous ass.”

  “Alright,” said Forrester. “But, would you mind telling me why you left the Archbishop’s reception in such a hurry last night?”

  Alexandros looked hard at him. “I think you already know the answer to that question,” he said.

  “Helena Spetsos?”

  “You saw her arrive?”

  “I did. I saw your pal Giorgi Stephanides delaying her. By the time she’d disentangled herself you’d gone.”

  “You have sharp eyes.”

  “I was puzzled. It’s not like you to be afraid of a woman.”

  “On the contrary, I think all men should be afraid of women. It’s our only chance of keeping our souls intact.”

  Forrester remembered the hours in the cave during which Alexandros had expounded his many philosophies on the relations between the sexes. “Someone said that she expected to marry you now the war is over.”

  “She did. She does.”

  “But you’re not going to?”

  Alexandros said nothing.

  “If that’s even a possibility, the police have to put you on the list of suspects of the Michaelaides murder. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “Which they will, Duncan, if you go spreading gossip about what Helena Spetsos and I did during the war.”

  “Ari, you’re the last person I’d imagine poisoning anybody. Charging at them with a cavalry sword, yes, but poisoning: not your style.”

  “Thank you. Let us hope Inspector Kostopoulos takes the same view.”

  He led them both out of the stables; the sun was beginning its descent, but it was still strong enough to make him shade his eyes as they entered the stable yard.

  “Helena Spetsos is a remarkable woman,” said Alexandros. “She gave me back my youth. But I would not kill for her.”

  “I’m happy to accept your word on that,” said Forrester.

  “Good,” said Alexandros. “So our business is complete.”

  “Sadly,” said Forrester, “mine isn’t until this thing is cleared up and the police let me go on my way to Crete, which is where I’m really supposed to be.”

  “Of course you are,” said Alexandros, putting his arm around Forrester’s shoulder in the gesture he remembered from the night before. “We will have to see what we can do about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Alexandros smiled. “Who
knows?” he said. “This is Greece.”

  6

  ON THE WATERFRONT

  The next morning, as Forrester woke beside a still-sleeping Sophie in the hard, narrow bed in their hotel, he made a conscious effort not to think about what they had learned in their investigations the day before. It was much better, he knew from long experience, to let his unconscious mind filter the knowledge he had gained before he tried to put it into any kind of order, and in the woman beside him he had the perfect distraction.

  Her right breast was uncovered by the sheet, and he contemplated the pleasure, which for the moment he denied himself, of feeling its weight in his hand. Then he looked at the shape of her forehead, the way her hair lay across the pillow, the way the sunlight coming in through the blinds lit her eyelashes. “Noble” was the word that came to mind. It meant nothing to him that she was literally noble, that she came from a long line of Norwegian aristocrats; what mattered was that she was noble in her soul, that her very presence, in the smallest, least glamorous hotel room in Athens (which is what he suspected this was) conferred upon it a kind of golden aura – a validation. Anywhere Sophie graced with her being, Forrester felt, had its own validity. And by the same token he felt too that simply being with her justified his own existence.

  For a moment he did not think of Cornelius Brandt, or Jason Michaelaides, or Inspector Kostopoulos, or the fact that he was stuck in Athens when all he wanted to do was to get to Crete. Instead, he leant over and gently kissed Sophie’s ear. A moment later, her eyes opened.

  “Somebody just kissed my ear,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Forrester. “It was me.”

  “How very forward of you.”

  “You have very kissable ears.”

  “I know,” she said, “and they’ve heard a lot in the last twenty-four hours.”

  Forrester kissed her eyelids. “And these have seen a lot too,” he said. Sophie smiled at the butterfly touch of his lips.

  “Yes, they have. Though I have to confess nothing quite as startling as Ariadne Patrou tied naked to a pillar in Helena Spetsos’s studio.”

  “Ah, yes, that,” said Forrester. “I can imagine.”

  “All too well, clearly,” said Sophie, after a moment. “Don’t go getting any ideas about tying me to a pillar.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Forrester. “Not even any interesting variation on that scenario.” He paused for a moment. “Though I have been wondering how Professor Runcorn fits into all these goings on.”

  “You don’t believe he was simply planning an exhibition for the British Council?”

  “He may indeed have been planning an exhibition, my darling, but not, I suspect, for the British Council.”

  Sophie looked at him thoughtfully. “Me neither. But was it just a coincidence that he turned up then?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way,” said Forrester. “If I was Helena Spetsos and wanted to draw somebody useful into my web, setting up a scene like that might not be a bad way of going about it.”

  “If Professor Runcorn has a taste for that kind of thing,” said Sophie, “Helena Spetsos will be able to wrap him around her little finger.”

  “To the extent of getting him to poison Jason Michaelaides for her?” said Forrester. “Because nobody would suspect him?”

  “How very devious,” said Sophie.

  “How devious do we think Helena Spetsos is?” asked Forrester.

  “Very,” said Sophie.

  “The problem is,” said Forrester, “we haven’t established any reason why Helena Spetsos would want to have Michaelaides poisoned. Even assuming she was just using him to get Ari Alexandros’s attention and didn’t need him any more, there was no need to bump him off, was there?”

  “Unless they’d had a lover’s quarrel,” said Sophie. “You can’t discount that.”

  “With someone like Helena Spetsos,” said Forrester, sighing, “I suspect one can’t discount anything.”

  Sophie got out of bed, then, put on a dressing gown and left the room. The bathroom was down the corridor – it was that sort of hotel.

  When she came back she handed Forrester an envelope with the address of police headquarters in the top left corner. “The manager brought it up himself. I suspect he was hoping to catch me in my nightgown.”

  “Well, he will have to just solace himself with his exciting glimpse of your bathrobe then,” said Forrester, “which is not a bad consolation prize.” He tore open the envelope. It contained a message on police notepaper.

  Dear Mist Forrest,

  All is good. Investigations tickety boo. Not to leave Greece, but Crete is O.K. Coming seeing me when getting back to Athens.

  Signed,

  Kostopoulos, G. Inspector

  He looked at Sophie, frankly surprised. “What do you make of that?”

  “It means you can get on with your expedition,” said Sophie.

  “Yes, but why is he allowing it? Somebody’s pulled some strings.”

  “Good for them. I’ll start packing.”

  “But listen, does it mean that we were getting too close to the truth? Somebody doesn’t want us digging any more?”

  “Quite possibly,” said Sophie, “but as you were only digging so we could get out of here, does it matter?”

  “I suppose not,” said Forrester. “I just hope…”

  “Hope what?” said Sophie.

  “That it wasn’t Ari.”

  “Who pulled the strings? Or did the murder?”

  “Either,” said Forrester. “Or both. It just seems very odd.”

  “Let it,” said Sophie. “I’ve had enough of Athens, haven’t you? What do you have to do before we can go?”

  “Very little,” said Forrester. “Apart from a visit to the Athens branch of the Empire Council for Archaeology.”

  “Then you should go and see the Empire Council for Archaeology,” said Sophie, “and then let’s get out of Dodge.”

  “Did your governess teach you that?”

  “No, but she had a lover in Oslo, and when we went there, she let us go to see westerns in the cinema so she could spend the afternoons with him. That’s where I fell in love with Tom Mix.”

  “Tom Mix,” said Forrester. “I love the idea of you eating sticky toffees and falling in love with Tom Mix.” And he kissed her.

  * * *

  The Empire Council was housed in a charming two-storey building complete with balconies, tall, shuttered windows, and a roof topped with statues of gently smiling Greek goddesses in flowing robes, some of them with lyres. Inside it was blessedly cool and dim, with black and white tiled floors and panelled walls rising to the shadowy recesses of the ceilings.

  Council Secretary Iris Bulstrode regarded Forrester sternly through steel-rimmed spectacles when he was ushered into her office.

  “You are a very fortunate young man to have been given this opportunity,” she said.

  “I’m aware of that, and very grateful to the council, Miss Bulstrode,” said Forrester.

  “And you must be very persuasive. The Empire Council’s resources are extremely limited. How you convinced London to allocate funds for your expedition is frankly a mystery to me.”

  Forrester knew there were times when the only path of resistance is not to resist. “And to me too,” he said. “I only hope I can justify their faith.”

  He met her steely gaze with a smile, and after a moment her head tilted and he knew he had momentarily prevailed: even Miss Bulstrode found it hard to trample on unreserved humility. One of the reasons Forrester was so diplomatic, of course, was the fact that he knew the council’s arm had been twisted to approve his expedition. He had done a favour to the British government, one that could not be publicly acknowledged, and this was its way of repaying the debt.

  Or perhaps of keeping him quiet.

  Miss Bulstrode had no way of knowing this, but she sensed it.

  “Yes, I can see how you pulled it off,” she said. “Let’s hope your archa
eological skills are equal to your diplomatic ones. Now, let’s get down to business. You know there’s no question of your taking this stone away, don’t you? If you find it again.”

  “Of course. Basically this is a preliminary expedition, to confirm its location, take photographs, and arrange for it to be protected until there can be a proper dig.”

  “Good.”

  “My memory from the brief time I spent in the cave is that at least half the thing is buried in the mud of the cave floor. My plan is to remove some of the earth around it to establish its full size, and then take photographs.”

  “Which you’ll send to us.”

  “Of course. If you agree with me about its significance, I’ll work with you to convince the Greek authorities to give it a proper designation as an ancient monument before transferring it to a museum for further study.”

  “Do you have all the equipment you need?”

  “I plan to get spades and sieves and that kind of thing when I reach Crete. I have a pre-war camera, a tripod, some film and some flash bulbs, but only a limited supply. If you have any more, or any suggestions as to where I could get more, I’d be very grateful.”

  Miss Bulstrode smiled. “Oddly enough, I can help you there. As you know, the Germans have always been very active in Greek archaeology, ever since Herr Schliemann claimed to have found Troy. Members of the Wehrmacht with an interest in Classical Greece wangled themselves postings here whenever they could, and some of them indeed took over this very building, leaving a certain amount of equipment behind when they retreated. We may be able to find you some things among that material.”

  Forrester grinned. “Nothing would give me greater satisfaction,” he said, “than to use some of the loot Jerry left behind,” and together, like children exploring a forbidden attic, he and Miss Bulstrode went down into the cellars beneath the building to begin their search.

  * * *

  When he left the offices of the Empire Council for Archaeology, Forrester was the proud possessor, among other useful items, of a pre-war Hasselblad, a German flashgun and twenty flashbulbs to go with it. He picked Sophie up from the hotel and piled their luggage in a taxi to Piraeus, where, just before they boarded the ferry for Crete, he telephoned Osbert Lancaster at the British Embassy, letting him know he had permission to leave.