Doctors Wear Scarlet

by Raven, Simon

  “He says they’ve gone back to Crete,” Piers told us after a while.

  “Why on earth should they do that?”

  “Because the man – Richard – , when he had got his strength back, said that his friends were coming to Crete and he must go there. The woman objected at first, but after a bit she gave in.”

  “And whereabouts in Crete?”

  Piers murmured to the old man.

  “He says he doesn’t know. But there is a man – a German – who owns a caique. Richard sent one of the monks down to Hydra to charter the caique. Then, a day or two later, they were picked up by night – at the old harbour, where they arrived – and sailed away. The German, he says, will know where they went. If we can find him. He is called Kurt Braunschweig.”

  “And do the police know?”

  More murmuring.

  “He told the police only what he knew – and a simplified version of that. That a woman and a sick man had stayed here; and had then chartered a boat and left. They will only know more, he says, if the German has told them.”

  “And what about the two men who carried the stretcher up from the coast?”

  “They left the monastery shortly after they arrived – as soon as they had eaten. No one knows more of them.”

  “Then the thing is quite plain,” said Roddy: “we must find Herr Braunschweig, and wherever he took Richard he must now take us.”

  We left the monastery with our guide, after a rest and another simple meal, late in the afternoon. The sun was already sinking fast towards the sea, and often, as we descended into a small crevasse or passed under the shoulder of a hill, we were almost in darkness. But at least the wind had fallen now; and there was a kind of treacherous peace over the mountains.

  “What I can’t understand,” said Roddy, “is this. If it’s Richard that’s in danger, then why did all the reports Tyrrel received get everything the wrong way round? Tyrrel told us in London that the Greek Police were after Richard to ask him some questions and protect this woman. But now…”

  “A mixture of national prejudice and genuine misunderstanding,” said Piers. “This isn’t the sort of thing they handle every day, when all is said. And one may imagine that in the earlier stages of this business Richard was more of an ally and less of a chattel. So that he may even have helped the woman in some of her undertakings. Or appeared to. And then, when the police began to understand the kind of thing their relationship involved, it was a natural Greek assumption that the male partner was the stronger and they concluded that Richard had corrupted the woman rather than the other way about.”

  “I should like to know,” I said, “just how much the police on this island have picked up… Where they got hold of enough to make them get in touch with the Cretans…”

  “They got little from the monastery,” said Piers.

  “But this man… Braunschweig?”

  “Wait and see,” said Roddy.

  “One also wonders whether they’ll connect us with what happened. Now we’ve been up here. Whether they’ll see that someone keeps an eye on us after we leave.”

  “No good worrying about that now,” Roddy said. “Much better worry about whether we can find Braunschweig. He may be away in that caique of his. And even if we find him, he may know nothing. He may just have dropped them somewhere – anywhere – on the mainland. So much better not worry at all.”

  “Difficult,” I said.

  There was a cry from the guide in front of us.

  “Look,” said Piers.

  Coming towards us, having apparently emerged from a pine grove some hundred yards further down the path, was a woman dressed in black, her hair hidden by a black shawl arranged like a cowl, so that of all her body only the white face was visible. Even her hands were hidden, for they were tucked away into some material which was folded round a large bundle. The face itself was striking, not for any beauty it possessed, although it was not without beauty of a kind, but because of the look of hideous grief – a grief underlain by utter incomprehension – which forced it into a twisted and swollen mask of agony and horror.

  Down the path towards us the woman came, while the guide crossed himself and all of us shrank back to allow her wide passage. And as she came she muttered and mumbled and crooned to herself, until, lifting her eyes from the bundle at her breast and catching sight of us for the first time, she gave us a violent stare which conveyed some kind of recognition. She halted some ten paces from us, looked at us intently for a long time, and finally held her bundle out towards us. We saw that it was the body of a young child, perhaps two years of age, the tiny face of which was white and set, its eyes closed, its features immobile. The guide muttered something to her, and she answered him at some length. Piers then walked up to her, gestured kindly, and leaned over to examine the child. When he turned back towards us his face was trembling all over and he retched violently two or three times as he stumbled back up the path. The woman still stood with the child held out before her. Then the guide spoke to her once more; she seemed to recollect herself and passed quietly by us, keening gently over the bundle which was once more clasped to her bosom.

  “What did they say?” said Roddy to Piers.

  “She is taking the child to the monastery,” he answered. “It has…the sickness. She says a woman came to her hut some weeks ago, and played with the child, and gave it the sickness.”

  “The same sickness,” said Roddy, “as Richard’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the monks will cure it.”

  “No. She is out of her mind with grief. She has already taken it once, and they could do nothing. That child has been dead for weeks,” Piers said. “It was so small, you see. The sickness must have killed it straight away.”

  Kurt Braunschweig was small and brown and had long, scruffy fair hair. We were lucky to find him, he said, as he was the following day leaving. And what could he for the gentlemen provide?

  “A little information,” Roddy answered, “about some passengers.”

  The thin brown face became thinner. Herr Braunschweig preferred his clients’ confidence to keep.

  “We wish to be your clients also,” Roddy said. “We only want you to take us where you took some friends of ours. Some two or three weeks ago a man and a woman…”

  Step by step he explained and reasoned. Gradually Braunschweig’s face cleared. For Roddy was at once calm, clear and authoritative, and no German lives who does not respond to authority.

  Yes, he had taken a man and a woman from the old harbour. He had taken them, via Cape Malea and Cythera, to Crete – a long run for which he had been well paid. They had wished to land in Crete without being conspicuous, so he had landed them on the South coast near Sphakion, asking no questions. He had not liked the woman, but to object to his clients’ characters or enquire into their motives was no business of his. So that, when the police had later come asking questions, he simply said he knew no harm of them and had dropped them at Cythera, whence, he understood, they would take another boat, in their own good time, to Naxos.

  And would this…misinformation…materially hamper the police?

  That he could not say. Sooner or later, no doubt, someone would discover our friends were in Crete. Meanwhile – he had his best attempted.

  In which case, Roddy said, would Braunschweig care to take us also to Sphakion? It was a difficult place to get at by normal means, he understood, so the caique would be very convenient. And we too would like to leave Hydra as unobtrusively as possible and arrive in Crete…without fuss.

  “I shall cost you one hundred pounds,” said Braunschweig bluntly, “and in cash money you shall pay me. And we shall go first to Athens, where I have short business. This thing, understand, may not help the police. Then from Athens to Milos, Milos to Andikithera, and so round Crete the West to Sphakion. Is good?”

  “Is good,” said Roddy, reaching for his wallet. “Thirty pounds in advance?”

  So the next morning, very early
, we left the island of Hydra, with its fine houses and its songs and its evil, and started once more for Crete.

  VIII

  The voyage was swift and, but for its object, pleasant. None of the sudden storms, so common and vicious in the Mediterranean, arose to disturb us. None of the petty delays, so beloved of sailor-folk, was allowed to hamper us. It almost seemed as if the gods, whom Richard might once have been seeking, realised we were going to the rescue of their stricken votary; for they gave us fair mornings, placid evenings, and light, fresh breezes over the wine-dark sea.

  During our brief pause at the Piraeus we had gone into Athens to dump the greater part of our luggage; and at Cook’s there was a letter from Marc Honeydew.

  Lancaster College,

  Cambridge.

  July 5, 1957.

  Dear Anthony Seymour,

  So you’re off, you old adventurer, to bring back Dickie Fountain from the Isles of Greece. I knew there was something in the wind that didn’t smell quite right. I knew there was something wrong when you told me he was coming back this year. And now he needs an escort, it seems. You and wicked Piers and some soldier chum you’ve dredged up. Well, bon voyage, my dear, and don’t listen to the Sirens, or I may have to come scurrying out to rescue you.

  Now Walter, you should know, is furious. A and one, he thinks you’ve been deceitful. B and two, he is livid that you’ve let Piers in on this. And C and three, he’s in a state, my dear, about what Richard may have been up to. Because Dickie’s given quite enough trouble lately and the thought of any more is making Walter simply blow his top. Mind you, he’s not letting on. He’s giving it out that Dickie has been working so hard that he’s finished in one year what might well have taken two; and that by way of celebration he’s going to have a little jaunt round the islands with you and some other chums (he’s doing his best to suppress Piers) before coming righteously home. But underneath, my dear, Walter is boiling; and if your forwarding arrangements allow of any letters reaching you, then besides this one you will be having – if you haven’t had already – a stinkeroo from Doctor Goodrich.

  As for Penelope, she’s going around very pale and proud. She affects to be quietly pleased that Richard is coming home and delighted that he’s having a little joy ride with his friends first. When malicious ladies suggest that she would have been the proper person to go out to Greece and meet him, she murmurs something dignified about not leaving Walter alone. But underneath, of course, she’s in as big a state as Walter. Not angry, but very, very worried. She’s got it into her head, I think, that something is very wrong indeed (unlike Walter, who thinks in terms of some mild sexual prank), and she’s inwardly biting her nails down to the fist. But England expects, my dear; and Penelope is going to be a credit to the side if she drops dead in the attempt.

  So much, Anthony Seymour, for the state of play at this end of Europe. If you have time and inclination, let poor old Honeydew into what’s going on at yours. But for once in a way I have something rather important to tell you. Or so I think. Advice, my dear, if you’ll take it. You see, the point is this. Whatever Dickie’s been up to, Walter is going to fix things up here and then welcome him home with champagne and a brass band. But he’s also getting the clamps ready. When Dickie Fountain gets back this time, Walter is going to club him unconscious by pointing out how grateful he ought to be, and then tie him down – and tie him down but good – for the next seventy years. (Don’t ask me how I know all this: I do know it and you’ll admit that the form is true.) Walter is going to get hold of Richard, and marry him to Penelope before the daisies come at Michaelmas, and settle him down with P in the Waltery at Grantchester, and not let him out of his sight, my dear, unless angels blow trumpets from the top of Great St Mary’s Church – and not necessarily even then. Dickie is to have a year to write up his Greek research – under strong Walterian supervision; then he will be made Junior Dean or perhaps Third Bursar; and soon afterwards Walter will saddle him with a Junior Lectureship in the Faculty of Classics as well, so that he will be secured under mountains of work as firmly as the Titans under Etna. Every day he will bicycle in and out from Grantchester; every night he will either work by Walter’s fireside (while Penelope knits) or assist in what ever gruesome entertainment Walter has hatched up inside the College. For sheer imprisonment, my dear, the Count of Monte Cristo won’t be in it.

  So what I’m leading up to is this. You’d just better let Dickie know what Walter’s getting ready for him. Hither to, Dickie’s had quite a lot of his own way, and even then he’s thrown his little rebellions. But from now on it’s going to be Walter’s way, my dear, and Dickie’s going to be nailed so firmly to his cross that not even the tiniest insurrection will be possible. Unless of course Dickie struggles so hard that he kills both himself and Walter in the process – by which I mean real trouble. So you tell Dickie what cunning old Walter is cooking up in his kitchen, and if Dickie thinks he can’t stomach it, then for God’s sake, Anthony Seymour, make him stay in Greece another year (the original arrangements by which he could do this are still valid), during which time he can think whether or not he ought to return to somewhere other than Lancaster College, Cambridge.

  Because if he comes back here, my love, he’s going to be EATEN UP ALIVE.

  Much love from Marc.

  “So,” I said to Piers, “here we have both Marc and Walter, each for a very different motive, urging us to keep Richard out of England.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Piers, “the motives of both of them are entirely beside the point.”

  “At the moment, certainly. But if we find Richard all right…”

  “It isn’t only a question of ‘if’,” Piers said; “it’s a question of ‘what’.”

  It was a good job we had had the sense to leave most of our luggage in Athens, because when Kurt Braunschweig landed us, an hour before dawn, on the South coast of Crete, we were faced with a six mile walk along the shore to Sphakion.

  “You must go quickly,” Braunschweig said. “There are places where you must cross sand. When the sun comes up the sand will soon be too hot on which to walk.”

  He accepted the seventy pounds still due to him with dignity, saluted smartly, and turned back to his caique.

  “Nice work if you can get it,” said Roddy. “Come on.” He shouldered the haversack which he had thoughtfully brought with him, while Piers and I picked up our two small grips. Then we started along the beach.

  When we reached the village at Sphakion three hours later, exhausted by bare rock and clinging sand, we sat down in front of a small café and called for coffee and bread. A ring of giggling children surrounded us, while behind them a group of adult men, many of them in wide breeches and Cretan top-boots, regarded us gravely. An authoritative face, craggy and moustached, appeared in the background, and both children and adults made way immediately and with respect. A tall man of fine bearing walked through the aisle thus made for him, wearing a black coat of hunting trim together with a pearl-grey tie; his top-boots were immaculately polished and, by local standards at least, of a very superior cut.

  “I am the mayor,” he said in good English; “you are welcome to Sphakion.”

  We rose and bowed. Roddy pulled up another chair. The offer was courteously declined.

  “You are English,” said the mayor. It was not a question.

  We nodded.

  “Then you must finish your breakfast and come with me. I will have the mules made ready.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Roddy softly.

  The mayor gestured impatiently at this mild rebuke.

  “There is a countryman of yours in the mountain. He is in grave trouble. We can bring you…near to him. But neither these men nor myself can actually go to him or help him. His own countrymen must do that – if they will. You understand?”

  He searched our faces for signs of comprehension. He found what he was looking for in Piers.

  “You at least understand me,” he said. “Make your fri
ends be swift. There is no time to lose.”

  “How bad is it?” said Piers.

  The mayor shrugged.

  “Who can say? We do not go near enough to know. But since they have been together in the mountains for a long time, it will be bad enough. You know that.”

  “But the police–” began Roddy.

  “The police in Sphakion are of the people of Sphakion. We are far from Athens here, far even from Heraclion. The police cannot help your friend… And now please be swift. The journey will be long.”

  We started fifteen minutes later. The mayor, who had discarded his fine black coat for a rough jersey, and all the three of us, rode on mules. We sat sideways on the harsh wooden saddles, trying to imitate the easy grace with which the mayor let his hands rest on his thighs and swayed to the rhythm of the beast’s delicate tread. There was a fifth mule to carry our baggage; and the whole train was escorted by two men on foot, who wore British Army shirts and trousers and ancient, gaping boots.

  For a time we went along the coast by a narrow dusty track a few yards above a beach. Then the track turned inland and over a low ridge of rock and scrub, on the other side of which we found ourselves in a beautiful valley with gentle green hills on either side of us. In the valley and on the hills which contained it were olive trees and cypresses, pine and orange and bushes of gay flowers, a grateful sight at any time but never so grateful as in the torrid summer heat. The ground was green and soft; from somewhere nearby came the trickle of water over rock; and for the most part our way lay in the shade.

  The mayor noticed our looks of appreciation.

  “This is the valley of Hagia Persephone,” he said: “the only place of fertility in this part of the island.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, “that it retains its ancient name after a fashion.”