George, pale and disoriented, came over before the inquest opened to sit by Gunning, and the two men exchanged a few soft words. Including Letty in the conversation, George leaned over and whispered, “Professor Perakis! They've rolled out the big gun for this, it seems. Good man. A bit idiosyncratic but—sound.”
The gathering consisted only of family, immediate witnesses, and a stranger sitting next to Eleni—a woman so like her she could only be her older sister. Here for moral support, Letty guessed. Evidence was heard first from Mariani, resplendent in uniform and crisply authoritative. Dr. Stoddart followed, calm and thoughtful. Theodore, dramatically dressed from head to foot in mourning black, gave a resonant performance outlining the events of last Sunday afternoon as he had witnessed them. Laetitia, the first to discover the body, gave her account and was asked a few sharp questions. George also, as second on the scene, was called to give his evidence.
Though rather quenched, he spoke in a calm voice, replying without hesitation to the questions. Even struggling with his grief, he was impressive, Letty thought. The coroner took him through the events of Sunday afternoon, nodding and noting the clear terse answers. Answers delivered with raw honesty, with a gaze so assured it could have locked with that of owl-eyed Athena and the goddess would have looked away first.
Yes, Charles St. George Russell had spent the afternoon in the company of the architect Mr. Gunning, returning with him to hear Miss Talbot's screams from the first-floor landing.
The coroner stifled a yawn and scratched on his note pad. Letty managed to stay still and silent throughout the account, trying to control her dismay. She even managed not to throw an incredulous glance sideways at Gunning. Of the two men she had a liking and a respect for in this sorry business, one was lying. But was it the saint in the box or the sinner on the bench at her elbow?
Gunning followed, speaking economically and saying much the same thing as George. His brief contribution appeared not to draw much official attention. Finally, after a further swift consultation of the pocket watch, Eleni was called on.
Undaunted by her surroundings, she stood, a regal figure, black-clad and beautiful, and granted the suddenly alert coroner five minutes of her time. Yes, all had proceeded as the doctor and Miss Talbot had said. She herself had been alone in the house from midday when she had dismissed the last of the staff. It was the custom for the family to wait on themselves on a Sunday, though when there were guests—and Miss Talbot was freshly arrived—she, Eleni, generally stayed on. The master had retired to his room.
“Ah, but which one?” Letty had thought, with an unkind look at Theo.
And Eleni had been peacefully polishing the silver in the pantry when the doctor and the mistress had returned unexpectedly early in the Bugatti just after two. She had rendered what assistance she could—fetching fresh water to Mrs. Russell's room—and had been dismissed by the doctor with orders not to disturb the mistress as she'd taken a sleeping pill. Miss Talbot had arrived nearly an hour later. She had gone to her own room, and the next event was the ringing of the bell in the servants' hall at five o'clock to summon help. Mr. George and Mr. Gunning had arrived immediately afterwards. Eleni had at once sent a runner to fetch the doctor.
Professor Perakis adjusted his gold-rimmed pince-nez and scanned a sheet in front of him. He made several ticks with his pencil. The coroner thanked Eleni for her evidence and followed her with admiring eyes as she swayed back to her seat, as did every man in the courtroom, Letty noted crossly. Her companion, the older woman, welcomed her fussily back to her seat, clucking quiet encouragement.
Five minutes before one o'clock the coroner passed out to each of the principal players a copy of the autopsy report, with a request that they would make themselves familiar with the contents, which would be discussed when the enquiry resumed later. By this action, Perakis declared with authority, not only would time be saved but, in consultation with the grieving family, the embarrassment of a public reading would be avoided.
Letty detected Theo's hand in this. Perhaps the professor was a bridge partner? Or was this a demonstration of the idiosyncrasy George had warned of? she wondered, and raised an enquiring eyebrow to Gunning, who shrugged.
The coroner informed them with a bland smile that he had no objection to this. If any of the gathering thought otherwise, would they make known at once their objections? He raked the gathering with a basilisk stare. No one took up his challenge. George glanced at his copy briefly, then whispered to Letty and Gunning that he would go to his father, take him home, and look through the no doubt distressing document with him. He'd be delighted if they'd come back for lunch. They were expected; all was prepared and they would be very welcome.
They both tactfully declined, assuring George that they could pick up some lunch at the hotel on the seafront.
There they asked for and were led to a discreet table, a large one, at the back of the dining room where they would not be observed. A not unusual request, Letty judged, as the waiter scurried about creating a screen of potted plants between them and the rest of the diners. After ordering dishes of salad and cheese and olives, in which neither was very interested, they spread out the sheets of their autopsy reports and began to read, sharing a comment or two as they worked through it.
“Those bruises on her thighs. It would seem quite possible that they were made by my fingers and thumbs, then, William?”
“Or George's. He hoisted her body up rather violently, I remember.”
They read on steadily, keeping pace with each other through the pages until, suddenly, Gunning grunted in surprise. Letty gasped at the same moment. They looked at each other in concern over the table.
“Did you have any idea about para six page ten?” Letty whispered.
“Of course not! Did you?”
They fell silent, their thoughts running down the same channels.
“She was on her way to or in Europe for the whole of December,” said Gunning. “She was at her father's funeral on the twelfth and she spent the rest of the month in Paris. She was in the company of her friend Olivia for most of that time. Though the Stoddarts left her with her family in the boulevard des Capucines over Christmas when they went off to Surrey. Ah!”
“Some old flame reappearing in her life, do you suppose?”
“Could be. She wasn't inclined to share details of her love life with me. Other people's—yes. She was a woman who was always delighted to gossip—but she was very reticent about her own. If, indeed, she had one. I mean, an illicit one.”
“So. The child wasn't Theo's. I'd guess she was hoping to pass it off as his, wouldn't you? It would account for her starving herself. No one suspects a woman who's losing weight to be, er, you know. It's what I'd have done.”
“All the same—a strong reason for committing suicide, I'm thinking. Suppose Theo twigged? Very unpleasant scene of a Dickensian nature could ensue…mother and babe cast out into the winter snow…‘Never darken my door again, you trollop’ and all that.”
“Oh, pouf!” Letty could hardly contain her anger. “Shall we try to remember what century we're in—and who's paying the rent? Phoebe, if what you tell me is true, could well have ejected Theo! And let's not lose sight of the fact that this person she is avowedly so keen to avoid upsetting is actually himself bracketed with—”
“Shh!”
Letty held her tongue impatiently, anxious to deliver her broadside, while the waiter poured out a glass of lemonade. “Morally he had no hold over her,” she persisted. “And she had the financial clout to tell him to go hang—oh, you know what I mean…These things are not the problem they used to be—she could have not simply walked out but driven off in style, taking her lover with her. In a smart little green sports car!”
“What the hell are you getting at? Speak plainly!”
“We both know who was in Paris at the time in question. And perhaps we can acknowledge the reason for the generous present. I bet they chose it together.”
He glar
ed at her, not even deigning to respond. Letty pressed on. “When he was travelling in Europe, George went to a night-club. He told us over dinner on my first night at the Europa. He went to Chez Joséphine. But he also said he'd seen the winter review at the Moulin Rouge. Now, that starts in December. So that places him in Paris at the crucial time. It would have been possible. The question is—if all this is so, why on earth would she kill herself?”
“Do you really need to put the question?”
“Well, I do, actually. She might have killed herself, but never her baby. Phoebe was in love. A woman doesn't kill herself and the unborn child of the man she loves—not when she has the means to support them all. She could have changed her identity and taken a villa in Antibes. Plenty of widows about with young children, wives of military men who never seem to return from…oh…the North West Frontier. Women with mysterious pasts! She could have made a life outside or inside society. With a protector or by herself. A life of her choosing. A better life. I for one would have preferred it,” she finished defiantly.
“You're thinking Theo found out—goodness knows how—perhaps she even told him? That she confessed all before doing a bunk? And the thought that his wife has not only deceived him but has deceived him with his own son and—poisoned arrow this— is expecting his grandson—was too much for him to accept?”
“The very stuff of Greek tragedy, I'd have said. And the sheet torn out from the play and left as a suicide note? Doubly appropriate, it would now seem. But who left it? Who really wrote the name ‘George’ on the envelope?”
“I've been thinking about that. Phoebe gave regular amounts to him for the purpose I've already outlined. She always put them in such an envelope. They were not exactly hush-hush—everyone knew—they appeared on the hall table with the post sometimes. It wouldn't have been difficult to get hold of one.”
“George was roving about town that afternoon out of your sight, William. He could have returned, entered through the coach house, nipped in through the back door, and gone up to Phoebe's room. She could have told him the news. Perhaps the doctor had just confirmed it? Harry told the coroner he had no idea but—do you think that's likely? He looked a bit shifty to me when he was denying all knowledge. I don't think he's a very accomplished liar. George may not have been prepared for it, may have been totally unable to cope with the situation. Perhaps this was all the result of an unfortunate slipup in Paris. Wouldn't be the first. Christmas, you know—the champagne flows. Perhaps the saintly George was undone by the titillations of all that female flesh on display at the nightclub? All banana skirts and bottoms! And now, three months later and hoping all was forgotten, Phoebe throws this bomb at him.
“He may have refused point-blank to do what she was asking him to do. Perhaps running away with his stepmother was the last thing he wanted? He's unaccountably fond of his ghastly old father. When Phoebe began to fade with the effects of the sleeping pill, he decided to do away with his problems and make it look like suicide.”
“That still doesn't account for the suicide envelope,” Gunning objected. “George is a bit strange but he's not stupid. And—I told you—he's not a murderer. I won't listen to another word of your nonsense. In fact, I'll give you a bit of nonsense of my own and see what you make of it.” He narrowed his eyes. “George, according to your fantasy, rejects Phoebe. He is in no way prepared to disgrace his father, throw up his life here, and flee with his stepmother under a cloud of sin. He storms off. Left alone with her secret, abandoned in a foreign land by the man she loves, about to lose everything familiar along with her reputation, and with the additional burden of what society will regard as a monster-child, she takes the only possible way out. She hangs herself. And, in a Phaedra-like spurt of animosity for the man who's just deserted her, she plans retribution from beyond the grave. She tears that incriminating sheet from the play, writes the name of the now despised culprit on the envelope, and makes her exit. Leaving a tidy little time bomb behind her. The explosion can only involve the two men she hates: Theo and George…Well? What have you to say to that piece of nonsense?”
“I have to say it's ingenious and perfectly feasible. And, whatever the motive for the note, it could have caused the most appalling ructions between the two. Good Lord! I wonder what the Russell men are making of the autopsy document? They must be reading it at this moment! How dreadful! Just imagine what will happen when Theo links George's presence in Paris with paragraph six! I can hear him now: ‘So! Hippolytus, what have you to say?’ And I don't like to think of the next gruesome scene in that tragedy.”
But Gunning, struck by a fresh thought, was riffling through his pages, rereading sections, hunting for something he was clearly not finding.
“What more are you looking for? Phoebe's condition is the only surprise in the report, isn't it?”
He thoughtfully put the sheets in order, folded them, and tucked them away in his pocket before replying. “Yes, it is,” he said. “And thank God for that! Look, I think we can order our coffee now. And there's plenty of time for a pastry to fortify you for the afternoon session.”
Gunning seemed unaccountably relieved, but Letty could not relax. She was struggling with a residual concern, with a gathering feeling of foreboding. “Are you thinking, William, that we ought to have done as George seemed to want? That we should have gone back to the Europa with him?”
William nodded. “Yes. I'm afraid so. He seemed quite insistent that we go. I should have given him my support.” He looked at his watch. “Too late now, do you suppose? We can hardly turn up, grinning, for the coffee.”
Letty reached out impulsively and squeezed his hand. “You have supported him, William. You've been a good friend. You've done more than you should. But I must remind you that my loyalties and interest lie—and always will until this is sorted out—with Phoebe. I've made a vow to her and I'm not about to break it. If I have to throw George to the lions to establish the truth—I will.”
“I'd say it's the bull he'll have to confront, wouldn't you?” said Gunning bitterly. “Look—I think, if you don't object, we ought to go to the Europa. Right away. Just call in casually, you know…say we're picking up a few papers…anything.” He jumped to his feet, alert and concerned. “We're going to the arena.”
The house, when they pushed open the front door and made to walk into the hall, was in turmoil. Stewart cannoned into them, obviously on his way out. Dickie was striding about biting his nails. In the dim depth of the back corridor, a maidservant yelled and sobbed and was silenced by a gruff male voice in Greek.
“William! Thank God!” said Dickie.
Surprisingly Stewart also seemed pleased to see him, and halted his outward rush to seize him by the arm and haul him inside.
“We don't know what to do! They're killing each other! You've got to go in and stop them!” implored Dickie. “Perhaps we're too late. Listen! George has gone silent. He may be already dead!”
A crash and a torrent of angry words exploded from the direction of the library.
“Ah! Still at it! Well, thank goodness for that! Alive at least! They came back just after noon, friendly enough, talking as they usually do, and went straight into the library. It was all quiet for about half an hour and then all hell broke loose!”
“Theo gave that roar,” said Stewart. “You know the one I mean?”
Gunning nodded.
“And he went on and on…like he does when he's roused. Only this was…” He exchanged glances with Dickie.
“Excessive. Unnatural. Terrifying,” Dickie supplied. “And then George shouted back at him. And that's when we really got the wind up! I mean—George never answers back, does he? We couldn't make out what they were saying—well, kinder not to listen…family business probably…Not meant for our ears.”
Letty sighed with irritation. “Couldn't you have just barged in on some pretext? Or were you waiting for the blood to start flowing under the door?” she said and was ignored.
“And then the no
ises started,” said Stewart. “Sounded like furniture being thrown about. Screams and yells. It calmed down for a bit but just as we were about to breathe again it started up once more. Can you do something, William, before they kill each other? Eleni's not here. She'd have settled them straight away. Nobody knows where she is.”
“She's stayed in town,” said Letty. “With her sister. I'll go in.”
She started for the library and had reached the door and flung it open, Gunning at her heels, when George burst from the room and pushed past them, unseeing. He was bleeding from a scalp wound, his face an unrecognisable mask. Pale and shaking, he shouldered his way along the corridor, cannoning blindly off the walls. Dickie and Stewart flattened themselves to the sides to allow him space to crash by. Letty shuddered as she sensed a rush of poisoned air following in the young man's wake.
She shook off Gunning's restraining hand and entered the room at his shoulder. The elegant room she'd known was wrecked. The lectern and the tome it had supported had been thrown to the floor. The copy of The Palace of Minos at Knossos was lying open, broken at the spine, one of its pages ominously stained with blood. A whole bookcase had been wrenched from the wall and its volumes littered the carpet. The cabinet of curiosities was lying on its side, the glass panels in splinters. Its precious contents had spilled out onto the floor, like a child's discarded toys. And in the centre of the wreckage the lowering dark figure of Theodore, seeking a victim. Letty almost gagged on the thick odour of anger and hate.
“Get out! All of you! How dare you barge in here?” It was more alarming to realise that he was not out of his mind with rage but acquiring a modicum of composure and reacting rationally, if aggressively. Letty saw that his face was glinting with tears dripping unregarded down his cheeks.
The Tomb of Zeus Page 20