Lament for Leto (Mrs. Bradley) Read online

  “It’s like this,” said Roger. “What would you do if you heard two people planning a murder?”

  “What I would do might depend upon whether or not I hoped their enterprise might thrive.”

  “That was Pompilius Lena in Julius Caesar, wasn’t it? But, honestly, I’m not joking. I’ve been thinking it over all last evening, and when I went to bed, and all of today, and I can’t make up my mind. You see, I might be quite wrong and, if I am, it wouldn’t do to take steps, would it?”

  “What do you think you heard?”

  “Well, there’s no think about it. I know jolly well what I heard. Anyway, although I don’t want to grass on anybody, I’d like your advice about what I ought to do. I mean, murder isn’t quite like anything else, is it? And I thought, as you’ve had a lot to do with it—solving it, I mean, and doing detection, and knowing all about people’s minds, and all that—you’d be the best person to come to for advice.”

  “Have you told nobody else about this?”

  “No. I did think, for a bit, that I might tell Suffolk, but he seems to be a bit involved and, anyway, he’s rather an ass, so I didn’t.”

  “By ‘involved’ I trust you do not mean that he . . .”

  “Oh, no! Of course not! I mean, he may be an ass, but he’s—well, he’s quite all right. Anyway, these were women.”

  “Dear me!”

  “And they may not have meant what I thought they meant.”

  “I will bear that strongly in mind.”

  “Yes. Well, I expect you remember Crete and the shore excursion?—the Palace of Minos and all that?”

  “Vividly.”

  “The way we walked to the gatekeeper’s lodge where we met the guide who was going to show us round?”

  “Yes, indeed. I also remember the cypress trees and my first sight of the palace.”

  “Yes, well, then we went into a sort of hall where there was that picture of the cup-bearer which the guide said was a copy, because the real one was in a museum somewhere.”

  “Yes. I thought the copy was a remarkably fine one. It is by Gillieron, and the original is in the Herakleion Museum. I should like to see it, wouldn’t you?”

  “No point in bothering if the copy is just exactly like it, and I suppose it is. From there we went into the gallery, as the guide called it, and then we all pushed along a corridor. I expect you remember it because, opening off it, there were all those storerooms with the terrific jars, some of them taller than me. Well, that’s where I began to get a funny feeling.”

  “Claustrophobia?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve often crawled through drainpipes in builders’ yards when I was a kid, and explored under culverts and all that kind of thing. No, it was more the sort of feeling you get when people say it’s because someone is walking over your grave. Once, for a dare, I spent a night by myself in a haunted house, when Dad had gone off on one of his botany jaunts and Edmund was playing in the Sevens. I wasn’t really scared, of course, but this was the same kind of feeling, so I slunk off and went down some steps and came to another corridor and this led to another large hall with a row of pillars down the middle. I don’t know whether you remember it?”

  “The Hall of the Double Axes, no doubt.”

  “Anyway, whatever it was, just as I went into it I heard voices, so I crouched down behind a sort of a wall by some steps, because I thought I might be going to be caught up with another party being taken round and, apart from the creepiness, I was just plain bored with the guide’s talk. Well, I recognised the voices, so I stayed where I was, because, of all people, I didn’t want to have to hook on to Hero Metoulides and Mary Cowie, and that’s who it was.”

  “How interesting. But what had Hero and Mary to say to one another? They do not usually appear to relish each other’s society overmuch.”

  “I’m beginning to believe that’s a blind. Women are pretty dishonourable, don’t you think?”

  “You can scarcely expect me to reply to that question in the affirmative, but, all the same, it interests me, particularly coming from one who, by his own admission, is an eavesdropper.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t like you to think I usually listen when people are talking about things they wouldn’t want other people to hear,” said Roger, in a tone of self-justification, “but I was anxious they shouldn’t see me, so I stayed put rather than make a row creeping away. They were standing behind a big square pillar which was put there to help shore up the roof or something, and I was really pretty close to them. I didn’t want to embarrass them, you see.”

  “Close enough, you mean, to hear their conversation?”

  “Yes. I simply couldn’t help hearing it. Mary said: ‘You see, the only reason I put up with her is because I’m her only near relation, but, if she marries, bang go my chances.’ Then Hero said: ‘Our interests are similar, so far as I can see, because, if they get married, Mr. Dick and her, they may have children. As things stand, Simon may be all right . . . ’ And Mary said: ‘If he’s legally adopted, but is he?’ So Hero said she thought he was, but there might not be anything in writing, because Simon was the son of an archaeologist who had been friendly with Mr. Dick, and it might only have been an understanding that when the father died Mr. Dick should look after Simon.”

  “Very interesting indeed. And what did you make of all this?”

  “Well, I thought it sounded pretty fishy. You see, that wasn’t all I heard.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “No. Mary said: ‘Whichever one of them she chooses, either Dick or Owen, it will cut me out, even if they don’t have children, so I’ve got to do something pretty drastic.’ And Hero said: ‘If she marries Mr. Owen I couldn’t care less whether they have children or not. It wouldn’t affect either Simon or me. But if she chooses Mr. Dick and they have children, it might make my position very delicate. I don’t think Dick would leave me unprovided for—he is a good, kind man and very rich from the property somebody must have left him—but all would be changed if he married, and I dislike changes. Besides, I do not want her for a stepmother.’ Well, doesn’t it all sound to you pretty sinister? As things are, Hero gets her own way with Mr. Dick all the time, but I should think Mrs. Cowie could put a stop to that.”

  “That,” said Dame Beatrice, “is very true, but do you not think you are reading too much into this conversation you say you overheard?”

  “I hope I am, but I haven’t finished telling you yet. Mary said: ‘Well, drowning won’t do.’ And Hero said: ‘Oh, no, not that! Nothing can be done until we are in Greece. With luck, I think I know the very place, but we must wait and see. Maybe there will be no wedding at all, and in that case we need not trouble. Besides, I don’t think you will have the stomach for it when it comes to the point.’ Mary said perhaps she wouldn’t, and that she would never have thought of such a thing if Hero hadn’t put the idea into her head. At that, Hero laughed and, before they could say any more, the rest of our party came along and we all teamed up and Hero detached Suffolk from the others and took no more notice of Mary. So what do you think I ought to do?”

  “Well, if you have reported the conversation correctly, we know that there is no need for you to do anything at present. After that, you can exercise vigilance, I suppose, if you think there is any point in doing so.”

  “You don’t think I ought to tell them I overheard what they were saying?”

  “Would you put your head in a noose, as the saying is?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that! You mean, if they meant what I think they meant, they’d stick at nothing to gain their ends, including murdering me?”

  “Villainy knows no law and Mary, in particular, has much at stake, it seems. She would have more to lose than Hero would, whether Mrs. Cowie married Mr. Dick or Mr. Owen.”

  “Do I just sit tight, then?”

  “It seems to amount to that.”

  “All the same, I wish you’d tip Mrs. Cowie the wink. I mean, I can’t, because she simply
wouldn’t believe me. She’d think I was pulling her leg.”

  “No doubt she would,” said Dame Beatrice, leering at the boy. “Yes, I’m sure she would—unless, of course, she disinherited Mary on the spot, and you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”

  “Oh, well, no, I suppose not.” He turned abruptly away, but Dame Beatrice caught him by the sleeve.

  “I forbid you,” she said, “to try this unlikely and mischievous story on anyone else.”

  “Oh, all right, then,” said Roger ungraciously.

  “Let me have it plainly stated.”

  “I promise I won’t repeat the story to anyone else. But it’s all quite true, you know. I’m not just making a song and dance about nothing.”

  “Truth, they say, lives in a well, and, to my mind, the water sometimes has a very ancient and fish-like odour.”

  “That’s from The Tempest—Trinculo talking about Caliban.”

  “I see that Mr. Suffolk has not neglected your education, and now I am prepared to continue it. I do not believe your story for various reasons which I will now proceed to give you. First, Hero never refers to her guardian as Dick, or Mr. Dick, but always as Papa Ronald. Second, Hero and Mary are, and have been from the first, utterly inimicable to one another and would never under any circumstances have held this extremely unlikely conversation. Third, you have your own axe to grind in the matter and I only hope that you have not been attempting to prove an alibi before the event. You do not want Mrs. Cowie as a stepmother, do you?—but even that would be preferential to a long stay in Borstal. And now be off with you, and think on these things. Remember that in all criminal enterprises attention to detail is essential if the enterprise is to succeed.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Erato, the Muse of Erotic Poetry and Mime

  “. . . and when we were set down and placed in order, we began to talk, to laugh and be merry. Byrrhena spoke to me, and said, ‘I pray you, cousin, how like you our country? Verily I think there is no other city which has the like temples, baths and other commodities as we have here.’ ”

  For all her dismissal of it as a boyish and slightly macabre essay in indicating his dislike of Mrs. Cowie, Dame Beatrice gave some thought to Roger’s story. That it was a fabrication she had no doubt whatever, but the interesting point about it was the way it hung together. It could so easily have been true that again she went over in her mind those indications which assured her that it was not. For one thing, as she had pointed out, there was no likelihood, in the present stage of their relations, that Hero and Mary would become allies and fellow-conspirators. The venue which Roger had chosen for his imaginary overhearing of an imaginary conversation was equally unlikely. If the two girls ever reached a stage where they wished to be in collusion, they would surely meet in the small single cabin which Hero occupied, and certainly not in a public place which was liable to be invaded at any moment by conducted parties of sightseers.

  Then—a telling issue, this—the interests of the two girls were by no means identical, as Roger himself had realised. Mary might have a very powerful motive for wishing to rid herself of her domineering aunt if she could not prevent a re-marriage, for most probably she knew that, up to the present, she was that aunt’s heiress. She must therefore be aware that Mrs. Cowie’s re-marriage would almost certainly jeopardise her claim, especially as the aunt was still young enough to have children.

  Hero had no such powerful reason for wishing Mrs. Cowie out of the way. For one thing, far from being dominated by her, she invariably treated the older woman with an infuriating blend of amusement and courtesy, giving the impression that she considered her a kind of harmless freak. As for money, even if Ronald Dick married, Hero would be amply provided for, as Dame Beatrice knew. Dick, over lunch that first time at her house, had told her about his two changelings and that their prospects would remain the same in the event of his marriage or his death.

  The problem, as she saw it, was exactly what to make of Roger and his lying report. It amused her to think that, in giving it to her, he had been “trying it on the dog” and this in a most intelligent way, since it meant that he had summed her up sufficiently well to realise that, if the fabrication passed muster with her, he could be justified in assuming that others might swallow it.

  She wondered what kind of life he led with a father who went off on botanical expeditions, a brother who played Rugby football (often on tour), and a tutor who was prepared to abandon his duty if an attractive girl was the lure.

  Such a boy must lead a solitary existence at times, and might be tempted to dramatise himself. Should Mrs. Cowie (so he might argue with wishful thinking) meet with a fatal accident, how satisfying to appear in the witness-box for the prosecution and denounce Hero and Mary, both of whom, Dame Beatrice had noticed, regarded and treated him as an encumbrance on the party and a bit of a nuisance into the bargain.

  The problem, therefore, was Roger himself. That he possessed a criminal streak she did not doubt. That was common to many boys of his age. Whether he meant real mischief, and that to the detested Mrs. Cowie, she did not know, but she found the fabricated story disquieting largely because she did not know. She trusted that if the boy had any evil intention and, in his tale, had put it into the mouths of the two girls, she had said enough to warn him off and that, in addition, his own undoubted intelligence would suggest that the game would not be worth the candle.

  A poet has stated that a boy’s will is the wind’s will and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. The poet had not been thinking of mayhem, but Dame Beatrice had had considerable experience of child criminals, enough to know that a vengeful infant takes little or no thought of possible consequences and is the more unpredictable and dangerous because of this.

  There was one more incident on board ship before the party reached Athens, but this had nothing to do with Roger. The trouble began over the disputed possession of a book from the ship’s library and ended in a full-scale row on one of the deck-tennis courts. Dame Beatrice heard an account of the former and happened to be an eye-witness to the latter of these unfortunate occurrences.

  It appeared that Chloe had taken a book from the library shelves one hot afternoon and, finding the room cooler than the deck, had elected to read in there for an hour before going to the large lounge for tea. Theoretically, passengers signed for a book before removing it, but the rule was more honoured in the breach than in the observance, and the library steward was often on duty in the bar. Chloe usually obeyed the rule and, as she was a voracious reader, usually took the book away with her and used it in her cabin as a soporific. On this occasion, not wishing to take it in to the lounge, she replaced it on its shelf, intending to return for it later and carry it down to the cabin she shared with Mary.

  To her annoyance, when she went back for it later it was gone. She complained to the library steward and was rightly told that it had not been signed for and he could not say who had taken it out.

  “Well, there’s some slackness somewhere!” said Chloe crossly and unjustly, and she went off to find Mary.

  “Oh, that book!” said Mary, who, prejudiced, no doubt, by her aunt’s output, despised all romantic novels whether bad or good. “I believe I saw Hero with it.”

  “Then kindly go along and tell her that I am halfway through it. She can’t have got far into the story yet, and she will quite understand that I have the prior claim.”

  Mary went unwillingly to fulfil this task and found Hero indisposed to part with the book.

  “It was not signed for,” she said, “so anybody had the right to take it, and I took it. Why not?”

  “Did you sign for it?”

  “I do not remember.”

  “Well, my aunt says you did not, and she wants to finish it, although goodness knows why. All that author’s stories are tripe.”

  “I like them.”

  “Well, may I have the book?”

  “No,” said Hero decidedly, “you may not. If
your aunt wants it so badly, let her come and explain why, not having signed for it, she should have it and not me.”

  Mary returned with this message, which, disliking both parties, she embroidered more than a little. Not to her surprise, her aunt indignantly refused to go in person to ask for the return of the book and, at dinner, pointedly ignored Hero and, so far as she possibly could, kept her out of the general conversation.

  On the following morning Mary received orders to keep an eye on the deck-tennis lists. There were only four courts, so, the ship’s tournament being over, the deck steward had a plan for ensuring that a few selfish passengers did not monopolise these. His solution was to set up a blackboard opposite each court with a list of times marked out from ten o’clock onwards against which intending players put their initials with a stick of chalk provided for the purpose. At the end of their half-hour they were expected to give up the court to the next on the list.

  As they passed out of the dining-room on the previous evening, Hero had said, pleasantly enough, to Chloe,

  “I am sorry I took your book, but you had not signed for it, so I did not know anybody was reading it. I will keep it for tonight—I read quickly and I skip those parts I do not care for—so you shall have it in the morning when I go to play deck-tennis with Julian.”

  Chloe had made no acknowledgment of this promise but, with compressed lips and head held high, had gone to her cabin and did not appear in public again that evening. In the morning Mary, under orders and relishing the thought of a battle in which she need take no part, informed her aunt the moment she saw Julian put his initials and those of Hero up on one of the boards.

  Still with compressed lips, Chloe took up one of the soft paper tissues she always carried, went on deck, rubbed out J.S. and H.M. and substituted C.C. and M.C.

  “But, Aunt, you never play deck-tennis,” said Mary, delighted with the manoeuvre and interested in its outcome.