Death in Cyprus Page 14

  Amanda was conscious of a sudden intense pang of pity for Persis Halliday, who had proved to be so vulnerable under that surface shell of glittering, cynical sophistication. It was followed by a surge of admiration. If Persis had indeed received a shattering blow to her heart and her hopes and her pride, there was nothing in her manner to indicate it.

  What did she see in Alastair Blaine? wondered Amanda. What had Julia seen? He was tall, blond, sun-tanned and blue-eyed, but not particularly good looking. It was an unremarkable, pleasant and entirely Anglo-Saxon face, and he was in fact, as he himself had said, a ‘perfectly ordinary dull sort of chap without an ounce of sex appeal’. Women liked Alastair Blaine, but in much the same way as they liked their brothers. They made use of him and discussed their problems with him in a way that they would never have done had their emotions been involved. It was only Julia’s jealousy, Amanda realized, that had built up a picture of Alastair as an irresistible charmer.

  Julia was probably the only woman who had ever fallen deeply in love with Alastair Blaine—Julia and Persis. What did Persis see in him?

  It’s because she’s an American and she writes, thought Amanda with a sudden flash of understanding.

  Persis did not see Alastair as other people saw him. He had looked like her idea of a strong, silent Englishman, and his very indifference to women, as women, had probably lent colour to that view. She had fitted him with a ready-made character and attributes of her own devising, and fallen in love with the result. In love with something that was no more the real Alastair Blaine than a tailor’s dummy is flesh and blood.

  I wonder what he is really like? thought Amanda. But then what was the real Persis like?—or the real Toby?—or jovial, stupid, easy-going, devoted George Norman? Or, for that matter, Steve Howard?

  Amanda frowned unseeingly at the olive groves and the sea; puzzled and disturbed for the first time in her twenty-one years by the realization that despite the dictates of John Donne, each man and woman is, in some way, ‘an island unto themselves’.

  11

  Amanda delivered Euridice’s message to Miss Moon, and Miss Moon tut-tutted absently and said: ‘I only trust that she will return early enough to cook us some breakfast. At what time are you leaving for this picnic, my dear?’

  ‘Half past two,’ said Amanda. ‘I’m being collected.’

  ‘I,’ said Miss Moon with a regretful sigh, ‘shall be leaving a quarter of an hour later. Such a pity that I cannot come with you. St Hilarion always gives me such a feeling of spiritual refreshment and affinity with Time. So much more soothing than Lady Cooper-Foot’s bridge afternoons. I shall not enjoy myself at all I fear, and I have a headache coming on—I only trust it does not develop into migraine. But one must not neglect one’s duties towards society.’

  Amanda said: ‘How do I get in if I get back before you, now that Euridice isn’t in?’

  ‘Oh, I never lock the house, dear. I have always maintained that any dishonest person who wishes to enter a house will do so despite all the locks and bolts in the world. Locks only serve to incommode the innocent and innocuous. You will find the house open.’

  Toby Gates arrived with commendable punctuality on the tick of two-thirty, and Amanda fetched a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses and called good-bye to Miss Moon. She received no answer and thought it probable that Miss Moon had already left.

  ‘How are we going, Toby?’

  ‘I’ve hired a car for the afternoon. Not a bad little bus. The Normans offered to give us both a lift, but as they’re already taking Alastair Blaine and all the tea things, I thought it sounded a bit of a squash.’

  He ushered her into the front seat of a small grey saloon car and Amanda said: ‘What about Persis?’

  ‘Howard is taking her.’

  The car drew away from the kerb and gathered speed on the long rising road that leads up from Kyrenia to the pass in the hills, from where it drops again to Nicosia and the plain.

  ‘I can’t think why I’m doing this,’ said Toby. ‘If I were in my right mind I should not be on speaking terms with you.’

  Amanda turned to look at him in frank surprise. ‘Why, Toby? What have I done now?’

  ‘I like that!’ said Toby forcefully. ‘Do you realize, you longhaired hussy, that entirely owing to you I am down a matter of fifty quid and in possession of two of the most god-awful eyesores that ever defaced a wall?’

  ‘Oh Toby!’ Amanda was suddenly stricken with guilt. ‘I’d quite forgotten. You didn’t buy a genuine Potter?’

  ‘My dear girl, I couldn’t possibly avoid it! I sent along a note as per order, and then I quite forgot about the chap and went for a stroll in the town. It was meeting Howard that reminded me of him. And when I got back, there he was, planted in the lounge with a portfolio the size of Cyprus, still waiting. So of course after that I had to do something about it. He stayed for hours! Fortunately it didn’t seem to matter if I said anything or not. I let him do the talking, and he thinks I am a connoisseur of the Arts. Well I’m sending you those pictures as a small present, and you can jolly well hang them on your walls. And what is more, you can dine with me tonight. You owe me that at least.’

  ‘Toby darling, I am sorry. Yes of course I will. The staff is out for the day, so Miss Moon will probably be only too pleased to have one less to cook supper for.’

  ‘Good show. How did your party with the erring wife go? Did she give you the inside low-down on the whole affair?’

  ‘No,’ said Amanda repressively. ‘We—just talked. Are you sure you know the way, Toby?’

  ‘No,’ said Toby. ‘But the chap who hired me the car said we can’t miss it.’

  The road wound up and up through olive groves, firs, cypress, carob, and sunbaked grassy slopes, and just short of the pass Toby turned the car right-handed into a side road signposted to Hilarion. As they turned, a car coming from the direction of Nicosia passed them on its way down to Kyrenia. It was a small green two-seater with a sports hood, driven by a woman, and Amanda thought that she recognized Glenn Barton’s secretary, Monica Ford.

  Their road skirted the mountain side and presently ran between an outcrop of the hills and past a wide saucer-like depression that Toby said had been a tilting ground—adding that his informant was Persis Halliday, who had been reading up on the subject of Hilarion and had evidently held forth during luncheon.

  Rising sheer above it on a pinnacle of rock, over two thousand feet above the sea and silhouetted against the cloudless blue of the sky, stood the ruins of the Crusader castle of St Hilarion—the castle to which, legend says, Richard of the Lion Heart brought his newly-wed bride, Berengaria of Navarre. From this castle he went forth to the Crusades. And from its arched windows Berengaria the Queen must often have looked out on to that same sea to watch for the sails of his ships.

  There was another car parked in the shade of some trees below the slope that led up the outer walls of the castle. But it did not belong either to the Normans or to Steven Howard.

  ‘Tourists,’ said Toby with contempt.

  ‘Tourist yourself!’ retorted Amanda, scrambling out of the car. ‘Don’t let’s wait for the others. Let’s go and explore.’

  They climbed the stony slope in the hot sunlight and passed into the cool shadow of the Keep. A long flight of worn stone steps led upward to the main bulk of the story-book castle that soared above them, clinging to the naked rock whose sheer sides formed many of its walls. At the foot and to one side of the stairway a man in a vividly patterned sports shirt was seated on a small canvas stool before a large easel. It was Lumley Potter. He turned his head as they approached and his scowl turned to a delighted smile:

  ‘Hullo Gates. Just the man I wanted to see. How does this strike you? Early stages yet, of course, but I feel I have captured something of the tempo and perhaps a hint of the aura. At the moment the inner essence eludes me—yes, frankly it eludes me—but I feel that I shall ultimately grasp it.’

  ‘Er–yes–I’m sure
you will,’ said Toby, staring in horrified disbelief at what appeared to be the portrait of a suet pudding in the making, into which someone had inadvertently stirred a generous dollop of schoolroom ink.

  ‘Well?’ said Mr Potter.

  ‘Oh–er–terrific!’ said Toby Gates hurriedly. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Miss Derington. Amanda, this is Mr Potter.’

  Mr Potter expressed himself as pleased to meet Miss Derington and plunged into a discussion of his work that was only terminated by the arrival of the Normans, Major Blaine, Mrs Halliday and Steve Howard.

  They left Claire and Major Blaine talking to Lumley—Claire it seemed was entirely familiar with the tempo and aura of art—and continued their exploration of the castle, Persis instructing their ignorance with the aid of a guide book.

  Some minutes later, turning a corner, they came unexpectedly upon Anita Barton.

  Mrs Barton had spread a travelling rug in a shady corner and lain down at full length with a book and a box of chocolates. The pages of the book were fluttering in a light breeze and a colony of ants were investigating the chocolates. Mrs Barton was asleep. She was wearing an exceedingly becoming dress of corn-coloured linen decorated at the hem and the deep neckline with innumerable small flat flowers cut from white linen and loosely attached by their centres. The effect was charming, but conveyed the impression that Mrs Barton must be exceedingly expensive to dress.

  Amanda, gazing down at her, thought that she looked much younger than she had seemed last night—younger, and somehow defenceless—and remembered that Glenn Barton had spoken of his wife as being ‘such a child’. Amanda could see now what he had meant. Despite the blue-tinted eyelids, the lavish use of mascara and lipstick and the scarlet lacquer on fingers and toes, there was something oddly childlike about the slumbering figure in the absurd and charming frock.

  They turned away noiselessly and left her sleeping.

  ‘This,’ said Persis when they were out of earshot, ‘is quite a situation. Do we warn her husband that his erring wife is among those present? The guy is due at any moment now. It’s almost four. Or do we just ignore the whole thing and let him fall over her and the hell with it?’

  ‘The latter,’ advised Mr Howard lazily.

  Amanda said anxiously: ‘I’d forgotten that Glenn was coming. What time did he say he’d be here?’

  ‘Four, if he could make it.’

  Amanda peered over the battlements but could see no car on the white ribbon of road far below. Which was not surprising, for Mr Barton had been delayed …

  Glenn had intended to drive directly from Nicosia to Hilarion, but had found it necessary to go into Kyrenia to deliver some documents to a client who was staying at the Dome. He had been additionally delayed by a puncture just short of the town, and had left his car at a garage on the road and walked down to the hotel, discharged his errand and returned.

  He was on his way back to collect his car when he saw Monica Ford’s small, shabby two-seater cross an intersection ahead of him and turn down the side road that led past the Villa Oleander.

  He was conscious of a slight feeling of surprise. What could Monica be doing in Kyrenia? He had seen her briefly in the Nicosia office that morning, but his work had taken him out to the vineyards and he had not been back to the office. Monica had made no mention of driving over to Kyrenia, and he had never before known her to leave the office unattended in his absence. Had something cropped up that required his immediate attention and had Monica come over in search of him?

  Glenn glanced at his watch and saw that it was already a quarter to four. He hesitated on the pavement, puzzled and undecided, and then crossed the road and turned down to the Villa Oleander.

  Monica’s car was not outside the house, but he caught a glimpse of green paint and realized that she had parked it at the mouth of a narrow lane shadowed by mulberry trees on the opposite side of the road. Monica herself had just crossed the road and he saw her push open the gate of the Villa Oleander and disappear from view.

  Perhaps there had been some message from Oswin Derington for his niece? But Amanda would be at Hilarion and Miss Moon at Lady Cooper-Foot’s, while Euridice and Andreas were attending a fête at Aiyos Epiktitos. Monica would find the house empty.

  Glenn turned in at the gate which Miss Ford had neglected to close behind her, and walked up the short flagged path. The front door swung open on oiled hinges and he was in the welcome coolness of the high, dim hall. He heard a movement from the direction of the drawing-room and walked across the hall and through the open doorway.

  Monica Ford was standing near the french window and he checked abruptly at the sight of her face.

  ‘Monica! My dear—what’s the matter?’

  Miss Ford did not answer him. Her face was ashy white and blotched with weeping; so drawn and haggard and aged with grief and emotion that it was almost unrecognizable.

  ‘Monica!’

  He went quickly towards her, but she shrank back and he stopped. He saw her lick her dry, trembling lips and she said in a harsh, high whisper: ‘What are you doing here? I–I thought you were in Limassol.’

  ‘Monica, what is it? Has anything happened?’

  She stared at him for a long moment, her red-rimmed eyes wide and fixed, then turning away she walked stumblingly to the sofa and sank down upon it with her back to him and her head in her hands, and burst into tears.

  Oh God! thought Glenn despairingly. Another emotional woman! Anita—and now Monica. For Monica had begun to talk; a flood of hysterical words that fought with her sobs; jumbled, desperate, incoherent, from which a few words stood out, constantly repeated. Her dead brother’s name; Anita’s; his own—Glenn—Glenn—Glenn.

  ‘… I didn’t realize … I–I loved you, Glenn. I loved you…’

  Glenn shut his eyes and tried to shut out the sound of her gasping voice; aware of a feeling of sick disgust and cold anger. But Monica’s voice went on and on. Thick, ugly, choked with tears: ‘… I didn’t realize it until today. I didn’t know … I wouldn’t face it. I’ve always felt that there was something—something I shouldn’t … But I wouldn’t admit it. And today you were away and Pavlos came to the office about a damaged case. He said you had gone to Hilarion with–with Claire Norman … and–and then–then I knew. I loved you…’

  Glenn opened his eyes and looked at the huddled jerking shoulders with rage and despair. A faint scent of jasmine drifted in through the open windows and mingled with the cheap violet scent that Miss Ford affected, borne on a little breeze that billowed the curtains and fluttered the ends of a vivid green crêpe de Chine scarf that Miss Moon had left hanging over the back of the sofa. ‘Thursday’ thought Glenn automatically, noting the colour.

  He tried to speak, but could find no words. There was nothing he could say. Nothing that could do any good now. He ought to have sent her away. He ought to have made her go. The ragged, sobbing voice went on and on and he winced at the sound of his wife’s name.

  ‘Anita … Anita must have known. That’s why she left you. I should have known too. But I wouldn’t let myself know! I wouldn’t face it. It’s all my fault … I pretended that everything was all right. But Anita must have known____’

  Anita, thought Glenn with a sudden twinge of almost physical pain. Was it true? Had she known? He had always suspected that she did not really believe the things she had said about himself and Monica Ford—that there was something else behind her sudden defection, and that Monica Ford had been only an excuse. Now Monica herself said that she must have known. And so she had run away. Anita____

  The gasping, weeping voice filled the quiet room with ugly sound: ‘I don’t know what to do! If only it hadn’t been for Bobby I could have borne it. But I had to talk to someone—I had to! Glenn!… Glenn…’

  Monica Ford’s voice choked and stopped at long last, like a gramophone record that has run down, and silence flowed back into the dusty, gracious room.

  The sun had moved down the sky and now it shone in t
hrough the french windows and lay in a bright square of gold on the faded carpet, illuminating Monica Ford’s ungainly body and filling the room with a mellow glowing warmth.

  Glenn looked down at the slumped, twitching figure with sick distaste. And presently, realizing that there was nothing else he could do, he turned abruptly away from her and walked quickly out of the room.

  A clock struck the quarter hour as he crossed the hall, and his hand was on the latch of the front door when he thought he heard a soft sound from somewhere on the bedroom floor.

  He turned quickly and looked up. But there was no one on the stairs and nothing moved on the shadowed landing above. Miss Moon was out, and so were Andreas and Euridice, and the upstairs rooms should have been empty. There could be no one there. Perhaps the sound he had heard had been caused by a pigeon or Euridice’s grey cat. He hesitated, frowning and uncertain, his nerves on edge and a cold tremor running down his spine. But there was no repetition of the sound and he did not wish to remain any longer under the same roof as Monica Ford. He turned away and left the house, shutting the door quietly behind him. And it was almost a quarter to five by the time he reached Hilarion …

  He found the picnic party seated about the remains of tea on a grassy space by a ruined buttress, and because he was disturbed and preoccupied he did not notice—or at least did not recognize—Lumley Potter’s ramshackle car among the cars parked beside the road.

  ‘So you finally made it,’ remarked Persis, making room for him beside her. ‘We’d given you up.’

  Glenn subsided wearily on to the grass and accepted a lukewarm cup of tea which he drank thirstily.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he apologized. ‘I had to go into Kyrenia first, and I had a puncture just short of the town. And then I met Monica, and that held me up a bit.’