A Darker God (46 page)

And Letty had sat in the scented darkness, eyes on Andrew’s coffin and weeping tears of sorrow and rage.

“Fiend! Traitor! Lovely man! You brought much happiness into my life but, at the last, you’ve brought me a heap of troubles. With your scheming and your acquisitiveness. You’ve caused me to bind myself for two years to a man you swindled and destroyed. You’ve left me to work off your debt of honour. All I want is to go back to Cambridge and drag poor William to the altar. I don’t want to go to Salonika!”

Chapter 41

W
ell, that’s the British for you!” Letty remarked to Gunning with satisfaction as they took their seats for the first performance of the play on Saturday afternoon. “Awkward customers, barrack-room lawyers when things are going well, but when there’s a crisis, there’s none like them for putting their backs into something. It’s going to go well, you know, William! I’m probably breaking all the theatrical rules by saying so, but really—what a splendid effort!”

Two days of rehearsal had gone like silk. All had turned up on time; all knew their lines and positions. Their performance was intended as an offering, not to Lord Dionysus, but to Sir Andrew. It was an honouring; it was a farewell. Letty had feared that, without the professor’s unifying presence, the play might fall apart, torn this way and that by several egotistical forces. But she was delighted to be proven wrong.

Hugh Lattimore, the stage manager, had shown a firm decisiveness that she had never guessed lay below the hesitant exterior he’d previously shown. In fact, she rather thought he’d oversteered when he appointed her his assistant and took to calling her “Letty, dear” in the overfamiliar way of the theatre-struck.

“Where’s my ASM?” he’d yell. “Ah, there you are, Letty, dear! I need a hand over here with the drains. I prefer to think of them as the god’s entrails. Come and help me lift these pavings and shove a broom handle through … You may think me fussy but I’ve found all sorts down here … dead cats, empty bottles, discarded sandwiches … Can’t risk any embarrassing eructations sounding from the bowels of the earth on the night, can we?”

“A gurgling god? That would certainly shatter the solemnity,” Letty agreed.

“Well, that’s clear.” Hugh got up from his knees, dusting off his hands. “What’s next on poor Maud’s list? Bless the dear lady. How we miss her …”

“It’s: ‘Ivy wreath, Dionysus, for the head of,’” Letty supplied sarcastically, glancing up at the god.

“Ah. Enter a
P
for postponed. I shan’t do that until the morning itself. Freshness, you know. He wouldn’t like to be seen in a wilting wreath.” He peered upwards. “I make a habit of checking his nose regularly, too.”

“His nose?”

“Shameless vandals!” he hissed. “Nothing safe around here! Noses—and any other projecting bits—come in for the attention of silly little boys. I’ve had to replace him. Luckily, there’s never a shortage of statuary in this town! But all seems well now.”

“Right. Then we’ve got: ‘Lighting, safety of…’”

“Off we go, then. Know anything about arc lamps? And the flares that the chorus use? Better check them. And the safety containers for the matches? We wouldn’t want anyone shouting out ‘Fire!’ in the middle of a packed house, would we?… I suspect more people have died of boredom than fire in the theatre, but one takes no chances! Look, I hardly dare mention this, but—the dummy? Do you feel up to it? All that blood again? Bit much to ask a girl, eh? Feel free, Letty dear, to say ‘No, I couldn’t possibly…’—I’d understand.”

Letty toyed with the idea of the next body in the bathtub answering to the name of Lattimore.

Louis Adams had fallen silent as Hugh Lattimore had waxed voluble. He’d put aside his quibbling and his cynicism and seemed to be calmly prepared to do what was expected of him and go over the top with the rest of the company when the whistle blew.

Geoffrey Melton minced professionally through the proceedings, managing to upset no one. He even toned down his death screams in rehearsal in deference to sensibilities, though Letty suspected he’d give it full throttle on the night.

Thetis, on the other hand, was practically unhinged, Letty had decided, and tried to avoid meeting her on the set. A bundle of nerves one minute—“But I’m always like this at rehearsal, darling! Part of the job. You don’t know actors! You should have seen me before
Clowns in Clover!
They tell me I was impossible!”—and joyous the next. Usually when in proximity to the inspector. Letty had to admit that their appearances together onstage were electric.

And here they were. Minutes to go.

Guests had been required to run the gauntlet of pairs of keen-eyed troopers and, in a spirit of jolly cooperation, had raised no objection to opening up evening purses and turning out pockets. “It’s just a pipe, Sergeant. Like to see it? It’s not loaded! Ho! Ho!”… “Opera glasses. I say, is that allowed?” Even the newsman’s camera had come in for a detailed inspection before he was ushered to a seat in the front row. Letty had given an encouraging wave to Dr. Peebles, who, with an ironic smile, had stopped to open up the bag of professional equipment that always accompanied him.

Helena Venizelos, the guest of honour, had entered on the arm of Freddy Wentworth and they had settled in the priests’ marble chairs, thoughtfully lined with silk cushions by Letty. Well, no assassin worth his salt was going to mistake that very
English figure for the Greek Prime Minister with his bald head and emphatic white beard. Freddy was looking magnificent, Letty thought, with a lump in her throat that might have been pride. Tall, straight as a ramrod, elegant in his evening suit and medals, his fair head shining copper-gold in the slanting sun. Letty wondered fancifully what his answer would be if she dashed up and asked him to marry her, and grinned.

She guessed she’d be gruffly denied access to the First Secretary by his Embassy bodyguard. That was what she assumed him to be, the grey-haired man in discreet attendance on Wentworth. Never more than two feet away from his charge, the aide reviewed the company with flinty eyes, assessing and moving on. She froze as they trained on her for a moment, identified her, made a judgement, and dismissed her with unflattering speed. Wentworth himself, Letty noticed, was clearly mindful of the presence at his back, even waiting for his nod before stepping through the stately ritual. Letty knew the feeling:

Gunning leaned to her and whispered: “Special Branch is with us, I see. Only one of him but I’d say that old thug was worth a company, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know what effect he has on the villains but he seems to terrify Freddy!”

The First Lady was looking ethereal in a carefully chosen dress which must have cost the earth and was probably from the House of Worth in Paris. It was slim, white, and ankle-length but without a hint of classical parody—Helena’s delicate tribute to the occasion. Silvery slippers on her feet and around her throat, a single row of pearls.

They had walked in between two ranks of Greek Army
men, all chosen for their astonishing good looks, Letty could have sworn—though William had said chosen for their marksmanship. Twenty men with sidearms, all General Konstantinou’s protection squad. The numbers of soldiers had been reduced to this token presence in line with the cancellation of the Prime Minister’s appearance. A small squad but impressive, the men went to station themselves at the ends of the rows with two directly behind the guests of honour.

For a dizzying moment, Letty, in her place three rows behind, was rigid with apprehension. She remembered the young Alexander watching the slaughter of his father, Philip, in the theatre at Aigai, up in Macedon. The assassin had run, pursued by his fellows in the Royal Guard. But to what end? The murderer had been silenced, cut to pieces before he could speak. And who was guarding this impressive contingent tonight? She relaxed a little on recalling that it was Konstantinou himself who had advised against the appearance of the Prime Minister. With a self-congratulatory flourish when his advice was acted on, according to Montacute. The general deserved praise, she thought, for his arrangements. Evident but not intrusive. The men seemed, in fact, to have been granted permission to enjoy their evening. They had been given programmes and were studying them eagerly. There was a hush of expectancy over the arena and Letty could feel a surge of goodwill and silent encouragement rising up from the whole audience.

The sun began to dip towards the horizon and the Watchman came grumbling onstage, stretching his arthritic old joints.

“‘Aiaiee!’”
The sudden screech jangled Letty’s nerves, although she was expecting it.
“‘Look! Over there! The beacon! There’s the queen’s signal! The king has taken Troy!’”

And the play took fire.

The audience sighed and groaned and gasped. Much noisier
than a London audience, but Letty thought she had never heard a silence so deep as the one that greeted the entrance of the bathtub with its ghastly cargo. Her hands were shaking and she could not bring herself to watch as the bleeding limbs were once again revealed. Thetis must have an iron self-control, she thought, to be able to do this again without a quiver in her voice. She looked at the queen, for queen she was at that moment, and acknowledged that by the alchemy of acting, the young woman had been transformed.

No one wriggled, no one toyed with a pistol. No one died of boredom, fire, or gunshot. The listeners responded with emotion to the cruelty, the danger, the betrayal, and the death onstage and, when they came to the very last lines, were ready to hiss the villain, Aegisthus, with pantomime enthusiasm when he insulted Montacute’s Leader of the Chorus:
“‘You insubordinate dog! How dare you hurl abuse at me—your master! I’ll make you pay, you old fool!’”

Murmurs of admiration supported Montacute as he spoke back with reckless defiance:
“‘No Greek worthy of the name would grovel at your feet!’”

And a sharp intake of breath greeted Clytemnestra’s closing line to her lover as they walked off together in savage triumph, followed by the hatred of the crowd:
“‘Oh, let them bleat! They can do nothing It’s you and I who have the power now!’”

A standing ovation; a chorus of bravos; relief to have got through it; a cast, unmasking, in a line, hand in hand, red in the face, sweating and deliriously happy, were Letty’s impressions of the final moments.

The theatre audience flowed away with surprising speed along the cleverly architectured stone pathways. The crowd left chattering, smiling, and, Letty guessed, eager to share their experiences with friends. They’d had a memorable evening. The next performance would be to a full house. They’d be sitting in the aisles!

And now they could throw off their heavy outer garments, unbutton, and enjoy the cool evening air on hot limbs. The guardsmen left their positions and went to occupy the front row, clearly still on duty, still quietly obeying orders, but the cast and backstage crew, buoyed up by their success, gathered noisily on the orchestra. They mingled with the guests of honour, chattering and modestly receiving compliments. And, after a suitable interval and a few glasses of champagne, Letty would judge the moment right to summon Henry Beecham. Doubling as a waiter, he would bustle forward carrying the ceremonial offering of wine for Dionysus.

She looked up at the voluptuous features of the god. His wreath was fresh; long trails of ivy and laurel had been set to wind their way down the column, to gather in a riot of greenery at the base.

Lattimore spoke suddenly in her ear. “Splendid job, Letty dear! An artistic touch …”

“What do you mean, Hugh?”

“The swathes of autumnal foliage you’ve draped around him. Very evocative of his early origins. The Green God indeed! He appreciates it—you’d swear he’d enjoyed his evening, wouldn’t you? And more to come, of course! The
bonne bouche!”

“But, Hugh, it wasn’t
I
who …”

But he was already hurrying off to his next duty, leaving her with a growing feeling of unease. Anyone could have hidden a gun or a knife under that exuberance of vine leaves. Letty decided to keep a sharp eye on any man or woman who approached within arm’s reach of the statue.

She looked again at the god. Hugh was right. The deity did look pleased. At home in his greenery. But how could he fail to be entertained? Drama, good company, and wine. Was there anything they had failed to offer the dark god?

She watched from the fringes of the group, smiling at the sight of Helena Venizelos chattering with Thetis. Thetis had retained her queenly robes and was every inch an equal for the First Lady. Slender white next to voluminous purple, dark heads together, nodding and laughing. It seemed a strong relationship.

Montacute had taken off his grey cloak and was standing with Freddy Wentworth and Geoffrey Melton, eyes darting everywhere, empty hands loosely by his sides. Letty looked at the group of three impressive men in puzzlement for a moment and then realised that what had snagged at her attention was the reduced height of Geoffrey. He too had disrobed, kicked off his high buskins, and was standing, relaxed, thumbs hooked casually into his belt. Taking artistic liberties a little too far? Letty thought so. She looked afresh at the pared-down figure, athletic in plain khaki shirt and trousers. Standing firmly on big bare feet, eyes raking the auditorium, he appeared to form a guard with Montacute, one formidable man on each side of the First Secretary.