Mortal Remains (3 page)

‘A man is dead on the beach,’ Patrick repeated, distinctly.

‘Dead?’

Patrick wondered for a lunatic instant if his phrase book covered this contingency. Instead, he sought aid from philology.

‘
Nekros,’
he tried, and added, gesturing, ‘come with me.’

The already pale clerk turned even paler. He hastened out from behind his counter. Had the Englishman gone mad? In silence, they walked quickly to where the body lay.

‘Christos!’
The young man crossed himself and stared in dismay at the still figure which rested near the water’s edge, the head turned to one side. Dark hair was plastered to the skull and covered the face.

‘You get help. I’ll stay here,’ said Patrick.

The clerk looked at him desperately.

‘I tell the manager,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Patrick.

The young man dashed away and Patrick looked down at the body once more. Now, seen through his glasses, it was no longer a blurred mass. It wore dark trousers and a cream linen jacket. He stooped and moved the strands of hair away from the face. There was something familiar about those blotched and puffy features: with rising horror Patrick stared down at what he now recognised as the remains of Felix Lomax, senior member of his own college and at present supposed to be aboard the
S.S. Persephone
lecturing about ancient historical sites.

In minutes, the clerk, whose brain had clicked into efficient motion, was back with a blanket and two sturdy men. They wrapped up the body and bore it away – without difficulty, for Felix was not a big man – finally bundling it into the hotel through one of the service doors. Once it was out of public view the clerk looked relieved.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘The other guests.’

Patrick understood only too clearly. The sudden sight of that corpse in such surroundings was shocking indeed.

‘The police come,’ the clerk added. ‘And the manager.’ This was said with foreboding; the young man seemed more in awe of the manager than of the law.

Patrick still felt numb with the shock of recognising Felix.

‘My name is Grant. Room 340,’ he said. ‘I will get dressed now.’ He indicated his towelling robe. ‘Then I will go to the dining room. You will find me there if you want me.’ Despite his attire, his habitual air of authority clung to Patrick and the clerk responded to it.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. He looked as shaken as Patrick felt.

Patrick rode alone in the lift and stepped from it in a state of unbelief: Felix Lomax, dead in Crete. It was Felix, there could be no mistake; he had recognised the cameo signet ring which Felix always wore.

What a terrible thing. His mind ranged over their last meeting at Alec Mudie’s funeral only a week ago. Felix had renewed his suggestion that Patrick should join the cruise; he was flying to Venice himself the following day.

‘You can’t get away from people in a ship,’ Patrick had said.

What on earth was Felix doing in Crete when he should have been aboard the
Persephone?

No doubt the ship called at Heraklion, so that the passengers could visit the museum and the palace at Knossos. Felix must have seen both many times; if he were not the duty lecturer he might have decided to spend the day elsewhere on the island.

But how had he drowned? And when?

The big dining-room was almost empty when Patrick came downstairs later. It was still early, and most people probably chose to have breakfast on their balconies. He’d do so in future, though he didn’t propose to spend many nights in Challika. Several waiters were talking together, their sibilant voices low but their gestures dramatic; by this time all the staff would know that a dead man had been found in the sea.

He ordered coffee and hoped the management ran to rolls, and not the limp toast, wrapped in a paper napkin, which was the normal Greek hotel breakfast.

Jane, who had been to Greece too, had advised taking his own supply of crispbread.

‘Nonsense. Crusty old thing I may be, but I’m not so set in my ways yet that I can’t take things as I find them,’ Patrick had said.

But when the waiter returned and spread before him two individual foil-wrapped measures of instant coffee, pots of hot water and milk, pale toast and a slice of madeira cake, Patrick began to wonder if her advice was not sound after all.

‘Parakalo
,’ said the waiter, with a proud smile, as if he were serving the crispest rolls in Europe. And Patrick could never wound his
philotimo.

‘Efkaristo,’
he said. ‘Thank you very much.’

At least there was plenty of jam.

While he ate his languid toast, Patrick thought about Felix Lomax. He was a quiet man, sometimes moody, and at times, unreasonably impatient with his pupils. He had married a large, brisk girl who had turned into a commanding woman. They had produced one meek daughter, a plain gosling who had never turned into a swan; she had married a young man of, according to Gwenda Lomax, a morose disposition, and they lived in Surbiton. Gwenda spent her energy in many voluntary activities for the good of the community; and when she became a grandmother, she adopted her new role with gusto. Felix spent more and more time in college, and for some time now had gone on two Mediterranean lecture cruises each year. It was alleged that he and Gwenda seldom met except at functions both felt obliged to attend. Patrick hoped, basely, that Gwenda would not come tearing out to Crete when she heard about Felix for he would feel obliged to look after her.

Poor old Felix. What a tragic way to end. How could such a thing have happened? Well, no doubt the police would soon discover.

In spite of the rude shock he had had, Patrick was hungry after his swim. He ate up all his toast, and was just finishing his slice of cake when the pale clerk appeared, looking for him. Patrick followed him through the hall and into an office where a uniformed police officer and the hotel manager were conferring.

The manager spoke excellent English, and Inspector Manolakis spoke English too, though less fluently. Both listened attentively to Patrick’s account of how he had found the body.

‘Dr Lomax wasn’t staying here, was he?’ asked Patrick. He couldn’t have been. He could only have left the cruise for the day.

The two Greeks exchanged glances.

‘You know the dead man?’ asked Manolakis.

‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘He was a Fellow of St. Mark’s College, Oxford.’

‘Ah,
Oxfordi
, I have been to this fine city,’ said the manager, who was a thickset man with grey hair and many gold fillings in his teeth.

‘There were papers in his pocket,’ said the policeman. ‘Very much wet, but good. His passport, too. You, Mr Grant, are from Oxford also?’

Patrick’s passport, surrendered the night before, lay on the desk. It disclosed his profession and place of birth, but not his address.

‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘Dr Lomax and I are—were—members of the same college.’ He asked again. ‘Was he staying here?’

‘No, Mr Grant. Not in this hotel. We do not yet know which one was his, but that will be moments only,’ said the police officer. ‘We have no news of any missing person.’

Wouldn’t the captain of the
Persephone
have reported Felix’s absence? He must have been missed by this time. The state of the body indicated that he had been dead for several days. Patrick decided not to mention the cruise; Felix might, for some reason, extraordinary though it seemed, have changed his plans and left the ship. Gwenda, when she heard what had happened, would soon say where he should really have been. Meanwhile, he would not complicate things; what mattered was how Felix had met his death. Was it an accident, or suicide?

Patrick was given permission to spend the morning as he liked, but was asked to return to the hotel for lunch. The police might need to ask more questions. This would give time for the doctor to examine the body and for enquiries to be made at the other hotels. Clearly, all would be concluded with speed and discretion.

His passport was returned to him; he would need it for cashing some traveller’s cheques later to pay for the car. He wondered who would break the news about Felix to Gwenda; the police, probably, primed by some embassy official. He would not volunteer to telephone her. Before now he had found himself deeply involved in such affairs through being over-eager. This time he would remain passive.

Yet what was there to be involved with, in this instance? A sudden death by drowning was sad and hard to accept; it need not be mysterious. But there was a puzzle here, for the captain of the
Persephone
had put out no alarm for Felix after leaving Crete; if he had, Manolakis would have known about it. What had happened? Why had Felix come to Challika?

As, the hotel manager ushered Patrick from his office, Inspector Manolakis picked up the telephone and spoke curtly into it. He was a man of about Patrick’s age, slightly built, with an aquiline nose and alert, intelligent eyes. The death of a foreigner must be a great headache for the police; it could happen so easily; one often heard of people on holiday dying of heart attacks, Manolakis had doubtless dealt with such cases before.

Patrick resolved to put the whole tragic business at the back of his mind for the moment. His original plan had been to hire a car at once, and that was what he would do. Accordingly, he set out to walk the mile or so to the town where it could be arranged.

It was already very hot. The sun beat down on the nape of his neck and his shirt stuck to him. He would have to buy some sort of hat. He’d see to it after fixing the car.

There was a choice of travel firms offering tours of Crete and other services, in offices facing the water-front. Patrick went into the first one. It was busy, and he stood at the back to wait his turn. Bright posters on the walls advertised island holidays and trips to Olympia.

An American tourist was having a complicated session with the clerk discussing hotels in Athens and Delphi. Some change of plan was being arranged. The American was short and slim, with crisp grey hair; he was strung about with expensive cameras and wanted to stay at the Athens Hilton. Patrick listened idly while the business was concluded.

Two French girls wanting tickets for the next coach trip to Knossos was a minor matter after that. Patrick’s turn came at last and he was soon dealt with, the car would arrive in half an hour.

This was efficient; Patrick said so, at which the clerk beamed, and they parted amiably. Patrick went to cash a cheque and seek a hat while the car was delivered.

There were a number of shops along the water-front and more in streets running inland to a square with a red-tiled, white-washed church of Byzantine style. Patrick browsed around and eventually bought a lightweight straw affair of conventional shape with plenty of holes for ventilation, and then visited the bank. After all this effort he felt thirsty. There was a
kafenion
on the water-front, so he sat at a table in the shade and ordered coffee, meaning to ask for
metrio
in the manner advised by his phrase-book, but was unnerved when the waiter dashed off saying, ‘Yes, sir, Nescafe,
amesos,’
leaving him no time.

Despite the reassuring
amesos,
the coffee took ten minutes to arrive, but it was pleasant to sit watching the harbour. There were several fishing boats at anchor, and a large cabin cruiser was moored near some steps in the harbour wall. Patrick was close enough to read her name, painted on the stern: the
Psyche.

The American who had been in the travel bureau was sitting at a table some distance away. He was with his wife now, a well-built woman with winged, tinted spectacles and dark hair. They were consulting a map. When he left, Patrick passed behind them; three copper bracelets adorned the woman’s strong, freckled arm. Patrick heard her husband say, ‘Well, honey, you’d built yourself some kind of a dream, I guess. Of course there’s other folk in Crete, it’s no desert island.’

Was his wife complaining about the crowds? Patrick himself was pleasantly surprised at the lack of them. There must be miles of empty hillsides and deserted beaches on the island.

He went back for the car. A small Fiat awaited him. He signed the papers and took the keys.

There were no other customers waiting for attention. Patrick asked the clerk if he had any information about the recent movements of the
S.S. Persephone.
The man knew the ship; he had even been aboard, for his firm’s Heraklion office supplied the coaches that took her passengers to Knossos, but he had no details of her present itinerary. However, he would certainly find out where she was now, where she was bound for next, and when she was last in Heraklion.

Patrick did not go straight back to the hotel but drove through the little town, along the road he had traversed in the small hours of the morning. After passing through narrow streets with shops and houses on either side, it climbed steeply into the hills. Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue marked with occasional wisps of cloud; soon the white buildings gave way to olive trees and scrub. After a while, Patrick noticed a track leading off to the left; he turned down it, stopped the car and got out. Below, the sea glittered in the sunlight, but at this height there was a pronounced breeze; the air was very warm though, and he felt soothed.

He took out his maps and studied the route to Ai Saranda. To get there, one must pass near Phaestos. Perhaps he could visit the palace after his enquiries for Yannis. He would go the following day.

He walked on up the track thinking about Alec and then, inevitably, of Felix. Their deaths were saddening to him; both were only in their fifties, with years of useful scholarship ahead. Alec had been a happy man until his wife, to whom he was devoted, developed a fatal illness some years ago. This had curtailed his activities and was why he had not been to Greece for so long. She had died the previous summer, and Patrick had begun to wonder if Alec had simply been too tired to struggle on alone.