‘I’ll buy it,’ he said.
‘No, please!’ Manolakis put up a hand. ‘You know me, Patrick. You understand my speaking. I must practise with other people.’
He was right. And there was the unfamiliar money too.
‘I got me some small money on the plane,’ said Manolakis, and he stepped forward to carry out his little transaction.
On the way back to Oxford, they stopped in Marlow for dinner. The visitor was swift in admiration of the river scene. Swans obligingly swam past, and the weir lent drama. It was very un-Greek. By the time they got to St Mark’s and Manolakis had been installed in his room, fatigue after his journey and the subsequent tourism hit him, and he went to bed forgetting his newspaper. Patrick sat down for a few minutes alone, gathering himself after the day. He was tired too; he had overlooked the fact that being a good host is often exhausting, no matter how welcome the guest. Idly, he turned the pages of the
Evening
Standard.
With Parliament in recess there was a dearth of political news and plenty of space for domestic items. Several valuable old paintings had been stolen from a house near Leamington Spa while the owner, a Birmingham businessman, was out at the theatre. A party of Americans, including a senator, had arrived in England for a varied programme of talks about matters concerning pollution of the atmosphere; there were pictures of Senator Dawson, of Princess Anne preparing for the Badminton Horse Trials and another of Ivan Tamaroff, the Russian pianist who had defected to the west eight years before and whose son, Sasha, a celebrated violinist, was soon to make his first visit to London where the two would perform together. At the foot of a column on an inside page a small paragraph caught his eye. ‘
Actor’s death,
’ he read, and below the heading: ‘
The inquest on Sam Irwin, 44, the actor whose
body was found in the Thames last Friday night, has been
adjourned. Mr Irwin was currently appearing in the part
of Macduff in the production of Macbeth at the Fantasy
Theatre.
’
Shock made Patrick’s mind a blank at first. Then, as he unfroze, horror succeeded. Sam had been dead, not ill, that night: dead, and in the river.
But it couldn’t have been Sam whose body he had seen. That man had red hair, and Sam was dark.
Next morning, at breakfast, Patrick showed Manolakis the piece in the paper.
‘He was your friend? Oh, what sadness,’ said Manolakis, about to tackle the bacon and eggs which Robert, Patrick’s scout, had produced.
‘But why? How?’ Patrick demanded, brandishing the paper in the air above his coffee cup.
‘Suicide. You say there are many in your river.’
‘It must have been.’ But why had the inquest been adjourned?
‘You will be finding out, I think,’ said Manolakis.
‘Yes.’ It was dreadful news; he must learn what had happened, and when the funeral would be held. The coroner had probably given permission for this at the preliminary hearing; as far as Patrick knew, Sam had no close relatives; he had always seemed very much a loner. Liz must be told, too.
While Patrick telephoned her, Manolakis gazed from the window at the Fellows’ garden. It was so green outside, and the daffodils under an ancient cedar were like pictures of England in springtime which Manolakis had seen. An elderly man in a shapeless jacket was walking over the velvety lawn, smoking a pipe. A gardener, Manolakis supposed, not realising that he was looking upon the Master of St Mark’s.
Liz, just arrived at her office, was very surprised at the identity of her caller, and shocked by what he told her.
‘Oh, how terrible! Do you mean it was Sam that you saw that night?’
‘No, it couldn’t have been. That man had red hair – bright red, it must have been, as it looked distinctly auburn even when wet.’
‘He could have dyed it, for Macduff,’ said Liz. ‘You might not have recognised him, from a distance.’
It was true that Patrick had not looked closely at the body; he had not wanted to become involved. Now, the thought that the dead man might, after all, have been someone he knew and from whom he had walked away, filled him with remorse. He would have to find out.
‘You could be right,’ he said.
‘Please tell me, Patrick, when you know,’ said Liz.
He did not have to explain to her the compulsion he would now be under; she knew.
‘All right. I’ll be in touch.’
He would, as this involved someone else and was not just a matter of friendly communication; though shocked by his news, Liz was detached enough to see the irony in the situation.
Patrick immediately rang up Detective Inspector Colin Smithers at Scotland Yard, and learned that it was indeed Sam whose body had been found near the Festival Hall. No one else had been fished from the river that night.
‘Why didn’t you tell me it was Sam?’ fumed Patrick.
Colin had not known that Patrick was there when the body was found.
‘I didn’t know myself till just now – it’s not a Yard case, the local boys are handling it,’ he replied. ‘But as it happens, a colleague had mentioned it to me – that’s why I could answer you.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ Patrick knew he had been unreasonable. ‘But what happened? Why has the inquest been adjourned?’
‘They frequently are – to enable fuller enquiries to be made,’ said Colin. ‘Now, what about your Greek friend?’ He switched the subject.
‘He’s here. You’d better talk to him,’ said Patrick, and gave the telephone to Manolakis. He and Colin had never met, but both had been concerned with a case involving thefts from ancient tombs some time before. Now there was an exchange of polite platitudes on the line before the two policemen made their plans to meet. It was decided that Manolakis would go up to London the next day, spend most of it at the Yard, and then go on to visit some relations, returning to Oxford in a few days’ time.
When all this had been arranged Patrick took Manolakis round the college; this was a lengthy business for there was a lot to see. Manolakis was not as impressed as American visitors by the antiquity of the building, for by Greek standards it was young, but he conceded that it was beautiful, and exclaimed in admiration of the library, where some old volumes could still be seen chained to ancient reading desks. In the afternoon they toured the city, taking in the Sheldonian, the Bodleian, and the Epstein at New College, then walked to the river where Patrick explained about Eights Week, Torpids, and the Boat Race, at which Manolakis marvelled. He had arrived just too late to witness this annual event, Patrick, a rowing Blue, lamented.
‘You took part in this challenge?’ asked the Greek. ‘Wonderful. I admire you.’
Patrick was reminded of the Argonauts: Greeks today were still doughty seamen, but perhaps not notable oarsmen any longer.
‘It was a long time ago,’ he said.
Next morning they left for London. They had spent the evening at the Playhouse watching a revival of
The
Importance of Being Earnest,
and Manolakis had been able to follow most of the dialogue, though Patrick had had to explain the nuances of the play. The theatre, with its panelled walls and rose-rust seating, had an intimate atmosphere which Patrick always enjoyed, and Manolakis said he admired it, though he thought the city, when they walked back to St Mark’s after dining near the theatre, very quiet.
There was enough bustle in London to satisfy anyone, Patrick reflected, hunting for a parking meter near the Yard.
Colin said airily, when they entered his office, ‘I won’t invite you to join us, Patrick. I’m sure you’ve things to do and you’ve been here before.’
Patrick was chagrined; he had expected an interesting day. Perhaps Manolakis, being a policeman, was to see more of what went on within the Yard than even such privileged visitors as himself. There was also the possibility that the Greek had some official reason for meeting the CID.
‘That’s all right.’ he said grudgingly. ‘But tell me, first, what you know about Sam Irwin’s death.’
‘I knew you’d ask,’ said Colin. “There’s not much. He lived in a bed-sitter in Hammersmith, and when he didn’t turn up for the evening performance last Friday the rest of the cast thought he was ill, but he sent no message. However, it seems he sometimes got attacks of nerves, though he’d never actually missed a show on that account – not lately, anyway. Actors are expected to be temperamental.’
Manolakis had been listening to this with intense concentration, and now he asked for the meaning of ‘temperamental’. The word was explained, and then Colin continued.
‘No one at the theatre was alarmed at first. By the time they did start worrying, he’d turned up, in the river.’
‘Any note?’ Patrick asked. ‘Any reason for suicide?’
‘No.’ Colin hesitated.
‘He did not drown,’ said Manolakis, pouncing.
‘Right,’ said Colin, and looked at Manolakis with respect.
‘What, then?’ demanded Patrick. ‘Some sort of fit? A heart attack?’
‘Yes. Just that,’ said Colin.
‘But how did he get in the river? You mean he died somewhere else and the body was thrown in? Good God, why?’
‘Why indeed,’ said Colin grimly. ‘And why were there marks on his wrists and ankles as if he’d been bound, and fragments of sacking under his fingernails?’
‘You mean he was tied up and chucked in? But he wasn’t tied up when he was found.’
‘No. Nor were there any weights to hold him down. Perhaps he couldn’t swim. But he didn’t drown.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Patrick, now truly shocked. ‘What on earth can have happened?’
‘Routine enquiries are proceeding,’ said Colin.
‘But it must have been murder!’
Colin shrugged.
‘Who would want to do it? Who on earth would want to kill poor, harmless Sam!’ Patrick exclaimed.
‘I don’t know,’ said Colin.
‘He had an attack – he died, perhaps, from fear, when he is finding himself suddenly in the water?’ Manolakis suggested, and Colin nodded.
‘It’s possible. If whoever threw him in knew he couldn’t swim.’
‘How was he identified?’ Patrick asked. ‘Were there papers on him?’
‘No – a bystander recognised him. Odd, wasn’t it? You didn’t, but someone else who’d seen him acting did.’
Patrick might have done, if he had looked more closely.
‘He’d dyed his hair,’ he said.
‘Yes. This woman – she’d been at some function or other in the Festival Hall, it seems – had seen him on the stage only a few nights before. He’d made her cry, she said, and she knew him at once. Remarkable.’ Colin, not a theatregoer, found this hard to comprehend.
But Patrick understood at once.
‘Ah yes. “What, all my pretty chickens and their dam at one fell swoop,”’ he quoted. ‘It’s a very moving scene, that one – or should be. When Macduff pulls his cap upon his brows.’
‘I do not understand, please,’ said Manolakis simply.
‘And nor do I,’ said Colin.
Patrick explained how Macduff learns that his wife and children have all been murdered.
‘Ah, I learn much from you, my friend,’ beamed Manolakis.
‘And I do, too,’ said Colin. ‘We’re just a pair of simple coppers, Patrick, don’t forget.’
‘You must have heard the line before – it’s such a tongue-twister – so easy to say “at one foul sweep”,’ said Patrick.
‘Methinks I do remember,’ said Colin, and Patrick was forced to smile. ‘I’ll let you know more, if I can.’
‘I might have a look around a bit,’ said Patrick.
‘Well – there’d be no harm done,’ Colin said. ‘It could be quite a tricky one. You might hit on some point not obvious to us. Though we often get there in the end.’
‘I know you do.’
‘Patrick’s hunches are often worth investigating,’ Colin said to Manolakis, and wondered if the Greek understood the expression. He seemed to, for he nodded. ‘Then we have to find the evidence to back them,’ Colin added.
‘I’ll get along, then,’ Patrick said. ‘You’ve things to do, you two.’
And so had he, now.
Sam’s bedsitter was above a dairy not far from Hammersmith Broadway. Patrick had expected to find it locked, but a police sergeant was there, being harangued by a middle-aged blonde in a tight red sweater and mock lizard boots.
‘It’s not as if there’ll be rent coming in,’ she said. ‘I’ve my living to think of.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hulbert. I can’t let you take it over yet,’ said the sergeant. ‘You won’t be the loser, though, I’m sure. He owed nothing, you said.’
‘No. Paid to the end of the month,’ the woman grudgingly admitted.
‘Well, then. It’s not mid-month yet. You’ll have plenty of time,’ said the policeman.
Muttering about the need to clean up before finding a new tenant, the woman went away, casting a suspicious glance at Patrick as he stood on the landing.
‘She thinks I’m another copper,’ he remarked, entering the room. ‘My name’s Grant. I knew Sam Irwin.’
‘Oh yes, sir.’ The policeman, who was sorting through a pile of papers, looked at him sharply. ‘Can you be of any help to us?’
‘I fear not. I hadn’t seen him for some time,’ said Patrick. ‘And I’ve only just heard about this.’
He looked round the room. It was large, with two long windows overlooking the street. There were a great many books in a case running along one wall, and an expensive high-fidelity record player, with speakers at either side of the room.
‘He was quite a reader,’ said the sergeant.
‘He’d been a schoolmaster,’ Patrick remembered. ‘History – that was his subject. Yes.’ It was confirmed as he studied the titles on the shelves; H. A. L. Fisher was well represented. There were also a number of books about musicians: biographies of composers and performers, and the librettos of some operas. Patrick took out
Falstaff
and looked at it curiously.
‘Was he, sir? Where did he teach?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Patrick.
‘Let’s sit down, sir, shall we?’ The sergeant pulled up a chair and took out his notebook. ‘Maybe you can fill in a few gaps for us, concerning the deceased.’