Mortal Remains
Mortal Remains
First published in 1974
© Margaret Yorke; House of Stratus 1974-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Margaret Yorke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 0755130138 | | 9780755130139 | | Print | |
| | 0755134729 | | 9780755134724 | | Kindle | |
| | 0755134834 | | 9780755134830 | | Epub | |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Born in Surrey, England, to John and Alison Larminie in 1924, Margaret Yorke (Margaret Beda Nicholson) grew up in Dublin before moving back to England in 1937, where the family settled in Hampshire, although she now lives in a small village in Buckinghamshire.
During World War II she saw service in the Women’s Royal Naval Service as a driver. In 1945, she married, but it was only to last some ten years, although there were two children; a son and daughter. Her childhood interest in literature was re-enforced by five years living close to Stratford-upon-Avon and she also worked variously as a bookseller and as a librarian in two Oxford Colleges, being the first woman ever to work in that of Christ Church.
She is widely travelled and has a particular interest in both Greece and Russia.
Margaret Yorke’s first novel was published in 1957, but it was not until 1970 that she turned her hand to crime writing. There followed a series of five novels featuring
Dr. Patrick Grant
, an Oxford don and amateur sleuth, who shares her own love of Shakespeare. More crime and mystery was to follow, and she has written some forty three books in all, but the Grant novels were limited to five as, in her own words, ‘authors using a series detective are trapped by their series. It stops some of them from expanding as writers’.
She is proud of the fact that many of her novels are essentially about ordinary people who find themselves in extraordinary situations which may threatening, or simply horrific. It is this facet of her writing that ensures a loyal following amongst readers who inevitably identify with some of the characters and recognise conflicts that may occur in everyday life. Indeed, she states that characters are far more important to her than intricate plots and that when writing ‘I don’t manipulate the characters, they manipulate me’.
Critics have noted that she has a ‘marvellous use of language’ and she has frequently been cited as an equal to P.D. James and Ruth Rendell. She is a past chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association and in 1999 was awarded the
Cartier Diamond Dagger
, having already been honoured with the
Martin Beck Award
from the Swedish Academy of Detection.
Patrick rolled over and swam parallel to the shore for a while, then lifted his head from the water. Towards the rocks he saw a blob; another swimmer had arrived. Patrick swam slowly in that direction, wondering if it was a solitary-minded person or someone who would exchange a greeting when they met.
The other swimmer was a slow mover. The head remained well down in the water, and there was no sign of action from the limbs. He was like a snorkel swimmer, lying motionless on the surface gazing into the depths.
Patrick swam closer, until even without his glasses, he could see there was no snorkel tube. The swimmer lay unmoving, face downwards in the water, arms floating outstretched, and there was something very wrong about him, for the figure – it was a man – was fully dressed. Patrick knew before he turned him over that he was dead.
Monday night and Tuesday morning
London to Crete
Dr Patrick grant was in a bad mood when he entered the departure lounge at Heathrow airport, but after five minutes, in its muted atmosphere of spurious comfort, his humour improved. Though his plans had gone awry, travel always stimulated him and he was bound for a land he found captivating. Ahead were blue skies, brilliant sunshine, and the ruins of ancient civilisations; if he got bored he could always wrestle with the intricacies of the Greek language.
And he would hire a car.
He should have been in his own car now, aboard the ferry for Patras, but ten days ago his white Rover 2000, four years old and without a scratch, had been stolen from the street in Oxford where Patrick had parked it while he visited Alec Mudie, a fellow don of St. Mark’s College, who was in hospital after a heart attack. Two days later, the police had found the car abandoned in a wood; it had run off the road into a tree and was damaged beyond repair. There was no sign of the driver.
Patrick was upset by the loss of his car; apart from the inconvenience, he was fond of it; to him it had personality. It meant, also, a change in his immediate plans to drive across Europe and wander about Greece, an intention already affected by Alec’s illness, for they were to have gone together.
He was still undecided about how to rearrange things when Alec had a second heart attack, and died. Then Patrick made up his mind and booked a flight, for at their last meeting, Alec had asked him to search for a young man who had disappeared.
‘Your godson? Yannis?’
Alec nodded, pale against his pillows, tubes running to him from various machines alongside.
‘You know about the Greeks, how important the relationship is—’
Patrick did. Taking on this responsibility brought with it obligations as great as those of any blood relation. Alec, just down from Oxford, had been in Crete during the war.
‘I’ve had no news of him for well over a year,’ Alec said. ‘He got into trouble some time ago and went to prison. Ilena, his mother, didn’t say why, but it’s not hard to guess with things as they are in Greece today. She hasn’t answered any of my recent letters.’
‘Do you know where Yannis is?’
‘He was working in a laboratory near Thessalonika – he’s got a science degree. But that was four years ago. I don’t know what he’s been doing lately. His mother lives in a village called Ai Saranda, about thirty miles from Heraklion.’
Yannis’s father, Patrick remembered, had been killed during the war.
‘Maybe she’s moved,’ he said.
‘Then why hasn’t she let me know? She may be ill.’
‘Well, I can go to Ai Saranda and find out,’ said Patrick. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were worried about them when we were planning our trip?’
‘I didn’t want to put you off the idea of taking me, I suppose,’ replied Alec. ‘We meant to go to Crete anyway. I’d have sprung it on you when we got there. I wrote to tell Ilena we were coming.’
‘You know I like unravelling puzzles,’ Patrick said, mildly. ‘And if I can’t speak the language of the country I’m in, it’s handy to have a companion who does. Compensates for other problems.’
The quip, as he had hoped, raised a wan smile from the sick man.
‘How shall I talk to Ilena?’ Patrick asked.
‘She speaks a little English – not much,’
‘We could ring you up,’ Patrick said, inspired. ‘You’ll be well enough to talk to her by then. I expect there’s a telephone in Ai Saranda.’
‘Oh, bound to be, though it’s pretty small. You find little villages all over Greece called Ai Saranda,’ Alec said. ‘It means the Forty Saints.’ His voice trailed away and he looked exhausted. Then he roused himself. ‘I’ve written Ilena’s address down.’ Feebly he pointed to his bedside locker; Patrick opened it and found an envelope there addressed to him. Later, he realised the significance of this, as though Alec had feared he might never hand it over himself, for it contained a brief outline, written in a shaky version of his usual neat script, of what he had just related.
‘You shouldn’t have to put yourself out too much, Patrick. It should only take a day,’ he said.
‘I like to know of someone in a strange country,’ Patrick said, pocketing the paper. ‘It gives one a point of reference.’
Now Alec was dead, and what Patrick had thought of merely as a diversion had become important, for the only thing you can do for the dead is to carry out their wishes.
And so he was going to Crete.
In the departure lounge of Number Two Terminal Building, the tide of travellers eddied; nervous people anxiously watched the departure signs, and the less tense sat about drinking or reading newspapers. Patrick looked at them all with interest; there were many nationalities represented. Most of the men in city suits, with brief cases, must be on prosaic business trips, but there were a good many tourists too.
Some distance away on the runway outside, there was a Boeing of Olympic Airways with the coloured concentric circles on its tail. Patrick felt a thrill at the sight of it, and was among the first passengers trooping towards the departure gate when the flight was called. The flock was halted on the way down the ramp to be searched for hidden weapons. In front of Patrick, a woman shaped like a cottage loaf, flat-footed and with unruly grey hair, unpacked her huge handbag laboriously, while a solemn girl inspected every object it contained.
Patrick carried a small holdall which held his shaving kit, four books, three maps, two exercise books and a Greek phrase book. He had a paperback book in one of his jacket pockets, a very small notebook in another, and an array of pens and ballpoints clipped to the inside one. All this surprised his searcher, who looked suspiciously at every item, but eventually, he was allowed to proceed.
The cottage loaf lady had trouble replacing her possessions in her bulging handbag. She stopped suddenly in the middle of the corridor in front of Patrick, bringing him to a halt too, while she struggled with the clasp.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I had it all so neatly stowed away. Still, they’re quite right to be so thorough. You can’t be too careful, can you?’