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  Still grumbling he was led off. By common consent the Moreton-Blakes and Olivia queued for the first boat back to the Penelope, which was to sail for Athens that same evening.

  For many of the passengers the day in Athens was the chief attraction of the cruise, and there was general disappointment that it dawned overcast and sultry. Contemplating a depressing view of Piraeus from her cabin, Olivia Strode realized that she had a headache, an unusual occurrence in her robustly healthy life. She remembered that her daughter-in-law had pressed a box containing a few simple medicaments on her, and unearthed and took two aspirin before facing breakfast in the dining-saloon.

  The change in the weather seemed to have put a damper on people’s spirits. A report went round that Penelope was berthed close to a large American cruise ship, and there were groans from experienced travellers.

  ‘We shan’t be able to hear ourselves think on the Acropolis with every guide in the place bellowing his head off,’ John Bayley remarked gloomily.

  Molly Moreton-Blake suggested hopefully that the Americans might have ‘done’ Athens the day before, and be going out of the city on excursions, but this optimism met with little response. Later, the dreary drive from Piraeus still further lowered the temperature. It was not until she was walking up the steep Processional Way that Olivia’s imagination was suddenly fired by the scale and splendour of the Propylaea. A few moments later the exquisite little Temple of the Wingless Victory moved her so deeply that she lingered to gaze, letting the Morteon-Blakes go on ahead.

  If only there wasn’t such a crowd, she thought, almost jostled off her feet by an avalanche of Greek students preceded by a bearded professor. The next moment she realized to her dismay that Audrey Vickers and the Langs were on her heels, and hurried on up the slope pointedly unaware of them. At the top she found her way blocked by an excited huddle of Americans. Three smart women, apparently long-separated college contemporaries, were all talking at once, introducing the husbands acquired since campus days.

  ‘If this isn’t a real thrill, girls…’

  ‘I’ll have you all meet John B. Harrigan…’

  ‘You don’t say! The war sure got the boys moving around…’

  ‘Why, honey, I said, the future’s right here, over this side. Take it from me, Amurrican citizenship…’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Olivia pushed her way past the group with uncharacteristic vigour, to achieve her first sight of the Parthenon amid inappropriate feelings of irritation. She moved over to her right to put a safe distance between herself and the Vickers party.

  As she stood and looked her annoyance suddenly died, and she became quite oblivious of both crowds and noise. After a timeless interval her eyes moved to the Erectheum, and the matchless beauty of the caryatids drew her towards it. But she had taken only a few steps when an agitated and angry voice broke in on her thoughts. Glancing round involuntarily she saw Audrey Vickers, seated on a fallen column with her left hand clutching the region of her heart. She was flushed, and indignantly addressing the Langs who stood in front of her with an air of helplessness.

  ‘I tell you that I must go straight back to the ship — at once, and you must take me. I can’t possibly manage by myself. How can you even suggest it, Drusilla? I feel most unwell. The dreadful struggle up here was far too much for my heart. We should have been warned how taxing it was. Most remiss — I shall certainly complain.’

  One look at the young Langs’ agonized faces precipitated Olivia into action.

  ‘Can’t I help?’ she asked, joining the group. ‘I’ll gladly see you back to the ship in a taxi, Mrs Vickers, and then Mr and Mrs Lang needn’t miss time up here.’

  She registered glances of hopeless gratitude from Drusilla and Keith, and of positive venom from Mrs Vickers.

  ‘Thank you,’ the latter snapped, ‘but I prefer the help of my relatives. Come along.’ She stood up, pointedly turning her back on Olivia.

  Of all the unmitigated bitches, the latter thought, walking away and biting her lip in indignation. Catching sight of the Moreton-Blakes, she returned their wave and went towards them.

  ‘Heart my foot!’ Charles commented on hearing her story. ‘Indigestion, if I know anything. The woman eats like a horse, and is always stuffing herself with chocolates between meals into the bargain. I hope those unfortunate youngsters get back here.’

  At the end of the morning the cruise passengers were taken back to the Penelope for lunch, at which Mrs Vickers did not appear. The Langs seemed to be under a concerted attack from their table companions. Afterwards it became known that their aunt had cancelled the bookings for the afternoon visit to the National Museum, and the drive to Sunion afterwards, saying that she felt far too unwell to be left alone. Dorothy Anstruther and Katherine Lingard in particular had protested that there was not the slightest need for Drusilla and Keith to remain on board. There was a telephone in the cabin, a ship’s doctor and a nurse. The doctor had been completely reassuring, and merely advised Mrs Vickers to spend the afternoon quietly.

  ‘It was no go,’ Katherine Lingard said. ‘They just wouldn’t play. All I can say is that if they’re after her money in the long term, it’s dear at the price, however much she’s got.’

  Olivia’s headache was still grumbling away in the background, and she found the crowds and reverberating noise in the National Museum exhausting. When, at the end of the visit, the Moreton-Blakes suggested cutting out the Sunion expedition, she agreed with relief, and after returning to the ship and enjoying a peaceful cup of tea, she retired to her cabin for a rest.

  Most of the passengers were ashore, and it was blessedly quiet. Lying on her bed she was surprised to find that the prospect of the end of the cruise had become attractive. Was it the sudden lack of sunshine, or the fact that Mykonos had been a flop, and Athens, taken as a whole, a bit disappointing? Or was it that she felt both mentally and physically rather tired? A bit of all three, probably, she decided. And people being on top of one on board ship, nice though most of them were.

  Dinner re-echoed with the laments of those who had been on the Sunion excursion. It appeared that the coast was being ruined by building, and the sunset had been invisible behind thick cloud. To crown everything it had been dark for most of the way back. Even the normally cheerful John Bayley seemed still afflicted by his gloom of the previous afternoon.

  ‘The whole thing was a washout,’ Lorna agreed. ‘I wish to goodness we’d stayed in Athens and had a look at the shops. What on earth’s this?’

  At her abrupt change of tone everyone looked up to see a steward handing her an envelope on a salver.

  ‘A radiogram for you, madam,’ he told her.

  Looking startled, she ripped it open and read it. ‘My God,’ she exclaimed. ‘It only wanted something like this to round off the day!’

  She pushed the paper across to John, who raised his eyebrows and whistled.

  ‘Just to say that a house Lorna’s had left her’s been burnt down,’ he informed the company, who were trying to look politely unconcerned.

  There was a chorus of commiseration.

  ‘Does it mean that you’ll have to go straight back instead of having your week in Venice?’ Molly Moreton-Blake asked sympathetically.

  The Bayleys looked at each other.

  ‘I don’t really see why, do you?’ said Lorna. ‘After all, it’s a solicitor’s job to cope with this sort of thing. He knows about it — he sent the radiogram. Surely he’ll have the sense to get on to the insurance people?’

  ‘We could ring him when we get in to Venice, I suppose.’

  ‘Anyone living in the place?’ asked Charles Moreton-Blake.

  ‘No, thank goodness,’ Lorna told him. ‘We were trying to sell it. It was furnished after a fashion, but we’d removed anything of value. It belonged to my godmother, who died recently at the age of ninety-seven, so you can just imagine what the clearing-up was like. She’d lived there most of her life.’

  The conversation turned to possible
causes of fire in unoccupied houses. Olivia thought of Poldens, her much-loved cottage in the West Country, and felt a chill. It was thatched…

  ‘Do you realize that the young Langs aren’t in to dinner?’ Charles said later. ‘Somebody was saying in the bar that they sent in a note to Mrs Vickers after lunch, saying they’d be out for the rest of the day, and that she went up in hysterics. Glad they had the sense and the guts.’

  This news was acclaimed by the whole table, and opinions of Mrs Vickers were freely expressed.

  ‘I should think everyone on board knows by now that she’s paying for the Langs,’ John Bayley remarked. ‘Stuck ’em down in about the cheapest cabin there is, too.’

  Remembering the morning’s incident on the Acropolis, Olivia felt a passing uneasiness. Had it been a case of the last straw? She detested rows. But anyway, it really wasn’t her business. On a sudden impulse she invited everybody to an after-dinner drink.

  This turned out to be a good idea, and a morale-raiser at the end of a not particularly successful day. The Bayleys seemed philosophical over the fire, and a much more cheerful atmosphere developed. Presently someone reported that the weather was looking up, and before turning in the party went out on deck to look at the harbour lights and get a breath of fresh air. A pleasant cool breeze was clearing the sky, and Olivia stayed for a few final turns round the Promenade Deck on her own. The ship was due to sail at midnight, and the ordered bustle of departure had begun. People who had dined in Athens were returning in taxis and coming up the gangway, and a tug was already in the offing. She strolled about in a leisurely way, pausing from time to time to lean on the rail and watch the various activities in progress. It was during one of these pauses in the after part of the ship that she realized that a conversation was going on just out of sight. The next moment she recognized Drusilla Lang’s voice, speaking with passionate intensity.

  ‘I’ll never forgive her for what she said to you Keith — never! This time it really is the end. She can leave her bloody money to a cats’ home if she likes. From the moment we get back, I’m through. I’ll never see her, or write or speak to her again. If she rings, I’ll just leave the receiver off.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me in the slightest, as I’ve often said before. In fact, it’s interesting from the psychological angle.’

  ‘There’s a limit, and we’ve got to it. I hate her! If only she really had a weak heart instead of pretending, and using it to blackmail people who are fools enough to be taken in. Anyway, she can’t stop me getting the money my grandfather left when she does die, and the sooner she does, the better.’

  Olivia moved quietly away, feeling depressed. There must have been an appalling row. Probably Drusilla was right, and a complete break was the only possible solution, but how impossible human beings were. So absolutely blind about themselves. And there was something so sterile about hatred.

  The last days of the cruise melted away, bringing a feeling that a way of life was running down. The Penelope called at Pylos, and there was a visit to the site of Eglianos. Thereafter the ship ploughed steadily northwards towards Venice, and although the sun was shining again a cooler element had crept into the weather. It was observed that a definite break had taken place between Mrs Vickers and the Langs. The former kept a good deal to her cabin, and unavoidable encounters at meals were conducted with stiff politeness.

  ‘There’s a nasty look in the Vickers woman’s eye,’ Dorothy Anstruther remarked. ‘I forecast a visit to her solicitor to make a new will as soon as she gets home.’

  The ship’s arrival at Venice was timed to allow a full day’s sightseeing and a final night on board before the return flight to London. Various excursions had been organized, but the Moreton-Blakes bore Olivia off for a programme of their own choosing. The morning went in a fascinating stroll across the city, taking in lively fish and flower markets, the great church of San Zanipolo with its absorbing monuments, and the Colleoni statue which seemed to challenge the world from the quiet little piazza outside. From the Fondamenta Nuove they took the vaporetto to Torcello, ate delectably and expensively at Cipriani’s as a final fling, and wandered in the timelessness of the island and its emotive cathedral all through the warm spring afternoon. Later, by changing boats at the Fopdamenta, they returned to the Penelope by water in the magic of the evening light.

  Arriving rather late for dinner they found a depleted table. ‘The poor Bayleys have had to go straight back to London after all,’ Mrs Mayling told them. ‘Isn’t it unfortunate for them? They thought they had better ring their solicitor when we got in this morning, and he seems to have felt quite strongly that they should go.’

  ‘I suppose they’ll be let in for a lot of bother over the insurance, and what-have-you,’ said Molly Moreton-Blake.

  ‘They were lucky to get seats on a plane at such short notice,’ remarked her husband.

  3

  As soon as the Penelope docked at Venice early on Monday, 30 April, her passengers’ corporate identity had begun to disintegrate. A few of them, like the Bayleys, left the ship that morning, forgoing their last night on board. Others trickled away after breakfast on Tuesday to make their own way to various destinations. The organized exodus to the airport soon followed, where two chartered VC 10s were waiting to convey the party back to London. The final dispersal took place from Heathrow in the early afternoon amid preoccupied farewells and hurried waves.

  Olivia Strode was soon heading for Wimbledon, driven by her daughter-in-law Julian. She turned to eye her critically. ‘You look the absolute picture of health, in spite of all this dashing about with the baby due in a matter of weeks.’

  Julian laughed. ‘I feel fine, just as I did with Rupert. You’ll find him in top form, but it’s time he had a brother or sister, you know. He’s beginning to throw his weight about.’

  Mrs Vickers and the Langs had been obliged to fly back to London in the same aircraft because of the pre-allocation of seats, an uncomfortable journey ending in a stiff parting on landing, and a sedulous avoidance of each other in the arrival lounge and at the customs. Eventually Mrs Vickers drove off in a taxi to catch a mid-afternoon train for Highcastle at Waterloo. She did not offer the young people a lift, although Waterloo was also the station for Fulminster where they lived. They had already decided on a later train, and boarded an airport bus with their luggage.

  Audrey Vickers lived at Redbay, a small coastal resort fifteen miles from Highcastle. Her house, Lauriston, was a pleasant one of pre-war vintage near the sea front. She had little eye for its amenities on her return, however, being in a tense state of anger and vindictiveness. As Dorothy Anstruther had correctly foreseen, she lost no time in contacting her solicitors, Messrs Partridge, Webster and Partridge of Highcastle. Greatly to her annoyance she learnt that the senior partner who handled her affairs was away on the firm’s business and would not be available until Friday morning. She felt it a further outrage that the action she had in mind should be held up in this way, and any acquaintance she chanced to meet was pinned down and forced to listen to the saga of her grievances. Her daily woman, a Mrs Young, was subjected to lengthy tirades on the ingratitude of Drusilla and Keith, but being phlegmatic by temperament and well accustomed to them, she merely let it all wash over her as she went about her work. At home she remarked to her husband that the holiday looked like having made things worse instead of better between Mrs V and the young ’uns.

  Anger, self-pity and frustration are all exhausting and deterrents to sleep. On Thursday night Audrey Vickers tossed and turned into the small hours, and then unadvisedly took a second sleeping-pill. As a result she did not hear her alarm clock go off at seven-thirty, and woke just before nine to find that she had barely time to dress and snatch a cup of coffee before starting for her appointment in Highcastle. Having scrawled a hasty note to Mrs Young, she left the house ten minutes behind schedule, and was delayed further by unusually heavy traffic on the road. On arrival in the city she failed to notice a ‘No Entry’
sign which had gone up a few days previously, and was instantly swooped on by a police officer. He was unmoved by her indignant protest that she had only just returned from abroad.

  ‘Forgotten how to read while you’ve been on holiday, madam?’ he enquired sarcastically. ‘Let me take a look at your licence, please.’

  She sat fuming as he inspected it in a leisurely manner.

  ‘My driving licence is perfectly in order. I’ve got a most urgent appointment, and I’m late already.’

  ‘You’re lucky not to have an appointment at the Casualty Department at the hospital, madam. Reverse now, and I’ll see you out of here. And please drive with proper care and attention in future. I shall have to report this incident, of course.’

  Eventually she reached her destination, breathless, taut, and nearly a quarter of an hour late.

  Mr Richard Partridge, a heavy-faced man with small sagacious eyes and grey hair receding from his temples, rose to greet her and extended a welcoming hand. Mrs Vickers was in the difficult client category, and observing storm signals, he made polite enquiries about her recent holiday.

  Audrey Vickers cut into these with scant courtesy, hardly waiting to sit down before embarking on a recital of her grievances.

  ‘Thanks to Drusilla’s abominable treatment of me — and her dreadful husband’s too, of course — that goes without saying — the cruise has been an absolute misery, Mr Partridge. I paid every penny for both of them out of my own pocket — every penny, let me tell you, and what did I get in return? I got continual disagreeableness and no sign of appreciation for all that I was doing for them, the most outrageous neglect when I collapsed from doing too much solely for their sakes, and when I ventured to protest from my bed of sickness, Drusilla was grossly abusive. Well, this time they’re going to find that they’ve gone too far. The worm will turn, as the saying goes, and I’ve come to my turning point at last. I want you to draw up a fresh will for me. Those two needn’t think they’re going to enjoy my money when I’m gone.’