The Tomb of Zeus by Barbara Cleverly Read Free Book Online Page A

felt released at last to greet each other. The expected handshake was reinforced, Letty was intrigued to note, by warm smiles, a swift backslapping, and murmured compliments.
    “I've asked for a dish of
horta
from the hills,” Theodore rambled on expansively. “Wonderful stuff in the spring! Highly recommended for the liver. Just what you need, Laetitia…Laetitia is feeling a little liverish,” he confided to Gunning. “And for dessert—well, it doesn't feature in Cretan cuisine so when we have guests I clear the chaps out of the kitchen and make my own. Tonight, as the oranges and lemons are with us again, I'm going to impress you all with my Boodles Fool.”

    The meal was exceptional and in normal circumstances Letty's healthy appetite would have done justice to it but, after a token taste of each dish, her will to eat deserted her. Conversation flowed around the table, occasionally foundering on the reefs of silence stretching between herself and Gunning.
    George talked entertainingly of the six months he had just spent driving and walking around Europe. The young man puzzled her. She had assumed, from the delight he showed in owning his splendid new automobile, that he was the spoiled son of a rich man, but when she had trailed before him remarks alluding to the more frivolous aspects of life in France and Italy he appeared non-plussed. No casino gaming table, no racecourse, no gilded box at the music hall had had the benefit of the sight of that remarkable profile, as far as she could gather. Sensing at last from her carefully phrased queries that he was being a disappointment in the arts-and-culture department, George thought hard and came up with a glowing appreciation of the design of the new Alfa Romeo showroom in the rue Marbeuf.
    It was Phoebe who caught her eye and, not too concerned to hide her amusement, reached across and patted George's hand affectionately. “You won't find our George strolling along the Via dei Condotti showing off his suit or necking in a smoke-filled Berlin boÎte!”
    But George had realised at last that the two women were teasing him. Good-naturedly, he grinned and offered further evidence of the sophistication they were casting doubt on. “You do me less than justice, Phoebe! I have adventurous friends in Paris. I was taken to a nightclub! Chez Joséphine in the rue Fontaine! Fascinating…And someone dragged me off to the winter review at the Moulin Rouge. What was it called?…All spotlights and spangles, I remember…
Paris aux étoiles—
that's it!”
    “It's not the fleshpots of Europe that attract George,” Phoebe answered Letty's unspoken question. “It's the
people.
He has hankerings after becoming an anthropologist, Laetitia. He's been studying, making notes on the different races to be found in Europe. Alpine mountain men—grey-eyed Finns—red-haired Irish—George has chased them all down! What he's attempting to do is to trace the movements of the races westwards from the Indus Valley or some such. Am I mangling this too, too horribly, George? Research all done with dimension in mind. I'll bet you anything he can tell you to the inch the average height of the Parisian chorus girl!”
    “As a matter of fact—I can!” said George, beginning to enjoy himself. “They import most of them from England, did you know? Taller girls, you see…they can reach eight feet with feathered headdress. Laetitia could audition any day with great success.”
    “Watch out, Letty! He'll whip out his tape measure, put it round your head, and declare you brachycephalic or dolichocephalic…I never know which is which…”
    George hurried to correct this flippant assessment of his passion. “I'm sure Laetitia knows her skull is a delightful, though by no means emphatic, example of the latter, Phoebe. Like yours, like mine. My father offers an example of the former, round-headed variety. Ancient British ancestry, I understand. But I don't, I assure you, categorise and judge