Yet telling me about the cable made him sound genuinely innocent; and though I had understood that the “subject” had to be a matter of hazard, perhaps there was some reason, some unknown result of that summer, that had made Conchis decide to choose his next guinea pig. Faced with the guileless, earnest Briggs I felt a little of what Mitford must have felt with me: a malicious amusement, bedeviled in my case by a European delight in seeing brash America being taken for a ride; and beyond that a kinder wish, which I would never have admitted to Conchis or Lily de Seitas, not to spoil his experience.

Of course they must have known (if Briggs was genuine) that I might tell him everything; and they would have some way of meeting the problem that would have caused—would make me out to be the “plant,” the liar. Perhaps they even wanted me to tell him; but I did not think so. And once again I was standing with the cat in my hand, unable to bring it down.

Briggs had pulled out a pad from the briefcase he had with him.

“May I ask questions? I’ve got quite a list.”

And again: the coincidence. He was doing exactly what I had done only a few days before, at Dinsford House. His eager, deceitless face smiled up at me. I smiled back.

“Shoot.”

He was terrifyingly methodical. Teaching methods, textbooks, clothes, climate, sports facilities, medicines to take, food, the size of the library, what to see in Greece, character sketches of the other masters—he wanted information about every conceivable aspect of life on Phraxos. Finally he looked up from his pad and the notes he had copiously penciled and took up the beer I had poured him.

“Thanks a million. This is wonderful. Covers everything.”

“Except the actual business of living there.”

He nodded. “Mr. Conchis warned me.”

“You speak Greek?”

“Little Latin, less Greek.”

“You’ll pick it up.”

“I’m taking lessons already.”

“And no women.”

He nodded. “Tough. But I’m engaged, so anyway.” He produced a wallet and handed me a photo. A prettyish black-haired girl smiled rather intensely out at me. She had too small a mouth; I thought I detected the ghostly beginnings of the mask of the bitchgoddess Ambition.

“Nice girl.” I handed it back. “Looks English.”

“She is English. Well, Welsh, actually. She’s studying drama right here in London.”

“Really.""I thought maybe she could come out to Phraxos next summer. If I haven’t got the sack by then.”

“Did you… mention it to Mr. Conchis?”

“I did. And he was really nice about it. Even said she might be able to stay in his house.”

“I wonder which one. He has two, you know.”

“I think he said in the village.” He grinned. “Matter of fact he said he’d make me pay for her room.”

“Oh?”

“Wants me to help him on this…” he made a kind of you-know gesture.

“On this?”

“Didn’t you…” but he obviously saw from my face that whatever it was, I didn’t. “Well, maybe…

“Oh good lord, you can tell me.”

He hesitated, then smiled. “It’s just that he does want it kept secret. I thought you might have heard, but if you didn’t meet him much… this remarkable find on his estate?”

“Find?”

“You know the house? It’s some place on the other side of the island.”

“I know where it is.”

“Well, it seems part of a cliff fell away this summer and they’ve discovered what he believes to be the foundations of a Mycenean palace.”

“He’ll never keep that quiet.”

“I’d guess not. But he thinks he can for a while. Apparently he’s covered it up with loose dirt. Then this spring he’s going to dig. But naturally right now he doesn’t want everyone visiting all over.”

“Of course.”

“So I hope I won’t be too bored.”

I saw Lily dressed as the snake goddess of Knossos; as Electra; as Clytemnestra; Dr. Vanessa Maxwell, the brilliant young archaeologist.

“Doesn’t sound as if you will.”

He finished his beer, and looked at his watch.

“Jesus, I’ve got to run. I’m meeting Amanda at six.” He shook my hand. “You don’t know how much this has meant to me. And believe me, I’ll write and let you know how it goes.”

“Do that. I’d very much like to know.”

I followed him down the stairs and watched his crewcut head. I began to understand why Conchis had picked him. If one had taken a million young college-educated Americans and distilled them down into one quintessential exemplar one would have arrived at something like Briggs. I did not like to think of the omnipenetrating Americans reaching to so private a European core. But I remembered his name; much more English than my own. And there was already Joe; the prosecuting Dr. Marcus.

We came out on the front step.

“No last words of wisdom?”

“I don’t think so. Just my very good wishes.”

“Well…”

We shook hands again.

“You’ll be all right.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course you’ll find some of the experiences strange.”

“Oh sure. Don’t think I’m not going with a wide open mind. And prepared for everything. Thanks to you.”

I gave him a long smile; I wanted him to remember it was a smile that had gone on too long and hadn’t quite fitted in with the situation. He raised his hand and set off. After a few paces he looked at his watch, and began to run; and in my heart I lit a candle to Leverrier.

75

She was ten minutes late; came quickly through the turnstiles, a polite small torment of apology on her face, and straight to where I had been standing next to the postcard counter.

“Oh dear. I’m so sorry. The taxi crawled.”

I shook her outstretched hand. For a woman half a century old she was impressively good-looking; and she was dressed with an easy flair that made most of the dull afternoon visitors to the Victoria and Albert around us look even drabber than they really were; defiantly bareheaded, and in a pale gray-white Chanel suit that set off her tan and her clear eyes."It’s a mad place to meet. Do you mind?”

“Not in the least.”

“I bought an eighteenth-century plate the other day. They’re so good at identifying here.” I took the basket she was carrying. “It won’t take a moment.”

She evidently knew the museum well and led the way to the lifts. We had to wait. She smiled at me; the family smile; soliciting, I suspected, what I was still not prepared to give. Determined to tread delicately between her approval and my own dignity, I had a dozen things ready to say, but her breathless arrival, the sudden feeling I had that I was being fitted, inconveniently, into a busy day, made them all seem wrong.

I said, “I saw John Briggs on Tuesday.”

“How interesting. I haven’t met him.” We might have been talking about the new curate. The lift came, and we stepped inside.

“I told him everything I knew. All about Bourani and what to expect.”

“We thought you would. That is why we sent him to you.”

We were both smiling faintly; a cramped silence.

“But I might have.”

“Yes.” The lift stopped. We emerged into a gallery of furniture. “Yes. You might.” -

“Perhaps he was just a test.”

“A test wasn’t necessary.”

“You’re very sure.”

She gave me that same wide-eyed look she had had when she handed me the copy of Nevinson’s letter. At the end of the gallery we came to a door: Department of Ceramics. She pressed the bell beside it.

I said, “I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot.”

She looked down.

“Well yes. Shall we try again in a minute? If you wouldn’t mind waiting?”

The door opened and she was let inside. It was all too rushed, too broken, she gave me no chance, though her last quick look back before the door closed seemed apologetic; almost as if she was afraid I might run away.

Two minutes later she came back.

“Any luck?”

“Yes, it’s what I thought it was. Bow.”