Free Mortal Remains by Margaret Yorke Page A

grave in the main cemetery when next he came to Athens. Her life-long friend, to whom he had made the promise, was now dead too. It seemed to Patrick that he had become hung about with obligations to the dead, the others much less easy to discharge than this one, which was merely a question of time and drachmas.
    He hailed a taxi. It was too hot to walk to the cemetery.
    The driver, a huge man with enormous shoulders like the bull of Minos himself, was amiable, and understood Patrick’s diffident ‘Nekrotafaeion, parakalo,’ without any trouble. His cab was adorned with artificial flowers, charms, and religious emblems, and he drove with such verve that Patrick felt it was prudent of him to have thrown out a few spiritual anchors.
    There were flower stalls, Patrick knew, at the entrance to the cemetery. Beside the huge gates he saw gladioli, Michaelmas daisies and dahlias like those Miss Brinton had grown in her cottage garden. He bought an armful of white gladioli and blue daisies; they would die at once in the heat, but he would have fulfilled his promise.
    Carrying them, he walked through the wide gateway into the cemetery and along the main path. He had forgotten what an immense place this was, but in spots it was shady for it was thickly planted with trees. Right down the middle, he seemed to remember, past a central building that looked like a chapel, and then somewhere up a pathway to the left lay the protestant section. There was a choice of turnings, and he made several errors before he found the right one. Eventually he came to Miss Brinton’s last resting-place. A simple cross bearing her name and the dates of her birth and her death now marked the spot.
    He laid the flowers on the grave and stood there for a moment. It was well-tended; the whole place was curiously peaceful and not at all sad. He moved away at last, and saw nearby an open grave, freshly dug, the dry stony soil in a heap at the side of it. As Patrick turned to go, a very thin young man in a linen jacket and wearing a clerical collar appeared among the headstones and walked towards the empty grave, looking anxious. Patrick absently glanced at him, then looked more closely, and at the same time the young man saw him.
    ‘Good Lord! Dr Grant,’ he exclaimed.
    ‘That sounds like an invocation, Jeremy,’ said Patrick. ‘What are you doing here? You look troubled.’
    ‘I am. I’m walking the course, as it were,’ said Jeremy Vaughan. ‘I’ve got to take a funeral service here tomorrow.’
    Patrick stared at the hole in the ground.
    ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Jeremy.
    He had started his undergraduate life as a pupil of Patrick’s, later switching subjects when he decided to go into the church. Patrick had lost track of his subsequent movements.
    ‘Are you working in Athens? Attached to the Embassy?’
    ‘No. I’m here with a group, actually, doing the sites, you know. A W.E.A. party. The regular chaplain’s away just now, so when this happened to one of our party it seemed obvious that I should step in. It’s a bit different from Croydon.’
    ‘I’m sure it is.’ Patrick looked round at the pines and the dry, dusty ground. ‘I came to a funeral here once,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m here today.’
    ‘Oh, I see.’ Jeremy looked across at the flowers on the other grave. ‘A sad affair, I suppose.’
    ‘Yes. But a nice funeral, if they ever are.’
    ‘There’s this lengthy procession,’ said Jeremy, doubtfully. ‘All the way from the gate. It’s miles.’
    ‘I think someone leads the way,’ said Patrick, helpfully. ‘You shouldn’t get lost. The undertakers must be used to it. It was all quite casual and friendly, that part of it, I remember. Whose funeral is it?’
    ‘A man called Dermott Murcott. He fell while climbing up a hill on Mikronisos.’
    ‘Mikronisos?’ Patrick looked up sharply. “The island?’
    ‘Yes. Do you know it?’
    ‘I’ve heard of it.’
    ‘It’s a pretty spot – rather bare –