tired, maybe from working too many late hours. Whatever it was, it was giving him grey hairs. His type of blond hair didnât show the grey easily â but surely it was lighter at the temples? Grey hairs, thought Mayo, and Kite seven years younger. God, that was depressing. People were soon going to be looking twice at what heâd always thought of as the distinguished sprinkle of silver in his own thick dark hair and wondering whether it wasnât time he retired.
âYouâll see what he means when you read it, sir,â Abigail suggested, dispelling unwelcome thoughts.
Mayo was on Kiteâs side in the matter of anonymous communications, in so far as heâd no time either for anybody who wasnât prepared to put their name to what they wrote. On the other hand, anonymous tip-offs were a necessary evil to be accepted, even encouraged, with grateful thanks and without too many questions as to their provenance. Even though they were invariably from amateur informers, written out of spite, or a desire to get their own back, to shop somebody whoâd done them wrong.
This one differed from the usual run in that it was not only disconnected and incoherent but also, as Kite said, non-specific. It began without preamble: â The night she died Dido came. Dido Elissa. There were bad vibes that night. And Death for the old woman. She made out she was old and useless but could see everything without glasses and ears like a bat. The horrible red room. Babiesâ cremation urns. And the mask of Tanit wife of Baâal. All-powerful. Death .â The text at this point was interrupted by a line of drawings, the same figure repeated again and again, a triangle surmounted by a circle bisected by two extended arms, in what appeared to be a crude representation of the female form. She would not have died if she had stayed away from England. If he had kept his temper. I have kept my mouth shut for fourteen years and said nothing but I was wrong. Murder must be punished. â
It was not signed.
âSee what I mean?â asked Kite as Mayo came to the end of this missive, turned the page over to see if there was anything more, but found nothing. âDido, Elissa â babiesâ cremation urns! What in the name of God are we expected to make of that?â
âDido as in Dido and Aeneasâ Mayo was able to inform them modestly, enlightenment having gradually dawned on him as he read.
Kite, however, looked blank and Abigail, who might have known what Mayo meant but had learned to be careful of appearing too clever, said nothing.
âItâs an opera. Maybe somebody saw it in London like I did, the other week. Over-stimulating to the imagination â that particular production at any rate.â
âOh, an opera,â said Kite.
âBased on the legend of Dido, a queen of ancient Carthage, who ended up flinging herself into the flames when her lover Aeneas deserted her.â
Abigail couldnât resist that. âWhat man on earthâs worth that, I ask myself. Her laugh almost took the acid out of it.
âShe was also known as Elissa,â Mayo said, tapping the letter. And Tanit was the moon-goddess of Carthage who demanded sacrifices of babies and small children.â
âSounds like a real fun evening!â Kite said.
âDisappointing.â
Mayo had gone alone and was glad he had. Purcell wasnât much in Sergeant Jonesâs line. Alex and he shared their intimate moments when their off-duty coincided and would, if he had his way, share the rest of their lives, but the one area where their tastes didnât coincide was music. She liked hers soft and easy and could take it or leave it, whereas for him it was serious and at the centre of his life. The tragic opera had been memorable for more than the felicitous marriage of words and the most glorious musical instrument of all, the human voice. It had been a clever, arty production, a combination of