“That’s him.” Kyrioudis nodded past Jasper. “How is Mrs Ramsforth? I heard she escaped you this afternoon.”
“Escaped? You make it sound as if I have her locked up.”
“Well, she was away for some time and there is another dead body.”
“You can’t seriously suspect her of having—”
“I just wanted you to know.” Kyrioudis turned on his heel.
“Wait.” Jasper stopped him. “Do you know the name of the family who lived at this villa twenty-five years ago? I talked to someone who connected the dots for me. The young man who was washed up dived off the rocks behind this hotel. It was a villa then for a family of outsiders. American or English.”
“It doesn’t ring any bells.” Kyrioudis shrugged.
“It could be important. Could you find the information for me?” Jasper decided not to reveal the possible connection with Damaris Ramsforth just yet.
Kyrioudis pursed his lips as if he wasn’t convinced. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He left the lobby at his sedate, self-important pace.
Medea said, “He’s not doing much to solve the case of the murdered old woman. I guess if it would have been an important person he would have tried harder. If Mrs Ramsforth had died, for instance… But an old island woman doesn’t matter.”
“I’m doing all I can to solve it.”
Medea looked at him with her deep brown eyes. “To acquit Mrs Ramsforth of it? I think she’s mad. It need not be her fault. In Greek tragedy people are often stricken with madness by the gods. They can’t help it.”
“You believe in the ancient gods?”
“No, I’m Greek Orthodox.” Medea pulled a necklace from underneath her high closing dress. It held a small silver cross. She brought it to her lips and kissed it, then crossed herself. “It helps not to be afraid of death.”
Jasper thought of the necklace which had disappeared off the murdered woman’s body. Also a token of religious observance? Or something else?
Medea said, “I could sit with Mrs Ramsforth if you need someone.”
“No, thank you, I have Mrs Murray to do it. And someone is coming over soon.” He smiled at her. “Thank you for taking the telegram to the harbour this afternoon.”
She returned his smile. “It was easy enough. I like to walk. If there’s anything else I can do for you, just let me know.”
“I will.” He turned away from the desk and stood thinking for a few moments. He needed information about the earlier murder here at the hotel, when it was still a villa. But how to get it?
Of course! He almost slapped his forehead, and dashed out after Kyrioudis. The man was about to get into a carriage that was waiting for him.
Jasper called out his name. He looked back at him. “What now, Inspector?”
“If a murder happened at this hotel, twenty-five years ago, who would have handled the case?”
Kyrioudis’s expression set. “My brother would have. But I can assure you that if he had handled a murder case on this island, at the hotel at which Mrs Ramsforth is now staying, he would have told me so.”
“Perhaps he didn’t tell you for a reason.” Jasper straightened up. “I’m beginning to get the unpleasant impression I was dragged into something without knowing the full story.’
Before Kyrioudis could speak, Jasper continued: “The first time we met right after the dead body had been discovered on the beach, you spoke with me and mentioned the old woman had been stabbed. But on the phone to the police I had not told anyone how the victim had died. How did you know?” He added ironically: “My friend.”
Kyrioudis held his gaze, then cursed under his breath. “I see you will have to meet my brother and hear the full story from him. Can you come with me now?”
Jasper nodded. He was itching to know what the full story could be.
* * *
In a luxurious living room full of plush chairs, leather couches and shelves full of expensive books, Stephanos Kyrioudis held out a glass of whisky to his unexpected guest. An unwanted guest as well. He had believed when he had asked his brother to accompany the English inspector during his investigation that he would manipulate the outcome to suit their needs.
But Achilles hadn’t. Or in any case not enough. That was the trouble with men who sat hidden in their studies all the time. They didn’t do enough. They didn’t know how to act when it was necessary.
Jasper sipped the whisky and nodded his approval. “Very fine. Now, you know something about the murder that happened twenty-five years ago at the villa which has now been turned into a hotel?” Stephanos took his time to install himself in his favourite chair and take a sip of his own drink. Then he said, choosing his words with care, “Know is the wrong word, Inspector. I had ideas at the time. But they were of little use. After all, the killer was already dead.”
“The young man who was driven off the rocks into the sea?”
“Indeed. The villa staff declared that they had heard the victim’s little girl cry out and had come out to see what was wrong. Their mistress was lying dead on the tiles. She had been stabbed. A young man was running away, his hands covered in blood. They wanted to apprehend him, but unfortunately he fell off the rocks behind the villa and drowned in the sea.”
“I thought he broke his neck?’
“Lots of his bones were broken. He might have died of the fall. Or of drowning. We didn’t know. By the time his corpse washed up on the beach, it was not easy to determine much.”
“Or no one really tried?” Jasper stretched his legs. “Do you approve of this kind of self-imposed justice?”
“Hardly, but it was an open and shut case. The woman was dead, the killer was dead. The staff all covered for each other. So what could I do?” He gestured with his hands. “Soon after, the husband of the murdered woman sold the villa and disappeared from the area.”
“And the child?”
“She was traumatised. I think she was committed to the care of a specialised psychiatrist.”
“I see. How old was the child at the time?”
“I can’t quite remember. Four? Five? At most. A scrappy little girl. The staff said she adored her mother. The death must have been a terrible shock to her.”
“What was her name? Do you recall?”
“After all those years?” Stephanos lit a cigar and inhaled. “What do you want with this old story, Inspector? Surely you don’t think there is a connection with the death of that old woman on the beach.”
“I was told she visited a grave almost every day. The grave of the young man suspected of this murder.”
“I see. An unhappy coincidence.”
Jasper sat up and looked closely at him. “You asked me to take up the case for a reason. I want to know what it was.”
Stephanos watched the smoke of his cigar dissolve. “When a foreigner is murdered, it is never good for the reputation of our country as a safe place to travel, holiday. The American sold his villa because of his wife’s death there. Now it’s a hotel and a lady staying there might have killed someone. Some Greeks are superstitious enough to say the place is under a curse. But I’m not one of them. I’m a practical man. I like clean solutions. I wanted you, who is also a foreigner, to establish whether the woman is guilty or not.”
“Because twenty-five years ago a foreigner was driven into the sea and you don’t know if he was guilty or not.”
Stephanos gestured with a hand. “I never had a chance to establish it. But yes, it wasn’t good that a foreigner died at the hands of the islanders. Someone wrote a letter to me saying this injustice would come back to haunt me.”
“A letter? Right after it had happened?”
“No, recently, actually.” Stephanos rose from his seat. “I can show it to you.” He went to his desk in the corner and opened a drawer, digging his hand underneath a stack of correspondence to unearth the letter. “Here it is.”
He carried it to Jasper who accepted it and studied it, starting with the envel
ope. “It is addressed to you here, at this address.”
“Yes.” Stephanos didn’t really see what that had to do with the case.
Jasper had already extracted the sheet of paper and unfolded it. “Cut out letters.’
“Yes, melodramatic, don’t you agree?” Stephanos picked up an ashtray off a nearby table and sat down again. He tipped ashes off his cigar and watched Jasper as he studied the letter. “What do you make of it?”
Jasper said, “It mentions the young man who died by name. Arthur Reynolds. Have you tried to find out more about him?”
“Of course. He was a student of architecture who stayed on the mainland. No idea what he was doing on the island, as there are hardly architectural gems there.”
“Any connection between him and the woman murdered at the villa?”
“Not that I can establish. Reynolds was English, as she had been.”
“You just said the man who sold the villa after his wife’s murder was American—?”
“Yes. He was American, she was English.”
“So, she could have known Reynolds before her marriage?”
“Could have, but how do you go about finding out after twenty-five years? I established what college he had attended and that he had been in Paris for the past few months before coming to the island, but no more. I could hardly determine if he had met the murdered woman some place.”
“I understand.” Jasper returned the letter to the envelope. “May I keep this?”
“If you think it can be helpful.” Stephanos watched him. “You didn’t give me the entire list of what paper it is, from what book or newspaper the letters came and with what kind of scissors they were cut out.”
“I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” Jasper said.
The piqued tone made Stephanos smile, but he suppressed it. “I heard you were one of the best in the business. I wanted a quick resolution. Not more trouble.”
“I can hardly solve a case where I have access to so few facts.”
“What about your witnesses?”
“They contradict one another and they have reason not to agree.”
“I see. How cryptic.” Stephanos leaned his head against the chair.
“Who told your brother the woman had been stabbed? I never mentioned it over the phone.”
“You must have. How else could he have known?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.” Jasper kept his eyes on him, and Stephanos grew uncomfortable.
Jasper asked, “Has your brother been to the island often? Did he even know the American and his wife? Back then, I mean, around the time of the previous murder?” Stephanos relaxed. “Yes, the American wrote novels. My brother advised him about mythology.”
Jasper’s eyes widened. “So your brother was actually a friend of the family? He never told me, he never even let on that…” He seemed too indignant to continue. “He put me into contact with this old hermit Petros to answer questions about the washed-up corpse on the beach. But in reality he knew everything about it?”
“‘Everything’ is an exaggeration. He only heard about the murder after the fact. And he had no reason to look into it.”
“No, but you had. You were the police chief. Still are.” Jasper sat on the edge of his seat. “You gave me a translator in this case who might not be trustworthy because he himself could have been involved at the time.”
“How do you mean, involved?’
“I don’t know. Maybe he was the murdered woman’s secret lover and he murdered her and then the young man, Reynolds, came along and discovered the body and was mistaken for the murderer? How convenient that the island’s people drove him to an untimely death. He couldn’t plead his innocence any more.”
“How dare you accuse my brother of being a murderer!” Stephanos rose from his chair. “My hospitality ends here. Please leave.”
Jasper remained seated. “I have no intention of leaving. You involved me in the case and you gave me your brother as a liaison. I want to know why.” He watched Stephanos through narrowed eyes. “You yourself might have suspected your brother, and you believed I might discover his guilt.”
“Why would I want anyone to discover my brother guilty of murder? Blood is thicker than water. Don’t you say it like that?”
Jasper gestured with his hands. “I have no idea. But if your brother was found guilty and got accused and executed… might you be his heir?” Stephanos opened the door from his living room into the hallway. “Please leave. Our conversation has ended.”
Jasper stood. “If you could never prove his guilt, why do you think I could?” Stephanos walked into the hallway and opened the front door. “I have nothing more to say. Goodnight.”
As Stephanos closed the door behind the befuddled inspector’s back, he smiled to himself. The letter especially had been very clever. A man who considered himself such an expert at solving difficult puzzles would pour over it, read things into it, over-analyse it. Over-estimate its importance as a vital piece of evidence. Stephanos stood in the hallway and stared, lost in thought, at the handwoven carpet covering his marble floor. Yes, it was possible now. Perhaps he would have his retribution after all.
* * *
Jasper walked up to the hotel as fast as the darkness around him would allow. He carried a lantern he had borrowed in the harbour. It had been his luck that a fisherman had been willing to take him back to the island despite the late hour. The visit to the secretive police chief had left him with an itch in his bones and an unreasonable need to quarrel with someone. About anything.
He just knew that the man knew a lot more than he was telling him. About his own brother’s involvement perhaps? Achilles Kyrioudis, the secret lover of a beautiful woman who had come to the island with her American husband? He seemed too pompous for it, but twenty-five years might have changed him, and Jasper could certainly accept he had one day been dashing, if only because he could quote from Homer at will. After all, the victim had been married to a novelist, so she might admire a man for his mind foremost. His literary knowledge. Sophistication.
Yes, now that he knew Achilles Kyrioudis had been at the villa at the time, he had to consider him a serious suspect. In the murder of Damaris Ramsforth’s mother and of the old woman on the beach.
But there was something else. Something that nagged at him like a headache that’s just beginning to form. Something he should remember because it mattered. A lot.
He walked faster, looking up at the hotel ahead. When the police chief had handed him the letter, he had seen the young man’s name.
What about the name had struck him?
Arthur? Had someone mentioned an Arthur? Who? In what context?
He tried to recall entire conversations, even before the murder had occurred, but he came up with nothing.
Reynolds then?
Suddenly he froze. He saw himself standing at the reception, talking to Medea. The ledger had been there, registering all guests. The Murrays had been on it too. Her name had read Murray-Reynolds.
Jasper broke into a run. He didn’t go through the hotel’s lobby but around it and into the walled garden by the little side door. He crossed, holding the lantern to light his path but so low it wouldn’t be seen from the inside. He came up to the barred window of the room in which Mrs Murray tended Mrs Ramsforth.
He looked in.
She stood beside the bed. She was looking down on the young woman, who seemed fast asleep. Was she holding something in her hand?
Jasper imagined it to be a syringe. Containing something to make Mrs Ramsforth delirious? Forgetful? Hysterical? Or even to kill her?
And he had left her in this woman’s care!
“Step away from the bed,” he called through the window. “To the door.”
She looked up. Her pleasant blushing features changed from contemplative to confused. “Why, Inspector. What is wrong?’
“To the door.” He gestured. “Out into the hallway.”
When he was certain she had steppe
d out, he rushed inside and met her. She still looked perplexed. “What is the matter?”
He looked into her eyes. “You are Arthur’s mother. Arthur Reynolds, who died right here behind this hotel.”
She didn’t deny it. She didn’t even blink. “Yes. Is something the matter with that?”
Jasper was confused now. She should have denied it, or tried to push past him and flee. But she didn’t seem bothered by his knowledge at all.
He narrowed his eyes. “You simply admit it?”
“Of course. How do you know?”
“I saw your name in the register.”
“I mean, about Arthur… His death isn’t common knowledge. In fact, my husband doesn’t know about it. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“Your husband doesn’t know you have a son who died?”
“Oh, he does know I had a son who died. But I told him that he died in a traffic accident in Paris. I never told him about this island. Or the grave. It’s just too terrible that they didn’t bury him properly. Just because he was washed up on the shore.”
Jasper tried to understand what she was saying. She had lied about how her son had died. So she had to know he had died branded a murderer. She had come here to…
Yes, to do what?
He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry that I acted like I did. You are not hiding your identity. You put your name, I mean, Reynolds, in the register.”
“Yes, why not? That was my deceased husband’s name. Arthur’s father. He was so proud of him. Wanted him to be an architect. The news of Arthur’s drowning just broke his heart. He lived for two more years, but he was never the same.”
She eyed Jasper. “Why should I hide my identity? Nobody here knows. I mean, they never found out the name of the drowned boy. That’s why there is no tombstone on his grave.”
“I see.” Jasper looked about him but there was no one around. No one at the desk, no waiters. “And you come here to visit his grave without your husband knowing about it?’
“Yes. Besides photography, he loves fishing. So once he’s off with some fishermen, I go to the grave. It’s not much really, but I like to do it.”
Honeymoon with Death Page 14