by Mary Stewart
At the point I paused. Here the rocks were more broken, as if the tide was driven hard that way when there was a wind, and under the cliff was a pile of broken rock and sea-wrack, some of which looked fresh enough to have come up in last night’s squall. Further round, beyond the next curve of the cliff, I could see where a cove or inlet ran in, deep and narrow and surrounded by thick trees which stretched right up the slopes of the cliff; there were pines and oaks and hollies, and among them the limes of which Sir Julian had spoken. Through the boughs of a young thicket at the cliff’s foot I caught a glimpse of red tiling which must be the roof of Godfrey’s boat-house.
There was nobody about. I decided to finish my bathe in the deep water off the point and then return by the path.
I made my way carefully through the piled rocks and the sea-wrack. Here and there a shallow pool barred the way, and I paddled across with caution, wondering uneasily about sea-urchins, which in these waters (I had read) can drive poisonous spines into your feet. Like hedgehogs, which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount Their pricks at my foot-fall … Poor Caliban. Was Julian Gale right, I wondered? I had read The Tempest late into the night, following up the fascinating game he had suggested, and I had even had a few ideas myself, things I must ask him when I went to the Castello again … If I ever went to the Castello again … But of course I would have to return the Shakespeare … If I could find out from Miranda or Adoni or someone when Max Gale was likely to be out …
I had come to the edge of a deep inlet, a miniature cove running back through the rocks. This would be as good a place as any. I paused, peering down into it, to see what the bottom was like.
The water was the colour of Imperial jade. Tiny, shrimp-like creatures scudded here and there among the olive and scarlet bladders, and shoals of small fish darted and nibbled. The shadows cast by the sun looked blue-black, and were alive with the movements of crabs which shuffled through the brown weed that clothed the bottom. The weed itself moved all the time, faintly and continuously, like rags in the swell. A cuttlefish bone showed white and bare. Of his bones are coral made. These are pearls …
The body was lying half in, half out, of the largest patch of shadow. The sun, shining straight into my eyes, had hidden it till now, the hump of flesh and clothes not holding any kind of human shape, just a lump of rags rolled over and over by the swell and dumped there, jammed somehow under an overhang at the base of the pool.
Even now, with the sun directly in my eyes, I could hardly be sure. Sick and shaken, I hesitated: but of course I would have to look. I sank to my knees at the edge of the pool, and shaded my eyes to peer downwards …
The rags moved in the faint swell like weed. Surely it was only weed …? But then I saw the head, the face, a shape blurred and bleached under dark hair. Some sea-creatures had already been at it. The tiny fish flicked to and fro, busily, in the green water.
Spiro, I thought, Spiro … And his mother would have to see this. Surely it would be better to say nothing, to let the tide carry it away again; let the busy sea-creatures purge and clean it to its sea-change, like the cuttlefish bone showing white beside the dark hair …?
Then reason threw its ice-water on my confusion. She would have to be told. It would be more cruel not to tell her. And there was no tide here. Without another storm, the thing could be held down here for days, for anyone to find.
Some freak current thrust a tentacle of movement through the pool. The water swayed, and the dead man moved his head. With the movement, I knew him. It wasn’t specifically the face that I recognised; that would have been impossible: but somehow everything came together in the same moment to enforce recognition – the shape of face and head, the colours, better seen now, of the sodden lumps of rag that had been navy trousers and sweater and light grey jacket …
It wasn’t Spiro, after all; not, that is, unless it had been Spiro in the woods last night, still alive, and making his way up towards the Castello.
There could be no doubt about it, no possible doubt. This was the man I had seen last night in the clearing. I found that I was sitting back on my heels, slumped to one side, with a hand out to the hot face of a boulder beside me. It was one thing to find a dead man; but to recognise him, and to know where he had been shortly before he had met his death …
I had my eyes shut, as tightly as the fingers that gripped the hot stone. The sunlight boiled and fizzed against the closed lids. I bit my lips, and breathed slowly and hard, and concentrated on not being sick. Phyllida: the thought was as bracing as sal volatile: Phyllida mustn’t see this, or even be allowed to suspect the horror that lay just round the point from her. I must steady myself decently, then go back to Phyllida, and somehow persuade her to leave the beach soon. Then get quietly to the telephone, and get in touch with the police.
I opened my eyes, with a silly hope that somehow I had been wrong, and there was no dead man there in the water. But he still lay in his splash of inky shadow, grotesque and faintly moving and familiar. I got to my feet, held myself steady by the boulder for another full minute, then, without looking back, made my way through the tumble of rock towards the thicket that edged the cliff path. It was only when I had reached the bushes, and was wondering if I could pull myself up the eight feet or so to the path, that some sound, vaguely heard a few moments ago, and now repeated, made me pause and glance to my left, towards the boat-house. Someone had slammed a door. Something appeared to be wrong with the catch, because I heard, clearly now, an exclamation of irritation, and the slam was repeated. This time the door shut firmly, and a moment later I heard footsteps, and Godfrey Manning came briskly into view along the path.
I wasn’t sure if he was coming my way, or if the path branched off above the trees somewhere for the Villa Rotha. I opened my mouth to call him, hoping that this wouldn’t also bring Phyllida, but at the same moment Godfrey glanced up and saw me below him on the rocks. He lifted a hand in greeting, but before he could call out I put a finger to my lips, then beckoned urgently.
Not surprisingly, he looked startled, but his expression deepened sharply into concern as he approached and paused on the path above me.
‘Lucy? Is something wrong? Are you feeling ill? The sun?’ Then his voice changed. ‘It’s not that damned lunatic again with the rifle?’
I shook my head. Infuriatingly, after I had so far controlled myself, I found I couldn’t speak. I pointed.
He glanced over towards the pool, but at that distance nothing was visible. Then he swung himself lightly down through the bushes to where I stood, and his arm went round me, gently.
‘You’d better sit down … There. Better? All right, don’t try to talk any more. Something scared you, over there in the big pool? Relax a minute now; I’ll go and take a look, but don’t you move. Just sit there quietly, and don’t worry. I won’t be long.’
I sat with my hands jammed tightly together between my knees, and watched my feet. I heard Godfrey’s steps, quick and confident, cross the rocks towards the pool. Then there was silence, prolonged. The sea murmured, and some cliff-building swallows twittered shrilly as they cut in and out above the path.
I looked up. He was standing stock-still where I had stood, staring down. He was in profile to me, and I could see that he looked considerably shaken. It was only then that it occurred to me that he, too, must in the first moment of shock have expected it to be Spiro. If I had been capable of reasoned thought or speech, I should have known this, and spared him.
I cleared my throat. ‘It’s not … Spiro, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who it is?’
I thought he hesitated, then he nodded. ‘His name’s Yanni Zoulas.’
‘Oh? You do know him?’ Somehow this shook me, too, though it was reasonable to assume that the man had been drowned locally. ‘Is he from near here, then?’
‘Yes, from the village.’
‘What – what do you suppose happened?’
‘God knows. Some accident a
t sea, that’s obvious. He was a fisherman, and usually went out alone … You must have seen his boat; it was always plying to and fro along this bit of shore – the rather pretty blue boat, with the dark brown sail. But in last night’s sea … I wouldn’t have thought …’
His voice trailed away as he stared frowningly down at the pool. Then he turned and made his way back across the rock to where I sat.
‘Two in a week?’ I said. It came out as a query, asked quite as if Godfrey could supply the answer. I hadn’t meant even to say it aloud, and could have bitten my tongue with vexation as soon as it was out.
‘Two in a week?’ He spoke so blankly that it was evident my meaning hadn’t registered. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. I was thinking aloud. I shouldn’t have reminded you. It’s just one of those ghastly coincidences.’
‘Normally,’ he said, ‘I’d have said I didn’t believe in coincidence. In fact, if I hadn’t seen with my own eyes what happened to Spiro, I’d certainly be starting to wonder what was going on around here.’ He paused, and his eyes went back to the pool. ‘As it is, all that has happened is that two young men from the same district have died this week by drowning, and in a community that lives largely by the sea, that’s hardly surprising. Only …’ He stopped.
‘Only what?’
He looked at me with troubled eyes. ‘One doesn’t expect an epidemic of it in summer weather, that’s all.’
‘Godfrey, what is it? You look as if you thought—’ I, too, checked myself, biting my lip. He watched me bleakly, saying nothing. I finished, rather hoarsely: ‘Are you trying to tell me that this wasn’t an accident?’
‘Good God, no! Just that it poses problems. But none that you need worry about. In any case, they may never arise.’
None that you need worry about … Heaven knew what he’d have said if he had had even the slightest inkling of the problem it had set me … Why I still said nothing about last night I am not quite sure. I think now that this last incident took its place in a context of violence, felt rather than apprehended, that made it unsurprising, and that forced me, through some instinct of fear, to hold my tongue. It was as if the first shot from that silenced rifle had been the signal for danger and fear to crowd in; as if by my silence I could still detach myself from them, and stay inside my own bubble of security, keep my own enchanted island free of invaders from the violent world I had come here to escape.
So I said instead: ‘Has he any people?’
‘A wife. They live with his parents. You probably know the house, it’s that pink one at the crossroads.’
‘Yes, I do. It’s very pretty. I remember thinking that the folk in it must be well off.’
‘They were. They’re going to miss him.’
I looked at him, startled, not by the words, which were trite, but by the quite undue dryness of his tone.
‘You are getting at something. You know something about this, don’t you? Why won’t you tell me?’
He hesitated, then smiled suddenly. ‘I don’t really know why not. It hardly concerns me, and it certainly won’t touch you. It’s only that when the police move in on this something might crop up that could be awkward.’
‘Such as?’
He lifted his shoulders. ‘No plain and simple fisherman lived as well as Yanni and his family. Rumour has it that he was a smuggler, with a regular “milk run” into Albania, and that he made a good bit on the side.’
‘Well, but surely … I’d have imagined that an awful lot of men played around with that sort of thing hereabouts? And Corfu’s very well placed, just next door to the Iron Curtain. I suppose any sort of “luxury goods” would go well there? But how could anyone like Yanni Zoulas get supplies of things like that?’
‘How do I know? He’d have his contacts; someone in Corfu town, perhaps, who has connections with Athens or Italy … But I’m sure that Yanni Zoulas wouldn’t be in it on his own account. He wasn’t exactly a master mind. He probably did it for a salary.’
I licked my lips. ‘Even so … You wouldn’t suggest that there could be any connection – that he was killed because of this? Is that what you’re getting at? That–that would make it murder, Godfrey.’
‘No, no. For goodness sake, I wasn’t suggesting anything like that! Good God, no! Don’t upset yourself. Why, you’re as white as a sheet! Look, the idea’s pure nonsense … I doubt if poor Yanni would ever be important enough to get himself murdered! You can forget that. But it did occur to me to wonder if he could have run into trouble on the other side – coastguard trouble: I believe they’re hot stuff over there, searchlights, machine-guns, the lot. If he did, and was wounded, and then ran for home, that might account for an accident happening on a night that wasn’t particularly rough. He might have fainted and gone overboard.’
‘I see. But even if the police do find out something about it, his family won’t be in trouble, will they?’
‘I doubt it. It isn’t that.’
‘Then what’s worrying you?’
‘It might bring them closer to young Spiro than would be quite pleasant,’ said Godfrey frankly. ‘I’ve a strong suspicion that he’d been out with Yanni more than once. It didn’t worry me, and I asked no questions; the boy had a mother and sister to keep, and how he did it was his own affair. But I don’t want them to find out about it now. It would serve no purpose, and might distress his mother. According to her, Spiro was sans peur et sans reproche, and a good Christian into the bargain. I’m sure she’d label smuggling as immoral, however lightly you or I might regard it.’
‘I didn’t say I regarded it lightly. I think that if you live under a country’s protection you should obey its laws. I just wasn’t surprised. But, you know, even if the police do find out something discreditable about Spiro, I’m sure they’d never tell Maria. Police are human, when all’s said and done, and the boy’s dead.’
‘You’re probably right. Ah, well …’ He stretched, and sighed. ‘Hell, what a wretched business. We’d better go and get it over. Do you feel as if you’d like to move now?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m fine.’
He took my arm, and helped me up the rough bank to the path.
‘I’m going to take you up to my house now, to telephone,’ he said. ‘It’s nearer, and there’s no need to alarm your sister till you’re feeling a bit more the thing yourself. The police will want to see you, and you can see them at my place if you like, then I’ll take you home by road, in the car … Now, did you have some clothes with you, or some sort of wrap and shoes? If you wait here a moment, I’ll get them.’
‘They’re back in the bay, but I’m afraid Phyl’s there, too. I left her asleep on the beach. She’s probably awake by now, and wondering where I am.’
‘Oh.’ He looked uncertain. ‘Well, that alters things, doesn’t it? We’ll have to tell her. I don’t know much about these things, but will it – well, upset her, or anything?’
‘I think she’ll be okay as long as she doesn’t see the body. She’ll have to know soon enough … Wait a minute, someone’s coming. That’ll be her.’
A second later she appeared on the path, round the point of the cliff. She must have been awake for some time, for all traces of the sea had been removed; she was freshly made up, her hair was shining and immaculate, she had clipped a pretty beach skirt on over her bathing costume, and she wore her gay beach coat. As usual, the sight of her brought my own shortcomings immediately to mind. I was conscious for the first time of what I must look like, with the salt dried on my skin, my hair damp, and my face – I imagined – still sallow with shock.
She said gaily: ‘I thought I heard voices! Hullo, Godfrey! Were you on your way over to us, or did you just come down to swim?’
‘Neither. I was down at the boat-house giving the boat a once-over, when I saw Lucy.’
I said: ‘Are those my shoes you’ve brought? Thanks very much. How did you guess I’d be wanting them?’
‘Well, dearie, knowing
you,’ said Phyllida, ‘when I woke up and found you’d vanished, I knew you’d be straying along here poking around in the rock-pools, and heaven knew how far you’d get.’ She laughed up at Godfrey. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find her with a jam-jar full of assorted shrimps and things to take home. I remember once—’ She stopped. There was a pause, in which she looked from one to the other of us. Then her voice sharpened. ‘Lucy. Godfrey. Something’s wrong. What is it?’
He hesitated just that second too long. ‘Your sister was feeling the heat a bit, and I offered to take her up to my house and give her a drink. She told me you were on the beach, so I was just coming across for you. I hope you’ll come up too?’
His tone was perfect, easy and natural, but my sister was never anybody’s fool. She had seen all she needed to see in my face, and in the fact that Godfrey’s hand still supported my arm.
She said, more sharply still: ‘Something is wrong. Lucy, you look awful … And it’s not the heat, either; don’t give me that; you never felt the heat in your life. What’s happened? Have you hurt yourself, or something?’
‘No, no. There’s nothing the matter with me, honestly.’ I disengaged myself gently, and looked up at Godfrey. It struck me suddenly, irrelevantly, that he was better-looking than I had thought. The sunlight showed up the deep tan of his skin, and the crisp hair bleached fair at the front. Against the tan his eyes looked a very clear grey.
I said: ‘You may as well tell her straight away.’
‘Very well. Phyl, I’m afraid a beastly thing’s happened. One of the local fishermen’s been drowned, and washed ashore over there, and Lucy found the body.’
‘Oh, my God, how ghastly! Lucy, my dear … you poor kid! I suppose it looked—’ Then her eyes widened, and a hand went up to her face. ‘Did you see? Could you tell? I mean … after a week …’