Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  Angelo dropped to his knees beside me so our heads were together. ‘I’ll call the police and explain. You call Aaron, and Spiro, and tell them to come. Say it’s urgent, an emergency, to get here right away. The more people on the patio, the better.’

  We both pulled our phones out and, still bending over the pot, we surreptitiously made our calls.

  ‘Push it back in,’ Angelo said. ‘Let’s pretend there’s nothing here.’

  I did, then we pushed soil back in too and stood the urn up.

  ‘Come here,’ Angelo said, taking me into his arms.

  I peered over his shoulder. ‘There’s a guy with a camera hanging over the wall on the street above,’ I whispered. ‘And a couple sitting on the roof to our left.’

  ‘Kiss me,’ he said, turning me so that he could look around. ‘The ones on the roof seem to be watching us.’

  ‘You’ve got soil in your beard.’ I brushed it away and kissed him, but my heart wasn’t in it. ‘I’m scared, Angelo.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I wish someone would come.’

  ‘Iris! Iris! What’s the problem?’

  ‘Oh gawd! It’s Spiro. Look, the people on the roof are standing.’

  ‘Spiro’s better than nobody,’ Angelo said. He spoke to Spiro in Greek, then turned to me. ‘The guy with the camera is coming down the steps. If there’s trouble, lock yourself in the house and call the police again.’

  I looked up and saw Aaron racing past the stranger, who stopped.

  ‘Irini, are you all right? What’s happening?’

  Much to his surprise, I flung my arms around his neck and whispered in his ear: ‘I think we’ve found the dragonfly necklace, but we’re being watched.’

  ‘Holy God! The actual dragonfly necklace? The one Bridget wrote about in the magazine?’

  ‘Yes. Act normal. We don’t know if they’re armed. We’ve called the police, but we didn’t want to wait for them on our own,’ I said.

  ‘Listen,’ Angelo said. ‘If they come onto the patio, grab them, take them by surprise. It’s them or us.’

  The guy with the camera came down a couple of steps and stopped to take photos of the caldera, although I felt sure we were in the pictures too. Then I heard a siren in the street above. The cameraman seemed to hesitate. A moment later, two policemen hurried down the steps. They caught up with the cameraman and a great deal of shouting and arm-waving went on. The two policemen followed the man onto the patio and, at the same time, the couple that were on the roof appeared on the patio too.

  Before anyone had a chance to speak, Angelo cried, ‘Now!’ and grabbed the cameraman by surprise, twisting his arm up behind his back.

  Aaron threw himself at the other man, who fell to the floor and was quickly pinned down by the sixteen-stone archaeologist. Spiro grabbed the woman around the waist and hung on with his life, despite her yelling and walloping him viciously around the head. Everyone was shouting and struggling, while the two policemen tried to intervene.

  Then, in the midst of the chaos, a gun went off and everyone froze.

  ‘Stop!’ one of the police officers cried, lowering the pistol he had just fired into the air. He applied the safety lock and holstered his weapon. ‘Now, everyone, calm down!’ He turned to Aaron. ‘Let him up – he’s with us.’ Then he turned to Angelo. ‘You too. Let him go.’

  ‘What about me?’ Spiro gasped, struggling to keep a hold of the woman.

  The policemen seemed to hesitate, exchanged a glance, then one said, ‘Yes, let her go, she works for the police as well.’

  Clearly not used to such vigorous activity, Spiro almost fell to the ground once he had released the woman. He staggered to the wall and sat, swiping the sweat from his face. I had backed into the corner under the bougainvillea, but now that I realised we had misjudged the situation, I ventured out. The gunshot had attracted a small crowd that gathered in the street, and even the jeweller had come out to see what was happening.

  ‘Now, let’s all calm down and find out what’s going on here. Who called the police?’ the taller of the two policemen said.

  Angelo lifted a finger. ‘We realised we were being watched and felt threatened.’

  The cameraman spoke in Greek and then turned to me. ‘You are Irini McGuire, yes?’

  ‘Yes, my mother—’

  ‘We know all about your mother. That’s why we’re watching the house.’

  ‘Right . . .’ The truth of the situation dawned on me. ‘I guess we’ve messed that up. Sorry, but we think we’ve found the artefacts that the thieves were after. I think it’s these same thieves that may have been involved in my mother’s death. We were afraid . . .’

  The policemen exchanged a glance again, before the shorter one said, ‘Where are they, these artefacts?’

  I hesitated. ‘I have to play it safe. I can’t tell you unless someone is here from the archaeological museum.’

  ‘Madam, there are nine people here – one is an archaeologist and five are with the police. We are all on the same side. What’s your problem?’

  ‘It’s what my mother would have wanted. I suspect that protecting these things cost Bridget McGuire her life.’

  The two policemen swapped a few words with the plain-clothed officers and seemed to come to an agreement. Then one spoke to Spiro. ‘Go and get the director of the museum right away. Tell her it’s urgent.’

  Angelo put his arm around my shoulders while we waited. I felt sick. What if we were wrong and there was nothing of value in the Tupperware? We should have checked.

  Ten minutes passed before a suited woman accompanied Spiro onto the patio. I trembled with tension, and a certain amount of fear too. The crowd of tourists grew, phones raised; we were tomorrow’s Facebook fodder.

  Angelo made a quick explanation to the director, then introduced me. She reached out and shook my hand. ‘Your mother was a marvellous woman, greatly admired for her work. We owe her a lot.’

  Angelo asked the cameraman if he would video what was about to happen. He agreed. The tourists also had their phones raised.

  ‘Come on then,’ Angelo said to me. ‘Let’s see if we’re right.’

  ‘Wait! I have to Skype Dad. He has to see this.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Aaron said, and for once, my father answered straight away. ‘An important moment for you, Tommy. We think Bridget got the necklace back. We’re just going to find out, but Irini wants to share the event with you.’ He held the phone up.

  We tipped the urn onto its side and I pulled out the sandwich box. I could hardly breathe. Nobody spoke as we placed it on the tin table.

  ‘Go on then, do it for your mother,’ Angelo said.

  Oh!

  ‘Are you ready, Dad?’ I said to the phone. Everything welled up inside me as I eased the lid off.

  There was a pale pink scarf of soft wool inside. I carefully unfolded it and gasped as the small sandy-coloured jug, decorated with swallows and lilies, came into view. I put my hands over my mouth and struggled to stay in control. Then I handed the jug to the director.

  ‘If I am not mistaken, you’ll find that my mother hid some information in the repair work.’

  I folded back another layer of fabric and there it was, the dragonfly necklace.

  I slid the box from underneath the scarf, so the necklace lay flat on the table. The cameraman moved in. I stared at the delicate, filigree insects, four thousand years old, worn by Queen Thira, supreme ruler of this island. Whether it was Atlantis or not no longer mattered. This was the sacred jewellery of the Goddess of the Marches, as seen in the famous frescoes of Santorini. A fact that could not be disputed.

  Thira had given it to her daughter, and my mother had passed it on to me.

  The necklace had saved my father’s life, but cost my mother hers. It had separated my parents, and brought them together again; and inadvertently, it had brought Angelo to me.

  ‘Thank you, Mam,’ I whispered as tears filled my eyes.

  CHAPTE
R 43

  BRIDGET

  Present day.

  I HAVE LEFT BEHIND nothing but the fingerprint of who I was and what I did, and my undying love in the hearts of my husband and daughter. Has my existence changed their lives, or anyone else’s, for the better? I don’t know. I hope so. Only time will tell.

  In this spiritual world, I have glimpses into the future. I don’t see everything, but my greatest questions are answered. I know that Tommy will have another heart attack and join me in this afterlife, but not before ten years have passed. First, he will hold his granddaughter, and I feel his intense pleasure from that experience. He has always shared his love with me, and for that I am honoured. His happiness is also mine.

  Irini was destined to find the dragonfly necklace, but will she marry Angelo? I feel I should know, yet that revelation is kept from me. I watch and wait and hope. Thira discloses nothing in this ethereal suspension that is not like earthly time. There are moments when we are one, Thira and I, and Oia is with us too, a melding of spirits. And my darling mother, and dear Uncle Peter, and Pa – all of us together in one essence, like water in a slow-running river.

  I have no explanation for these things except that these are the spirits of people who filled my heart on earth, and I am shown snippets of the future, glimpses of things that are important to me. I understand that Nathan Scott, the young student archaeologist, will go on to discover great things. He will remember me and, for some strange reason, try a little harder because he met me that day on the plane. Nathan will also decipher the terracotta pot that I found impossible. The same terracotta pot that caught Oia’s lifeblood before it was poured over the altar of Poseidon; the pot that cut the umbilical cord between Irini and I.

  Many years will pass before the truth about Atlantis comes to light, and knowing this, we all smile to ourselves. I wonder if Plato is here in this spiritual domain, and Solon, and all those who kept the mystical story alive in the minds of men for thousands of years. With that idea, I wonder if Mary and her son Jesus are here, and Moses and Eve, Allah, Buddha, and Shiva. They are just names given by humans. In the spirit world, I am surrounded by goodness, and love, and nothing else matters.

  Mortals die, that is the inevitability of things, but their love is eternal. While I am above and beyond physical feeling, I sense the truth of this fact all around me. After death, all that remains from each of us is a spiritual embodiment of all the love we have given and received.

  EPILOGUE

  BRIDGET

  Santorini, present day.

  MY GRANDDAUGHTER, ANGELINA BRIDGET, came into the world just before midnight on Easter Saturday. Like me, Irini went into rapid labour and gave birth to her daughter in the hyposkafa with Angelo at her side, and Tommy and Quinlan waiting nervously on the patio.

  Hundreds of church bells rang out to welcome Easter. The midwife arrived when it was all over, and after checking baby Angelina, and Irini, she announced both were fine. As the midwife left, Greek people filled the streets, their faces glowing from the flickering light of their holy candles. They walked back from the cathedral, carefully guarding the flame that would bring peace, love, and prosperity into their family homes.

  ‘She’s so perfect,’ Irini whispered, holding her baby. ‘I wish Mam could see her.’

  Angelo nodded, took his baby daughter into the warm night air, and lifted her towards the star-spangled sky.

  ‘Your granddaughter, Bridget McGuire!’ he called out, just as a shooting star fired an arc across the heavens.

  If you enjoyed Secrets of Santorini, you’ll love Patricia Wilson’s other novels . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THANKS TO MY EDITORS, Sarah Bauer, Joanne Gledhill and Katie Lumsden. Also, thanks to the entire team headed by Kate Parkin at Bonnier, particularly Margaret Stead and Eli Dryden for their tireless support. Also thanks to Natalie Braine and Laura Palomares, and to my amazing agent, Tina Betts.

  Many people helped me to write Secrets of Santorini, and I would particularly like to thank: Patricia Mustafa Kelmet, who inspired me to write about the love that is left behind. Also, Helen Rendell, Diana Urrego, Shosh Mutal, Joan Lee and Barbara Stroud, for their tireless help and support. Christos Gastouniotis at DataSync for rescuing me from various laptop emergencies. Mal Wright, accountant extraordinaire. Andrew Dawson for his great legal advice. Caroline Ashford at IAS Medical. Dublin author Eamon O’Leary, and historian George Cafcakis. Dr Barbara J. Hayden, archaeologist at Istron, Crete, Dr Nanno Marinatos for her remarkable book, Art and Religion in Thera, a must if you visit the Santorini archaeological site of Akrotiri.

  I must stress that, although a dragonfly necklace is depicted in the fresco of the queen-goddess of Akrotiri, this novel is a story of pure fiction.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Patricia Wilson was born in Liverpool. She retired early to Greece, where she now lives in the village of Paradissi in Rhodes. Her interest in archaeology began when she discovered an ancient piece of pottery under her olive trees. She was inspired to write this book by seeing the four-thousand-year-old frescoes found on Santorini. Patricia’s previous novels are Island of Secrets and Villa of Secrets.

  www.pmwilson.net

  @pmwilson_author

  THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY

  SECRETS OF SANTORINI began thirty years ago when I started planning for early retirement. In 1989 cheap last-minute flights were listed on TV. So, one cold February morning when a return ticket to Rhodes came up for £20, I leapt at the chance. Shortly after, I was flying at 35,000 feet somewhere over Europe when the pilot announced that due to high winds in Rhodes, we would have to land in Crete. I instantly fell in love with the place.

  The following year I signed on the dotted line to become the proud owner of a lovely little stone house with nineteen olive trees in the garden. The property was close to the beach at Istron, near Agios Nikolaos. The olive harvest had finished and there was I with loaded trees, only a few days before my return to the UK. I had no knowledge of what to do. An elderly neighbour called, bearing a welcoming plate of hot cheese pies that would have easily fed a family of six. With much arm waving, she told me to pick the olives or I would have trouble with the trees next year. Her family and friends arrived, all eager to help.

  Two days later, George, the taxi driver, took us to the last open olive mill in the area. With no regard for siesta time, he banged on the door of a local priest and asked him to deal with our crop. The priest unlocked his mill, started the olive press, then fed us raki, olives, and fresh bread while we waited. Word spread and the villagers woke from siesta and filled the little factory. Some brought dishes of Cretan food. A young man turned up with a lyra and played fast music. Elderly women skipped in a circle. We were grinned at, and patted on our aching shoulders. When we emerged into a star-spangled night, I knew I would always remember those big-hearted people from the village of Prina.

  With only one day left before leaving for England, my husband and I hurriedly gathered fallen twigs and leaves to burn before they attracted the infamous olive fly. My new rake caught a broken piece of pottery. Mysterious symbols surrounded the inside of the terracotta dish. I wanted to investigate, but with packing to do, I brushed away the loose soil and left it in the house until my return. From a pencil rubbing of the markings, I learned a little about the pottery from an American archaeologist who was excavating at Istron. Eventually, I fashioned a copy of the base from cold-clay and handed the original to the Museum. My curiosity and interest in archaeology was aroused. Back home, I came across a stack of ancient history books about Greece. I bought the books, and with the pottery still on my mind, read them many times. The facts ignited my imagination. I had to visit Santorini, and when I did, the bare bones of this novel took shape.

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Zaffre

  This ebook edition published in 2019 by

  ZAFFRE

  80-81 Wimpole St, London, W1G 9RE

  Copyright © Patricia Wilson, 2019r />
  Cover design by Lizzie Gardiner

  Cover photographs © Pictorial Press / Alamy Stock Photo (Engraving)

  All other images © Shutterstock.com

  The moral right of Patricia Wilson to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978–1–78576–912–2

  Paperback ISBN: 978–1–78576–897–2

  This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd

  Zaffre is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  www.bonnierbooks.co.uk