‘Killers always have a motive, and in a small place like Mithros, motives are easy to run to ground. Aren’t they, Private?’ He looked directly at Gounaris. ‘It might happen in a moment, I realise; a flash of temper, an ego bruised, and pouf! – a life is over. Is that how it was, soldier?’
But Gounaris smiled.
‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘I had no motive.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘As a matter of fact, I can.’ He left them for the bunkhouse, and returned a minute later, holding out his gold chain on his open palm.
‘Where the hell did you get that?’ asked the captain.
Gounaris punched Skafidis in the upper arm.
‘Frightened you half to death, didn’t I?’ he asked. ‘I fell over somebody’s boots in the dark. I knew you’d have heard me. If you’d challenged me, I’d have come clean. Poustis.’ He turned to the captain. ‘He stole it from me, I pinched it back. Took it while he was sleeping.’
The fat man frowned.
‘And did he know you’d taken it back?’
‘He was mad,’ said Gounaris. ‘I passed him going into the showers yesterday morning. He knew I’d got it. He called me a thieving little bastard. That’s all.’
‘That would explain his filthy mood,’ said the captain. ‘You’d taken back his ticket out of here.’
‘I suppose I had.’
‘But if you hadn’t, he might have got out of here, and be alive now,’ said the fat man.
As the conscripts left them, the fat man rose to go.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ he said. ‘Might I return the favour, and invite you to dine with me tomorrow evening? My yacht – the Aphrodite – is moored in the harbour. You might enjoy a night away from your charges, and my man is a passable cook. And fingers crossed the Turks won’t invade in your absence.’
‘It’s kind of you,’ said the captain. ‘Unfortunately, we have no spare fuel to make non-essential trips to the harbour.’
‘I’ll be happy to have someone pick you up from here. Shall we say about seven, seven thirty?’
‘Before you go,’ said the captain, ‘we seem to have solved the mystery of Skafidis’s night visitor. But we still have Kastellanos’s report, and the rifleman old Vasso saw. What do you make of both those?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said the fat man, thoughtfully. ‘There are still plenty of loose ends, I have to agree. Your soldiers seem to lack confidence, individually, and perhaps it would be wise to exercise caution, for a while. So might I suggest you put two of them on overnight watch together, until we’ve answers to all our questions?’
On the road out of the camp, at the brow of the hill the fat man paused, and listened. The gloom of dusk had changed almost to night. Down on the camp, a card game had begun, and the voices of the soldiers carried loud through the still air.
But there was nothing else to hear: certainly no music, and no evidence of anyone who might disturb the soldiers’ peaceful night.
Back in the harbour, the bars were busy. Finding no empty tables outside, the fat man took a stool at the counter of a place where the bartender kept the music low, and a television on the wall was tuned in to the news. In a corner, an Italian couple exchanged long kisses.
‘What’ll you have?’ asked the bartender. He was polishing glasses with a damp cloth; he kept one eye on the television.
The fat man asked for a beer. The bartender took a mug from the freezer, and filled it from the pump.
‘We’re going to be on, in a minute,’ he said, nodding towards the television. ‘There was a news team in Mithros today.’
‘I saw them,’ said the fat man. He sipped at his chilled beer. ‘What’s the story?’
But before the bartender could answer, a shot of Mithros’s harbour filled the screen.
The bartender ran to the television, and turned up the volume. A voiceover talked about the island, and gave the background of its famous missing bull. The shot cut to the blonde reporter, standing outside the town hall with the man in the black suit.
‘And now the mystery deepens further,’ she said, smiling broadly, ‘with another theft – that of the only true replica of the famous bull, stolen two nights ago from Mithros’s museum. Whilst the copy has nothing like the value of the original, officials here are troubled by suggestions unscrupulous thieves intend to pass the copy off as the genuine article, and that it will find its way to the lucrative black market in antiquities. Mr Mayor . . .’
She turned to the man in the suit. He gave an uneasy smile, and curt answers to her questions about the thief’s motives, and insisted on the rarity of crime on the island. There were clips of local people, most ignorant of any replica, and all amused at the idea of its theft. Finally, the reporter stood face to face with Uncle Vasso, who seemed relaxed before the camera, and dapper in his seersucker and brogues.
‘Kyrie Eliadis,’ said the reporter, ‘it was you who paid for the reproduction of the bull. People are saying history is repeating itself, but what do you make of its disappearance?’
‘It’s not surprising to me someone would steal it,’ said Uncle Vasso. ‘The bull is a wonderful object, and whilst the copy can never have the original’s magic, it does capture much of its beauty. It’s a work of art in itself.’
‘And are the people anxious to see the bull returned?’
‘Of course,’ said Uncle Vasso, spreading his hands to emphasise his words; his kid gloves seemed an oddity in the summer’s heat. ‘But in our hearts, it isn’t the replica we want to see back in Mithros. Every day, we hope for news of the original. And who knows, but that the publicity of this second theft might be the jolt we need to bring our original home.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ smiled the reporter, turning away from Uncle Vasso to face the camera. ‘But in the meantime, Mithros’s puzzle grows ever more baffling. Now this little island is missing not one bull, but two.’
Fifteen
The stable was no more than a tin-roofed shack, with boards nailed over its glassless window, and a stone floor scattered with droppings and pine-wood shavings. Tethered by a head-collar, the mule twitched its ears to deter the horseflies, and dipped into a bucket holding a few handfuls of oats whose pale dust clung to its muzzle as it chewed.
Milto picked up a broom whose remaining bristles were worn and bent, and swept the night’s droppings on to a shovel. Leaning the broom back in the corner with the rake and the pitchfork, he carried the loaded shovel outside.
At the foot of the wall, there were dark rounds of rat holes amongst the thistle roots. Under the lean-to, fragrant new hay was piled high; an oil-barrel of tepid, soupy water was alive with the larvae of mosquitoes. Around the back, over the ammonia-stinking mass of the manure heap, crawled hundreds of flies, which surged up, droning, when he threw the fresh droppings amongst them and thrust the shovel-blade in deep to stand it upright.
Rubbing a few specks of shavings from his hands, he looked across his neighbours’ properties – across the chicken runs and green-leaved vines, the goat-pens and the citrus orchards and the house-roofs – down to the sea. A housewife was pegging the day’s first washing on a line; her son hoed a row of aubergines. Inside the stable, the mule stamped, and whinnied. Milto took another moment to admire the sea and the early sun laying gold on the placid blues, but the mule had become restless, and hearing its bucket kicked and clattering over, he went back inside the stable.
The fat man was standing by the mule, stroking the polished hair on its neck, speaking soothing words to ease the animal’s nervousness. The muscles in its legs and back quivered with tension; its ears were back and its head was high, as if it would break free of the rope which tied it if it could, and gallop away. The fat man’s back was to the door, but Milto knew him, by his stature and by his white shoes.
‘What are you doing here?’
The fat man turned, and smiled. He was clear-eyed, as if he had enjoyed long and rejuvenating sleep, and had recently shav
ed; even over the stable’s equine smell, the scent of his cologne – the vetivier, and immortelle – was pleasing, and somehow made Milto regret the stubble on his face, and his decision to put on yesterday’s unwashed clothes.
As best it could, the mule also turned its head; Milto caught the edge of fear in its eyes. He crossed to its other side, placing his hands protectively on the animal’s nose, and under its neck.
‘Milto, kali mera,’ said the fat man, still stroking the mule’s neck. ‘Your neighbour told me where I’d find you. I am an early riser myself, so I thought that we could talk before I lost you to the fields. You do remember me, I hope?’
‘I remember you,’ said Milto. He dug in his trouser pocket, and found a slice of carrot which he held out on his palm, but the mule was too anxious to take it.
‘Is that your rifle, by the way?’ said the fat man, looking up at the case hanging on the wall.
‘It was my father’s.’
‘Are you a good shot?’
‘I’ve never fired it.’
‘I shall assume, then, that you are not. You’ll be wondering, no doubt, why I want to speak to you, and I shall be only too pleased to satisfy your curiosity. Do you think we might step outside? I should like a cigarette, and these shavings present a fire risk. Besides, your beast has taken a dislike to me. I think my arrival startled it. The animal would be far happier with me on the other side of the door.’
‘He doesn’t much care for strangers.’
‘So it would seem. I ask a few minutes of your time, that is all.’
‘As long as it’s quick,’ said Milto. He stroked one of the mule’s ears, and led the way outside. ‘Like you, I prefer to travel before the day gets hot, and the fields I’m working today are a good distance.’
‘It’s fortunate I came early, then, or I should have spent half my day tramping the paths and byways of this island trying to find you.’
The fat man brought out his cigarettes and offered them to Milto, who took one. The fat man took one for himself, and lit them both with his gold lighter.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Milto. ‘Why would you go to so much trouble looking for me?’ A thought seemed to strike him. ‘You’re not from the military, are you?’
The fat man laughed.
‘No, I’m not from the military. Why? Did you dodge the draft?’
‘I was exempt,’ said Milto. ‘There was only me to care for Mama. But Captain Fanis has designs on me. He seems to think a spell in uniform would do me good.’
‘Well, that’s nothing to do with me. I’m here on the business of a higher authority than the military. I’m investigating a case of murder.’
‘Murder? Who’s been murdered?’ asked Milto.
‘That, I have yet to find out. He gave his name, I’m told, as Manolis Chiotis. Whether that was his real name, is uncertain. Possibly – even probably – he chose that name as a pseudonym to protect himself when he discovered that Fate had returned him to Mithros.’
‘Not a local man, then,’ said Milto. ‘I thought for a moment it might be someone I knew. I thought you meant old Katzikis. They buried him a few days ago. I don’t know anyone else recently dead.’
The fat man studied him.
‘No, I don’t think you did know him,’ he said. ‘But I think your father did.’
‘Is that right?’ Milto drew again on his cigarette. ‘These aren’t bad,’ he said. ‘I might get a packet.’
‘You won’t find them easy to track down,’ said the fat man. ‘As for your father, little birds have told me something about him. I’m a talkative man by nature, and people often become talkative around me. People chatter away, and within their chatter are kernels of information which interest me. More than one person has suggested to me that this so-called Manolis was acquainted with your father. Or let me speak plainly – they say that this Manolis played a part in your father’s death.’
Milto took a last draw on his smoked-down cigarette, and dropped the stub to the ground.
‘You know nothing about my father,’ he said, coldly. ‘You’re talking out your backside. And I have work to do.’
He took a step away; but the fat man caught his arm, and even though his touch felt light, Milto found himself unable to shake the grip which held him in place.
‘I think you should hear me out,’ said the fat man. ‘I have plenty to say which is relevant to you, and to your father. Or I should say, more accurately, that I have plenty of questions, and you will do yourself a great service if you answer them honestly. I value the truth very highly. Conversely, where I am concerned, matters tend to go badly with those who offer me half-truths and lies. I hope you understand me, Milto.’
The fat man released Milto’s arm. Milto remained where he was.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘You have my name already, as I have yours. Your father’s name was, I’m told, Socrates. Do you remember him, Milto? I think you were probably still quite young when he was taken.’
‘I’ve no wish to talk to you about him. No wish, and no time. I have to attend to the mule.’
‘You’re a lover of animals, I can see that. The mule’s well-being is important to you, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ said Milto. ‘You can rely on animals. They ask nothing of you, and give plenty back.’
‘I agree with you wholeheartedly,’ said the fat man. ‘And I have come across some truly remarkable animals in my time. None more so than a mule which belonged to a woman in the Peloponnese, many years ago now, more years than I care to remember. She had bought it as a foal from a travelling circus. Have you had yours from a young age? Forgive me, I don’t know his name.’
‘I call him Allegro,’ said Milto. ‘And yes, I had him as a youngster. As soon as he was weaned off his mother’s milk, he came to me.’
‘And he’s a credit to you. This woman also lavished a great deal of care on her mule. I saw him for myself, on one occasion. In fact I made a detour especially to see him. He had become quite famous. He was a beautiful animal, a grey similar to yours, but grey which verged towards silver, and as this silver mule grew, he began to display an intriguing gift, in that he seemed to be able to tell the fortunes of people around him. It began with a single incident, when the mule touched his nose to the belly of a woman who had been trying for some time to become pregnant. Only the following day, a pregnancy was confirmed. A few days later, the beast refused to pass the house of a man with a boil on his back; he refused for so long, his mistress had to take him home by another road. Lo and behold, within a few days, the boil burst and became infected and the man died of blood poisoning. After that, the mule seemed to be able to predict all kinds of things. I took an interest when it was reported in a newspaper that he had predicted the death of a young girl only recently married, who when she heard the prediction, took straight to her bed, and was dead within a month. People travelled great distances to consult the mule. He made his owner a wealthy woman.’
‘But how can a mule make predictions?’
The fat man smiled.
‘Very simply. Like the ancient oracles, the questioner approached the shrine – in that case, a stable not unlike this one – paid his owner her fee, and she would go inside the stable, consult with the mule, and emerge with the questioner’s answer. The answers were, of course, as double-edged as any which came out of Delphi. But what was surprising was, how many of the mule’s predictions came true. Those who believed they’d been told they’d recover from illness, recovered; those who thought they’d heard a bad prognosis, grew worse. So there, you see, was an intriguing case of people’s fate apparently being announced by a dumb animal. Of course, the woman was behind it all; she was as clever and manipulative as anyone I’ve ever met. The young bride who died had married a youth whom she had earmarked for her own daughter; indeed, her daughter married the youth only a year afterwards. I admired her ingenuity, and how she had mastered control of a whole community through an allegedly magical bea
st. The magic was in her own talent in turning him into a source of income. She understood human nature; she read people’s strengths and weaknesses, and exploited their gullibility and superstition. But there was no magic in the mule. He was a perfectly normal animal, just like your Allegro. You’re devoted to him, I know, and no doubt he is to you, in his own way, as far as a beast may show devotion. I don’t doubt it would grieve him if he had the power to understand how he has betrayed you.’
‘Betrayed me? What do you mean?’
‘I was there, the day Manolis – as we must call him – was murdered. I was there the day he was forced down that well. You were there, too.’
‘What of it? Many people were there.’
‘Your friends seemed uncertain whether you were there or not. One said you were, another that you weren’t. And I saw those many people, but I didn’t see you. I only saw Allegro, poor Allegro standing in the sun. He wasn’t standing in full sun when you left him, though, was he? You would never leave your animal baking in the sun. When you left him, he was in the shade of the tree he was tied to. But you were gone so long, on whatever errand you were on, that the shade deserted him. Now, what might you have been engaged in to keep you away from him for so long? And how long for the sun to move and leave him without shade? An hour, two hours? So what were you doing, Milto, that stopped you going back to him? You weren’t in the church, nor in its environs. I venture to suggest you wouldn’t have been more than half a mile away, because no man walks a greater distance than that in the heat when he’s got the services of a beast he can call on. No, you were somewhere close by, all that time. The question is, though, where were you?’
‘What’s that to you?’
‘What it is to me, is this. On that day, the alarm was raised about a man on the hillside behind the old village. Someone, as I’ve heard, with a gun, probably a rifle. It seems to me you’re the only one of the assembled party who was absent from the group for long enough to climb up into the hills. I think you were tracking Manolis down. I think whilst the rest of us were distracted, you made your way through the hills round the back of the army camp, marched him to the well at gunpoint and forced him down it. You have a rifle in the stable there. Was that the weapon you used?’
The Bull of Mithros Page 21