A Poisonous Journey

by Malia Zaidi

  "Yes, I apologize, darling. Come, sit down, let us enjoy our meal and raise a glass to Caspar, all right?" Jeffrey holds out her chair. I, too, find my seat and we all raise our glasses.

  "To Caspar, may he rest in peace." Jeffrey says, but before he takes a sip, Daniel interrupts.

  "No, peace wouldn’t suit him. May he live on in our memory." A moment of silence follows, and we all clink our glasses together.

  "To Caspar."

  "To Caspar!"

  The rest of the evening passes peacefully, and we eat and chat about banal, soothing things like the weather and the food. All the while, our minds are still only on one topic. After the earlier outburst, none of us dares to mention the dead man’s name.

  To end dinner, the cook, whose name I have finally discovered is Eleni, brings out a plate of soft white cheese and dried apricots. Tired and sated, we bid each other goodnight.

  In my room again, I drag the small chair to the open window and let the breeze, cool though it is, ruffle my hair. Slipping off my shoes, I rest my bare feet on the low windowsill.

  Was it wise of me to come here? I wonder, not for the first time. In all likelihood, Caspar would still have met the same fate. Nevertheless, if I hadn’t been here, we might not have stayed in town so long, and … Oh, I don’t know. Such pointless speculation will get me nowhere. It happened, I cannot make it undone.

  I am curious whether Inspector Dymas has already spoken to Nikolas. I wanted to ask Daniel how he had reacted to the news. Everytime I thought I might ask, someone interrupted, and I couldn’t possibly bring it up at dinner. I assume Briony will tell Jeffrey about Laria, Caspar and of my far-fetched suspicions.

  What was that? A knock at the door. I lower my cold feet and stand up, walking over to the closed door.

  "Yes?"

  "It’s Daniel."

  This is unexpected. I run a hand through my hair and open the door.

  "I am sorry to disturb you, but I thought you have probably been waiting to know about my conversation with the police."

  "Oh … yes," I stammer. "What did he say?"

  "Dymas didn’t sound as shocked as you did, that much I could ascertain. Still, I don’t think he knew about it."

  "What will he do now?" I lower my voice. "Will he arrest Nikolas?"

  "I think he wants to speak to Laria first, though he wouldn’t tell me outright what his plans entailed. He should probably find out whether she told her husband anything, before he asks the doctor point-blank whether he knew of the affair his wife was having with that English lothario." There is a sharpness to his tone as he utters the last word.

  "Jeffrey didn’t mean to upset you. He is overwhelmed."

  Daniel gives a bitter laugh. "He wasn’t very wrong. Jeffrey has always been a good judge of character, though he should not have said what he said. If only for the sake of Briony’s nerves."

  "Oh, I—"

  "I am sorry, I have shocked you. Please understand I will miss Caspar dearly. He was my friend, though he had his own unique understanding of the meaning of the word. He was no saint, and he would not have claimed to be one. He knew who he was, and I did, too. Maybe he used me, but when I felt more alone in the world than you might imagine, he did not abandon me."

  "I understand better than you might suspect. Nobody is perfect, and perhaps it is a flaw in ourselves to expect so."

  "Thank you for your understanding." His sentence sounds unfinished as if there is a thought on the tip of his tongue waiting to be spoken. It remains unsaid. "Good night."

  "Good night, Daniel." He turns to leave, and I close my door.

  I shake my head and walk over to the washbasin. Taking the ceramic ewer, I fill it with lukewarm water and wash. After slipping into a nightgown I crawl into bed, hoping for a dreamless sleep as I do every night.

  CHAPTER 10

  Nine hours later, I again find myself sitting at a table with Briony and Daniel. Jeffrey is taking an early call in the library. It must be from the museum, for there are few private homes with telephones on the island. This time we sit in the conservatory, and a wan Niobe has brought in a tray of freshly baked rolls, the aroma the emanate making my mouth water, and small bowls of jewel-colored jams. They are the most colorful things in sight, for the sky outside is gray, and sad raindrops spatter against the glass panes around us.

  Jeffrey walks through the doorway as I am liberally slathering orange marmelade onto the steaming bun on my plate. "That was Laria," he announces with no preamble.

  "What did she say?" Briony looks alarmed, and I set down my knife.

  "Dymas was there yesterday evening before Nikolas got home. Good thing, too, because Laria swears he knew nothing of her and Caspar. Then again, wives have been known to stand by their husbands—"

  "Not if she thought Nikolas harmed Caspar" Briony shakes her head, "I know Laria, and when she confided in me I was certain she had stronger feelings for him than she was willing to admit."

  "Well, Dymas was clearly not convinced either, he stayed to talk to Nikolas."

  "Oh dear!" I press my lips together.

  "It’s all right. Dymas is competent enough. He didn’t simply come out and ask, ‘did you kill your wife’s lover?’" We all notice Daniel flinch, and Jeffrey quickly adds, "I apologize, I should not have been so blunt."

  "No, go on. It’s fine."

  "In any case, he left evidently satisfied, and Nikolas is none the wiser."

  "Oh good," Briony sighs, her shoulders dropping.

  "Good? Don’t you think he has a right to know the truth? Don’t we promise each other honesty in our marriage vows."

  "And obediance," Daniel adds with a sly grin.

  "And servitude," I chime in. Put like that, marriage is losing much of its appeal in my eyes.

  "Very amusing. Truly, if it were me, I would want to be told." Jeffrey sounds serious and we desist in our taunting.

  "But it was over!" Briony says strongly. "What good would it do any of them to dig up past mistakes? Nikolas would feel betrayed and hurt, Laria repentant and guilty and the child …" She drifts off and Jeffrey sighs, taking her hand.

  "Perhaps. But is it not wrong somehow that we should know, and Nikolas remains kept in the dark?"

  "Morality aside, I would very much like to speak with the police inspector. He did say he would keep us abreast of progress in the investigation," says Daniel.

  "You could call him. Ask for him to come over, or for you to meet him at the station. You can use the car. I am afraid I need to go into town today. Paul is dropping by to fetch me, so the car is yours."

  "Must you go today, Jeffrey? Look at the weather. Besides, you work too much as it is." Briony frowns and pushes away her plate with a half-eaten triangle of toast.

  "They need me to help them review a few new pieces from the excavation. I won’t be very long. Why don’t you go into the village with Daniel and visit Laria? Oh, and Evie," a smile is stretching across his mouth, "you may drive."

  And so it is. An hour later, the three of us sit in the lovely Delage, rolling down the lane. While the rain has ceased, the uneven road is now dotted with puddles and dips, and I drive more slowly than I would like to. The lane curves often as it wraps itself around the mountain, and we climb slowly down to the village of Miklos. The moisture in the air, mingling with the heat rising from the earth, creates valleys of eerie white fog, like milky puddles below us. More than once, I strain to see properly what is almost in front of me, for fear of driving right into such a deceptively solid mass. This is not quite how I imagined my first drive in this deluxe contraption, but if I return it unharmed I may get a second chance soon.

  Finally, though really it has only been a few minutes, we see the shadowy gates of the village ahead. The drive seems to have taken longer than my walk with Daniel yesterday, conditions being what they are. But we have arrived, and I hope by the time we leave, it will have cleared up enough for me to test out a higher gear.

  Daniel called the Miklos Police St
ation after breakfast and was told by a constable, Inspector Dymas will be in and able to meet him around eleven. Briony called Laria (what a marvel the telephone is!) and annouced her intention to visit.

  She is in better spirits now that we are out of the house. The fear and anxiety we all feel there is weighing her down especially. My mind keeps swinging back to the argument and the accusations made last night at dinner. Was Caspar truly such a disagreeable fellow? I cannot judge him from our sadly short acquaintace. If he truly was using Daniel, and if Daniel was aware of this, perhaps their friendship was not as solid as he pretends. Of course he has an alibi, so I shall not permit suspicious ideas to create ugly pictures of him. In any case, I cannot truly see him as the villain of this story.

  Briony gives me directions to Laria’s house, and I manage rather expertly, if I say so myself, to maneuver this unwieldy driving machine down alleys meant for donkey carts and bicycles and come to a stop in front of the modest villa. Briony does not want to hear what Dymas has to say. It is probably best for her to have a private word with Laria without Daniel and myself intruding.

  This settled she steps out of the car, clutching her hat and managing to push down the gauzy fabric of her skirt before the sudden rush of wind can render her indecent.

  "Come back here when you finish at the station," she shouts before dashing for the door, without awaiting an answer. Just as I am steering the car perilously around the tight bend, I see Laria’s door open in the rearview mirror and Briony’s pink-clad figure disappearing inside.

  Onward the car rolls, and I try, with intense focus, not to scrape the expensive paintwork along the uneven walls on either side of us.

  "You can breathe, you know" Daniel says, and I hear humor in his voice, though I dare not turn to glance at his face.

  "I find depriving myself of oxygen helps my concentration."

  "Ah, well, as long as you stay conscious …"

  "Very amusing." I try to sound vexed, though my tense smile tells another story.

  Somehow, without fainting, or marring the car, we arrive at the eggshell colored block of stone and stucco, Miklos Police Station. After I manage to park the car without a scratch, we disembark, and Daniel gives a little bow.

  "Most impressive."

  "Why, thank you." I drop into a little courtsey, this small attempt at levity a faint mask for our anxieties, before we enter through the arched wooden door into the cool interior of the building. Once inside, we are confronted by a young, mustachioed and uniformed policeman.

  "How can I help you?" He asks politely.

  "We have an appointment with Inspector Dymas. He is expecting us. My name is Daniel Harper," he gestures at me, "this is Lady Evelyn Carlisle." I didn’t think the title would mean much here, but the young man’s expression softens instantly and a blush creeps into his cheeks.

  "Oh, yes. Please, follow me." As he turns around, Daniel raises his eyebrows, and I shrug. I wonder why it should matter on Crete that my name carries the title of "lady"? What vengance do they believe I will wreak if they are not agreeable?

  The young man leads us down the main hall, past a row of three desks, behind which policemen are sitting, writing, reading, or staring curiously as we pass. At the end of the hall, he stops at a closed door and knocks twice.

  "Come in!" The muffled voice of the inspector calls out in Greek.

  Our guide opends the door and presents us to Dymas, who is sitting behind a broad desk, his jacket slung over the chair behind him, shirtsleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, exposing muscled and tanned forearms.

  "Mr. Harper and Lady Carlisle, Sir," the younger man announces, standing with a very straight back.

  "Ah, yes, please come in." The inspector stays seated and beckons us forward. There are two stiff-backed chairs standing before his desk, and we take our seats. "Georgiopolis, you may go." He dismisses the young policeman, who obediently turns and closes the door soundlessly behind him.

  "We wanted to know, if you had found anything new you can tell us? "

  "I have not arrested Nikolas Zarek, if that is what you are asking, Mr. Harper." Dymas is speaking English now, accented, but clear and confident.

  "I know. May I ask, why not?" Daniel sounds vaguely annoyed.

  The Inspector exhales loudly as he leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the tabletop before replying. "The answer to that, Mr. Harper, is that I do not believe him guilty."

  "How can you be so confident? He had a strong motive, while I must admit I was recluctant to accept it at first."

  I remain silent, waiting for Dymas to reaveal anything of use.

  "Mr. Harper, I understand your desire to find the responsible party and have him or her punished. However, Nikolas Zarek, even if he knew of the affair, could not be the killer." The ugly word is softened somewhat by his gentle tone and pleasant accent, but I cannot help wincing.

  "I don’t want him to be guilty, if that is what you are implying."

  "He has an alibi. One I have already confirmed."

  This quiets Daniel, so I take my chance to ask, "What sort of alibi?"

  Dymas hesitates, probably wondering how much he is obligated to tell. He sighs after a moment and relents, likely deeming us harmless enough for this small enlightenment.

  "He was assisting a birth. Seven hours, in fact."

  "Oh."

  "Indeed. I will not elaborate, needless to say there is a witness, three, in fact, not counting the healthy baby boy."

  Daniel nods more to himself than to us.

  "Yes," Dymas draws out the word, rubs the stubble on his chin and folds his hands together.

  "Do you have any other suspects?" I venture, copying his gesture.

  "You will understand, I am under no obligation to share such information with you. It would be against protocol."

  "Oh, come now man! Protocol? Since when has that—" Daniel leans forward, agitated, and I interrupt before he manages to alienate the inspector.

  "Daniel! Please, he is only doing his job." I place a calming hand on his shoulder. He breathes deeply and nods. Dymas’ gaze follows our exchange, lingering on my hand. He narrows his eyes for a second, creasing his brow. I withdraw my hand, resting it once again in my lap.

  "I understand your concern, Mr. Harper, and I will therefore tell you this much: We do have other leads we are investigating. I cannot tell you more that this stage. You will understand such precaution."

  "We do, Inspector," I answer before Daniel can add anything else. "Nonetheless, I am worried. My cousin feels quite unsafe at the villa as, I confess, do I. Could you at least reassure us nobody there is under suspicion? Whether everyone’s alibis have been confirmed? It would be a great relief to know even so small a fact." I smile, trying to look sweet and helpless, the kind of creature one can confide in, one will seek to reassure. I must do so with some success, because after a pause, the inspector nods.

  "I can confirm, they were all where they claimed to have been."

  "And Yannick, the chauffeur? I’ve been ever so worried," I clutch my little purse and look at the older man with big eyes. "I have been thinking and thinking. Might he not have had the time to go back to the villa between dropping us off and picking us up in Heraklion?"

  "Lady Carlisle, you don’t have to try so hard," Dymas grins, and I straighten in my seat.

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "I think he means, he isn’t quite buying into your act." Daniel, too, is grinning and the men are, at least in this, of one opinion. I roll my eyes and cross my legs in a blythe show of nonchalance.

  "Oh, fine."

  "As I was saying. Your staff, all three of them, have confirmed alibis." Dymas sighs. "I shouldn’t tell you this, but if you swear you will keep it to yourselves …" Daniel and I nod in unison. "Very well, Yannick was meeting Niobe at her parents home. They are courting."

  "Niobe and Yannick?" My jaw drops as I picture the unlikely couple.

  "Her family lives just outside Miklos, and
both were there the whole time in question. Now," Dymas expression grows stern, "I must ask you not to tell their employers of this. Both wish their attachment to remain private for the moment. Suffice it to say, they are accounted for."

  I draw breath, opening my mouth to keep on questioning when, without a warning knock, a frazzled policeman with wild black curls bursts through the door. His face is flushed with excitement, his forehead wrinkled in concern. He throws a quick glace at us, then shouts out a word even I can understand instantly, fire. The inspector jumps up and crosses the room in three long strides. They begin to speak in hurried voices in the local dialect, making it impossible for me to follow the exchange. Daniel and I get to our feet, our conversation is officially over. The policeman darts from the room, and Dymas turns back to us.

  "A fire in a house three doors down. I must go and help." The police station doubles as the fire station, and putting a fire out is a communal effort.

  Dymas rushes out, Daniel and I exchange an uncertain glance when the inspector’s head peaks around the door again.

  "Come, man! We have a fire to put out!" Daniel follows without hesitation, and I, not wanting to be left behind run after them.

  The fire is not yet an inferno. The great danger is of it spreading, thus setting the neighboring buildings aflame, spelling disaster. The heavy smell of smoke is already thick in the air, and I feel a hum of familar dread. Looking around for the pump, I find only two lines of men and women, leading to the well. Buckets are passed on, and before I know it, I am standing behind Daniel and the inspector in one of the lines. Everything is happening quickly. When Daniel turns to reach for the first bucket, I catch an expression of surprise and perhaps a hint of admiration flicker across his features.

  The buckets are heavy, and even though I hold each only for a second, my arms and back begin to ache within moments. The fire doesn’t easily give up its fight. Where is the rain when we need it? The dampness of the morning has evaporated and does nothing to aid in our efforts. As I move along in this strange dance of turning, holding, passing and repeating, my eyes take in the orange, red, yellow flames as they devour the narrow house. They flare out in angry tendrils from the windows where blackened shreds of curtains flail like frantic limbs. Fire. My breathing grows faster, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My arms, now wet from spilled water prickle with goosebumps. Fire. My knees are weak, still I keep moving, passing bucket after sopping bucket. Steam rises from the ground as the flames blacken the yellow stone, spitting bursts of sooty ash, crackling and hissing like a thousand snakes. Despite shouts of the people around me, I am deafened by them alone. And the smell. The chocking clawing monster trying to savage my insides, filling my lungs, trying—