A Poisonous Journey

by Malia Zaidi

  With renewed energy, I open my eyes. My hands and fingers have wrinkled like the prunes I had at breakfast. With a sigh, I rise and carefully climb out of the bathtub, cold water dripping from me and running in little lavernder-scented rivulets down my limbs.

  Swathed in a large, soft towel so white it competes with the delicate whisps of clouds now drifting across the sky, I wander back into my bedroom. It must be nearly time for dinner, and I find myself unenthused at the prospect of company. We are all miserable, and sitting at the table, exchanging niceties and garbling on about the weather and the food, seems a trial. Every time I look at Briony I worry, thinking about her outburst in the café. Regarding Jeffrey, I wonder about his lack of interest or awareness of my cousin’s unhappiness, and I find myself blaming him, knowing it is not my place to interfere. Daniel is at once the most difficult and the most intriguing company. Agony emanates from him in almost palpable waves, and still we have laughed together, despite everything that has happened in this short span of time.

  How I wish I was a child, ignorant of future pain and wholly satisfied with the world. To go back to a time when I could play in the garden for hours on end, have an extra bun at teatime and declare all well with life. If only wishes weren’t just wishes. If only, if only … I banish this notion, but cannot help wondering, isn’t it true? I have so much others only dream of and still am not satisfied. There I am again at the crux of human fallability. We want what we can’t have and react either mournfully or despicably.

  With a sigh, I pull on fresh clothes, a floral dress, longer than the present fashion, touching almost mid-calf, and a soft cardigan of the palest mauve. I am not aiming to impress tonight, simply to be comfortable in my skin. All the better if said skin is in contact with silk underthings and a cashmere cardi. Glancing at the wall-mounted clock, I observe it is only ten past five. Dinner won’t be before seven, and though I have little appetite, I do not quite know what to do with myself until then.

  Uncertainly I stand at the door. Silence. Suddenly an idea invades my mind. Caspar’s room. The police searched it, but what if they missed something? They haven’t been back to the house since they’ve known about Laria and him. Maybe he left behind some clue to who might hold a grudge against him, or with whom he may have quarrelled.

  I open the door an inch or so, feeling like an inturder, creeping about. What am I hoping to achieve? I slip out of my room and pad across the hall to stand haltingly before Caspar’s door. If I discover something, I will have to admit where it was found. Unless I put it back and discreetly hint that there may be something to be found. Altogether a rather troubling dilemma.

  Before my mind knows what my body is doing, I find my hand resting on the brassy doorknob. Do I dare? Is it not in some way sacrilegious to enter a recently murdered man’s domain? Certainly the police have already done so … Oh, hell.

  CHAPTER 12

  Turning the knob, the door slowly opens, and I am grateful to whoever in this household diligently sees to oiling hinges as there is not a squeak to be heard. For a moment, I hesitate, standing on the threshold. Once I step across, I will be a trespassing into a dead man’s private quarters. There is something quite disturbing about this thought. Then again, I am only trying to find out who wanted him prematurely gone from this earth, trying to get justice for him. Yes, I nod to myself, probably looking faintly mad to anyone who might be observing this little tableau. An immediate chill runs down my spine as I enter the room. Is it colder in here?

  Looking around, I take in that the window at the other end of the bedchamber is open, allowing a gust of cool afternoon air to waft in. No ghostly spirit lurking about then, only my morbid imagination combining with the elements.

  Carefully, I lean the door against its frame, not closing it entirely, just enough not to look suspicious to anyone passing by. Right. I rest my hands on my hips and scan the room. It is smaller than mine, with a view in the opposite direction. The bed is neatly made as though never slept in at all. For some reason, this feels particularly sad to me, and I stand at the edge of it, thinking that not long ago a man, very much alive, rested here, not knowing he would soon be forced into a permanent slumber. Pulling myself away, I walk across the room to the only object of real interest: a large steamer trunk below the window.

  The trunk is not securely closed, limp straps hanging down the front begging to be opened. This is it, I tell myself. Once you open it, you can’t go back. You will be well and truly snooping in a murdered man’s possessions. My hands are clammy. The air from outside is blowing right into my face as I stand wringing my hands before the leather case.

  "What are you waiting for?"

  I nearly jump out of the open window at the sound of that voice. Instead of lurching forward to my doom, I stumble back a step or two into a decorative screen. I must look as guilty as they come.

  "You are searching for something?" Daniel is standing in the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, his expression unreadble.

  "No, I. Oh, Daniel, I am sorry. I had this idea." I shake my head, as if marveling at my own stupidity.

  "Go on." He hasn’t moved, not a muscle.

  "I thought," I begin, feeling the burn of shame on my cheeks, "I might find something that would provide a clue. I shouldn’t have. I am sorry." Taking a few halting steps towards him, I intend to indicate my contrite intention to leave. I meant to harm, but his tall form is blocking the doorway.

  "The police searched already. They say they found nothing of importance."

  "Yes, of course. I was foolish, fancying myself a sleuth of some sort."

  "The police is Cretan," Daniel’s tone is even, not harsh, which reassures me, "they might not know exactly what an Englishman values or where he keeps it." This statement surprises me and I stand still, waiting for him to go on.

  When the silence begins to drag, I inquire, "You mean, you know?"

  He considers this for a moment, then takes a small step into the room. I can see it is causing a similar strain in him as it did in me. Nobody wants to invade this space. There is something eerie about it, despite the lightness of the furnishings and decor; a heavyness that permeates the air we are breathing.

  "Caspar kept a diary his whole life."

  "A diary?" I am unable to keep surprise from my voice. Caspar Ballantine was not, by my estimation, the type to keep a diary, to reflect much about anything, let alone in writing. I immediately chide myself for these uncharitable thoughts and remind myself I barely knew and now never will.

  "A journal of sorts. When we were children, he would write down how many fish he caught in the stream or about winning a game of cricket. Later, I don’t know what he wrote, but he carried it with him, even in the trenches."

  "Do you think the police found it?"

  "They left a receipt, which is in my room. Let me see whether they included it." He turns and without looking at me, disappears for a minute. When he reappears, he strides through the door with less hesitation, brandishing a piece of paper.

  "And?"

  "No, nothing. They didn’t take much at all, only his passport and travel documents." There is an undercurrent of anticipation in his tone, and the tense muscles in my shoulders ease a bit.

  We look at one another, neither daring to say what possiblity we may explore. Finally, Daniel moves toward the trunk in a few decisive steps. He kneels down on the carpet, then looks up at me standing nervously at a distance.

  "Come now, you wanted to explore, now let us open it together. For what it’s worth, I don’t think Caspar would be offended to have a beautiful woman go through his things." As he hears himself say it, I can tell he hadn’t meant to. To ease his nerves, I brush it off and step over, crouching down beside him.

  "Ready?" We look at each other. I nod, and we both hold our breaths as he swings open the lid. What we find is vaguely disappointing at first sight. A pile of tangled and carelessly tossed in clothes, which fill the trunk nearly to the brim.

  "Well, this l
ooks very ordinary," I say, not sure whether I could suggest rummaging through them. Fortunately, Daniel echoes my thoughts and begins the unpleasant task of unpacking. I decide to let Daniel complete this task on his own. It would not seem right for me to touch these clothes. Daniel was his friend, if anybody has a right to interfere with Caspar’s belongings, it is him.

  He empties the trunk, piece by piece, making a neat pile on the side. There is tension in his jaw as though the task requires deep concentration and self-control, which perhaps it does. Within a few minutes, the pile of wrinkled shirts and trousers beside us has grown, and the trunk is nearly empty. So far, Daniel has unearthed nothing even remotely resembling a diary. Finally he is done, and we lean forward to peer into the carvernous case.

  "Nothing," I shake my head. For good measure, Daniel reaches down and runs his hand around the flat base. No hidden compartment or secret space pops up to reveal anything. I must confess, I am disappointed.

  "To be honest, I hadn’t thought he would hide anything particlarly precious here. He had very little trust in people." Daniel says this almost by-the-by.

  "Why not?"

  "What?" Daniel is distracted, sorting the clothes back into their former place.

  "Why didn’t he trust people?"

  "Oh, that." He slows his movements long enough to catch my eye for a second. "I sometimes thought his mistrust of people reflected his own character."

  "You mean," I venture carefully, "that he himself wasn’t quite …"

  "Honorable? No, I suppose he wasn’t." Daniel sounds almost cheerful, which puzzles me. Still, it is better than melancholy.

  "Well, the situation with Laria probably shows it rather well."

  Daniel makes a small noise, which I take as a sign of agreement. "If only that had been all." He stops what he is doing and turns, leaning against the wall, looking directly at me for a moment, gauging how I might react to whatever is on his mind. A strand of his dark brown hair has tumbled onto his forehead, and his cheeks are slightly flushed from his efforts. I dare not move or break the gaze, not wanting him to snap out of this phase of openness and trust, reverting to his state of quiet melancholy.

  "Tell me," I encourage in a quiet voice. His chest rises and falls evenly a few times, before he finds his voice.

  "Laria was not the first married woman he took up with. Nor would she have been the last."

  "It happened before."

  "A few times, yes. He did care for them. Once or twice, I even believed he loved them. Of course, it could never lead to anything."

  "The women might have left their husbands."

  "Perhaps," he shrugs, pushing the strand of hair from his forehead. "They never did though. To make things worse, they were often wives of his friends. This affair with Laria was not a great surprise to me."

  I take a moment to absorb this, then ask, "Was Nikolas his friend?"

  Daniel emits a sharp chuckle, sounding both amused and saddened as his mouth twists into a smile that does not reach his eyes. "No, not at all. In fact they didn’t like each other."

  "It must have felt even more of a conquest when he charmed Laria into this … whatever it was."

  "Exactly. I think that is why she ended things. She must have realized how badly it would hurt Nikolas and how little it would hurt Caspar. She is not a fool and likely came to the conclusion eventually."

  "Briony thinks Laria loved Caspar."

  "Perhaps she did. Perhaps she does."

  "You do not believe she had anything to do with his," I swallow awkwardly, "his death?"

  "No, I don’t. People kill in bouts of passion and jealously and rage. I have only ever known her as a calm and reasonable person. And further, I don’t think Caspar mistreated her. His women never hated him, he was always a gentleman in their eyes."

  This notion seems odd to me. How could a woman with any degree of sense be so duped? Caspar was, even in the short time I knew him, transparent in his designs. I cannot imagine he never broke a heart, never inflamed one to the point of fury. We do strange things when we love or, come to think of it, when we hate.

  "You don’t believe it?" The small, bemused smile is still playing on his lips as he speaks, and its presence makes me bolder.

  "I do not. No half-way self-respecting woman would let herself be toyed with in this way and then harbor no resentment when she discovers the true nature of things."

  "I was under the impression, they knew exactly what they were getting into most of the time."

  "What do you mean? You cannot imagine he told them their great love was only temporary, until he decided he had enough! He must have duped them into loving him. Using them and tossing them aside."

  "So many questions." Daniel dips his head back for a moment, and the light from the setting sun, pouring its last deep golden rays through the open window, highlights the structure of his face; the straightness of his nose, high cheekbones, and angular chin. I might have mentioned it before: Daniel is not at all bad to look at. He turns his face to me, and the light is replaced by shadow.

  "Do you have any answers?"

  "Some perhaps. Caspar was not cruel. He did not want to hurt people. Not in the war and not afterwards either. He wanted to be happy, and he wanted to make people happy. That was by far his best quality, one which unfortunately turned into egotism at times."

  "Go on."

  "He was discreet, careful to keep the wives in good stead with their husbands. He made no promises, at least that is what he told me. You understand, I did not find this aspect of his life particularly pleasing."

  "I didn’t think you would." Turning to the side, I lean against the base of the trunk, my legs folded decorously to the side. I am glad to be wearing my cardigan as the air in the room has grown even colder, and sitting on the floor amid Caspar’s possessions could give anyone a chill. Still, there is an odd comfort in the situation, which sets my mind at ease. I sense no hostility or anger in Daniel’s company. He might have resented my intrusion, instead he has accepted it quite easily.

  "What are you thinking, Miss Carlisle?" Daniel is looking at me intently, his emerald eyes sparkling in the low light. A shiver runs through me, whether of anxiety or anticipation I cannot tell.

  "Nothing." I lie. If he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind.

  "Shall we abandon our search?" His voice is low, his gaze even. I shake my head, to pull myself into the present. He takes this gesture as an answer.

  "No, I didn’t think so. Well," he pushes himself off the floor, towering over me and reaches out a hand, "better keep going. Briony will want to feed us soon, and I don’t think I can come here again today."

  I reach up, liking the way our hands fit together, the contrast of my white and his tanned skin. He pulls me up, and for a moment we are only inches apart, his face close above my own. Then the spell is broken. I let go of his hand and take a tiny, clumsy, step backward. He is grieving and in need of comfort, I ought not fancy myself with ideas of anything else.

  "I’ll start with the closet, shall I? You could search the little dresser by the bed, if you don’t mind." Daniel suggests. Turning away I bite my bottom lip, the sting waking me, bringing me back to the present. Concentrate, Evie.

  Kneeling down again, I think how wise it had been to forgo stockings, for they would have been riddled with runs and holes from all of the kneeling on the bare wooden planks. Carefully, I open the first of the three narrow drawers in the bedside table. The top drawer contains a small, leatherbound Bible. On first glance, I think it is "the diary" and am about to alert Daniel when my eye falls on the etched in title. It would appear unlikely of Caspar to keep a Bible beside his bed.

  "Was Caspar a religious man?" I ask, more to say something to interrupt the silence of our search, than out of genuine interest.

  "Not particularly, why do you ask?"

  "There is a Bible in his dresser."

  Daniel grins. "Caspar opened it about as often as it snows on the Acropolis. It belonged to his mot
her. She was a devout woman, and he never met her. She died in childbirth, and he had little that belonged to her."

  A cad, a philanderer, and a man who yearned for his mother. I turn back to gently place the small book into it’s previous home.

  The second drawer is empty, and even my ardent search around the inside produces nothing but a splinter in my finger. Opening the third, it looks as empty as the others, and wary of another painful sliver of rough oak wood ending up embedded in my hand, I cautiously feel around inside. I expect nothing and am stunned to touch something smooth with the tips of my fingers. Eager now, I reach further … Can it be? The spine of a book. The diary? Grasping the object, I pull it out. It had been standing propped vertically against the very back of the drawer. Niobe, dusting and cleaning would not have opened it far enough to even catch a glimpse of the precious item.

  "Daniel!" I cannot hide my excitement, though I remain careful not to alert anybody else. "Look." He takes a sharp breath as he sees what I am holding. "Is this it? Do you recognize it?" I scramble up, holding the rectangular book bound in smooth, chocolate brown leather.

  "I think it is." His eyes are wide as they meet mine. In unspoken union, we crouch on the edge of the bed, having, for the moment, forgotten its prior sanctity.

  "Here." I hand the journal to him, the thought of opening it myself completely out of the question. He takes it and holds it for a moment as one might an object one has never encountered before.

  "Yes, this is it. His latest journal." He presses his lips together, and his knuckles whiten as he clasps the book.