by Juliana Gray
I stepped away to lift my jacket from the bed, which I had arranged neatly with my own hands before repairing to the breakfast table. I have always disliked the sordid appearance of an unmade bed.
“He was terribly casual about the whole affair, over breakfast,” I said. “As if he were quite used to such escapades. Well, I suppose he is.”
“It is not unlikely. He is a handsome fellow, and moreover he has the kind of manner that attracts people into intimacy.”
“And I do not.”
My father paused. “Does this upset you? Do you wish to enjoy love affairs, in the same manner as his lordship?”
“No, of course not,” I said instantly. I flung the jacket over my shoulders and thrust my arms inside the sleeves, and without warning, the words burst from my lips: “But sometimes I am so bloody alone!”
“Not quite alone.”
I buttoned my jacket.
“My dear Emmeline,” my father said softly, “it is not hard to find a lover, if one is open to love.”
The last button appeared through its hole. I smoothed away a wrinkle and settled the hem down over my hips.
“No, you’re right about that,” I said, and a sharp knock sounded on the door. I turned my head. “Who is it?”
“Your humble servant, bearing important tidings. Are you alone?”
I glanced at the chair, which was now empty. “Yes. Come in.”
The door swung open, revealing Lord Silverton in full outdoor kit: the same Norfolk jacket belted at the waist, sturdy shoes laced, leather gaiters fastened snugly about his calves. His cap shielded his golden hair from the light overhead, and the familiar field of electricity bristled about him.
“I thought I heard you speaking to someone,” he said.
“Only muttering to myself. My buttons were stiff. Are you ready to leave?”
“Even better.” He held up his right hand, which contained a strip of thin paper. “Firstly, that fine chap Evans has replied to our wire.”
“What does he say?”
“Read it yourself.”
I stepped forward and took the telegram from his gloved fingers. “WELCOME TO KNOSSOS STOP CONDOLENCES LOSS OF OLYMPIA STOP ASTONISHED HAYWOOD NOT THERE STOP EXPECTED RETURN BY JANUARY 15 LATEST STOP QUERY HORACE HIGGANBOTHAM BRITISH SCHOOL ATHENS STOP HAVE ALREADY SENT WIRE STOP GOOD LUCK.” I looked up. “Who is Horace Higganbotham?”
“Some chap at the British School in Athens, I gather.” He took back the telegram. “Perhaps he was in communication with Max. They’re among the best classical scholars in the world, the British School. I’ve already wired him. But if Evans expected Max back in Knossos by the middle of January, he’s hellishly late.”
“He doesn’t say why Max left in the first place, or where he went.”
“Probably because he doesn’t know.” Silverton folded the telegram and placed in his pocket. “But that doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter? Of course it matters! Are we simply supposed to wait to hear back from this Mr. Higganbotham? We might lose days!”
“No, we shan’t. Because while you may disapprove of my methods, my dear Truelove, you can’t possibly argue with the results.”
“I will concede that you’re in an excellent mood this morning.”
“I don’t mean my physical and mental condition, though both have never been better, since you’re inquiring. I mean that the generous Mrs. Poulakis—now, don’t roll those fine eyes of yours, Truelove—Mrs. Poulakis, after you left, was persuaded to relinquish a few interesting bits of information.”
I folded my arms. “Persuaded?”
“I am a terribly persuasive chap, Truelove. People like to confide things in me; I can’t imagine why. In any case, the first thing is, Max had a woman with him, the sneaky devil. That’s who was in this room, you know.”
I gasped. “A woman!”
“Heinous of him, wasn’t it? And to make matters worse, he took her with him when he left. I’m shocked to the core. Shocked, appalled, the whole lot. But the point is, the medallion might possibly have been hers.”
I said, in a low voice, “What sort of woman was she?”
“The good sort or the bad sort, do you mean?”
“You know very well what I mean.”
“Why, I daresay she was the worst possible sort, Truelove. Let your imagination run rampant. I’m surprised they occupied separate rooms, though I always suspected old Max was a hypocrite at heart. Thalia said—”
“Thalia?”
“Mrs. Poulakis, I mean. She said the woman was very beautiful, quite tall, with dark hair. Also, she wouldn’t speak. Haughty. Thought herself quite above our Mrs. Poulakis, which is exactly the sort of thing to rub a housekeeper the wrong way, you know, not that I’m casting any hints at present company.”
“I see. And I suppose you rubbed her the right way?”
Silverton’s face broke into a wide smile. “Why, Truelove! I never thought you capable of an improper bon mot. There may be hope for you after all. And yes, as it happens. I did rub her the right way, at every opportunity. If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, I always say. In any case,” he went on, over the top of my noise of outrage, “she told me another thing.”
“I hardly dare ask.”
He took my elbow and steered me out of the room. “She admitted, under duress—”
“Duress, is it?”
“Of the most acute kind. She told me that the night before Max left, he asked her if she knew any fishermen in the town. And as it happens, Truelove—this is the important thing—her own brother happens to be a fisherman. Her brother! And she was the very one who made the arrangements for Max’s boat, a fact she was paid handsomely to conceal. No doubt that’s why I had to go to such great lengths to win her trust.”
We were halfway down the corridor. I stopped and turned to him. “Do you mean to say that Mrs. Poulakis’s own brother supplied Mr. Haywood with his boat? That he might actually know where Mr. Haywood went?”
“That’s it exactly!” His lordship beamed. “Straight down along the harbor in Heraklion, not five miles away.”
A wild hope soared to life in my breast, lifting away the gloom and oppression. I stared up at Silverton’s pleased face. He was wearing his spectacles now—more professor than lothario, hardly even the same man I had glimpsed a few hours ago in the moonlight, in all his considerable glory—and instead of finding his gaze, I saw my own twin reflections in the lenses, warped and wide-eyed, dominated by two colossal noses.
“But that’s—that’s marvelous!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, I rather thought so. Not that I would expect your grateful thanks for my selfless labors on behalf of this investigation.”
I grasped the sides of his cheeks with both hands, lifted myself onto my toes, and planted a firm kiss on his astonished lips.
“Very grateful indeed,” I said, and I danced down the corridor and through the entrance hall, toward the door that led out into the road to Heraklion.
The sunshine fell on our shoulders with unaccustomed warmth, a taste of the coming spring. I decided to look upon this as a good omen after yesterday’s downpour, which was still evident in the long damp beds that ran down the length of the road. Silverton, leading the mule, took out his pipe and began to whistle as he filled the bowl, juggling rope and pipe and tobacco pouch with expert dexterity.
“Let me do the talking, now,” he said, as we approached the busy harbor, some hour or so before noon. Already the fishing fleet was beginning to arrive back at the docks, swearing and reeking, tossing out nets full of still-wriggling fish. The sunlight glittered on the silver scales, and as the men’s shouts rang through the air, clashing with the squalls of the seagulls, I perceived that they were happy. A good day’s catch, an early return.
I held my handkerchief to my nose. “I can’t do anything else,
really, since you’re the one who speaks Greek.”
“And yet I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see you try.” He knocked the pipe empty and replaced it in his jacket pocket, and then he handed the mule’s rope to me. “I’m going to make inquiries. If you need me, just whistle.”
“I don’t know how to whistle.”
“Then scream bloody murder.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and sauntered off toward the docks, looking remarkably at ease among the nets of fish and the seagulls and the brackish stink. Across the harbor, the fortress rose high above the water traffic, so clear through the rain-washed air that the battlements appeared as little gray teeth against the blue sky.
The mule made a noise of disgust and strained against his halter. Our trunks were strapped to his back, one on each side, except that Silverton’s was heavier and tended to list. I reached out my hand to push it back in place, but the mule’s hindquarters moved away, leaving me to stagger after him in a ridiculous circle that ended, inevitably, in a heap on the cobbles.
I believe I may have sworn: the influence, no doubt, of a week spent in Lord Silverton’s irreverent company. At least nobody could understand me, I thought, but as I struggled back to my feet, a gloved hand appeared before me, and a crisp British voice inquired after my welfare.
Not, I am sorry to say, the voice of Lord Silverton.
I considered the hand and the voice, and the state of my posterior upon the dirty stone quay. I considered the scent of mule and fish that hung about me, and my hat slipping down the side of my head, and the word that had just escaped my lips: a word I shall not repeat, out of respect for my readers’ delicacy.
I gazed up and considered the face before me: dark-haired, brown-eyed, pale and handsome and finished off with a splendid, elegant moustache.
I shrugged my shoulders helplessly and said, “No English.”
“How strange,” he said. “You have such an English look about you.” He took my hand and switched smoothly into what I believe was Greek. I levered myself to my feet and pretended ignorance to that, too.
“Well, then. What a charming mystery you are,” said the man. He doffed his hat and made a polite little bow, which I returned. “Parlez-vous français, mademoiselle? Auf deutsche, perhaps?”
I shook my head. I feared my face was giving me away, hot with panicked shame. What had possessed me? But it was too late to back down.
“American?” he inquired.
I gave out an embarrassed laugh—this, at least, was not a pretense—and turned back to the mule, who stood scornfully by.
“Well, then, madam. I am happy to have been of service, and regret deeply that I am unable to express my pleasure at this unexpected and wholly delightful encounter. May we meet again, far from this latter-day Babel, in a place where we might understand each other with perfect ease.”
It was a beautiful speech, and I would liked to have been able to acknowledge it with something more suitable than a quizzical smile. I offered him my hand instead. He shook it, touched the brim of his hat, and walked away: medium height, gray-suited, as slender and athletic as a tennis player. My shoulders sagged.
Just as the man looked back over his shoulder, the mule lifted his tail and evacuated his bowels.
“Awfully sorry to be so long,” Silverton said, sauntering up a half hour later and taking the mule’s rope from my hand. “They’re a suspicious bunch, these Cretans. But I think I’ve found our man.”
“What a tremendous relief.”
“I say. Are you quite all right? Not accosted or anything like that?”
“Nothing like that, alas.”
I followed his lordship’s broad and tweedy shoulders down the quay, toward a crumbling stone pier at the far end of the harbor, where a dark-bearded man was constructing a knot of elaborate dimensions with which to secure a boat to one of the pilings. I am no expert on the nautical sciences, as you have perhaps surmised, but it seemed to me that this particular craft basked no longer in the prime of her life. Her boards were warped, her rigging in some disorder. She smelled like the devil. But her net, still over the side, fairly burst with wriggling fish, and that was all that counted, wasn’t it?
“Ahoy, there,” said Silverton, and the man looked up. An expression of instant suspicion took over his features, which were thick and craggy and not inclined to good feelings to begin with. “Are you Mr. Poulakis?”
“Naí, naí.”
“Er, speak English, by chance?”
The man released the rope and picked up an object that might possibly have been a harpoon. “A little.”
“Excellent, excellent. My name is Silverton, old fellow, and my companion and I were wondering if you might be persuaded to help us.”
The man fingered the harpoon lovingly. “Help you what?”
“Help us find an old friend, as it happens. Haywood’s the name. Maximilian Haywood. I understand he left this harbor in December, in company with a lady, in a boat he obtained by your good offices?”
Mr. Poulakis’s face calcified into a silent stare. He glanced at me—up and down and then up again—and said, toward some point in my ribs, “Who say this to you?”
I opened my mouth to reply, since he seemed to be addressing this question to me, or at least to a fragment of my body, but Silverton’s hand found the back of my waist and his voice interrupted me cheerfully.
“Why, none other than the housekeeper at the Villa Ariadne, up near Knossos. Your sister, I believe? Lovely woman. A pearl above price. She told us she’d made the arrangements with you personally.”
Mr. Poulakis’s gaze returned to Silverton and turned, if possible, more stony. “Maybe I do this.”
“Well! Jogs a bit of the old memory, then, does it? Excellent. Because the thing is, our fellow’s gone missing.”
“Missing?”
Silverton snapped his fingers. “Gone. Disappeared. Exafanístike.”
I might have been mistaken, but it seemed that a small, worried line came into being between Mr. Poulakis’s furry eyebrows.
“Exafanístike?” he said.
“Naí.”
The fisherman stood like a pillar, legs planted apart, as if braced for a gale. A tiny breeze tickled his forelock. He bent his face downward to inspect the point of his harpoon and said, “I know nothing.”
“Oh, come on, old fellow,” said Silverton. “British fellow, beautiful woman, sturdy craft acquired on the hush-hush. No doubt they paid you handsomely. Surely a bell rings somewhere inside that massive head of yours?”
The massive head flashed back up. “I mean I know nothing where they go.”
“Ah! But you do remember setting them up and so on.”
“They buy my boat. That is all.” He shrugged and turned away, tossing the harpoon inside the craft as it rolled gently in the harbor wake. “They sail off, all three. They no say where is going.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Silverton. “Did you say three?”
“Yes, three! Two men, one woman. One man very big.” He motioned with his hands. “Wear—what is word—” The hands fluttered around the head and shoulders.
“A hat?” Silverton suggested.
“No. Mandýas.”
“Ah. A cloak.”
“Cloak, yes.” He turned and reached for his fishing net. “That is all I know. They go, that is all.”
“Did anyone help them?”
“There was young man. Not in boat. He goes to villa, maybe.”
Silverton turned to me. “Max’s assistant, probably. So he knew what was going on, and probably where they were going. If only Thalia—”
Mr. Poulakis whipped around.
“THALIA?” he roared.
“I mean Mrs. Poulakis, of course,” Silverton said hastily. “The honored Mrs. Poulakis—”
But the prote
st was wholly supererogatory. Comprehension had already dawned on that rugged face, followed by a full-blooded fraternal rage of the sort one rarely witnesses among the anemic races of the northern climes.
Mr. Poulakis struck out his long arm, secured Silverton by the collar, and with a thick right fist delivered his lordship a cracking blow exactly in the middle of his perfect left jaw.
And, to be perfectly honest, I can’t say I blamed him.
“I could easily have fought back, of course, and avoided the blow,” said Lord Silverton, nursing a loin of beef to his cheek and a cup of strong hot Turkish coffee to his lips. “But a sense of honor compelled me to submit. Do stop gloating, Truelove.”
“I am not gloating.”
“I took my punishment like a gentleman, that’s all, and furthermore it was worth the beating.”
“What was worth the beating? The crime itself, or the information gained from it?”
“Well, both. But particularly the former.”
“Unrepentant, I see.”
“Well, I could hardly refuse a lady in extremis, could I? Not gallant at all.” He lifted away the beefsteak. “How does it look?”
“Ghastly.”
He tossed the meat on the worn wooden table between us. We were sitting in a sort of restaurant, across the street from the familiar arched façade of the Hotel Alabaster, which seemed to model itself on the style of the Parisian café, presumably in the hope of winning the Heraklion tourist trade, such as it was. The tables were round, the walls a lurid crimson. I had asked for coffee and sandwiches and the beefsteak for Lord Silverton’s jaw; we had already eaten the sandwiches, and the coffee had at last arrived after a long delay. I frowned at his lordship’s face, which now sported an interesting purple swelling, and wondered whether the jaw was actually broken. (He had claimed not, on the grounds that he was perfectly familiar with the sound of a snapping bone.)
Silverton turned his head away to stare at the hotel entrance across the street. “At least we know Max made it off Crete alive, and in the company of a beautiful woman. That’s something.”
“I suppose, in your view, that’s everything.”