‘So you thought that finding the icon might change things?’ Mac asked.
The old man smiled.
‘I told you it was crazy. I can’t see how it can change anything really but for some reason I have to find it, I have to.’
Mac couldn’t doubt his sincerity.
‘Go on,’ he prompted.
‘So we found it hard going at first. All we knew was that he was a British soldier in Agiou Athiris in 1947. I didn’t know if he was an officer or anything just that he was a soldier and what his face looked like. Nikos did all the research, eventually finding the journal in the museum. That gave us the names and then he was able to find out who their children were.’
‘Whose idea was it to break into their homes?’ Mac asked.
Young Nikos put his hand up.
‘I didn’t think it was very practical to just knock on doors and ask whether or not a relative of theirs had stolen a valuable painting seventy years ago. So I contacted my cousin who thought I’d gone mad but, as he likes mad things, he was all for it.’
‘So what was he doing, taking photos of any pictures of men in uniform?’
‘Yes except for the Pegrams. He couldn’t find any photos so he downloaded everything on their tablet and we found the photos there.’
Mac thought it was all very clever.
‘What made you do them in the order you did?’
‘We just put the names in a hat and drew them out at random. It was our bad luck that we had to wait until the sixth one before we knew we had the right man.’
‘Whose idea was it to do the last one in Henlow?’
‘That was mine too,’ young Nikos said. ‘I thought someone might catch on if the burglaries finished with the Llewellyn-fforbes one.’
‘That was clever too. So now you know who took the icon what were you planning to do next?’
‘To be honest we had no clear idea,’ old Nikos admitted. ‘We know that the icon hadn’t been sold and, as far as we could tell, that it wasn’t in a museum either. It’s very special, different to any other icon. We knew therefore that Mr. Llewellyn-fforbes must still have it but what do you do, knock on the front door and ask if we could have back a valuable painting his father took seventy years ago?’
Mac gave it some very serious thought.
‘I think that’s exactly what you should do. If you’re up for it that is?’ Mac asked.
‘We’ve come a long way and we’ve spent a lot of time looking for our icon. We’re absolutely up for it,’ old Nikos stated.
Mac left the room and noticed Father Joseph hovering outside. He looked worried.
‘It’s okay Father you can relax. Go and speak to them.’
He phoned Monty Llewellyn-fforbes and luckily he was in.
‘I was about to go out in a minute though. Is it important?’ Monty asked.
‘It’s very important,’ Mac confirmed without saying anything more.
Monty said he’d wait for him.
Half an hour later Monty himself opened the door. He showed some surprise that Mac was accompanied but waved at them all to follow him inside.
He led them into the living room and waved at a sofa.
‘So what’s this all about then?’ Monty asked when everyone had sat down.
‘It’s about the break-in,’ Mac explained.
‘Do they know who did it?’ Monty said pointing at the two men.
‘No, they’re the ones who did it.’
Monty’s face started to grow red. He stood up and waved his stick.
‘Is this a joke? If it is it’s in bloody poor taste,’ he exclaimed.
Mac thought he better explain quickly before someone got hurt.
‘Monty, please sit down and listen. If you still want to hit anyone afterwards you can start with me.’
Somewhat reluctantly he sat down again.
‘Please let this man tell you his story,’ Mac asked.
He nodded at old Nikos.
‘My name is Nikos Nicolaou and I had a dream…’
Old Nikos told his story exactly as he had to Mac earlier. At the end Monty was silent for a few moments.
‘So you’re saying that my father stole this painting?’ he said, his face getting red again.
‘Not necessarily stole it but perhaps he…’ old Nikos said trying to think of another explanation. He couldn’t think of one so he never finished the sentence.
The room fell silent, so silent that they could all hear the sound of the front door being opened and steps heading in their direction. The door opened and Helena appeared.
‘Hello Monty, I’m back…’
She stopped dead when she saw who was in the room.
‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company…’
Mac watched her as her eyes scanned the room. When they fell on young Nikos her face paled and then went flushed.
Young Nikos stood up and said, ‘Dr. Biggerstaff!’
‘Dr. Nicolaou!’ she replied, he face getting even more flushed.
‘Helena, you’ve come just in time. Can you do me a favour?’ Monty asked.
‘Of course,’ she replied.
‘You know where all the keys are kept. Can you find the one for my father’s room and see if you can find a painting in there. It might be wrapped up. How big was it?’ Monty asked.
Old Nikos demonstrated the size using his hands.
Not all that big then, Mac thought.
‘If your painting’s anywhere it will be there.’ Monty stated with some certainty.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Mac asked.
‘Because we’d have found it by now if it had been anywhere else. I never cleared my father’s room out after he died.’
‘Why was that?’ Mac asked.
‘Just never got around to it somehow,’ Monty said.
He stood up and walked towards the window. He stood there looking out of the window until some fifteen minutes later Helena when came into the room. She was carrying a package.
‘I found this at the back of his wardrobe,’ she said.
She laid it on the table. It was wrapped in brown paper and string. She went off and returned with some scissors.
She cut the string and pulled back the paper. It was brittle and bits of it cracked and fell off onto the table. There was a further level of wrapping, something that looked like chamois leather. Helena pulled it back and the contents were revealed.
It wasn’t a painting but a photograph of a young woman. From her hairstyle and clothes Mac reckoned it must have been taken in the forties.
‘That’s my mother!’ Monty exclaimed.
‘Here,’ Helena said.
She gave Monty a thick envelope. It had his name on the front in faded ink – ‘Monty’. Monty patted his pockets.
‘Helena can you read it? I can’t find my glasses.’
She opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of paper. She started reading…
‘My dear Monty,
You will have found this while you were cleaning out my room. I am dead now but I hope that you can help me with something, something I should have done while I was alive. I’m afraid I have to admit that your father has been something of a coward.’
Everyone instinctively looked at Monty. He looked shocked. Helena continued.
‘I need to tell you about what happened to me in Greece. Perhaps I should have told you all this a long time ago but hopefully you will understand why in a moment.
We were sent to Greece in 1943, mainly I think as I was fluent in Ancient Greek and the top brass thought that was near enough. We fought alongside a group of Partisans led by the Nicolaou brothers.’
Now everyone turned and looked at old Nikos.
‘Read on,’ he pleaded.
‘The Partisans were amongst the best men I’d ever met. I didn’t agree with their politics but then again I don’t suppose they agreed with mine either. We got to know all them very well and, for me, they were like my brothers, most espe
cially the two Nicolaous, Nikos and Michalis. We called them Nicky and Mickey which they loved. They said it made them sound like American gangsters.’
Mac noticed a tear rolling down old Nikos’ face.
‘When we were in the mountains we had a lot of time to talk. The brothers especially liked to hear about the history of their people so I used to tell them stories taken from the likes of Heroditus, Thucydides and Xenophon. They loved hearing about the great battles that the Ancient Greeks had fought. Mickey especially loved to hear about Themistocles and the great sea battle of Salamis.’
Everyone turned to look at old Nikos who suddenly appeared to be somewhat agitated.
‘Please read on,’ he said again.
‘When the war ended we were all so happy but I’m afraid that it didn’t last long. In December of 1944 I was invited to Athens by the General and there I witnessed the most appalling scenes, something I have never forgotten and God knows I’ve tried. The British and Americans, in their great wisdom, had put the Greek thugs who had sided with the Nazis back in power and ordered the Partisans to disarm. Of course they said no and two hundred thousand people marched in Athens to protest at what they were being asked to do.
We shouldn’t have been surprised when the Greek thugs opened fire and shot into the crowd killing many of their own citizens. All of them were unarmed. We should have shot the thugs down right there and then but we didn’t because we were now on their side. So we just stood by with our guns and tanks and watched. It sickened me then and it still does now all these years later.
I was then ordered by the General to hunt down all the Partisans in my area. Arrest them if possible, kill them if not. As I drove back to the town of Agiou Athiris I will admit that I wept. I explained the situation to my men who didn’t seem any more enthusiastic about turning against our friends than I was. So we had a sort of phoney war for a while. We’d pretend to try and hunt them down and the Partisans would pretend to be fighting us. While we were with the Colonel and the local security forces, Nazis sympathisers to a man, Nicky and Mickey would fire at us but over our heads. I knew they could have picked an eye and hit it if they’d have wanted to.
And so it went on. Our hands were bound and, as much as we might have wanted to, we could do nothing to help our friends except to do nothing. In the end, all I and the men could do was pray for it to be over, we just wanted to go home and get away from all the madness. Then something happened that forced our hand.
More by luck than through any skill the security forces stumbled on a group of Partisans and captured them. Among them were Nicky and Mickey. They took them to the local jail where they beat them quite savagely. Then some of the Greek soldiers went to a bar where a couple of my men were drinking and boasted about what they’d done. They said that they’d never live to see a trial as their Colonel was planning on taking them into the woods and killing them all. One Partisan, one bullet they said.
My men didn’t take this well and it ended up in a fight. One I’m glad to say that my men won. I was more than happy to pay for the damage.
However we now had a decision to make and I’m more than proud that all of the men who had fought with the Partisans stood together on this. We’ve had some new recruits join us but we thought it best to keep them out of this. It wasn’t their fight.
We all agreed that we needed to break our friends out of prison. It wasn’t hard. The guards were both drunks so a couple of bottles of retsina laced with Benny’s home-brewed poteen did the trick. They were asleep in no time. All we had to do was go in, open the cells and lead our friends out of a side entrance into our truck. Once they were well out of town my Sergeant, an explosives expert, blew down the outer wall of the prison. We hoped that the security forces would think that they’d just escaped and were still somewhere in the town. By the time they visited our barracks my men were all back in their beds.
The General himself came and tore a strip off me and my men. He had a good idea that we were in it up to our necks. The men followed my advice and said nothing. There was no evidence against us but, as the General said we were no longer to be trusted, we were to be sent home and he said we should all be ashamed. I must admit that I felt little shame and I don’t think any of my men did either. After he’d gone we had a sort of party. We were all so glad to be going home.
Now we come to the real point of this letter. The day before we were due to go home the Colonel invited us to the main square where we had to witness the beating of the local priest. It was vile. He was not a young man and the way the Colonel obviously enjoyed it was sickening. He looked at me from time to time. I daresay he wished it was me and not the priest that was feeling the leather of his men’s boots.
Then he committed a great sin, I can only call it that. He stood by as the church burnt down. The Colonel laughed at me. I could hear the crowd shouting and some of them tried to get to the church to put out the fire. The Colonel stopped them. I couldn’t watch and walked away. The soldiers surrounding the church all ran into the square and then I saw the back door. I must have gone a little mad I suppose because I kicked down the door and ran into the flames. I can still feel their heat on my skin as I write this letter. I should have died that day but I didn’t. Only God knows why.
I came out of the church with something valuable, perhaps the most valuable thing in the town of Agiou Athiris, an icon. Not in terms of money, although it must be worth a lot, but because it has been the centre of religious devotion in that town for many centuries. They used to process the icon all around the town every Easter. An old man once called it ‘the Heartbeat of Agiou Athiris’. I saved it.
I threw it in the back of my jeep and drove off. No-one saw me. The problem was I didn’t know what to do with it next. The only men I could have trusted were all in the mountains and on the run. I had no time to arrange anything as we were all going home the next day. So I took it back with me. I tried to keep in touch with my old friends but it was hard. Then a couple of years later I heard the news. Nicky and Mickey were dead, shot by the miserable bastards we’d handed the town over to. I cried the day I heard that news and I despaired for the country whose history I’d studied so long and for who I’d fought so hard.
I thought no more of the icon. If I thought of that then I would have to remember the way my friends, no my brothers, had died. I couldn’t bear it.
Now I near death and, after all these years, the icon has suddenly come back into my mind. So I must admit to my cowardice and ask you to do what I could not. Please return the icon to Agiou Athiris, to where it rightfully belongs. I have heard that Mickey had a son, search him out. If he is half the man his father was then he will do what is right.
My dear Monty, I am sorry to burden you with this but I know you will do what I couldn’t and help me rest. I have been proud of you every day since the day you were born and I still am. I could not have wished for a better son,
Your loving father
Harry’
There was stunned silence for a minute or so. It was broken by old Nikos.
‘Your father, he was no coward,’ he stated with certainty.
‘How do you know?’ Monty asked, his eyes brimming with tears.
‘I didn’t know who your father really was until she read that letter out. My father, Mickey as your father used to call him, used to sneak back home for a night now and again. To be with my mother I suppose. He used to tell us stories and the ones we loved most were those that ‘The Historian’ had told him. He told us that every time he heard one of these stories it made him feel a foot taller to be a Greek. He said that we should all be very proud of what our small country had given to the world. I became a historian myself because of those stories. He said that The Historian was a very brave man who had saved his and my uncle’s life many times when they were fighting the Germans. He said he was a true brother and a friend of Greece. Your father was no coward.’
Monty stood up and offered old Nikos his hand. Nikos ignored it and
hugged Monty. To Mac’s surprise Monty hugged back. Nikos then kissed Monty on both cheeks. Mac wasn’t totally surprised when Monty didn’t kiss him back.
‘So is that the icon?’ Monty asked, pointing to the picture of his mother.
‘Yes,’ old Nikos replied. ‘I recognize the frame and you can see here, on the lower right hand corner, it’s all worn away. We used to pray before the icon and then kiss it just there. You can see centuries of kisses right there.’
‘May I?’ young Nikos asked.
He produced a small pocket knife and gently removed the glass. He then reverently gave the photo to Monty. Below the photo was another layer of thin chamois leather. Nikos removed this.
It was as though the sun had just risen in Monty’s living room. Mac had to look away, he was blinded.
He looked back and young Nikos had angled the frame so the light wouldn’t dazzle them. Mac‘s eyes were drawn to the lustrous gold that formed the background of the painting, then next to the deep blue colour of the woman’s robes, a darker blue in the folds and shadows, and then to the baby she cradled in her arms. He smiled and looked straight out of the painting, his head was haloed in gold, and with his hand he made a sign of peace. Then last of all to the woman’s face. Once there Mac found he was entranced.
She didn’t look out of the painting, she was looking down at the child she held so tenderly in her arms. She was not beautiful but the way she had been painted made her transcend beauty. She had a smile on her face but it was a sad one. She looked with loving tenderness at her son and it was as though she already knew of the pain and torture that this beautiful child would have to go through in his short life. The eyes showed the true depth of her sadness and, as if to confirm this, on one cheek a golden tear was eternally suspended.
The Weeping Women (The Mac Maguire detective mysteries Book 3) Page 11