“They are an absolute scandal,” Margaret said. “Mine especially. Yours at least aspire to be triangles. Mine gave up altogether.” The pan in front of her was covered with an assortment of shapes, most a variety of odd-looking lumps without any of the sides required by a triangle.
Mrs. Katevatis shook her head. “This is very bad, Mrs. Michaels,” she said. “You shall try again tomorrow. I will not permit you to leave the island until you can prepare these well. Then you can go back to England and make them for your husband.”
“You know, Mrs. Katevatis, Mr. Michaels might well enjoy that. May I make another batch now?”
This request was immediately denied, with a lack of dough cited as the reason, but I suspected Mrs. Katevatis could take only so much of our incompetence at a time, and I pulled Margaret back into the main part of the house before she could protest. We were both covered with flour and in dire need of baths. When the time for dinner came, we again ate inside, and the gentlemen were vastly amused by our culinary efforts.
“It is good to cook,” Fritz said. “My mother is excellent in the kitchen and rarely allows the servants to prepare meals. I am impressed you ladies have made the effort when so few of your peers are willing to even try.”
I had insisted Colin take a break for nourishment, and he reluctantly agreed we might all dine together while one set of villagers stood guard outside the house, but insisted he would return to his post as soon as we had finished. The other gentlemen would do the same.
“After I meet with Demir tomorrow, I propose we return to the mainland as soon as possible,” I said.
“I agree,” Margaret said. “Regardless of what happens when you see him, we know he is not a man to be trusted, and we cannot remain holed up here indefinitely. He might follow us to Athens, but we would be in a much stronger position there.”
Colin nodded. “It is a worthy proposition,” he said. “I will go to Fira in the morning and arrange for a boat.”
As had become his habit, Philip helped Mrs. Katevatis bring our coffee and baklava to the drawing room after dinner. Try though he might, she resisted all of his efforts to win over her goodwill. It was not, she had explained to me, that she found him unpleasant, but she believed he considered himself the master of the house, when that role by rights belonged to Colin—or Nico, as she called him, her voice warming whenever she uttered the name. Tonight, given his injury, Philip could not carry the heavy coffee tray as he normally did, and was instead relegated to being baklava-bearer.
I filled all of the cups with coffee, taking only a small amount for myself as I did not much care for it, while Margaret placed pieces of rich walnut baklava on plates. The sparse conversation as we sat in the sitting room reflected everyone’s somber mood. Jeremy barely picked at his pastry, and Colin would not stop pacing. I poured him a second cup of coffee and pressed it into his hands.
“You will need this if you mean to stay up all night,” I said. He accepted it with a grunt.
Philip, too, kept rising to his feet, starting for the door whenever he thought he heard a sound. Only Fritz, cool and imperious, polished off his baklava and his coffee without distraction.
“Are you ladies ready to retire?” Colin asked. “You will be safe in your bedrooms tonight. I have had no reports of anyone matching Demir’s description from my lookouts on the island. That does not mean he is not here, but I am confident we have matters well in hand. I would, however, implore you to keep your shutters closed and locked.”
We did as he instructed, but the lack of air flowing through my room stifled me. I expected to have difficulty sleeping, between the hot, heavy stillness and my general unease at our situation, but my lids grew heavy quickly, and I fell fast asleep before I had a chance to close my volume of Sophocles and blow out the lamp next to my bed.
When I awoke the next morning it had already passed nine o’clock. The lamp had burned itself out, and my Sophocles was crumpled beneath me on the mattress. Ordinarily I am immediately alert upon waking, but today even the act of getting out of bed took considerable effort. The anticipation of my meeting with Demir should have caused me to rise before the sun, and I ought to have been filled with impatient energy the moment I opened my eyes. I cracked the door to my room, expecting to find the mountain tea Mrs. Katevatis always left for me, but it was not there. Something was amiss. I dressed as quickly as possible and went downstairs without delay.
Philip
Santorini
A few weeks ago
The storm was still pummeling the island as the maid who answered the door helped the three archaeologists get Bohn into the house. A second servant girl, coming at the sound of commotion, nearly fainted when she saw him. Once they had put him on a bed, Philip asked the housekeeper, a woman who had never worked for him when he had owned the villa, if he might borrow one of Lady Emily’s horses.
“I understand she keeps several on the island,” he said. “They will be much faster than our donkeys, and I must get to Oia as quickly as possible to fetch the doctor.”
“Of course,” she said. “I am rather confused about your identity, though, sir. How can you be Lord Ashton? We all know him to have died years ago. Yet—”
“Yet both of the maids recognized me,” Philip said. “I will be more than happy to explain when I return, but right now I am afraid I must be on my way.”
“I recognize you as well, even if I did not work for you. Go. May God be with you.”
With the assistance of a stable boy, Philip saddled one of the horses and raced toward Oia, as quickly as the foul weather would allow. He kept to the inland road, knowing the cliff path to be dangerous during a storm. By the time he reached the doctor’s house—the men in the taverna directed him—he was soaked, mud-splattered, and exhausted. Or, he observed, in precisely the same condition as when he had arrived at the villa.
In the space of only a few moments, Dr. Liakos had his horse ready, and they thundered back to Imerovigli. The housekeeper opened the door and ushered them in, but winced when the doctor asked to see the patient.
“I am most very sorry, Lord Ashton,” she said. “Your friend is dead.”
22
When I got downstairs, Mrs. Katevatis apologized for not having my tea ready. She herself had risen only half an hour before and assured me that she had not slept so late in the past fifty years.
“We are all exhausted after the night before last,” I said, not wanting to alarm her until absolutely necessary. “Do not trouble yourself about it. Perhaps we should put some coffee on. Even I must admit tea may not be strong enough this morning.”
Philip was not at his post in the drawing room. I opened the front door and saw my husband leaning against the wall of the house, half asleep.
“You need coffee at once,” I said. “Margaret is not yet awake and I have only just risen from bed. Everyone slept too much and too soundly.”
“Coffee would be most welcome,” he said. “I am pleased you are well despite my having failed at my duties last night. I could hardly keep my eyes open.” His lids hung heavy over his red-rimmed orbs. It was not like him to appear so sleepy.
“I suspect we’ve all been drugged. Have you seen Philip this morning?” I asked. “He is not in the drawing room.”
He was off before I could finish my sentence, and I followed close on his heels. Fritz and Jeremy were asleep on the roof, slumped in chairs. A quick look into the Etruscan room showed it to be empty, and Philip was nowhere to be found. Having had little or no rest the night before last, we were all vulnerable. Finding the laudanum missing from our medical kit confirmed what I suspected: Philip had used it to force us all into unwelcome slumber. He had not forgot the villagers standing guard, either, as a quick interrogation revealed he had given them several bottles of ouzo to help keep their spirits up during their vigil. They all admitted to having fallen asleep.
“He has not gone to Fira,” Colin said after returning from a quick ride into town, “but he did take one
of the donkeys.”
“He must have gone back to the excavations,” I said. “But why?”
“Probably to draw out Demir,” Colin said. “I will go at once.”
“I am coming with you.”
“No, Emily.”
“I shall brook no argument,” I said. “If there is any sign of danger I shall turn around, but I will not stay behind.”
He nodded. “Is the bronze still safe?”
“I have it tucked away between the pages of my Iliad,” I said, “and I gave the book to Margaret, who will not let it out of her hands.”
While Adelphos saddled the horses, Colin and I questioned our prisoner, but Batur would give up no information. In the end my husband felt further interrogation would be a waste of our time. So, together as equal partners, we mounted Pyrois and Aethon and set off for Ancient Thera. Colin had left Jeremy and Fritz in charge of the house, and implored Adelphos to continue to keep a close eye on Batur and the semi-conscious patient in our servants’ quarters.
We rode in companionable silence, the sun approaching its midday peak in the bright blue sky. As we came to the turnoff for Kamari, my heart broke for the newly widowed young woman in the village, but this was not the time to stop and offer condolences.
“Did Philip convince you of the veracity of his story after you accused him of lying about his identity?” I asked as our path started to snake up the mountain. “Do you now believe he is who he says?”
“I was taken aback by what he knew about that”—he cleared his throat—“that evening when I ventured to the Sacher Hotel in search of torte, but I still find it inconceivable I would have told him the story, given the implications, in any circumstances. I cannot prove it, however. At the moment, I am not convinced it matters one way or the other. What about you?”
“Like you, I am not convinced it matters one way or the other.”
We had reached another of the turns on the steep road, and Colin tugged on Aethon’s reins. I closed my eyes, trusting Pyrois, and we continued along the vertigo-inducing ancient path. When we reached the archaeologists’ camp, there was a donkey—I recognized it from its saddle blanket as the one Philip had ridden to the villa—and a horse I had not seen before tied to a post. A cold chill ran down my back as we fastened our steeds.
“Do any of the villagers have a horse?” I asked.
“I don’t recall seeing one,” Colin said.
“Demir is here,” I said. “I am certain of it.”
“If he is, we are prepared to face him. He will not harm us so long as he does not have the bronze.”
“He might harm Philip, though,” I said.
“I am afraid Philip would have no one to blame but himself,” Colin said. He took my hand and we started to hike the remaining way to the ruins. After passing the early Christian church on the mountaintop just outside the ancient city, we paused to survey the scene before us, but detected no sign of anyone.
“Ashton!” Colin called. “Are you here?”
There was no reply.
I started at every sound, imagined and real, terrified at what we might find. Colin gripped my hand tighter as we made our way along the marble pavement of the ancient road.
“I suggest we trace the perimeter of the city,” he said. “We will have a better view at the top and can then decide how to proceed. They have to be here somewhere.” He called out for Philip again, as did I, but still no response came. Then, as we approached the end of the plateau, where the road turned to the west, near the spot where so recently we had picnicked, we saw them.
Philip was standing near a group of sanctuaries that included carvings of Egyptian gods, his back to us, his hands raised in fists, his lean body blocking only part of our view of the tall, sinewy man opposite him. They ran at each other, neither showing any sign of being aware of our presence, and hit each other with a spectacular crash. I screamed as they both fell to the ground, not far from the edge of the ridge, and continued to shout as I moved toward them, begging them to stop.
They paid no heed, if they even heard me, so I moved closer and closer until Colin began shouting at me to stop. I ignored him and continued to press forward, determined to stop the fight, no matter what it took.
Philip
Santorini
That morning
He had waited until he was certain the laudanum had taken effect and they were all sleeping. He went to the barn and saddled the donkey he had ridden to the house, not wanting to impose on his hosts by commandeering one of their horses. He rode first to Fira, where he banged on the door of the sleeping man who operated the telegraph, sent an urgent cable to Naxos, and insisted on waiting until he received a reply. Fortunately for the telegraph man, it came with little delay. As Philip had expected, Demir had not planned to leave Naxos until morning, and now he agreed to an earlier departure so he might see Philip before meeting with Kallista in Fira.
That settled, and the telegraph man paid an exorbitant sum, Philip weighed his options. He did not want to return to the house and risk being discovered leaving early in the morning; the laudanum’s effects might not last that long. So instead, he made his way back to Ancient Thera, his donkey plodding slowly along the moonlit trail, and spent the remaining hours of the night back in his tent. He slept very little, and had already prepared himself to meet his nemesis by the time the first rays of the sun peeked above the horizon.
He had decided his best option was to seek the highest ground possible in order to watch the man’s approach. He climbed up the path to the ruins, but stopped before he reached the main section, choosing instead to set up watch just beyond the Christian church, from where he had a clear view of the road up Mesa Vouno. Demir’s telegram had said he would be there at ten o’clock, but Philip expected him to be early, and on this count, he was correct. Before nine, Philip saw a lone figure on horseback approaching the road, and he followed its progress up the side of the mountain.
The man stopped in the camp, and called out. Philip, unwilling to come down to his adversary, replied from above.
“You shall have to come up here, Hakan,” he called.
23
I ran in the direction of the two men, who were pounding each other with blows that turned my stomach with every sickening thud, and I stopped only when I saw how close they were to the edge of the ridge. “Please!” I cried, feeling Colin come up from behind, grabbing me and restraining me from going any nearer to them. “You must stop!” I called again, so loudly that my voice started to break. The sound must have caught Philip’s attention, for he turned his head in my direction, giving his enemy the chance to land a swift punch to his face. I struggled against Colin’s strong arms—futilely, as he was not about to let me go—realizing only too late the catastrophic error of my decision to yell that final time. I had given his enemy the chance to topple Philip.
“You should never have taken what was not yours, Chapman,” said the man. I recognized him as the tall man I had seen on Nea Kameni. Philip was swaying dangerously on his feet, trying to shake off the effect of the blow, which had left him visibly dazed. In a flash, Colin dropped his hold on me as the Turk lunged at his adversary, sending Philip sprawling backward over the ridge. In that same instant, Colin pulled out a pistol and fired it. The man, who had started in my direction, crumpled to the ground.
I rushed to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Philip’s fall had been stopped by a large rock. His body contorted grotesquely, but his eyes were open, and he looked at me, pleading. Trembling and moving with extreme care, I slowly made my way to him, crouching down low to the ground, not wanting to risk taking a fall of my own. By the time I reached his side, his breathing was shallow and rough.
“I should never have troubled you,” he said.
“Quiet,” I said, pushing his sandy hair back from his forehead. “None of that matters now.” Blood spattered his lips as he started to cough. “You must focus on breathing and taking care not to move. Colin will go for help, and befo
re you know it you’ll be on your way to recovery.” The words sounded inane, and I knew them to be a lie, but I did not know what else to say.
“You don’t understand, Kallista,” he said. “I had no right. I—I am not—”
“I know,” I said. “You are not he. I knew yesterday when you said you hadn’t read Lady Audley’s Secret. Nothing pleased me more on my wedding trip than learning Philip had read it even before I had. And yet, even after realizing you are an impostor, I still chose to come after you today, because I want to help you. I will hold your hand while you tell me your story, and you will see everything is going to be fine.” I had heard Colin approaching from behind and looked back at him.
“The man is injured, but not so severely that I can’t question him,” he said. “I aimed carefully to make sure he would be able to stand up to interrogation. I have secured him, but should go back and get him to talk. I will not be out of sight. Call for me if you require any assistance.”
I blinked back tears. “Mr. Chapman is telling me a story.” The look in my husband’s eyes told me that, like me, he knew the poor man was not long for the world. Nothing mattered now other than making him as comfortable as possible through these last minutes. “Though if there’s any champagne to be had … I understand our adversary is finished. Did you hear that, Mr. Chapman? You need not worry any longer. You are safe.” Colin slipped off to return to the man he had captured.
“I am most grateful. But you should leave me be,” he said. “I am not worthy of—”
“I shall be the judge of that,” I said. “Now tell me, friend, how all this came to be.”
“I knew Philip quite well,” he said. “I worked in an antiquities store in London that he frequented, and over the years we came to be close. We shared a passion for Greece and Homer, and he respected my opinions and analysis. I read classics at Oxford, you see.” He paused to cough. “I had distinguished myself at Harrow. My mother always insisted I receive a top-notch education and my father ran a shop successful enough to ensure I could get one.”
A Terrible Beauty Page 23