A Terrible Beauty

by Tasha Alexander

  “So you and Philip were intellectual equals and enjoyed a lively discussion,” I said. “I can see why you were friends.”

  “I thought we were friends, Kallista—but I should not call you that any longer, Lady Emily.”

  “You may call me Kallista.” His hair had tumbled back over his brow. I brushed it away from his eyes.

  “We spent a great deal of time together when he was in London. One day he came into the shop and we got embroiled in a discussion about Alexander the Great and Achilles—” He coughed again.

  “A favorite topic of his,” I said.

  “Quite. It was time for me to close up, and he suggested we go to the pub for a pint so we might continue our conversation. From that day on, we met there regularly when he was in town. In general, the only topic we addressed was classics. He told me everything about how he came to love the subject, from his boyhood when his grandfather gave him a copy of The Iliad to his approach to learning Greek and the topics of his essays at Cambridge. One day, he was sitting at our usual table, beaming, and I asked him what had caused this joy—I expected it to be a frieze, at least—and he surprised me by saying he had fallen in love. He told me all about you, down to the details of what you were wearing and whom you’d spurned that night at Lady Elliott’s.”

  “How very indiscreet,” I said.

  “It was not that way, madam, truly. He waxed enthusiastic about you like nothing I’d ever seen. I promise, he did adore you, no matter what you think about infatuation and the rest.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  “As I said, I considered him a friend. I even sent the two of you a wedding gift—a small sculpture of Hera, goddess of marriage.”

  “I remember the piece,” I said. “Philip told me it came from an old friend. I have it in my gallery in our country house.”

  “He told me of his plan to give a photograph of you to the artist Renoir and have him paint a portrait from it. He showed me the ivory brooch he purchased for you as a wedding gift,” he said. “He thought its beauty to be as delicate as yours. I agreed, which is why I chose a similar one to give you here on Santorini. I do hope you will keep it, although I have no rights to ask.”

  “Of course I will keep it.”

  “At hearing the news of my friend’s death, I was terribly grieved. When the time was appropriate, I came to Berkeley Square to see you—to make a call of condolence. The butler brought me inside, but your mother refused to let me see you. An education alone does not a gentleman make, and I suppose she saw me for the shopkeeper I was.”

  “She is a dreadful woman,” I said. “You ought not to have taken it personally.”

  “I did not, I assure you,” he said. “I might have forgot about it altogether had I not seen you, later, in the British Museum, engaged in a lively conversation with the Keeper of Greek and Roman antiquities. I confess I fell in love with you on the spot. You made such intelligent observations about the differences between Praxiteles and Polycleitus, stating in no uncertain terms that Praxiteles’ wit made Polycleitus’ sculptures look more like academic studies than passionate works of art. How could one not fall in love?”

  “Indeed,” Colin said, returning from his post. “Emily is constantly drawing in unsuspecting classicists. It is one of her most charming characteristics.”

  “I am most sorry, Hargreaves. I have behaved abominably toward you.”

  “Think nothing of it, old boy.” Colin said. “Might I have a quick word, Emily?” He pulled me a few feet away and spoke in the barest whisper. “The man is not Demir, but admits that he killed Kallas. If he is not Demir—”

  “Demir could be nearby and we are in danger,” I said. “I cannot leave him alone here to die.”

  He looked at me, all seriousness, and I half expected him to argue, but he did not. “Very well,” Colin said. “I shall do my best to keep watch for any unexpected visitors.”

  “Your husband is a very good man,” Mr. Chapman said after Colin had stepped away.

  “Yes,” I said. “But now you must take a little water.” He could not raise his head, so I tipped my canteen to his lips.

  “I did love you in that first moment, I confess,” he said, “but I had no intention of declaring myself to you. Your mother had made it clear my attentions would not be welcome. But I kept coming across you in the museum—you spoke to me once. I was with one of the keepers. He introduced us and we discussed red figure vases.”

  “I am sorry I do not remember.”

  “There was no reason you should, particularly as I wore a beard then and looked quite different,” he said. “Regardless, our conversation was enormously significant to me, because during it I realized that my soul longed for you, and I believed that we could be the sort of couple Shakespeare made immortal.”

  “Things didn’t turn out well for most of his couples,” I said.

  “You are right, of course, but I felt certain we were intended for each other. At the same time, I knew I could not court you in any ordinary fashion. Earls’ daughters don’t marry shopkeepers, and what could I do to correct that injustice?”

  I assumed the question to be rhetorical.

  “I decided to take matters into my own hands. If I could not win your affection openly, I would try another approach. I cannot take credit for the initial inspiration. It came, one day, most unexpectedly, when I had gone back to Oxford to visit the Ashmolean Museum. While there, a gentleman I did not recognize approached me, calling me Ashton. Confused, I told him my name, and he apologized, saying I looked so much like someone he had known at Cambridge that he had assumed me to be him.”

  “And the man he thought you were was Philip,” I said.

  “Yes. We laughed about it, reminisced about him briefly, and went our separate ways. Almost immediately the seed of an idea took hold in me. I had all the time in the world before me, and I knew that with great care and patience, I would be able to realize my dreams. Twice before, when Lord Ashton was still alive, people who knew us both commented on how striking it was that our eyes were identical shades of blue.”

  “But Fritz—and his story of meeting you in Africa—he is nothing more than your accomplice?”

  “No.” He coughed again. “I am glad I will not be alive to see his reaction to my duplicity. I had managed to acquire a rather tidy sum of money from my shop over the years, and that, combined with what I acquired from selling it, enabled me to embark on my plan. First, I traveled to Africa, where I hunted with his favorite guide—I knew I would need firsthand experience in stalking big game if I were to convince anyone I was Ashton—and spent nearly a year there. I got the scar your husband recognized there, after convincing a group of Masai guides to take me on a lion hunt. I was so terrified standing there, as we encircled the thicket into which they had driven the beast, that I dropped my spear on my leg, injuring myself, not realizing how fortuitous the accident would prove. I knew Ashton had taken part in a lion hunt that resulted in him getting a scar, but I could never have anticipated being saved from exposure by having one of my own. I only regret that mine came from cowardice, unlike Ashton’s.”

  His breath was becoming more ragged. “I did fall ill in Africa, though not seriously, and after I had more or less recovered, I went in search of a group of travelers whom I could convince to bring me to Cairo. My emaciated appearance brought veracity to my story.”

  “So Fritz knows nothing of this?” I asked, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket. I moistened it with water from my canteen and wiped the dust and blood from his face.

  “No. We had become close during our travels, sharing as we do an interest in Greece. From the first day we met on the Dark Continent, he has proven his sincere friendship time and time again. He even insisted I go with him to Munich, where I stayed in his parents’ house. You know most of the story from there. Everything I told you about seeing you with Hargreaves at Berkeley Square and the rest was true. Reiner never suspected me to be anyone but Ashton, because I have lived
as him for all these years.”

  “The story you told me—surely Philip was not so indiscreet as to have discussed our wedding night?”

  “No, not at all,” he said. “You told me the story, Kallista. All I did was respond accordingly and pause long enough for you to fill in the details. I knew a gentleman would have had port after dinner. I apologize for having prompted you to reveal something so intimate.”

  “What could you have hoped to achieve by coming to me here?” I asked. “You knew I had married again.”

  “It was my dearest wish that you might come to love me. Or rather, to reignite the love I firmly believed you had felt for your first husband. I removed myself from the villa deliberately, hoping my gentlemanly offer of keeping away would impress you, that you would see my nobility and start to think you ought to give me another chance. If that failed, I was prepared to pursue my legal options. Your second marriage would have been declared invalid if Ashton were still alive.”

  I wanted to shout recriminations at him, but the gray pallor of his skin and the bluish tint beginning to color his lips changed my mind. “I am here with you now, on Santorini, just as you always wished.”

  “Yes.” He was struggling to keep his eyes open.

  “Would you do me one kindness?” I asked. “Would you tell me your name? I do not want to know you, a man of such devotion and conviction, only by your nom de guerre.”

  “Alastair Jones,” he said.

  “Thank you.” I stroked his forehead. “Would you like some more water?”

  “No—I don’t think I could swallow it. But there is more I have to tell you.” He reached for my hand. His skin felt cold as he recounted several more things that had transpired in the course of his masquerade. That done, he turned to the subject of the man who had died the night the archaeologists arrived at the villa. “You must know I did not mean Bohn to be harmed in any of this. It is my fault he fell, though. He was trying to save me. I brought on all this horror. He came into my tent the very night I was planning to go to the villa. I was going to feign illness.”

  “He uncovered your plan?” I asked.

  “No, nothing of the sort. He needed my help with his tent and in the course of trying to assist him, I tripped and fell. I went over the edge near our camp, and when he tried to help me, he fell, but further and with greater force. It was my fault. My fault.”

  “We will have no more of that,” I said. “It does not matter now.”

  “Will you ever be able to forgive me?” His voice was growing weaker.

  “I already have,” I said, and kissed him on the forehead. He continued to give me the details of his subterfuge as long as he was physically able.

  “He who dies in youth and vigor dies the best,” he said, struggling to form the words as he quoted Homer’s description of the death of the noble Hector. Tears smarted in my eyes.

  They were his last words. He was not unconscious, and opened his eyes intermittently, but he could no longer speak. I sat with him, holding his hand as his breathing grew increasingly ragged, and I felt a deep sadness when at last it stopped. I choked back a sob, closed his eyes, and pulled myself to my feet. Colin, who had been no more than thirty feet away the entire time, came to me.

  “It is over?” he asked. I nodded. He looked at Mr. Jones’s body and sighed. “I am more sorry for him than I would have expected. I do hate to rush you, but—”

  “Demir will be expecting me in Fira,” I said. “We can’t just leave him here.”

  Colin fetched blankets from the camp, wrapped Mr. Jones in them, and then carried him into the stoa of the ancient city. “We cannot bring him any further now,” he said. “I will ask the men in the village to send someone up for him and the injured Turk. They will be able to keep him secure until the authorities arrive. I am afraid we will have to rush to make it to Fira in time for your appointment. Would you like me to meet Demir in your place?”

  “No,” I said. “I will need you there, of course, but I would not dream of missing the opportunity to bring that horrible man to justice.”

  24

  We rode hard and reached Fira in time to send a message to the others at the villa, telling them not to worry and to remain where they were. We gathered reinforcements in the form of a select handful of persons whom Colin had arranged to have present and took our places at the taverna, which was empty except for the members of our group, who were scattered casually amongst the tables. I chose a seat on the terrace, in a chair whose back was placed against the railing, and ordered mountain tea. Colin, next to me, consumed cup after cup of thick Greek coffee. I watched the others, whom my husband had coached to behave as if they did not know us, as we all waited. An hour later than our appointed time, a tall man approached, with the coloring of a Turk and the dapper elegance of an English gentleman. His pale linen suit, finely tailored, and his winning smile caught me off guard. There was no hint of menace in his appearance, and had I ever subscribed to the theories of physiognomy, I would have abandoned them on the spot.

  He bowed to me as he approached and then took my hand and kissed it. “You are an unexpected Athena,” he said. “I thought the goddess would be Greek.”

  “It is my nom de guerre,” I said. “Much as I imagine Demir is yours.”

  “No, no,” he said. “May I sit?” I nodded and he took the chair across from me—I had deliberately left for him the one with the best view—and perpendicular to Colin. “Is this your henchman?”

  “No, I am her husband,” Colin said. “I have a funny habit of not liking her to engage in transactions without me present. Your colleagues are not always polite. I do hope I can expect better from you.”

  “I apologize on their behalf,” he said. “To answer your question, yes, Demir is my name. I have no reason to hide it. I am a man of honor who seeks only to connect people with objects they cannot find anywhere else.”

  Colin betrayed not the slightest emotion through all this, and I greatly admired his skillful subterfuge. I was having a difficult time sitting calmly instead of rising to my feet and giving a very stern lecture on the evils of murder and antiquities trading.

  “Yes, yes,” Colin said. “I see now there is no need for me to be here. Do you mind, darling? I might just go for a smoke and see if I can find a newspaper anywhere in this town.”

  “Of course,” I said. We had discussed every contingency of our plan in advance. He would never be more than a few steps away, and we hoped Demir would speak more freely to me alone. Men, I have found, generally underestimate ladies.

  “Your husband is a very trusting man,” Demir said.

  “That he is,” I said, smiling. “He knows I prefer tending to business on my own, yet insists on accompanying me until, as he likes to say, he gets a handle on things. You are interested in my offer?”

  “If you truly have the Achilles bronze—”

  “Do you doubt me?” I asked.

  “I understood it to have been in the possession of another of your countrymen.”

  “Yes, Chapman. Do you know him well?” I asked.

  “Well enough to know better than to trust him,” Demir said.

  “It is irrelevant now. He is dead,” I said, shrugging. “As is the unsavory individual you sent to deal with him. I do not like messes, Demir. They trouble me. I do not like to do business with someone who causes them.”

  “That is not my usual manner, I assure you.” His English was very good. “Unfortunately, in my line of work, there are times when my suppliers begin to make unreasonable demands and I must discourage them, but you need not worry about that.”

  “I am willing to sell you the bronze, for the price I sent you, but only if you agree to offer me your best pieces before they go to anyone else.”

  “The price you ask is already too high,” he said. “Why should I agree to further terms as well?”

  “So you are agreeing to my price?” I asked.

  “I am confident we will agree on a price,” he said, “bu
t these things take time. You have the item in question with you?”

  “What sort of amateur do you take me for?” I asked. “I will invite you to see it only after we have reached an agreement.” I waved for service. “I assume you would like a libation?” I asked the waiter to bring him tea without allowing Demir to answer. “I understand the customs of your country, so you shall have your tea, and we shall sit and talk, but I warn you I will not change my terms.”

  “I do not object to your terms, only your price,” he said. “I will sell nothing before first giving you the chance to buy it.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Now tell me what I can expect you to have on offer soon.”

  He leaned forward. “I do not like to discuss such things. It is bad luck.”

  “Then tell me what you have now.”

  “I have much coming out of Cyprus, from a site where no Westerners are currently digging. I have a new connection at Ephesus who sends me enough for you to feel it is like your Christmas, and my men in Delos and Macedonia are most reliable. What do you like? Pots? Jewelry? Statues? Friezes? I have them all.”

  “It sounds like quite an inventory,” I said. “Where is your gallery? I should like to visit.”

  He laughed, but did not answer until the waiter, who had just brought his tea, was gone. “You know I cannot have a gallery. You will have to come to my home, in Constantinople.”

  “You keep everything there?” I asked. “How cunning. No one suspects you are running what is, if I may state my own opinion on the matter, the greatest illegal antiquities operation in the western hemisphere?”

  “No one ever has,” he said. “But I do not like the word illegal.”

  “Quite. It sounds so harsh,” I said. “The Achilles bronze is extremely valuable. It would be a worthy addition to your collection. I am certain any houseguests you entertain would admire it.”