by Mary Stewart
‘Then – when the Englishman told them to “think it over”, he must have been meaning Colin? The other two ‘corpses’ being Mark, and the dead man?’
‘It seems so.’
‘So Colin must have been alive?’
‘The last Mark heard of it, yes,’ said Lambis.
A pause. I said, uncertainly: ‘They would come back, by daylight, for Mark.’
‘Yes.’ A glance from those dark eyes. ‘This I guessed, even before I heard his story. When I went back to cover our tracks, I brushed the dust over them, and went down for the haversack, then I hid above, among the rocks, and waited. One came.’
Again the breathless impact of that sparse style. ‘You saw him?’
‘Yes. It was a man of perhaps forty, in Cretan dress. You have seen this dress?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘He had a blue jacket, and dark-blue breeches, the loose kind. The jacket had some – what is the word for little balls of colour along the edge?’
‘What? Oh – I suppose I’d call them bobbles, if you mean that fancy braided trimming with sort of tufts on, like a Victorian fringed table-cloth.’
‘Bobbles.’ Lambis, I could see, had filed my thoughtless definition away for future reference. I hadn’t the heart to dissuade him. ‘He had red bobbles, and a soft black cap with a red scarf tied round, and hanging, the way the Cretans wear it. He was very dark of face, with a moustache, like most Cretans; but I shall know him again.’
‘Do you think it was the murderer?’
‘Yes. It was very nearly dark when the shooting happened, and Mark did not see faces, but he is certain that the man who did the shooting was in Cretan dress. Not the others.’
‘What did he do when you saw him?’
‘He looked about him, and went down into the gully, looking for Mark. He took a long time, as if he could not believe that he had gone. When he could find no body, he looked puzzled, and then anxious, and searched further, to see if perhaps Mark had crawled away, and died. He searched all the time below, in the gully, you understand. He did not think that Mark could have climbed up to the path. But when he looked for a long time without finding, then he came back to the path. He was very worried, I could see. He searched the path, then, but I think he saw nothing. After a time he went off, but not towards Agios Georgios. He went up there—’ a gesture vaguely north ‘—where is another village, high up. So we still do not know from where the murderers come.’
‘No. I suppose you couldn’t—?’ I hesitated, picking my words. ‘I mean, if he was alone . . . ?’
For the first time, Lambis smiled, a sour enough smile. ‘You think I should have attacked him? Of course. I do not have to tell you that I wait for the chance to force him to tell me the truth, and what they have done to Colin. But there is no chance. He is too far from me, and between us is the slope of open hillside. And he has his rifle, which he carries, so.’ A gesture, indicating a gun held at the ready. ‘He is too quick with his gun, that one. I have to let him go. If I take a risk, me, then Mark dies also.’
‘Of course.’
‘And because of Mark, who looks to be dying, I cannot follow this Cretan, to see where he goes . . .’ Suddenly he sat up, turning briskly towards me. ‘So now you understand? You see why I speak of danger, and why I do not dare to leave Mark, even to find where Colin is? Mark wishes me to go, but he is too ill, and when he has the fever, he tries to leave the hut, to look himself for his brother.’
‘Oh, yes, I see that all right. Thank you for telling me all this. And now, surely, you’ll let me help?’
‘What can you do? You cannot go down now to the village, and buy food or blankets, and then come back here. The whole village would know of it within the hour, and there would be a straight path back there, to Mark. And you cannot go to the boat; it will be dark soon, and I have told you, you could not find the way.’
‘No, but you could.’
He stared.
I said: ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? You go, and I’ll stay with him.’
You would have thought I had offered to jump straight off the side of the White Mountains. ‘You?’
‘What else is there to do? Someone has to stay with him. Someone has to get supplies. I can’t get supplies, therefore I stay with him. It’s as simple as that.’
‘But – I shall be gone a long time, perhaps many hours.’
I smiled. ‘That’s where the luck comes in. The hotel doesn’t expect me until tomorrow. Nobody in Agios Georgios knows I’ve arrived. Whatever time I get there, nobody’s going to ask questions.’
He scooped up a handful of the dry juniper needles, and let them run softly through his fingers. He watched them, not looking at me as he spoke. ‘If they come back, these murderers, to look for Mark, you will be alone here.’
I swallowed, and said with what I hoped sounded like resolute calm: ‘Well, you’ll wait till it gets dusk, won’t you, before you go? If they haven’t been back and found the hut before dark, they’re not likely to find it afterwards.’
‘That is true.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘this isn’t silly heroics, or anything. I don’t want to stay here, believe me. But I simply don’t see what else there is to do.’
‘You could do what Mark told you, and go down to your hotel and forget us. You will have a comfortable bed, and a safe one.’
‘And how well do you think I should sleep?’
He lifted his shoulders, with a little twist of the lips. Then he gave a quick glance at the western sky. ‘Very well. At first dark, I shall go.’ A look at me. ‘We shall not tell Mark, until I have gone.’
‘Better not. He’d only worry about me, wouldn’t he?’
He smiled. ‘He does not like to be helpless, that one. He is the kind that tries to carry the world.’
‘He must be half out of his mind about Colin. If he could only sleep, then you might even be able to go, and get back again, without his knowing.’
‘That would be best of all.’ He got to his feet. ‘You will stay up here, then, until I give you a signal? I shall see to him before I leave him. There will be nothing for you to do except see that he does not wake with fever, and try to crawl out of the hut, to look for his brother.’
‘I can manage that,’ I said.
He stood looking down at me with that unreadable, almost surly expression. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that you would manage anything.’ Then suddenly, he smiled, a genuine smile of friendliness and amusement. ‘Even Mark,’ he added.
4
Mark how she wreaths each horn with mist, you late and labouring moon.
WILDE: Panthea
Lambis left at dusk. Soon after the sun had vanished below the sea, darkness fell. I had been watching from the ledge, and, in the two long hours before sunset, I had seen no sign of movement on the mountainside, except for Lambis’ short trips from the hut to get water from the pool.
Now, as the edges of sea and landscape became dim, I saw him again, small below me, appearing at the door of the hut. This time he came out a short way, then stopped, looked up in my direction, and lifted a hand.
I stood up and raised an arm in reply, then made my way carefully down to meet him.
He said, low voiced: ‘He is asleep. I gave him the rest of the coffee, and I have bathed his arm. It looks better, I think; he has been a little feverish, talking stupid things, but no longer fighting to be out. He will be okay with you. I have filled the flask now with water; you will not need to come out again.’
‘Very well.’
‘I will go now. You are not afraid?’
‘I am, a little, but then that’s only natural. It doesn’t change anything. You’ll take great care?’
‘Of course.’ He hesitated, then there came again that familiar gesture of hand to hip. ‘You would like this?’
‘This’ was his knife. It lay across his palm.
I shook my head. ‘Keep it. If one of us is going to need it, I hope it’ll be y
ou! In any case, it would be wasted on me – I wouldn’t quite know how to start using it. Oh, and Lambis—’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been thinking, sitting up there. Isn’t it just possible that Colin may have got away? Or even that they’ve actually let him go? They know Mark’s got away, and may be still alive, so they must know it’d only be running into worse trouble if they kill Colin. I mean, the first murder may be a local affair that they think they can get away with, but it’d be a different matter to involve two British nationals.’
‘I have thought this myself.’
‘And if he were free – Colin, I mean – he’d go first of all to look for Mark’s body, then, when he didn’t find it, he’d go straight to the caique, wouldn’t he?’
‘I have thought this also. I have been hoping I shall find him there.’
I said doubtfully: ‘As long as they’ve not found the caique . . . I suppose, if they have, they’d be bound to connect it with Mark? Does the path, the “ancient path”, lead straight to the old harbour? Would they assume that was where Mark and Colin were making for? If so, you’d think they’d have followed it up.’
He shook his head. ‘The path goes on right over the hills, past the church, then it divides towards the hill village to the north, Anoghia, where the Cretan went, and to another village further along the coast to the east. There, there is a road to Phestos, where the antiquities are, and the tourists go. It is certain that the murderers would think that Mark was going that way. Why should they think of a boat? Mark and Colin had a haversack, and it would seem, perhaps, that they were walking, and sleeping out – going, perhaps, to sleep that night in the old church. People do these strange things, especially the English.’
‘Well, let’s hope you’re right. Let’s hope they never think about a boat. Can it be seen easily, from the shore above?’
‘No, but I shall hide it better. There was a cave . . . not quite a cave, but a deep place between rocks, which could not be seen from the shore paths. I shall put her in there; she will be safe enough; there will be no wind tonight.’
‘But if Colin came back to where you had left her before—’
‘He will still find her. If he does go down to the place, and she is not there, you know what he will do, what anyone does. He will think, first, that this is not the same place, and he will search; there are many rocks and little bays, he will search them all, near by. And so he will see her.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s what one does. If you expect to see something in a certain place, you simply don’t believe it can’t be there.’ I looked at Lambis with a new respect. ‘And you? Do you really expect to find him there?’
He gave a quick glance at the door of the hut, as if he were afraid that Mark might hear him. ‘I know no more than you, thespoinís. It may be that they are now afraid because they have shot at Mark, and that they try only to persuade Colin to be silent – and that Colin is even now searching for his brother. I do not know. It may be that there is no danger at all.’
‘But you don’t believe that.’
In the pause before he answered, I heard, high overhead in the darkening sky, the call of some late-going gulls. The sound was muted by distance, and very lonely.
‘No,’ he said at length, ‘I do not believe it. There is danger here. The man I saw, he was dangerous, as a wild beast is dangerous. And the men Mark spoke of . . . yes, there is danger, I can feel it. It is in the air of these mountains.’
I smiled, I hope cheerfully. ‘Perhaps that’s only because you’re not used to them. You’ve become a city bird, like me. High mountains frighten me now.’
He said seriously: ‘The city, the hills, they are all the same, where there are wicked men. When I was a child, in my village, it was the same. We were afraid in our houses, in our own beds . . . only then, for a young boy, the war was also exciting. But this . . . no, not now.’
There was a sound from inside the hut, the rustle of dried leaves and a sighing breath, then silence again.
Lambis lowered his voice. ‘I must go. I will bring everything I can carry. Be careful, thespoinís.’
‘Nicola.’
‘Nicola, then.’
‘Goodbye, and good luck.’ I swallowed. ‘You be careful, too. We’ll see you soon. And for pity’s sake don’t fall and break a leg in the dark . . . How long do you think it will take?’
‘I shall wait for daylight. Perhaps three hours after that.’
‘Right,’ I said, as steadily as I could, ‘And if you’re not back by noon, I’ll come and look for you.’
‘Okay.’
He was soon invisible down the darkening hillside. His steps faded. I heard the crack of a twig, then, more faintly, the rattle of a displaced stone, and then silence.
The seabirds had gone. To the east, beyond the high towers of rock, the sky looked clouded, but from here to the sea it seemed clear, deepening rapidly towards night. The early stars, king stars, burned there already, bright and steadfast. I remembered that last night there had been a moon of a kind, a pale quarter, waning, like silver that is polished so thin that it has begun to wear away . . .
Beside me, the entrance to the hut gaped black, like a cave mouth. The hut itself crouched back against the rock as if huddling there for protection, as indeed it was. I glanced from it again up at the night sky. For Lambis’ sake, I hoped there would be a moon, any sort of a moon, rising clear of the clouds, and dealing even a little light. But for my own, and Mark’s, no night could be dark enough.
I shook the thought away. It did not do to think about the possibility of our being found. We would not be found. And if we were, the whole thing was a mistake, and there was no danger at all. None.
On this reflection – or bit of mental bluster – It turned and groped my way into the darkness of the hut.
‘Lambis?’
So he was awake. I went quietly across towards the voice, and sat down at the edge of the brushwood bed.
‘Lambis has gone down to the boat, to get supplies, and to see if Colin’s there.’
‘You?’
‘Yes. Now don’t worry, please. Someone had to go down. We couldn’t either of us get stuff in the village, and I didn’t know the way to the boat. He’ll be back by morning. Are you hungry?’
‘What? No. A bit thirsty. But look, this is nonsense. I thought you’d have been safe in your hotel by this time. You ought to go, they’ll ask questions.’
‘No, I told you, I’m not expected till tomorrow. My cousin Frances was delayed, and she can’t arrive before tomorrow, either, so no one’ll be worrying about me, honestly. Now stop thinking about it; I’ll get you a drink, there’s water in the flash . . . if I can just see to pour it out . . . Here.’
As his hand met mine, gropingly, on the cup, I could feel him searching for words. But he must have been weary, and still fogged with fever, for he accepted my presence without further argument, merely fetching a long sigh when he had drunk, and going back to the first thing I had said. ‘He’s gone to the boat?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s told you all about it? About Colin?’
‘Yes. We think it’s possible Colin may already have made his way to the boat.’
He said nothing. I heard the bedding rustle as he lay back. A dry, sharp scent came from it, not quite strong enough to counteract the smell of dirt and sickness. ‘How do you feel now?’ I asked.
‘Fine.’
I found his pulse. It was light and fast. ‘I wish to goodness I dared heat some water. How’s the arm?’
‘It’s sore, but it’s not throbbing quite so much.’ He answered patiently, like an obedient child. ‘It’ll be better by morning.’
‘If we can keep you warm enough,’ I said, ‘and you get some sleep. Are you warm?’
‘Lord, yes, boiled.’
I bit my lip. The night, mercifully, was far from cold, and, as yet, the rock surfaces of the mountain breathed warmth. But there were hours to go, and the chill of daw
n to come, and the possibility, at that time of year, of low cloud, or rain.
Under my fingers the light pulse raced. He lay, slack and silent, in his corner.
He said, suddenly: ‘I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Nicola.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’re Mark – Mark what?’
‘Langley. When will he get back?’
‘He didn’t say,’ I lied. ‘He’s going to move the boat out of sight of the coast paths. He’ll need daylight for that.’
‘But if Colin goes back to the boat—’
‘He’ll find it. He’ll hunt. It’ll be quite near, only closer under the cliff. Now stop thinking about it. We can’t do anything till daylight, so if you can empty your mind, and rest and sleep, then you might be well enough tomorrow to move down towards the boat.’
‘I’ll try.’ But he moved restlessly, as if the arm hurt him. ‘But you? You should have gone. I’d have been all right alone. You really will go tomorrow? You’ll get out of this – whatever it is?’
‘Yes,’ I said soothingly, ‘when Lambis comes back, I’ll go. We’ll talk about it in the morning. You must be quiet now, and try to sleep.’
‘Did Lambis say there was an orange somewhere?’
‘Of course. Wait a moment till I peel it.’
He was silent while I dealt with the orange, and took the piece I handed to him, almost greedily, but when I passed him another, he suddenly seemed to lose all interest, pushed my hand aside, and began to shiver.
‘Lie down,’ I said. ‘Come on, pull this up round you.’
‘You’re cold yourself. You’ve got no coat.’ He sat up, seeming to come to himself. ‘Heavens, girl, I’ve got your woolly thing here. Put it on.’
‘No. I’m fine. No, Mark, damn it, you’ve got a temperature. Don’t make me fight you every inch of the way.’
‘Do as you’re told.’
‘I’m the nurse, you’re only the patient. Put the beastly thing on and shut up and lie down.’