by Mary Stewart
Frances stretched her long legs in front of her, and reached for a cigarette. ‘Yes, this was a ve-ery good idea of yours. Athens at Easter could be a bit much. I can see that. I’d forgotten, till you wrote, that the Greek Easter would be later than ours. We had it last weekend when we were in Rome. I imagine the Greek country Easter’ll be a bit of a contrast, and I must say I’m looking forward to it. Oh, thanks, I’d love another cup. Now, how long since I saw you? Good heavens, nearly eighteen months! Tell me all about yourself.’
I regarded her with affection.
Frances, though a first cousin, is very much older than I. She was at this time something over forty, and though I know it is a sign of immaturity to think of this as being a vast age, I know that it seemed so to me. From the earliest days I remember, Frances has been there. When I was very small I called her ‘Aunt Frances’ but she put a stop to that three years ago – at the time when, after my mother’s death, I went to live with her. Some people, I know find her formidable; she is tall, dark, rather angular, with a decisive sort of voice and manner, and a charm which she despises, and rarely troubles to use. Her outdoor job has given her the kind of complexion which is called ‘healthy’; she is as strong as a horse, and an excellent business woman. She dresses well, if severely. But her formidable exterior is deceiving, for she is the most genuinely tolerant person I know, and sometimes carries ‘live and let live’ to alarming lengths. The only things she cannot stand are cruelty and pretentiousness. I adore her.
Which is why, on her command to ‘tell her all about myself’, I did just that – at least, I plunged into a haphazard and pretty truthful account of my job, and my Athens friends. I didn’t trouble to edit, though I knew that some of the latter would have fitted a bit oddly into Frances’ staid Berkshire home.
She heard me out in amused silence, drinking her third cup of tea, and tapping ash into the nearest píthos.
‘Well, you seem to be getting a lot of fun out of life, and after all that’s what you came for. How’s John? You don’t mention him.’
‘John?’
‘Or was it David? I forget their names, though heaven knows why I should, as your letters are spotted with them like a currant-cake, while the fit’s on. Wasn’t it John, the reporter from the Athens News?’
‘Oh, him. That was ages ago. Christmas, anyway.’
‘So it was. Come to think of it, your last two letters were remarkably blank. Heart-whole and fancy-free?’
‘Entirely.’ I pulled a pink carnation near to me on its swaying stalk, and sniffed it.
‘Well, it makes a change,’ said Frances mildly. ‘Of course, it’s all very well having a heart like warm putty, but one of these days your impulses are going to land you in something you won’t easily get out of. Now what are you laughing at?’
‘Nothing. Is the Paolo calling for us on Monday?’
‘Yes, all being well. You are coming with us to Rhodes, then? Good. Though just at the moment I feel I never want to move again. This is what the travel guides call “simple”, but it’s nice, and terribly restful . . . Listen.’
A bee in the lilies, the soft murmur of the sea on the shingle, the subdued Greek voices . . .
‘I told Tony I wished they could keep it like this,’ I said. ‘It’s heaven just as it is.’
‘Mmm. And you were right, my love. The flowers I’ve seen so far, even just along the roadside, are enough to drive a woman to drink.’
‘But you came by boat!’
‘Oh, yes, but when we were stuck that Sunday night, in Patras, three of us hired a car and went exploring. We didn’t have time to go far before dark, but I made the driver stop so often, while I rushed off into the fields, that he thought I was mad – or else that my bladder was permanently diseased. But as soon as he gathered that it was just the flowers I was looking at, do you know what he did?’
I laughed. ‘Picked some for you?’
‘Yes! I came back to the car, and there he was, six foot two of what you would recognize as magnificent Hellenic manhood, waiting for me with a bunch of orchids and anemones, and a kind of violet that sent my temperature up by several degrees. Aren’t they sweet?’
‘Well, I don’t know which violet—’
‘Not the violets, ass, the Greeks.’ She stretched again, luxuriously. ‘My goodness, I’m glad I came! I’m going to enjoy every minute, I can see that. Why, oh why do we live in England, when we could live here? And incidentally, why does Tony? Live here, I mean, when he could live in England?’
‘He said there was money to be made here when they put up the new wing, which is a polite way of saying when they build a hotel that is a hotel. I wondered if he had money in it himself. He says he’s got a weak chest.’
‘Hm. He looks a pretty urban type to settle here, even for a short spell . . . unless the beaux yeux of the owner have got something to do with it. He came with him from London, didn’t he? What’s he like?’
‘Stratos Alexiakis? How did you – oh, of course, I told you the set-up in my letter, I forgot. He seems very nice. I say, Frances.’
‘Mmm?’
‘Would you care for a walk along the shore? It gets dark here fairly soon. I – I’d quite like a stroll, myself.’
This was not true, but what I had to say could hardly be said under the listening windows.
‘All right,’ she said amiably, ‘when I’ve finished this cup of tea. What did you do with yourself in Chania, if that’s how you pronounce it?’
‘You don’t say the “ch” like ours; it’s a chi, a sort of breathed “k”, like in “loch” . . . Chania.’
‘Well, what was it like?’
‘Oh, it – it was very interesting. There are Turkish mosques.’
Another thing I should have mentioned about Frances: you can’t fool her. At least, I can’t. She’s had too much practice, I suppose, in detecting the little off-white lies of my childhood. She glanced at me, as she shook another cigarette loose from the pack. ‘Was it, now? Where did you stay?’
‘Oh, it’s the biggish hotel in the middle of the town, I forget the name. You’re chain-smoking, you’ll get cancer.’
‘No doubt.’ Her voice came muffled through the lighting of the cigarette. She looked at me across the flame, then she got to her feet.
‘Come along, then. Why the shore?’
‘Because it’s lonely.’
She made no comment. We picked our way through the vivid clumps of ice daisies, to find that a rough path of a sort led along the low, dry rocks that backed the shingle. Further along there was a ridge of hard sand, where we could walk side by side.
I said: ‘I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Last night’s stay in Chania?’
‘Clever, aren’t you? Yes, more or less.’
‘Is that why you laughed when I said that your impulses’d land you in trouble one day?’ As I was silent, she glanced at me sideways, quizzically. ‘Not that I’m any judge, but Chania seems an odd place to choose to misbehave in.’
‘I wasn’t even in Chania last night! And I haven’t —!’ I broke off, and suddenly giggled. ‘As a matter of fact, I did spend the night with a man, now that I come to think about it. I’d forgotten that.’
‘He seems,’ said Frances tranquilly, ‘to have made a great impression. Well, go on.’
‘Oh, Frances, darling, I do love you! No, it’s not some foully embarrassing love tangle – when did I ever? It’s – I’ve run into trouble – not my trouble, someone else’s, and I wanted to tell you about it, and ask you if there’s anything in the world I can do.’
‘If it’s not your trouble, do you have to do anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘A heart like warm putty,’ said Frances resignedly, ‘and sense to match. All right, what’s his name?’
‘How d’you know it’s a he?’
‘It always is. Besides, I assume it’s the one you spent the night with.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
/> ‘Who is he?’
‘He’s a civil engineer. His name’s Mark Langley.’
‘Ah.’
‘It isn’t “ah” at all! As a matter of fact,’ I said, very clearly, ‘I rather detest him.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Frances, ‘I knew this would happen one day. No, don’t glare at me, I’m only teasing. Well, go on. You’ve spent the night with a detestable engineer called Mark. It makes a rousing start. Tell all.’
Her advice, when I had at length told all, was concise and to the point.
‘He told you to get out and stay out, and he’s got this man Lambis to look after him. They sound a pretty capable pair, and your Mark’s probably fairly well all right by now. The two of them will be back on their boat, you may be sure, with everything under control. I should stay out.’
‘Y-yes, I suppose so.’
‘Besides, what could you do?’
‘Well, obviously, I could tell him what I’ve found out. I mean, I’m absolutely certain it must be Tony and Stratos Alexiakis and Sofia.’
‘Quite probably. Granted that your Mark remembers accurately what he saw and heard, and that there was an Englishman there on the scene of the murder, along with a man in Cretan dress and another Greek, and a woman . . .’ She paused a moment. ‘Yes, once you’ve accepted Tony’s involvement, the others follow as the night the day. It’s a little closed circle, Tony, Stratos, Sofia, Josef – and the stranger, whether English or Greek, whom Tony certainly knew and talked to.’
I stopped in my tracks, staring at her. ‘Him? But how? He wasn’t there. There was only the Greek, and the Cretan, and—’
‘My dear,’ she said gently, ‘you’ve got yourself so involved with Mark’s side of this that you’ve forgotten how it started.’
‘How it started?’
‘There was a murdered man,’ she said.
Silence, broken only by the crisping of the shingle at the sea’s edge. I stooped, picked up a flat pebble, and skimmed it at the surface of the water. It sank immediately. I straightened up, dusting my hands.
‘I’ve been awfully stupid,’ I said humbly.
‘You’ve been right in the thick of it, honey, and you’ve been frightened. It’s easy for me, walking calmly in at half-time. I can see things more clearly. Besides, I’m not emotionally involved.’
‘Who said I was?’
‘Aren’t you?’
I was still watching the place where my pebble had struck. ‘Frances, Colin Langley’s only fifteen.’
She said gently: ‘Darling, that’s the point. That’s why I’m telling you to keep away from it unless you actually do find out what’s happened to him. Otherwise you might only do harm. Look, don’t you think we’d better go back now? The sun’s nearly gone, and the going’s getting beastly rough.’
This was true. As I had told my story, we had been making our way round the bay, and had reached the foot of the big cliffs at the far side. What had looked from the distance like a line of shingle round their feet, proved to be a narrow storm beach of big boulders piled there by the south wind and the sea. Above this, between the topmost boulders and the living cliff, ran a narrow path, steep and awkward. It skirted the headland, then dived steeply down towards the crescent beach of a small, sandy bay.
‘It looks nice along there,’ said Frances. ‘I wonder if that’s your Bay of the Dolphins?’
‘I think that’s further along, the water’s too shallow here at the edge, and Georgi said you could get right out along the rocks above deep water, and even dive. Look, that must be it, beyond the next headland, I think you can see the rock stacks running out. With the sun going down behind them, they look just like shadows.’
We stood for a few minutes in silence, shading our eyes against the glitter of the brilliant sea. Then Frances turned away.
‘Come along, you’re tired. And you could do with a good stiff drink before dinner, by the look of you.’
‘It’s an idea.’ But my voice sounded dreary, even to myself. I turned to follow her back the way we had come.
‘Don’t think I don’t know how you feel.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact and curiously soothing. ‘It isn’t just to keep you out of trouble that I’m telling you to keep away from Mark. I can give you good reasons. If you went trailing up there looking for him, you might be seen, followed, anything: you might lead them to him. Or, if you made them suspicious, you might – and this is more important – frighten them into killing Colin . . . if, that is, Colin is still alive.’
‘Oh, God, I suppose you’re right. I – I’ve not been thinking very straight.’ I put a hand to my head. ‘If you’d seen Sofia. That’s what really frightened me . . . when Josef didn’t come home. You should have seen her face.’
Incoherent as I was, she understood me. ‘You mean that she’s not worrying in case he’s broken his neck out there on the mountainside, but because she’s afraid of what he may be doing?’
‘Yes. And there are only two things I can think of that he might be doing.’
She was blunt. ‘Meaning that if Josef is your Cretan murderer – and I’d risk a bet on it myself – he’s either still out hunting for Mark; to kill him, or he’s mounting guard over Colin somewhere?’
‘And she’s terrified.’ I swallowed. ‘If he’s with Colin, and she knows it, and she’s afraid of what he may be doing . . . Well, there it is.’
My voice trailed off, miserably. She didn’t answer, and we trudged along for some minutes in silence. The sun had gone now, dipping swiftly into the sea, and the shadow of the cliffs had reached after us. The breeze had dropped. At the other side of the bay there was a light in the hotel. It seemed a long way away.
I said at length: ‘You’re right, of course. Mark told me to keep out, and he meant it. Unless I actually found Colin—’
‘That’s it, you see. That’s why he wouldn’t go to the authorities, he told you that. If any question were asked, or if Mark and Lambis came here openly, or if anyone shoved the affair to the point where accusations were made – I wouldn’t give you twopence for the boy’s chances of surviving to tell his part of the story. He’s the hostage.’
‘I see that. Mark told me himself, after all. All right, I – I’ll stay put, Frances, don’t worry. But all the same—’
‘Well?’
‘There’s nothing to stop me looking for him, is there? If I’m terribly careful? I – I can’t just put him out of my head, can I?’
‘No, love. You go ahead. I don’t see how you could stop looking, even if you wanted to. It isn’t just a thing one forgets overnight, like losing a pencil. All you can do, for the sake of your own peace of mind, is to assume he’s still alive, and keep your eyes open. One thing, for a start; if he’s alive, he’s got to be fed.’
‘Of course! And not too far away, at that. If one kept a tight eye on Sofia – I’ll bet it’s she who feeds him . . . though it could be Tony, I suppose.’
She smiled. ‘My bet’s on Sofia. Whoever does it probably has to get up at crack of dawn to avoid being seen, and I don’t just see Little Lord Fauntleroy frisking around in the dew.’
‘Well, I shall, and tomorrow as ever was. I’ll go for an early-morning swim near the hotel, and keep my eyes skinned.’
‘You do that,’ said Frances. ‘Look, there’s someone out there now. That’s the little boat putting out, isn’t it? The man in it – is that Stratos Alexiakis?’
A man, a dim figure in the fast-falling dusk, had been stooping over the small boat, which was now moored beside the rocks by the hotel. He climbed in, and cast her off. He busied himself over something in the stern, and presently we heard the splutter of an engine. The boat started towards us, keeping well inshore.
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘He must have taken an outboard motor down . . . I wonder where he’s going?’
We had both stopped to watch him. He was standing well forward, and, as we drew nearer, we could see that the rudder had a long lever attached, to enable him to steer while peerin
g over the shoulders of the boat into the lighted water. The huge lamps were in their places in the bows, but were as yet unlit.
She was drawing level with us, and he had seen us. It was Stratos. He grinned and waved, then he moved aft for a minute, and the engine slowed to a soft put-put, so that the boat seemed to be just drifting by. I could make out the white letters on her bows: ΨΥΧΗ.
His voice came cheerfully over the water. ‘Hullo there! Would you like to come?’
‘Another time!’ We both grinned and waved in what we hoped was a cordial refusal. ‘Thanks all the same! Good fishing!’
He raised a hand, stooped again to the engine, and Psyche veered away in a long, lovely curve for the tip of the headland. Her wash lapped the shore beside us, and the small shingle hissed and grated.
‘Hm,’ said Frances, ‘very matey.’
‘I asked him about light-fishing before.’
‘Well, there’s something for us, anyway. Detection without tears. Colin’s not along that way, or Stratos would hardly welcome visitors.’ She turned to go, then said quickly: ‘What’s the matter?’
I was standing still, like a dummy, with the back of my hand to my mouth.
‘Frances! The Eros!’
‘The what?’
‘He’s got a boat, a big one, lying in the harbour! That’s where he’ll be!’
She said nothing for a moment, regarding me with a frowning look I couldn’t quite read. Then she nodded. ‘Yes, that’s something we could try. If we’re allowed near the Eros, we may be sure she’s innocent; if not, then I think you can certainly go straight up to look for Mark tomorrow. It would be the easiest thing in the world for those two to bring their caique in after dark, and board the Eros, and search her. They could be clear away in no time. We could do something about keeping Stratos and Co. away from the harbour – burn down the hotel, or something like that.’
I laughed, then looked curiously at her. ‘Do you know, I believe you meant that?’
‘If it was the only thing that would do the trick,’ said Frances crisply, ‘why not? There’s a boy being frightened and hurt by a bunch of thugs, and what’s more, he probably believes, all this time, that his brother’s dead. Oh, yes, if a little arson would help, I don’t mind in the least burning Mr Alexiakis’ hotel, with him inside it. Meanwhile, we can certainly take a look at the Eros. We’ll go straight down tonight, if only to put your mind at rest.’