The Moonspinners

by Mary Stewart

  ‘We?’

  ‘Why not? It’d look more natural. Look, is that Tony on the terrace, waiting for us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then for heaven’s sake let’s start looking natural straight away. I’m supposed to be a botanist, and you seem to have given me a build-up that would have flattered Linnaeus. Now, would you like to pause one moment, and peer passionately at this plant here – no, here, you owl, the one in the rock!’

  ‘Is it rare?’

  ‘Darling, it grows in every wall in the South of England. It’s pellitory-of-the-wall, but you can bet your boots Tony won’t know that! Go on, pick a bit, or one of those mesembryanthemums or something. Show willing.’

  ‘The ice daisies?’ I stooped obediently. Tony was waiting under the tamarisks, not fifty yards away. ‘Look,’ I said, holding it out to her, ‘they’ve shut. Don’t they look like tiny plastic parasols?’

  ‘Dear heaven,’ said Frances devoutly, ‘and to think I once hoped to make a naturalist of you! And another thing, that egret you mentioned; according to the books, there are no egrets in Greece.’

  ‘I know that.’ Without looking his way, I knew that Tony had come out from under the tamarisks, and was standing at the edge of the gravel. My voice must be carrying clearly to him. ‘Just as there aren’t any golden orioles, either – officially. But I’ve seen them at Epidaurus, and honestly, Frances, I saw a pair today between Chania and Kastelli, and I couldn’t be wrong about a golden oriole; what else could they have been? I admit I might be wrong about the egret, but I can’t think what else that was, either!’

  ‘A squacco heron? They look white in flight. Oh, no, you said black legs and yellow feet . . . Why, hullo, Tony, something smells good.’

  I said cheerfully: ‘I hope it’s not the octopus I saw down at the harbour today?’

  ‘No, my dears, it’s a fricassée, my very own fricassée of veal . . . done with wine, and mushrooms, and tiny, tiny peas. I call it veau à jouer.’

  ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘Well, veal by Gamble,’ explained Tony. ‘Now, ladies, dinner’s almost ready, I’ll have your drinks waiting for you when you come down. What’s it to be?’

  11

  What bird so sings, yet so does wail?

  O ’tis the ravish’d nightingale.

  Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu, she cries,

  And still her woes at midnight rise.

  LYLY: Campaspe

  The caique was still where she had been, lying without movement in the still waters of the harbour. There was a riding light on the mast; its reflection glimmered, stilly, feet below the level of her keel. Another light, bigger, glowed in its iron tripod at the end of the pier. Apart from these, all was darkness, and the dank, salt smell of the harbour water.

  The youth, Alkis, must have left the caique for the night, for the dinghy no longer nuzzled her sides. It lay alongside the pier, at our feet.

  We regarded it in silence.

  Then a voice spoke suddenly from somewhere beside my elbow, nearly startling me straight into the harbour.

  ‘You want to row out?’ asked Georgi. ‘I’ll take you!’

  I glanced at the caique again, lying so quietly in the darkness. Stratos was away fishing, Tony was in the bar, Alkis had presumably gone home. On the face of it, it looked like the sort of chance that shouldn’t be missed . . . But – with Georgi? If Alkis had made the offer, well and good. That would have been proof enough, and we could have refused him, with another possibility safetly eliminated. But to row across now, and, perhaps, actually find Colin there . . . in the village . . . at this time of night . . .

  ‘What’s he saying?’ asked Frances.

  I told her of Georgi’s offer, and my own conclusions.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re right. We’ll have to wait till morning to find out. If we did find him on board—’ a little laugh – ‘the only solution would be to up anchor, and sail full speed away, Eros and all, to meet the other caique. No doubt that’s exactly what your capable friend would do, but let’s face it, this is one of the occasions where being a woman has its limitations. I suppose you can’t drive one of those things, can you?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘That’s that, then.’

  ‘There is the rowing-boat.’ I offered the suggestion with a marked lack of conviction, and she made a derisive sound.

  ‘I can just see us rowing along the coast of Southern Crete in the pitch darkness, looking for a caique that’s been hidden in a creek somewhere. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to accept our female limitations and wait till morning.’

  ‘As usual, you’re so right.’ I sighed. ‘Well, I’ll tell Georg it that we’ll ask Stratos properly, in the morning.’ I looked down at the boy, who had been following this incomprehensible exchange wide-eyed. ‘Thanks a lot, Georgi, but not tonight. We’ll ask Mr Alexiakis tomorrow.’

  ‘We can ask him now,’ said Frances dryly. ‘Here he comes . . . and how nice it would have been, wouldn’t it, if we’d both been on the Eros, struggling madly with the gears and the starting handle? I think, Nicola, my pet, that you and I must definitely keep to the less strenuous paths of crime.’

  The soft put-put of the light-boat’s engine sounded clearly, now as she rounded the pier.

  ‘Here he is!’ announced Georgi buoyantly, skipping to the extreme edge of the concrete, where he stood on tiptoe. ‘He’s been spear-fishing! Now you will see the big fish, the sea bass! He must have got one, or he wouldn’t have come back so soon!’

  I found myself watching the boat’s approach with, ironically, relief: at least now there was no question of heroics. Moreover, they were unnecessary. We could find what we wanted to find, the easy way. We didn’t have to wait till morning.

  We didn’t even have to ask: Georgi did it for us. The boat, with its engine cut, glided alongside, and Stratos threw Georgi a rope, sending us a cheerful greeting.

  ‘What did you get?’ demanded Georgi.

  ‘I wasn’t spear-fishing. I’ve been to the pots. Well, ladies, out for another walk? It’s Miss Scorby, is it not? How do you do? I see you lose no time in exploring our big city. It’s a pity you didn’t take the trip with me, it’s a lovely night.’

  ‘The ladies were wanting to go to the Eros,’ said Georgi. ‘Shall I carry those up for you?’

  ‘No, I’m taking the boat round again to the hotel. I came to put some gear on the Eros.’ He stood easily in the rocking boat, looking up at us. ‘Do you really want to have a look at her? She’s not much of a boat, but if you’re interested—’ A gesture of invitation completed the sentence.

  I laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, it was Georgi’s idea, he wanted to row us out. I would like to see her, of course, but let’s wait till daylight, when we take that trip. What have you caught?’

  ‘Scháros. You’ll have it tomorrow; it’s very good.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never had it. Is that it? How do you catch them?’

  ‘You set pots rather like lobster pots, and bait them with green stuff. I assure you, they’re better than lobster, and handsome too, aren’t they? Here, Georgi, you can take this to your mother . . . How that boy guessed I’d be coming in this way . . . !’ This with a grin and a grimace, as Georgi ran happily off, clutching the fish.

  ‘Was that what he was waiting for?’

  ‘Sure. He knows everything, that child; he’d be a godsend at Scotland Yard. You ladies don’t want a lift back to the hotel, then?’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you, we’re doing a tour of the town.’

  Stratos laughed. ‘“Agios Georgios by Night?” Well, you’ll hardly need a guide, or a bodyguard, or I’d offer to come with you. Good night.’

  He thrust with an oar against the pier, and the boat drifted away towards the silent bulk of the Eros.

  We walked back towards the houses.

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ I said at length. ‘The caique’s innocent, and our tour of the village doesn’t worry him
, either. Or the fact that our nosy little Georgi’s sculling around the place night and day, and nattering Greek to me nineteen to the dozen. In fact, I’d have said Stratos hadn’t a care in the world. Wherever Colin is, Stratos isn’t worrying about his being found.’

  ‘No,’ was all Frances said, but not quite guardedly enough. We were passing a lighted doorway, and I saw her expression. My heart seemed to go small, painfully, as flesh shrinks from the touch of ice.

  I said it at last. ‘You’ve been sure all along that Colin’s dead, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, my dear,’ said Frances, ‘what possible reason can they have for keeping him alive?’

  The night was very dark. Though it would soon be midnight, the moon was not yet up, and the stars were veiled by cloud. I had borrowed Frances’ dark-blue poplin coat, and, hugging this round me, waited at the head of the stone steps outside my room.

  There was still a light in Sofia’s cottage. Though I had forced myself to admit that Frances might be right about Colin, I wasn’t prepared to accept it without an effort, and I was ready to ride herd on Sofia all night if need be, and, if she left the cottage, to follow her. But midnight came, and the next slow half-hour, and still the lamplight burned, though every other house in the village was darkened.

  It was twelve-thirty before a move was made, and then it was a harmless one; the crack of light round the cottage door vanished, and a small light flowered behind the thick curtains of the bedroom window. She had sat up late, perhaps to wait for Josef, and now she was going to bed. But I stayed where I was: if Sofia had not stirred from her cottage and the yard behind it, it might be for a good reason. I would give her a few minutes longer, and then, Frances or no Frances, I was going to take a look at that yard myself.

  I went like a ghost down the steps, and skirted the open ground like a stealthy cat, hugging the shelter of the pistachio trees. The dust underfoot made silent walking, and I slipped soundlessly past Sofia’s garden wall, and round the end of her house into the narrow lane that twisted up from the end of the village towards the meagre vineyards under the cliff.

  Here was the yard gate, in the wall behind the cottage. Beyond it, visible only as dimly looming shapes, were the huge cone of the baking-oven, the great spiky pile of wood in a corner, and the shed backed against the rough wall that edged the lane.

  I wondered if the gate would creak, and put a cautious hand down to it, but the hand met nothing. The gate stood wide already.

  I paused for a moment, listening. The night was very still. I could hear no sound from the cottage, and no window faced this way. My heart was beating light and fast, and my mouth felt dry.

  Something moved beside my feet, almost startling me into a cry, until I realized it was only a cat, on some errand as secret as my own, but apparently quite ready to welcome a partner in crime. It purred softly, and began to strop itself on my ankles, but when I stooped it slid away from my touch, and vanished.

  It seemed I was on my own. I took a long breath to steady those heartbeats, then went in through the gate.

  The door of the shed must lie to the right. I felt my way towards it, treading cautiously among the debris underfoot.

  Somewhere beyond the cottage, across the square, a door opened suddenly, spilling light, and throwing the squat shape of the cottage into relief. As I shrank back towards the shadow of the wood pile, the light was lopped off again as the door shut, and I heard rapid steps cross a strip of board flooring, then tread quickly across the square through the dust, coming this way.

  Stratos, coming over from the hotel to see his sister. If Colin was here – if Stratos came into the yard . . .

  He didn’t. He pushed open the garden gate and went quietly to the cottage door. It wasn’t locked. I heard the latch click, then the soft sound of voices, question and answer. Sofia must have brought the lamp out of the bedroom again, to meet him at the door, for again I could see the faint glow of light from beyond the dark bulk of the cottage.

  His visit was certainly not secret, and his purpose, therefore, not likely to be sinister, but while through my confusion I realized this, I wasn’t taking any chance of being found by him in Sofia’s yard at nearly one in the morning. If I had to be found much better be found in the lane . . .

  From what I had seen of this in daylight, it was a dirty and unrewarding little cul-de-sac that led up between clumps of cypress, to peter out in a small vineyard under the cliff. What excuse I could give for being there I didn’t know, but since Stratos had no earthly reason for suspecting me, no doubt I could get away with the age-old excuse of sleeplessness, and a walk in the night air. And anything was better than being caught lurking here. I melted quickly out of the gate and into the lane.

  There I hesitated. One glance towards the hotel was enough to tell me I couldn’t get that way without being seen; the light from the cottage door fell clear to the garden wall, and I could even see the moving edge of Stratos’ shadow. It would have to be the lane.

  I trod softly, hurrying away from the gateway, and almost immediately stepped on a loose stone that nearly brought me down. Before I had recovered, I heard the cottage door shut, and Stratos’ quick steps to the gate.

  I stood still, face turned away. I could only hope that, coming fresh from the lamplight, his eyes would not yet be adjusted to the dark. Otherwise, if he looked this way as he passed the corner of the wall, he would be bound to see me.

  My fists were pressed down hard into the pockets of Frances’ blue coat, while my mind spiralled like a feather in a current of air. What could I say to him? What plausible reason could I give for a midnight stroll up this unappetizing dead end of a lane?

  The answer came, piercingly sweet and loud, from a clump of cypresses beyond the wall, a nightingale’s song, pouring into the silence from the crowded spires of the grove, and straight away it seemed as if the whole of that still night had been waiting, just for this. I know I held my breath. The trills and whistles and long, haunting clarinet notes poured and bubbled from the black cypress. The bird must have sung for two full minutes while I stood there, blessing it, and waiting, with one ear still tuned for Stratos’ retreating steps.

  The nightingale stopped singing. Clearly, ten yards away, I heard the rattle of loose change in a pocket, then the scrape of a match. Stratos had stopped at the corner, and was leisurely lighting a cigarette.

  The flaring match seemed unnaturally bright. If he looked up now . . .

  He was lifting his head to inhale the first breath of smoke. My hand, thrust down in the pocket of Frances’ coat, met the shape of a packet of cigarettes.

  I turned. ‘Mr Alexiakis?’

  His head jerked round, and the match dropped into the dust, and fizzled out. I moved towards him, with one of Frances’ cigarettes in my hand. ‘Do you mind? Have you a light, please? I came out without one.’

  ‘Why, Miss Ferris! Of course.’ He came to meet me, and struck and held a match for me. ‘You’re out very late, aren’t you? Still exploring?’

  I laughed. ‘“Agios Georgios by Night?” Not really. I did go up to bed, but then I heard a nightingale, and I had to come out to track it down.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Tony told me you were keen on birds.’ He sounded unworried to the point of indifference. He leaned a shoulder back against the wall behind him, gesturing with his cigarette in the direction of the cypresses. ‘Up there, was it? They always sing there, ever since I was a boy I remember them. I don’t notice them now. Was there one tonight? It’s a little early for them.’

  ‘Just one, and he seems to have stopped.’ I smothered a yawn. ‘I think I’ll go to bed now. It’s been such a long day, but such a lovely one. Perhaps tomorrow—’

  I stopped short, because he moved with a sharp, shushing gesture, as if some sound had startled him. I had heard it, too, but it had not registered with me as quickly as it had with Stratos; for all that relaxed, indifferent air, the man must be as alert as a fox.

  We had been standing close against t
he wall of the shed that I had come to search. This was built of big, rough stones, crudely plastered, and with many gaps between. The sound had come apparently through some gap just beside us – a small, scraping sound, then a soft rustle as of spilled dust. Something moving, inside Sofia’s shed.

  Stratos had stiffened, head cocked. I could see the sideways gleam of his eyes in the tiny glow of his cigarette.

  I said quickly: ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought I heard something. Wait.’

  Colin, I thought wildly, it’s Colin . . . but then I saw that fear was making me stupid. If it was indeed Colin, then Stratos would know it, and would certainly not have informed me of the boy’s presence in the shed. But if there was someone in the shed, I knew who it would be . . . I didn’t even think of Lambis, who might very well have hung around till dusk to start a close search of the village; my mind jumped straight to Mark. There was no reason why I should have been so sure, but, as clearly as if I had heard him speak, I knew he was there, just on the other side of the wall, waiting and listening, and trying, after that one betraying movement, not even to breathe . . .

  I moved away quickly, scraping my feet carelessly among the stones. ‘I didn’t hear a thing. Are you going back now? It may just have been—’

  But he was already moving, and, close to him as I was, I could see that his hand had dropped, quite casually, to his hip. As he went through the yard gate I was on his heels.

  I had to stop him somehow, somehow give warning. I cried out, ‘Good heavens, is that a gun?’ and put a detaining hand on his arm, holding him back, trying to sound merely nervous and feminine, and, with the genuine tremor in my voice, probably succeeding. ‘For goodness’ sake!’ I quavered. ‘You don’t need that! It’ll be a dog or something, and you really can’t just shoot it! Please, Mr Alexiakis—’