The Road to Ithaca

by Ben Pastor

  “Come along. It may seem unrelated, but bear with me. You must be familiar with Crete’s intelligentsia: have you ever heard of a Swiss scholar by the name of Alois Villiger?”

  A rising of brows showed how mundane the question must seem to Caxton. “Wimpy Villiger? Who hasn’t? I thought he was German. Fancies photographing blonde peasants. He’s got a residence outside Iraklion.”

  “South. South of Iraklion, to be precise.”

  The way Bora said it was so suggestive, Caxton stopped in his tracks. “He’s not the one who —”

  “He’s ‘the one who’, and so are his housekeeper and field hands.”

  “Good God. Well, he was a bit queer and a secretive bastard, but – good God, not that he deserved… or anyone, for that matter. Won’t John Pendlebury be shocked to hear this, much as he didn’t like him?”

  Pendlebury? He may be as dead and buried as Bertie Cowell. But we’ll leave that alone for now.

  Bora was silent until they reached the shed again. Letting Caxton precede him inside, he freed himself of his rucksack. “Since you’ve been tending the injured,” he said, “I presume you’re not squeamish. I wish to show you some of the photos taken by Sergeant Cowell.” Soon he had the folder on the table. “That’s why I came this far, and needed to meet him.”

  Caxton looked through the images. “Ah, poor fellow. Poor fellow. And his people, too. I hadn’t seen Wimpy Villiger in months. How he’d aged! Was he ill?”

  “I have no idea, I didn’t know him.” But Bora made yet another mental note as he flipped the next photograph, and the next.

  “Hullo,” Caxton’s utterance interrupted him. “That’s Raj!”

  Bora looked. “What, the dog?”

  “Yes, the dog. How on earth did it come to die at Villiger’s doorstep? It never left its master’s side.”

  Leaning on the table, Bora held his breath. Rifat Bey, too, claimed one of his dogs ran away. An Englishman’s pet can be lost as well. He slowly let air out of his lungs to control his voice. “It must have strayed that once. Why, who’s its master?”

  “Anglo-Indian officer, prize fellow. Raj was his pet, and became the unit mascot. Yes, it must have run off, and look what happened.”

  Bora only appeared even-tempered. In the struggle to keep calm, his thoughts were running away with him. Until now, nothing, nothing whatsoever had put Sinclair or his men anywhere remotely near the crime scene. He posed the next question as if he didn’t know there could be a logical answer for it. “I thought you withdrew here when we first landed. How would you have met a British officer and his mascot before our landing?”

  “Please, Captain. It was no secret to your army or to anyone else that British troops already manned the island. Pat was among them, and God willing he’s made it out of Crete by now. Educated chap, well-travelled. Drank with us occasionally. That’s all. He’ll be devastated to know of Raj’s end.”

  Bora felt like someone coming up for air after nearly drowning. Ideas overlapped faster than he could formulate them. Composing himself caused him a strain similar to pain. “Academia must be a strange milieu. I heard that Professor Villiger was persona non grata at social gatherings among you scholars – the Knossos basement bar being a favourite location. Yet non-scholars, like British Army officers, were invited.”

  “As for that, Pat’s a Valencian who sailed through Cambridge’s Pembroke College on hard-earned scholarships. Fully equipped to sit with us, Captain. I know, I did the Classical Tripos at Pembroke myself.” Caxton observed Bora carefully returning the photos to his rucksack. “Gentlemen have a right to select their drinking fellows, and all this has no relevance as far as the atrocity is concerned, has it? Nothing Cowell reported exonerates German paratroopers from it.”

  “Nothing Cowell reported indicts them beyond doubt, either.”

  Suddenly, Bora was in a frantic hurry to leave, to go back to Iraklion. What did Frances Allen say? “When British officers first came from Souda last winter and offered a round of drinks… he crawled out of the room.” Why was Villiger afraid of them, and was he afraid of one of them in particular? Is that why he meant to leave Crete? It makes no sense, but I won’t find out in these mountains. He nodded towards the bundle under the table. “You’re free to backpack out of here or stay, Mr Caxton – your choice. I will ensure the appropriate British authorities are acquainted with the location of Sergeant Cowell’s grave through the International Red Cross. Will you trust me with his identification disc and the bullet you extracted from his arm?”

  Caxton surrendered both without saying that he trusted Bora. He picked up his bundle and shouldered it. “Right,” he said, assenting to nothing in particular. “But I don’t think I should thank you for it.”

  Bora understood, and was not offended. He looked at Frances’ colleague directly, with a kind of spiteful empathy.

  “And I don’t think she’s quite worth it, Mr Caxton.”

  8.45 a.m., British fieldwork shed, Agias Irinis. Caxton’s gone, heading south with his tea kettle and broken heart. I’m taking a few minutes here to update my diary and jot down the latest in this intricate story. From here, a place called after a saint whose name means “peace”, it is between twenty and thirty miles to the north coast. On the map, all roads seem to lead to Iraklion, if you only reach them safely. I will in a moment sketch a few possible return itineraries, but first I must write what really matters (in case they stop me permanently, and the diary becomes the sole Ariadne’s clue to solve the case).

  Excluding the possibility that Preger’s men really did kill Villiger and his household, all other reconstructions of the events at Ampelokastro have pros and cons. I list them without privileging one over the others, with possible motives, and arguments against them as well:

  First hypothesis: The housekeeper’s in-laws, intent on avenging their brother’s honour, somehow secure MAB 38 submachine guns and – unseen and unheard by Sgt Cowell – enter the villa and carry out the murder. No one knows them in the neighbourhood, and as Cretans they can flit in and out without arousing suspicions. Moreover, if they double as “freedom fighters”, they have ready access to weapons supplied by the Brits, or stolen from dead Germans. To them, it is Siphronia and Villiger who deserve death, but they can’t leave the field hands alive to testify against them. Besides, submachine guns aren’t hunting rifles, and once you start firing you may do more damage than planned.

  Objections: the brothers had to have already been hiding in the garden when the paratroopers walked through. Alternatively, they entered through the rear gate (invisible to Cowell) right after the troopers walked out, and left the same way afterwards. But why would one of them shoot Cowell (and with whose pistol?) as he tried to photograph two dead Englishmen north of Ampelokastro?

  (Variation on the theme: Cretan rebels, armed with war weapons such as Sidheraki concealed at home, are responsible for the murder. Motives? Because a German speaker is a German to a Greek, and/or for whatever other reasons of hatred toward the Swiss scholar, a foreigner with strange habits. Sidheraki himself could have led the commando.

  Objections: none to speak of. This would be the worst possible scenario for an investigator in a hurry.)

  Second hypothesis: Although it’s hard to imagine how he would find someone to do the dirty work for him, I can’t leave Professor Savelli out of the list, because he was rummaging through Villiger’s house after his death. We know he detested the Swiss because of plagiarism, probably with some good reason. Was he looking for books, as he said, or for the roll of photographs? Or for Signora Cordoval’s calling card (and if so, why)? It would be dangerous to appear to have frequented a Jewess, especially once Germans occupied the island. He may have turned her in to Villiger out of rancour or greed, and then regretted it – or regretted the fact that he could at some point be exposed as an informer. The card was in the safety deposit box, but if Savelli gave it to Villiger, he had no way of knowing it had been removed from Ampelokastro, where he’s likely to
have delivered it. Perhaps he forgot the calling card was in a book he lent Villiger, and wanted it back.

  Alternatively, it was Villiger who discovered Signora’s presence on the island. If Savelli had in the meantime made up with her, it would justify the need to keep the Swiss from harming her, though I don’t exactly see how. In either case, the snapshot of the woman – among the “stolen” photos of archaeological sites – plays a role, whenever it was taken and whoever of the two men took it.

  Objections: Savelli seems less equipped than others to have carried out the deed. However, if he is (or was) involved with Italian espionage in Rhodes at any level, he may be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If such is the case, motives and reasons may multiply and remain undiscovered.

  Note: Kostaridis, when asked directly, refused to reveal Cordoval’s whereabouts, and when he gave me the prints before I left for the interior, he pretended to ignore where the snapshot was taken. He knows more than he lets on. He doesn’t seem the type of official who covers up cold-blooded murder, and he declares himself anti-communist: but what if a band of non-communist Cretan “patriots” is behind the deaths? Wouldn’t he then keep his mouth shut, or even mislead me?

  Third hypothesis: Rifat Bey, Villiger’s hostile neighbour, commissioned the murder with thugs. The fact that he was away at his town home means little: he’s known to keep firearms at Sphingokephalo, can count on men without scruples who’ll do his bidding and keep silent, and can probably buy the local authorities as well. His motives? If I have to believe Kostaridis, the Turk didn’t need much of an excuse to bump off shop owners or others on the island who were in his way. But if the woman photographed on the terrace is the Jewess, and the terrace is Zimbouli, Rifat Bey’s Place of Hyacinths… It’s possible that Villiger, during one of his stays in Iraklion, took a snapshot of the handsome blonde. Wouldn’t he, ever the classifier, be curious about her? Wouldn’t he ask around? The Sphinx-loving Turk might have had a far stronger argument for killing than hostility, water rights or pilfering of ancient shards from his vineyard.

  He may have heard that Villiger – known to work for Germany – was enquiring about his Jewish lover, and had to act quickly. The invasion gave him a chance to get rid of the Swiss and all in his household who might talk. His thugs slipped unseen into the garden while the field hands were inside, busy receiving their pay (a fact they would likely know). They had to drop out of sight when German paratroopers unexpectedly marched through the front gate, but as soon as they were out of earshot, they burst in shooting. The use of military weapons and tactics would make the murder appear an act of war. And while the terrified Cowell bided his time in the brook bed until all became safe, Rifat Bey’s thugs withdrew from the rear gate to their master’s vineyards.

  Fourth hypothesis: Sergeant Bertie Cowell lied to Sinclair regarding his real surname and the murder scene at Ampelokastro; later he also lied to Caxton about the two dead soldiers on the road, and being shot while next to them. In fact, he carried out the murder, alone or in the company of others.

  Objections: Why would Cowell tell such an elaborate lie to a British officer, and to his caretaker Caxton, when he was already close to death? Most of all, why would a Briton – any Briton – kill locals and their employer, a citizen of a neutral country? He would (and likely should) have done only if he knew that Villiger was more than an expert in racial theory; indeed, if he knew that Villiger, while working officially for the Ahnenerbe, spied for Reichskommissar Himmler (and perhaps others as well). This would imply that the Briton himself is an operative, informed about Villiger and with orders to dispose of him. But you don’t send a single man to do this kind of work unless you’re sure he’ll find his victim alone and unprotected. Could there have been three men in the commando, with Cowell ready to clean up after himself, to the extent of shooting his own companions? It would explain why he didn’t mention them to Sinclair (their bodies were reported to Kostaridis by the War Crimes Bureau), and lied to Caxton about being shot while photographing them.

  Other objection: if guilty, why photograph the scene and then surrender the camera to us Germans? Answer: in order to divert suspicions from himself, as the photos clearly show German paratroopers entering the garden. MAB 38 submachine guns use the same cartridges as English Sten guns!

  Note: Lieutenant Sinclair did not recognize Raj in the photo. But he had no reason to lie, and the photo was slightly blurry. Dogs do stray in times of battle, and recognizing it would not be riskier than surrendering the camera to us, since his unit was nowhere near the Ampelokastro area.

  Besides, can I trust Geoffrey Caxton’s memory regarding the mascot’s appearance? Caxton was Pendlebury’s “right-hand man”, and may be one of those scholars recruited by His Majesty’s secret service as spies or SOE agents. His story to me – including the detail regarding the dog – could be as fallacious as Cowell’s deathbed confession.

  Thus, unless the Turk’s behind the massacre, in pursuing Cowell I may have unwittingly been after an executioner, not a witness, and he’s dead (unless Caxton lied about that too: I saw a grave, not Cowell’s body)!

  It is a labyrinth, and I am right back where I started. As for exiting it, now that I no longer have the girl with a skein of yarn leading me…

  I must speak again to Sinclair and to Rifat Bey; and to Kostaridis as well. My goal is the valley bottom, safer for me and likely to be patrolled by German troops. Going back the way I came, I’d have wandered between Mount Voskerò and other peaks whose names I ignore, and reached the treeless slope where Allen and I saw the armed Cretans (the spot overlooks Krousonas, which I must at all costs stay clear of). At that point, I should be more or less an hour from the Catalans’ hideout at Meltemi, also to be avoided. No need to retrace my steps to the site of the Upper Palace with its painted shards, to mesa pharangi or Kyriakos’ mandra. Not even to the chapel of Agios Minas on the south slope of Mount Pirgos, or to Chorafi and the olive grove where the old man in a dazzling shirt wove baskets on the doorstep.

  I have marked on the map three possible routes leading north to Iraklion, one of which has the advantage of taking me through Kamari (where I could pay a visit to Savelli) and Ampelokastro, from which, through Kavrochori and Gazi, I might travel the last ten miles to the coastal route near Agias Marinas, and reach Iraklion from the west, through the Chanià Gate.

  Once more, I have removed the national insignia from my person, save the identification disc. At this point – should I be captured or wounded, and not killed outright – wearing it is the sole thing that would keep me from being shot as a spy (Major Busch thinks that’s what happened to Pendlebury). That is, if Germans or Brits catch me: if it’s Cretans or the Catalans, the disc means a sure bullet through the nape of the neck.

  The ink was still wet on Bora’s last worried consideration when a sound reached him through the open door of the shed. He tensely listened as it began hollowly, like the knocking about of skittles, grew into a distinctive clatter magnified by echoes, and then roared like a waterfall. In the utter silence of Agias Irinis, above the level frequented by herds, cicadas and most chirping insects, the shock of stones that rolled and struck others might or might not indicate a significant landslide: but something or someone brought it about.

  Bora knew when acting was better than thinking. He quickly pressed the blotting paper onto the page, threw diary and pen into his rucksack and left the shed. Outside a wind had risen. It carried the rumbling sound from somewhere below the cliff, where a ghostly sparkle of powdered stone wafted across the air. No one was in sight on the tongue-shaped plateau. Far on the northern horizon, a dark grey thing in the sky like a giant, hammer-headed worm meant remote storm clouds, a squall out at sea.

  Bora strapped on his rucksack. The landslide could have been caused by goatherds grazing their animals on the neighbouring heights. Frances Allen herself had stumbled twice on unsteady rocks. He decided to reach the edge of the cliff and crawl to its lip to look down. He saw no humans, no animals;
only that shifting, sparkling ghost of particles in the air. The last rocks touched bottom now, not far from the place where he and Allen had camped the night before. He thought how easy it had been gathering twigs to build a fire, as in the dry season branches grew brittle and snapped off. A badly anchored mountain shrub, torn by wind that channelled in the ravine, could have come loose and initiated the landslip. If not – Bora was uneasy. As if anyone ready to attack wouldn’t huddle out of sight as soon as he’d accidentally made himself heard. In that case, the risk of being shot while climbing down the cliff was high, with both hands busy and no chance to reach for his gun if need be. Not appreciably safer was descending the unprotected grassy hump where he’d seen the mermaid girls; worst of all would be attempting other routes, because he had no idea of what lay west and south, other than impassable mountainsides.

  The wind, a nor’easter gaining intensity, dissuaded him from braving the steep way down. Bora withdrew from the cliff and headed for the whale-back slope, whose silvery grass, bright like spun metal at this hour, rippled like a curving sea. He did not run but kept a fast steady pace, aiming for the relative protection of the wooded bottom. The three girls, the sisters, had disappeared. Where have those singing girls gone to? he wondered. They weren’t in my imagination; Frances Allen saw them and heard them. Could they have ventured onto the mountain and lost their footing? No, goddesses do not miss their step, and neither do Cretan shepherd girls.

  There was a place at the foot of the slope where shrubbery gave way to a chaos of rocks, the way he’d followed out of the ravine earlier this morning. Arriving there safely convinced Bora that after all, on the unfathomable scale of his personal destiny, his leniency toward Caxton – and Frances Allen before him – weighed on the right side. A lingering veil of dust was all that remained of the landslide. As he entered the ravine, dark shapes half-seen on spurs and between bushes suggested a herd, such as he’d envisioned grazing and displacing rocks. He counted them: one, three. Six. Eight, no, ten. Thirteen. Plus one.