A Most Extraordinary Pursuit (18 page)

Oh, very well. Perhaps I should confess something: I quarreled with Lord Silverton in the hour before dinner, and this quarrel, if I am honest, is the reason I suffered that mutinous tray of cold meat and bread, instead of a proper hot meal in the dining room.

The story, which perhaps does me little credit, goes thus: After Silverton left my chamber late yesterday afternoon, I had finished my brandy and, somewhat the better for courage, clothed myself reluctantly in the dress Silverton had obtained for me and wandered back to the drawing room, where I might locate his lordship.

I had found him without trouble. He was playing the piano again, but this time Mrs. Poulakis was with him, actually sitting on the bench by his side, exclaiming over his skill in the interpretation of Chopin (which, in itself, I could not deny). She had removed her pinafore altogether, and her hair was quite loose. She looked up insolently as I entered and did not rise from her seat.

“Mrs. Poulakis. Is it not time to prepare dinner?” I had asked sternly, and when she left, his lordship rose to his feet, propped one hand against the piano, and accused me—smiling, as if the idea amused him!—of jealousy.

I was not jealous, I insisted, only disappointed—
deeply
disappointed—that his lordship would so recklessly seduce a respectable young woman in the employ of his host.

“Are you implying that I have actually gone to bed with Mrs. Poulakis?” he had asked, incredulous.

“Let us say, since we are being frank, that I should not be at all surprised.”

“Now, Truelove. Be reasonable. A proper seduction requires a great deal more time than the paltry two hours you allowed us this afternoon. I take pride in my work, after all.”

His eyes twinkled at me, the beast, and I felt an anger so hot and instant and unreasonable that I am afraid I said something rash.

“Forgive my intrusion, then. I should hate to interrupt you in such an arduous task. Only imagine what you might extract from her with a few more hours of devoted labor.”

“Truelove—”

“We must all stick to what we do best, after all,” I pronounced, the triumphant last barb, and I turned and marched back down the hallway, expecting Silverton to follow once more and smooth things over, to assure me in his familiar jocular manner that he did not, in fact, mean to commit a transaction so amoral. That he would not place me in a position so awkward.

But the hallway behind me remained empty, and at seven o'clock I rang for a supper tray, determined to set the whole matter aside and concentrate my mind on the task that loomed before us in the morning.

But now, as I lay in my quiet room, attempting to judge the hour, while my blood coursed silently along my veins and my fingers sparkled in response to their unknown stimulant, I returned to that brief conversation with his lordship and saw how unjust I had been. After all, he was only attempting to extract information from her, using his extraordinary powers of persuasion; one must bring forth all the resources at one's disposal, in such a profession as his.

And he had not actually taken Mrs. Poulakis to his bed, by his own admission. He was not so ignoble as that.

An image flashed in my head and was gone: some glimpse of the dream from which I had just awoken. My chest ached, my lungs burned, and if I could have reached out my hands and clawed back the dream—or rather the memory of the dream—from the air, I would have done it. Whatever the dream contained, I craved it, the way one craves meat after famine.

And I did not even know what it was.

I thought,
I must apologize to Silverton.

And then:
How absurd
. It was not yet dawn, and the message was hardly urgent. Indeed, I recognized the idea instantly as no more than an excuse. A reason—you see how brutal I am upon myself—to seek out another human being in this darkest hour of the night, so I would not exist in such profound isolation.

I would not succumb to this weakness. I would settle back to sleep and deliver my apology over breakfast.

But sleep did not arrive. My thoughts, once awakened, now bounced in all directions against the interior of my skull, like a rubber ball; my chest, once opened to longing, would not close. This, you see, is the familiar torture of solitude, and it does not lift easily.

I knew even then, from long experience, that I could not expect further sleep that night, and so I pushed aside the covers and forced myself out of the bed. Perhaps I could not seek out company to ease the burden on my spirit, but I could at least fill these wakeful hours with useful occupation, instead of wasteful contemplation. Work, after all, makes an admirable cure for dissatisfaction.

I switched on the lamp, went to my traveling desk, and pulled
out the photographs, for perhaps the hundredth time. Were they taken by Mr. Haywood himself, I wondered, or had they been sent to him by Mr. Evans? Where did the fraud begin? According to Silverton, Mr. Haywood's assistant had removed all of his belongings, all the artifacts he had collected during his investigation. So there was nothing else, nothing to guide us. Not a single physical clue left behind.

I slumped back in my chair and allowed my arms to fall downward. The room around me was dim and shadowed, illuminated only by the single lamp now beside me. As a guest room, and a minor one, it was furnished simply, containing only the bed and desk, the wardrobe, and a small armchair. I had banked the fire before retiring, and the air had by now turned chilly, raising the hairs on my arms beneath the white linen of the shirt in which I slept. I rose to claim my dressing gown from the bottom of the bed.

As I did so, my toe caught a solid object, hidden among the thick folds of the counterpane where it touched the rug.

Another confession. Hidden under my own bed in Belgrave Square, inside a pair of old trunks, lies a collection of penny-dreadful novels, of the sort that so-called
thinking people
love to scorn. (I suppose scorn makes one feel more clever, in the same way that indignation makes one feel more moral.) In the worn pages of these books, I have experienced great love and solved intractable mysteries, and I have learned many things that, perhaps, an unmarried young woman is better off not knowing.

I have learned, for example, that a lady really should not leave the shelter of her bedchamber in the dark hours of the night, particularly in a strange house, and
most
particularly in search of the
bedchamber of a gentleman to whom she is not related, by blood or marriage.

In the excitement of discovery, however, I seemed to have forgotten this important lesson. Or perhaps the object that now lay in my hand, round and heavy, represented the excuse for which I had been unconsciously wishing: the excuse to seek out another human being, the excuse to seek out Lord Silverton.

As the novels often warn: be careful what you wish for.

I found his lordship's bedchamber readily, even without a source of light, because the clouds had parted during the night, and a steady white half-moon now shone through the many windows of the Villa Ariadne.

Silverton did not respond to my knock, and I am afraid, in my haste and urgency, I thought nothing of trying the knob. As it proved, he had left the door unlocked, and I flung it open with rather more force than I intended, waking the occupants of the room.

I say
occupants
because there were two of them: Lord Silverton, who sprang to his feet at once, thoroughly naked; and Mrs. Poulakis, who only lifted her sleepy head from the sheets and flung out a long white arm, so that the moonlight spilled extravagantly over her bare and mountainous breasts.

In the manner of animals readied for slaughter, the Athenian youths were fed from bountiful plates, and perfumed with the finest extracts, and massaged with oils to make them tender. No one was allowed into their sacred quarters except for the slaves who waited upon them, nor were the youths allowed to leave except for the ritual ceremonies marking their sacrifice to come, to which they were led in blindfolds.

On the first night, a lavish banquet was held in the Hall of the Labrys, and the youths were seated on a dais while the Lady of the Labyrinth, dressed only in a simple white tunic and unbound hair, was required to serve them. The Prince watched her carefully as she performed her duties, and when they retired to their chamber, he said to her, ‘Why does the first youth look upon you in the familiarity of lust? You know he is to be made sacrifice to my pleasure alone . . .'

T
HE
B
OOK
OF
T
IME
, A. M. H
AYWOOD
(1921)

L
ord Silverton stirred the sugar into his coffee and gazed happily out the window of the breakfast room. “Splendid morning, isn't it?”

“Certainly the sun is shining,” I allowed. I was eating my breakfast with great attention to detail, and only regarded my companion from underneath my downturned brow.

“You can see all the way down the hill to the harbor. There's the old Venetian fortress at the end. Marvelous stuff.” He sipped his coffee, set down the cup, stretched magnificently, and pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “A quarter past eight already! We should be off directly, I think. I find I'm bursting with energy today. A new man.”

“I daresay.”

“You know, Truelove, you might relax that expression of
prunelike disapproval on your face and consider the many beneficial aspects of human love.”

“I beg your pardon. Did you say
love
?”

“Lust, then, if you will. I was only trying to spare your blushes.”

I laid down my knife and fork and lifted the napkin from my lap to dab the corners of my mouth. “I'm afraid I am quite beyond the range of blushes, and in fact, I find the subject of your nocturnal habits rather tiresome. Have you no opinion on the medallion I discovered in my room?”

“The medallion you thought so important, you rushed it to my bed, unannounced, at three o'clock in the morning?”

“In my defense, I did not expect to find you entertaining company.”

“In
my
defense, I didn't, either.” He linked his hands behind his head and grinned at the ceiling. “
Most
unexpected. But one doesn't wish to be inhospitable.”

“Your lordship. The medallion.”

“Oh. Right-ho.” Silverton straightened and reached for the round bronze medal sitting near his plate, where I had placed it that morning, just before his sunny arrival at the table a half hour ago. Last night, you see, I had elected not to bring the object to his attention after all, surmising that said attention was already entirely occupied and quite possibly disordered; instead, I had returned to my room without comment, without a single word, and crawled under the bedclothes to turn the medallion over and over between my fingers like a touchstone of great power. It was made of bronze, about two inches in diameter, and on its face it bore the image of a labrys—the familiar double-headed ax—in sharp relief. On the back, there was a curious notch in the manner of a tunnel, and I asked his lordship now what he thought of it.

“For a pin, I should say.” He looked up, quite impossibly beautiful in the morning sunshine, and I had to concede that the act of human love appeared to agree with him. “A cloak pin. The pin is missing, of course, which is probably how it came free from the cloak itself.”

“But where did it come from? I mean, from the ruins, obviously. But did it belong to Mr. Haywood, do you think? Was it one of his artifacts? I thought you had searched the rooms thoroughly.”

“I didn't search
your
room, Truelove.”

“Why not?”

“Why, because I thought it was improper.” He winked. “If it was one of Max's baubles, however, it's strange that it turned up in your bed.”

“
Under
my bed.”

“As you say. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Poulakis! Perhaps you can assist us.”

I looked up reflexively, and wished I had not. The housekeeper swept through the doorway, holding a coffeepot, and if Silverton looked well this morning, Mrs. Poulakis was positively radiant. Her cheekbones were stained a happy pink, and her skin looked as if it were sprinkled with fairy dust. She turned a pair of exceptionally bright eyes toward his lordship's side of the table and prowled forth, the way a lioness might lay claim to her kill.

When she arrived, coffeepot poised, face soft with adoration, Silverton returned her smile and nodded at me. “Very kind of you, my dear, but I believe Miss Truelove's cup stands empty.”

Mrs. Poulakis looked up as if she had only just noticed my presence. I nudged my cup and saucer an inch or two in her direction.

When she had finished pouring the coffee, Silverton said,
“Now, Mrs. Poulakis. I wonder if you can tell us anything about this medallion, which Miss Truelove has found in her room.”

“Hidden,” I said. “
Hidden
in my room.”

Mrs. Poulakis took the medallion from Silverton's fingers, examined it briefly, and shrugged. “Oh, it is like all the others. They have find many of these things, in the palace.”

“Have they, now? Did it belong to our friend Mr. Haywood, do you think?”

“It is possible.” She cast a quick glance at me. “You find it in your room?”

“Under the bed.”

Another shrug. “He miss it, I think. When he is filling the boxes.”

“The assistant, do you mean? Max's assistant?” said Silverton.

“Yes, yes.”

“But how did it get in my room in the first place?” I said. “I thought Mr. Haywood occupied Lord Silverton's chamber. Has anyone in particular occupied mine, of late?”

Was it my imagination, or did a flicker of perhaps indecision cross Mrs. Poulakis's glowing face?

“Of late? No, no.” She looked back at Silverton, and the expression of leonine satisfaction returned to her features. She held out the medallion. “Is a very common thing, this. They are finding them all the time.”

Silverton took the object from her hand and as he did so, their fingers exchanged a subtle caress, causing a sour flavor to climb up the back of my throat, rather like the one I had experienced in the presence of the false fresco. I tossed down another mouthful of coffee and rose from the table.

“I shall make myself ready for the walk down to the harbor. Silverton, shall we meet in the hallway in fifteen minutes? I feel that time is of the essence. We ought to have left already, in fact.”

“Oh, quite. Only say the word, Truelove.”

I set my napkin alongside my plate and turned to leave.

“Just be sure to knock first!” called his lordship, over my head, and it was a very good thing for him that I had left my cup behind me, safe in its saucer, half-full of scalding black coffee.

My bedchamber was already occupied.

“My dear, you are disturbed,” said my father. He sat in the chair before the desk, one leg crossed over the other, wearing a plain gray suit that suggested walking. His hair was dark and shining, as if he had just bathed.

“I am not prepared to discuss the matter,” I said crossly. I marched to the desk and reached past him to collect my hat and pins.

“It was really very foolish of you, to open his door without warning in the middle of the night.”

I didn't bother asking him how he knew of the affair. I turned to the mirror on the wall and thrust my hat atop my head. “I knocked first. And it was foolish of him to leave the door unlocked, when he was engaged so privately.”

“I thought you had already learned this valuable lesson, about opening bedroom doors at midnight.”

My hands paused on my head, while the air of the bedchamber froze in place. I thought I could hear the ticking of my pocket watch, hanging by a chain against my skirt, but perhaps this was only my pulse. I resumed the careful insertion of the last hatpin. I turned my
face to one side and then another, to ensure that no stray wisp of hair had come loose over my ears. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't you? Well, perhaps I am mistaken.”

I chanced a glimpse in the mirror to the space behind me, and saw that my father had uncrossed his legs and placed a palm on each knee. He was gazing at me thoughtfully, head tilted to the left, and for an instant our eyes met in the mirror: a glance of perfect and terrible understanding.

I stepped away to lift my jacket from the bed, which I had arranged neatly with my own hands before repairing to the breakfast table. I have always disliked the sordid appearance of an unmade bed.

“He was terribly casual about the whole affair, over breakfast,” I said. “As if he were quite used to such escapades. Well, I suppose he is.”

“It is not unlikely. He is a handsome fellow, and moreover he has the kind of manner that attracts people into intimacy.”

“And I do not.”

My father paused. “Does this upset you? Do you wish to enjoy love affairs, in the same manner as his lordship?”

“No, of course not,” I said instantly. I flung the jacket over my shoulders and thrust my arms inside the sleeves, and without warning, the words burst from my lips: “But sometimes I am so bloody
alone
!”

“Not quite alone.”

I buttoned my jacket.

“My dear Emmeline,” my father said softly, “it is not hard to find a lover, if one is open to love.”

The last button appeared through its hole. I smoothed away a wrinkle and settled the hem down over my hips.

“No, you're right about that,” I said, and a sharp knock sounded on the door. I turned my head. “Who is it?”

“Your humble servant, bearing important tidings. Are you alone?”

I glanced at the chair, which was now empty. “Yes. Come in.”

The door swung open, revealing Lord Silverton in full outdoor kit: the same Norfolk jacket belted at the waist, sturdy shoes laced, leather gaiters fastened snugly about his calves. His cap shielded his golden hair from the light overhead, and the familiar field of electricity bristled about him.

“I thought I heard you speaking to someone,” he said.

“Only muttering to myself. My buttons were stiff. Are you ready to leave?”

“Even better.” He held up his right hand, which contained a strip of thin paper. “Firstly, that fine chap Evans has replied to our wire.”

“What does he say?”

“Read it yourself.”

I stepped forward and took the telegram from his gloved fingers. “
WELCOME
TO
KNOSSOS
S
TOP
CONDOLENCES
LOSS
OF
OLYMPIA
STOP
AST
ONISHED
HAYWOOD
NOT
THERE
STOP
EXPECTED
RETURN
BY
JANUARY
15
LA
TEST
STOP
QUERY
HORA
CE
HIGGANBOTHAM
BRIT
ISH
SCHOOL
ATHENS
ST
OP
HAVE
ALREADY
SENT
WIRE
STOP
GOOD
LUCK
.”
I looked up. “Who is Horace Higganbotham?”

“Some chap at the British School in Athens, I gather.” He took back the telegram. “Perhaps he was in communication with Max. They're among the best classical scholars in the world, the British School. I've already wired him. But if Evans expected Max back in Knossos by the middle of January, he's hellishly late.”

“He doesn't say why Max left in the first place, or where he went.”

“Probably because he doesn't know.” Silverton folded the telegram and placed in his pocket. “But that doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't matter? Of course it matters! Are we simply supposed to wait to hear back from this Mr. Higganbotham? We might lose days!”

“No, we shan't. Because while you may disapprove of my methods, my dear Truelove, you can't possibly argue with the results.”

“I will concede that you're in an excellent mood this morning.”

“I don't mean my physical and mental condition, though both have never been better, since you're inquiring. I mean that the generous Mrs. Poulakis—now, don't roll those fine eyes of yours, Truelove—Mrs. Poulakis, after you left, was persuaded to relinquish a few interesting bits of information.”

I folded my arms. “Persuaded?”