A Poisonous Journey (34 page)
Sister Sybil rejoins our group, however the children do not allow her much more than an intermittent one-word contribution. As the shadow of the lemon tree travels, and the sun shifts above us, we decide to say our good-byes, to leave time to get back before dark.
Timon and Areta embrace us both enthusiastically, and even Iona, evidently too old for such exuberance, lets us shake her hand. We promise several times over to return, and at Timon’s insistence and Sister Sybil’s pink-faced mortification, assure him we will bring sweets.
As we push our bicyles up the sloping road, Briony turns to me her flushed face full of cheer. "It was lovely, wasn’t it? Aren’t you glad you came?"
"I am indeed. I have rarely had such lovely day in such amiable company."
"Areta is only four, you know, not old at all. Timon is five."
"And Iona?" I ask, thinking of the youthful seriousness she displayed, wondering what hides behind the wall from which so little laughter and childish fancy escaped.
"Nine or ten, though she seems older, don’t you agree?"
"I do. Have you any idea why she is living in the orphanage? Is she from Zaros?"
"I do not know. I have only visited once before, and I met other children then."
"How many live there?" We have reached the top of the hill and mount our bicycles in silent mutual consent.
"Twelve. Four boys and eight girls. Sister Sybil and Sister Agatha strike me as very capable. They get suppost from donors as well from their order of Saint Christopher."
We begin pedaling. The road is even, pounded flat and hard by the traffic of carts and animals hauling heavy loads and the dry climate, which prevents dirt roads from becoming mud tracks.
"Will you tell Jeffrey?" I ask, as we turn the first bend, the thought a nagging presence in my mind since Briony requested my company for this excursion last night.
"Why should I?" Her tone is vaguely petulant child, and I tense instantly. She will not speak to her husband, nor, it appears, will he speak to her.
"Briony, how do you expect this to go on? You are not happy, yet you do not dare to disrupt the deceptive serenity at home, to allow Jeffrey to understand. He loves you, surely you know that. And you love him, don’t you?" Briony hesitates and I wager a glance in her direction, only to see her tightening her jaw. "Briony! You have been married less than three years, have you gone off Jeffrey already?" My voice is a louder than anticipated.
"Of course not. I mean, of course I still love him. It’s just—"
"What is it?" I almost shout. "I have been here less than ten days, and you have cried on more than one occasion about your unhappiness. Please, do not think me unsympathetic, you know the opposite is true, but it is frustrating to watch the two of you living alongside one another, your roads hardly intersecting." Right, there’s that said. A wave of guilt washes over me immediately, and I wish I could take back my words. Alas, I cannot.
It takes a few moments for her to respond, and we hear only the rattling of the bicycle chains and the sound of birds shrieking somewhere beyond sight.
"I am sorry. You came here on holiday and—"
"Please, do not apologize. I am not complaining. I worry. You know I only want to see you two happy." I try to sound gentle, the reproach removed from my voice.
"I know and I am grateful. The truth is, I think Jeffrey is entirely content with his life. He has a job he is absorbed by, a lovely home, and if I do say so myself, a rather pleasant wife. It would be cruel to disillusion him."
"You must see it cannot stay this way? Sparing his feelings is a sweet thought, but the truth may not hurt or uspet him the way you think it will. He is a kind man, he will listen and I am sure he will understand." At least I hope so. In truth, what she says sounds uncomfortably accurate, and Jeffrey’s life on this island fulfills his needs all too nicely.
We ride a while side by side, saying no more. I hope my comments did not spoil the day for her. The reason for my persistence has to do with my awareness of the frailty of our existence. I cannot abide this reckless wasting of time. We are all guilty of it, pushing worrisome or distasteful tasks to the next day and then the next, until facing them becomes more fantasy than reality.
My life in London, under Aunt Agnes’ watchful and critical eye, was certainly an example of idle procrastination, I confess. I drew up plans, nearly packed my bags half a dozen times, then inertia or fear overtook conviction, and I remained rooted and frustrated where I was. Briony’s invitation gave me the shove I needed, and in a way I want to offer the same to her.
Before I know it, we have reached the road to the villa, which is already visible ahead, pale and elegant in these natural surroundings. We reach the driveway and climb from our bicycles, the gravel surface making the ride terribly bumpy and rough.
As we secure them at the side of the house, Briony turns to me. "Evie," she pulls off her hat, the hat Iona had returned with a sad smile.
"What is it?"
"You won’t say anything, will you?"
I shake my head, even though I would rather shake her. "No, I won’t, but you should. What is the worst that might happen?"
"Jeffrey will think I am ungrateful and difficult." The words come out in a low rushed murmer, making me doubt, for a moment, what I heard.
"What do you mean?"
"He will regret marrying me. He’ll think I am barren and—"
"Briony! Don’t say such things! Do you have no faith in him at all?"
She digs her heel into the gravel, surely ruining it as she rotates her foot to create a groove.
"I cannot talk of this anymore. Please, don’t say anything. We had such a lovely day. Let us leave it at that." She gives me a pleading look, her blue eyes moist, and turns toward the front door.
Knowing not what else I might do, I follow. As I reach the door, a fat raindrop spatters on my cheek. How very fitting, I think, shaking my head and entering the villa, pulling the door firmly closed behind me.
Briony disappears into the kitchen, probably with the dual purpose of running from me and of resuming her role as mistress of the house in one elegant sweep. Not wanting to disappear into my room, I saunter into the sitting room, which is home to a well-stocked shelf of what I take to be Briony’s books, being wholly entertaining, and not wholly respectable, as far as it goes.
CHAPTER 26
I make my way to the bookshelf, hoping to find distract me from the dilemmas and anxieties that have taken residence in my mind when I am interrupted by a familiar voice.
"Hello."
I jump and twist around. Daniel is sitting in a low armchair near the window out of my sight when I entered the room.
"Heavens! You gave me a fright." I shake my head with a relieved giggle. My heart is beating so loudly, he must be able to hear it across the room.
"Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you." Daniel cannot prevent himself from grinning.
"It’s all right. I didn’t know you were home. Is Jeffrey back from town?"
He shakes his head, the rays of sunlight filtering in through the window draw out streaks of copper in his hair.
"I hope everything is all right at the museum. He was rather rushed this morning."
"Yes." Stepping closer I crouch on the arm of the sofa. "He mentioned something about pieces missing from the recent excavation. Hopefully only a misplacement and nothing to worry about."
"Hm, yes." he shrugs.
"What are you reading?" I ask, eyeing the book open in his lap.
He sheepishly holds it up for me to read the illustrated cover.
"The Adventures of Tom Sawyer."
"I’m a bit old for it, if it was up to Jeffrey, I’d be puzzling over Hawthorne or Homer."
"Then you are most fortunate he is not here to see you now, aren’t you? And I happen to be rather good at keeping a secret."
"Is that so?" He raises an eyebrow. "What sort of secrets are locked away in that head of yours?"
Blushing at his question and at being the object of his green-eyed gaze, I am quick to add, "Ah, that would be telling. You are trying to trick me."
"Never." There is more in those two syllables than jest, and I cannot help but let a pleased smile spread across my lips. "Good."
We sit like this for a strange, not uncomfortable moment, contemplating the meaning of the other’s words. It is Daniel who breaks the silence, his face taking on a different expression removed from our banter. "Dymas called."
"Oh." If I am honest with myself, I haven’t thought about Caspar for some hours.
"He was able to speak to Darius."
"What did he say? He did not arrest him?"
"No, no he didn’t." Two thin lines crease Daniel’s forehead. "He said Darius denied it. He said, while Caspar and he were not friends, neither were they enemies. There are many called Darius on the island. It leaves us sadly none the wiser."
"I hope it’s true, do not mistake my hesitation for disappointment." However, if I am entirely truthful, there is a tinge of the latter emotion in my skepticism. "If Caspar knew enough about another Darius to blackmail him, wouldn’t he have met him quite a few times? He couldn’t very well threaten the man, if he only saw him by chance pinching an orange off a fruit stall, or something like it. He would have been certain of the man’s crime, and to be certain, he would have had to know him fairly well, would you not agree?"
The creases deepen, and Daniel folds his hands together in his lap, responding, "What you are saying may well be true. Darius or ‘DARS’ was being asked for a hefty sum, first 3500, and then 9000 Drachmae. Not an inconsequential amount. Caspar would need to be certain his method of exerting pressure would work, if he repeatedly demanded such sums. Further," he sits up, "if this had been a recurring event, then he needed to have met this Darius early on. We have been here less than three months and met Darius Calandra after the first week. I do not remember anyone else of our acquaintance with that name."
"It seems unlikely that many people would have had such sums to part with." I add, realizing, with a sinking feeling, murderer or not, Darius lied to Dymas.
"It must have been him." Daniel reaches the same conclusion.
"Do you think Dymas believed him?"
Daniel raises his hands. "I cannot say. I think he was inclined to. You saw his reaction to our suggestion that Darius had anything to do with the crime."
"Do you think Jeffrey spoke to him, warned him maybe?"
"Oh," he shakes his head, "it hadn’t even crossed my mind."
"I doubt he would have, but hinting to Darius that Dymas might call on him in regards to the inquiry would have given Darius a chance to get his story right, to behave calmly when Dymas confronted him." Sighing, I add, "‘What a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive’." I slide off the arm sinking onto the well-cushioned sofa itself.
"Indeed." Daniel’s mood is dimming before my eyes.
"Even if Darius was being blackmailed, he did not necessarily commit murder."
"No, but his motive would be the most compelling of anyone we’ve come across."
"Excluding Nikolas."
"Perhaps," he concedes. "It is always love or money, isn’t it. The driving forces are always love or money." He raises his eyes again, meeting mine. "And yet, no money can buy real love."
"No, it can’t." I wonder what he is implying. My interpretations of subtlety and nuance are dubious at best.
"Evelyn, may I ask you a rather personal question?" His eyes are intently focused on mine, and I find myself nodding without a second thought.
"Are you happy? You’ve told me of your past, of what happened, and I suspect there is much more to be told. You know my own story, probably better than I do yours. I trust Briony has been more forthcoming than Jeffrey."
"Perhaps I do." I let my gaze drop to my lap where my clenched hands are resting. "Forgive me," he says, "I should not—"
"No, it’s all right. Yet you must allow me a question of my own." I raise my eyes again. "Do you think any of us are ever completely happy?"
Exhaling he lets his shoulders drop. "No, I do not. Well, no adult of my acquaintance, at least."
"Well, to answer your question, I am as happy as I have been in quite some time. I know that sounds odd, given what happened, but I feel freer than I have in a long time, add to that the good company I am in. I truly should not complain." He grins at this as I continue. "That is enough for me to be quite content."
"A good answer. Contentedness is not to be undervalued."
"It is not quite elated joy, but it is the next best thing. And I would feel ashamed, considering all the good fortune I have in my life, if I said anything else."
"Do you think people lie about being happy because they think others want to hear it? Or to convince themselves?"
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