The Moonspinners (19 page)

‘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 the 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—'

‘If it is a dog, Miss Ferris, I shall not shoot it. Now, please, you must let me – ah!'

From the shed had come a whole series of sounds, now quite unmistakable. A scrape and a clatter, a curious clucking noise, and the thud of a small, soft body landing from a height. Then from the half open door shot a vague, slim shape which slid mewing between our feet, and was gone into the shadowed lane.

Stratos stopped, and his hand dropped from his hip. He laughed. ‘A cat! This is the criminal on my sister's property! You may calm yourself, Miss Ferris, I shall certainly not shoot
that
!'

‘I'm sorry,' I said shamefacedly. ‘That was silly of me, but guns and things do panic me. Besides, you might have got hurt or something. Well, thank goodness that's all it was! I was talking to that cat in the lane a while ago; he must have been ratting.'

‘Nothing so useful,' said Stratos cheerfully. ‘My brother-in-law keeps a decoy quail in there. The cats can't get at it, but they keep trying. Well, we'll shut the door, shall we?'

He pulled it shut, and turned out of the yard. We walked back to the hotel together.

Sofia's yard seemed darker than ever. The shed door was still shut. The cat had gone, and the nightingale was silent in the cypresses. A cracked bell from somewhere near the harbour tolled three.

The door opened with only the slightest creak. I slipped through it into the shed, and pulled it shut behind me.

‘Mark?' It was only a breath.

No reply. I stood still, listening for his breathing, and hearing only my own. There was brushwood stacked somewhere; I could smell rosemary, and dried verbena, and all the sweet sharp scents of the bed he and I had shared last night.

‘Mark?' I began to feel my way cautiously over to the wall that skirted the lane. A small sound behind me brought me round sharply, with eyes straining wide against the dark, but it was only the scrabbling of claws, and a small rustling movement from a corner where the quail's cage must be. No other sound.

I groped my way over to the wall. As my hands met the stone the nightingale, outside in the grove, began to sing again. The sound filled the darkness, full and near. I felt along the wall. Stone, rough stone, cold stone. Nothing else; and no sound but the rich music from the cypress grove. I had been wrong; Mark hadn't been here after all; the strong sense I had had of his presence had only been something evoked by the verbena scents of the piled brushwood. It had been the cat, and only the cat, that we had heard.

My hand met something that wasn't stone, something smooth and sticky, and still faintly warm, that made the hair rise up the back of my neck, and my stomach muscles tighten sharply. I pulled the hand away and stood there, holding it stiffly before me, fingers splayed.

So instinct had been right, after all. Mark had been there, leaning against the wall within inches of Stratos and me, perhaps betrayed by exhaustion into some revealing movement, while his shoulder bled against the stone. In sudden fear I stooped to feel if he had fallen there, at the foot of the wall. Nothing. The shed was empty. There was only his blood.

Outside, the nightingale still sang in the cypresses.