Then again …
The murderer, if he was known to Caspar, would not necessarily have needed him to be alone. Rat poison or strychnine is easily transported. If he had found several of us in residence, he might have simply changed his plans to wait for a better opportunity. Poisoning is not a spurof-the-moment vim. Not that I can speak from experience.
"Miss Carlisle?" I spin around, my hands on my hips in frustration.
"Niobe, yes?" I drop them, opting for a friendlier stance. The poor girl looks done-in, and I am tempted to send her off to enjoy the bath herself. She certainly gives the impression she might profit from a good long soak.
"Your bath is ready, Miss. I added some lavender oil. I hope it is to your satisfaction."
"Thank you, lovely." I begin removing my bracelet and the pins from my hair. Niobe turns to leave, but half-way to the door she stiffens and slumps forward, clutching the top of the dresser, toppling over a small vase of pink flowers.
"Oh!"
"Niobe, what is it?" I stride across the room to her. "What is the matter? Are you in pain?" A silly question, her face, as I now see, is contorted in misery.
"I am fine …"
I shake my head.
"You’re not. Come and sit down." Carefully supporting her by the elbows, I lead her over to the chair. Her face has relaxed again, the pain subsiding, unless she is simply putting on a brave face.
"I am better, thank you."
"We must stop meeting like this," I smile in an attempt to put her at ease, while remembering her fainting spell a few days ago. "Perhaps you should see a doctor? Shall I call for one?"
"No!" Anxiety tugs at her features. "It is fine."
"Niobe," I crouch down beside her on a footstool. "Honestly, is everything all right? You can tell me. I might be able to help. Briony and Jeffrey wouldn’t want you to suffer. They won’t dismiss you if you aren’t feeling well."
Niobe swallows, bites her lower lip and shakes her head.
"I am not ill."
"But surely this isn’t normal. You should at least see a doctor. Is it money? I can lend you money to see him, if you need it."
"No, it is not that."
"I can’t force you to tell me what is wrong, but I promise you can trust me. I want to help." She hesitates, eyeing me with her dark scrutinous gaze.
"I am with child. I am not ill." This takes me by surprise, though I could kick myself for my naïveté. I mustn’t say anything to make her regret this confidence.
"I see," I say slowly, "are you certain?" This seems like a safe thing to say, while my mind races.
"Yes. I went to the doctor two weeks ago."
"To doctor Zarek?"
She seems puzzled for a moment at this enquiry and shakes her head. "No, a doctor in Heraklion. I didn’t want anybody I knew."
"How do you feel?" The question surprises her as though nobody has asked it yet. On second thought, considering how secret she has kept this news, it is likely nobody has. I feel a stab of pity for her, all alone with her frightening, exciting news.
"I do not know." In a gesture that appears unconscious, she lays a hand on her flat stomach.
"I may be overstepping, but Niobe, does the father know? Does Yannick know?"
"Yannick?" The surprise on her face is genuine and leaves me puzzled.
"Yes, Yannick. You two are a couple, are you not?"
"How do you know this, we were so careful?"
"I’m afraid Yannick is your alibi and you his, that is how I know. "You do not understand." As if only now noticing her hand, she lowers it onto her thigh.
"What do you mean?" I am not getting very far in my understanding of this woman. Again, I notice her wavering before giving an answer.
"Many people here do not like me marrying a Pole. They think I should marry a good Greek boy, but … but he is very kind, and he will be a good husband." If only she didn’t look so worried, this arguement would be far more convincing.
"Forgive me for being blunt, however, if there is something upsetting you, you can tell me. I am not scandalized so easily."
"
Scandalized
?"
"Shocked." Niobe nods and takes a slow breath, shifting her gaze to the open window where the sky is dimming ever so slightly, and a pair of birds are singing a cheerful song.
"Yannick is not my child’s father. He knows and still wants to marry me. I cannot tell this to the people in my village, so they cannot understand that he is a much better man than any of them. It is very difficult, yet I must keep it secret, and you must, too." She returns her focus to me, locking her eyes on mine, extracting a promise that goes beyond spoken words.
"I will not breathe a word." As I make this promise, I worry about facing Briony while protecting Niobe’s secret. We normally confide in each other on most matters. I ease my conscience by telling myself it is in her best interest to be spared the news that even those out of wedlock have greater luck in conceiving children than she herself has had thus far.
Oh, it is all such a balancing act, pleasing one without offending another.
"Thank you. I do not want to cause any trouble." Niobe looks down at her hands, folded in her lap, and I wonder whether she knows what her news may do to her mistress.
"It will be all right."
I hope.
"When will you marry? It should be sooner rather than later, for the sake of propriety." I am sadly aware of the harsh societal judgement an unmarried mother faces, even in these modern times.
"My family is not happy about it. I cannot explain the truth to them. They would be disgraced and my father … No, I can never tell him." She hugs her arms around herself miserably.
"Niobe," I lower my voice ever so slightly, "tell me to mind my own business, but are you in love with Yannick?"
The bluntness of the question clearly catches her unawares, and her eyes widen in surprise, not disguising a flicker of fear. "Of course. Yannick is a very good man. I care for him very much." Not exactly a resounding declaration of her affection, though one I am able to believe.
"I hope you will be happy together." I smile, suddenly very tired and eager to sink into the bath, by now lukewarm at best. Not wanting to be rude, I stand, unable to feel entirely at ease with this young woman and her plans. "Are you better now?"
Niobe nods and gets to her feet, looking less fraught. I hope unburdening herself, even to a stranger, has helped her. I have great sympathy for her situation, but there is something in her manner that unnerves me. Suddenly, as I walk her to the door, a memory of her wearing an anxious expression and speaking in hushed tones with Caspar the eve of the dinner party returns to me.
"Niobe, may I ask you one more question?" I say before I can stop myself.
"Of course, what is it?"
"How well did you know Caspar Ballantine?" I watch her carefully, trying to for innocence in my voice, to disguise my roused curiosity.
"What do you mean? I saw him here. I knew him only a little." Her tone is even, and I chide myself for attempting to detect signs of distress or dishonesty in her delivery.
"I was simply curious as I saw him speaking to you at the dinner party. Do you recall? I was worried he might be bothering you and thought about stepping in, but I did not want to interfere. I hope I did not make a mistake in staying back?" I emphasize this last comment as a question, careful not to alarm her by sounding harsh or suspicious.
"I can’t remember, perhaps he wanted more wine. He did not bother me."
Liar
. I would stake my grandmother’s diamond bracelet on it. She has something to hide, this lady of mysteries. I will not get it out of her tonight. She will already be questioning her wisdom in confiding in me at all. I can tell from the set of her jaw, she will reveal no more.
"Good," I reply with pretend relief. "I had best get myself cleaned up now. I hope you are better, and if there is anything I can do to help, please let me know."
With that we part. I leave the door a fingerswidth ajar to hear her footsteps descend the stairs, then close it firmly. Somehow I do not trust her. I know she has an alibi, and I am being absurd, but I believe, with some conviction, that she is lying about Caspar. There was an intensity to their conversation that had nothing to do with wine. Perhaps he is the child’s father? He certainly enjoyed the attentions of more than one lady, whether appropriate or not.
Or am I simply allowing my riotous imagination too loose a reign to run where it pleases?
Shedding my dress, I toss it over the chairback and enter the bathroom. The air is warm and scented with lavender and the bathwater is still pleasantly warm. As I ease into it, the tension in my weary body begins to ease. It has been a long day, and I am sorry for everyone I have encountered.
Sinking further into the large tub, leaving only my face floating above the surface, my normally auburn hair turns a deep coffee brown as it dances around my face in the water. I enjoy the sensation of my ears being submerged, unable to register the reality of sound. Do fish hear? I wonder. Or do they swim about in an endless fog of non-sound. The silence is pleasing. Soon enough, the voices in my mind will beckon again, and I will be forced to listen.
Raising my head, I experience a slight pop as my ears adjust to the change in pressure. My body is more relaxed now, but I cannot find a place of calm inside myself. It is strange how at odds body and mind can be, and still they work together by some peculiar almost unfathomable mechanism.
I rest my head on the small towel folded against the rim of the bathtub and stare up at the swirls in the plaster ceiling, wondering, not for the first time, whether it was a mistake to come here. At least being here, I can help Briony cope with this difficult situation. She will inevitably soon discover that Niobe is pregnant. How will it affect her? I exhale a heavy lungful and close my eyes.
When I was younger, alone or afraid, I often tried closing my eyes, telling myself I must think of something entirely frivolous. I would focus my mind on the pretty dress I had seen on a mannequin in Selfridges or what I would like to have for pudding; only such matters would be allowed. Building a wall in my mind, I barred all serious concerns, protecting myself. It was a high wall, thick and sturdy, but still it failed too often to count. Through some gap the ugly thoughts slipped inside, memories, fears and gnawing anxieties, and I would wrench open my eyes as though escaping a waking nightmare.
Today I do not even try this evasion. I am not a child anymore, even though, at this moment, I feel remarkably small and vulnerable. I allow my mind the freedom to wander down the dark alleys and the shadowed recesses that cause my skin to crawl. I have been here less than a week, yet so much has happened. I have trouble believing it.
Images flash before my eyes of the ferry, of Yannick and the Delage, the dinner party, the Agora, the dead, dead body of Caspar. Normality and horror. Isn’t that the way of the world? Goodness is so often overshadowed by the dark. Light always the more fragile entitity.
We all have a shadow following us wherever we go. Is this duality of light and dark in human nature simply something we must learn to accept? We all harbor some unattractive qualitites within ourselves, should we simply expect them on some occasions, to manifest themselves as something truly horrendous? If this were the case, life would be hardly worth living. What would life be if it was not treasured, loved, protected, mourned by somebody? Lazily accepting evil in the world as status quo cannot be an option. No, the day I stop being shocked and saddened by tragedy and evil, is the day I lose faith in humanity, and that day is not today.
With renewed energy, I open my eyes. My hands and fingers have wrinkled like the prunes I had at breakfast. With a sigh, I rise and carefully climb out of the bathtub, cold water dripping from me and running in little lavernder-scented rivulets down my limbs.
Swathed in a large, soft towel so white it competes with the delicate whisps of clouds now drifting across the sky, I wander back into my bedroom. It must be nearly time for dinner, and I find myself unenthused at the prospect of company. We are all miserable, and sitting at the table, exchanging niceties and garbling on about the weather and the food, seems a trial. Every time I look at Briony I worry, thinking about her outburst in the café. Regarding Jeffrey, I wonder about his lack of interest or awareness of my cousin’s unhappiness, and I find myself blaming him, knowing it is not my place to interfere. Daniel is at once the most difficult and the most intriguing company. Agony emanates from him in almost palpable waves, and still we have laughed together, despite everything that has happened in this short span of time.
How I wish I was a child, ignorant of future pain and wholly satisfied with the world. To go back to a time when I could play in the garden for hours on end, have an extra bun at teatime and declare all well with life. If only wishes weren’t just wishes.
If only, if only …
I banish this notion, but cannot help wondering
, isn’t it true?
I have so much others only dream of and still am not satisfied. There I am again at the crux of human fallability. We want what we can’t have and react either mournfully or despicably.