"Surely both." I say, thinking of all the masks we wear, to disguise, to hide, to disappear behind.
"Yes, I believe so, too. Has it ever been otherwise, do you think?"
I lean back slightly, finding myself both at ease and unnerved by the philosophical turn this conversation has taken. "Probably not. I expect people when it comes right down to it are the same as they were a hundred, two-hundred years ago."
"Which is probably why we never learn from past mistakes either." His tone carries an edge of bitterness.
"Daniel," I bite on my bottom lip, wondering whether I ought to say what I am thinking.
"What is it?"
Well, I suppose he’s asking for it.
"Daniel, are you very angry?"
The question clearly shocks him and he straightens in his chair, his expression hovering somewhere between surprise and dismay. "I … no, why—"
"Please, forgive my bluntness. I understand anger, I do, but—"
"No, I am not so angry as much as I am … I don’t know, disappointed." He cranes his neck back, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again and adding in a quiet tone, "Disappointed and exhausted."
"With life?"
He gives a quick mirthless laugh and shakes his head, a lock of dark hair falling onto his forehead. "Yes, no. I don’t know. There are times when life is good, sunshine on your skin, the sweetest strawberries, laughter and friends, and times when it seems worth nothing at all, where blackness and bleakness hover like a thundercloud. Do I sound completely mad?"
The frightening thing is that he does not. Not at all. He mistakes my silence for judgement and continues in a more sober voice.
"I have shocked you. Unfiltered thoughts that course around my mind on occasion find their way out of my mouth."
"Don’t apologize." The sun beyond the window hides behind a cloud, and I shiver. If he notices, he makes no remark. "Do you suppose we all feel that way?"
"You mean, do I think I am unique in this? No, but I also have not met many who admit to it. I suppose you have woken some dormant bravery in me." He smiles meaning to bring lightness to his words, but instead makes tears prick my eyes. I swallow, blinking them away. "Do moments of goodness outweigh the others?" I ask, a lump at the back of my throat. "Most days." Another smile, this time spreading to his eyes. "Most days." "Good." For a moment we sit there, smiling at one another like the companionable fools we are.
CHAPTER 27
Dinner is a simple affair. Jeffrey calls ten minutes before to inform us tersely he has to miss it. Thus disappointed, Briony stares into her bowl of excellent cold soup and pushes pieces of roast chicken to the corners of her plate. After a dessert of honey cake, we retreat to the sitting room. Daniel is reading the last few pages of his guilty pleasure, and Briony is cutting a pattern for a new skirt, while I write postcards to Aunties Iris and Agnes. The first is easy, words flowing from my pen, natural and honest. The second proves more of a challenge.
Dear Aunt Agnes,
I hope you are well.
And now …? Do I tell her about Caspar? Does she already know? She claims not to read such "drivel" as the
Mail,
but perhaps she does. Jeffrey’s name is mentioned, so it would take no great deductive powers to know I am somehow involved as well. I wonder, if she would even have me back, should I want to return?
Dear Aunt Agnes,
I hope you are well. The weather here is pleasant, the sun shining every day and little rain. The landscape is dry, though today I visited a village in a rather lush valley. I am well. Briony has an excellent cook, and we even had roast lamb for our Sunday luncheon. How are Harris and the rest of the staff? Have you kept Millie on?
So much has happened, yet I can only tell her about the weather. Perhaps I should be more blunt. She never expects much good of me, so why bother maintaining a façade? I continue writing, my hold on the pen tightening.
As you may have read, there has been a tragedy at Briony and Jeffrey’s house. A fellow guest has fallen victim to murder. The police have been very vigilant and helpful, and you need not be concerned for my safety. I will write again when I know more. Briony and Jeffrey send their love, as do I.
Yours truly,
Evelyn
There, not bad. I lay down the pen before I can scratch it all out again and add another line about fresh fruit instead. I wonder whether she will write back? She did not respond to the telegram. Am I disowned, punished for my disobedience? I wish these questions did not plague me so. My relationship with Agnes is what it is, and still, somewhere inside of me, the frightened and lonely four-year-old girl yearns for some sign of affection, though the woman in me, two decades later, knows it will not come.
Somewhere beyond the wall, we hear the heavy thud of a door slamming and then footsteps moving toward us. The sitting room is bathed in a pleasant light from the gaslamps and two candles on the low wooden table. Jeffrey’s face, despite the illuminationas he enters, is sallow and pale, the magic leaving him untouched.
"Jeffrey, dear!" Briony gets up in a hectic motion, having forgotten her anger. "What is it? Has something happened? Sit down." She guides him to the sofa. I turn around in my chair, and Daniel sets down his book, filling a heavy crystal glass with brandy before striding over to his friend.
"Have a drink. It will bring some color back to your face."
Jeffrey obeys, gulping a generous amount of fiery liquid.
"Better?" Daniel sits down on the chair across and narrows his eyes.
"Yes, cheers for that. I needed it after the day I’ve had."
"Tell us, darling, you’re worrying me." Briony leans closer, placing a slender hand on his arm.
"Well," he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing before he continues, "The excavation site was vandalized and robbed last night."
"What?" We echo in unison appalled and rapt at once.
"The damage is not bad. It looked more like an afterthought, the police say. A gold statue was taken. An invaluable piece! Can you imagine?"
"Surely there was a guard? Why was the statue not at the museum?"
"It was attached to the main structure. We did not want to cause breakage in the foundation, so Paul was going to visit the site with an architect today and see how best to sort it out. The guard was knocked out from behind. Barely anyone knew it even exhisted." He shakes his head incredulously. "The museum directors hinted very politely," he rolls his eyes, "that someone directly involved with the excavation or the museum itself must be the guilty party. We were interrogated! Can you believe it? In principal I understand, but still, no one on the team would damage our site, no one."
"What will happen?" I ask, leaning forward, my wicker chair creaking.
"I can’t say. For now, they have halted all work at the site." He takes another hearty slip, setting the empty glass on the table. "Everyone was in a state."
Daniel and I exchange glances. It is unlikely Jeffrey found the time to talk to Darius about the investigation with all this troubling him. Dymas must have spoken to Darius before the museum meeting, otherwise the curator would surely not have had the presence of mind to think on his feet. Darius would be most upset at any violation of the excavation site. The way he spoke of the artifacts, even on the first evening we met, betrayed his utter fascination with them, and his devotion to maintaining and learning from them. Who would do such a thing? A statue of such value and repute could never openly be sold on the island without the thief drawing unwanted attention.
"How did Darius act today?" Daniel asks before I can.
"Darius? He was upset, of course, as we all were—still are." Jeffrey balls his left hand into a fist, clasping it with his right. "That statue was priceless, and now it’s gone." He really does look very tired. I cannot help but notice that he is reacting with far greater agitation to the loss of a fugurine, than to the murder of his guest.
"Is the guard all right?"
"What? Er …yes, fine, he is fine. Just a bit of a headache. He was taken to hospital."
"Well, that is good at least. The thief is no murderer."
"Small consolation." Jeffrey mumbles unsympathetically. I decide to be forgiving in view of his dilemma and offer no rebuke.
"Are you hungry? You must be." Briony jumps up. "I’ll see what can be found."
Her husband sighs and gives her a half-hearted smile. Briony disappears through the doorway, and we can hear the light
tap-tap
of her heels on the polished tiles.
"Jeffrey," Daniel begins, "you may not be interested in this at the moment, but Dymas called earlier."
Jeffrey gives a low groan. "What now? Will we never have any peace?"
I notice the muscles in Daniel’s neck twitch ever so slightly at this callous remark. Jeffrey has some way to go in the mastery of tact.
"He wanted to inform us that Darius denied the theft and the blackmail." Daniel’s voice is harder now, matter-of-fact.
"Right," Jeffrey nods. He had clearly forgotten about
that
little concern. It is hardly any wonder he doesn’t know his wife is unhappy. If he can forget the fact that his collegue and friend may very well have done-in his houseguest!
"We are quite skeptical," I say, my voice a hint too loud. "He is the only man named that Daniel thinks may fit."
"Nonsense, even I know another Darius. Caspar was a sociable fellow. He might have known five. It is utter nonsense to suspect that my friend has something to do with any sort of criminal behavior. Utter nonsense."
As he repeats the word, looking like a stubborn child, Briony breezes through the door, carrying a tray. Obviously the cook prepared it, but it is sweetly arranged by Briony. Her attentions rouse a slight strain of annoyance in me. He is showing his selfishness tonight, in words and actions, and I cannot stir up great sympathy for him.
"Here, darling. Some roast chicken, potatoes, and peas and some cake for pudding." She carefully sets the tray before him.
"Ah, good, thanks." He leans forward. "No bread roll?" he frowns, and I could shake him.
"No? Let me fetch—"
"Surely you can manage without a roll, Jeffrey, dear." I hope my tone does not betray my rising irritation.
"Yes, I suppose." He tucks in, and I watch Briony as she watches him. She deserves to be appreciated. The more I think about it, the angrier I become. She has been crying to me, while her husband cares only for crumbling rock and relics of yesteryear. At none of the many meals we have shared, has he asked her about herself, always expecting to be heard, not to do the hearing. He is a tolerant husband and not unkind, but he isn’t interested, and that, even I know is a vital part of any realtionship.
With more force than intended, I get to my feet, snatching the written postcards off the little table. "If you will excuse me, I am tired. It has been a long day."
"Shall I send Niobe up to help you with anything?" Briony asks, and I soften instantly.
"No. Thank you, I will manage on my own. Good night."
"Good night," the others echo as I make my way to my room, spine stiff, temples throbbing.
CHAPTER 28
My room is cool as the window is still wide open, and I shiver upon entering. Sinking onto my bed, I let out a deep breath, waiting for my thoughts to settle, the pressure behind my eyes to ease. The dimness is pleasant, and my eyes adjust quickly.
All around me swirls an eddy of misunderstanding and emotional turmoil, and I am powerless to do anything useful at all. Briony is depressed, Jeffrey is oblivious and Daniel remains an enigma to me. Still, we are forever connected because of Caspar’s murder. I know the events that ocurred here have not left me untouched, yet looking into the mirror, the only change I see it the slight coloring of my skin and the circles caving out blueish hollows beneath my eyes.
Did I expect too much, coming here? I am not disappointed, rather overwhelmed. I go to bed every night with my head full of what is to come. It is so different from my other, past life when my thoughts centered largely around myself and my boredom and discontent.
Have I grown as a person? Have I evolved to a higher level of maturity? One can only hope.
Right now, sitting in this dim room, afraid to enter the garden for fear of Caspar’s spirit, I yearn for empty thoughts and silence in my head. For someone to sit down beside me, to hold my hand and take away the cold sting of loneliness that creeps under my skin like an English winter.
I close my eyes, painting the image of my mother as I have countless times before, seated beside me, warm and kind and protective, her strong, elegant hand covering mine. I can almost feel the warmth, the sagging of the matress under her phantom weight. She hardly ever speaks to me. I do not remember her voice and imagining one is too sad. She only sits with me, sometimes Father too, and I am no longer so lonely, no longer so lost in this world.