A moment later, Briony is on the stairs in a daydress of lavender cotton with a delicate lace collar. "Oh good, you’re back. How did she take the news?" she descends the last step and joins us.
"Come, let us sit in the conservatory, and we will tell you." I gently take her elbow and lead her with Daniel at our heels. He appears somewhat lost at the moment. He wanted so badly to find Caspar’s killer and may be confused or disappointed that true closure is much harder to come by, especially after learning of the more unsavory aspects of his friend’s character.
The conservatory is bathed in sunlight, and we sit in our customary seats. In turns, Daniel and I tell Briony about our day.
"Poor Laria, though I am most troubled by the notion that Paul’s motives were even more sinister than we thought."
"He led us to believe he was acting almost nobly, protecting Rosie. Doing right by Niobe and his wife, when in truth, he was probably doing it for financial gains."
"… to protect his allowance from Rosie’s family," Daniel finishes my sentence.
"Altogether tragic," is all Briony has left to say, and we can add nothing except to nod in absolute agreement.
CHAPTER 49
We stay a while longer in the gentle light of the sun as it filters through the broad glass panes. It feels as though we are trapped within a crystal. Outside the trees, small and young, sway back and forth in the mild breeze blowing in from the sea. A group of starlings, lively brown specks, make a habit of settling on the patches of grass and then, as if startled by a shotgun, lurch back into the air, turning into even smaller dots on the horizon until they disappear. The scene could be one of utter serenity, were it not for the old oak tree at the edge of the garden. A plain reminder of what it gave shade to, what I found,
whom
I found. One day, perhaps, this event will sink into history. Still, the past is the past. All the same, it has a far reach, warming us or burning us with an onslaught of memory.
Briony asks the cook to make us sandwiches when we realize, with rumbling bellies that we forgot all about lunch. The day’s events have shaken our sense of normality and routine, and we are still trying to find our way back onto a familiar path.
When Jeffrey comes home in the evening, he is accompanied by Dymas. He towers over Briony’s husband, yet both wear the same mask of tired resignation. Not to reapeat our story again and again, we let both of them sit down, fill their glasses with cool lemonade and only then inform them of Paul’s likely darker motive.
Neither man is terribly shocked. Jeffrey groans, probably considering this new development just another nasty imposition on his previously peaceful life. Dymas raises his expressive brows and says little, making quick notes in a small book and soon afterwards takes his leave, reminding us he will be attending the funeral tomorrow.
"How was your day, darling?" Briony asks her husband once Dymas has departed.
"As I expected. Everyone was mystified. We do not know how to proceed. We have lost a curator and archaeologist, and with them two brilliant minds we believed to be two good friends. It will be a hard process to move froward and think about replacing them."
"Replace them
…" Daniel repeats the words slowly.
"Daniel?"
"Is everybody replaceable?" he asks the question with neither guile nor judgement, more like a curious child waiting for an answer.
"No, of course not, I only meant—" Jeffrey stammers when Daniel interrupts.
"I know what you meant, and of course their labor and their skill must be replaced. I am thinking of the person. During the war, soldiers were taught to regard themselves as part of a greater whole, though admittedly not that this whole could function even after we were gone. Valuable, yet far from priceless; our finger on the trigger could be replaced by that of another poor, brave, foolish soul. What do we truly mean to others? In a world where murder happens every day and everywhere, where life is too often under threat not only by the elements, illness, misfortune, but at the hands of our fellow people, what hope is there for the future? What do our lives count for in the grand scheme of things?"
Jeffrey shrugs helplessly, looking at his wife and me. It is Daniel himself who comes to his rescue. Waving his hand in a dismissive gesture he says, "Oh, I am sorry. I am being morose. Let us try to talk of better things, better times ahead, yes?"
No one disagrees, though his words have taken root. We all have lost people, family, and friends and have filled their void however we could to keep ourselves from falling to pieces. I remember my parents, out of this world for many years, longer than I ever knew them. They have stayed alive in some vast pocket of my heart and mind where they will remain as long as I am here as long as I can remember or imagine. So many of my thoughts are not memories, but fantasies and imaginings, which have seen me through my blackest days.
"Will Laria attend the funeral?" asks Briony, back on the subject we cannot avoid.
"Yes, but I do not know if Nikolas will," says Daniel.
"Can’t blame him," Jeffrey comments wryly. "I wonder how he found out. If he did. Maybe husbands can sense these things."
Dear Jeffrey, overly crediting the power of the husband’s insight into the mind of his wife. I glance at Briony, who is mirroring my amusement.
"We will offer refreshments after the funeral for those who wish to attend." My cousin informs us, smiling kindly at Daniel, taking control of the little in this affair she can.
After some time, we disperse to perform our little chores or close our eyes for an hour before dinner. Back in my room, a nervous anxiety tugs at my insides as I think of tomorrow. My mind’s eye conjures up images of a group of black-clad mourners clustered around the polished coffin; the sealed casket disappearing into the empty pit in the ground; and the lonely marker of the grave reading Caspar’s name and his youthful age. I crouch down on the edge of the bed, wrapping my arms around my raised knees. Somewhere ouside the open window, I hear the cries of seagulls, shrill and keening. Closing my eyes, I imagine them flying in circles above the villa. Higher and higher they swirl and spin, gliding through the air, nearly weightless, gray and white streaks in the violet sky. To be able to fly. To drift away as one pleases …
Maybe one day I will experience what it is like. Men are flying aeroplanes now; even women have tried. We are competing with nature. I do not know if we can ever truly best it, or if we should. For all the energy we expend into advancing our race, an equally powerful might always looms nearby, readying to force our retreat. This is how it has always been. Humans are capable of great goodness and tremendous cruelty. To maintain a balance, we must keep one eye on each and learn from wickedness as well as wonder. One to avoid and one to aspire to. All far easier wished for than done.
Hopefully, once tomorrow’s trials are behind us, we can move forward. With this thought comes my sudden need to read my aunt’s letter once more. I turn to the side and fish it from the bedside drawer. After reading it, I peer at the clock. One hour till dinner. With effort, more mental than physical, I drag myself off the bed to sit on the dainty wicker chair before the oval writing desk. Taking a clean sheet of paper, simple and plain, I begin to write.
After three attempts and three crumpled pages, lying sad and discarded on the floor, I have composed a satisfying reply.
Dear Aunt Agnes,
I thank you for your letter and good wishes. I have conveyed them to my kind hosts and send theirs in turn.
This is a slight exaggeration of the truth, for neither Briony nor Jeffrey have done any such thing. Yet it is a good way to start, and I am sure my cousin and her husband will not mind me using them to ease my way into this difficult communication.
Crete is a lovely place and Miklos, the village near my cousin’s home, very dear. Perhaps, one day you shall see for yourself.
Too challenging, condescending …? I nibble the end of my pen, forcing myself to continue onto harder parts.
Much has happened recently, good and bad. Still, you need not worry. I am thankful for the candor you show in your last letter. We have always had our differences, you and me, have we not? I recognize my own fault in the matter and offer sincere apologies. You and Uncle Brendan gave me a home, and I do not like you to think me ungrateful, though undoubtedly I acted carelessly on many occasions. As time goes by, we move on, not forgetting the past, instead accepting it, encouraged that happier times are ahead. I have the greatest hope that our relationship, dear aunt, will much improve as we learn to understand one another better with time. At the moment I am happy to be with my cousin, to experience the ways of a different culture. Times are such that a woman of my age and position can do so quite freely. Thank you for the kind offer of your continued hospitality when I return to London. I will look forward to our next meeting and to a conversation long overdue.
Wishing you continued health and happiness.
Yours truly,
Evelyn
PS: Please send my regards and good wishes on to Harris and Milly and tell them, if you will, I think of them often.
There. Done. Rather exhausted from the effort, I set down the pen just as bell rings for dinner. Still wearing my dayclothes, I quickly get up, toss them aside and step into a freshly pressed blue and purple silk dress with a low waist and narrowly beaded hem. Casting a glance in the mirror I run the brush through my hair, and bolt from the room. I have a compunction not to be late. Not for anything. The curse of good manners!
CHAPTER 50
Dinner is a delightful affair of steamed white fish in lemon sauce, thick slices of aubergine roasted with goat cheese and drizzled with fruity olive oil, ripe apricots and kumquat ice cream. We speak of books, Jeffrey taunting Daniel about his writer’s block; of travel, future journeys down the Nile or up Mount Kilimanjaro. Put simply, no topic is barred, none but Caspar’s funeral.
It is a pleasant evening with some laughter and a deep sense of contentment to be in good company tonight. Tomorrow will doubtless be a trying day. I feel a little less afraid, a little less small and ineffectual, surrounded by people who will stand beside me, offer me a hand in friendship or a shoulder for support.
After the table has been cleared, save for our glasses of sherry or brandy, no one is able to call an end to the day, fearful, no doubt, of allowing the next one to begin. After Briony stifles her third yawn, however, and my eyes begin to droop, we grudgingly bid each other goodnight and make for our beds to toss and turn until dawn arrives.
Before I enter my room, I turn once more to Daniel, a forlorn figure in the low light of the hall.
"Tomorrow it will be over," I know it isn’t true, but hope he believes me.
He shrugs sadly, not deceived. "Until tomorrow. Goodnight, Evelyn."
"Goodnight, Daniel." So much more should be said, yet I can find no words to say it.
My room is dark and instead of turning on the light, I wander over to the window. The waning moon sends silver light through the translucent curtains, and a soft breeze drifts in through an opening in the delicate fabric. The air is fresh against my skin as it felt on the first night I was here. The night before the murder, before I ever could have known what awaited us all. Not much time has passed, and still much has changed. That is the way of life. Like the hungry flames eating away my childhood, so quickly can our world be turned on its head. We must learn to walk on our hands … or break our necks.
EPILOGUE
Despite my prediction of sleep evading me, I awake surprisingly rested. The day begins drenched in sunlight, birds chirping outside my window, oblivious to the woes befalling the humans inside. Altogether, this scene is unbefitting the day of a funeral. Hopefully, I can take it as a sign of lighter days to come. When we assemble at the gravesite, shivering with the eerie chill that accompanies all such occasions, the warm rays will be a welcome comfort in our backs.
Breakfast is a somber affair, none of us willing to mention where we are going in an hour’s time. We make ill-disguised attempts to mask our anxiety with chatter, soon evolving into silence, to eating and drinking up as quickly as we can.
At a quarter to ten our congregation of dark-clad figures bundles into the car. Yannick, silently absorbed in his duty, drives us into Miklos and down an alley towards the ancient church and cemetary, which have been built a distance away from the village.
The priest is a small, stooped man of indeterminate age, who cannot speak or understand much in the way of English. He places one of his hands on Daniel’s arm, the universal sign of comfort and compassion, needing no spoken words.
We join them in entering the church. Laria, Nikolas and two men I do not know have come as well. They are muscled and deeply tanned, and I realize they are the grave-diggers.
The service is performed in Greek and Latin, and I understand only small bits here and there. Yet I need not speak the language to understand what is being said. I have attended too many funerals in my lifetime already.
Afterwards, we file outside to the grave. The two burly men stand beside the coffin, around which they tie two thick ropes and begin lowering it slowly into its final resting place. Again the priest speaks, but when the casket has settled at the botttom and the ropes are pulled up, Daniel moves to the head of the opening in the ground. His face is pale even in the sunlight, which makes the blades of grass glow with late morning dew and the tops of our heads gleam. He clears his throat and looks out at us.