Nemesis of the Dead (11 page)

‘Mmm,’ said Jack. Being unable to tell Corrie everything was difficult for him but he knew what would happen if he did. She would interfere. She wouldn’t be able to help herself and he didn’t want her involved. It was dangerous and the likely outcome was still too unpredictable for him to call. He’d already got it badly wrong in poor little Ellie’s case. He must watch more closely, follow up the smallest suspicion. But to move too soon would scupper the whole operation. He stood up, went across to the window, and stared out for some minutes. Then he suddenly hurried back and started to pull on his trousers.

‘Now, what’s the matter?’ asked Corrie, exasperated.

‘That light’s flashing in the monastery again – I’m going up there to find out what’s going on.’

‘Not without me, you’re not,’ said Corrie, hopping about with one leg already in her knickers.

T
hey had been climbing fast and the steps, hewn from bare rock by the hands of medieval monks, were getting steeper and more irregular.

‘What did I tell you?’ Corrie’s breath rasped painfully from burning lungs. ‘Someone’s up there, signalling to the crooks that it’s safe to bring the loot across and stash it in the monastery!’

Jack, still ascending rapidly, glanced back to make sure he wasn’t leaving her behind. She took a deep breath and increased her pace. It had been hard enough on St Sophia’s pilgrimage when the steps were wet and slippery in the storm. Now it was pitch-dark except for a dim glow from Jack’s torch and, even though she couldn’t see it, she was acutely aware of the sheer drop if she lost her footing. They had been halfway up before she realized she was still wearing her slippers. Fortunately they were a Christmas present from her mother so if you ignored the pom-poms, they were fairly sturdy jobs with non-slip rubber soles. Jack stopped for a moment so she could catch her breath. He switched off his torch, plunging them into blackness. There was no moon and the night was so still, the smallest sounds carried. Somewhere in the hills, a far-off kri-kri coughed. They clung to the flimsy handrail, breathing hard.

‘Sweetheart, I wish you’d go back.’ Jack leaned close and spoke softly in her ear. ‘I’ve no idea what we’re going to find up there.’

‘I have,’ she panted. ‘We’ll find the thieves’ accomplices waiting to winch up the stolen icons and loads of other stuff. We’ll hide in the ruins till they’ve fetched it all up, then you can leap out and pounce on them and I’ll grab the—’

Jack sighed. ‘Corrie, slow down. You don’t know that it’s anything of the sort.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she wheezed, stubbornly. ‘Look there.’ She pointed out to sea where a light was flashing at regular intervals from a boat not too far away and getting ever closer. ‘The crooks are on their way over now. The sea has been too rough for a boat to risk the crossing till tonight. I bet they’re desperate to stash the loot somewhere – it must be red-hot by now.’

‘Suppose you’re right. They aren’t going to welcome us turning up and poking our noses into their scam, are they? Please go down. Things could get rough.’

‘Don’t worry, squire,’ came a hoarse whisper from below. ‘I’m tooled up.’ There was the sound of someone ring-pulling a lager.

Jack and Corrie nearly fell off the steps. They clutched each other, hearts pounding.

‘Bloody hell, Sidney! What are
you
doing up here? You nearly gave us a heart attack, you silly sod.’

‘Sorry, mate.’ Sid advanced a few steps in the darkness, his lighthouse grin instantly recognizable in the light of Jack’s waning torch. ‘I couldn’t sleep for thinking about that poor kid nearly dying tonight. I was out on my balcony when I saw you and your missus legging it towards the monastery, so I thought I’d tag along in case you needed some help. What
are
we doing up here, anyway?’

‘We’re on the track of a gang of international Greek icon smugglers,’ whispered Corrie, excited. ‘They’re up there, now. Probably a dozen of them.’

‘Blimey,’ Sid whispered back. ‘You going to arrest ’em single-handed, Jack, or do you want me to zap a few as well?’

‘Will you listen to yourselves?’ hissed Jack, exasperated. ‘You’re like Batman and Robin. Let’s just get to the top before we all break our necks, shall we?’

They carried on climbing in silence, hoarse from all the whispering. Then Jack stopped, suddenly registering what Sid had said.

‘What did you mean, you’re “tooled up”? You haven’t got a gun, have you?’

‘’Course not. I’ve brought Ariadne’s goat crook.’ He waved it about recklessly.

‘What good’s a goat crook going to be?’ Corrie wanted to know.

‘Dunno really. I suppose I thought there might be wild animals.’

‘Halfway up a Greek mountain?’

‘This is a bloody funny island, Corrie. You never know what you’ll meet. A mad rat attacked me in the olive grove. Bit right through me sock.’

‘I’m starting to understand how it felt,’ hissed Jack. ‘For God’s sake, belt up you two. We’re nearly there.’

They crept into the darkened ruins in single file – Jack in the lead, Corrie padding along in her slippers and Sid bringing up the rear with his crook, like a psychotic Bo Peep. We must look ridiculous, thought Jack. If there
were
any smugglers, maybe he could take them by surprise while they were weak from laughing.

The first thing Jack noticed was a pungent smell. It was very familiar but he still couldn’t quite place it. The second thing was the grinding noise. It was coming from the far corner of what Corrie had identified as the monastery refectory, overlooking the sea. She grabbed his sleeve and put her mouth close to his ear to whisper.

‘That’ll be the winch. They must be pulling up something really heavy. Statues maybe.’

The noise was harsh, metal grating on metal, drowning any footfall as they sneaked silently down the nave of the abbey church, one behind the other, then along the east wing until they reached a crumbling archway at one end of the cloisters. It was a good place to hide, crouched down behind the remains of an ornate column. Jack put a finger to his lips and they strained their ears to listen. The grating noise was jerkier now, indicating that a heavy load was nearing the top. Christ Almighty, he thought, irreverently. What if Corrie was right? He hadn’t seriously considered it for a single moment. Written it off as one of her barmier brainwaves. Despite what he’d said, he had a pretty clear idea of what he expected they would find in the monastery and it had nothing at all to do with smugglers and stolen icons. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He turned and motioned firmly to Corrie and Sid to stay exactly where they were, out of sight behind the column. They were on no account to follow him. They nodded that they understood; Sid confirmed it with a thumbs up. Jack began to edge his way slowly and silently towards the disintegrating portico that was once the elegant entrance to the refectory. Sid and Corrie gave him a couple of yards’ lead, exchanged glances and followed him. Jack inched round the last bit of decaying wall and peered into the gloom, dimly lit by the lamp that had been used for signalling which now hung from a rusty iron curlicue on the crumbling wall. A shadowy figure, dressed in a long black cloak with a hood covering his head, was hunched over the winch, cranking the handle.

Had someone conducted a survey of who were actually in their beds that Saturday night in the Hotel Stasinopoulos, they would have discovered that all the men had gone missing. Shortly after Jack, and then Sidney, had crept out of the hotel to investigate the mystery in the monastery, Tim Watkins, still fully dressed, had left his room, unable to rest without his precious Ellie. They had moved her to the other twin bed in Sky’s room two floors above, so Sky could watch for any changes in her condition. Sky said that while Ellie had not deteriorated further, she was still in urgent need of proper hospital treatment. Tim sat cross-legged on the floor outside Sky’s door, desperate with worry. It was five whole days since the storm and the telephone system was still far from being restored, needing vital parts from the mainland. And although the sea was now calmer, there were no boats on Katastrophos in a sufficiently seaworthy condition to risk a crossing. Tim lowered his head on to his arms. There was still a whole week – seven more endless, nerve-racking days before the ferry would come.

Ambrose Dobson slipped his Paisley silk dressing-gown over his striped pyjamas and quietly eased open the bedroom door. He glanced at Marjorie, lying on her back with her mouth open, snoring gently. He had begun to think the woman would never shut up and go to sleep, going on and on about the silly Watkins girl and what a miracle it was that she had not died. As far as he was concerned, the miracle was that the rest of them had not been poisoned along with her. One thing he was sure about, he would be very careful indeed what he ate from now on, especially with his dicky heart. God alone knew what filth that old foreign witch was putting in their food.

He had heard the quick, light footsteps of Cuthbert Gordon going downstairs some time ago. A light sleeper, he had heard the professor do this on a number of nights and on those occasions he had been gone some time. Tonight, Ambrose planned to take advantage of his absence but he’d had to wait until after Marjorie dozed off before he could creep down to confirm the old fool would be occupied for a while. He moved slowly towards the light that shone in the shambolic kitchen. The professor was chopping something on one of Ariadne’s slabs – he couldn’t see what. Obviously he was taking precautions by preparing his own food, thought Dobson. The man must be making himself a sandwich. The professor strolled across and stirred something simmering in one of Ariadne’s black pots on the still-hot embers of the stove. From the smell, Ambrose reckoned the idiot was making soup or something similar. In any event, he reckoned it would keep him busy for a while longer. Long enough, anyway.

He nipped smartly back up the stairs towards the room the professor shared with Diana. His heart beat a little faster – not from exertion but from excitement about what he planned to do next. He smiled to himself. His heart wasn’t quite as weak as he led Marjorie to believe. As long as he took his medication and avoided anything that might interfere with it, he kept pretty fit. But it suited his purpose to have her running about after him, fussing over him, making sure he didn’t overdo it.

His heart had coped well enough a couple of weeks ago on his regular trip to London. He had given that young tart a good going over, no problem. She’d pretended she didn’t want to do what he’d paid her for. Women were all the same – they only resisted because they enjoyed being roughed up. He’d shown her he was still a strong, virile man – loosened a couple of her teeth in the process. Well, she could hardly complain, could she? Not in her line of business.

Now he was going to give that brash American bitch a seeing-to she wouldn’t forget. Any nonsense and he’d threaten to tell her rich husband she was shagging the plumber. That should change her attitude a bit. Wouldn’t want to risk losing all that lovely money, would she? He knew what she was up to. He’d seen her going off in the rowing boat to sunbathe – nude most likely. Then Foskett had sneaked off after her in the other boat. The thought made his mouth go dry and he began to perspire. The stuck-up little Yankee scrubber wouldn’t call him names and knee him in the groin this time. He would make her pay for that. Oh yes, he knew how to make her pay all right. He was outside her door now, reaching for the handle, breathing heavily with anticipation. He wondered if she slept naked. He hoped so. He gripped the doorknob with clammy fingers and gave it half a turn. Then he heard the professor’s footsteps coming back up the stairs. Damn Marjorie! Why hadn’t she gone to sleep sooner? Never mind. It would keep. He slunk quickly back to his own room and climbed into bed, this time making no effort to be quiet. Marjorie sat up.

‘What’s the matter, Ambrose? Are you ill?’

He thumped his pillow in frustration. ‘Go to sleep, woman!’

When Maria roused from a half-sleep and reached out a hand to touch Yanni, it met a cold, empty depression in the mattress instead of his lanky, comforting warmth. She woke properly then and swung her legs out of bed. If her husband was where she thought he was and doing what she suspected, he would be hungry and thirsty when he returned. She put on her dressing-gown and tied the frayed cord around her still too-slender waist. She doubted now if it would ever swell and throb with new life. The pilgrimage had been a disaster. St Sophia had not blessed but cursed her, putting terrible pain in her belly instead of a baby. And now the young English girl who also longed for a child and had gone with them to the monastery had been cursed also. What could it mean? What had they done to offend their saint? She believed that it was due only to the generous offerings of amulets and charms that her mother had bestowed on St Sophia that the saint had allowed Ellie and herself to survive. Downstairs in the kitchen she tidied away the customary debris left behind by Professor Gordon, who often came down to use the kitchen during the night. Then she opened a bottle of wine and put out goat’s cheese, bread and pickled onions for Yanni when he came home. She hoped he had trodden carefully that night and done nothing further to offend St Sophia.

The hooded figure cranking the winch had its back to them, and because of the grinding noise did not hear them approach. Jack tiptoed forward in a half-crouch, ready to spring at him from behind, unaware that the other two had ignored his instructions and were close on his heels. As Corrie rounded the last bit of crumbling wall, she spotted the sinister figure and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp of surprise. Sidney, bringing up the rear, was the last to see him and, unversed in the art of subterfuge, reacted totally spontaneously.

‘Blimey, it’s a monk!’

The figure whipped round, letting go the handle which spun madly backwards. The rope was unwinding fast with sparks flying from the screaming reel of the ancient winch. Whatever was suspended from the end crashed back down on to the rocks below. Gulls rose shrieking from their roosts and flew into each other, panicking. Like a cornered animal, the hooded figure summed up his situation in seconds and looked frantically for a means of escape. Finally, he made a desperate dash for the crumbling portico and the steps beyond.

Having lost the element of surprise, Jack leapt forward, blocking his path but although he was only feet away, the figure jinked nimbly round him. The chase was on and the monk did three laps of the shadowy refectory, dodging and side-stepping like a ballet-dancer, while Jack made rugby-type lunges at him and Corrie hopped about shrieking and getting in the way. Sidney watched them for a bit, then as the monk came sprinting past with what looked like a clear run to the exit, Sid shouted, ‘Oh no you don’t, sunshine!’ and hooked him neatly round the ankle with Ariadne’s goat crook. The monk pitched headlong on to his face.