Nemesis of the Dead (6 page)

Ariadne, still heavily garbed in black, was sweating over a brace of bubbling cauldrons. She looked like one of the witches in Macbeth only smaller and with more warts. Maria said her
mitéra
– mama – had been up since dawn, preparing the food. It clearly took a great deal of time and effort, thought Corrie, to make decent ingredients taste disgusting. Apparently, the only English words Ariadne knew were Winston and Churchill which made conversation rather limited. Any communication had therefore to be in mime.

‘
Ya soo
, Ariadne. What are we having for dinner tonight?’ Corrie mimed eating with a knife and fork.

Ariadne pointed her meat cleaver at the olive grove outside the kitchen door where a goat bell jangled. The goat, unaware of its
table d’hôte
status, was chewing contentedly on some left-over lumps of meat from the previous night’s stew. Probably the remains of his old nanny, shuddered Corrie, blanching slightly. She left Ariadne to her stifling kitchen and escaped gratefully outside into the fresh air. As she passed the tree stump that served as a chopping block, she noticed the bodies of several dead rats around its roots. At least someone had seen fit to exercise some rodent control at last. Either that or the rats had eaten some of Ariadne’s
mezédes
, she thought wryly. It was too much to expect Katastrophos to have a public health inspector but she fervently hoped Ariadne would at least remove the corpses before she dealt with the goat.

On the terrace, she found Jack and Sidney drinking beer and teasing Maria who was already wound up to a state of barely suppressed religious fervour. She and Yanni had longed for a child from the day they married, parenthood seemingly being the acknowledged pinnacle of happiness and success to which most Katastrophans aspired. Yanni and Maria had been trying for years and to be blunt, they were not getting any younger. Each year, the Feast of St Sophia and her promise of fruitfulness rekindled their hopes.

‘You will come, too,
kiría
Dawes?’ Maria begged Corrie. ‘The more women who undertake the pilgrimage, the happier it will make St Sophia. Perhaps then, she will bless me.’

Corrie hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t know …’

Back home in south London, if anyone had suggested to Corrie that it was possible to induce pregnancy by climbing up to an old ruin, swallowing a bit of lampwick, and climbing down again, she would have advised them to seek help. But now, on this strange island, ominous with myth and superstition she no longer felt wholly positive about anything.

‘Go on, Corrie,’ urged Jack, grinning. ‘It’s only a “girls’ night out”. What harm can it do?’

What indeed.

Maria must have applied similar emotional blackmail to the other guests, because at dusk Corrie and Jack were surprised to see Diana, Ellie and even Sky lining up with various other childless women from around the island to make the pilgrimage up to the monastery. Marjorie Dobson had come to provide moral support and to enjoy the unaccustomed luxury of an evening without Ambrose, who had dismissed the whole thing as pagan balderdash. Besides, it looked like rain and he had no intention of getting his hairpiece wet. He remained alone in his room, reading. Reading and brooding.

Like most self-opinionated, overbearing men, Ambrose Dobson was also very vain. He therefore remained incandescent with rage at Diana’s humiliating and ill-considered rejection of his advances. He was in no doubt that before that ridiculous Gordon fellow picked her up, she had been a hooker in some seedy Brooklyn bar or stripping in a club similar to the ones he frequented in Soho when the mood took him. He’d met her sort before. Far from attacking him, she should have considered herself highly flattered that he, Ambrose Dobson, Freemason and respected senior Rotarian, had even looked at her. Slappers like her needed putting in their place, teaching a lesson they would not forget.

The Feast of St Sophia was something of a party night as well as a saintly pilgrimage and small crowds of islanders had assembled outside the Hotel Stasinopoulos. While the childless women prepared themselves spiritually for the climb, the men did the same, knocking back large quantities of the excellent local wine, singing rowdily and, when they remembered, tossing the occasional small libation to St Sophia.

At the propitious hour the throng began to wind in a long crocodile from the hotel to the short causeway of stepping-stones that linked Katastrophos to the tiny islet where the ruined monastery towered high above the rocks. The sea surrounding the causeway was vividly phosphorescent. Streams of metallic green sparks swirled past, mesmerizing and dazzling.

It was, according to the professor, a phenomenon that occurs in Greek waters during the summer months and is at its brightest when a thunderstorm is imminent. ‘The cause of this display,’ he said, ‘is
Noctiluca miliaris
, a minute, unicellular animal only just visible to the naked eye.’

No one doubted his scientific explanation, but the effect of the phosphorescence was strangely transcendental and added to the trancelike piety of the pilgrimage.

Once they reached the foot of the steps the men began to shout encouragement.

‘You going up, Marjie?’ called Sid. ‘I notice Old Misery Guts isn’t here to cheer you on.’

Marjorie Dobson laughed. ‘Me? Oh no dear. I think it’s a bit late for me, don’t you? And anyway, I believe only childless women are allowed to take part in the actual climb.’

‘I didn’t realize you and Ambrose had children,’ said Corrie. In her experience, most women mentioned their children within ten seconds of meeting you.

Marjorie’s eyes misted over. ‘Oh yes. Daniel, our son, a fine, clever boy. Well, he’s a man now, of course. He’s a systems analyst in London. Very successful. He has a beautiful apartment overlooking the Thames.’

‘Do you see much of him?’

Marjorie’s happy smile faded for the first time that evening.

‘No, I’m afraid not. He and Ambrose don’t get on.’

Corrie wasn’t in the least surprised. She couldn’t imagine an intelligent, free-thinking systems analyst seeing eye to eye with an old-fashioned bigot like Ambrose, even if he was his son.

‘That’s a pity, but surely that doesn’t stop
you
from seeing him?’

She looked guilty. ‘I visit Dan and his partner secretly sometimes, when Ambrose is at one of his Lodge meetings. He’d be very angry if he knew.’

‘Is she nice, your son’s girlfriend?’

‘That’s the root of the problem, actually. It isn’t a girlfriend, it’s a boyfriend. And yes, he’s very nice.’

That explained it. Corrie wished she hadn’t probed. Sometimes, she thought crossly, I’m like a dog with a flipping bone. Wind your neck in, Coriander, and mind your own business.

Surprisingly, since no plants were instrumental in St Sophia’s miracle, Professor Gordon was wildly overexcited and rushed about, eyes popping, handing out the lamps and wishing the women luck in vociferous Greek.

Scrambling up and down hundreds of filthy steps encrusted with seabird droppings – probably in the rain – did not strike Corrie as an occasion requiring designer chic. Diana, however, looked stunning in a white silk shirt, very brief shorts and a tangerine, cashmere pashmina tied loosely around her shoulders. Only her customary four-inch heels were missing, replaced by a pair of Jimmy Choo flats. Corrie had opted for one of Jack’s old polo shirts, a pair of Tesco trainers and maroon leggings that made her bum look like a massive plum. She determined not to stand anywhere near Diana.

‘You don’t really think we’ll all get pregnant, do you?’ simpered Ellie, giggling. Tim was kissing her goodbye at some length, as if she were about to climb Everest.

‘No way, honey!’ Diana laughed. She nodded at her husband, full of wine and bluster. ‘In my case, it would take a miracle bigger than anything St Sophia could rustle up.’

‘Missing you already,’ trilled Ellie to Tim.

‘Missing you too,’ he replied, kissing her again.

Sky, as usual, stood apart looking distant and troubled. Corrie called to her. It didn’t hurt to try and be friendly.

‘I see Maria twisted your arm, as well.’

‘Not at all,’ she replied in her cold, formal English. ‘I should very much like to have my partner’s baby in nine months, but unlike the others …’ she indicated the excited women, ‘I know that cannot happen.’

Corrie was desperate to ask why but her new resolve not to pry and the forbidding look on Sky’s face stopped her.

Jack came across to whisper in her ear. If she was expecting sweet nothings, she was disappointed.

‘Have a good look round while you’re up there, love. I reckon there’s something fishy going on in that monastery.’

Corrie sighed. Once a detective, always a detective, even on honeymoon.

It was a deceptively long slog and some of the plumper women found it hard-going in the airless, stormy heat. Diana, of course, was depressingly fit, and virtually sprinted up. She even found the breath to chat to Maria as they climbed, asking her what she would call the baby if that was the happy outcome of the pilgrimage.

When at last they reached the top the remains of the monastery proved unremarkable. The outside view gave the illusion that the building was still more or less intact, with its ornate arches and carvings, but inside it was much less substantial. Despite that, Corrie reckoned the ruins were probably more interesting than the original monastery had ever been. But the view was stupendous. Far below, the Ionian Sea was inky-purple and murmuring ominously as thunder rumbled around the island.

Chattering nervously, the women prepared to make their invocation to St Sophia. Corrie was amused at their strangely ambivalent attitude towards their patron saint. It seemed to be a compound of the personal and sceptical but with no hint of irreverence. Also, they were not averse to scolding her if things went wrong, or they felt she was not pulling her weight. Far from beseeching, these women sought to coax her into the right frame of mind to grant their desire for fruitfulness. At no time did Corrie sense any disbelief in St Sophia’s powers but unlike conventional prayers, the superstition was that to utter extravagant praise aloud would be to risk igniting the devil.

The invocation over, everybody silently nibbled a piece of their wick in the hope of consuming the blessing of the saint, then the lamps were lit and they started back down. It was easier than the journey up, but this time, the younger women went on ahead except for Sky, who stayed close behind Corrie.

They were halfway down when the storm hit. Lightning forked across the blackened sky and the parched rocks steamed and hissed as torrential rain drenched them. The women were soaked to the skin in seconds and trying desperately to protect the flames in their flickering lamps. Corrie watched, fascinated, as the squall picked up fishing boats moored in the harbour and hurled them on to the beach like empty walnut shells. With thunder crashing all around, it was easy to imagine Poseidon rising from the waves, brandishing his trident. Katastrophos seemed to raise itself from the ocean floor with spray exploding all over it.

The steps became treacherous and the slippery handrail – where there was one – hard to grip. When she heard the scream, Corrie thought someone had fallen. But it came again – agonized and drawn out, like an animal caught in a trap. She squinted down through the driving rain. There was some kind of scuffle going on below. She could see a woman in something orange – oh my God, Diana! – thrashing about, dangerously, while another figure tried to restrain her. The women behind Corrie started to panic and surge forward. She felt a sudden hard shove between her shoulder blades and almost lost her footing on the greasy steps but she flung her lamp into the void and managed to hang on with wet, shaking hands. She scrambled on down and reached the two struggling women just as the scream came again.

The woman in the sodden, tangerine pashmina, clinging like a fly from the splintering handrail, was not Diana.

It was Maria.

C
orrie reached out and grabbed Maria around the waist, just as Diana grasped her legs. Between them, they managed to get her arms around their shoulders, still with Diana’s soggy pashmina clinging to her. The driving rain continued to lash them, leaving no breath to speak as they slithered and slid the rest of the way down the treacherous steps. Other women put out hands, trying to help support Maria from above and below, as best they could. She had stopped screaming and struggling, but only, Corrie realized, because she was now almost unconscious.

The men, who had been watching helplessly from below, rushed forward to take Maria from them as soon as they reached safety. Yanni picked her up in his arms and carried her to the temporary shelter of a rocky outcrop, crooning to her and begging her to speak to him. Tim ran forward and scooped a weeping Ellie into his arms.

‘Corrie, what the hell happened up there?’ Jack took off his jacket and wrapped it around her trembling shoulders. Marjorie, visibly shaken by what she had witnessed, offered her cardigan.

Corrie took a long, shuddering breath. ‘I don’t know. Is Maria OK? Where’s Diana?’

Drenched to the skin, Diana was sitting on the ground, gasping and dazed. The professor, who had been buzzing about like a mad bluebottle throughout the preliminaries, was now nowhere to be seen. Sidney, minus his usual lighthouse grin, produced a flask of fiery Metaxa from his pocket and held it to her lips. Then, in the absence of anything more chic, he took off his Arsenal scarf and wrapped it around her, several times.

A low chanting of ‘St Sophia’ began among the crowd as centuries of superstition took hold and people began making up their own explanations for the near tragedy. Jack took charge.

‘Come on. Everybody back to the hotel out of this rain. We can find out what happened then.’

The storm continued to rant and rage as they made their way back, Poseidon having perversely chosen this occasion to summon all his Tritons from the deep to stir up the waves. Yanni politely refused any help to carry Maria. She was semi-conscious and moaning pitifully. When they reached the hotel, he set her down on a lounger in the shelter of the vine-covered pergola and put his arms around her, trying to comfort her.

Old Ariadne, who had been laying the table for the feast, took one look at her prostrate daughter, undoubtedly cursed rather than blessed by St Sophia, and pulled her apron up over her head. She sat in the corner and rocked backwards and forwards wailing ‘
Ayoo! Ayoo
!’. This response from their trusted visionary and hot line to St Sophia did nothing to inspire confidence in the already disturbed crowd.

‘Can you tell me exactly what happened, Diana?’ Jack sat down beside her at the table. ‘It’s important.’

‘I don’t know. It all happened so fast.’ She rubbed her dripping hair with the end of Sid’s scarf. ‘I was coming down the steps behind Maria. She was feeling great because her lamp was still burning, in spite of the rain. She said that this time she was sure St Sophia would bless her and she’d get pregnant. Then suddenly she felt dizzy and said she was sick. I figured she was just cold, so I took off my pashmina and wrapped it round her shoulders.’

‘Then what?’ Jack asked.

‘Then she dropped her lamp, clutched at her stomach and started screaming. She was jerking all over so I guessed she was having some kind of seizure.’ Diana trembled slightly, remembering. ‘She started acting crazy, like she was going to jump, so I grabbed her and hung on like hell. Then you came, Corrie, and together we carried her down.’

‘That’s right,’ confirmed Corrie. ‘She seemed to be in a lot of pain. Then she virtually passed out and—’

‘Diana! Oh, my darling Diana!’

It was Professor Gordon roaring in anguish as he raced from inside the hotel to where the crowd had gathered under the vines.

‘What’s happened? Where is she? Diana!’

He shoved his way through the stunned villagers and fell blindly to his knees beside the body on the sunbed, partly obscured by an anxious Yanni but still wrapped in Diana’s distinctive pashmina.

‘I’m over here, Cuthbert.’ Diana called from the table. ‘I’m fine. Don’t make such a fuss.’

He looked up in surprise, hearing his wife’s calm Manhattan drawl, then turned around and breathed a deep sigh.

‘Oh my dear, thank goodness you’re safe. I thought …’ It seemed he couldn’t finish.

Jack looked hard at the professor for a moment, then went across to Maria and knelt beside her, listening to her laboured breathing. His basic police training in first aid was certainly not adequate for this. He spoke to Yanni.

‘I don’t like the look of her, Yanni. I think we should contact the mainland immediately – get them to send an emergency launch or something. She needs a doctor at the very least, probably even hospital.’

Yanni looked up, his face contorted. ‘Not possible.
To tiléfono
– no wires!’

Poseidon, it seemed, had scored a direct hit with his trident on the primitive island telecommunications, never robust at the best of times. The electric storm had completely burnt out the wiring and it would be some days before it could be restored. Because this happened quite often, many Katastrophans still used old German field telephones, acquired during the last war.

‘What about Charon? Where is he?’

Yanni shrugged eloquently. ‘Charon not come here for several days.’ He pointed at the thrashing sea. ‘His ferry not safe in this storm.’

‘Isn’t there
anyone
on this bloody island with some medical experience?’ asked Jack, running desperate fingers through his hair.

‘May I see?’

The clipped English with a soft Greek lisp was unmistakable. Sky, her spiky hair now plastered to her head, had rivulets of black eye make-up running down her face. She crouched beside Maria, lifting her eyelids and looking at her lips and inside her mouth.

‘Her pulse is very erratic,’ she said at last. ‘And her vision is disturbed. I believe it is some kind of poison but I cannot tell what.’

Corrie felt Jack stiffen.

Sky looked up at them ‘We must empty her stomach. I need salt to make her sick.’

Nobody moved.

‘Now! Quickly!’

Spurred into action, Corrie grabbed an empty glass and began to fill it with water from a carafe on the table. She looked around for help. Ellie was crying quietly in Tim’s arms. It was useless asking Ariadne, who was still under her apron, wailing.

‘Quick! Marjorie!’ she shouted. ‘Get some salt from the kitchen. Hurry!’

Marjorie, startled out of her shock, shot off at an impressive turn of speed and was back with the salt in seconds. Sky mixed up a strong saline solution, while Jack eased Maria to a sitting position. Yanni stood aside helplessly, while they forced Maria to drink. For several tense seconds, it seemed it wouldn’t work. Then Maria began to heave. In a gesture of supreme sacrifice, Sidney closed his eyes and held out his sombrero.

Some minutes later, Sky felt Maria’s pulse again. Then she said something in rapid Greek to Yanni. He lifted Maria tenderly in his arms and carried her inside and up to their room with Sky following close behind.

The villagers gradually drifted back to their homes in shocked silence. Never had there been such a violent disturbance on the Feast of St Sophia. Their saint was affronted by something – or someone – and appeasement must surely follow.

At Hotel Stasinopoulos, the bedraggled group sat around the big olive-wood table, not knowing what else to do and reluctant to go to bed knowing they would not sleep. Wet and confused, they listened to the rain hammering down on the vine leaves. Nobody spoke. Soon, Yanni reappeared looking strained but a little happier. He carried armfuls of towels and a huge jug of
avgolémono
– a kind of egg and lemon broth with rice.

‘Sky say she think Maria will be OK,’ he said with obvious relief. ‘When storm is over, maybe Charon come and I can get doctor.’ Yanni smiled weakly and hurried back to Maria’s side. He didn’t care if she never got pregnant as long as she was alive and well.

‘Well, it’s not all bad,’ observed Sidney, brightening. ‘At least we don’t have to eat the goat now.’

He poured some hot broth into the bowls on the table and handed them round with chunks of crusty bread.

‘Bloomin’ funny thing to happen, though, wasn’t it? I mean … I thought my old mum was a bad cook but she never actually poisoned any of us.’ Sid looked accusingly at poor old Ariadne in the corner, who had wailed herself to sleep and was snoring loudly under her apron.

‘Oh, I say …’ ventured Tim, ‘you surely don’t think it was something in the food?’

Sid shrugged. ‘What else could it be? They eat some very funny grub here, don’t they? It’s all snails’ legs and rubbery bits.’

‘And what about all the dead rats and the scavenging cats that you see around the kitchen?’ said Marjorie. ‘Mr Dobson says the island’s a health hazard.’

Sid grimaced. ‘Don’t tell Old Misery Guts about it, Marjie, for gawd’s sake. We’ll never hear the last of it.’

Jack looked at Corrie. ‘You know all about food hygiene,’ he said, too far down the table for a kick. ‘Is it likely Maria has got food poisoning?’

‘Very likely,’ said Corrie. ‘The standard of cleanliness in the kitchen’s a nightmare.’

‘But surely even small hotels have to comply with some sort of regulations?’

Corrie nodded. ‘Well, the EC Food Hygiene Regulations are supposed to apply to everybody except people just cooking for their family. But I don’t suppose Ariadne has even heard of them, much less complied with them. This is Katastrophos, remember. The Brigadoon of the Greek islands. Few people know it even exists and I can’t see anyone traipsing out to the middle of the Ionian Sea to carry out an inspection. And we don’t actually see what Maria eats, do we?’

‘How do you know all that stuff about food regulations, Corrie?’ asked Sid curious. ‘I thought you said you worked in a shoe shop.’

‘Oh – er – I learn a lot of things from the Internet.’ A smarter woman, thought Corrie, would beat a hasty retreat now that both cooks – Maria and Ariadne – were out of action.

‘The food sure is bad this time,’ said Diana. ‘Worse than usual. I wonder we haven’t all been poisoned. What do you say, Cuthbert?’

The professor had been deep in thought for a long time. The question was clearly exercising his scientific mind, since silence was a rare condition for him. He pronounced judgement.

‘From Maria’s symptoms, I think it was almost certainly a contaminated egg – probably salmonella at its most virulent. Those hens of Ariadne’s scratch around and pick up all kinds of filth. Bad luck for Maria of course, but no reason to panic.’

Tim held Ellie closer. ‘All the same, I think I’d better taste the soup first, Ellikins,’ he said.

On their way to bed, Jack and Corrie passed the Dobsons’ room. When Marjorie went anywhere without Ambrose, even for a few hours, she faced the third degree when she returned. Shock and fatigue meant her guard was down or she would never have made the mistake of telling him about Maria’s food poisoning. The sound of his discontented badgering carried right down the landing and promised to be protracted.

‘Blasted scandal! God knows what we’ve eaten since we’ve been here. Filthy Continental muck. It’s a miracle nobody’s died. Well, that settles it, I’ll certainly sue. You can’t trust foreigners to do anything properly. It’s your own fault, Marjorie. I take no responsibility for this at all. We should have gone to Bournemouth. It would serve you right if my heart packed up right now and you had to spend the rest of your life managing on your own. See how you’d like that!’

Lying side by side in their concrete cots, Jack remained silent, deep in thought, while Corrie prattled, unable to wind down.

‘Poor Maria. What a ghastly thing to happen and all because of a bad egg. Thank goodness she’s going to be all right. She really would have jumped off those steps if we hadn’t grabbed her, you know. I understand the basic facts about salmonella, obviously, but I never realized it could affect you like that. It was almost as if she were having a terrifying hallucination.’

‘Diana was impressive,’ said Jack.

‘Yes she was,’ conceded Corrie, grudgingly. ‘Who knows, there may be a very deep, compassionate person under that shallow, mercenary exterior – but I wouldn’t put money on it.’ She sighed. ‘And did you see how distraught the poor old professor was when he thought it was Diana who was hurt. He obviously adores her. Sad really because he must know she only married him for his money.’

‘Mmm. You don’t think he overdid the concern a bit?’

‘Certainly not! Some men can’t help showing their feelings. They don’t all have an upper lip with scaffolding round it like you.’

Corrie glanced sideways at Jack. She recognized that vacant look – he wasn’t listening. His detective’s mind was a beehive of buzzing thoughts that flew too quickly for him to catch them. She gossiped a tad louder to regain his attention.

‘What about Sky, though? Who’d have thought she’d take control like that? For all we know, she might well have saved Maria’s life. I guess she must have done a first aid course or something. It just goes to show you shouldn’t judge people by appearances.’

‘Mmm,’ said Jack again. ‘Corrie, what did you see when you were up in the ruined monastery?’

She looked suspicious. ‘Why? You’re not up to something, are you?’

‘’Course not. I’m on honeymoon. I was just curious about those lights we saw.’

‘There wasn’t much to see, really. It’s just a load of crumbling walls. The abbey church still has some of the roof on it – they keep St Sophia’s precious relics in a kind of vestry down the sheltered end. There’s a fancy chair, Byzantine allegedly. The women kept insisting St Sophia, herself, sat on it.’

‘How do you know she didn’t?’

‘Well, it’s on castors with an adjustable back rest for a start. I don’t recall anyone mentioning she was a typist before she became a saint. Oh yes, there was a medieval winch contraption on the east wall overlooking the sea – probably where the old refectory used to be. I imagine the monks used to winch up their food from boats to save running up and down all those steps.’