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Saturday’s wary circling eased into Sunday’s respite. After a nearly silent breakfast, everyone scattered. Kat informed them that her little family and Miss Grey were to have a picnic. They would take the touring car. Gawen closeted himself in his study to finish the third article. Lamb headed out with his camera and tripod. The other students took the smaller truck to explore nearby villages. Cecilia demanded that Madoc crank the smaller truck for her. When her husband warned her not to venture far alone, she glared at him then slammed the door as she left.
Arkwright’s only comment was, “I didn’t think she would carry a grudge that long.”
Madoc said he needed to go into the village.
Isabella watched him leave, wondering why he hadn’t spoken to her. On Saturday he’d been busy at the dig. At breakfast he’d been preoccupied. After Friday’s idyll, she felt bereft.
“Left all alone?” Arkwright said.
She glanced at him. This morning he bore no resemblance at all to a demi-god. Heavy drinking had formed pouches under his bloodshot eyes. She stood abruptly. “I’m going up the ridge, if anyone asks.”
“Madoc, you mean?”
She ignored the insinuation. “To work on a landscape. I have some free time before Gawen gives me the next article.”
“Do you really expect Cessy’s Tod Carstairs to come through?”
Refusing to respond, Isabella escaped. When she came through with her painting gear, Madoc’s easel dragging down one arm, Arkwright had stretched out on the couch. He guarded the drink propped on his stomach with one hand while the other was thrown over his eyes.
Lamb’s tracks led the way over the ridge and up the mountain. Isabella soon veered from the path to the shady spot she had found with Kouri’s help.
She roughed out an underdrawing of the cove then began the color washes for the sky, the sea, then the cliffs. The paint dried quickly, and soon she worked on the slant of shadow on the cliff, the variations of the rock face, the tumbled rocks in the background.
“Painting paradise?”
She nearly dropped her brush. “Oh, Madoc! You startled me.”
He dropped onto the grass and opened his haversack. “Dorcas sends lunch. Ready for a bite?”
“More than ready. Let me wash out these brushes.” While he unpacked the simple fare, she packed up her paints.
“No more work?”
“Not until it dries.” Sinking into the shade, she sipped the wine. “This is wonderful. I thought you had gone to your cove.”
He shook his head but didn’t explain. Looking down, he swirled the wine in the enameled cup then downed it as if it were beer. So Isabella spoke of her watercolor and his lovely gift of the easel and Dorcas’ grandson and possible subjects for Gawen’s next article. Eventually he responded, which made her loath to complain when he turned the conversation to her past.
“You’ve certainly taken this job as an answer to prayer. An escape from the toil of the governess. How does an American become a governess to the British uppercrust?”
“Dr. Ivers’ master plan.” She held her cup for more wine. “When my father died in ’15, he hired me to prep his son in Latin and Greek. He called it a stepping stone to a better position. He believed I should governess for a few high-sounding British families then use their references to gain a position at an exclusive girls’ school. He said I would have excellent credentials, much better than my grammar school experience in America.”
“How does that span the ocean from America to England?”
“Dr. Ivers’ wife is English, the bluest of blood. Her father was Viscount Audley. She and Lady Baskille are old friends. When Lady Baskille came to visit a couple of years ago, she hired me for her daughter. After Lady Baskille, I was hired by Mr. Harcourt-Smythe.”
“And you had your entrée into the creamed realm for your excellent credentials. But, Isabella, the Harcourt-Smythes are hardly blue blood.”
“He has more than she, and they sound exclusive.”
“Still, the good doctor’s master plan fell apart. You mentioned a fiancé when we drove back from Ayios Nikólaos the other night. Where does he fit in? If I remember aright, he had a fine, upstanding name.”
“Wilfred Sassenan. A lawyer, before he was drafted. He dreamed of great speeches.” It was her turn to swirl the wine in her blue-speckled cup. “He fell at Chateau-Thierry.”
After a pause, Madoc asked quietly, “How long did you weep for him?”
Isabella took a deep breath and gave him honesty. “Not as long as I should have. I wept more for the dream I lost than for him, God forgive me.”
“How long had you known each other?”
“We met in ’12 when he came to Stokebridge, the city where my father was a dean of studies.”
“Time enough to know if you loved each other. Time enough for him to act—if he loved you—before you left for England.”
Slowly she admitted, “He was very intense when I saw him in London that last spring.”
“War jitters. He proposed only when he reached the front lines and saw true war, didn’t he? I saw it scores of times, Isabella, hundreds of times. God help the poor girls who thought love motivated those desperate letters.”
“Fear of death,” she whispered. “I knew and still said yes. If he escaped, I escaped.”
“I wouldn’t have counted on it.” Madoc tossed back his wine. He didn’t refill his cup. “I wouldn’t have counted on it at all, sweetheart.”
“It wasn’t real, you mean? Merely an escape. A dream to look forward to.”
“A bright hope of the future while devastation surrounded him. Many didn’t survive,” he said bleakly. “Those of us who did. . . . Well, once we were demobbed, we found ourselves back in a life we no longer fit. Or wounded, like Gawen, left with a body that doesn’t work the same. And me, stuck with a self I didn’t know and still don’t, a self that betrays me when I least expect it.”
His strong features looked as if they had never known doubt. He admitted now to more than one. She remembered how he’d said he could no longer endure an office. In his unbuttoned shirt and army drills, a sheen of sweat on his tanned skin, he looked a man ready to confront the world. Isabella couldn’t picture him in a staid suit. Not sure how he would react, she said slowly, “I did hear that soldiers had trouble resuming their old lives. Lady Baskille had spoken of creating a society to help with the problem, but I had moved on to the Harcourt-Smythes by the war’s end.”
He snorted. “Good works will help with my problem? It would take more than that. I’m luckier than most, and even I—. Well, peace is too quiet. I can tell you that much. We need sound and smell, color and texture and taste; otherwise, the memories haunt us. I had a constant edge at first. Time helps. I’m not as touchy as I was, jumping at every sound.”
“Jumping at every sound is no way to live.”
“It kept me alive, sweetheart,” and he flashed that heart-racing grin.
“But unable to return to a stuffy office job.”
The grin died. The gleam in his eyes dimmed. Madoc reached into his pocket. He drew out a folded envelope and removed the letter. “From my grandfather. Another tirade that I’m wasting my life, throwing away the opportunity that would make my future.” His short laugh wasn’t humorous. “I survived that opportunity, but he doesn’t see it.”
“Did you try to explain to your grandfather why you can’t stick to a desk job?”
“I’ve more than tried. I told him about the trenches, about the bombings, the battles. I didn’t tell him about the deaths. God, not that for anyone. But the forced inactivity that killed you more than the fighting. Endless hours of waiting and waiting to go over the top. Waiting because you can do nothing else. He didn’t understand. He bloody didn’t care. He said I could become rich.” He crumpled the letter. “Rich! When I can’t even—.” He stopped. Those brilliant blue eyes flashed her way, and she thought he changed what he had started to say. “He says I can’t even stick to a job till it’s finished. He’s right there. I’ve drifted since I was demobbed. Farm worker, lorry driver, mechanic.”
“You’re sticking to this.”
“Out of loyalty to Gawen. And you’re an added spice.” His eyes sparkled.
She laughed. “More wine, kind sir.” She searched desperately for a new topic, for Madoc had trod close to his inner demons loosed by war. She didn’t think he wanted to pursue that path. When she had sipped the wine, she shook her head. “I can’t be the only spice. You have the challenge of this job in a beautiful country.”
“And harmony with my fellows?” He laughed. “I have to admit this mix of trouble keeps my mind off the past. I never know what to expect.”
“I can expect to hear pacing tonight,” she said without thinking.
“What’s that?”
She explained about Gawen’s nightly pacing since Tuesday before last.
Madoc frowned and flung a rock out of the shady grass. “Cecilia’s trying his fortitude more than he lets on. She’s trouble, and he won’t admit it.”
“He’s trying desperately to fight it, Madoc. Gawen has gone out of his way with Prof. Arkwright while he’s avoided her as much as possible.”
“The damage’s already done. We all heard everything. Surprised me, Cess did. She’s a woman well aware of the need for privacy. But the past few days, especially this morning . . . definitely not private. The dig’s attracting scandals. An affaire and a murder. It will be notorious, not famous. That’s not the reputation Gawen needs.”
“Especially if the murder remains unsolved.”
“And if stolen artifacts are poured into the cauldron—double and double the trouble.”
“Madoc, everyone seems to have forgotten that poor man’s murder. He is buried, and that’s the end of it.”
“I haven’t forgotten. This morning I visited his brother to hear if there’s more news. The priest said there had been talk that Spirios was having trouble with a local girl, but a woman isn’t strong enough to bludgeon him like that. Father or brother, maybe. If it is a revenge killing. I don’t think that’s it, though.”
“You still think his murder is connected to the theft of artifacts? That he spied someone and followed them? And they spotted him and killed him? But who? It must be someone connected with the dig, someone with access to the house, since that is where you store anything of value. No one can walk in. Dorcas is in the kitchen, but she has a clear view along the passage to the storeroom. Dorcas wouldn’t steal. Besides, she would have to open every box to determine what was valuable. You can’t tell me she has time for that.”
“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you? What did you decide?”
“The same as you. The murderer is one of us.”
“Any best bets? Nigel or Monty?”
“Did you mention Prof. Arkwright first because he’s causing your brother so much trouble? I don’t think it is him. His anger is not an act to cover theft. He’s drinking heavily.”
“Or is that what he wants us to think? After his binge on Thursday night, after that scene with Cecilia, he was remarkably clear-headed Friday morning, wasn’t he? I agree, his anger is jealousy, but he could be using that as a deeper cover.”
“A double game? Do you think he’s devious enough?”
“I think Nigel Arkwright is shrewder than we know. I know Cecilia is. She’s distracting Gawen, keeping him befuddled. Nigel’s anger casts her in the pathetic role. Look at today. One sharp remark from him, and she disappears, and no one questions her. The clinics win our admiration, but at them she can meet a lot of strangers with no questions raised.”
Isabella sighed. “And you said that I had been thinking about this. Have you considered Prof. Standings? Have you thought it might be Lamb or Petrie or Castlereagh?”
“I’ll pick Petrie. I haven’t liked his smart mouth from the first. Which makes me believe he’s innocent. Only someone innocent would offend everyone around him. The real criminal would charm everyone, or at least look innocent and unassuming.”
“You’re describing Matthews. Or Lamb.”
“Matthews is too young. Lamb, though, he’s hard to fathom. He has access to every artifact. He could have misboxed that bracelet after photographing it. He’s usually alone when he photographs. He’s never riled. He never says a sharp word, not even to Petrie. He’s fiercely protective of his equipment.”
“In other words, a prime suspect.”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it? Which makes me take a second, harder look at the others. Not one of them had an alibi for Spirios’ murder.”
“Accomplices?”
Madoc shrugged and leaned back on the grass. “Until something else happens, I don’t know. Not enough evidence. And now I sound like the inspector.”
He refused to say more. He wanted to drowse the afternoon away.
Isabella finished her wine then lay beside him.
When they woke, a goat herd grazed around them. A billy stared at her watercolor. Thunder rumbled above the mountain. They gathered up her gear and ran laughing down the slope. The rain spattered them with big droplets as they reached the house. As Isabella stored her paints, the skies opened. She set the watercolor on the easel in the corner of the room and stood back to admire her work.
The storm continued as she bathed. Usually she left the window open, but the wind gusts were so cold that she shut it.
Dorcas never cooked on Sunday evenings. With the storm and cold, Isabella wanted soup for supper, so she ventured into the kitchen. She fixed a quick bread to stretch the meal and boiled some eggs. The thunder gradually rolled away, but rain still pounded the tiled roof when the soup was ready. She was taking bread from the oven when Madoc spoke behind her. “What are you doing?”
She straightened and slid the pan onto the warming shelf. “Cooking supper. Soup, bread, fruit. Will you join me?”
“Do you have enough for Gawen?”
“I can stretch it that far. Is anyone else around?”
“Just the three of us. No one else is back.” He walked to the stove. Taking the crumpled envelope from his pocket, he smoothed its wrinkles then opened the firedoor and tossed it in. Isabella didn’t ask what he burned. She had seen that letter on the hill. She was surprised that Madoc had kept it as long as he had.
As they sat down at the kitchen table, Cecilia returned, drenched and shivering. They offered to wait while she changed, but she refused. “I want a hot bath. Just keep some soup warm, please.” She left, pulling the dripping scarf from her head.
They stared at each other. Isabella started to get up, and Madoc covered her hand, holding it in place. “She looks so unhappy,” she protested.
“She’ll let you know when she’s ready to talk,” Gawen said, voice quiet, his gaze shifting away. “Madoc, do you want to go over the accounts after supper?”
He agreed. After that, their talk was subdued. Madoc helped her start the clean-up before she shooed him off. Isabella was sitting at the table, sipping her tea and staring into space, when Cecilia returned. Her damp hair lay in soft waves. Her skin seemed very pale against the vivid pinks and reds of her wrapper.
Cecilia poured a cup and drank the tea thirstily. “Ah, that nearly tastes like home. For an American, you make a wonderful pot of English tea.” Gathering her silk robe close, she slid into the chair that Gawen had vacated a half-hour before.
“Lady Baskille taught me. I’ve developed an addiction to it.” She brought forth a steaming broth with vegetables, an egg, and a slice of buttered bread.
Cecilia sighed happily. “You’re like my old nanny, comforting me with food. I shall gain weight around you.”
Isabella sipped her tea. “Do you want to talk about today?”
“No. I drove and walked, that’s all. I tried not to see anyone.” She bit into the bread. “This is wonderful. I haven’t eaten since morning. What did you do today?”
“I spent most of it on the mountain. I started a watercolor. Madoc and I talked this afternoon before it rained.”
“You two are quite a couple, aren’t you?”
Isabella didn’t like the question’s snide edge. She set her cup down. “We talked about Timon Spirios.”
“Who? Oh yes, the worker that died.”
“He was murdered, Cecilia.”
“Well, I didn’t do it.” Her hard expression changed when she saw Isabella’s flinch. “I’m sorry. That sounded callous. But, really, I can do nothing for the poor man. Except hope that inspector finds the culprit.”
Isabella didn’t have a response, and she didn’t try to fill the silence after that remark.
Cecilia found a new direction. “A horrid little dig we’re having. Constant arguments. Rumors of theft. A murder. This dig will be on everyone’s tongues by the New Year.”
“That won’t be good for anyone’s reputation.”
“Especially my husband, who seems bent on ruining himself. Have you seen Nigel?”
“I think he went to the taverna.”
“He’ll be roaring drunk again. I suppose you heard our little tiff Thursday night? I know you heard this morning’s.”
Isabella swallowed. She didn’t want to talk about the scene this morning or the other night. She glanced at the open kitchen door. “Everything echoes.”
But Cecilia ignored her warning. “I’ll have to lock him out again tonight. I don’t know what else to do. He never used to drink this much. The rigors of the dig.”
Isabella refused to dispute the point. If Cecilia had willfully blinded herself to her role in her husband’s dissolution, then so be it.
As they cleaned up, Lamb returned. He refused supper, although he accepted a cup of tea. He had eaten at the taverna and confirmed that Arkwright and Castlereagh and Petrie were there.
“Just as I predicted,” Cecilia interposed.
“Where are the professor and his brother?” When they told him, Lamb nodded then headed for his darkroom. “I’ll develop the film I took this morning. Goodnight, ladies.” He left. Through the open scullery door they heard the darkroom door shut firmly.
“Do you ever have the impression that we don’t exist as women for him?” Cecilia asked. “Has he ever once given you the eye? No man can be the golden-haired angel that he looks. Or perhaps, in a choice between a brunette and a blonde, he has found his red-head.” She fluffed her hair. While they had talked and cleaned up, it had dried. “Off to bed, Isabella. I will lock my door and say my prayers, and you must do the same. You’re looking more than usually fragile, and neither brother Tarrant is nearby to keep a protective eye on you.”
Isabella didn’t argue with that sensible advice, although she wanted to quibble about her fragility. The drumming rain had resumed, though, and she wanted nothing more than to curl into her bed. They parted wordlessly. Cecilia looked as if she had no worries about a husband who would return drunk and a man she wanted but couldn’t have. Mindful of the previous nights, Isabella locked her bedroom door and hoped the day held no more surprises.
