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The murder oppressed everyone at dinner. The complete silence during the soup course was the most awkward of Isabella’s experience, far more than any previous arguments. When Dorcas brought chicken for the entrée, her stomach churned. She desperately needed to talk to Madoc, but she would not say anything in front of everyone. She was glad that she had gone to him Tuesday night. They had resolved nothing, but he knew her conflicted heart, even if he did not understand it.
Harcourt-Smythe started the dialogue, far from a conversation. Only he had drunk the soup with any appreciation, and he cut into the chicken with the same relish. Several bites into his entrée, he set aside his flatware, sipped his wine, then leaned back, looking replete. “I can tell from your silence that the inspector rattled every one of you. I thought you would have understood the game he’s playing. He doesn’t care who is hurt as long as he finds a culprit.”
Gawen scowled. “Richard Lamb is dead. We owe him a proper grief.”
“Which you can display at the funeral. And he’s more than dead. He was murdered,” he said with cold ruthlessness. “If I were you, I would be worried. That inspector could fasten upon any of you as his chief suspect. A deliberate murder. Lamb’s death was premeditated.”
“Premeditation?” Kat stopped cutting her chicken. “What do you mean?”
“He was ambushed. That takes planning.”
“What do you mean ambushed?” Petrie asked.
“Struck from behind then strangled. Lured from his darkroom.”
“The inspector implied that a woman had lured him out,” Matthews said, a question in his words.
“She didn’t kill him. She couldn’t.” Gawen pointed out the flaw. “Strangling someone takes strength. The blow only felled him. Then the murderer wrapped something around his neck and pulled it tight.”
Kat made a sound in her throat and pushed her plate away.
Castlereagh leaned back. “Spirios was bludgeoned to death. A different mode of killing. Similar enough. I suppose the killer wouldn’t have the stomach to beat Lamb’s head in. You’re right, Professor. No one has enough strength.”
“Certainly not our ladies,” Harcourt-Smythe agreed. “They are not fragile fairy creatures, but they are also not Amazons. The inspector is looking for two people. Perhaps a man and a woman.”
“You would know,” Madoc slipped in when he paused for breath. “It takes a shrewd mind to conceive a diabolical plan.”
He stopped to consider then shook his head. “I am not diabolical, you know, merely clever. This murderer took pains to leave no clues. A diabolical man would plant clues to implicate others. Our inspector has no immediate evidence to implicate anyone.”
“Is that what you would have done?” Cecilia sneered. “Blame someone else?”
“If I were your murderer, Mrs. Arkwright, only a portion of your worries would be over.” He sipped his wine. “Let us ask Miss Newcombe what she knows of my personality. As my former employee, she knows me better than any of you. Would you say I have a diabolical mind, Miss Newcombe?”
She hesitated, not liking the battery of eyes that turned her way. “You are certainly shrewd, Mr. Harcourt-Smythe. You enjoy having people at your beck and call. As to diabolical—well, I have never seen you commit a crime.”
He smiled. Her lack of ringing certainty did not abash him at all. “I thank you for your honesty. You are always the dependable governess. I am sure the inspector relies greatly upon your witness, especially as you were the only one here yesterday afternoon, when the murder was committed.”
Madoc’s fist hit the table, rattling glasses and dishes. “What do you mean by that? She had nothing to do with Lamb’s death. Are you throwing blame on her to keep it off yourself?”
“I only point out that Miss Newcombe does seem to be nearby both murders, Lamb’s and that worker’s, what was his name?” Although his voice seemed calm, his narrowed eyes and compressed mouth betrayed his offense. “I am a stranger to you all. What grudge would I have against Mr. Lamb or against that worker?”
“You have no reason to angle an accusation at Isabella. She and I were together when Timon Spirios was killed.”
“Alibied each other, did you? And yesterday, you all have alibis. Prof. Tarrant and Mrs. Arkwright. Prof. Arkwright and Petrie. Prof. Standings and his wife alibi Castlereagh and Matthews. Everyone has an alibi except Miss Newcombe. And you, Mr. Tarrant. I haven’t heard your alibi. Curious, isn’t it, that both of you have no alibi. Both of you, again.”
The two men glared at each other. Harcourt-Smythe’s usually smooth face had darkened. For all his gentility, he was angry. Usually he relished his opponents’ antagonism. What had angered him? His failed plans to buy stolen artifacts?
“I have an alibi for yesterday,” Madoc gritted. “The best alibi possible. I was with the village elder and Spirios’ brother. And then I was with Inspector Stavros for the rest of the afternoon. We were discussing the theft of artifacts. I haven’t heard any alibi from you.”
“Mine is the better.” The smile never left his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes. A predator’s smile, Isabella thought, toothy and wide. He picked up his fork and knife and returned to his chicken. “Your inspector has assigned to me a personal guard who has trailed me since I left my family at Kastélli, on the western end of the island, last Saturday. His man can vouch that I arrived only a little before dinner yesterday. As for the worker’s murder, I was dining with the mayor of Mallia and the archaeologists there on that night.”
“Why were you watched since last Saturday?” Arkwright asked, his first contribution at dinner. From his blurred face and red eyes, Isabella was surprised he managed to follow the talk. Cecilia had poured out the liquor in the house. Where had he found more? “If you have an alibi for the worker’s death—.”
“The inspector makes it clear that I am suspected of receiving stolen property. Even though the property is not yet stolen, as I understand the theory.”
Isabella nodded. That explained his barely masked wrath. He had wasted time preparing for a deal that now he did not dare risk following through with.
“Stolen property? Stolen from where?”
Harcourt-Smythe laughed, a society laugh without mirth and without a true gleam to lighten his anger. “Playing the innocent is not wise, Arkwright. Or did the inspector neglect to exhibit that gold disk he found among Lamb’s things?”
“How much would a coin like that be worth?” Madoc asked, smooth as butter.
He wasn’t rattled; Isabella had never seen him rattled. “I wouldn’t hazard a guess. The buyer determines the price.”
“I didn’t expect Lamb to take an artifact,” Gawen said. “I thought he would be the last one to do so. He is—he was a pure scientist. I cannot believe that he was involved in any theft of artifacts.”
“Does that make him the prime suspect in the worker’s death?” Petrie leaned forward avidly. “If Spirios saw him take the coin, if he was blackmailing him, Lamb would have killed him.”
“Greed makes fools of us all,” Cecilia murmured.
“Greedy and lustful,” Harcourt-Smythe reminded, breaking his bread to butter it. “Or have you forgotten those very scientific photos?”
“Is there anyone the inspector did not show those photos to?” Arkwright asked bitterly. “I say the murderer is that woman’s husband. And I think he had a right to kill the philanderer destroying his marriage.”
“Nigel!” Cecilia’s shock rang through the room.
“My money is on the husband,” Petrie chimed in. “I agree with the professor. That husband is illiterate, bound to have no finer sensibilities. Imagine his rage when he saw those photos.”
“How would he have seen them?” Gawen asked quietly. “Lamb had hidden them.”
“All it would take is knowing his wife went off with Lamb every Sunday. I would be suspicious. Maybe he followed them.”
“But he waited until Wednesday to kill him? No.” Madoc sounded incredulous.
“His first opportunity,” Petrie said. “Lamb didn’t go to the dig this week. I was here Monday and Tuesday. So were Isabella and Dorcas. Maybe he thought Isabella had gone down to the dig. He probably knew Dorcas had left, as the inspector said. He stole in and killed him."
Harcourt-Smythe lifted his glass to Petrie. “If you want to pin the murder on someone, then you have found a credible reason.”
Petrie glared. The venom in his brown eyes shocked Isabella. “Why are you so eager to fasten this murder on us?”
“More interesting, my boy.”
Dorcas came to remove the meat course. Isabella had scarcely touched her plate. She wanted to excuse herself, but her position behind the table between Madoc and Castlereagh trapped her. She suddenly didn’t care. She touched Madoc’s arm. “Please, may I pass?”
He stood willingly. His “Are you all right?” was echoed by Cecilia.
“I’ve had enough.” She tried not to meet anyone’s gaze, but hers clashed with Harcourt-Smythe. “Madoc, would you ask Dorcas to bring my coffee to the terrace?”
“No, I’ll bring it for both of us. I’m no longer hungry.”
Gawen started to rise, but Madoc pressed him back down.
Although Isabella escaped to the terrace, she could still hear their conversation. Cecilia had taken command, asking determined questions about Harcourt-Smythe’s family and home in England.
The terrace closed around her. She whirled about and flew to the blue doors. Dragging one open, she rushed away from the house, to the remains of the wall that separated the property from the village.
Madoc soon found her. He handed her a steaming cup. “Gawen said you bolted.”
“I have had too much of this house. And once I thought it beautiful.”
He flipped the blue ribbon that held her plait. “I hope you have had too much of Harcourt-Smythe.”
A laugh spurted. “That, too.” She sipped the coffee. Watching Harcourt-Smythe’s devilish behavior helped her realize that Madoc and his brother were far above him. They were both far from being ‘twisted one way, twisted another.’ Lamb’s death proved it. Both had unshakeable alibis. She couldn’t bring herself to say that so baldly, so she came at it on a tangent. “Do you think the murderer is one of us? I cannot believe Prof. Standings could murder anyone. And Matthews is—.”
“Too young? Youth doesn’t make innocence. Some of the bloodiest killers I’ve seen were scarce more than children.”
“Surely not our Matthews. That leaves Nigel or Petrie or Castlereagh. Which one could it be?”
“You don’t mention Gawen and me.”
“Madoc, that’s not fair.”
“Allow me a little cut at you, Isabella. I know you were pulled in two directions, but it hurt that you didn’t trust me. My one consolation is that you trusted me before Lamb was killed.”
“I wanted to trust you, so much. But truly, I scarcely know you, Madoc. Barely twenty days’ acquaintance. We are told not to trust our hearts, but my mind is in such a spin. I only regret I doubted you.”
“Doubted me while Lamb looked like an innocent and took smutty photographs and had a gold disk in his luggage.” He leaned an elbow on the crumbling wall and stared into the darkness below the village. “Was he our thief? Or did the thief plant that disk? And is our thief our murderer? Or does one steal while the other kills?”
“Two of them?” She stared into the darkness and wished he would put an arm around her to fend off a world suddenly colder. “Do you think Mr. Lamb was murdered for the same reason as Mr. Spirios?”
“Yes. Both men were killed to hide thefts from the dig. We may never know what Spirios saw. Lamb was killed and his photos ruined to destroy the official record of the dig. And my choice is still Arkwright.”
“With Cecilia as his accomplice?”
“Maybe she once was, but not yesterday. Of that I’m sure.” He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. “I have a feeling that Harcourt-Smythe’s malice is sharpened by more than the murder. Want to tell me?”
Isabella leaned into his warm hand. “The inspector asked about my being discharged. He asked both of us. He—he insinuated that you and I—. Harcourt-Smythe heard.”
“Stavros is too quick.” He took her cup and set it on the rock wall. Then he tilted her head back. “And you blushed, which confirmed it.”
Shyly, she touched his black hair, the ends curling over the opened collar of his shirt. “He asked if I had modeled for Lamb. He asked if Cecilia had.”
“Cecilia, um? That’s a twist I hadn’t considered. That would have to be the early weeks of the dig, before she dug her claws into Gawen.”
“I can’t see her modeling, not like that.”
“I can. But I don’t want to talk about her or your former employer.” He kissed her.
Isabella turned to him gladly, her heart singing after the black fear that she had destroyed this hope. Then Madoc lifted his head. She heard footsteps on rocky ground. Coming closer, uneven, hobbling, one foot scuffling the ground.
Madoc shifted her behind him. The figure shuffled into the light cast by the door lamp. Phileas. Madoc spoke in rapid Greek. The old man, clearly out of breath, huffed out a long answer. Another quick question and answer, then Phileas headed into the house.
“What did he say?”
A frown creased Madoc’s brow. “The inspector questioned the woman’s husband. The man attacked him. The officers had to haul him off.”
“Is the inspector hurt?”
“I don’t know. The man’s in the local gaol. The inspector is at the village elder’s. He’s not planning to leave yet.”
“Is that proof? Did that man kill Lamb?”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it? Convenient for our thief.”
* * *
THE OTHERS GREETED the news with mixed reactions. Arkwright and Petrie crowed with laughter, earning appalled looks from the Standings. Cecilia sat quiet. Gawen frowned then raised a questioning eyebrow. Madoc shrugged in reply, and Gawen nodded. They both then looked at Harcourt-Smythe, who had had no reaction at all. The discovery of the murder hadn’t changed his primary problem—how to steal artifacts while everyone watched. Isabella smiled to herself as she sank onto the settee beside Cecilia.
Arkwright rubbed his hands together. “We must celebrate. Any whiskey, Tarrant?”
“All out,” Madoc said dryly. “I have to bring it back from Heraklion.”
“Harcourt-Smythe? Do you carry any?”
“I confess I do not. I haven’t had a good drink since Italy. You were well stocked a few weeks ago. What happened?”
“My wife went to war on the bottles. That paltry wine at dinner—.” His distaste screwed up his face. “Does anyone want to go to the taverna?”
“No whiskey there,” Petrie said. “We might as well stay here.”
“No whiskey, but the ouzo’s got a kick. No takers? I’m beginning to think you’re all turning dry as dirt.” He stalked out and slammed the outer door.
Harcourt-Smythe flicked open his cigarette case. “Should Arkwright go alone?”
“My husband ruins his own life. He does not need my help, and he does not appreciate my warnings.”
“He is none too steady. He may have called that wine paltry, but he drank an entire bottle. It’s a long way to the taverna.”
“He can find it blind-folded,” Petrie sneered.
Gawen stood and nodded to Madoc. Together they moved to the cleared table and sat there and drank coffee as they discussed in their brother-shorthand a drive to Heraklion on Monday.
Harcourt-Smythe shook out a match. “Has Lamb’s death overset Arkwright that much?”
No one answered. Cecilia leaned forward to place her cup on the coffee table. Then she sat back, a lithesome movement that betrayed no emotion. “For several nights Nigel has drunk to excess.”
“A recent aberration?”
“I would hope so, then I wonder if this dig—remote as it is, fraught with the tensions of murder and theft—I wonder if this dig has merely revealed his true nature.” She spoke as coolly as if she discussed the weather instead of her husband’s dissolution. “His drinking is only the most recent addition. From the first day of this dig—no, from the moment we left St. George’s, he has spied problems when there were none.”
“Perhaps he spied the wrong problems. He showed some perspicacity, did he not, since two murders have now occurred? Did any of you see the correct problems? Did any of you expect Richard Lamb to steal artifacts or to take erotic photographs?”
“I didn’t, and I roomed with the man,” Petrie said.
“We know so little of each other,” Cecilia explained. “We have treated each other with trust. I would not call that a mistake.”
Her words struck Isabella, a shaft of light that pierced her heart. Madoc had trusted her from the start. His trust had earned hers. Then her fears had nearly destroyed their budding relationship.
“Did you expect your husband’s drinking?” Harcourt-Smythe jabbed.
“Indeed, I didn’t. I thought him steadier than that. I thought our roles in this marriage were long settled.” Cecilia smiled, a false mask she did not attempt to improve. Watching her, Isabella could only admire talent that would have soared on the stage. “Soon we will return to green England. Our lives here will have changed our lives there.”
“You return, but you can’t go back?”
“I’m not going back,” Petrie declared, missing Harcourt-Smythe’s philosophical distinction. Isabella ducked her head and smiled. “I’ll be looking for an opening with a museum somewhere in the Near East. That will be better than England’s cold winter.”
“You’ve not finished your degree,” Cecilia warned, more animated than when discussing her husband. “You must do that, Petrie. If you leave the university, you could destroy your career and everything you’ve worked for.”
And Isabella thought of Madoc, his university degree suspended by the war. He had lost those opportunities, but he looked for others. “Perhaps this dig has given Mr. Petrie a different direction, Cecilia.”
Her support earned his glare, which surprised her. “Not at all,” he snapped. “I want a break before I continue my studies at St. George’s. That will give all the gossip about this dig a chance to subside.”
“This dig will be notorious, with its two murders.” Castlereagh put in his first contribution since they’d learned the inspector had been attacked.
“Until the next scandal replaces it,” Cecilia rebutted. She fluffed her dark cap of hair. “Until then, our smallest act is fodder for gossip. Anything we do may be blown far out of proportion.”
“Do you plan any small acts, Mrs. Arkwright?”
Cecilia smiled. “My changes are indeed small compared to Isabella’s. She will become an independent artist! Have you seen her work, Mr. Harcourt-Smythe? She is quite extraordinary at capturing the dig on the page.”
“Miss Newcombe kept that talent well hidden while in my employ.”
With Harcourt-Smythe at his blandest, Isabella sensed a double entendre.
“Bring your sketchbook, Isabella. Go on. It will be an education for our guest.”
She didn’t return immediately but stood in her room, looking at the spartan furnishings as if they held some answer. She couldn’t divine what was wrong. Cecilia acted the smooth hostess while Harcourt-Smythe had carefully spoke no word and made no gesture out of place. Yet tension chilled the sitting room. Arkwright was gone, and Petrie wasn’t gibing—why?
Cecilia looked up when she came down the stair. “I have been quizzing Mr. Harcourt-Smythe. I believe we can say that he is a connoisseur of art.”
“Please, Mrs. Arkwright, do not limit my tastes. I have a fine appreciation of any beautiful creature, including you ladies.”
“Flattery is the way to my heart, sir.” She took the sketchbook, opened it at random, and handed it across the coffee table. “Are these not proof of her talent?”
Before commenting, he studied several pages. Petrie leaned over to see. After a close perusal of the temple at Delphi, he judged, “More than talented. Inspired.” He turned to the first page and began working through her sketches. “A record of your journey with us, Miss Newcombe?”
“Wondrous sites, sir, that I shall likely never see again.”
“You poured your heart onto the page. I do not see how you accomplished these with my daughters pestering you. This,” he smoothed his hand over Rome’s Coliseum, “I can feel the heat, the burning sun, the age in the air. So this is how you spent your free afternoon.”
She had no answer for that. She didn’t want to ask how his imagination had painted her afternoon. On her return to the hotel, flushed and sparkling with pleasure at capturing the Coliseum, she had bumped into him on the stairs. That night after dinner was the first time he had foisted his advances on her. She burned now, realizing what he must have thought.
He continued through her drawings, finally reaching the ones for the dig. As Cecilia described her illustrations for Gawen’s articles, Harcourt-Smythe reached the sketches she had devoted to the Tarrant brothers. His gaze lifted to her. Her face heated again at his wry assessment. She cringed in anticipation of his caustic wit, but he turned the page without comment.
And he stopped at her last drawings of Lamb photographing the artifacts.
“Oh!” Cecilia cried. Her running commentary died.
Petrie’s “dammit” surprised her.
“When did you do these, Isabella?”
“Tuesday morning, Cecilia. He was shooting the last artifacts for shipment. I thought his work would illustrate one of Gawen’s points about modern archaeology.”
“He looks so serious there,” she said. “You caught him with his pipe. I like that. I will always remember him that way.”
Harcourt-Smythe tilted the page for a closer look. “He certainly looks nothing like a man who would be a threat, does he?”
“Now that he’s dead, will you do that illustration?” Petrie asked.
She didn’t mention the finished work in her room. “Prof. Tarrant must decide.”
“It’s an excellent memorial for Lamb,” Cecilia declared. “Gawen, come look at this.”
Apparently he and Madoc had listened for several minutes, for he came with alacrity and knew his answer when Cecilia broached Isabella’s idea for illustration. He held the sketchbook to the light then passed it to Madoc. “I think that’s the way Lamb would want to be remembered, doing his work. Not as a victim but as a scientist whose life was cut short.”
“Surely you would use something better than these sketches for your article.”
“No, Petrie.” Cecilia shook her head at him. “A drawing is better. It adds a flavor that mere photographs cannot. Isabella has done an excellent job bringing the dig to life. That drawing of Gawen and Madoc completely captured the idealism and romanticism of archaeology, the hope and the dream that every scientist brings to the work.”
As she rattled on, describing the potter’s portrait, Isabella wondered when she had seen the illustrations. Gawen would have to have shown them to her late at night.
Harcourt-Smythe leaned over. “Can you making a living at this work?”
She met his level gaze. “I intend to try.” She felt someone behind her and knew Madoc backed her.
“Then so you must.” He crossed one leg over the other and swung it. He smiled wryly. “We have had our difficulties, but I may be able to direct work your way. If you will permit me.”
In strange ways the world changes, Isabella thought. In no way did she want to be indebted to her former employer, yet she wanted to be a successful artist. Did that require her acceptance of devil’s coin to achieve her dream? That decision she couldn’t make hurriedly. Later, in London, when she was more objective about this man, then she would decide. She strove to match Cecilia’s best noncommittal tone. “It would depend upon the work, Mr. Harcourt-Smythe.”
“She did a watercolor portrait of Sir Clive Baskille’s daughter,” Cecilia announced. “Wouldn’t that be a marvelous surprise for your daughters? To have their former governess paint them?”
“More of a marvelous surprise for my wife,” he said dryly. “You have a devious mind, Mrs. Arkwright.”
“I think I shall become Isabella’s agent. Yes, Mr. Harcourt-Smythe, you must commission a portrait. Two portraits! One of your daughters and one of your wife. What could she possibly see wrong in that? Isabella has a fine eye and a deft hand. I know you will be more than pleased with her work.”
Petrie gibed, “Why don’t you commission one of yourself, Cess?”
“Indeed, I shall. Would you do it, Isabella?”
“If you wore a brilliant red gown and carried a cigarette holder. Standing. Our English ‘Madame X’.” Isabella had flipped out her reply, but the description sharpened her artist’s eye on Cecilia. She looked as svelte as ever, yet tension stiffened her. Hollows shadowed the lines of her face. In her pencil-thin dress and her hair straight and smooth, she looked reed-fragile. The change had started long before Lamb’s death.
“Then I shall be all the rage, and Isabella will be overwhelmed with work. We shall do it!” Cecilia’s impish smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze kept shifting to Gawen, who had returned to the dinner table to study a piece of paper. “We should all do it. Don’t you think, Gawen?”
He pocketed the folded paper. He looked up, and those green eyes looked right through the women. “I beg your pardon. Do what?”
“Have Isabella paint our portraits.”
“I have been memorialized more than I like,” Madoc said. “You forget. She did Gawen and me. We’ll be in a national magazine.”
“That was not a proper portrait.”
“And that’s not for me,” Gawen said. “I have work to do. I’m going to my study. Coming, Madoc?”
Cecilia sprang up. She caught him at the door. “Gawen, I must talk to you. Please.”
“Madoc and I must plan the next shipment since tomorrow’s schedule is disrupted. In the morning, Cess.”
Isabella watched Harcourt-Smythe watch Cecilia. Then his gaze shifted to her. One eyebrow lifted.
She leaned back, letting the cushions surround her. “So, Mr. Harcourt-Smythe, how long do you plan to stay?”
