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Authors: Mary Stewart
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light into the engine, and leaned over it. I saw his face highlighted by thequeerly refracted light, a very Greek face, dark, with hair crisping down the wide cheekbones in the manner of the heroes, and a roundish head covered with close curls like a statue’s.
Then somebody in the cottage must have kindled the lamp, for a soft oblong of light slanted out of one of the windows, showing the dusty clutter outside – a woodman’s block with the axe still sunk in it and gleaming as the light caught it, a couple of old petrol cans, and a chipped enamel bowl for the hens’ food. My causeless fear vanished and I turned quickly to go.
The man by the jeep must have seen the movement of my skirt in the darkness, because he looked up. I caught a glimpse of his face before the torch went out. He was smiling. I turned and hurried away. As I went, I thought the torch-beam flicked out to touch me momentarily, but the Greek made no move to follow.
Simon was sitting in the car, smoking. He got out when he saw me and came round to open my door. He answered my look with a shake of the head.
‘No go. I’ve asked all the questions I could and it’s a dead end.’ He got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. ‘I really think we’ll have to call it a day – go back to Delphi and have dinner and leave it to sort itself out in its own good time.’
‘But will it?’
He turned the car and started back towards Delphi. ‘I think so.’
Bearing in mind what I had been thinking before about the ‘mystery’, I didn’t argue, I said simply: ‘Then we’ll leave it. As you wish.’
I saw him glance at me sideways, but he made no comment. The lights of the village were behind us, and we gathered speed up the narrow road between the olives. He dropped something into my lap, a leafy twig that smelt delicious when my fingers touched it.
‘What is it?’
‘Basil. The herb of kings.’
I brushed it to and fro across my lips. The smell was sweet and minty, pungent above the smell of dust. ‘The pot of basil? Was it under this stuff that poor Isabella buried Lorenzo’s head?’
‘That’s it.’
There was a pause. We passed a crossroads where our lights showed a sign, AMPHISSA 9. We turned right for Chrissa.
‘Did you go to look for the Pilgrim’s Way back there in Itea?’ asked Simon.
‘Yes. I got a wonderful view just before the light went. The Shining Ones were terrific.’
‘You found the ridge, then?’
I must have sounded surprised. ‘You know it? You’ve been here before?’
‘I was down here yesterday.’
‘In Itea?’
‘Yes.’ The road was climbing now. After a short silence he said, with no perceptible change of expression. ‘You know, I really don’t know any more about it than you do.’
The basil leaves were cool and still against my mouth. At length I said: ‘I’m sorry. Did I make it so obvious? But what was I to think?’
‘Probably just what you did think. The thing’s slightly crazy anyway, and I doubt if it’ll prove to matter at all.’ I saw him smile. ‘Thank you for not pretending you didn’t know what I meant.’
‘But I did. I’d been thinking about very little else myself.’
‘I know that. But nine women out of ten would have said “
What d’you mean?
” and there we’d have been, submerged in a lovely welter of personalities and explanations.’
‘There wasn’t any need of either.’
Simon said: ‘“O rare for Antony”.’
I said involuntarily: ‘What d’you mean?’
He laughed then. ‘Skip it. Will you have dinner with me tonight?’
‘Why, thank you, Mr Lester—’
‘Simon.’
‘Simon, then, but perhaps I should – I mean—’
‘That’s wonderful then. At your hotel?’
‘Look, I didn’t say—’
‘You owe it to me,’ said Simon coolly.
‘I owe it to you? I do not! How d’you work that out?’
‘As reparation for suspecting me of – whatever you did suspect me of.’ We were climbing through the twisting streets of
Then somebody in the cottage must have kindled the lamp, for a soft oblong of light slanted out of one of the windows, showing the dusty clutter outside – a woodman’s block with the axe still sunk in it and gleaming as the light caught it, a couple of old petrol cans, and a chipped enamel bowl for the hens’ food. My causeless fear vanished and I turned quickly to go.
The man by the jeep must have seen the movement of my skirt in the darkness, because he looked up. I caught a glimpse of his face before the torch went out. He was smiling. I turned and hurried away. As I went, I thought the torch-beam flicked out to touch me momentarily, but the Greek made no move to follow.
Simon was sitting in the car, smoking. He got out when he saw me and came round to open my door. He answered my look with a shake of the head.
‘No go. I’ve asked all the questions I could and it’s a dead end.’ He got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. ‘I really think we’ll have to call it a day – go back to Delphi and have dinner and leave it to sort itself out in its own good time.’
‘But will it?’
He turned the car and started back towards Delphi. ‘I think so.’
Bearing in mind what I had been thinking before about the ‘mystery’, I didn’t argue, I said simply: ‘Then we’ll leave it. As you wish.’
I saw him glance at me sideways, but he made no comment. The lights of the village were behind us, and we gathered speed up the narrow road between the olives. He dropped something into my lap, a leafy twig that smelt delicious when my fingers touched it.
‘What is it?’
‘Basil. The herb of kings.’
I brushed it to and fro across my lips. The smell was sweet and minty, pungent above the smell of dust. ‘The pot of basil? Was it under this stuff that poor Isabella buried Lorenzo’s head?’
‘That’s it.’
There was a pause. We passed a crossroads where our lights showed a sign, AMPHISSA 9. We turned right for Chrissa.
‘Did you go to look for the Pilgrim’s Way back there in Itea?’ asked Simon.
‘Yes. I got a wonderful view just before the light went. The Shining Ones were terrific.’
‘You found the ridge, then?’
I must have sounded surprised. ‘You know it? You’ve been here before?’
‘I was down here yesterday.’
‘In Itea?’
‘Yes.’ The road was climbing now. After a short silence he said, with no perceptible change of expression. ‘You know, I really don’t know any more about it than you do.’
The basil leaves were cool and still against my mouth. At length I said: ‘I’m sorry. Did I make it so obvious? But what was I to think?’
‘Probably just what you did think. The thing’s slightly crazy anyway, and I doubt if it’ll prove to matter at all.’ I saw him smile. ‘Thank you for not pretending you didn’t know what I meant.’
‘But I did. I’d been thinking about very little else myself.’
‘I know that. But nine women out of ten would have said “
What d’you mean?
” and there we’d have been, submerged in a lovely welter of personalities and explanations.’
‘There wasn’t any need of either.’
Simon said: ‘“O rare for Antony”.’
I said involuntarily: ‘What d’you mean?’
He laughed then. ‘Skip it. Will you have dinner with me tonight?’
‘Why, thank you, Mr Lester—’
‘Simon.’
‘Simon, then, but perhaps I should – I mean—’
‘That’s wonderful then. At your hotel?’
‘Look, I didn’t say—’
‘You owe it to me,’ said Simon coolly.
‘I owe it to you? I do not! How d’you work that out?’
‘As reparation for suspecting me of – whatever you did suspect me of.’ We were climbing through the twisting streets of
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