The Reach of the Past E-Book

Vanessa Gordon

• Herausgeber: Dolman Scott Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Archaeologist Martin Day has always hated the illegal trade in Greek antiquities, and now he has a chance to make a difference. By working for Chief Inspector Andreas Nomikos on a case of suspected trafficking, he will not only be well paid to give lectures at the beautiful Villa Myrsini; he will also be distracted from the problems in his personal life. He allows himself to become involved with a privileged set of people, one of whom is financing the new Naxos Festival of Cycladic Wine, and any one of whom might be concealing a lucrative sideline in illegal antiquities. When people begin to die, Day’s comfortable existence takes a distinct turn for the worse.

As the light grew dim again with the onset of the second night, Day admitted to himself that he was afraid.

Leseprobe

Vanessa Gordon lives in Surrey and studied English and Irish literature before having a career in the music industry. She has travelled all over Greece, and enjoys learning about the country, its language and its history.

The Naxos Mysteries are set on the largest island in the Cyclades. Inhabited since the time of the Neanderthals, Naxos was an important site during the archaic Cycladic period, thrived in the Classical era, and was in the control of the Venetians for over three hundred years.

Today it is an island of contrasts. The main town is crowned by a Venetian kastro and surrounded by an interesting old town. Inland you can find uninhabited hills, the highest mountain in the Cyclades, attractive villages, quiet beaches and archaeological sites. There are historic towers and welcoming tavernas, collectable art and ceramics, and Naxos has produced some of the finest marble in Greece since ancient times.

This is where Martin Day has chosen to live, and for good reason.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Naxos Mysteries

The Meaning of Friday

The Search for Artemis

Black Acorns

The Disappearance of Ophelia Blue

The Reach of the Past

The Reachof the Past

A Naxos mystery with Martin Day

Vanessa Gordon

Published by Pomeg Books 2023

Copyright © Vanessa Gordon 2023

Cover photograph and map © Alan Gordon

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

PoD - ISBN: 978-1-7393053-0-7eBook - ISBN: 978-1-7393053-1-4

Pomeg Books is an imprint ofDolman Scott Ltdwww.dolmanscott.com

To James and Alastair

I am very grateful to my invaluable readers, Kay Elliott, Alan Gordon and Maroula Kondyli; to publisher Richard Chalmers and his team at Dolman Scott; and to proofreader Phil Clinker. I would like also to thank Professor Panayiotis Liaropoulos (Berklee College of Music and The Fulbright Foundation), for sharing his enthusiasm for and knowledge of the music of the Cycladic Islands; Marios Bazeos (Bazeos Tower, Naxos); Jean Polyzoides (Paros); Suzanne Hay (Naxos); and Lena Yacoumopoulou (Paros).

I am specially indebted to the friend who told me her own story, which was the basis for that of Paraskevi in The Reach of the Past. I am so happy that the outcome for her turned out so much better than it did for my characters.

Thank you, finally, to Robert Pitt, through whose friendship I have been able to explore the historic sites and collections of Greece in intelligent company, and who has kindled my love for the country, its islands and its antiquities.

Selected Further Reading

McGilchrist’s Greek Islands Nigel McGilchrist

The Wines of Greece Konstantinos Lazarakis

Loot, Legitimacy and Ownership Colin Renfrew

Athenian Black Figure Vases John Boardman

More suggestions on www.thenaxosmysteries.co.uk

A Note about Greek words

MEN’S NAMES

When the man is spoken to directly, or as a close friend, the ending of his name can change, often dropping the final s.

Andreas/Andrea.

Irregular cases include Alexandros/Alexandre.

PLACE NAMES

Chora and Halki begin with the same sound as in the Scottish ‘loch’ (x in Greek).

Agios/agia means saint. Agios Georgios St George; Agia Triada Holy Trinity

GREETINGS & EXPRESSIONS

Kyrie (plural Kyrioi) and Kyria are forms of address like Monsieur and Madame

Kyrios is the word for Mr when not addressing him directly

Mou means ‘my’ and is often used after a name as a term of affection, as in

Agapi mou - my dear, my love

Kalimera - Hello, Good morning (Kalimera sas - formal or plural)

Kalispera - Good evening (Kalispera sas - formal or plural)

Yeia sou - Hello (Yeia sas - formal or plural; Yeia - Hi)

Ti kaneis - How are you? (Ti kanete - formal or plural)

Pos paei - How are things? (poss-PIE)

Etsi ki etsi - So-so

Kala - Fine, well

Kala, eseis? - Fine, and you?

Tha peite kafe? - You want a coffee? (lit. You drink coffee?)

Efharisto - Thank you

Hairo poli - Pleased to meet you

Kalos irthate - Welcome

Kali orexi - Bon appétit

Stin ygeia mas/Yeia mas - good health, cheers

Elate! - Enter!

Parakalo - Please. Also used as a way to answer the phone.

Physica - Of course, naturally

Panagia mou! - an explanation of shock, Holy Mary!

Lipon - Now, well, let’s see

Adio - Goodbye

Polla - a lot (of things)

GENERAL

estiatorio - restaurant

zacharoplasteio - confectionery shop

kafeneio - traditional cafe

plateia - town square

paralia - beach, seafront

limani - port

kastro - castle

bourgos - area beneath the castle

fournos - bakery

tavernaki - little taverna (-aki is diminutive)

komboloi - popular string of beads

filoxenia - hospitality

meltemi - prevailing wind in the Cyclades

katharevousa - more formal modern Greek language

alkyoni - kingfisher

helithoni - swallow

myrsini - myrtle (plant)

sigma - Greek letter s

rho - Greek letter r

omicron - Greek letter o

archygos - commander, leader

anakritis - investigating judge

kefi - good mood, high spirits

FOOD & DRINK

kafes - coffee

Kitron - a liqueur made from kitron fruit on Naxos

tsipouro - distilled spirit (ts-EE-puro), not to be confused with

tsipoura - sea bream (tsi-PUR-a)

misokilo - half kilo: wine is measured by weight in Greece

kokkino - red

koulouraki(a) - Greek biscuit(s) (from kouloura, a coil)

horiatiki (salata) - the traditional Greek salad

kritharaki - small pasta like Italian orzo

dakos - rusk used in a salad

fava - yellow split-pea dip

meze/mezedes - small savoury plate(s) of food

hortopites - vegetable pies

barbounia - red mullet

boureki - in this case, a baked vegetable dish with potatoes, aubergines and cheese

kritamo - sea fennel, rock samphire

revithada - chickpea stew

marathokeftédes - fennel patties

kalogeros - veal or beef speciality dish of Naxos

patatato - meat and potato stew

baklavas - honey and nut slice

methismena - tipsy

amygdalota - marzipan specialities

raki - clear liquor made from grapes

rigani - Greek for oregano

patates tyganites - fried potatoes, chips

giouvetsi - lamb cooked in a clay pot (yu-VET-si)

saganaki - small frying pan

shrimp saganaki - cooked in the saganaki with tomato sauce and feta cheese

briam - roasted vegetables, Greek ratatouille

CHEESES

graviera - similar to Gruyere, made on Naxos (cow/sheep)

arseniko - hard cheese, made on Naxos, becomes spicy as it ages (goat)

xynomyzithra - soft, white, creamy, sour cheese (sheep/goat)

xynotyri - hard, flaky, pungent sour cheese. (sheep/goat) (xyno sour, tyri cheese)

1

In the glow of the early evening, the speedboat in the bay appeared black against the shining surface of the sea. It was going fast, turning sharply, making another pass and turning again. The young man at the wheel was only a silhouette to anyone watching from the shore, yet his every movement was graceful. Using one hand to steer and the other to point towards the land, he was expertly balancing his body as the boat lurched and bounced in the turmoil of its own making. His passenger was a girl, but the details of her dark hair and pale face were similarly invisible in the gauzy late-afternoon light.

The small town of Koroni in the western Peloponnese, off whose shore the speedboat was playing, was undeniably a beautiful place. White houses with terracotta tiles sprawled alongside the serene waters of the Messenian Gulf, and palm trees abounded in its streets. The hill behind the town was crowned with a large Venetian castle that extended along its ridge. The couple in the speedboat could have chosen to holiday in Koroni for its beauty alone, but of more importance to them was its location: an hour by road from Kalamata. It was, therefore, an ideal distance from home. Here at Koroni they could do exactly as they wished; here they need not hide their love.

This was, unfortunately, the last day of their visit; tomorrow they would have to return to work, to the need for pretence. To make the most of the day, the young lovers had not hesitated when told of a local man with a fast boat for hire. They had taken it down the coast to the uninhabited island of Venetiko, where they had spent many blissful hours together before returning to Koroni for their last night of freedom.

Now, as the sun began to sink behind the castle, they were forced at last to return to port. They sat close together in the boat, his arm round her waist, her head on his shoulder.

The entertaining display out in the bay had attracted the attention of the people taking the evening volta along the shore and those in the bars that lined the water’s edge. The subdued homecoming of the couple was remarked upon, as was their romantic appearance in the mellow light of the setting sun. At the Taverna Byzantino, one of the older men looked up from his game of backgammon and murmured something to his neighbour.

‘Those two will have fine, brave children - if they survive!’ he said.

His friend smiled and nodded in agreement, and after a moment of reflection they resumed their game.

2

Archaeologist and TV presenter Martin Day had come to regard Andreas Nomikos as a good friend. They shared a passionate dislike of the lucrative illegal trade in Greek cultural heritage: the looting, smuggling and selling of ancient artefacts. That alone was a reasonable basis for a friendship of otherwise strongly contrasting personalities.

Despite being Greek by birth, Andreas had a mane of fair hair and the light blue eyes of his Norwegian mother that contrasted alarmingly with his Mediterranean complexion. His colleagues in the Helladic Police called him the Viking Policeman, though never to his face. He was broad and stocky, carried himself with authority, and had about him a professional air of Viking power and Spartan determination. He had recently been promoted to the rank of chief inspector.

Day, the classicist who had chosen life in the Cyclades over the rigours of academia, was tall, lean, and took things at an easy pace. When Andreas had invited him to Paros, Day had accepted immediately, telling himself that the review he was writing for a professional journal, already late, could wait a little longer.

He accepted a cold beer from his friend and chose a chair on Andreas’s terrace with a good view across Paros to the sea. He placed his sunglasses on his face but wore no hat against the July sun. His light hair and complexion were occasionally an inconvenience to him when exploring shadeless ancient sites in his adopted Greece, but in general he tried to ignore it.

‘This place was a great investment, Andrea,’ he said, comfortably stretching out his legs.

‘Thanks, I’m pleased with it. Paros is still a refuge of peace and quiet once you get away from the port.’

Day agreed completely; it was, after all, the reason he himself had bought a place on nearby Naxos. Paros had always struck him as a more gentle island than Naxos, but away from the coast both retained their rural character. Unlike Athens, where he owned a small apartment, the islands were still serene and largely unspoilt, except on those where tourism had begun to take over. Here, on a hill above Parikia, you could still hear a car door closing from half a mile away. Sparrows chattered in the low vegetation of the nearby field as they darted from one seed-head to another. A pair of collared doves in amorous pursuit made a wheezing noise with their wings, and the bleating of a sheep carried up to them from a smallholding in the valley. The heat of the summer sun seemed to make the reversing warning of a lorry a mile away seem just another element of the idyll. He took a deep swallow of his beer with satisfaction.

It would be good for Andreas to come here at times from Athens, where his job kept him tied to a rented apartment in Koukaki. The place he had bought was a modern version of the traditional Cycladic house: square, white and flat-roofed. It even had a distant view of the sea. The main town, Parikia, lay to the west, clearly visible but far enough away to appear to be sleeping in the sun. To the north, the land dropped away into a tranquil valley, then rose again to the hills at the tip of the island. You could see yellow fields of desiccated grass, dark patches of woodland, swathes of tall bamboo, and telegraph poles from which the wires hung low in the heat. What a contrast to the log-jam of traffic in the city.

‘How much time will you be able to spend here?’ Day asked, making himself comfortable with his feet on the rung of an adjacent chair.

‘Less than I’d like. The job will keep me in Athens most of the time. I can only stay for a few more weeks before I’ll need to get back.’

‘How have you managed that? Seems a lot of leave for a policeman. Has crime in Athens dried up? It will do you good, though. You work too hard, you know.’

Andreas smiled and drank the last of his beer. He envied Day his casual attitude to life, only accepting work that interested him, doing just enough to fund his lifestyle in Greece. With an effort, he changed the subject to avoid speaking about the case which would allow him several more weeks here in the Cyclades.

‘When are you expecting Helen to return?’ he asked.

‘There’s no date yet. She’s still busy in London. We talk on the phone, though; she’s well.’

‘Just not here with you,’ murmured Andreas sympathetically.

Day smiled but said no more. He would prefer not to discuss his concerns about Helen with Andreas, even though he knew he was being unreasonable. There had been a time, a few years ago, when Andreas had been attracted to Helen himself and had begun to take her out; this was when Day had regarded her simply as a friend. Andreas’s interest in her been a wake-up call for him, and it still shocked him to think how close he had been to losing her.

He was, however, more worried by her long absence than he liked to admit. He went over it every night in his mind. Yes, the reason for her trip to London had been work-related, but that gave him little comfort; she should have been back by now. He had no idea what he had done wrong, though he was quite willing to accept that he had said or done something insensitive. He was equally surprised that she had not simply told him about it, in her usual direct way. In his more reflective moments he had been wondering whether he had simply been a bachelor too long. Perhaps Helen had come to regret the relationship that brought him such happiness. The worst thing was that he had absolutely no idea.

Andreas had moved on.

‘I’ve found a rather special woman myself, here on Paros,’ Andreas said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘We met when I came to view this house.’

Day was intrigued and saved from the gloom of his introspection. It seemed impossible that Andreas Nomikos had time for a relationship. The man never seemed to be off-duty, yet somehow always managed to have a personal life. He asked for details.

‘She’s an artist. She rents a small apartment behind the church of Agios Konstantinos. Do you know it?’

‘Isn’t that the church in the kastro of Parikia, overlooking the sea? The one built on ancient foundations?’

‘Yes, that’s it. She lives just behind it.’

‘I’m jealous. That area must be really expensive, too.’

‘Yes, it’s not cheap, but the apartment is quite small. When she first arrived, she was supported by a charitable foundation for the arts, and now she can afford the keep the place. Her work sells well.’

‘Is she from the islands?’

‘No, from Karditsa in Thessaly.’

‘Ah, the land of sausages and bicycles, which she has wisely exchanged for grilled barbounia and the glittering Aegean.’

‘Indeed, she made the right decision. Life as an artist in the Cyclades is a good life.’

‘What’s her name? And how did you meet?’

‘Fotini. We actually met in the street. She was coming out of the fournos next to the land agency that was selling this house. We bumped into each other - that’s the English expression, isn’t it?’

Day smiled; he enjoyed it when Andreas ventured to use colloquial expressions.

‘I hope she didn’t drop her shopping in the collision,’ he joked. ‘By the way, congratulations on your promotion. Chief inspector now, very impressive. New rank, new house and new lady.’

Andreas smiled vaguely towards the distant town, pulling on his beer. Day realised he had moved on from the subject of Fotini too soon.

‘Tell me more about her.’

‘We went for coffee right after we met, then for dinner the next evening. She invited me to her studio and showed me her paintings. She paints large seascapes, but also likes to do a few portraits, mostly of friends. She asked me to sit for her, actually, and she’s doing one of me. She’s very easy to talk to, it’s a joy to be with her.’ He nodded reflectively. ‘I hope I can stay in touch with her when I go back to Athens. Only time will tell, I suppose.’

‘I’d like to meet her,’ said Day. ‘Perhaps we can fix up something when Helen is back.’

Andreas agreed and went inside to fetch more beer, leaving Day looking across to the sea. The ferry Blue Star Delos glided round the headland and began its approach to Parikia port, sounding its horn before turning and reversing to the quay. From his viewpoint up on the hillside, Day heard its warning notes only distantly, and nothing of the clamour and frenetic meet-and-greet that would be taking place at the port. He raised his eyes to the horizon where, beyond the open sea, the island of Sifnos appeared to be no more than a slightly darker version of the sky, its high outline made insubstantial by the mist of distance.

He wondered what Helen was doing in England at that moment. London seemed impossibly far away. He wished she was here with him. Andreas’s story of Fotini, his wistful tone and cheerful patience, had done nothing to assuage Day’s own pangs of longing. He would ring her tomorrow. Would morning be best? Or evening? He didn’t know. That was part of the problem.

An oddly insistent noise made him look round. A disorganised group of colourful birds, about eight of them, were flying at speed in the air to his right. Their flight was dazzling, chaotic, anarchic, and their screaming seemed without purpose. Bee-eaters, one of the few birds in Greece that he recognised. They appeared to be looking for the right direction to go before making a group decision. Their unmelodious calls became ever more strident, then rilled into a single knuckle of sound, and suddenly they were gone.

They must be in transit, he thought. Spring migration, perhaps. They might not know where they are going, but at least they know with whom.

Andreas returned with two more bottles of cold Mythos just in time to pluck him from his melancholy.

‘Sorry, I had to take a call,’ he said. ‘Do you have any work on at the moment?’

‘Actually, yes, something rather unusual. I picked up a nice job only last week. It’s for a Greek-American who owns a private villa in a remote spot on Naxos. He booked me to give a couple of talks on archaeology to some important guests who’ll be arriving soon to stay with him. It pays extremely well, I could hardly turn it down, and it sounds fun. I have to talk for an hour on a subject of my choice and join the guests for lunch afterwards.’

‘That sounds perfect for you, and you for the job.’

‘Yes, I thought so too. I did a little investigating online. The villa looks a stunning place, up in the hills near Sangri. The owner was born on Naxos but spent all his life in New York, where he made a fortune in top-end interior design, married well, and retired early back to Naxos. He had the old family home converted, complete with swimming pool and landscaped garden. It’s called the Villa Myrsini.’

Andreas turned to him with interest. ‘I seem to know that name.’

‘Myrsini was the name of his design brand in the USA. It’s the Greek for the myrtle bush, of course, and the flower was the company logo. The owner’s name is Stelios Ioannides.’

‘Have you been told who the guests will be?’

‘I only know they’ll be arriving on a yacht in time for the wine festival.’

‘And when is your first talk at the Villa Myrsini?’

‘A week on Tuesday. The second one is the following Tuesday, after the end of the wine festival. Why? You’re sounding like a policeman, Andrea.’

‘That’s what I am, my friend.’

‘Is something the matter? Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. Official business. What subject will you talk about to these important guests?’

‘Oh, I don’t know yet. I’m going to the villa next week, I should get a better sense of what they want then. Come on, you can trust me.’

‘I’m sorry, I really can’t discuss it. But I will say one thing, Martin: be on your guard. Take my advice, and don’t get too involved with the people at the Villa Myrsini.’

3

On his way to the Villa Myrsini the following week, Day drove faster than usual, enjoying the fresh air through his open window. He had rolled up his shirt sleeves and the sun was already pricking his left forearm. It was no surprise that July on Naxos was remorselessly hot; all Europe was having a heatwave. No rain had fallen on the island in the last few weeks, and none was forecast till November. The farmers were worried, but the tourist industry had no complaints.

From his house in Filoti to the Villa Myrsini was only eight kilometres. He passed through the central village of Halki and followed the old road south-west towards Sangri. It was late morning and there was very little traffic. He had been told that the Ioannides family estate was set in a sparsely-inhabited area of undulating hills to the south of the restored Paleologos Tower, and was accessed by its own private drive. The directions mentioned a small, unnamed road leading uphill which he was to follow for about a kilometre, and the entrance to the Villa Myrsini would be on his left.

There were so few turnings off the road that he managed to find the entrance without a problem. The Ioannides estate was announced by a pair of tall white pillars supporting imposing cast-iron gates which were wide open and were probably never closed, to judge by the grass and scrub that grew through them at the base. The drive was rutted and gritty, but once he saw the house he paid the track no attention.

The Villa Myrsini clearly had its own water source, for it stood within a garden of conifers, pines and olives. He passed a small grove of fruit trees, oranges or lemons perhaps. Helen would have known which they were. Even at first glance, the work of the landscapers was evident. The house, too, bore all the hallmarks of professional restoration and considerable investment. It was in the Cycladic style, with white walls and a flat roof, but on a scale that elevated the tradition to new levels. Two slender towers with decorative perforations rose several metres above the building at the back, reminding Day fleetingly of the dovecotes of Tinos, and a low white wall encircled the property but for an elegant flight of white marble steps leading up to the main door.

As he parked the car in the shade and got out to stretch his legs gratefully, a slim woman in her early thirties opened the front door. She managed to look cool in light blue trousers and a white shirt, her dark hair tied back. He acknowledged her wave of welcome and began to climb the magnificent marble steps.

‘Hello, I’m Maria Ioannides,’ said the woman with a slight American accent, shaking hands. ‘You’re Martin Day? Thank you so much for coming. I hope you found us easily? Come inside and meet my father.’

She turned away and he followed her into the house.

This must be Stelios Ioannides’s daughter, he thought. Her upbringing in New York accounted for her accent and explained why her surname had no feminine ending, as was the more usual custom in Greece. An air of competence and responsibility about her contrasted pleasingly with a certain innocence. Day found her immediately attractive, and it took the cool air of the interior of the house to divert his attention back to his surroundings.

The Villa Myrsini welcomed its visitors through a pair of arched, glazed doors into a dining room that would accommodate at least ten people. To Day’s surprise, the furnishings were simple, almost modest, with a hint of traditional Mediterranean style. The modern glass dining table was surrounded by wooden chairs in the Greek fashion, painted olive green. Large ornate mirrors, their frames white or silver, reflected the light from the windows. The walls and the marble-tiled floor were white, and a black chandelier hung over the table. It was simple, in keeping with its Cycladic home, and it was perfect.

Maria led him through another arch to the next room, the living room. Arranged around a central glass coffee table in an informal circle was a collection of sofas and small chairs, all upholstered in matching cinnamon-coloured material that gave the room a decidedly non-Greek appearance, but a sense of calm. The paintings on the walls were unmistakably valuable.

‘Please take a seat, Martin,’ said Maria. ‘My father will be with you in a moment. Would you excuse me?’

She turned her back on him again and left through a door at the far end of the room. Day sat down in an armchair and looked round. Another arched opening led into a marbled hall from which a staircase rose to an upper floor. A stairlift was fitted to this flight of stairs, and a pair of wooden sticks were propped against the rail. On a console table were some family photographs in a variety of frames, and there were more on a dresser by the wall. There were no books to be seen and very few ornaments, but on a marble plinth in the corner of the room stood a modern sculpture, a bronze bird in flight, maybe a kingfisher, larger than life-size and intricately worked.

The sound of a walking stick and the clearing of a throat announced the arrival of Stelios Ioannides. A small man in a suit, he appeared in the doorway through which Maria had gone. Day stood up. The Greek squinted at him through the rectangular lenses of his glasses, nodded, smiled, and came further into the room.

‘I see you have noticed my alkyoni, Mr Day.’

With the tip of his walking stick the old man gestured towards the bronze sculpture of the kingfisher, before lowering himself into his seat.

‘The kingfisher is the emblem of my family,’ he continued. ‘That model was made for me by a friend in New York. Now then, I really am delighted to meet you at last. I hope you can stay and talk to me for a while?’

‘Of course, I’d be delighted,’ said Day. That, indeed, was the reason he had come, but Stelios Ioannides seemed to imply the desire for company. ‘I’m curious to know how you found me, Kyrie Ioannide.’

‘That was not difficult, in fact. A small matter of lunch with an acquaintance of mine, the curator of the local museum. He was quick to recommend you as somebody both knowledgeable about Greek antiquity and blessed with a certain flair with words. Would you agree with that description of you, Mr Day? You’ve made a number of broadcasts on subjects covering Greek history, I believe?’

‘I’m extremely grateful to the curator,’ said Day politely, making a mental note to buy his friend Aristos a drink. ‘Yes, I enjoy the filming side of my work. My last job was a series for the BBC on Greek marble from Classical times to the present day.’

‘Yes, the curator told me of that. An enormous project. Will you stay for lunch, Mr Day? It would be pleasant to talk longer, wouldn’t it?’

The old man used the end of his stick to press a small button set into the wall near his chair, and they sat in silence waiting for the outcome. Day guessed the button was a bell to summon somebody. Maria, perhaps.

‘I shall call you Martin. You will call me Stelio,’ said the old man firmly, then he shot Day a broad smile that deepened the lines round his cheeks and pulled apart his generous lips. ‘Good, that’s agreed. I don’t like formality.’

Day took in the well-cut grey suit, pink shirt and striped tie, the gold pin on the lapel, the heavy gold watch, and the polished leather shoes, all of which were surprising in a Cycladic setting in July on a retired man who struggled with mobility. They were not indicative of informality. He was saved the need to comment by the arrival of Maria.

‘Maria mou, our friend Martin is staying for lunch. Oh dear, of course, Yianni’s still in town …’

‘I can sort out the lunch, Papa. Perhaps Martin would like me to show him round the villa later?’

‘Excellent idea, agapi mou. You must particularly show him my library; he’ll be interested to see it.’

Maria smiled at them both and returned the way she had come.

‘I’m so lucky in my children, Martin. When I lost my wife five years ago, my health took a bad turn. Maria looked after her mother until she died, and now she has to take care of her old father. It isn’t much of a life for her. My son Yianni - Maria’s twin brother - he takes care of all our meals. He trained as a chef in New York. Am I not blessed?’

‘In your children, certainly. I’m sorry to hear of your loss.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind. Now, Martin, let’s talk about you. Far more interesting.’

Stelios struggled to remove something from the bag that hung over the back of his chair. It turned out to be a copy of the biography of Nikos Elias, the historian from Naxos, which Day had written a few years before.

‘Your book on Elias,’ said Stelios, waving it in front of him. ‘Excellent, very insightful. Would you look at the paragraph I’ve marked?’

Day took the book from him and opened it at the bookmark. Some lines had been bracketed in pencil. He read them aloud.

‘As a young man, Elias was involved in the recovery of several vases of considerable historical value from the excavation at Pavos in Attica. These were presented to the National Archaeological Museum in Athens, where they are on permanent display. There is in the group a beautifully painted kalpis vase of some importance which Elias draws and describes in his papers.’

He stopped reading and looked up.

‘Why this particular section, Stelio?’

‘I was thinking that your first lecture might touch on the painted vases of the Classical period in Greece. What do you think of that? I think it would go down very well with our guests.’

Day had always had a passion for Greek pottery, and the idea of preparing the subject for a specific event, at an accessible rather than scholarly level, certainly appealed. He would even be well paid for it. He said he would be delighted to accommodate the request.

‘Very good. Your second talk can be on any subject you choose. Once you’ve met your audience, I’m sure you’ll know what to select. Now, we have enough time before lunch, I think, for me to tell you what this is all about. Shall we sit outside? It might be more agreeable than indoors.’

He got to his feet carefully, appearing to be in some pain, and walked slowly to the door at the back of the house and onto the terrace. Day followed, unsure whether to offer his help. Once the old man had sunk onto a cushioned wicker sofa in the shade of a white awning, Day took a chair nearby and looked out across the garden. At the foot of a descending flight of marble steps was a deep turquoise swimming pool, its irregular, curvaceous shape reminiscent of a cloud. It was framed by cream paving-stones, low-planted flowerbeds, and tall palms with orange fruits high in their branches.

‘It’s beautiful here, Stelio,’ said Day.

‘Thank you. I’ve always thought so myself. The Villa has been in my family for generations. When my parents died, it lay empty for many years, as I had settled in New York by then. My business was interior design and I had a certain amount of success; I was able to sell the business and retire reasonably early. I had always dreamed of returning to the island of my birth, restoring the old family home, and bringing my dear wife to the Villa Myrsini. I imagined we had many good years ahead of us. I told Maria and Yianni they could do as they preferred, stay in America or come here to Naxos, and they chose Greece.’

He sighed.

‘Caroline and I had such plans for this place and, as you see, they are complete. Sadly, she is not here to enjoy it with me.’

‘I’m sorry. Was your wife American?’

‘She was. A New England girl. When her cancer was diagnosed, everything changed. Without Maria, I don’t know how I would have managed. That is still true today.’

Day turned his eyes from Stelios, who needed a moment to collect himself. He looked back to the pool. Something had just passed low across its surface at speed and risen again into the air, banked steeply and returned for another pass. Stelios smiled with delight and pointed to it with a crooked finger.

‘There goes my swallow, Martin, my helithoni. He drinks from the pool, you know. Like on the Thira fresco. You know it?’

‘The fresco from Akrotiri on Santorini? Yes, of course, a remarkable thing. Did you know, Stelio, that the swallows on the fresco were painted by one artist and the lilies by another? The two painters can be distinguished from one another by their styles.’

‘Ah, that’s very interesting. So it’s possible to identify a specific ancient painter, is it?’

‘Sometimes. We’ll never know their real names, of course, but some master painters can be identified from their technique.’

The real swallow made a third pass over the bright water of the pool, this time succeeding in scooping up a drink from its surface without slowing down or leaving a ripple. As the bird vanished from the garden, thirst quenched, Stelios Ioannides changed the subject.

‘Now, about your talk next Tuesday, Martin. I’d like you to begin at about half past twelve, if you would, and join us afterwards for lunch so we can ask you questions informally. Now, let me tell you about about your audience. Maria and Yianni will be there, and my good friend Vassos, who lives here with us. Also my niece, Christina, who’s staying for the summer. She’s the daughter of my younger sister in Kalamata. That’s five including myself so far, isn’t it? I’ve also invited my friend Stefanos and his wife. He’s a wine producer with a big place on Santorini called Ambrosia Wine. Yianni buys all our wine from there.

‘That just leaves my four visitors, the ones I spoke about on the telephone: my elder sister, Eleftheria, her husband Theodoros, and the couple who are holidaying with them on their yacht. Theo and Eleftheria have come to stay with me every summer since I lost Caroline. You might actually have heard of my brother-in-law, Theodoros Kakouris? He’s one of our nation’s shipping magnates. You may be more interested in the fact that he owns a private art collection. I’m afraid I don’t actually know what he collects, but rarity and value will be high on his list of priorities. To be fair, he knows a great deal about the subject. You’ll see, he’ll be very attentive to what you say; he’s a clever man.’

Stelios shifted his position in the chair to make himself more comfortable, and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Day was not surprised that he felt the heat, in his suit and tie and leather shoes.

‘My brother-in-law is also a lover of Greek wine, and the forthcoming Naxos Festival of Cycladic Wine is his creation. He has funded it and made it happen. He is going to open the festival himself on the first night.’

‘I see,’ said Day, adding philanthropy to his picture of Theodoros Kakouris.

‘That brings me to the last two guests, Theo’s friends. The man is an international art dealer and his wife is French. I think I was told he’s Anglo-French; perhaps you know what that means? Now, I personally don’t know these people at all. Unfortunately, I think the wife speaks very little English, so she may not understand a great deal of what you say.’

Day acknowledged the possibility of this with a slight movement of his head.

‘The art dealer himself is another matter. I’m told he’s a proficient linguist, with clients all over Europe and the USA. Theo values him very highly. He’s a specialist in artefacts from Greece with clients among the rich and famous. I’m told he’s very knowledgeable and interesting on the subject.’

‘I see,’ said Day again. ‘Then I shall prepare my talk with great care.’

‘I have no doubt of that, Martin,’ smiled Stelios, his gaze drifting across the garden.

Lunch was a modest affair, eaten on the terrace. There were just the three of them. Maria told Day how much there was still to do before her uncle and aunt’s visit, which would last the duration of the wine festival. It sounded as if the guests had given no clear departure date. Yianni was still in Chora, sourcing the ingredients he needed for his meals, and it was not the first such trip he had made. There were butchers to deal with, local artisan cheese-makers, fishermen, bakers and many more. The wine merchant, Stefanos, was expected later in the afternoon to speak to Stelios. It was clear that the arrival of the party from the yacht would be a major event at the Villa Myrsini.

‘You’ll meet my cousin Christina in a little while,’ Maria said, as she took Day into the house later to show him round. ‘She doesn’t eat lunch and goes out for a walk about this time. She comes from Kalamata, where her family have an olive farm. Kalamata’s famous for its olives. Oh, sorry, I guess you know that, Martin.’

She chatted lightly and continuously as she showed him round the house, describing every room in detail as if to a potential buyer. Her pride in the place was clear, yet he enjoyed the modesty with which she spoke. They lingered in the well-stocked library which Stelios used as his study and where the reason for the absence of books elsewhere in the house became obvious.

In the corner of the room, Day noticed a wall safe. It reminded him that the brother-in-law, Theodoros Kakouris, was not the only wealthy man he would meet at the Villa Myrsini.

They went up the internal marble staircase. It was hung with modern American artworks, and in the upstairs hall there was a modern bronze that reminded Day of the ancient statue of Antinous in the museum at Delphi.

‘This is my room,’ laughed Maria, opening the door to a neat upstairs bedroom. ‘I tidied it especially for you. I thought you should see the view from our upstairs windows; all the main bedrooms look out this way.’

She proudly opened the shutters and windows which were closed against the heat. Beyond the encircling wall of the villa lay another area of citrus trees, and beyond them a building Day recognised: the seventeenth-century Paleologos Tower, its buff-coloured stone walls and castellated roof glowing in the sun. Beyond it lay an even older building, the small, white Byzantine church of Panagia Orfani, which Day had only seen in photographs.

‘You must have one of the best views on Naxos, Maria. I thought I noticed a painting of the Paleologos Tower downstairs.’

‘That’s right, in the library. That picture belonged to my grandparents. When we came here from the US after the house had been restored, a neighbour brought that picture to my father, saying he’d taken it away for safety when my grandparents died. The damp in winter can be very bad on the islands. He wanted it to hang again in its old home.’

‘Nice story. And the pictures in the living room?’

‘Ah, you noticed them. Two of them are by John Craxton, they’re my father’s pride and joy. He has a small collection of art, mostly modern American things, but he wants the Craxtons to be always where he can see them.’

‘Craxton?’

Day could hardly believe it, and promised himself a closer look when he could manage one. He had assumed that all John Craxton’s work was now in international galleries. It was like finding a Picasso in your mother-in-law’s lounge. Maria smiled at his astonishment and led the way out of her bedroom. As he followed her, he noticed a single photograph on the bedside table. It showed a young woman that was not Maria and which he assumed to be her mother Caroline. There was no time to ask because Maria was heading towards the stairs.

‘Ah, Christina’s back. Come and meet her, Martin!’

Table of Contents

Cover

Introduction

By the same author

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Map

A Note about Greek words

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

Landmarks

Cover

Body Matter

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Copyright Page

Title Page

Bibliography

Introduction

Glossary