by Laura Rahme
The tale about the Corfu dog that had caught rabies and which was seen wondering in the hospital courtyard. And how one of the nurses, a village woman, had run to fetch the girl. The men had readied themselves to shoot the dog despite its owner’s protests. And already it showed signs of violence and was not easily contained, almost wounding one of them. Until the girl had arrived. Murmurs rose among the crowd as the dog stood still. And the young doctor from Athens had explained how, before all the men, the village girl had walked slowly towards the dog as it drooled and snarled. Then as everyone watched and believed she would be lost, she had knelt before it and healed it with her hands.
Aaron’s eyes watered at the thought. Despite the heat, the hair on his skin rose and he experienced the delicious sensation of knowing something others ignored.
Aaron would seek the village doctor first. The man would be familiar with every inhabitant in the community. Then Aaron would find a way to observe this girl closely and learn everything he could about her.
He was pleasantly surprised to finally dismount in Kassiopi. The summer sun would not set for another three hours. The village lay very near the water, while inland, lush green hills and more olive groves cradled it. Overlooking the village was a stern black mountain which his guide called Pantokrator. Beyond the harbour, an expanse of balmy blue stretched as far as the eye could see, while overhead stood a mighty Byzantine fortress facing the sea. This was the serene Ionian Sea, a soothing sight for the soul. And beyond, across the ocean, the guide pointed out, you could see the mountains of Albania. It was possible to swim out to the Albanian coast, he explained, and likewise, it was not unheard to come by Albanian bandits in Corfu. Village girls were warned to stay away from the beaches but they were stubborn, he deplored.
Aaron found a small lodging near the harbour and paid his guide. The cooler afternoon brought a coastal breeze and he inhaled the odour of salt and sea.
As he strolled among villagers, one of the few Englishmen in Kassiopi, he lingered by the shimmering harbour where small colourful boats, laden with nets, were moored. Here and there, white chalk buildings dotted the coast. Olive and citrus trees spread their welcome shade over sun-heated stone streets. Blooms, in red and purple, framed the blue doors of tiny homes.
Aaron’s quick glance took in the colours and manners of this innocent village. He spotted healthy looking women in black skirts and black stockings. Over billowing white blouses, they wore elegant embroidered vests with intricate flower motifs. Their dignified attire did not spare them from honest labour, for upon their heads, they carried baskets laden with vegetables and fruits.
Far up on the hillside, Aaron noticed another girl with similar attire and whose black hair was modestly covered beneath a white veil. She sat near a dozen goats, staff in hand.
What an idyllic existence, mused Aaron. One could not imagine a more peaceful village. Here, the gloom of a London winter was unimaginable. Here, the sun shone and spread life. For an instant he contemplated abandoning his life’s plans and embracing this Mediterranean paradise. But he fought off this naive thought.
Led to the doctor’s home, Aaron introduced himself as an English teacher from Athens. The doctor, a short plump man with a round face, heard his remarkable rabies story, and knew instantly who the Englishman described.
“She is Nikolaos’ daughter.”
The doctor was surprised for he met with few Englishmen. They did not venture to Kassiopi unless it was to see the beaches or the Byzantine castle. He looked sternly at Aaron.
“What are you here for?”
“I cannot hide from you. You seem to be a wise man. What if I told you this girl is unique in the world? I believe she is special.”
The Corfiot began to laugh.
“For all I know, Calista Argyros is bad luck,” he replied. “What do you want with her?”
Aaron’s grave expression had not changed. He fixed the doctor until this one ceased laughing.
“You would have heard,” began Aaron, “that since the foundation of the Greek state five years ago, there has been an astounding progress in education. Greek young girls are even learning to speak French.”
“That is Athens,” replied the Corfiot. “This is here. This is a British island.”
“And that is why, I’ve come to offer the family my services to teach her English. She will learn to read and write at no charge.” A gleam shone in Aaron’s eye as he continued. “Corfu’s High Commissioner recompenses honourable behaviour. Through her bravery, this girl has saved lives.”
The old doctor had never heard of any free tutoring being gifted to Corfiots, but he presumed it was because he lived in a small village. So he did not argue. But he thought it best to warn the intrepid English teacher. He pointed a finger at Aaron.
“Her family thinks she is a witch. You come here and tell them she is special, they will laugh at you. Even the priest does not suffer her in his church.”
“I will heed your warning.” Aaron did not budge.
“Then God be with you. Nikolaos Argyros lives with his family in a house near the sea. Go past the harbour and follow the path along the coast. You cannot miss it. It is the house with the pink flowers, closest to the beach.”
And he stared at Aaron for a long time before the Englishman disappeared round the corner.
“Who was that man?” called out his wife.
“He said he was an English teacher sent from Athens, but I’ve seen his eyes. He is a mad man.”
“Where is he going?”
“To see Nikolaos. He wishes to meet his daughter.”
“Which one?”
“Which one do you think? Only bad luck will come from this.” He shook his head.
It had been a long journey, but Aaron felt no ache or tiredness as he walked past the Byzantine fortress and towards the beach. Like the donkey which had journeyed for hours, trudging an uneven path from Corfu Town to Kassiopi under scorching heat, he seemed enlivened by an unexplainable willpower. His senses were fully awakened, the moment he stepped into the tiled Argyros courtyard.
Several chickens pecked at seeds scattered on the ground while a rooster crowed, flapping its wings. Perched on the white chalk wall which bordered the courtyard, he saw a small goat, chewing with solemn nonchalance. Beside it, two cats lazed on the hot stone while a dog slumbered at the foot of the wall.
There was a stirring at the house’s blue door and the goat raised its head. It dashed off the wall, and into the centre of the courtyard, where it began to leap for joy.
The house door opened and out stepped a young woman with jet black hair. She reached forth to caress the goat before looking up to meet Aaron’s gaze. The goat settled instantly by her side, facing Aaron, as though protective of its mistress.
Any man on the island would have fallen under her spell. For this young girl, barely twenty, was as fresh and delicate as a nymph. Like her village counterparts, she too wore opaque stockings and a full black skirt upon which was tied an apron of brighter colours with a fringed band sewn at the hem.
Beneath her embroidered vest, a white blouse fell softly on her curves and this was made all the more fetching by the black and gold belt fastened at her tiny waist.
Coral and blue bead necklaces hung above her tanned neck, and even from afar, Aaron inhaled the scent of olive oil she had rubbed on her skin.
All this, he thought, carried the breath of youth, and a life under the sun spent near the Ionian Sea. But Aaron dismissed it all. He had had his share of whores, courtesans, mistresses, even a countess. He had lied and cheated to bed them all. This was different.
He cared nothing of what she resembled. Still, he noticed her eyes straight away. All of the villagers had sported brown or black eyes, whereas in her gaze, stirred the wild currents of the Mediterranean mingled with the black that so resembled the dark mountain towering over Kassiopi.
Those bewitching eyes would have lured thousands of men from even Helen of Troy herself, and while he saw
their uniqueness, they had little effect in seducing Aaron Nightingale, nor did they leave their imprint in his mind, because in the moment in which he understood who she was, Aaron only had eyes for the way in which all the animals in the courtyard had magically gathered at the young woman’s feet, leaving him wondering whether some invisible string bound them all to her, or if perhaps deep within, she bore a tremendous force that defied nature’s laws and governed their every move.
Chapter 7
Thursday
IN disbelief, Maurice ran his hand across the sheets. The fabric felt moist. He rose, horrified.
Still half-asleep, a frightening vision returned to haunt him. It was the memory of his mother, her face twisted in anger.
“You filth!” she spat.
He was four. He tried in vain to hide the mess he’d caused while she came at him. Malice flashed in her eyes.
“What did I tell you, Maurice? What happens when you wet your bed?”
A dread crept through him as he remembered what she would do. Maurice’s heart raced until he looked at his surroundings and realised he was in a guestroom in Alexandra Hall. He breathed a sigh of relief but it was soon overshadowed by another fear. Maurice ran his hands on top of the covers. The quilt felt damp too. So did the sides of his pillow and parts of his hair. All exposed parts of his bed had moistened overnight.
“Are there leaks in this house, Mrs. Cleary?” he asked at breakfast. He had decided to take breakfast in the commons dining room, the chill of winter not permitting meals on the veranda.
“Absolutely not,” replied Mrs. Cleary who seemed to be miraculously composed. She looked nothing like she had the night before. Sleep and perhaps more medication had restored her. “The roof and gable are John Nightingale’s pride and joy. I can’t imagine there being any leaks.”
“Oh.”
“What do you ask me this question?”
Maurice did not wish to alarm the housekeeper. It would be senseless to renew her fears after the efforts it took to calm her down last night. He let the matter drop. But Mrs. Cleary observed him with a keen eye.
“I warned you about this. You should have locked your door,” she remarked.
“Well I suppose I shall have no other choice but to sleep with an eye open and to see for myself.”
Mrs. Cleary stared at him with a look of terror in her eyes, but she kept silent.
The ornate door
UNTIL now, Maurice discarded the idea of Sophie Murphy having fallen down the stairs. But the fearful atmosphere at Alexandra Hall, and Mrs. Cleary’s bizarre behaviour the night before saw him reconsider. There was a chance terror had played a part in the maid’s death.
After breakfast, he examined the steps and balustrade of the grand staircase from which presumably Sophie Murphy might have fallen. As expected, he found no evidence of a violent fall: there were no signs of damage on the wooden steps or marble tiles.
Skirting the wall behind the stairs, he noted a small door which he imagined might provide access to a maintenance cabinet beneath the stairwell. The door was unlocked and the tiny cabinet empty. Finding nothing, he closed it again.
As he turned away from the stairs, Maurice’s attention was drawn to a larger mahogany door near the kitchen. Carved deep into its dark wood, were large antlers, tracing the full width of the panel. Nested within the antlers were wild animal motifs: engravings of deer and bears formed a circle among birds and squirrels. How had he not seen this door on Tuesday? Maurice pondered over this omission. Perhaps due to its ornate surface, the door had appeared to him as a decorative panel and nothing more.
He worked through every key but could find none to match.
Sensing a watchful presence behind him, he turned his head. Shannon O’Sullivan stood near. She’d been observing him for some time.
“Don’t even try, Mr. Leroux,” she said. “I’m sure Mrs. Cleary would have spoken to you about that room.”
Maurice stepped back.
“I see. So this is the cellar door. It would explain why I do not have the key for it.”
Shannon nodded and smiled.
“Mrs. Cleary had her reasons. In his will, Mr. Nightingale barred us from the cellar for six months.”
“Yes, I know. Eccentric, right to the end.” He looked around to verify that they were alone in this part of the house. Finding no one in sight, he turned to the maid. “Miss O’Sullivan, this is so near the scene of the crime,” he whispered, pointing at the door. “It would be senseless not to explore further.”
“Well, we are not permitted to enter,” protested Shannon.
Maurice pleaded ignorance.
“How so? Why would Mr. Nightingale choose to do this? What difference does it make if I enter it now or later?”
“We have to do what he said.”
“Come now, Miss O’Sullivan, let’s think about this for a moment. For what absurd reason, would he choose to do that?”
Shannon glared at him. “We should respect his wishes and on no account should we enter the cellar,” she insisted, reciting this order like some rote knowledge.
Mrs. Cleary had trained Shannon well, but Maurice persisted. “I understand all that, mademoiselle. But surely Mr. Nightingale would make alternative arrangements today if he had some advanced notion of the extraordinary circumstances.” His English surprised him. He’d worded it rather well and he was certain she’d be persuaded.
But his reasoning only brought distress to the young woman who shook her head vigorously. “I doubt it,” she snarled. “You didn’t know him, Mr. Leroux. He was a very organised man. If he did something, then it was for a reason. And you should learn that English people are very set in their ways.”
Maurice lit a cigar, prickled by the excessive patriotism in her statement. He’d find a way to press her buttons and use that fine temper of hers to his advantage. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Set in their ways. As opposed to us French, is that what you mean?” He assumed an arrogant pose to provoke her.
Shannon waved off the smoke from his voluminous puffs without hiding her irritation. “Well… we English... and Irish,” she added, “have never done away with our king William IV in the terrible manner your countrymen murdered their king.”
“Well it appears now’s your big chance. You should encounter less opposition now that you’ve got yourself a queen!” taunted Maurice.
“How dare you, sir!” Shannon’s eyes filled with tears as she bore the insult for all women.
Maurice was not moved. “Listen, Miss O’Sullivan, two people were murdered in this house. I am here to find out why. And if there is anything of interest in this cellar that might advance my case, then I am determined to find it. Now give me the key!”
A spark of anger flew across Shannon’s eyes. To Maurice, it seemed her red hair was suddenly set ablaze as she let out her ire. “I can’t! Mrs. Cleary has it,” she cried. Then, frightened by her outburst, she stammered. “You…you ought to stay out of that cellar. Bad enough there’s…there’s a ghost in this house. What would befall us all if Mr. Nightingale’s spirit knew what you were up to?”
So then, Mrs. Cleary had lied, thought Maurice.
As he pondered on ways he might retrieve the key he’d seen her put away, a sharp sound rose from the commons area. It ushered in a heart-wrenching yelp. Maurice startled. The sounds of whipping renewed, growing more frantic while youthful cries rang in the corridor. The violence rose to a frightful crescendo until the screaming melted into desperate sobs.
All along, Shannon had stood stiff, pressing her hand to her lips.
Maurice’s face grew white. He knew what he’d heard. It was Mary’s voice. Mary being beaten. “Is that Mrs. Cleary punishing Mary?” he asked in dismay. He could feel his anger rise.
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” replied Shannon.
“That sound we just heard, Mary’s cries…”
“I can’t say I heard anything
. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Shannon hurried away towards the parlour, her heels loud on the black and white tiles.
Maurice paced along the corridor leading to the staff area. Mary had now ceased crying but he was certain her weeping had originated from that part of the house. He peered into the commons kitchen. Finding no one, he walked across to the adjacent room, and nearly bumped into Mrs. Cleary who emerged at the same instant.
“Oh, Mr. Leroux, you frightened me!” Her voice, far from startled, was accusative and hard. Her face was flushed red. Strands of hair had escaped from her high bun. She seemed in a hurry to leave the room.
“Mrs. Cleary. What is wrong with Mary?” asked Maurice, barring her way. He knew all too well she would not admit to beating the maid, but he wished her to know he had noticed the noise. He wasn’t ready to abide in silence while she struck a child so cruelly.
“Mary? What do you mean?” Her tone was dry and cutting.
“I heard her crying, madame. Is everything alright?”
A flicker of deceit shone in Mrs. Cleary’s black eyes. She brought her hand to her temple and broke into a smile. “Oh, yes. I heard it too. Mary fell over. She’s perfectly fine, now. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Leroux.”
“That didn’t sound to me like…”
“I assure you, she’s fine,” insisted the housekeeper, a flash of impatience in her voice. “Besides, she’ll never finish her chores if we interrupt her,” she added, insinuating that Maurice ought to leave the commons area.
“I see. Of course, madame.” He followed the housekeeper out into the corridor. Internally, Maurice fought to not challenge her and force her to admit her cruelty.
Having reached the entrance hall, he walked outside and lit a cigarette, relieved to be out of the house. Madeleine was sweeping the veranda but she watched him from the corner of her eye.
A look of pain had darkened his face. He was reliving Mary’s cries and they tormented him.
