Byron's Shadow

by Jason Foss

She grimaced. ‘I was just seventeen and a silly girl, don’t you think?’

  ‘I was pretty silly at seventeen.’

  ‘So my father asked the British to send Captain Byron Nichols to fetch me back.’

  ‘He was a commando, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Byron wanted to be a teacher, and there he was, come to rescue the little truant. He was an incredible man; dark as a Greek, speaking the language of the mountain men, yet so educated.’

  She described the Oxford classicist, his love of Greece, its people, its history and of his habit of reciting long stretches of Homer during the dark mountain nights. Nichols had been an enigma: quiet and thoughtful but concealing a capacity for action and violence. Not the sort of man Flint would invite to a party.

  ‘I know he killed people,’ she said quietly. ‘The Greek men who came with him were all afraid of him. But that was not the real Byron Nichols. Byron wanted to write, he wanted to remember the beautiful face of Greece, not the war. He told me all this whilst we were alone. We talked and we talked. He was the gentlest man I ever met.’

  Sofia continued to extol the virtues of Nichols, elevating him to the status of demi-god, then suddenly she stopped. ‘You don’t want to hear this, do you? You want to hear my story?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere; tell me whatever you like.’

  ‘Okay, so Stephanos took me away to his village: it was somewhere in the Argolid, but it had been burned by the fascist terrorists, organisation Chi. There was the letter Chi — X — painted on every door. So Stephanos said we would join the communists and I could be an Andartina in the Democratic Army.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you firing a machine gun.’

  ‘It all seems very crazy now, I was not even a communist.’

  ‘I used to be a communist,’ Flint admitted. ‘But I grew out of it.’

  The woman managed to smile once more. ‘We never found the Democratic Army. The first time we stopped at a village to ask for water, men from Chi took us. Their leader was a huge murdering animal, he did not care about politics, he just wanted to rob and kill. He killed Stephanos, he took out a knife and...’

  She made a throat-slitting motion. ‘Poor Stephanos did not deserve that.’

  ‘So when did Byron Nichols enter the story?’

  ‘Byron and his men found us and tried to strike a bargain with the bandits. A boy arranged it, but something went wrong. The fascists killed Stephanos, then took the boy away to shoot him. So Byron and myself were left alone, locked in a little room at the back of a house for four days. We had nothing to do but talk, we talked and we talked about everything.’

  A trance seemed to fall upon Sofia. Flint broke it by asking more questions.

  ‘Byron said we had been betrayed and that the fascists had learned who I was and who my father was. He said we might be killed or that Chi would blackmail my father, but that never happened. On the fifth night, there was a storm. Byron snapped the leg of a stool and used it to break a hole in the roof; it seemed so easy. I took his hand and we ran into a storm of snow; I was thinking an ancient hero had come to life to carry me away from danger. We met his other two men, we hid in caves and we ate goats cheese. I had my adventure.’

  Sofia gave an embarrassed laugh, then stopped it short. ‘That is all. Byron took me back to Athens, and my father sent me to America.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘I don’t know. He left me in Athens on St Valentine’s Day, 1947; there was something he felt honour-bound to do. I tried to write to Byron from America, but my letters were sent back. I lived in America for six years before I returned to marry. Then it was I learned that Byron was dead and I saw his...’ she clicked her fingers.

  ‘…grave?’

  ‘…memorial.’

  Tourist Acropolis had been forgotten, Flint had been carried back to the winter of 1947 and was fighting the war in his own mind. ‘Did Byron ever mention Stylanos Boukaris?’

  ‘I think the boy’s father was called Stylanos. Byron was very heavy-hearted about losing the boy. He knew he would have to break the news to his friend, after he said goodbye to me.’

  ‘Was the boy called Vassilis?’

  ‘No, he had another name, a made-up name for the war.’

  ‘A nom de guerre? What did he look like?’

  ‘I can’t remember, it was forty years ago. He was short, very thin, and he had a great red scar, on his forehead, shaped like the letter gamma. Byron said it once nearly killed him.’

  Flint was puzzled and might have questioned Sofia’s memory if he had been sure of his facts; he would read Arcadian Commando again.

  ‘You never tried to find out what happened to him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I was married — it would have caused a scandal. Decent girls did not have adventures. Then, so many of my friends had died, I had run out of tears.’

  Flint took the pen from his pocket and passed it to Sofia. She read the inscription and ran a fingernail along it, her mouth falling open, her hands visibly trembling.

  ‘His mother gave him this; she named him after the poet, she always wanted him to write. My Byron said he would write about the liberation of Greece, like the great Lord Byron. I always had a soft place in my heart for poets.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lisa and Flint sat in the dappled shade of olive trees, close to the beehive-shaped Tholos tomb, watching the Americans clearing up for the midday break. Another olive grove was on Flint’s mind.

  ‘Dead poets make the best poets,’ said Flint, as he concluded the retelling of Sofia’s story. ‘And dead heroes make the best heroes. If Stylanos Boukaris had lived into his dotage, he’d have been forgotten. For a while I thought the clues were pointing towards events during the Civil War, but I’m no longer sure. Sofia’s story was full of death and despair, but there’s still no motive for Embury’s killing.’

  ‘What about the bones?’

  ‘If they’re Civil War bones, no one can be convicted of anything, no matter how heinous the crime. All the ex-guerillas are dead, or have returned home. They have a thirty-year Statute of Limitations, it’s all in the past and the Greeks want to forget about it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We know Byron Nichols was a trained killer, we know Stylanos Boukaris made his name that way and his son — or sons — probably learned at their father’s knee. Any or all of them could have dumped a body at Palaeokastro and it wouldn’t matter anymore.’

  ‘It might matter to someone. Murder is murder — your Sofia still sounds cut up about poor romantic Byron Nichols.’

  The shadow of Byron Nichols stretched towards him, inexplicably confusing the facts.

  ‘Nichols is long dead. Stylanos was abducted and murdered by communists and this boy with the scar was executed by fascists.’

  ‘It’s a lovely world, don’t you think?’ Lisa cut across his argument.

  ‘But there we have the conundrum,’ Flint continued. ‘Sofia says the son of Stylanos is dead, but we know that Vassilis Boukaris is still alive. I checked Arcadian Commando and Stylanos did have a second son, but he died in 1942. Vassilis was the one wounded in the head, but Sofia said the boy had a Y-shaped scar on his forehead, like the mark of Cain. Perhaps there was a third son…’

  ‘You’re worrying over nothing. That old woman is probably confused.’

  Calling Sofia an ‘old woman’ was a little like calling the Erechtheum a condemned building, but her story could not be made to fit the facts unless Arcadian Commando was as innaccurate as it was turgid.

  ‘I spy a shoal of red herrings swimming past,’ Flint said. ‘There’s a book, a classic, by Mortimer Wheeler, called Testimony of the Spade. What we should do, is return to Palaeokastro and dig a dirty great trench right through the middle of the olive grove.’

  ‘Whilst the police stand around and watch you do it? You could take some extra spades, get them to help.’

  He overrode her cynicism. ‘I might — in the end, if we have prepared our c
ase first. We need to talk to Doctor D. again. He knew Embury, he lives in the same village as Stylanos, he may have been the doctor who saved Vassilis Boukaris, and he’s at least old enough to remember Byron Nichols.’

  She looked at the ground and tossed a piece of gravel into a group of ants, ‘I don’t want to come.’

  ‘We’ve already agreed we need to go back.’

  ‘You’ve agreed.’ Lisa sank her head onto her knees. ‘Oh God, save me from brilliant men with brilliant ideas.’

  Flint ran a hand through her hair. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘The last people who trusted you saw a van drive away full of their archaeology.’

  He stood up, left her alone and jogged onto the site. Windmilling his arms, he yelled, ‘MAX!’

  The American stood up from where he’d been adjusting his radar sledge, shielded his eyes to identify the caller, then walked to meet Flint halfway.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sir?’

  Flint held out an arm and touched Max on the shoulder. ‘Come for a walk.’

  Leaving Lisa and the diggers behind, the men walked uphill, towards the Tholos tomb. Distance was needed to establish camaraderie and male conspiracy. At the crest of the hillock, Flint found an uneven stone projecting from the grey dome and sat down. Max already seemed wary, primed by small talk of buddies and allies sticking together. He remained standing, with his hands on his hips. ‘So what’s up, Doc?’

  ‘I’ve got an apology to make, Max. I’ve been spinning a yarn since the day we met in Athens. Everything I’ve told you is...’ he ran into difficulty.

  ‘A lie?’

  Flint breathed heavily to let the confession spill out. ‘I’m not Paul Adams.’

  Max rolled his tongue around in his mouth, making his moustache twitch.

  ‘Paul Adams works in a bank in Bradford; he’s never been near Cardiff University, or the London Institute. I borrowed his name.’

  ‘And yours is?’

  ‘Jeffrey Flint, you might have seen me in the newspapers.’

  Slowly Max nodded, ‘You’re the one all the Brits are talking about? You don’t look much like your picture.’

  ‘That’s the idea, I’m incognito, working undercover.’

  ‘And is Elena, Elena?’

  ‘No, she’s called Lisa; you’ll find her in the papers too.’

  Max drew a finger like a six-gun. ‘But Jules said he knew you!’

  ‘I was best man at his wedding. We go back a long way.’

  ‘Don’t they say you killed a guy?’

  ‘I was framed.’

  ‘Sure.’ He looked far from sure.

  ‘I need your help, Max. I need your team, and your radar gear.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I want your people to get into your bus and drive down to a little village called Palaeokastro and do some digging.’

  ‘Digging? But you’re wanted by the cops — we could all get into really heavy trouble.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So give me one reason why we should do it?’

  ‘Truth, justice and the American way.’

  ‘Bull!’ Max looked out to sea and said nothing for a while. ‘Whose fingers are in the artefact bag?’

  ‘That’s what I need you people to help me find out. Someone in Nauplion rubbed out my boss. If I can find out why, I can find out who.’

  A random selection of evidence was quoted to looks of doubt, wonder and amusement. The moustache twitched up into a smile. ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Dead serious. I’ve been playing bloody cops-and-robbers for the best part of a month and I’m telling you, it kills your sense of humour.’

  Max pushed his hands into his pocket and squinted back towards his dozen diggers. ‘We’re excavating until Saturday, then we have to clean up the site, fill the holes and get our gear back to Athens. I could ask for volunteers and leave the rest to complete the chores. But, if just one of them says no, you know you’re through?’

  ‘That’s up to them. We’ll go back first, there are things we have to do. Tell your team tomorrow, then if someone sings to the police, we’ve already gone. If all goes well, when could we see you?’

  Max thought hard, lips silently counting days. ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘No sooner?’

  ‘Monday? I can’t push it earlier; there’s a squad of big names driving out here on Saturday, the people who put up the bucks and vet the books.’

  ‘Whenever.’

  ‘You’re going to owe me a lot of beers after this, Doctor Jeffrey Flint.’

  *

  Flint selected out what he called his ‘exhibits’ and asked Jules to take care of them. After lunch on the Friday, he drove the minibus to the ferry port of Raffina and abandoned it on the quayside. Max followed in his Toyota Land Cruiser and brought the Englishman back to site. Flint hoped he had offered the Greek police an amusing diversion; taking a ferry to the Aegean islands would be a bizarre route for an escaping fugitive. The double-bluff might also confuse other, more efficient, pursuers.

  As on every Friday, the Americans held a beach party. It was the usual crowd, the usual food and the usual booze, but the tag ‘party’ and the end of the excavation altered the mood. Lisa sat bemused below the dunes, whilst the introverted Paul Adams suddenly developed a love of Bob Dylan, took turns on the guitar and led half the songs. The night was extended into a dreamy, alcohol-soaked celebration of reckless youth. Events were adopting a neat symmetry.

  Flames of a driftwood bonfire were settling to a restrained glow and the American ranks grew thinner.

  ‘Come for a stroll,’ Flint whispered into Lisa’s ear. ‘You could sleep down here tonight.’

  ‘Isn’t it cold?

  ‘No, it’s idyllic. If I were Byron F. Nichols, I’d write a whole page about it in deathless prose. “To slumber on the beach at Marathon, hearing echoes of the centuries, sleeping in the nest of history...”’

  Lisa stood up, ‘Come on, drunkard,’ she slurred.

  They hugged each other tightly for support and comfort and walked away from the light, until the fire became a distant crimson dot, about to disappear over a dune.

  ‘Fancy a swim?’ he asked, ‘skinny dip?’

  ‘You’re a big kid, Jeffrey Flint.’

  ‘That’s what makes me so loveable.’ He kicked off his sandals.

  ‘Is it? Is that what it is?’ She gave an exclamation of mock despair. ‘Oh God, why do I do this?’ Lisa bent down and slipped off her sandals. ‘I should have grown out of this, you know? Beach parties, sing-songs and midnight dips. I should be living in a semi in Barnstaple, with three kids and a Labrador, not frolicking on the sand.’

  ‘Middle class senility is not compulsory.’ Flint had reached skin first.

  ‘You’re bloody impossible Jeff, that’s why...’ She stopped.

  ‘Why?’

  She failed to complete the sentence and instead, kicked off her panties and sprinted for the sea. Not to be beaten, he raced after her, hitting the water a second later. The sea damped the alcohol and raised the pulse rate. Splashing and yelling like teenagers, shrieking at cold patches, falling over each other in the dark they let out their tension and erased mental exhaustion. Reaching a high, Flint grabbed at Lisa’s hand and brought her running back to the beach. She tripped and they tumbled giggling onto the sand. Lisa first, Flint second.

  Before intimate contact came a pause. Both were panting wildly after the run, both had drunk to excess, both held back stresses compressed by the claustrophobia of the Athens flat. In moments, the containment snapped and out came the frustration, the muted passions, and all control was gone. Athens had seen the undress rehearsal, but on the Marathon beach, the violence of lust found two victims. Sand and salt on their skins, each fought the sexual enemy who had to be tamed. Time was an unknown constant until Flint came back to his senses, fearing the depth of physicality, shivering against the unexpected cold, exhausted by the frenzy. He hugged her tight to his chest, controlling his own b
reathing.

  ‘God I love you sometimes,’ she said.

  ‘That’s good,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m cold.’ Lisa suddenly rolled away as if bitten. ‘Where did my clothes go?’

  ‘Lisa?’

  ‘Forget it Jeff, I never said it.’ She found and immediately pulled on her t-shirt.

  ‘Okay.’

  The combatants said nothing else as they dressed, then hurried back to camp. Lisa mumbled a quick goodnight and vanished towards her tent. Flint collected his sleeping bag and returned, cold and aching, to the beach. It had been a reprise of that first weekend, another lifetime in the past. This could not be repeated; his relationship with Lisa had to stabilise, or it would sublime. Byron Nichols would never have taken advantage of Sofia, would he? Not the saintly, heroic, Captain Nichols, the gentleman who put death before dishonour.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Raised on grainy black-and-white war movies, Jeffrey Flint found it hard to settle on the train. Images of leather-clad Gestapo men demanding ‘papers’ came to mind as he sat on hard seats at the back of the open compartment, but this was not Nazi Hollywood and he was still one jump ahead of whoever was in pursuit. Dropped at Aghios Stephanos and travelling by slow, cheap trains, heading south defied logic. They changed trains in Athens and would change onto a bus in Argos, from where the road to Nauplion passed within yards of the site of the murder. Adventure was bringing them full circle.

  Flint touched the huge, tender bruise on his neck; love hurts. Lisa appeared sunk into a trance, so he suggested, ‘Snuggle up.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was tired and strained more than simply hungover.

  Nothing was said for a few more minutes. He watched her staring straight out of the window, with a blank and inexplicable expression on her face.

  ‘Drachma for your thoughts.’

  Her mouth gave half an acknowledgement, a stereotype Lisa half-smile which said I refuse to become involved.

  To their right, the green-and-brown hills of the Isthmus of Corinth slid by. To the left, the brilliant blue of the Saronic Gulf. Even through a dusty window, Greece glowed in the sunlight. He had caught that bug, he had become entranced, and long ago he had fallen in love.