A Terrible Beauty

by Tasha Alexander

  “You can describe his clothing, but also, I have this for you.” I had made a sketch of the man’s face. Adelphos looked surprised when I handed it to him.

  “You did this? I had no idea you are such a talented artist. You should be with the archaeologists. Mr. Reiner tells me they are always looking for someone who can draw.”

  “You’re very kind, Adelphos. It is a reasonable facsimile, but I assure you I lack the hand of a true artist. Furthermore, the archaeologists have cameras, which give a much more exacting image of the original.”

  “I do not agree. A photograph cannot show us the soul of a man. I see a menace in his face, even with his eyes closed, that his features alone do not communicate. Yet you have managed to show just this in your drawing. It will be a great help on my quest.”

  Adelphos pulled himself up very tall and threw his shoulders back as he spoke this last sentence. It might have been his use of the word quest, but I could not help seeing him as a modern incarnation of the ancient hero, ready to take up the mantle from his ancestors. Jason and Heracles would have recognized the noble look on his face as he took on the task, and even though he would face neither harpies nor Stymphalian birds (although he might argue he too well understood the trouble of the Augean stables), I did not doubt he would handle any challenges with the single-minded determination required to succeed.

  That settled, I went in search of my husband, but Margaret intercepted me before I found him.

  “Do you not find all this awfully contrived?” she asked. “Philip turns up only days before we are set to leave the island? His injury is not life-threatening, but inconvenient enough for him to require a certain length of time recovering, and that, of course, is better done in a comfortable villa than in a tent. Given the manner in which he received said injury, he had to know we would never allow him to go back to his excavations right away.”

  “What are you saying, Margaret?” I asked. “Do you suspect him of having orchestrated being shot?”

  “Yes, yes I do,” she said. “I do not trust him.”

  “I agree the timing is an odd coincidence, but that alone does not mean we should condemn him.” I chewed on my lower lip. “Yet…”

  “All his protestations about not wanting to disrupt your happy household ring false to me. The man is still in love with you.”

  “He wants nothing from me.”

  “So he claims at the moment.”

  “I cannot entirely agree with you, but it hardly matters now. I am determined to speak with the other men who were at the dig this morning. One of them must have seen something, and whoever shot Philip is likely still on the island. I shall have a quiet word with Fritz to learn where their workers live. And then, perhaps, you and I could go for a ride. I know you would like to further explore the island.”

  Margaret delighted at the suggestion. “I am passionate about island exploration. I am of the mind that we ought to leave the gentlemen behind. Do you agree?”

  “We don’t want a large party, but Colin could be a useful addition, so long as he does not insist on taking matters into his own hands and excluding us altogether; but I can manage that. Our questions might be more willingly answered if they are asked by two ladies, concerned only for the safety of the rest of the crew.”

  “So you propose to tell Colin everything and let him come with us?” she asked, tossing her head back and throwing her hands in the air. “It is as if I hardly know you.”

  “I will initially allow him to believe we intended to go on our own,” I said, “but will of course let him be part of the scheme.”

  “Of course?”

  “I cannot be anything but transparent with him when dealing with matters concerning Philip.”

  “I own a slight disappointment at hearing that, as I do adore a clandestine expedition, but must compliment you on your, shall we say, maturity.”

  “Maturity has nothing to do with it, I assure you,” I said. “Aside from the obvious complications that could arise, we need the others to know where we are going. There is, after all, someone on the island with a gun he is happy to use for nefarious purposes, and although I find it difficult to believe he would point it at two ladies, one can never be too careful. Which is why I am happy to let Colin accompany us.”

  Colin all but howled when I told him my plan, but I overcame every objection he threw at me, primarily by inviting him to join us. He countered by saying he could go on his own, at which point I all but howled. This had the desired effect, and as soon as Margaret and I had changed into something suitable for a long ride, we headed for the stables.

  “Nicely done, Emily,” Colin said, as I slipped my boot into the stirrup and flung my leg over Pyrois’ back. “You knew I would never agree to letting you and Margaret go alone, and you also knew you were more likely to convince me to accompany you than to convince me I shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You were easier to manage than I had hoped, but, then, I do know you awfully well.”

  “I recognized your strategy at once and decided not to fight you,” he said. “The manipulation was superfluous.”

  “Believe whatever you like, my dear,” I said.

  We rode straight to Kamari, the village nearest to the site of Ancient Thera, where Fritz had told me their workers lived, and had timed our arrival so as to not conflict with the traditional rest period in the afternoon following lunch. There was not much to Kamari beyond a collection of small, dusty houses and a handful of olive trees, under which sat, so far as we could tell, all the men of the village, on a collection of mismatched chairs they must have brought from their houses. They rose as we approached.

  “Greetings,” Colin said in Greek. “We are here to learn who disrupted the peace on your island today, and to make sure none of you was hurt.”

  “We are all unharmed,” one of the men said.

  “I am most heartily glad to hear it,” I said, dismounting from my horse. Margaret, whose modern Greek was not so good, nodded, but could contribute little to the conversation, which left her free to observe in detail the reactions of everyone to whom we spoke. “The excavations are important, not only so the world may learn more about the glories of your ancient ancestors, but also because they bring good employment. We do not want to see your income disappear because of one bad apple, or, olive, if you will.” My attempt at humor did not translate well into Greek, and two of the men assured me I would find nothing but the finest olives in Kamari.

  “Will Mr. Chapman live?” another man asked.

  “He is not seriously injured,” I said, “and will recover fully.” The men breathed a collective sigh of relief, many of them nodding vigorously at the news.

  “Did any of you see the coward with the gun?” Colin asked.

  “No. We were all working,” the first man, who introduced himself as Milos, answered. It appeared he was the leader of the group.

  “Were you all at the theatre?” I asked.

  Most of them nodded, but one man, younger than the others, shook his head. “I am Vasilis. I had gone to the camp because Mr. Chapman needed another basket for sorting things. I did not see him fall from the shot, only heard it.”

  “That is very important, nonetheless,” I said, “because you were on the only safe route down the mountain from the site. Did you see or hear anything else unusual?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You were in the camp when you heard the shot, correct?” Colin asked.

  “I was. I ran back to the site as quickly as I could. I forgot the basket.”

  “I am certain it was not missed,” Colin said. “Did you pass anyone on your way?”

  “No. If I had, and it was a stranger, I would have stopped him,” Vasilis said. “I knew something was wrong.”

  “Think very carefully,” I said. “As you were running, did you catch a glimpse of anything at all—a bit of cloth, perhaps, or just the hint of movement?”

  “I did not.”

  “D
id you hear anything?”

  “Only my heart pounding from running.” He grinned.

  “Were any of you working down lower on the mountain, in the cemeteries?” Colin asked.

  “No,” Milos answered again. “Mr. Reiner told us to work on the theatre and stoa to prepare for the big boss’s return, so no one was in the cemeteries.”

  “Was anyone taking a break—a rest—at the time of the shot?” I asked.

  “No. We had stopped only a little before then and were all back at work,” he said.

  So the shooter had been paying attention. He could have climbed Mesa Vouno at any time, most likely early in the morning, before Fritz and Philip had stirred from their tents, and hidden himself somewhere away from where the work was taking place. By waiting until after the men’s break, he ran less risk of being seen when he took his position and aimed his weapon.

  “What happened after the shot?” Colin asked. “Did anyone apprehend the perpetrator?”

  “We tried,” Milos said, “but there was no one to be found. He must be an unholy man to be able to vanish so completely.”

  “He had no gods on his side, that much is certain,” Colin said. “How long did you remain at the site after Mr. Reiner had removed Mr. Chapman?”

  “We all went down at the same time,” Milos said. “Mr. Chapman did not want us to stay and place ourselves in danger.”

  “Have you watched the road since then?” I asked.

  “No one, madam, has gone up or down. We have a man positioned at the lowest bend in the road. No one could come down from Mesa Vouno without passing him.”

  Colin and I looked at each other, thinking with one mind. Taking Milos and Vasilis with us, we rode to the bottom of Mesa Vouno, up the first straightaway, and around the first curve. There, a black puddle of thick blood next to his head, lay the villagers’ lookout.

  Philip

  Ephesus, 1895

  Philip did not like to think he had become complacent over the previous year, but the fact he had not had a single visit from a nefarious person since having established ties with Demir in Constantinople and Mr. Floros in Athens had allowed him to breathe a long-held sigh of relief. He congratulated himself for making alliances with these two figures, despite knowing they operated on a side of the law he could not find acceptable, let alone admirable. But who was he to sit in judgment of them, now he had allowed his own morals to lapse?

  As always, when he recalled his own sin, he felt for the bronze, still safely sewn into the lining of his jacket. He almost never allowed himself the luxury of taking it out and examining it, fearing he might be caught. But knowing he possessed it was enough. Its physical presence brought him contented pleasure.

  Reiner delighted at their reunion, and the two friends sat up late next to their fire after their first day at Ephesus. John Turtle Wood, an Englishman and a railway engineer, had begun digging at the site several decades ago, and although he found the remains of the famous Temple of Artemis, the structure—if one could even call it that—was in diabolical shape. Mr. Wood could not persuade the people financing his work to continue to do so.

  They ought, Philip believed, to have been more impressed at participating in the discovery of the remains of one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World no matter how little of it survived, but the longer he worked in the field, the more he came to see that the moneyed classes did not always have altruistic motives, despite their so-called superior blood. In a fortunate development for the intellectual edification of the human race, Herr Humann had come to Ephesus, along with Professor Otto Benndorf of the University of Vienna, with enough official backing and funds to embark on an excavation of enormous scope. Benndorf had even ordered a house to be built in Selçuk, the nearest town, to serve as headquarters for the project.

  The dig was extraordinarily well organized, and before long Philip and Reiner each had charge of a separate section of the city as the team methodically made its way through the site, which included an enormous theatre and the impressive two-story façade of the Library of Celsus. The work exhilarated Philip, and the dread that had been his constant companion since that fateful moment at Troy began to dissipate. Sometimes days, and then, eventually, weeks would go by without him pausing from his work to search the horizon for someone who had come for him.

  When not consumed with archaeological fervor, his thoughts would turn to Kallista, but he pushed them away, knowing he could not have her, not as things now stood. Fortunately, archaeology provided all the satisfaction he required and missing her became something he could tolerate.

  His peace proved short-lived. Hakan appeared early one morning, dressed in the robes of a local peasant, the clothes hanging on his frame in a way that made it impossible to believe they were his but instead suggested they were a disguise meant to fool the locals but not an Englishman.

  “Demir believes you might be in a unique position to offer him assistance,” he began. “He has heard you paid a sum of money to a colleague of his in Athens to provide a service Demir has, up to this time, provided to you without payment. Does this arrangement strike you as fair?”

  “I assure you, sir, I meant no slight by my actions. Mr. Floros insisted I pay him, and if Demir requires similar compensation, I do not object.”

  “Demir, unlike this Greek friend of yours, does not … what did you call it?… require compensation. He has entered into a business arrangement with you and wants something in return. Money he can get from anyone. You, Meester Chapman”—the man’s accent made Philip’s assumed name sound sinister even to himself—“could, for example, help Demir acquire the finest antiquities available from this site.”

  “Naturally, I would be happy to sell him everything I am allowed to take—”

  “You misunderstand, I think. Demir does not care about allowed. He cares about the quality of the objects he acquires for his many clients.”

  “I would expect nothing else from a man of his discerning taste.” Philip folded his arms, looking around and feeling divided between wishing someone would come and interrupt this increasingly uncomfortable conversation and praying that no one would hear a word the man was saying.

  “So you will secure for him things he might not get otherwise, yes?” Hakan asked. “Things governments and firmans don’t always allow to be taken out their country of origin?”

  “I can only do what our firman allows,” Philip said. “Violating it could lead to our permission to excavate being rescinded altogether.”

  “You are a smart man,” he said. “Demir says you went to Cambridge. I am told they like racing boats there, do they not? Sculling, it is called? We have fine rivers here in Turkey. They might not be so forgiving as those you have in England. It is easy to drown here. You will find a way to do what Demir wants. There is no other option, you see, so we will all be happy and drinking tea together in Constantinople before long.”

  Hakan turned around and walked away without giving Philip time to reply. Philip was still watching his figure grow smaller in the distance when Reiner clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Was he looking for work?” Reiner asked.

  “Yes, but he liked neither the hours nor the pay,” Philip said, shocked at how easily the lie came. “I doubt he will return.”

  15

  I choked back bile as we stood around the fallen man, who Milos told us was called Alastor Kallas. He had been married only two years and his wife had given birth to a baby boy less than a month ago. Margaret had retreated behind some nearby scruffy plants to be sick. Colin crouched next to the body, examining it carefully.

  “Did any of you hear another shot?” he asked.

  “No,” Milos said. “If we had, we would have come here without delay. If we had arrived more quickly…”

  Colin turned Mr. Kallas gently onto his side so that he could better see the fatal wound. “I am afraid it would have made no difference. The back of his skull has been crushed—Emily, do please look away; you will not want to
see this—and he must have died almost at once after receiving the blow.”

  I took my husband’s instruction in the spirit in which he gave it. I had remained composed at enough scenes of grisly death to feel no further need to prove my mettle, but as I stood, my back to the others, I feared I would be sick. I closed my eyes for a moment and then opened them and stepped further away from the cloying metallic smell of blood, searching for clues on the road in front of me.

  “Colin,” I called. “I may have found the murder weapon.” He and Milos were at my side at once. Vasilis, tears streaming down his face, remained next to his murdered friend. I pointed to a large rock on the ground, off the side of the road, nearly against the hill. The surface bore the evidence of its use. My stomach churned.

  “Emily, you and Margaret must take Vasilis back to the village. Someone needs to speak to Kallas’s wife—”

  Vasilis interrupted. “I will not leave him.”

  “I will go with you, madam,” Milos said. Margaret, the pallor of death coloring her face, walked back toward us, but stopped well before she reached the body and stood trembling in the middle of the road. Colin went to her, scooped her off her feet, and carried her to her horse, which she somehow managed, with his help, to mount. Milos took the reins attached to his donkey in one hand and held on to the bridle of her horse with the other, walking between the two animals so Margaret need not do anything more than remain upright. I followed behind, Pyrois skittish, as if he sensed something was wrong.

  Back in the village, the men were still beneath the olive tree. Milos said nothing to them as a group, but pulled one of them aside, and spoke to him in low tones. The man’s grizzled face crumpled at the news. Alastor Kallas was his son. As the others comforted him, Milos went in search not of Alastor’s wife, but of her mother, whom he felt should tell the new widow what had happened. I offered to accompany him, but he refused my offer. Graciously and with thanks, he explained it would be easier for her to hear without a stranger present.