The Secret of Helena’s Bay
Sally Quilford
(c) Sally Quilford 2009 All rights Reserved
Previously published by My Weekly Pocket Novels and F.A. Thorpe Large Print Publishers
Cover picture – Tarragona | DREAMSTIME.COM
The Secret of Helena’s Bay
Chapter One
The brochure said that the Church in the mainland town was a ‘must see’, so instead of going straight to the islet of Agios Georgious – Saint George - the guests were taken straight from the airport to the church.
It had all the hallmarks of a Greek Orthodox church; pristine white stone, and a blue dome, which appeared to become part of the blue sky above. The dome also emphasised the fact that darker clouds were coming in from the ocean. A storm was on the way. They had been told it would reach the islet by evening.
“The church was originally built in the twelfth century,” said Annette, the holiday facilitator. “But has been added to considerably.” She pointed to a small doorway. “That was the original entrance, and the wing behind it is the old church. As you can see, it was tiny. Not much bigger than a garden shed.”
“If your garden shed is in the grounds of Buckingham Palace,” said a man called Len. He was in his late fifties, with an arrogant swagger about him.
“The new entrance is on the left. Inside the modern wing there’s a lot more room to move,” Annette continued, in an overly patient tone.
Shelley broke away from the group, and wandered from the blazing heat into the cool cloisters of the church. Even on the bigger wing, the arched stained glass windows were relatively small, presumably to keep out the midday sun. Light cast rainbow colours across the worn flagstones.
An elderly man sat in one of the front pews. When Shelley drew near, he looked up and smiled. “It is magnificent, is it not?” he asked in a German accent, whilst gesturing towards a spot above the altar.
The main window, the one that the church was famous for, was high above the altar table. It showed Saint George, on a white charger. In one hand he held a sword, in the other a deep red rose, the glass of which cast refracted light onto the altar table.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Shelley.
“It is, isn’t it?” said Annette, coming up behind Shelley and making her jump. “It was restored by Yaya, who you’ll meet at the islet. She’s going to teach you to make stained glass.”
“I don’t think I’ll manage anything that beautiful,” said Shelley.
“No, probably not,” said Annette. Her response was so blunt that Shelley winced. “Come on, everyone,” Annette continued. “I’m sorry to break the visit short, but we’re told the storm is heading this way much quicker than we thought. We need to get you all on the ferry, otherwise we’ll be spending the night on the mainland.”
Shelley looked around to where the old man had been sitting, intending to wave goodbye. He was gone, but a few pews back sat a younger man. His down-turned profile was in shadow, yet still she felt a small thrill, as if she instinctively knew he would be attractive. He had a definite presence in the way he carried himself, even whilst seated. She had not realised she was staring until he looked around at her and smiled, showing his handsome face to the light.
Blushing a little, she followed the others out of the church and back into the blinding sunlight. She turned around to see if he was still sitting there or whether he was a part of the group. Her eyes had trouble focussing, but she was sure he had gone.
She looked for both men on the ferry over to the islet. Neither of them was on it. Which, she thought, was disappointing. Particularly where the younger man was concerned.
There was a group of archaeologists, led by an attractive German man of about forty. He looked the part, but his associates did not. Shelley supposed that not everyone could look like Indiana Jones. However, they looked like East End thugs. She mentally chastened herself for being so judgemental. After all, her own instincts had been proved to be unreliable in the all too recent past.
“We are digging for artefacts,” he told Shelley, leaning on the rail nonchalantly, whilst smoking a cigarette. “As you can imagine, Fraulein, there are many treasures to be found in this cradle of civilisation.”
“It sounds fascinating,” said Shelley, not totally impervious to his swaggering good looks, despite suspecting that he knew exactly how attractive he was. “Are you staying at the farmhouse?”
“No, which is a great regret to me now.” His dark eyes twinkled down at her. “We are camping near to the dig. I think I am getting too old for such pursuits, but I like to be close to where I am working. So alas, I will not be enjoying your charming company.”
“That’s a shame.” He reminded her of the type of German Officer they used to have in war films. The honourable one, from a noble family, who hated everything Hitler stood for and was only sitting out the war in a POW camp.
Looking around at her fellow holidaymakers, it seemed to Shelley that she was going to be the youngest, and by quite a few years.
Chapter Two
There was hardly anyone at dinner. The two elderly ladies who arrived together, Mrs Caldicott and Miss Charters, shared a table, but everyone else dined alone. If anyone, either by design or accident, drew close to an occupied table the diner looked up startled, whilst the person approaching swerved suddenly, as if an invisible barrier had jumped up, stopping further progress in that direction.
The brochure had promised that all meals would take place on the terrace, but the violent storm put a stop to that idea. It had also postponed the first Demos meeting on account of Annette being stuck over on the eastern side, where she had gone with the archaeology team to show them where they could set up camp. As there were no cars on the islet, her only way back was on foot. The guests were promised that she would return by the time dinner ended.
Shelley did not mind the dining room. It was set out in rustic style, with candles in old wine bottles on the tables, and pictures of old farmland – presumably the islet in more verdant days – on the walls. It made her feel secure, as if there were somewhere she could hide in its thick stone walls, whereas outside she might have felt exposed, and not just to the elements. She had spent too much time in doors over the preceding months, too ashamed to show her face to the neighbours, so the idea of being outside still made her nervous.
Mrs Caldicott and Miss Charters waved at Shelley as she entered the restaurant, beckoning her to their table. She shook her head and smiled, trying to indicate she did not want to put them to any trouble, rather than the truth, which was that she did not want or need company.
The buffet table ran along the length of the window, laden with yoghurt, baskets of fresh fruit, golden honey, Greek salad, lentils, chickpeas, bread, and for the non-vegetarians, fish, barbecued pork and chicken. Outside, black clouds moved across the sea, like a thick blanket, but bringing chill rather than warmth. Shelley took some chicken and Greek salad, before finding a table in a small alcove, away from the scrutiny of the other half a dozen diners.
“They say that we won’t be able to go to the mainland until it’s over,” said Mrs Caldicott to no one in particular.
“What a pity,” said Miss Charters. “I so wanted to see the church again before we left. We were there for such a short time.”
“I’m sure the storm won’t last all week, Minnie dear.”
Shelley was disconcerted when someone came and sat at her table, despite there being several empty tables left. She tried the startled look, but it clearly didn’t work on the man, as he ploughed through the psychological barrier. He took the seat opposite her. It was then that she saw he was the elderly man from the church.
“Good evening, F
raulein,” he said.
Shelley guessed he had once been very handsome, and tall, though age had caused his shoulders to stoop a little, and broken veins to appear on his once sharp cheekbones.
“Good evening,” she said, relieved it was him. He felt like a kindred spirit, though she did not understand why. “I hadn’t realised you were staying here too. I didn’t see you on the ferry.”
“You English are very strange,” he said, seeming to ignore her comment. “The way you all avoid each other.”
“We’ll be best friends by the end of the week,” said Shelley, smiling.
“True, but you will not say a word to each other until Friday evening.”
Shelley laughed. He’d just described every holiday she had ever been on with fellow Brits. “That’s true. We are a bit standoffish. And I’m afraid that I’m probably one of the worst culprits.”
“Then you and I shall not be, as you say, stand offish. We shall be instant friends. My name is Stefan,” he said, holding out his hand. It trembled slightly and felt cold to the touch. She wondered if it were the beginnings of Parkinsons Disease or just his age. Certainly his manner was warm enough.
“I’m Shelley.”
“You are surely not on Saint George’s Islet for your health? You are too young. Not like us … how do you say it? Old fogeys.”
Shelley shrugged and smiled, ignoring the question. Mrs Caldicott and Miss Charters had already pumped her for information on the trip over from the main island.
“What brings you here?” asked Shelley.
“This islet was occupied by my country during World War Two, and my father was sent here with the occupying forces. I come to right his wrongs.”
“In what way?”
“You know, I am sure, of the Nazi government’s vile scramble for loot?”
“Yes, Nazi gold is a popular subject on the History Channel.”
“My father was among those who helped with the looting. Allied forces shot him not long after he had stolen some jewels from the small church that used to be on the islet. No one knows where my father hid them.”
“So you’ve come to find them?” Shelley wondered whether Stefan’s motives were entirely innocent. He seemed a decent enough man, but her trustworthiness radar was somewhat damaged.
“Yes, but not for myself. I only wish to return them to their rightful owners. My father’s shame burns in me. It may be hard for you to believe, but I want to recover my family’s good name. We were a proud family, of noble birth, before that little despot turned us all into the world’s favourite race of monsters.”
“How do you know where to start looking? The islet is small, but there’s still several hundred square metres to cover.”
“My father wrote letters to my mother, about his time here. I have been reading them, trying to pick up clues. Places he visited. Where he spent most of his time here. There is one place…”
Stefan stopped, as Mrs Caldicott and Miss Charters got up to leave the room, passing by their table, discussing Murray’s chances at Wimbledon.
“Let’s hope we get back in time to see the finals,” said Mrs Caldicott.
“I have bored you enough,” Stefan said after they had gone. He rose from his chair.
“No, I’m not bored at all. Please sit down and tell me more.” She’d been sure she would hate it on the islet, and only came because her mother insisted she take a break, even offering to pay for it. So she had gone online and opened up Google Earth, clicking with her eyes shut at any part of the map she thought might be warm. First try she got Beirut, then Iraq, so she tried again and again, until she found Saint George Islet, and an information box came up about the creative arts weeks they run on the islet.
She was not sure if she wanted to write, throw pots, or make stained glass, all of which were included in the activities, but she did want her mother to stop nagging her. Now a bit of Nazi intrigue enthralled her more than the idea of any of the classes.
“I’d like to hear more about your father and the hidden jewels,” said Shelley. But Stefan was not listening. He stared at the doorway, his face becoming pale. By the time Shelley turned around, whoever he was looking at had left. “Do you know you’re not the only German here? There’s a professor … erm … Grunwald. He’s doing a dig across the islet.”
“I am afraid I must say goodnight,” said Stefan, looking paler still. “It has been very pleasant to talk to you. Perhaps I will tell you more tomorrow.”
“You’re not coming to the demos meeting?”
“Yes, but I must rest now. I will speak to you about this again, yes?”
As he stepped forward, he tripped, grabbing the back of Shelley’s chair and knocking her bag, which had been hanging from it, to the ground. “Please, excuse me,” he said, when he restored his balance and returned her bag to her. “I am not so steady on my feet these days.”
“Are you alright?” asked Shelley. “You look pale. Please, sit down and rest awhile.”
“No, I have to leave now. Thank you for your patience and kindness, Fraulein.” With that he gave her a courtly bow, and left the dining room.
Chapter Three
Later, with dinner out of the way, the dining room was cleared, and the chairs placed in a less formal circular arrangement for the Demos. A gong called the guests, who had been sent to a sun lounge on the other side of the building for five minutes whilst the clearing up operation took place.
“Sun lounge is something of a misnomer,” said Len. “They promised us sunshine, and look at the weather.”
“That’s hardly the organiser’s fault,” said Miss Charters.
Shelley sighed inwardly. Len was clearly going to be whinger of the week. Not that she felt any more hopeful about her time here, but she at least managed to keep it to herself.
Despite their best efforts to sit separately at the demos, it appeared the staff had removed some dining chairs, leaving exactly twenty-two for the twenty guests and two facilitators, leaving them little choice but to sit next to someone.
“Good evening,” said Annette. Her blonde hair was damp, and her face had a scrubbed clean look. “I apologise for my lateness. I was showing Professor Grunwald where he could set up camp, and, as they say in cricket, rain stopped play. And pretty much everything else. So I ended up walking back. Two miles in the rain. I don’t envy the Professor and his team, camping out this weather, but despite my offer of shelter, he insists they’ll be fine.”
“Goodness! In this storm?” said Miss Charters.
“It’s been much worse than this on Agios Georgious Islet,” said Annette, waving her hand as if it were of little matter. “In nineteen forty five there was a tremendous storm. It totally destroyed the old church.” She gave the impression that it would take much more than a storm to knock her down.
The mention of the war years reminded Shelley of Stefan. She looked around, but he wasn’t among the guests. She wondered if he’d heard the gong calling them to Demos.
“Now, before I split you into groups, and go through the schedule, I’m going to call the register,” said Annette. “To ensure you’ve all made it from the mainland.”
As she read out their names, a man entered the room. His hair was also damp, but jet black. His blue eyes, vivid against honey coloured skin, brought to mind the Mediterranean on a calm day. He sat in an empty seat. Whereas everyone else sat upright and rigid, he leaned back, crossing long legs encased in beige chinos. He looked at Shelley and smiled. He was the younger man from the church.
Shelley was so busy looking at him, she almost missed her name on the register.
“Oh, Shelley Freeman. That’s me,” she said, putting up her hand, then feeling foolish, bringing it straight back down. After all, they weren’t in school. The rest of the guests laughed, making Shelley blush even more.
“Thank you.” Annette smiled tightly, glancing proprietarily at the newcomer who’d taken Shelley’s attention. Shelley wondered if they were lovers.
A
nnette read through the rest of the list, and was about to close the register, when Shelley spoke up. “What about Stefan? Did I miss his name?”
“Who?”
“Stefan? The elderly German man who sat with me at dinner.” She looked around at her fellow guests for confirmation, but they all looked at her blankly.
“There’s no one called Stefan on this list,” said Annette.
“But he was here at dinner. He was talking to me. An elderly man, about six feet tall. He didn’t seem very well.”
Annette looked at the list again. “Nope. No one here of that name.”
“You saw him, didn’t you?” Shelley asked Mrs Caldicott and Miss Charters.
“Well … actually,” said Mrs Caldicott, “we didn’t, dear. We could hardly see you, where you hid yourself away in that alcove.”
“But you passed by my table. He stood up. He tripped over, remember?”
“I’m afraid we didn’t see him,” said Miss Charters. “We were busy discussing that nice young Mr Murray, so we weren’t really paying attention.”
“Perhaps it was a gatecrasher,” said Len, who was sitting next to Shelley.
“Yes, it could be,” said Annette. “We get a few cheeky sorts making their way over here in the day, then trying to pop in and use our buffet. We once found a stowaway in one of the empty huts.” Outside the farmhouse was a village of grass huts, used as accommodation by the more hardy guests.
“He didn’t seem that sort of man,” said Shelley. “He was very nice …” She felt herself getting hot, especially when she realised the dark haired hunk was watching her intently. “He was also in the church today.” She looked to him for some confirmation, but he just shrugged.
“We don’t have anyone here called Stefan,” said Annette. She slammed the register shut, as if that were the end of the matter.
It turned it out be only the beginning.
As Annette talked the group through health and safety, Shelley’s mind turned over and over, wondering who Stefan was, and why he was not listed amongst the guests.
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