Murder in Megara

by Eric Mayer

  Cornelia took his arm. “Does it? Perhaps you are the one who has changed. And now are you going to show me around your old home?”

  “It’s just an old farmhouse, but there is something I’d like you to see. I thought of it last night.” He pointed to a clump of trees just visible from where they stood. “Leonidas, Alexis, and I sometimes camped out overnight among those trees. We pretended to be guarding the empire, represented by that barn. Many a foray we made during the dark hours, fighting off enemies bent on stealing the empire’s eggs.”

  Taking her hand, he led her into the clump of trees he had pointed out. Its canopy closed overhead but the dense growth soon opened out to disclose a clearing where sunlight streamed down over an octagonal kiosk.

  “How lovely! And it has a wind vane!” Cornelia declared.

  “My father built this at my mother’s request. She told me it was a reminder of a visit they took to Athens in the early years of their marriage. She had been particularly impressed by the Horologion. She spent a lot of time here when the work was done. Perhaps it was because it brought back memories of my father. In any event, here it is.”

  They stood in front of the structure, staring up at the wind vane. It barely moved.

  “It was not possible to obtain a copy of the fish-tailed sea god vane or the depictions of the gods of wind they had seen on the original structure, but it is a close enough re-creation to make my mother happy. And as for me, I spent a lot of time alone here reading,” John continued.

  “A perfect hiding place for a studious boy,” Cornelia replied. “Shall we go in?”

  “Speaking of which,” John said as he followed her into the low-ceilinged interior, “between Leonidas’ unfortunate attempt to hide his collection of coins and then the search of Petrus’ house for evidence of wrongdoing, I remembered another hiding place last night.”

  He dragged a short bench away from the wall to the center of the room, stood on it, ran a hand along the ceiling, and pushed one of its planks up and to the side. “My friends and I used to leave messages here for each other, so the grownups wouldn’t know. We were spies for the emperor then and our parents were the Persians. But grownups usually do know about their children’s secrets. It occurred to me Theophilus might have made use of it.”

  He groped around in the cavity in the ceiling. “Mithra!” he exclaimed and brought out a flat, circular bronze mold. “Here is definite evidence counterfeiting is being carried out on the estate. It certainly wasn’t hidden here when I was a boy. Look, you can see that’s Justinian’s face.” He leaned over to hand the mold to Cornelia. “And there are one or two bags of what feel like coins hidden here as well.”

  “Theophilus recalled your hiding place after so many years?”

  “Of course he did. No doubt he relished the fact he knew our secrets, or thought he did. It must have been a fond memory. He probably enjoyed the idea the stepson who hated him was assisting him in his illicit dealings by handing him such a fine place to hide his own secrets.”

  More of John’s arm vanished into the hole. There was a scraping noise and he moved a short board from one side of the opening to the other.

  “Ah, but was my stepfather clever enough to know there is a hiding place behind the hiding place where our real messages were placed?”

  His face clouded. “Perhaps he was. There’s a box here!”

  Stepping down he wiped dust from its plain unfinished wood with his sleeve, cut the cord holding down the lid, and opened it. He lifted out a sheet of parchment and scanned its writing.

  Mithra!” he said again, but so faintly it was little more than an exhalation. “I have not searched for my mother, but she has found me.” He gave the parchment to Cornelia. “This is her will.”

  Its few lines left the farm to John, should he return to Megara before her death. If he did not, the land was to go to Saint Stephen’s Monastery “in recognition,” his mother had stated, “of the godly works they do for the sick, bereaved, and poor.”

  “She was still expecting you to return,” Cornelia said, “and anticipated when you did, you would eventually look here. Your mother intended for the farm to pass from her to you, John. And now you own it, although not by the means she envisioned. You are not going to make this public, are you?”

  John took the will back, and stared at it, as if it might hold some undeciphered code. “You’re afraid this part of the estate will pass to the monastery because she was dead before I returned? I don’t know what the legal situation would be about that.”

  “We must consult Anatolius about that. But meantime, is there anything else there?”

  John sat on the bench with Cornelia beside him. It felt as if a god—the Zeus of Megara perhaps—had reached down and shaken the kiosk, leaving it at a peculiar angle. John had lost all sense of balance. They both stared at the remaining sheet in the box.

  “It’s not a poisonous snake,” Cornelia finally said, plucking it up and thrusting it into John’s hands. “Read it to me.”

  John complied:

  The repentant sinner John to his dear wife Sophia, greetings from Alexandria. I pray things have been well for you and our son. Many times in many places my thoughts have flown to both of you, yet I was ashamed to follow them. I thank the Lord, believing as I do that John has made both of us proud and did not take to my wandering ways.

  From this letter you will know that on the day I left I did not commit my body to the sea and my soul to hell, as is commonly supposed in Megara, according to what I was told by a traveler who passed through there. I believed there was something better beyond our little farm, but I have learned that whatever paths we travel they all lead to the same destination.

  Now that I have nearly reached that blessed ending, the holy father has admonished me to write to you and beg forgiveness as I have already begged forgiveness of the Lord. Give my affectionate greetings to our son. Although I am too weak to write this myself, you will recognize my signature.

  John

  Written by the scribe Marius in the fifteenth year of Emperor Justinian

  Cornelia put her hand on John’s. “I’m so sorry, John.”

  He smiled wanly and continued to stare at the letter. “Perhaps it is a poisonous snake after all. I should have preferred to read that my father planned to return once he’d made his fortune or when he’d had his fill of travel. Anything other than simply abandoning his family.”

  “He must have been returning home when he fell ill.”

  “Yes, certainly, Cornelia.” John tried to believe her. “He will be dead by now given he was too ill to write himself and this was dictated years ago. More importantly, do you notice when it is dated? After Theophilus married my mother, meaning father was still alive and the marriage was not legal.”

  His voice almost broke as the words emerged. He had a feeling, close to shame, that his mind should insist on examining every fact, weighing every possibility, and manufacturing conclusions even in the face of such a devastating personal sorrow.

  Cornelia squeezed his hand. “It must have been terrible for your mother to hear from someone long thought dead and especially since she had remarried, or thought she had, at least.”

  John placed the letter into the box, closing its lid carefully. He tried to ignore the stinging in his eyes and the hot flush along his cheekbones. “Theophilus could not inherit the farm since his marriage to Mother was invalid. Therefore it could not have passed to him at her death and so its sale to Senator Vinius may not be valid either. In fact, this document means I cannot be certain who owns the farm. When Mother died before I returned, the monastery should have taken possession. I have to assume she left a copy of her will with Alexis, having made the bequest to his monastery. Why didn’t Alexis make his claim?”

  “Perhaps,” came Cornelia’s whispered reply, “your mother is not dead.”

  Chapter Forty-f
ive

  Hypatia sat on the side of the bed rubbing a pungent ointment into the abrasions on her ankles. The sharp odor made Peter’s eyes water, but then, in his old age everything made his eyes water—cold, heat, wind, memories of his youth. The cats, one on each side of their mistress, blinked in annoyance but maintained their vigil.

  Peter found a place on the bed for himself as far from the black cat as possible. “Those beasts hover about when you don’t feel well, like furry vultures.”

  “Oh, Peter! Cats sense when we’re sick and want to comfort us.”

  “Are you healing well? What else did the City Defender do to you?”

  Hypatia replaced the lid on the ointment jar. The cats eyed it warily. “I have told you more than once. I was treated well enough, except for the shackles. Please stop fretting.”

  “I can’t stop worrying when the City Defender’s men could arrive to arrest you again at any time. You know he’s certain you killed Diocles. You don’t think he’ll bother to investigate local residents like Petrus or Lucian, do you? Not when there was a foreigner on the scene, and a mere servant at that.”

  Hypatia looked tense. “I am certain everything will be as it should be. Why wouldn’t it be? I didn’t kill Diocles. Why would I?”

  “I gather from what I’ve overheard that he threatened the master.”

  “Don’t be foolish!” Hypatia began to nervously pet the black cat.

  Peter could hear the cat purring in contentment, a monstrous reaction to the dire situation. “Personally, I think Philip killed the overseer.”

  Hypatia stiffened. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?”

  Her obvious anger distressed him. “But Diocles was staying with Philip’s father when he should not have even been on the estate. It may be there was a quarrel and Philip was settling the score for his father. But the City Defender won’t look into the possibility, not when he can accuse—”

  “Peter, please stop. You’re making me afraid. I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

  “Don’t worry, Hypatia. I have the solution. I intend to confess to the City Defender that I killed Diocles.”

  Hypatia stopped petting the cat. She stared at Peter in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “I had the same reason the City Defender will suppose you had. To defend the master.”

  “But you were nowhere near the blacksmith’s forge that night.”

  “Are you certain? Does it make any difference? I’m an old man. How many years, or months, do I have left? The Lord might take me at any time. Why, I might not outlive those mangy animals you’ve adopted. You’re still young with your life ahead of you. And besides, you will not be burdened with me.”

  Hypatia leapt from the bed in a fury, sending the cats flying. One of them knocked the ointment jar over and it rolled to the wall. “Don’t say such things! I dread the day I am not burdened with you, Peter. I hope it never comes. I won’t stand by and let you lie for me. You didn’t kill Diocles any more than I did.”

  Feeling the weight of her wrathful gaze, Peter rose with difficulty until they were both standing. “But it doesn’t matter, you see, whether I confess to killing Diocles because I did, indeed, murder Theophilus.”

  “Sit down, Peter. You’re ill. You’ve been injured, suffered shocks. Your humors are deranged.”

  “No, that isn’t so. The day after Theophilus was found at the temple—after I’d fallen into the pit—well, you see, I couldn’t remember anything except approaching the temple, and then waking from a nightmare at the monastery. But it has been coming back to me. First I recalled my dream about the angel standing guard as I lay in the pit. Then more memories returned. I fell into the pit while fleeing from what I’d done.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it!”

  “But I do recall walking along and then, suddenly, nothing but air under my feet. I woke with a terrible feeling that I had done something wrong.”

  “Why would you have killed the master’s stepfather?”

  “To protect the master, of course. He hated his stepfather. And what was his stepfather doing on this estate at night? Obviously he was up to no good.”

  “You must have taken a knife with you. Where is this knife? I haven’t seen you carrying one.”

  “I…I haven’t remembered that yet. I must have had a knife, certainly. It isn’t all clear yet.”

  “It’s clear to me that you want to sacrifice yourself for me and for the master. I won’t let you do it. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “The Lord will have to judge whether it is right or not. Tomorrow I am going to confess to the City Defender.”

  Hypatia took a step forward and grasped his shoulders. Her dark eyes were bright with tears. “I do love you, Peter. I had hoped to escape prosecution so we could enjoy our time together, but if you insist on going to the City Defender I will have to admit the truth. I did kill Diocles.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Abbot Alexis was sitting at his desk with an open codex before him when John arrived in the early evening. “This is an unexpected pleasure, John. Shall we be talking about pagan religions or reminiscing about our youth?”

  His smile of greeting faded as John spoke. “Alexis, please read this. It is my mother’s will.”

  Alexis took the proffered document and laid it down without consulting it. “Yes, indeed. We have the original in our possession.”

  “There may be some irregularity with its provisions that will need to be investigated but I intend to consult a lawyer I know in Constantinople about that as soon as possible.”

  “You are talking about inheriting your old family farm?”

  “That in due course. I came here today to ask you why the monastery has not claimed it, given it is almost certain my stepfather did not have the legal right to sell it. As I have only just learned.”

  The abbot closed his eyes for a moment, as if to rest them or to pray. “All things are revealed in due season. Indeed, Theophilus did not have that right, but we discovered the sale too late to stop it. I only learned of the true situation when your mother entered our care. At that time she told me of the marriage that was not. We could not be certain if she was confused or misremembering events and since your stepfather had departed after selling the farm we felt there was no reason to distress her further or expose her to ridicule, so we did nothing about the matter. We did make inquiries and eventually confirmed that what she told us was true.”

  “And when she died, you would have brought suit to transfer ownership of the farm to the monastery?”

  “That was the intent.”

  “But you have not done so.” John said. “Which means one thing only. My mother is alive and in your care and I insist on seeing her now. And then I should like an explanation of why you did not tell me she was here the first time we met again after my long absence.”

  ***

  John insisted that Alexis not accompany him to the hospice. However, he was not to see his mother alone, because Stephen intercepted him on the way.

  “May I speak to you, sir? About your conversation with the abbot?”

  “You just happened to overhear us?”

  John saw Stephen wince in the illumination cast by the church-shaped lantern he recalled from his previous visit. Crosses of light danced on the walls and ceiling as they proceeded down the dark corridor.

  “It has proved helpful for me to listen, considering how poor the abbot’s memory can be. Not that there is anything wrong with his faculties, but strange and wonderful events that transpired hundreds of years ago are forever pushing from his thoughts the mundane tasks that need to be done tomorrow.”

  “You are a useful man, Stephen. No wonder he considers you his successor.”

  “Does he? But never mind. The abbot is not an old man. He will be in charge of Saint Stephen’s for many years.”
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br />   “And you will loyally continue to listen at his door.”

  They were almost at the hospice. Stephen came to a halt. “Sometimes one overhears things that one would rather not.”

  “You have something to tell me?”

  “May the Lord forgive me for saying it, but the abbot is not above trying to serve both God and mammon. He is well-intentioned. He intends to benefit the monastery and hospice. The fact is, he had questionable dealings with Diocles.”

  “My former overseer? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “You and the abbot are old friends. Would you have believed me?”

  “No, and I’m not sure I believe you now. I will consider what you have said, provided you can offer proof beyond what you claim to have heard while eavesdropping.”

  The flickering light from the lantern made Stephen’s expression difficult to read.

  “What about Theophilus?” John continued. “Did he visit?”

  “Often, sir. After he brought Sophia to live here, he came to see her many times.”

  It was difficult for John to believe. In fact, he admitted to himself, he did not want to believe his stepfather felt any real affection for his mother. Why should he have suddenly begun to treat her in a decent fashion? Wasn’t it more likely Theophilus was also visiting the monastery on illicit business? John did not want to think badly of his old friend Alexis, but the man had lied to him about his mother. How then could he now be believed about anything?

  “Let us go in,” John said.

  He stepped into a dismal underworld. The room was long and dimly lit, filled with rows of beds. Most of the occupants lay partly covered with sheets, as still as corpses on biers. A few sat up, fewer still slumped or lolled on stools near their bedsides.

  There was a tug at John’s tunic. Glancing down, he saw bony fingers with long, black nails fastened talon-like to the cloth. His gaze followed the hand along a skeletal arm and up into a vacant, withered face.