The Whispers of Nemesis (9 page)

‘To continue,' said the priest, accepting a plate from Maria. ‘If there has been no unusual intervention, then we must assume this is the work of human hands. Of malicious hands, in fact. In which case, plainly these are not Santos's remains. So I couldn't inter them as such, no.'

Attis sighed, and poured more brandy for himself. Maria lifted a silver dragée from the cross marked on the
kolyva
, and replaced it exactly straight.

‘But if they're not Santos's bones,' asked Frona, ‘where is he? Who would have done such a cruel thing?'

‘People,' said Maria, darkly, prodding the blanched almonds with her fingertip. ‘Bad people.'

A longcase clock ticked away the moments of a silence.

‘You'll be wanting to know,' said Attis, at last, as he removed his glasses, ‘how much is in the account.'

Frona, Maria and the priest all looked at him.

‘How much?' asked Frona.

‘A substantial amount.'

‘How substantial?'

‘Exactly, I couldn't say. Substantial.'

‘And who knows this?'

‘Myself. All of you, now. The bank where the account is held, of course. And Yorgas Sarris, as the publisher, of course; they have paid the royalties over the last four years.'

‘So there might be,' suggested Frona, ‘more money than he made in all his life.'

‘After his death, sales grew to an impressive level, as you know,' said Attis. ‘It's a sad fact that Death may bring rewards for a talent which brought little success for the artist in his lifetime. Santos often compared himself to Van Gogh, who lived in poverty and became wealthy as he lay in his grave. And the comparison was fair. Now he's gone, Santos's beautiful poems are set texts in schools and universities, even internationally; I'm told he's under consideration by the Sorbonne. Santos would have been very gratified, there's no doubt of it, even though he was no businessman. His life was his art.'

Frona laughed, bitterly.

‘If you believe that, you didn't know him at all. He worried constantly about money, about bills and debts. This house has had nothing spent on it since our grandmother's time. It's cold, and it's draughty, and it's inconvenient. The wiring's unreliable at best, and when it rains, it's dangerous. The roof leaks and the window frames are rotten; it's overrun by mice, and riddled with damp. Santos loved this house, but he couldn't afford its upkeep, and he hated to watch it fall down around his ears. And his wife hated it here. She was a city girl, like me and Leda. He always said she left him because she couldn't live in this state. And Leda and I couldn't live here now, even if we wanted to. The place isn't fit for dogs. Look!'

She pointed up at the ceiling, where brown stains of damp showed on flaking plaster, and at the cracked glass in the rotten window frame, the threadbare rugs and old furniture, at the oil lamps in readiness for power failures.

Attis sighed.

‘I did my best for him,' he said. ‘There's just no money in poetry.'

‘But there's money in the poems of dead poets, isn't there?' asked Frona. ‘And now he's dead and made his money, someone's trying to steal it!'

‘Steal it?' The agent seemed shocked. ‘What on earth makes you say that?'

‘That does!' She pointed at the metal case at the priest's feet. ‘Someone who knows what was in his will has stolen his remains to invalidate it, and keep us from our inheritance!'

Papa Tomas looked up from his plate with interest; Maria halted in her rearranging of the crackers.

‘What someone?' asked Attis. ‘Why?'

‘Some enemy. Someone who has an interest in keeping the money locked away.'

She looked hard at the agent, and made her meaning clear.

‘Frona! Surely, Frona, you can't be accusing me?' In apparent hurt and indignation, Attis's face grew red. ‘Why would I do such a thing, to you of all people? No one could have worked harder on Santos's behalf, on behalf of his estate, and in your interests! Tirelessly, I have worked! I've sold rights to dozens of countries, and overseen the royalty payments in a fair and businesslike manner. The accounts may be frozen, but I can assure you that all the monies that should be there, are there! And might I remind you, I am myself a beneficiary of the will? It grants me a one-off sum, if you remember, which at the time of his death Santos simply didn't have, a very generous gesture which four years ago his estate could not possibly have paid. Maybe he was a better businessman than he seemed. In willing me that sum, he willed me an incentive to make the money – which I may say I have done, alongside a considerable sum for you, and Leda. So I cannot for one single minute see why you think I should want to keep his money from myself, or you, especially in such a bizarre and ghoulish fashion! Why in God's name would I do something so heathen as to dig the poor man up, and hide his bones? I may be many things, Frona, but a grave-robber I most certainly am not.'

Frona sighed.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I appreciate all you've done. But if not any of us, who?'

‘Bad eyes,' murmured Maria, ‘bad eyes.' She made crosses over her heart, and glanced at the darkening window as if an unwelcome face might be watching. The priest made crosses too, and sipped more brandy.

‘Does it matter who?' asked Attis.

‘What do you mean?' Frona picked up a ram's-head poker, and shifted the charred logs to shake off their ash. Small flames flickered, and died again as she placed a fresh pine log in the grate.

‘We've exhumed the bones in Santos's grave. Doesn't that meet the terms of the will?'

‘Not if they're not his bones.'

‘But we could say they are.'

‘Say that those pig bones belong to my brother? That will bring shame on him, and on us, his family.'

Papa Tomas nodded enthusiatic agreement.

‘But what if the bones were blessed?' asked Attis. ‘Think about it, Frona; I'm trying to help you, and Leda. A blessing would surely make it right. You'd make it right, wouldn't you, Papa, for a consideration?'

But Frona shook her head.

‘We can't do that,' she said. ‘Where are Santos's bones? Someone has desecrated my brother's grave, Attis! That's more important than any amount of money! We should be going after this grave-robber, this criminal!'

‘Just so,' said Attis, carefully, ‘Just so. And with money, you could hire an investigator to track him down. You're quite right that a criminal act has been committed here, for reasons we don't know. But without money to pay someone to find out, the truth may never be discovered, and poor Santos's remains may never be found. So here's what I suggest. Papa, we'll need your help. We must inter the bones as if all is as it should be.'

But Papa Tomas shook his head.

‘I don't think I could do that,' he said. ‘I'm sorry – I'm sorry for you all, and I really do wish to help – but I really couldn't.'

‘What if, then,' suggested the agent, ‘we inter no bones at all? An empty box. That removes your objection, surely, Papa? I know in the family's interests we can rely on your discretion and your silence. When Santos's remains are found, maybe you'd conduct a quiet ceremony to bring him home. And when the money in the accounts is released, Frona, you can hire someone to discover the truth.'

‘And what about local tittle-tattle?' asked Frona. ‘How will we keep a leash on that?' She looked across at Maria, but Maria was busy, wiping dust from an unopened bottle of wine.

‘Papa Tomas has considerable influence. Papa, you could help us there, too.'

The priest looked doubtful.

‘What will I tell them?' he asked. ‘That there was some trick of the light? I'm afraid the rumours will persist. And what about the bones, here, in the case? What if they
are
Santos's bones, transformed? To dispose of them without proper ceremony would be a sin.'

‘We could re-bury them,' said Attis, ‘somewhere they won't be found.'

‘But what if there has been some kind of . . .' objected the priest.

‘This is all superstition,' interrupted Attis. ‘Do you really believe Santos has been magicked into a pig?'

‘A possibility, in the minds of some, is all I'm saying.'

By the table, Maria crossed herself again.

‘So clean the bones with holy water, and bless them,' said Attis. ‘When Frona has money to pay an investigator, no doubt we'll prove there's been no magical transformation. Can we agree, then, to this plan? Our story is, the observers were mistaken and the reports are malicious gossip. The case will be placed empty in the ossuary, and I'll contact the lawyer and tell him to call the bank to release the funds.'

‘How long will it take?' asked Frona. ‘When do you think the money will come through? I want my brother's remains found, and brought home to his final rest.'

‘These things take time. Two weeks, at least; perhaps as long as a month. But, since we know the money is coming, we can start to move ahead. When I get back to town, I'll make enquiries of my own, and find the most efficient man I can to take on the job. Now, if we're done, I'll go and find poor Leda. She'll be desperately cold and miserable, out there all alone in the dark.'

 

Like wildfire, like a virus, the news spread; the women carried it like contagion, and every mouth that repeated the story built on it, embellishing and embroidering, until only the smallest kernel of truth remained at the tale's heart: that the poet's bones were not human, but had been transformed into a beast's. Some said he had been dug up and replaced by malicious hands; others that the matter was far more sinister, and that the devil was at work. First he was a mere pig, of average size; but with each telling he grew, until he had become a massive boar, with tusks so long they'd go straight through a man. The poet was destined to become a legend and his transformation a myth; and the news came quickly to the ears of Maria's old mother, Roula.

Roula claimed now to be in her ninetieth year, but Maria was known to be only seventy-one, which made Roula's claim impossible, as she had been married at thirteen. Housebound for two years, she was confined to the
salone
, propped up with cushions in her bed, and waited on and cared for by her daughter.

The tale was brought by Maria and seconded by the neighbour, who had also been amongst the women at the grave.

With a shawl around her shoulders and a tray across her knees, Roula was spooning broth into her toothless mouth and sucking on bread soaked in the soup.

Maria and the neighbour told each other the story, then told it slightly differently, again: poor Santos's bones a boar's, Frona angry and upset, Leda brought home silent with the shock, Papa Tomas refusing to speak of the matter at all.

‘The devil's amongst us, here in Vrisi,' wailed the neighbour. ‘
Panayia mou, Panayia!
'

Old Roula lowered her spoon, and regarded her daughter and the neighbour through milky eyes.

‘Eat your broth, Mama,' said Maria.

‘Where will the bones go now?' asked the neighbour, in excitement. ‘Not in the ossuary, surely? They must burn them, to purge the devil.'

‘They say they'll get to the bottom of it,' said Maria to the neighbour. ‘They're hiring an investigator to look into it. Don't say anything, but they believe that it's an enemy, trying to rob them.'

‘An investigator?' asked the neighbour. ‘What kind of investigator?'

‘A detective of some sort, I suppose. Someone who'll make enquiries.'

‘An investigator?' asked Roula. ‘Here in Vrisi?'

But her daughter and the neighbour both ignored her and went on with their speculation.

Roula spooned more broth into her mouth and sucked on the sodden bread.

‘I used to know someone you might suggest,' she said, after she swallowed.

‘Have you finished your broth?' asked Maria, taking away Roula's bowl. ‘You used to know a lot of people, Mama. But as you're always telling me, most of those you used to know are dead. It's getting late, for you. Come on, and I'll get you ready for your bed.'

 

For the second time that month, the moon was full – a rare blue moon – and the wind had shifted to the north, sweeping away the clouds to leave a night of remarkable beauty. Moonlight flowed in through the curtainless window, a delicate light with the dim glow of pewter, casting shadows with the soft look of gauze.

In her sleep, Roula was restless, shifting uneasily between drowsing and the strangeness of her dreams. In her dream, a dog was barking, though not the skinny hound her son-in-law kept now (which was a nervous dog, prone to crafty nipping of goats' hocks, and always appearing where it was least expected, like the sly son-in-law himself). No: the bark belonged to Antonio, her father's dog when she was a girl; Antonio, long-haired, sand-brown and kind-eyed, a pastoral dog by nature and biddable with the herd. Antonio was barking a warning, running up and down the yard as he had when someone drew near, his chain rattling as he dragged it through the dirt.