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Authors: Malia Zaidi

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BOOK: A Poisonous Journey
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"What is your book about?" Dymas rests his large hands on the table.
"It’s a travel book." Daniel is uncomfortable answering, one can see in the tightening of his features. In fact, this is the first time he has mentioned his writing.
Maybe doubts his abilities?
"Interesting. Well, I am glad you kept me informed. It may help us to discover someone on the island with whom Mr. Ballantine had illegal dealings, and who may have had a motive."
"How will you do that, with only first names? Even those are shortened in some cases. Here," Daniel points to a line on the paper in front of him, "this name, ‘CHRSTS’ or this one, ‘DARS’, or, ‘PHLIP’, or ‘ARSTO’?" Daniel turns to the inspector, frustration drawn across his face. "The most recent entries must have been made here on the island, there are only nine since we have been on Crete. Of those three have dubious connotations."
"Well, ‘CHRSTS’ is surely ‘Christos’ and ‘PHLIP’ must be ‘Philip’. I will make a list of the recent entries and ask my collegues to help. Which are the names of his blackmail victims?"
I wince at the word, still thinking of Caspar as the ultimate
victim
.
"Let me see." Daniel furrows his brow and runs his eyes down the last page.
Jeffrey and Briony, who have remained almost silent in the exchange, sit closely beside one another, tired and edgy, with lines drawn across Jeffrey’s forehead and visible tension in my cousin’s expression.
"Here we are." Daniel takes a pen to circle three lines on the piece of paper. "Look." He turns the page around to show it to us.
TYMN THF 2000DR
DARS THF 3500DR
PHLIP ADLTR 2000DR
DARS OWES 9000DR
TYMN WED 1000DR
"So ‘DARS’ and ‘TYMN’ appear twice and he has added what they owed him in Drachmae not Pounds. The adulterous Philip seems to have been spared a larger part in this affair." Dymas seems bemused, the corners of his wide mouth slanting ever so slightly upwards.
Odd man
. I almost shake my head.
"Have you any other ideas, inspector?" I want to remind him that this is a serious matter, nothing to be grinning about.
"No. None. Your friend has been very discreet and thereby difficult to understand. So far we have no new leads, I am sorry to say. I have spoken to the list of people you supplied, people with whom he was in contact or who he had befriended. In the short time he was on Crete, he made quite a few acquaintances. Still, as far as we have been able to investigate, none had a motive to do him any harm. Even if they did," he lets his words hang in the air for a moment, "they have alibis. They are not easy to confirm in some cases. Many people here work by a daily routine, most do not even own watches. We have to track their movements by asking who saw them and when. This is a time costly task, and Miklos does not have the resources or manpower you may be used to in London. We are already borrowing three men from the next district."
"We understand." Jeffrey’s tone is clear and not lacking authority. "And we appreciate being kept informed. It is a very difficult time and a disturbing situation we would like resolved as quickly as possible."
"Of course, Mr. Farnham. I should be on my way. May I take these translations?" Dymas gets to his feet and at Daniel’s agreeing nod, gathers together the pages of translated notes.
We all get to our feet. After a muddle of scraping chairs against tiles and shuffling of bodies around the table, we escort Dymas through the door and to the main part of the house.
"Thank you for coming, inspector." Briony smiles, and the policeman returns her demonstration of courtesy, generously flashing a glimpse of his even white teeth.
"Thank you for being so cooperative." He gives a tiny bow, which sends a flush of color up Briony’s neck. Then focuses his dark gaze on me. "Miss Carlisle, may I have a quick word?"
The others look at me, and for a tiny moment I fear he will
arrest
me, as one does, naturally. Yet he keeps smiling, and I follow him to the door while the others retreat to the conservatory, probably speculating on what I might have done. Much as I am myself at the moment, I must admit. We reach the door, which he opens, and without a word we step outside.
"I am sorry, Miss Carlisle, you are not in any trouble," Dymas says as we stand beneath the portico, the sun already glowing brightly, making the police car gleam.
"I am relieved." I reply, my heartbeat lowering its nervous pace again.
"Yes," he falters, glances at his hands gripping the notes. "How are you today, Miss Carlisle?" The question catches me by surprise, and I take a moment to comprehend what he is saying.
"Well enough, I suppose. Good of you to ask."
"I meant after the fire. You were quite shaken." His expression is kind, his face showing sincerity and care.
"I was. It was a shock." I stammer and force a brave smile, though I can see his hooded gaze is not easily fooled.
"Yes. Well …" he pauses, waiting for me to finish his sentence. When I do not speak, he continues. "I must get back to the station. If you think of anything else, you know where I can be found." He hesitates for a moment longer, and I cannot shake the impression there is something remaining unsaid.
"Inspector?"
"Yes?"
"Is there anything else?" I ask boldly.
"No, nothing. Nothing. Good day to you, Miss Carlisle."
"And to you." I watch as he turns and wanders over to his car, his tall, broad frame casting only a sliver of a shadow as the sun is nearly exactly above us. As he waves a hand and rotates the wheel to direct the car onto the road, I turn and go back inside.
Closing the door, I exhale slowly, not yet able to relieve the tension in my chest. Smoothing down the front of my cotton shift, I make for the conservatory, which has become our unspoken gathering place.
My instinct was correct. Daniel, Briony, and Jeffrey are clustered together around the table, which has been laid with small plates and bowls of "light lunch," or so Eleni, the cook believes. Sitting down beside Briony and Daniel, I answer their unspoken questions by telling them of my mysterious conversation with the inspector. None of them appears satisfied. I have offered all I am able to disclose, and we are soon distracted by the delicious scent of the food before us.
As we spoon some of everything onto our plates, no reference is made to the diary or its implications. We are all tired and a little wary of a subject that, while on our minds, does nothing to improve the general opinion of Caspar or our personal state of mind.
"Your cook is a treasure," I remark as Niobe brings in a tray of coffee and small rectangular cakes. I take one, declining coffee.
"Yes, she is wonderful. Thank you, Niobe, you’re a great help as well, of course. We couldn’t manage without you." Briony smiles at the young woman, and I suffer a pang of anxiety for keeping the news of Niobe’s pregnancy from my cousin.
"Thank you, Mrs. Farnham. Can I get you anything else?"
We all decline, fully sated. The sun is streaming through the windows, and the late April air coming in is cool enough to keep us from roasting. Outside the window lies the pretty tiled veranda, illuminated and inviting. Beyond that oasis of lovliness looms the dark oak. I shiver slightly and focus my gaze back on my companions.
"What now?" I wonder aloud, tracing along the rim of my saucer.
Jeffrey sighs and Briony nibbles on one of the little cakes.
"Caspar’s father called before Dymas got here." Daniel focuses on his hands, clutching his cup, perhaps seeking comfort from its warmth.
"Did you tell him?" Jeffrey asks.
"Of course. I had to." Daniel sets the cup aside gently and runs a hand through his hair.
"How did he take the news?"
He drops his hand onto his lap."Better than I had expected. He stayed calm. They weren’t terribly close, so I wasn’t expecting an outburst."
"His only son has been murdered." I am unable to hide my incredulity and cannot imagine feeling anything less than destroyed in his situation.
"He has always been a stoic man." Daniel shrugs.
"But—"
"Evie," Briony places a hand on my arm and shakes her head.
Fine
.
"No, Briony, it’s all right," Daniel gives a weak smile. "I understand your surprise. I know him, and I knew his reaction would not be one of uncontained grief. He is what he is. He lost his wife and went on living. Now he has lost his son."
"Poor man." Briony says.
"He will cope in his own way."
"What about the funeral? It has been days now, shouldn’t they release the body?" Saying this may sound crass, but Daniel’s acceptance of Mr. Ballantine reaction to the death of his son has rankled me, and I am irritated enough to voice my thoughts.
"No. Not yet. As it’s a murder, they won’t allow the transport to Britain in time. Caspar’s father has asked me to deal with the arrangements. I would like to have him laid to rest here."
"But Daniel he’s English. Surely—"
"Leave it, Briony." Jeffery shakes his head, silencing her protestations.
"I know what you are thinking. Still, it is for the best. He didn’t want to go back home. He didn’t have anyone there who particularly cared for him, not even his father." He turns to me as he says this. I remain silent.
"Whatever we can do to help with the arrangements, you will let us know. You are not alone." Jeffrey answers, draining the last of his coffee in one final gulp.
"Yes, to be sure, Daniel." Briony adds her assurance.
"If there is anything I can do …" I offer out of politeness, though the prospect of funeral planning, even, or especially for a man I barely knew, whose dead body I had the misfortune of discovering, fills me with dread.
"Thank you for your offers. We will see how to proceed when the time is right."
CHAPTER 16
Shortly after Niobe returns to clear away the remains of our meal, Jeffrey excuses himself, saying he has work to do. Daniel also drifts off, explaining he has neglected his writing for too long.
Briony and I sit for a few minutes longer, gazing out of the windows where the wispy branches of young trees rock lazily back and forth against the bright, cloudless sky.
"Briony?"
"Yes?" I continue to watch the tranquil scene outside, thinking of how to word my question to arouse the least degree of suspicion. Seeing Niobe just moments ago and watching her interaction with my cousin, has reminded me of the great dilemma of her situation and of the air of mystery she wears like a shroud. I won’t betray her secret, but I must find out what I can to better understand her.
"How well do you know Niobe?"
"Niobe? What has brought this on? I know her about as well as one knows an employee of nine months. She was recommended by the wife of Jeffrey’s colleague. We had a different girl before. Why do you ask?"
"Only curiosity, you know me." I smile as convincingly as I can. "And Yannick? What brings him here? He is Polish, is he not?
"Polish, yes, though he lived in England when he was hired to deliver the car, drive it and accompany it on the ship. Jeffery asked him to stay on."
"Just like that?"
"Jeffrey did telegraph the company that employed him to ask for references, and they thought highly of him. We haven’t had a problem, and I believe he is quite content."
"Doesn’t he have family in Poland? He has stayed here for almost a year without any prior planning?" I wonder aloud.
"I asked him, of course. He said his family is happy he has found good work. He sends them money, so it is all for the best."
"I see." I cannot help but wonder whether I—had I a family—could simply do what is necessay and leave them behind?
Briony smiles knowingly. "People do it all the time. Immigrants come and take the jobs we are too lazy or arrogant to take ourselves. It’s complicated at times, but I like to think we treat Yannick well."
"Of course you do. And I understand. I just wonder … he must miss his family." Perhaps lonliness makes him even keener to start his own with Niobe, accepting a child that is not his.
"I am certain he does. He telegraphs and sends money, and one day, they will be reunited."
"Yes."
Maybe
.
"Don’t look so doubtful. He is a grown man. Let us talk of something else. There is so much sadness and misery. I want to laugh again, Evie. After everything we have been through these past few days and my own state of mind, I long for light-heartedness. We need to cheer ourselves up or at least find some distraction." Briony sits up in her chair, the wicker creaking ever so slightly.
"What do you have in mind?" I ask, thinking that distraction is exactly what we need.
"Let us go for a picnic tomorrow! It will be Saturday. Even Jeffrey can tear himself away from the museum for a few hours. Actually, we could make a day of it." Her eyes are gleaming suddenly, and I can see her mind running ahead, planning the fillings of the sandwiches and which hat is best worn at a picnic.

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