vine-growing area where grapes were spread out on racks in the sun to dry into raisins, and through arid stretches where even goats must find cropping a livelihood hard. Occasionally they came upon a donkey carrying a black-clad woman, with often a goat or a sheep at its heels.
Back in Challika, Patrick suggested a drink, and said he wanted to buy a paper, so they parked the car and walked along to the newsagent’s where Patrick bought The Times and Ursula The Guardian. Then they went to Zito’s, where Ursula taught Patrick to order their ouzos with a whole sentence in Greek.
There was a small paragraph in The Times about Felix; it said merely that his body had been found on a beach in Crete and that he had died as the result of an accidental fall from the cliff while on holiday. There was no mention of the cruise. A few words followed about his academic achievements. Among the ordinary obituaries, Gwenda announced his death and the time of his funeral, four days hence.
‘Poor old Felix.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘Gwenda hasn’t wasted much space on him.’
Ursula thought eulogies, however well merited, over-doing things, and said so.
‘She must have had an awful shock,’ she pointed out.
‘I don’t suppose it’s interrupted her life much,’ said Patrick. ‘She’ll carry on just as before, but she’ll wear a martyr’s expression for a while.’
‘You don’t like her, do you?’
‘No,’ said Patrick flatly. Then he went on, changing the subject, ‘I had an interesting time this morning trying to track down the Greek godson of another friend of mine who’s just died.’ He described his morning.
‘Obviously Yannis has done something they don’t approve of in Ai Saranda,’ said Ursula.
‘Yes. But what? I thought he’d got himself into some sort of political scrape – that’s what Alec thought, I’m sure.’
‘The old men might have been prudently evasive about that, if it were so, but they wouldn’t have been disapproving,’ said Ursula.
“That’s what I thought. It was almost as if they were embarrassed,’ said Patrick.
‘When are you going to that island to look for him?’
‘How did you know I’d do that?’ Patrick looked at her in astonishment.
‘Well, you’ll soon be bored here, when you’ve been to Knossos and a few other spots. I’m sure you aren’t content to lie in the sun for more than a day or two. Besides, I don’t think you like loose ends, do you?’
‘Am I so transparent?’
‘No, but you’re a positive sort of person. More impulsive, too, than many academics.’
‘What about you?’ Patrick attacked back, shaken by such discernment.
‘Oh, I’m quite ordinary. I kept house for my father until he died last May. Now I’m having an indefinite holiday. I don’t know when I’ll go back to my job.’
‘Where is that?’
‘At the National Gallery.’
Patrick was about to ask her in what capacity, when his attention was distracted by a large black car which drove past and stopped outside the police station. Out got Inspector Manolakis, wiry and smart in his uniform. He spoke to the driver and disappeared within.
‘Is that the local police chief?’ Ursula asked.
‘I don’t know if he’s the chief. He’s the chap who’s been dealing with poor old Felix. It must be very trying for the local force when tourists die.’
‘Nice for the tourist, if he’s happy,’ Ursula said.
‘Yes – if it happens peacefully, while you’re sitting on the terrace looking at the sea. But not if you drown.’ He would never forget Felix’s appearance, ravaged by the effect of the water.
‘Hullo – your policeman has seen you. He’s coming to talk to you,’ said Ursula.
Sure enough, Inspector Manolakis had emerged from the police station and was walking towards them.
‘Good evening, Mr Grant. How are you?’ he said.
Patrick introduced Ursula, and the policeman repeated,
‘How are you?’ Greeks often used this greeting, Patrick had
Back in Challika, Patrick suggested a drink, and said he wanted to buy a paper, so they parked the car and walked along to the newsagent’s where Patrick bought The Times and Ursula The Guardian. Then they went to Zito’s, where Ursula taught Patrick to order their ouzos with a whole sentence in Greek.
There was a small paragraph in The Times about Felix; it said merely that his body had been found on a beach in Crete and that he had died as the result of an accidental fall from the cliff while on holiday. There was no mention of the cruise. A few words followed about his academic achievements. Among the ordinary obituaries, Gwenda announced his death and the time of his funeral, four days hence.
‘Poor old Felix.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘Gwenda hasn’t wasted much space on him.’
Ursula thought eulogies, however well merited, over-doing things, and said so.
‘She must have had an awful shock,’ she pointed out.
‘I don’t suppose it’s interrupted her life much,’ said Patrick. ‘She’ll carry on just as before, but she’ll wear a martyr’s expression for a while.’
‘You don’t like her, do you?’
‘No,’ said Patrick flatly. Then he went on, changing the subject, ‘I had an interesting time this morning trying to track down the Greek godson of another friend of mine who’s just died.’ He described his morning.
‘Obviously Yannis has done something they don’t approve of in Ai Saranda,’ said Ursula.
‘Yes. But what? I thought he’d got himself into some sort of political scrape – that’s what Alec thought, I’m sure.’
‘The old men might have been prudently evasive about that, if it were so, but they wouldn’t have been disapproving,’ said Ursula.
“That’s what I thought. It was almost as if they were embarrassed,’ said Patrick.
‘When are you going to that island to look for him?’
‘How did you know I’d do that?’ Patrick looked at her in astonishment.
‘Well, you’ll soon be bored here, when you’ve been to Knossos and a few other spots. I’m sure you aren’t content to lie in the sun for more than a day or two. Besides, I don’t think you like loose ends, do you?’
‘Am I so transparent?’
‘No, but you’re a positive sort of person. More impulsive, too, than many academics.’
‘What about you?’ Patrick attacked back, shaken by such discernment.
‘Oh, I’m quite ordinary. I kept house for my father until he died last May. Now I’m having an indefinite holiday. I don’t know when I’ll go back to my job.’
‘Where is that?’
‘At the National Gallery.’
Patrick was about to ask her in what capacity, when his attention was distracted by a large black car which drove past and stopped outside the police station. Out got Inspector Manolakis, wiry and smart in his uniform. He spoke to the driver and disappeared within.
‘Is that the local police chief?’ Ursula asked.
‘I don’t know if he’s the chief. He’s the chap who’s been dealing with poor old Felix. It must be very trying for the local force when tourists die.’
‘Nice for the tourist, if he’s happy,’ Ursula said.
‘Yes – if it happens peacefully, while you’re sitting on the terrace looking at the sea. But not if you drown.’ He would never forget Felix’s appearance, ravaged by the effect of the water.
‘Hullo – your policeman has seen you. He’s coming to talk to you,’ said Ursula.
Sure enough, Inspector Manolakis had emerged from the police station and was walking towards them.
‘Good evening, Mr Grant. How are you?’ he said.
Patrick introduced Ursula, and the policeman repeated,
‘How are you?’ Greeks often used this greeting, Patrick had
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