Urgent Vandervoort understands damage inflicted Hol-royd's reputation. My letter Paul explains. Tell him on arrival possibility Holroyd returning Meganisi. Gilmore. It was dated June 14.
"Do you know what it means?"
"No," I said.
"But the letter-he says he wrote to you."
"I was expecting a letter from him at Samos." And I told her about the investigation. "Have you shown this cable to my father?"
"Yes. That's why I went out there with Cristos this afternoon."
"And what did he say?"
"Nothing, just read it and handed it back to me. He didn't say a word."
"Did he know what it was about?"
"I don't know. Yes, I think so. He must have done or he would have asked me about it. Instead, he just smiled."
But I was wondering about the letter, what it had contained. "You're staying with Zavelas."
"Yes. I was at Vatahori till your father moved over to Levkas. Then I came here."
"Zavelas knows something. I saw it as soon as he greeted us.
"About Dr. Van der Voort?"
"I don't know. Something. You don't know what it is?"
"No."
"And you've no idea what this cable is about?"
"No. Except that Hans is puzzled. So is Alec. It's almost a month since Professor Holroyd left and they've been working on that dig all the time. They've found nothing. Nothing at all since they dug up those skulls. It's very odd."
But I was still wondering what had happened to Gilmore's letter, how I could get hold of the facts with the least possible delay. Something must have come out at the investigation, something more than just a failure to give credit to another anthropologist for his earlier work on the site. I glanced at my watch. It was already well past six. "If we took the boat now, how long would it take to get there-half an hour?"
"Three quarters at least," she said. "It's at the south end of the Meganisi Channel."
It would be getting dark by then. "See if you can fix it with Pappadimas," I said, and went back to the kafeneion to tell the Barretts where I was going. We left at quarter to seven, and by the time we were in the Meganisi Channel the island of Tiglia was a dark bulk between shadowed walls of rock with the mess tent a blue glow reflected in the shallows. Above us, the mountains of Levkas loomed black against the last of the sunset glow.
South of Tiglia, Pappadimas edged the boat close to the west side of the channel. The rocks were getting difficult to see, darkness closing in and the first stars showing above the dim outline of Meganisi. "It's not far now," Sonia said. Her voice sounded nervous. "You won't find him very communicative. He lives in a world of his own. I'm afraid. ." She hesitated, her voice barely audible above the noise of the outboard. "It may be all in his imagination, you see. And yet he's convinced that if he could only get through the rock fall. ." She was leanino so close to me that I could feel the breath of her sigh on my cheek. "I don't know what to think. But I'm glad you're here. Perhaps he'll talk to you. So long as you're patient with him. He's very secretive about it. Hans came with me once, but he wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't show him anything. Said he was Professor Holroyd's stooge, accused him of coming to spy and practically threw him out. It was all very unpleasant and Hans had brought some stores, things he desperately needed." The engine died as the bows nuzzled the rocks. "Anyway, you'll see for yourself."
We were in a narrow gut and Pappadimas came for'ard, hauling the boat along, both hands on the rock, until it grounded on a shelf of gritty sand. The water was very still, no sound at all. We got out and she took my hand, leading the way. There was a path of sorts, winding up between the rocks. It led to a steep slope and there was a musty smell of broom in the air. "It's about another hundred feet up." She let go of my hand. "You'll find him camped under the overhang. I'll wait for you here."
I hesitated, staring up at the dim outline of what appeared to be an enormous cavity scooped out of the cliff above. Then I went on alone, and where the overhang jutted black against the stars, the slope levelled off abruptly, and I stopped. The line of the cliff, the pale glimmer of open sea beyond. It struck a chord. The light was different, of course, but standing there, noting the configuration of sea and land, I had no doubt. This was where Cassellis had taken the pictures. I called to him then, stumbling among fallen rocks, but there was no answer and his tent when I found it was empty. It was a very small tent, the sort you have to crawl into on your hands and knees, and I stood there, wondering at his toughness, alone up here,
living little better than the primitive men whose movements he was trying to trace.
The site was a good one, the sort of position that the ancient Greeks, with their eye for country, might have chosen for one of their temples. It looked down into the channel, and to the south I could just make out the fiat expanse of the sea running out to Arkudi and the island of Ithaca. A solitary light, flashing red every 3 seconds, signposted the route to the Gulf of Patras. It was like standing on the bridge of a ship, for this natural platform was almost at the tip of a promontory formed by a spur of Mount Porro. There was no breath of air, no sound, everything very still. And then suddenly, from behind me, the clink of metal on rock, the clatter of stones.
I turned then, feeling my way deeper into the shadow of the overhang. Past a great rock fallen from the roof I saw the glimmer of a light. It came from beyond a mound of rubble, and when I had climbed to the top of it, I found myself looking down into a steeply-sloped cavern. I could see him then, a dark figure in silhouette. The light came from an old acetylene lamp and the single small jet of flame showed the cavern blocked by a fall. He was bending down, levering at the face of the fall with a crowbar, and he was so intent on what he was doing that he didn't hear the scattering of rubble as I scrambled down to the floor of the cave.
I was about ten yards from him then and I paused, curious at the care with which he was prising loose a lump of rock wedged against the cavern wall. He put the crowbar down and began tapping at it with a sharp-pointed hammer. It broke and then he was using the crowbar again, and when the rock finally fell away in pieces, he pulled a rag from his pocket, dusting the wall carefully. Then he put on his steel-rimmed half spectacles, picked up the lamp and peered at it closely, moving the lamp this way and that like a miner searching for traces of some precious metal in the face of the rock.
I was so fascinated I stood rooted to the spot, not moving, not saying anything. A strange guttural sound came from his
throat, an exclamation of excitement, of satisfaction. And then some sixth sense seemed to warn him of my presence, for he turned suddenly, straightening up and facing me, the lamp held high. "Who's that?" He reached for the crowbar, and I thought he was going to come at me with it, but instead he backed against the wall as though to conceal something.
"It's Paul," I said, and I heard his breath escape in a long sigh. He took his glasses off then, leaning slightly forward, peering at me.
"What are you doing here? What do you want?" His voice was thick, a whisper I barely recognized. The beetling brows, the blue eyes lit by the lamp, wide and staring. Remembering that photograph, the hair prickled on my scalp, my nerves taut as I recalled what Gilmore had said: Loneliness, identification with the subject that had engrossed him for so many years.
I began talking to him then, explaining my presence, the words too fast. With an effort I forced myself to speak quietly, gently, the way you would talk to an animal defending its territory, and gradually he relaxed, became himself again.