Jemima Shore at the Sunny Grave (14 page)

The towel left the woman’s face exposed, or perhaps Alberto had not wished to cover it. Certainly he had not closed Clemency Vane’s eyes; they stared at Jemima, sightless and bulging, above the purple discoloration of her face, the mouth and the tongue. There was no sign of what Alberto had used to strangle her—but the memory of his strong, black-haired, well-tended, well-scrubbed-afterwards, muscular hands came back to her. The hands which had held her, Jemima. And tried to know her, as in the end they had never known Clemency Vane.

“I told you it was too late,” Alberto said from the bedroom. He had not moved. “You can go away now,” he added, in a remote voice, as though the subject no longer interested him. “I shan’t harm you. Go. It’s nothing to do with you any more.”

Much later, about seven o’clock, back at the Megalith office, Cherry said to Jemima with that cheerfulness she maintained even towards the end of the office day, “Where were you this morning? There were quite a few calls. You left a message you were out seeing that woman, what’s-her-name, the drug-runner who did it all for love, the persistent one who kept ringing up about the new programme. But you never left me a number. Did you see her?”

“I saw her,” said Jemima. Later she would tell Cherry, of
course, as she told her everything, and later still everyone would probably know. But not just now.

“Was there anything in it for the programme?” enquired Cherry. “She was so sure she could help us.”

“No, after all, nothing in it for the programme.”

“Ah well,” said Cherry comfortably. “You never really know about people, do you?”

Jemima Shore agreed.

“
I
heard it again last night. That woman wailing down by the sea.”

Martha James was in the act of pouring herself some more coffee from the tall black thermos. As she poured, her face under its veil of streaky fair hair was hidden from Jemima Shore.

“She sounded so unhappy. Not like a real live woman at all. I think it’s a ghost.” Martha’s tone was purely conversational: she might have been commenting on the lights of a fishing boat seen at night, the wind which had arisen at dawn (and since dropped) or just mentioning with renewed delight the even sunshine now spreading across the terrace of the Villa Elia.

Then Jemima looked at Martha James’s hands and saw that they were shaking. The coffee which she had visualized being poured confidently into the huge blue and white pottery breakfast cup was in fact being splashed into the saucer. And on to the rough blue and white tablecloth.

“Martha,” exclaimed Jemima with alarm, jumping up and
taking the thermos from her. Then incredulously, “You’re really upset.”

Martha James stared at her for a moment. The impression given by the long straight hair and the slim figure, clearly visible since she was wearing a pink T-shirt, cherry-coloured bikini bottom and nothing else, was of youth—athletic youth at that; the legs were firm and muscled as well as brown. But Martha, when you looked into her face, was not all that young. In fact she was not really young at all. There were fine lines, a good many of them, round her eyes, despite the tan. It was the face of a middle-aged woman. This morning she also looked quite haggard. Or frightened.

Suddenly Martha smiled. She took the thermos back from Jemima, saying ruefully, “What a mess! Irini will murder me. Bad night, I’m afraid. And then that—crying I suppose it was. Kept me awake for hours. I kept thinking I should do something. Thus: the shaking hand of Martha James, the ruined tablecloth of our dear Irini. A cup of coffee is definitely the answer. If I can somehow get it into the cup.”

“Have a fresh cup.” There were still a few unused ones on the long wooden table which served for all their meals on the terrace.

“A fresh cup and a fresh start. Most appropriate to this holiday.” Martha sat down and began drinking composedly. The moment of anguish, fear or whatever it was had evidently passed. Jemima Shore decided to forget the incident: this despite her own slightly unruly curiosity—the quality after all which had made her into a leading television investigative reporter. She had, as she then believed, other more urgent matters to preoccupy her.

Jemima Shore thought instead about the subject of fresh starts. It was, as Martha had observed, appropriate to the
holiday and, for that matter, appropriate to Jemima’s own presence on the island of Corfu.

The party now staying at the Villa Elia, situated just above a small beach beside a rocky headland, was not exactly a party in the strict sense of the word. That is to say, according to the hostess, Alice Garland, none of the guests had been known to her in advance. They were also all paying—quite heavily—for the privilege of being there in the first place. That included Jemima Shore herself (although Megalith Television, her employer, would end by picking up the tab). The important point was that she was receiving no reduction from the full rate, despite the handsome offers made by her hostess.

“But you really needn’t pay! Not the whole amount, at least. After all, if you
did
make a programme about our little party venture, it would be the making of us!” Alice Garland had sounded appealingly wistful in London. But then she nearly always did sound wistful, Jemima decided. Even in her London clothes—check jacket, white silk blouse, short black skirt—Alice had the air of an elegantly dressed doll. She certainly looked too young and virginal to be running her own business, despite having a husband—somewhere—no further details given. At the Villa Elia itself, straight hair falling, she looked a positive infant. It was in fact the same kind of pretty light-and-dark hair as Martha’s and the two women were not so dissimilar in type. But Alice’s face was genuinely youthful; standing beside her, Martha looked a rather weary echo.

Long before she reached Corfu, Jemima Shore had however appreciated that there was nothing notably childish about Alice Garland’s business methods. Alice was—justifiably of course—quite determined to make her so-called “Fresh Perspective Holidays” a success; but Jemima fancied that Alice could probably show herself
quite ruthless if the occasion offered, beneath that naïve exterior. Alice, yes. But this Alice was hardly in Wonderland. She was in business in London and Corfu, competing with a number of tour operators, not by offering cut prices—far from it—but by offering a holiday of a particular, and rather special, type.

Fresh Perspectives, as advertised, were for those who felt themselves to be at some kind of turning-point in their lives; it might be marital, professional, spiritual or all three. Whatever its nature—with which Fresh Perspectives was not concerned—“guests” took advantage of some weeks at the Villa Elia to contemplate this turning-point. There was only one theoretical condition laid down: guests were supposed to arrive solo, spouses, live-in-lovers, companions, mere friends being none of them officially welcome.

“And if a fresh perspective on life happens to include encountering a fresh partner at the Villa Elia?” Jemima had asked Alice.

“Naturally it happens,” Alice had replied in her soft little-girl voice. “At least I presume it happens, human nature being what it is. We wouldn’t know of course. Most people don’t sleep in the house, only the officially elderly or infirm. People who might have some difficulty making their way to the various guest-houses scattered about the property at night. And we don’t get many of those, as you will see. But in any case one of the things which prevents the burgeoning of ‘Fresh Perspective’ romances, even in this day and age, is the fact that far more women than men seem to want to come.” Alice smiled enchantingly. “I suppose it means that far more women than men need to make a fresh start in life,” she added.

“It may mean that,” commented Jemima drily. “Or it may simply mean that more women than men have the courage to realize it.” Was there perhaps something smug about this
elfin creature, with her husband and her rapidly expanding business? You could not imagine Alice Garland herself needing to make a fresh start … but if she did, plenty of people would want to help her do it. For Alice was one of those people who had the effect, consciously or unconsciously, Jemima had yet to decide, of arousing a kind of hero-worship in those around her; or just a desire, quite simply, to be in her presence. Jemima had once or twice surprised Martha James, for example, gazing at Alice with a kind of yearning. Another of the guests, a somewhat older woman called Mrs. Vascoe, was inclined to try and engage Alice in earnest private conversation whenever possible. (Then Jemima reflected that Mrs. Vascoe, although dressed in a much older style, was probably not much older than Martha James in years.)

Looking at Martha James now, Jemima wondered precisely what kind of turning-point it was that she had reached. Martha was a painter: Jemima recognized the name although she had not heard of her work for some years. Was that the problem? Waning fame? Waning inspiration? Some other kind of distraction? At the Villa Elia it was in any case a camera not a sketch-book which was generally to be found in her hand. And Jemima had happened upon Martha once or twice taking photographs in the maze of paths bordered with rosemary and other odorous shrubs which led among the various cottages. You stopped on a path, turned, and there was the cerulean sea below you, framed by rocks. The views sprang up, fell away, emerged, vanished, in seemingly artless fashion; until you gradually realized that the vistas of the Villa Elia, like everything else to do with it, must have been carefully planned.

If Martha James was not to be found painting or sketching, another of the guests had recently started to
parade a sketch-book. This was an American girl in, say, her early 30s, called Felicity Dalbo but known at her own request by the nickname of “Fizzy.” As Martha might be surprised with her camera, Fizzy could be seen, rather more ostentatiously, placed in the centre of a popular path, with her sketch-book. Fizzy was actually Alice Garland’s greatest fan: if Martha followed Alice about—sometimes—with her eyes and Mrs. Vascoe requested little chats with her, Fizzy was publicly loud in her admiration for everything Alice did or said.

“This villa! Isn’t it something?” she exclaimed several times a day. “How I wish I could get it all together like Alice—maybe I
will
when I’ve been here long enough!”

The results of Fizzy’s artistic labours had a slightly primitive air. The bright blue shutters of the villa, actually folded flat against the white-washed walls, sprang out at you in Fizzy’s water-colour as though with an energy of their own; they were also way out of scale. All the same, Jemima found Fizzy’s various efforts not unpleasing: like Fizzy herself, they conveyed a certain indomitable cheerfulness. Jemima was a good deal more doubtful about Fizzy’s habit of producing her latest sketch—and she worked rapidly—at lunchtime.

“Go on. Criticize it. You can say whatever you like. I want to learn, dammit,” Fizzy would say, smiling eagerly at one of the other guests. Fizzy, it was clear, was not a professional painter, nor was her turning-point to be supposed to concern “art.” In any case, Fizzy herself had left no doubts on that score.

“Bad marriage,” she had announced at large to the company at the pre-dinner drink session on the day of her arrival. They were drinking a delicious local white wine called Boutari (with the exception of Martha who always drank water). “Or rather a good marriage to a bad guy. Fizzy
Dalbo,’ I said to myself one day, ‘you just don’t have to live with this man any more. The compromises you have been making are just not acceptable for a woman in the eighties. It’s yourself you have to live with. That’s the bottom line. Learn how to do it, why don’t you?’ So here I am.” Fizzy gave a wide smile, displaying her large and even white teeth. It was the beauty of the teeth, thought Jemima, more than anything else, which revealed Fizzy’s transatlantic origins; Fizzy herself had been and possibly still was working for some English publisher in London. And Fizzy’s unsatisfactory husband had, it seemed, been English.

“Not a reticent character,” had been Martha James’s comment to Jemima, after Fizzy, large tote bag over her shoulder, a fresh glass of Boutari in her hand, had swept off to unpack.