When we reached the stout oaken door, he rapped smartly upon it. It was immediately thrown open by a figure draped in a sort of clerical robe. His grizzled beard was long and full as were the eyebrows beetling above dark, curious eyes. His nose was a thing of majesty, rising proudly above a set of moustaches so lavish they might have been borrowedfrom a Highland cow. He was smiling, his teeth very white and beautiful against the darkness of his beard, and his voice was booming.
“Stoker! You have come to see me again, my friend. And this must be Miss Speedwell. I hear such things of you, my dear, as make me very happy to make your acquaintance.”
Seizing my hand, he bowed low, sweeping a courtly gesture.
“You are Spyridon, I believe,” I said.
“That is what they call me,” he replied. “Come in, friends. I am cooking my supper, but you will not mind this.”
He ushered us into the castle folly, and I looked around in admiration. The last time I had seen the place it had been fitted out for amateur theatricals for Lord Rosemorran’s children. But it had been cleared of dressing-up boxes and props and bits of scenery, swept and scrubbed until everything shone like a new pin. Spyridon’s few possessions were placed with care. A series of icons in the Eastern Orthodox style were hung over the mantel, and a small shelf held a row of books in assorted languages—Greek, German, English, and French, I saw at a glance. A coverlet of rustic cloth in a bright and cheerful pattern had been spread across a narrow sofa, and a pair of carpet slippers warmed on the hearth near a pot of simmering stew. It was snug and homely, a restful and modest place. The only discordant note was a small frame on the mantel. It was enamelled and set with what looked like jewels. One might have expected a holy man to have such a thing if it held the image of the Madonna, but this was no sacred relic. Inside was a photograph of a woman dressed in some variety of formal court attire and wearing a crown.
“You have made it very cosy,” I told him as he gestured for me to take the only chair in the room. “I hope you are comfortable here.”
He nodded his head vigorously. “Very much, thank you.” He turned to Stoker who had taken a seat on a small barrel of flour in the corner. “I think you have come about your lady?”
“I have. Is she safe?”
Spyridon grinned again, displaying those wonderful teeth. “Of course. She is in the bedroom,” he said, nodding towards the closed door in the wall opposite the fireplace. “I would defend her with my life.”
Such a statement from a less imposing man might have been humorous, but there was no levity from Spyridon in that moment. He spoke with a single-minded sincerity that I could not doubt, and as he moved to stir his stew, I noticed the narrow sword propped against the hearth.
“You would have made use of your sword to keep her safe?” I asked politely.
He gave me a look that was almost pitying. “I was not always a man who thinks of spiritual things.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, darting another glance at the photograph of the beautiful crowned woman. I turned to Stoker. “You knew someone would come for the Beauty,” I said. I had not intended it to sound quite so much like an accusation, but Stoker held up his hands.
“I did not know. I merely anticipated. And when you were busy with Lady Wellie, I suggested to Spyridon that trouble might be afoot and asked him to keep a watchful eye upon the Belvedere. I did not expect that he would take it upon himself to move her,” he finished with a baleful look.
Spyridon pressed a hand to his heart. “Anything for you, my friend.”
“But why should you be so willing to shed blood—either your own or that of another—in this cause?” I asked. “You have only just met us.”
“Just met!” Spyridon gave a shout of laughter. “I have known Stoker since he was the worst surgeon’s mate on board theLuna.”
I looked to Stoker in astonishment to find him smiling as widely as Spyridon. “I have not seen him since I left the Navy,” Stoker explained. “Our vessel stopped in Corfu on our return from Alexandria. I was preparing to resign, and my spirits were not in good order.”
Spyridon laughed again, slapping his knees. “Good order? My friend, when I found you, you were stark naked as the day your own mother brought you forth into this world, wearing a tea cosy for a hat.” He turned to me to continue the tale. “He was so drunk, he could not find his ship. A ship. Where do you think they might have put it? It is a ship, you understand. A warship! It is not a small thing. And yet my friend misplaces it.”
Stoker had the grace to blush and hurried to change the subject. “Lady Wellie wrote some months ago from Athens that she would require a guide in Corfu and recalled I knew someone who might be suited to her purpose.”
Spyridon’s fruitful brows rose. “Lady Wellie! There is such a lady as you seldom find in Corfu, my friends. So autocratic, so commanding! She demands to see everything on our beautiful island, and I am a good host, so I show her.”
“How is it you came to return to England with her?” I asked.
He shrugged. “A man occasionally requires a change of scene,” was all that he would say. But I saw his gaze flicker for the briefest of moments towards the framed photograph and back again.
“You are quite certain the Beauty is unspoilt?” Stoker asked, a trifle anxiously.
Spyridon waved a hand. “Go and look for yourself. You will not rest until you have seen.” Stoker availed himself of the invitation whilst I remained with our host.
“So you have exchanged a life of holy orders for one of hermit to an Englishman?”
He grinned. “I have never taken holy orders. My habit I wear because it suits me.” He flapped the skirts of his garment. “I like the breezes. Like the Scotsman and his kilt, you understand? We too have the kilt in Greece, but the linen is a little thin for this climate. I prefer the longer robes where I can move in freedom.”
“So you are not a priest?”
He threw his head back and emitted a roar of laughter just as Stoker emerged from the adjoining room. Spyridon pointed to me. “This flower of a woman has just asked me if I am a priest.”