Praise for Barbara Cleverly’s
Joe Sandilands series
‘Spectacular and dashing. Spellbinding.’
New York Times
‘Smashing … marvellously evoked.’
Chicago Tribune
‘A great blood and guts blockbuster.’
Guardian
‘Stellar—as always.’
‘British author Cleverly out-Christies Agatha Christie …’
Publishers Weekly (starred reviews)
‘A historical mystery that has just about everything: a fresh, beautifully realized exotic setting; a strong, confident protagonist; a poignant love story; and an exquisitely complex plot.’
Denver Post
‘Evocative narrative, sensitive characterizations, artful dialogue and masterly plotting.’
Library Journal
And for The Tomb of Zeus
‘Award-winning author Cleverly debuts a captivating new series. In the tradition of Agatha Christie, the characters are complex and varied. Amid the picturesque history of the island (of Crete), mystery and murder abound in this riveting novel.’
Romantic Times
‘For readers who love Elizabeth Peters and Jacqueline Winspear, Cleverly demonstrates a knack for creating full-blown historical puzzlers with complicated plots and engaging characters in unusual settings.’
Library Journal (starred review)
‘Tucked into the wealth of archaeological and historical detail is a full-blown English houseparty murder … with a spirited, intelligent heroine, a glorious exotic setting, a clever plot and a touch of romance …’
Denver Post
Also by Barbara Cleverly
The Last Kashmiri Rose
Ragtime in Simla
The Damascened Blade
The Palace Tiger
The Bee’s Kiss
Tug of War
Folly du Jour
The Tomb of Zeus
Bright Hair about the Bone
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010
First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2010
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
www.sohopress.com
Copyright © Barbara Cleverly, 2010
The right of Barbara Cleverly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978-1-84901-118-1
US ISBN: 978-1-56947-632-1
eISBN: 978-1-56947-897-4
US Library of Congress number: 2009049928
Printed and bound in the EU
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Prologue
Provence, South of France, 1926
He studied her sleeping face for the last time.
She was lying peacefully on her back, her fair hair spreading in ripples over the pillow. Warm-gold by day, the waves now gleamed pale silver, all colour bleached away by the moonlight. Her features also were drained and only the lips still showed a trace of emotion. They were slightly open and uptilted, perhaps in a suggestion of remembered and recent passion. He smothered the distasteful notion.
Such beauty!
He felt his resolve waver and was alarmed to acknowledge a moment of indecision. He reminded himself that this beauty was his—his to spare or to destroy—and a rush of exaltation swept away the slight uncertainty. It had been a wobble, no more than a weakness imposed on him by convention. Convention? Even at this moment of approaching ecstasy he paused to consider the word. From the Latin, of course. ‘A coming together’. In agreement and common consent. Well, convention would never direct him. It was his nature to step away from the crowd, to walk in the opposite direction, to think his own rebellious thoughts and to translate those thoughts into action. He would be true to his nature. He would assert his birthright.
He leaned closer until his face was only inches above the still form. He had a fancy that, if he pressed his lips to hers, he might catch her dying breath. The thought revolted and fascinated him in equal measure and he lifted his head. He took a deliberate step backwards. He would not touch her. No part of his body would make contact with hers. To test his resolve he contemplated trailing a lascivious finger along her smooth throat as others had, of allowing that finger to ease over the left collar bone until it encountered the imperfection of a tiny mole half-hidden by a fold of her white gown. His hand remained safely in his pocket. He would look. Admire. Hate.
He stood for a moment, a shadow among shadows. The garment he’d put on had been carefully chosen: an old-fashioned hunting coat (English tailoring, he did believe), it had been abandoned on a hook by the door in the cloak-room by some visiting milord, years, possibly decades, ago. The thick grey tweed was a perfect camouflage—it even had a hood—and, essential for his purpose, not one but two concealed poacher’s pockets. His fine nose was revolted by the smell of decay that lurked in the tweedy depths, still stained with the blood of long-dead creatures, but they accommodated the very special equipment he had needed to carry, covertly, along the corridors.
He played with the notion of taking out the heavy-duty military torch and lighting up her last moments, but an innate caution made him dismiss the idea. The moonlight was all the illumination he could wish for. A resplendent August moon shone through the uncurtained windows, coating the alabaster-fair features with an undeserved glaze of sanctity.