When the Devil's Idle Read Online Free Page B

was setting up tables in the square.
Music could be heard seeping from a nearby bar—something in English
with a driving metallic beat. Someone was already inside, a maid
perhaps, readying the place for the day’s onslaught of
tourists.
    Few places played
Greek music anymore, Patronas thought glumly. His culture was
vanishing; the young wanted no part of it.
    The owner of a
taverna, in an apron, was sitting outside. He rose to his feet when
he saw them and began questioning Evangelos Demos about the murder,
the specifics of what had been done to the German. Two old men
playing a game of tavli , backgammon, nearby stopped their
game to listen.
    Patronas wondered
how the taverna owner had learned the news so quickly, who might
have told him. Not the family of the dead man, that was for sure.
No, the language difference would have precluded that. Perhaps
Evangelos Demos had said something; he’d have to check.
    Mentally, he made
a list of things to do. As soon as he was done inspecting the crime
scene and the victim, he’d come back to interview the two tavli players. Pensioners, they’d be only too happy to put
their game aside and gossip. Perhaps they’d seen something, someone
passing through Chora the previous night, or overheard an argument
in one of the houses. Could be this was a domestic matter—the old
man killed by a relative as sometimes happened. Fights sound the
same in any language. Even if the tavli players didn’t
understand German, they’d know a fight if they heard one. At the
very least, they could tell him who belonged in this sequestered
world and who’d spread the news about the killing.
    “ The
crime scene is southwest of the village,” Evangelos Demos said,
“just below the church of Profitis Elias, the highest point of land
on the island.”
    As with many of
the estates on Chora, the garden where the victim had been found
was enclosed by thick stone walls. There appeared to be only one
entrance, a metal door with a tiny, barred window.
    The wind
increased in intensity as they approached the door, ruffling their
clothes and threatening to pull them off the hill. They were at the
highest point of land in Patmos, walking along the curving spine of
rock that defined the island like the skeletal underpinnings of a
great fish.
    The sun had risen
and the sky was already white with heat. The priest was exhausted
and had to be helped along by Tembelos. His black robe dragged in
the dust.
    Pulling out a
handkerchief, Patronas mopped his brow. He wished he’d thought to
bring water.
    He looked back
the way they’d come. Reaching as far as the eye could see, the
Aegean Sea dominated the view, its surface gleaming in the
sunlight. A Greek fishing boat was making its way into the harbor,
its red hull bright against the water. He counted off the islands
in the distance—Lipsoi, Arkoi, Marathi. No wonder the Germans had
chosen this site. He was so high, he felt as if he could see the
very curve of the earth.
    The area around
the estate appeared to be deserted, an arid wasteland used mainly
to graze animals. Save for Profitas Elias and a few buildings along
the road, there was nothing. A herd of goats was standing in the
shadow of a withered olive tree, their bells tinkling softly in the
wind.
    An old woman in
black opened the metal door, bowing slightly when she saw them, her
face grim. Taking a step back, she gestured for them to
enter.
    The grounds of
the estate were extensive—more than four stremata , or acres,
Patronas estimated—and densely planted with trees. After the glare
of the sun, it took him a few minutes to adjust to the gloom, the
sense of being in a forest, albeit man-made. Although he could hear
the wind outside, inside everything was peaceful and smelled
faintly of flowers, although another odor kept breaking through, a
far uglier scent. There was a fountain at the center of the garden,
decorated by a life-sized statue of a child playing a flute. The
corpse was on the the pavement