The Maltese Goddess

SIX

Roma Locuta est. Rome has spoken. Benign, perhaps, Pax Romana. But still, another imperial interloper on My shores. You drink My wine, eat My honey. Your villas, baths, and fortifications dominate My lands. Causa finita est, you say? Case closed? No, not quite. You too will leave us. Barbarians are soon at your gate. Pax Romana no more. Europe will sleep. I, Malta, My island, will sleep as I watch over it.

“Could we go over this one more time, please, Miss McClintoch?” Vincent Tabone asked. Detective Vincent Ta-bone of the Maltese police, I might add.

I nodded numbly. ‘. “You came here to get the deceased’s house ready for a social event of some kind. One that was to be attended by what you have referred to—forgive me, you have corrected me on that point already—that the deceased had referred to as important people. You don’t know who these people are, nor when the event is or was to be.”

“That’s right,” I said, nodding again.

“You knew the deceased was coming to inspect your work soon, but you didn’t know exactly when he was due to arrive.”

I nodded.

“Was that a yes?” he asked, looking up from his notebook. I nodded again.

“You were responsible for seeing the furniture was packed and shipped, then placed in the house, but you weren’t sure until today when it would arrive.”

I nodded again. I thought if this questioning kept up much longer, I’d be doing serious injury to my neck.

“There was a piece of furniture in the shipment that shouldn’t have been there, and it just happened to contain the body of the deceased. It was marked with a yellow sticker with your initials in what you say is your handwriting, and you don’t know how it got there?”

“Right again,” I said.

“You’ve been staying in the house for… how long?… six days. The first night you were here you thought you saw someone at the end of the yard, but you don’t know who, or even if there really was someone there. You also found a dead cat, and someone may have tampered with the brakes on the car, but you have no idea who or why?”

“Yes,” I said. I could also have told him there was a man, dressed in a safari suit, who had tried to run me off the road because I’d stepped on his toe. But what would be the point?

He looked at me for a long time, then sighed loudly.

“Another day of joy, adventure, and achievement in the service of the Maltese people,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t you have some expression for days which are not going well?”

“Sure. At the shop we say ‘just another day in paradise.” Is that what you mean?“

“Exactly,” he said. Amazingly, he smiled at me. Despite myself, I smiled back. It was the first friendly gesture that had come my way since I’d arrived at police headquarters in the town with the rather charming name of Floriana. Charm had been sadly lacking in its inhabitants, however, until I had met Detective Tabone. While the police may have been prepared to concede Martin Galea’s right as a native-born Maltese to come home to die, they were not pleased with the foreigner who had had the bad taste to find his body.

For the first time since I had arrived there, I relaxed a little, and was able to look closely at him, trying to take the measure of the man. He was slim, tall by Maltese standards, with greying hair, an arresting, shall we say, moustache, and an air of fatigue about him, not so much from the lateness of the hour, I thought, as the chronic weariness of seeing too much of the seamier side of life.

“We don’t get a lot of this kind of thing, you know. Oh, there’s no question people kill each other from time to time. Domestic situations, usually. Find the culprit right away. And people like to throw bombs in doorways every now and then. Blood feuds of some kind, politics at the heart of it most of the time. But people don’t normally get killed by the blast that often. We have more trouble with fireworks factories blowing up as a matter of fact. That seems to happen pretty regularly.”

He tossed his pen and notebook onto the desk. “I expect it’s the wife,” he said. “It usually is. Cherchez la femme, you know.”

“Marilyn Galea? I find that hard to believe. Too quiet, timid even.”

“Ah, but it’s often the quiet ones…” We both thought that one over for a minute or two, before he continued, “And you know what they say about women in Malta. That when St. Paul was shipwrecked here, he rid the island of poisonous snakes by transferring the venom to women’s tongues!”

“No, I didn’t know that,” I said, in what I hoped were suitably acid tones. Perhaps, I thought, I should introduce this man to Anna Stanhope and watch her have a go at him.

Then, thinking how more than anything, I just wanted to go home, I said, “Is she coming over? To claim the body and make arrangements for… you know?”

“I expect she might, if we could find her to tell her. Gone missing, it seems. Hasn’t been seen since sometime yesterday.

Cherchez la femme, as I said. Anyway, why don’t we call it a day? It’s nearly midnight, and there isn’t much more we can do until we get the coroner’s report. If we get the coroner’s report, that is.“ He sighed loudly again.

I wondered what that meant. I didn’t want to ask.

“You wouldn’t be thinking of leaving Malta in the next day or two, would you? No? Then I’ll get someone to drive you back to the house. I think it’ll be good to have you staying there. Who knows, maybe the mystery guests will show up, one of them with a sign saying ‘I’m the murderer.” Or someone who confesses to killing Galea because he wasn’t considered important enough to be invited to the party. You never know!“ As he spoke, he watched my face, and evidently thought better of his attempts at humor. ”I’ll get someone to watch the house at night, if it would make you feel better,“ he offered. I told him it would.

After checking every door and window in the place, and peering intently into the backyard to see if the hooded creature was there, I sat in the dark in the living room of Martin Galea’s nearly perfect house, and thought about the day. Had it not been for the fact that this was all the result of a murder, it would have seemed rather funny, in a Monty Python kind of way.

After my initial screaming fit, my northern temperament reasserted itself, and I got a grip, admittedly tenuous, on myself. This could not be said for the others. I have never heard such a din. Everyone was screaming and yelling. Marissa took it all particularly badly, overcome by a really serious attack of hysteria, which ended only when she fainted dead away. The cousins, the truck driver, everyone was crying and waving their arms around.

I headed for the telephone. I had no idea how to reach the police, of course, so I tried to get an operator.

I got a recording of some sort, which in my shaken state I tried to engage in conversation. I assumed it was telling me in Maltese that all the lines were busy, that my call was important to them, and that I should stay on the line. Then there came extremely loud and raucous music, disco style, seemingly everyone’s favorite in Malta. On this occasion it was disconcerting, to say the least.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, an operator, a man, literally shouted something in Malti.

“There’s been a terrible accident,” I said, rather inanely.

The operator switched to English and yelled, “What do you want?”

“The police,” I yelled back.

“Where?” he shouted.

Where what? I thought. “How should I know?” I yelled.

“Malta or Gozo?” he yelled again.

“Malta.” Another round of rock music. I thought he had cut me off. Finally I was connected to the police and told them as best I could that there was a body in a piece of furniture. You can imagine how this was received. I was asked where I was, and couldn’t describe my location. “Wait a minute,” I yelled.

“You don’t have to shout,” the policeman said peevishly.

I went to fetch the calmest, or perhaps I should say least hysterical, of the cousins, and got him to talk to the police. Finally they arrived. A doctor was called for Marissa, and I was escorted to police headquarters in Floriana, where I was treated as a major nuisance, until at last I was taken to Vincent Tabone. All of this, including Tabone’s interrogation, had taken many hours and I was feeling more than a little sorry for myself when I got back to the house.

It was nearly one in the morning, so my first thought was that it was way too late to call anyone. But then I remembered the time difference and realized it was dinnertime back home. But there was the question of who to call. It is one of life’s revealing moments when one considers who, out of perhaps dozens of acquaintances and friends, one knows well enough to call when one has found a corpse, a murdered corpse, stuffed in a piece of furniture.

Calling Lucas was out of the question. As much as I might need him right now, he was out of reach, probably sitting in a tent eating astronaut food from a plastic bag, oblivious to my situation.

I considered calling Clive, my ex, on the theory that a heated argument, even over the telephone, would be therapeutic. Even talking to his new wife, the rather fatuous but extremely rich Celeste, might do the trick.

In the end, I called my neighbor, Alex. I first met Alex when I moved into the neighborhood after my rather acrimonious separation and divorce. He adopted me somewhat in the way he takes in various stray cats and dogs from time to time. I credit his avuncular concern and friendship with getting me through a bad patch in my life. In turn, I have fended off more than one foray by his other neighbors who feel his rather ramshackle house and jungle-like garden are not in keeping with the image they have of our part of town. They’re right, of course. His place is a bit of an eyesore, but who cares? Alex is a genuine eccentric, and I don’t know what I’d do without him now, nor how Sarah and I could manage the store without his help.

When I told him what had happened, he clucked over me in a soothing and satisfying way.

“Haven’t heard a word of this here yet, although I’m sure we will soon enough. I’ll expect police enquiries, shall I? You tell me Mrs. Galea—Marilyn, is that right?—has gone missing, and is the prime suspect?”

“Yes. Did Dave mention whether or not she was at the house when his men got there?”

“No. I waited for his team to pick up the furniture last night but didn’t talk to him personally. They came around eight or eight-thirty, I’d say. We were open late last night anyway, and they came before we closed. Dave left a message on the answering machine at the shop. Said the furniture was on its way to you, it was late and he was going to bed. Bad cold or flu, by the sound of him. We didn’t bother him at all today. We figured we’d hear from you if there was a problem.”

“No doubt he’ll be bothered soon enough, if he hasn’t been already.”

“No doubt. Maybe I should call and warn him he can expect a call from the police.”

“You know what, Alex? I think I’ll call him myself. Something went very wrong with that shipment, and maybe Dave can enlighten me in some way.”

“Okay. But you take care. Leave the detective work to the police this time, will you?”

“I will, Alex. And thanks for being there!” I said.

I called Dave at his home. His wife answered.

“Hi, Sandy, it’s Lara. How’s Dave? Is it possible for him to come to the phone?”

“Hi, Lara. How’s Malta? Warmer than here, I hope. Did the shipment get there all right?”

“It got here,” was all I could think to say. “Dave’s got a cold. It’s settling in nicely. The way he’s carrying on you’d think he had dengue fever, mind you. You know how men revert to babyhood the moment they get even the most minor of ailments! He’s asked me to screen all his calls. You are, in fact, the only person he said he’d talk to. Hold on a minute, I’ll get him.”

Dave came on the line, and I gave him a short version of events and told him to expect a call from the police. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed.

“Can you tell me anything about the shipment, Dave? Did you notice the switch in the piece of furniture? Was the chest particularly heavy? Who was there when your men got to the house? Anything strike you as unusual, anything at all?”

“We did everything in such a hurry, Lara. I don’t know… I’ll have to ask my team who let them into the house. I didn’t think to ask at the time. I did notice that one piece wasn’t measured with your normal military precision. But the yellow sticker with your initials was on it. I checked every piece for that. And you know, the description—chest, sideboard—not much difference really.

“I think I thought that maybe Galea had changed his mind about which piece to send, although it did cross my mind that maybe you’d come under the legendary Galea spell and lost it for a minute or two. You wouldn’t be the first woman that happened to.” His laugh turned into a coughing spasm.

“Very funny, Dave. The guy is dead. Stabbed.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not funny. I should have known something was wrong. I guess I screwed up. Big time,” he said morosely.

“I don’t think you screwed up, Dave. Presumably the murderer switched them. The police here think it was Marilyn Galea.”

“That little mouse? Tired of all his philandering, no doubt. Still I wouldn’t have put her down for it, would you? And you’d think divorce, while it might take longer, would be a more socially acceptable alternative, wouldn’t you? Most of the money’s hers, from what I hear. Isn’t it just as likely to be a jealous husband, or a colleague whom Galea beat out for a big commission? There must be a few of those. He got a lot of commissions.

“Come to think of it, I do recall a couple of the guys complaining that some of the furniture must be filled with bricks, or something. But they were all heavy wood pieces, and we didn’t open anything. I just amended the waybill accordingly. We were really rushing to make the flight. I… hold on a sec, Lara, Sandy’s waving at me.”

He put his hand over the mouthpiece for a second or two. “Gotta go,” he said. “Police at the door, as you predicted. Thanks for the warning. We’ll talk soon.”

“Just one more question, Dave. Was the furniture always in your sight from the time it left the Galea house? I mean, could he have been killed somewhere other than at his house?”

“Doubt it. The guys took it directly from the house and loaded it on the truck. They came straight to the airport. There was no time for a coffee stop, or anything, and they told me they came direct. I don’t think there was a time when at least one or two of us weren’t there during the loading. And anyway, why would anyone come all the way out to the airport to stab somebody? And what would Galea be doing out on the tarmac or in the hangar?”

What indeed? It was looking more and more as if Tabone was right. Galea was probably killed in his own home. And yet… I couldn’t imagine Marilyn Galea stabbing anyone, much less her own husband. She had seemed very nice to me. But what did I know? Perhaps I just felt guilty because I’d once contemplated having an affair with her husband. A middle-class Presbyterian upbringing stays with you forever.

It was not until the next day that I figured out what all the loud sighing was about when Tabone talked about the autopsy. I was back in Floriana the next morning, going over the same old stuff one more time. Marissa, looking very pale and sad, was leaving the office when I arrived. She gave me a wan little smile as we passed in the corridor. I’d seen Anthony and Sophia in the waiting room as I came in. He was utterly crushed, I could tell, by the death of his idol and mentor, she in her own quiet way, was a pillar of strength. It occurred to me that Anthony, an only child, and a very much adored one, was seeing life in the raw for the first time. Sophia on the other hand possessed a maturity that far exceeded her young life.

In any event, as I was reading the typed version of my statement, prepared for my signature, the telephone rang.

“What have you got?” Tabone grunted upon answering it. There was a pause.

“That’s it?” he asked incredulously. Then a few seconds later, he slammed the phone down and spoke to no one in particular.

“It appears Martin Galea was stabbed. With something sharp. Brilliant, wouldn’t you say? But perhaps you figured that out for yourself just looking at him,” he said, turning his attention to me and glaring in my general direction. I said nothing.

“Well, what would you expect from a loaner?”

“A loaner?” I asked hesitantly.

“Our former coroner, Dr. Caruana, has retired. He’s a prince. Really knew his stuff. We’re hoping to hire another one, Maltese, but in the meantime, we have a Frenchman, on loan. One of their rejects, if you ask me. He complains constantly about the primitive conditions under which he has to work here, and of course, he’s right. We have a long way to go in that area. Can’t do all the fancy tests other labs can. True in the medical area too. When Rosa, our eldest, was badly hurt in a car accident, my wife and I flew her to Italy for tests and treatment. Took every cent we had. No, more than that. We borrowed from several relatives, and we’ll be paying them back forever. But it was worth it, let me tell you.

“Caruana wasn’t bothered by it, though. He did his autopsies the old fashioned way, and he was always right. This French fellow obviously relied on fancy equipment in the past, and he’s definitely not so good at the basics. Complains about everything, including, and maybe especially, the food here. I hate spending any time with the man, but obviously I’m going to have to.

“We’re having a devil of a time getting a permanent coroner. But what can you expect? Coroners, like policemen, are civil servants. Very badly paid. You get what you pay for, except of course in my case, where my contribution far exceeds the paltry sum I’m paid, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. He smiled at me.

“Sorry. Totally lost it there, didn’t I?”

I decided I liked Tabone. He had a sense of humor, bizarre and occasionally brittle though it might be, and he didn’t seem to take me very seriously as a suspect, despite my involvement in the whole affair. He also didn’t seem to share his colleagues’ distrust of, and dislike for, foreigners.

“Is that all he said? The coroner, I mean. That Galea was stabbed with something sharp?”

“Just about. Well, one more thing. He estimated the time of death at about noon or one p.m. yesterday, give or take an hour or two. He bases this on the fact that rigor mortis had not yet set in, which it would normally start to do within five or six hours, and the fact that the last meal in Galea’s stomach—pardon the details here—was breakfast, bacon and eggs. The poor fellow didn’t get time for lunch before he expired.

“I expect this means that either Galea was killed in Rome wandering about the cargo area for some inexplicable reason, then stuffed in some furniture that just happened to be his, and which just happened to be heading for his new home in Malta, or alternatively that he and the murderer both stole on the cargo plane, and Galea was murdered mid-Atlantic. Perhaps—now here’s an idea—the pilot killed him, in a fit of rage because he was a stowaway. How likely do you think these alternatives might be? Ludicrous, would you say?” he asked contemptuously. “Maybe our loaner is getting into the embalming fluid in his desperation.

“But I suppose we must work with what we have, and it does give me ideas. I’d better check with the Italian authorities and the airline to see if Galea was on a flight to Rome. Not that I have much in the way of resources, of course. Most of my staff are on security detail.”

“Security? For what?”

“It’s not terribly well-known for security reasons, but our prime minister is hosting representatives from a number of Mediterranean nations next week. He wants to get Malta into the European Union. It’s an uphill battle, of course. The Opposition party opposes it. They think a little country like Malta will get swallowed up by the Union in one tiny bite and our economy will be ruined, and they may be right. Who’s to say really? I for sure have no idea whether it’s a good idea or not. In any event, the PM soldiers are on for the cause. He’s hoping to get the support of countries like Italy and Greece to get us into the Union. So he’ll wine and dine a few of them and see where it gets us.”

“Would these be people important enough to warrant an invitation to Martin Galea’s new house, would you say?” I asked.

He looked at me thoughtfully. “Interesting question, my dear Miss McClintoch. Very interesting question indeed.”

The rest of the day passed quietly enough, except for one very strange incident. After my meeting with Tabone, and reluctant to return to the house, I ventured by myself into Valletta. I needed to change some travelers’ checks into Maltese lire, and I had promised myself a return visit to St. John’s Co-Cathedral. Ostensibly, my reason for going there was the painting I’d heard was in the cathedral museum and had missed on my previous visit, a Caravaggio, and to see more of the cathedral, unhurried by Anthony’s relentless quest for buildings designed by Gerolamo Cassar. The real reason for going there at this particular moment, however, was, I think, an idea that a visit to this magnificent place of worship might put the horror of the previous day in perspective somehow.

The sun was shining brightly when I went into the dim interior. Once again, I was amazed at how every inch of the interior was ornamented in some way. I found the painting I wanted to see, the quite magnificent “Beheading of St. John,” and then I just wandered around some more. A large tour group had left the cathedral shortly after I arrived, and I had the place more or less to myself.

In the little chapel to the left of the main altar was a staircase that led down to the cathedral crypt. The guidebook Anthony had purchased for me indicated that visits to the crypt were only possible by writing for an appointment well in advance, something I had obviously not done. On my previous visit, the gate at the bottom of the steps had been held shut with a padlock and chain, allowing only a tantalizing glimpse of the crypt through the gate. This time, however, I could see that the padlock was open. I don’t know whether it was the lure of the unlocked gate, the thought of seeing something usually forbidden, or perhaps a bit of an obsession, recently acquired, with the hereafter, but after looking carefully about me, I went quickly and quietly down the steps and let myself in.

There is something about crypts that demands silence, the coolness, darkness, and damp so akin, perhaps, to death. I walked very quietly into the depths, trying not to disturb the inhabitants, several of whom, I noticed, had been Grand Masters of the Knights of St. John, in their final resting place. For a moment or two I thought I was alone, until in the very back, at a dead end, I came upon the Great White Hunter himself, crouched low examining one of the tombs very intently. I don’t know why I was surprised. GWH was where he always was when I saw him, hanging about in the presence, here literally, of the Knights. Surprised I was, however, and I obviously startled him. Perhaps he had been concentrating so hard he hadn’t heard me at first. When he did, he turned, looking at me as much as anything like a cornered animal, fear in his eyes.

“I’ll give you thirty percent,” he said.

“Thirty percent?” I said, mystified.

“All right, then. Forty.”

I just looked at him.

“Fifty/fifty. I’ll split whatever we get with you. It’s the best I can do. I have expenses, you know.” His voice was a hoarse gasp.

“What are you talking about?” I exclaimed.

He looked at me intently, and then straightened up, keeping his eyes on me at all times.

“Then it’s not you,” he said.

In my confusion, I took this to be an existential query of some sort and replied, “Of course it’s me. Who else would I be?”

He lunged past me, pushing me roughly against a stone tomb and hurtled up the stairs. I heard his footsteps receding quickly above me. I stood there alone in the crypt for several minutes, listening to some water drop against damp stones, my shoulder aching from the contact with the wall, totally baffled by the encounter.

It would be some time before the significance of this event became clear to me.

SEVEN

But here, what is this? Shipwrecked soul, cast upon My shores. Paul, they call you, Saul of Tarsus, follower of the Nazarene. I see Cathedrals rising from My rocky soil. My strength ebbs before it, the Word that rings across the ages.

Love thy neighbor. Subdued, silent, but not defeated, I remain.

They will worship Me again.

The following day the enormity of what had happened finally caught up with me. Until then, I had been reasonably pleased with the way I’d been holding up. I did not wish to think I was becoming inured to the sight of violent death— this was not, regrettably, the first time in my life I’d discovered a murder victim—but by and large I had felt rather untouched by events. I knew that the planets were out of alignment somehow, but I merely sensed a kind of detached surprise. Indeed, I had put my feelings about finding Galea roughly on a par with my perplexing encounter with the Great White Hunter.

That morning, however, a black cloud had descended upon me. The dreary rain outside mirrored the inner workings of my psyche. The fog that swirled around the yard had somehow worked its way into my body. I felt as if my eyes and ears and all my inner workings were clogged with cotton wool. I could not get out of bed.

Marissa and Joseph, who had reappeared as suddenly as he’d left, arrived late morning. I heard them come in and call out for me, but I could not summon the energy to reply.

They came looking for me, and soon their two heads poked around the bedroom door. I waved at them in a languid fashion, extending my hand only inches beyond the edge of the duvet, which was pulled up to my nose, to do so. Apparently they did not like what they saw. I heard, but could not understand, their whispered consultation in the hall outside the bedroom and as they descended the stairs.

Soon I heard footsteps on the stairs once again and Marissa came into the room with a tray.

“Sit up, please,” she said in a tone of voice I assumed she normally reserved for Anthony at his recalcitrant best. I did what I was told. She was younger than I, but the tone apparently works for both children and people of all ages in a state of shock.

“Drink this,” she ordered. I shook my head. “I’ve talked to the doctor, and if you don’t drink this and eat something, he’s coming over.” I decided I was not in the mood to meet a Maltese doctor, however lovely and competent he might be, so I drank it down. It was tea, very hot, with lemon and enough sugar to supply the day shift at a candy factory. I had visions of it drilling its way through my teeth. But it worked. I felt better almost immediately. Then there was toast and jam and a little cheese.

“Good!” Marissa said. “Now you can have a bit of a rest until it’s time to get dressed. Anthony and Sophia will be here to pick you up about two.”

“Pick me up for what?” I managed to say.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. You promised to help Dr. Stanhope with her play. Sophia is counting on you,” she said severely.

I had completely forgotten, to be sure, and I didn’t want to leave my bed. Somewhere in my battered psyche I knew that everyone had decided it would be good therapy for me to do this, but I didn’t feel like it a bit. I knew I couldn’t let Sophia down, though. I had come to feel real affection for her. I also understood that fussing over me was good therapy for Marissa, who looked dreadful, puffy-eyed and exhausted, so I suppose we struck an unspoken bargain of sorts. I agreed to go.

It was a very damp day, so of course the car wouldn’t start. Anthony was not to be deterred this time. He made me sit in the driver’s seat, and then he and his father pushed the car down the incline of the driveway. It started just as I steered around the corner at the bottom. Anthony was pleased with the result. I did not feel my relationship with the car was improving over time.

We, Anthony, Sophia, and I, made our way to the University. I tried to memorize the route for future reference, but I was having difficulty concentrating on anything. Anthony, acting on his mother’s instructions, no doubt, dropped us right at the door and told us he’d be back for us about six.

Many of the students had already gathered when we arrived, and Sophia was pulled into the crowd immediately. I sought out Dr. Stanhope and reported for duty.

“Right,” she said. “You’ll be wanting a briefing. The play we are putting on is a history of Malta from Paleolithic times to the present. It’s done as a series of vignettes. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to a son et lumiere, sound and light show?”

“Sure,” I said. “The Forum in Rome, Athens, the Pyramids of Giza, Karnak on the Nile—I kind of collect them. They are held after dark and use music and dialogue along with lighting to tell the history of a place—they light up particular areas of an historic site where an important event took place.”

“Exactly. Well, this is a little like that, except that we actually light the girls as they speak. They represent the people from different eras, all the nations that have come and gone in Malta, with commentary on historic events. We did it this way because our budget for elaborate sets is just about nil, and there are only fifteen girls in the class participating. Not exactly a cast of thousands.

“For our original production, the students designed and made their own costumes to illustrate various time periods, and we even got the boys in the school involved making props. In shop class they made the kind of implements that were used to build the temples, for example. Everyone pitched in to make the backdrop. The students painted scenes from Maltese history on huge sheets of paper. The first one was a picture of Hagar Qim, the second the ramparts of Valletta, the third the Grand Harbour. You get the idea. The assistant principal came up with a fast way to change the sets.”

“It sounds very ambitious,” I said.

“Well, it is. The students worked very hard. But I think they needed a bit of a stretch, and frankly their knowledge of their own history was appalling, just appalling. I made them do all the research and write the script. Originally I tried to get them to do it from the point of view of the women of each era, but it was too difficult for them. Too much under the thumb of the men around here, if you ask me. Then I hit upon the idea of telling the history from the point of view of the Great Goddess, sort of like having the spirit of Malta speak, and it’s worked out really well.

“Your young friend Sophia is proving to be quite a good little writer, by the way. Wrote her own part, and several others. Anyway, we put it on about a month ago here in the auditorium. Huge success, I must say. Standing ovation. The girls were thrilled.”

“So you’ve extended its run, I take it?”

“Extended… Ah, yes, show business talk, I surmise. Yes, for one performance only. After the show here, some muckety-muck in the Prime Minister’s office, Mr. Camilleri I think he said his name was, asked for an appointment with me. His card made him out to be the Prime Minister’s chief public relations officer.

“Told me the PM was entertaining some foreign dignitaries and he thought the play would be just the thing. Well, I have to admit it was all pretty flattering. I asked the students what they thought, and they were just blown away by the whole idea.

“Camilleri had some ideas to jazz it up a bit, of course. You know these PR types. Anyway, at some point a week or so ago, he hit upon the idea of putting it on at the site, Hagar Qim or Mnajdra. That’s why you saw us there a couple of days ago. We were location scouting—is that the term? We’ve decided Mnajdra is the place. We’ll put chairs—there’ll be about twenty-five people—about where you and I were sitting the other day, facing the temple entrance; we’ll use the ruins as a backdrop; and we’ll light certain portions of it to illustrate the history. The inside of the temple will be, in effect, our backstage.

“Our fallback, of course, the rain location, is here in the auditorium. We’ll keep the sets at the ready. But it would be quite a lark to do it at the site, don’t you think?”

“I think it sounds terrific. What can I do?” I asked.

“We need a sort of stage manager. You know, get everyone to the right place at the right time, in the right costume. That sort of thing. The vice principal had that role, but I think I told you he broke his leg waterskiing. Why anyone would want to roar across the top of the water on a couple of sticks is beyond me. He was practicing for a jumping competition. At his age! I would have credited him with more intelligence. But there you have it. Boy stuff. Way too much testosterone!

“The lighting for this production will be key. Had a bad moment there. Only had one bloke who knew anything about electricals—I certainly don’t—the school caretaker. He’s in hospital. Fell down the back stairs at the school Thursday evening after everyone had gone. Claims he can’t remember what happened. But we know what happened, don’t we? We know he’s down in the boiler room having more than the odd nip or two at regular intervals during the day. Drunken old sod!

“ T thought we’d have to call the whole thing off, but the Goddess is watching over us. Sent us a savior. Right at one of her sacred places. Mnajdra. A very nice gentleman has come forward to help out. Knows all about the stuff. And oh… here he is…

“Signore Deva, how wonderful!” she gushed as she turned toward her savior. It was the man I’d seen at Mnajdra a couple of days before.

“Signore Vittorio Deva, Ms. McClintoch.”

“Signore,” I said.

“Please, signora, call me Victor. I am at your service, ladies. I will leave you now to see what lighting and sound equipment will be available here, if I may?”

“Isn’t he just darling?” Dr. Stanhope asked me after he’d left.

“Just darling,” I agreed. “Did you sign him up at Mnajdra?”

“No, in fact we just chatted for a few minutes. He asked me questions about the historical significance of the site. He was very interested in what I told him about Goddess worship, and what we were up to, the play, I mean. Then yesterday morning I heard about old Mifsud falling down the stairs…”

“Mifsud?” I interrupted.

“The caretaker. He’s a mess. Nasty bump on the head, cracked ribs, broken ankle. I didn’t know what to do. I went to get a spot of lunch at my usual place, and in walked Victor… Signore Deva. We chatted again. I told him what had happened. He was ever so sympathetic… and delicate. Let it be known he’d be glad to help if I asked him, but that he wouldn’t presume without my asking. Such a gentleman!”

“Indeed,” I murmured.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and I momentarily forgot my problems, partly because the place was an absolute din. I was coming to realize that in Malta, shouting is a normal conversational level. Soon I was shouting too. I used my shop organization skills to get all the costumes lined up in order, and made annotations in the script. Signore Deva—Victor— for all his unctuousness, seemed to know his electricals, to use Anna Stanhope’s expression—and he made some recommendations for additional purchases.

“I took the liberty of visiting the site this morning, my dear Dr. Stanhope, and I have some ideas I’d like to discuss with you, with your permission, of course.”

“All right, Victor, but remember, we have an extremely limited budget for this production,”‘ she said.

Victor looked wounded. “My dear Anna, if I may be so bold as to call you that? Yes? It would be a privilege—no, an honor—for me to be permitted to contribute in this small way to your most prestigious event. Please allow me the pleasure of purchasing the necessary equipment at my personal expense!”

I thought Deva was rivaling the tea Marissa had made for me earlier in the day for cloying sweetness, but Dr. Stanhope was all atwitter. She agreed immediately, and off he went to make his purchases. I’ll admit I could see why she was smitten. He was a very attractive man, mid- to late forties, I’d say, lovely Italian suit, impeccable manners, if a tad old-world, and very, very smooth.

There were a couple of other adult members of the team. Mr. Camilleri, from the PM’s office, had donated the services of one of his staff, a woman named Esther, a pleasant enough person who didn’t seem to do much, but presumably she’d be doing protocol duties the day of the event. There was also a young man by the name of Alonso, the older brother of one of the girls, who acted as general gofer and handyman. Whenever brute strength was called for, Alonso was called upon to provide it. He moved furniture, lugged racks of costumes, and even went out to get everyone soft drinks—some very sweet fruit-flavored concoctions.

Anthony and Sophia took me home. There was a police car in the driveway when we got there, but there had been one there off and on since Galea’s unfortunate arrival, so I thought nothing of it. When I went into the house, however, I was in for a little surprise.

Vincent Tabone was there, and he, Marissa, and Joseph all had fingers held to their mouths in the universal “hush” sign. I was led upstairs to one of the empty rooms and found it empty no longer. A cot had been set up in one corner of the room, and on it, sound asleep, was a tall man. I say tall, because his feet protruded past the end of the cot. We went back downstairs to talk.

“Sergeant Robert Luczka of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police!” Tabone pronounced the name Looch-Ka, with an emphasis on the first syllable. “He’s come over to assist in the investigation of Martin Galea’s death, Galea being a Canadian citizen now and all. And the possibility that he was killed in Canada, or Rome, of course. The sergeant arrived today.

“He’s on a very small per diem. Budget cutbacks, apparently. So I thought bringing him here would accomplish two things: save him some money, and provide you with protection. Good idea, don’t you think?”

“Great,” I said. What else could I say?

“A Mountie!” Tabone exclaimed. “A real Mountie! I never thought I’d get to work with a Mountie!”

Indeed. And I never thought I’d have to live with one either.

The next morning I awoke to the smell of coffee and bacon. It irritated me more than I can say, for reasons I cannot explain. I think it was because I was beginning to consider the house mine in some way. Not literally, of course. I have never expected to make enough money at my business to ever own such a wonderful home. But my furniture was in it, and when I go buying for the shop, I only buy objects I love. I had handpicked every piece Galea had selected. I’d also worked so hard, and worried so much, to get it ready. But most of all, the house was beginning to feel like an orphan. Martin Galea dead, Marilyn Galea missing. No children. Marilyn was an only child, I knew, and if Martin had relatives anywhere, he had never mentioned them to me. I wondered what would happen to it. I felt the Mountie did not belong here.

I took my time going downstairs, not looking forward to my first conversation with the man. I was determined, I have to admit, not to like him. When I got downstairs, he rose immediately, poured me a coffee which he placed at a neatly set place on the counter, and stuck out his hand. He was tall, as I predicted, with light brown hair with a balding spot, blue eyes, and a lopsided smile.

“Rob Luczka,” he said. “Pronounced L-o-o-c-h-k-a and spelled L-u-c-z-k-a. Ukrainian. You, I know, are Lara. It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you,” I said between clenched teeth. How could someone be so cheery first thing?

“Here, let me get you some breakfast. Marissa has left us lots of good stuff. How do you like your eggs?”

“In the carton,” I said. “I’ll just have some toast and coffee, thanks.”

“You need fuel to get through the day, you know. I’m cooking you some bacon. No, how about an omelet? That’s a good idea,” he said, answering his own question.

My God, I thought. There’s going to be another murder victim before this is over. I’ll kill him for sure. But I said nothing. He served up quite a passable omelet actually, and once I had that and some coffee, I felt I could face a conversation with him with some equanimity.

“So you’re here to assist with the murder investigation,” I said as my opening gambit.

“Yes, sure. Pretty cut-and-dried, though, I’d say. Most likely suspect is Galea’s wife. What’s her name?”

“Marilyn,” I said. “And I don’t think she did it. Didn’t you see the autopsy report? Said he’d been dead for only a few hours.”

“I’ve seen the report. Tabone showed it to me. Somewhat… basic, shall we say? I mean I don’t wish to criticize another jurisdiction’s work, but…”

“Tabone didn’t think much of it either,” I admitted.

“The point is, it’s been mighty cold back home. Sub subzero. I figure Galea could have been dead for much longer than the coroner here thinks. We already know that the furniture was loaded outside, it was minus fifteen at the time, and we checked the cargo line for the temperature of their cargo bays—they were embarrassed to tell us how cold they were, actually. So I figure Galea was just thawing out about the time he got here. That would account for the report.”

“But you’re here now,” I persisted. “Presumably you weren’t sent here because it was an open-and-shut case. You or your superiors must have thought there was some doubt.”

“Not really. We were sent a copy of the autopsy report, so we had to look into it.”

“So when do we start?”

“Start what? And if it’s what I think it is, who’s we? I’m the policeman, you are the shopkeeper, the one in whose shipment the body turned up, I might add.”

“Fine. Go out investigating by yourself. You’ll get lost five minutes out of the driveway, I assure you. And were you planning to take the car? I can’t wait to hear all about it!”

“Do I take it that you think that because I’m a Ukrainian from Saskatchewan I can’t find my way around an island this size? I’m a Mountie, remember. I track criminals through roaring blizzards, just like on TV.” He grinned.

“But of course,” I said. “Let me get you the car keys.”

EIGHT

Normans, Hohenstaufens, Angevins, Aragonese, Castilians—a blur of rulers, mostly absent. My tiny islands pass from hand to hand, pillar to post, sometimes the spoils of war, other times, more happily, to seal the marriage contract, yet others, a forgotten outpost in some despotic sovereign’s empire. Will freedom never come?

“I have A couple of pieces of news I think you’ll find interesting,” Vincent Tabone said, looking across his desk at Rob Luczka and me. My anticipated moment of triumph at seeing Luczka off in that splendid car was denied when Tabone called to say he was sending a squad car to the house. The factor mitigating my disappointment was that I was invited too, the Mountie’s opinion of shopkeepers doing detective work notwithstanding.

“I’ve heard back from the Italian authorities,” Tabone continued. “Martin Galea got to Rome on Canadian Airlines flight 6040. His car, a Jaguar—I’m impressed!—was found in the long-term parking area at Toronto International Airport. The Italians no longer require disembarkation cards at Fiumicino Airport—a mistake if you ask me. If they did, we could compare the signature on the card with the signature on the offer to purchase the land where he built the house just to confirm it was Galea on the flight. Not that we need to. We know he got here somehow. We’ve also contacted the airline. Galea as prebooked in seat 15B. But the flight was full, lots of large Italian families traveling together, and there was a bit of a computer glitch. A few seats in that area were double-booked. There was a seat for everyone, apparently, but a Jot of trading around on board. It was a 747—over 400 people. I’ve never been on one, but it sounds unnatural to me! We’ll try to contact the person who was supposed to be sitting in 15A, to see if we might get a positive identification, but frankly, I’m not hopeful.”

“So that means what?” Luczka mused. “Maybe his wife killed him in Italy—what’s her name again?”

“It’s Marilyn,” I burst out. “M-A-R-I-L-Y-N. Not what’s her name! Not ‘the wife.” Not la femme. Marilyn. She may be plain and very, very shy. She may have so much money you want to despise her. But I’ve met her. I like her. And she deserves better than this… this automatic presumption of guilt on both your parts!“ I was almost sputtering. Both men looked sheepish. ”What if something dreadful has happened to her too?“

Tabone cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should have added that I also checked on Mrs. Galea—that is to say, Marilyn Galea—and there is no indication she was on the plane with him. There’s no boarding pass, no ticket in her name either.”

“You said there were two items of interest,” I said, somewhat mollified. “What’s the second?”

“The second is equally interesting, I think,” Tabone said. “The information you requested on Galea’s will has come through from Canada, Rob. The bulk of his estate, as one would expect, is left to his wife, but, and this is the interesting part, he leaves the sum of $100,000 to the Farrugia boy— Anthony.”

“I think that’s great!” I exclaimed. “It’s to pay for him to become an architect, for his tuition and everything. Who’d have guessed Galea would be that generous?”

“Very generous indeed,” Tabone agreed. “But I think one would have to ask the question: Is this really for the boy’s education? Galea was what—thirty-seven?—when he died. Surely he would have expected to live longer than that. If he wanted to pay for Anthony’s education, why didn’t he just offer to do so?

“So the question remains, and the answer is very critical: Where and when did he get killed? If he was killed in Rome, then Marilyn Galea probably didn’t do it. If he was killed in Canada, then the Farrugias are no longer suspects.”

“You’d think the ‘when’ could be verified, wouldn’t you?” Luczka asked. “God knows I’m no pathologist. I can’t understand anything of what they’re doing with DNA evidence these days, but if I remember anything of my elementary forensics class a few years back, it is only in crime novels that it’s possible to pinpoint the time of death to an hour or two. I know what your pathologist says about rigor mortis. It normally begins to set in about five to seven hours after death, is fully set in after about twelve hours, and passes off again. But temperature makes a big difference to the rate. And as far as the breakdown of tissue after death—I think they call that autolysis—there wouldn’t be much difference between five hours and say, fifteen, which would put Galea back in Toronto when he died. And autolysis takes place at a slower rate when the body is cold.

“So let’s, for the sake of argument, say Galea was killed in Toronto. His body could even have been frozen for all I know. The weather was certainly cold enough. And it seems to me it would be relatively easy to find out whether the body had been in freezing temperatures over a period of several hours, as you and I discussed yesterday, Vince.

“If I remember correctly, cells rupture when a body is frozen, sort of like frostbite really. You wouldn’t necessarily be able to tell just looking at the body, but the fractured membranes should show up under a microscope if someone knew what to look for. Even if the body hadn’t been at subzero temperatures long enough to freeze completely, you could look at tissue samples from the extremities, the fingers and toes, because they would freeze first.”

“Ah, but that requires, as you so delicately put it, someone who knows what to look for. At the present time, we don’t have that,” Tabone replied. “But I take your point. I’ll make arrangements for the coroner to send some tissue samples to a lab in Italy, and we’ll see what they say. But what about the stomach contents? Bacon and eggs. Breakfast. And we know that’s the last meal they give you on an overnight transatlantic flight.”

“This may come as a surprise to you, Vince, but we North Americans eat breakfast food any time of the day or night. I don’t think that necessarily proves anything.”

Tabone nodded as Rob continued. “You might also have someone do some tests on the chest he turned up in, if it hasn’t been done already. It’s been well handled, I know, so chances of finding clear prints are slight, but I’ve got a copy of Galea’s fingerprints that I brought along. Got them when he applied for a visa to come to Canada. In the meantime,” Luczka said, “I think I’ll have a bit of a look around, if it’s okay with you, Vince. Try out a little old-fashioned detective work. Find where Galea was from, who he knew, that sort of thing.”

“I know where he’s from,” I piped up. “At least I think if I had a look at a map the name of the town would come back to me. Marilyn told me that day I went over to measure the furniture. I remember the word made me think of honey—the Greek word for it, meli.”

“Mellieha?” Tabone asked.

“I think that’s it,” I replied.

“Well, you may be right. Because it says so right here on his file.” Tabone grinned at me.

I glared at him. “What else does the file say?”

“Parents both dead. No known relatives. Emigrated to Canada about eighteen years ago. That’s about it.”

“Will you give us a lift back to the house so we can get the car?” I asked. “And directions to Mellieha?”

“Of course. Call me when you get back and tell me what you’ve found. And you will be careful, please, driving in Malta. We have many, many accidents. Remember what they say about Maltese drivers. We don’t drive on the left or the right. We drive in the shade! And by the way, try not to get lost!”

And so it was that the Mountie and I set off to do detective work. He wanted to drive, but the car, egalitarian in its perverseness, wouldn’t start for him either. I took over, he pushed, and I waited for him, engine running, a few yards past the end of the driveway. I noticed he was limping slightly as he approached the car, but I was feeling too irritable to ask him if he was okay.

He got in and started looking for a seat belt. “There aren’t any,” I said.

He looked annoyed. “There should be a law!”

“There is, but it only applies to cars manufactured in 1990 or later, Anthony tells me. This, as you can see, is just a little bit older than that.”

“Like about twenty years!” he responded. I put the car in gear and revved it up to the max. We tore down the road, engine screaming, until I was able to make the shift to third.

“Nice car,” he said. I looked at him sideways but could not tell if there was irony in his words. We hit the first roundabout. There was nothing coming, so I didn’t gear down. The window beside him fell down. “Very nice car,” he added, as the handle spun uselessly in his hand.

I had had a good look at the map before we left, and I had chosen a route that picked up the road to Rabat, then angled up to the northwest corner of the island where the town of Mellieha was located. We whipped past the sign for Verdala Palace around where the Great White Hunter had run me off the road, and I idly wondered where he was, and whether he was trying to negotiate another surrealistic deal with someone, perhaps a total stranger like me. Fifty percent of what, was the question.

As I had learned from my earlier outing in the car, I ignored the directional signs and kept angling along in the general direction of Mellieha. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction to sense the Mountie beside me studying the road map with a perplexed air, but regrettably he was keeping his confusion to himself. He did wince perceptibly, however, when a mini minor shot past us on the shoulder, and again when someone passed on a hill.

Once part of a prehistoric land bridge that linked it to what is now Italy, and also, perhaps with Africa, Malta is shaped a little like an oval platter with the northwest side tilted up, and the south and east down. Its western end is bisected by alternating parallel ridges and valleys cutting across the island from coast to coast. Our route, which took us out of the lower south and east, climbed for a while. As we crested the top of the first ridge, I could see, still miles away, the sweep of a large bay on the far side of the island, the water a silver ribbon against the dark outline of the shore. If my calculations were correct, it should be St. Paul’s Bay, where St. Paul was supposed to have been shipwrecked, and thus converted the island to Christianity.

From here, sometimes the road followed a valley, relatively green and terraced to preserve precious soil and water, sometimes it crossed another craggy ridgeline and we could see the coastline for a few minutes again.

Finally we reached the large bay. It was at the coastal edge of one of the island’s largest valleys, and it looked as if it had been formed during an earthquake or a volcanic eruption millions of years ago when the sea washed into one of the depressions between the ridges. Moored at the edge of the bay bobbed several beautifully colored fishing boats, their bright paint in sharp contrast to the subtle yellow stone of the buildings that hugged the shoreline.

From here the road curved along the edge of the bay, then up onto another high ridge. It was not long then until we came to the edge of a town, and a sharp turn in the road to the right put us on the main street looking downhill toward a large cathedral.

“Mellieha, I think,” I said, pulling into a parking space, and then looking about me at what appeared to be a rather prosperous little town.

“I believe you, but I have no idea how you got us here.” The Mountie sighed.

“Tell me again about tracking criminals through raging blizzards,” I said in dulcet tones.

“Must be the absence of snow.” He grinned. Obviously it was not possible to irritate this man easily.

We were parked very near to the top of the main street, and when we got out of the car, there was a wonderful smell of baking. “Could it be lunchtime?” the Mountie said, his eyes lighting up. We followed our noses to a small building on the curve in the road into town. We’d found the local bakery.

There was a lineup of Maltese women, some in jeans, but most in black skirts, white blouses, and black cardigans. Several of them were carrying trays covered with tea towels. The Mountie, obviously the irrepressible type, asked the woman ahead of us what she had on her tray. Several of the women turned and smiled at his question.

“Timpana,” she said, lifting the tea towel to show us a casserole covered in pastry. “Sunday dinner,” she added.

“We bring it here on Sunday to have it cooked,” another woman said, “when the baking is finished for the day.” She showed us her platter, a traditional roast beef dinner just waiting to be cooked. As we talked, a couple of women left, their string bags filled with several of the round crusty Maltese loaves.

“People have ovens in their own homes now,” a younger woman said. “But it’s still a nice tradition. We get to have a bit of a visit while our supper cooks.”

“Does this mean there is nothing to eat here unless you bring your own?” the Mountie asked in a disappointed tone.

“You can come to my house for supper anytime,” one of the young women said, and the rest giggled loudly. They beckoned us to go ahead of them into the dark interior. There was a counter on the left and a large brick oven at the back of the room. Arranged on a tray at the front were what looked like individual pizzas covered in a rich, dark sauce. We each ordered one and ate it right on the spot. They were delicious: lots of garlic, olives, and anchovy paste would be my guess as to ingredients, sprinkled with fresh herbs. The Mountie ordered a second right away. One of the women smiled and patted his arm.

“I don’t suppose any of you would remember Martin Galea?” I asked them.

“The man who was killed?” one of the younger women asked.

“Yes, that one.”

They looked suspiciously at me. “I knew him in Canada,” I said. “Very well-known architect. I… We, thought if he had family here, we’d express our condolences,” I lied. This seemed to allay their suspicions, but I could feel the Mountie’s law-abiding eyes boring into my back.

“There are lots of Galeas around here, but I don’t remember anyone called Martin,” one woman said. She spoke to the older women and asked them something in Maltese. They all shook their heads. One woman added something, and the others all nodded.

“You should go and see il Qanfud, the… What’s the name in English? The… Hedgehog,” the woman said.

The Mountie and I looked at each other. “Where might we find this… Hedgehog?” he asked. The woman pointed us down the hill to an old man sitting in a chair outside one of the shops.

“Take him a beer. His favorite is Cisk lager. He’ll talk your ears off,” one of the women said. They all laughed.

“A bit crazy, but harmless enough,” another added.

“What would we call him, if not Hedgehog?” I asked.

“Grazio,” one woman replied. We thanked them and started down the hill toward the Hedgehog.

“Why would you call someone a hedgehog?” the Mountie asked no one in particular.

“Beats me. But beer sounds like a good idea,” I replied.

“You’re driving,” he said severely. “Although come to think of it, I’m not sure how you tell the drunk drivers from any others on the road. Takes a policeman’s breath away, the way they drive around here.”

We stopped and bought six cold Cisk lagers, and approached the man with a degree of caution. The Hedgehog was sitting in a battered lawn chair at the foot of a flight of stone stairs leading to an upper part of the village. He was wearing a very old plaid shirt, a tattered tan cardigan, and rather rumpled beige trousers, bare feet thrust into old sandals. He wore dark-rimmed glasses with very thick lenses, had grey hair and a rather grizzled appearance. “Hello,” I said in what I hoped was my nicest voice. “Is your name Grazio?”

“Who’s asking?” he said suspiciously.

“My name is Lara, and this is Rob. We’re looking for the family of someone we knew back in Canada, and the women at the bakery told us to look for someone by the name of Grazio who knew just about everybody,” I said in an ingratiating tone.

“I doubt they called me Grazio,” he said. “More likely they called me il Qanfud.”

“That’s true,” I said. “Would you like a beer?”

His eyes lit up. “Take a load off your feet, dearie,” he said, gesturing toward the steps behind him, “and tell me who you’re looking for.”

“How’d you get a name like Hedgehog?” the Mountie dared to ask as we plunked ourselves down on the steps near the old man.

“Skond ghamilek laqmek,”‘ he replied. “Your nickname reflects your behavior. Or something else about you,” he added. We both nodded sagely.

“We’re looking for friends or family of Martin Galea,” I said, pronouncing it, as Martin had, Ga-lay-ah, with the emphasis on the second syllable.

“What kind of name is that?” he grunted. “Here we say Galea.” He pronounced it Gal-ee-ah, with emphasis on the first syllable. “And Martin, that sounds British to me,” he said, flicking his hand in dismissal. “I’m a Mintoff man. Don’t like the British.”

Rob and I looked at each other and then him.

“Gal-ee-ah would have left here at least fifteen years ago,” I said. “He went to Canada and became a famous architect.”

“Did he now? Is he the dead Galea?” the Hedgehog asked. “The one who turned up in a box?”

“Yes,” we said in unison.

“Saves the expense of a coffin, I guess. So why do you want to know about him?”

I gave him my by now standard response about consoling the family.

“I don’t know a Martin,” replied the old man, apparently satisfied by my explanation. “There’s lots of Galeas, though. Pawla to‘ Hamfusa, Pawla the beetle. There’s Mario il-Kavall, the mackerel. And long ago there was a young man, Marcus to’ Gelluxa, the young bull. Il-mara bhall-lumija taghsarha u tarmiha.”‘

“What?” we both said.

“For him, a woman is like a lemon. You squeeze her and throw her away,” he cackled.

“That’s the one!” I said.

“Was he now? Marcus was quite the youngster. His mother died when he was just a baby, but he charmed all the women in the village, and they all mothered him. He was also quite the hustler. Do just about anything to get ahead in life. Knew everyone’s weaknesses, and was not above using that knowledge if it got him ahead. Played all the angles, always on the lookout for an opportunity,” the Hedgehog said, swigging his beer. “Can’t blame him for that, though. His father died when he was just a lad, and he kind of had to look after himself. He got in with the wrong crowd for a while.”

“I heard—his wife told me—his father owned a shop here.”

“Owned? I think not. Worked in one, though. Just like Marcus to exaggerate,” the Hedgehog said.

“No other relations?” I asked.

“Not really. Nobody who’d admit it now anyway. He and his pal Giovanni il Gurdien, Giovanni the rat—such a pair, although I’ve always believed Marcus figured out Giovanni before some of the rest of us. But he left the village too. So you tell me he’s famous. An architect. Nothing would surprise me about Marcus Galea. Giovanni did just fine for himself too. Although how he could do what he did! It makes me sick!”

The Mountie and I looked at each other again. The conversation got more confusing the more the Hedgehog drank. “What might that be?” Rob ventured to ask.

“Most recently, you mean? Switched to the Republic party as soon as it got elected. Ran in the next election. Got to be a Cabinet minister right away as a reward. Typical! External relations minister, no less. Turncoat! And that’s the best I can say about him. Him I don’t want to talk about.” The Hedgehog looked as if he might spit out his beer, but then he thought better of it, no doubt not wanting to waste so much as a drop.

“Always liked Marcus the young bull, though, I’ll admit. Certainly turned out better than some of the rest of them, like Giovanni and the other one, Franco ta’Xiwwiex, Franco the troublemaker, from Xemxija. He grew up to be a gangster.” The old man giggled. After another swig, he added, “Although there’s lots of folks around here don’t think too highly of Marcus either, not after what he did. At least, as far as I know, he never changed his politics!”

We all sat in silence, thinking this over for a while. Rob opened another beer and offered it to him, asking casually, “And what was it he did that people didn’t like him for?”

The Hedgehog swilled his beer. “Ran off and left the little Cassar girl in a bit of a mess, didn’t he? At least that’s what everybody thinks. Always wondered whether Joe tas Saqqafi, Joe the roofer, knew. He should have been called ta‘ Tontu, the stupid, if he didn’t,” he cackled.

I was starting to get the general drift of the conversation. “So Martin—Marcus—Galea left the Cassar girl—was it Marissa Cassar?—in the family way so to speak, did he?”

“Exactly!” he said. “Quite the scandal it would have been, if Joe tas Saqqafi hadn’t come forward and married her. They moved to the other end of the island right away, but we heard about the boy, born shortly after the wedding. She was the prettiest girl in the town, you know, quite the prettiest girl in the town. Might have helped her out myself, if I’d known,” he snorted. “Is there another beer, dearie?”

“Why don’t you keep the rest?” Rob offered. “We should probably be on our way. Thanks for helping us out.”

“Are you sure you have to go?” the old man asked. “I could tell you about lots of other people around these parts, you know.”

“I’m afraid we do. We have an appointment in Valletta,” Rob said. “But thank you, and enjoy the beer.” We left the Hedgehog happily hugging his bottle, and went back to the car. I was so despondent about what we’d learned—everyone I liked seemed to have a motive for murder—and convinced in some irrational way that it was the Mountie’s fault, that I could not speak to him as I drove back.

He made a couple of attempts at conversation, chattering away into my black silence. “Got all the bases covered, these fishermen,” he said, as we made our way past St. Paul’s Bay with its lovely fishing boats. “Named the boats after saints, but do you see they’ve got eyes painted on the prows? They’re the eyes of Horus, the Egyptian god. If one god doesn’t protect them, the other one will.” He laughed.

Then later, “It does speak to the fact that this is a very religious country, doesn’t it? If what we’ve learned today is true, it would be pretty disgraceful for a good Catholic girl to get pregnant with the father nowhere to be found. I guess this means Galea is Anthony’s father, if I followed the conversation. Which I’m not sure I did. I have a hard time understanding these people, even though they’re speaking English. Marissa Cassar is left high and dry by Marcus Galea, who’s a friend of the foreign minister, a fact that may or may not be relevant. Joe the roofer rescues her, and they move to the other end of the island and have a son. Anthony’s seventeen, I think Marissa told me, and Tabone just said this morning that Galea emigrated about eighteen years ago.

“We can’t be sure they’re the same people, though, can we? Joseph Farrugia is a tradesman but not necessarily a roofer. It would sort of explain the hundred thousand for Anthony, though, wouldn’t it?”

His stream of consciousness thought patterns roughly paralleled mine, but still I couldn’t bring myself to take part in the conversation. When we got back to the house I left him there and walked for a couple of hours along the bluffs. I felt heartsick. Whichever way I looked at it, someone I liked appeared guilty of a most terrible crime.

When I got back to the house, I could tell the Mountie had been busy cooking. I walked in the door and began to make my way up the stairs, still not speaking. I got about halfway up, when he said, “I’ve cooked us a nice supper.”

“I’m sorry,” I said with my back still turned to him. “I am feeling so rotten about all this. I feel as if at best I’m digging up things from Marissa’s past that I never should have known, and at worst, I could be sending her to prison.”

“I know you do, and I know that my being here is making it worse, for which I am sorry. But nothing of what we learned today makes her a murderer,” he said gently. “Come and eat.”

I might have been able to keep going up the stairs if I hadn’t looked back at him. He was wearing an apron and waving a spatula in my general direction, and I had to smile. He poured me a glass of wine, and then served up a very respectable bowl of spaghetti in a meat sauce made with spicy sausage, and a green salad. He’d even sliced up oranges for dessert.

“You must have gone shopping while I was out,” I said.

“I did,” he replied. “Found a nice little grocery store, but regrettably I have no idea where I was, nor how to find it again!”

After dinner, Rob called home. He had, he’d told me, a sixteen-year-old daughter, Jennifer. While I tried not to listen, I could not help but hear the tone of the conversation, which was not a happy one, and Rob was in a foul mood when he rejoined me. “Kids,” he muttered, then sat in a black silence for several minutes.

“Do you have kids?” he finally asked.

“Nope.”

“My girlfriend Barbara moved in with us just a few weeks before I came over. She’s having a tough time with Jennifer, who won’t do anything she asks and is generally raising hell while I’m away. What a mess.”

That’s probably, I was thinking, because you threw her mother over for some bimbo who’s barely older than she is. I said, however, “Perhaps Jennifer could go and stay with her mother for a while.”

“Hard to do,” he said. “Her mother died when Jen was seven. Cancer. I’ve brought her up by myself. She needed a mother, I know that, but… I don’t know. Either she’s going through a bad phase, or,” he sighed, “I’ve botched her upbringing. Totally,” he added.

Even though I hadn’t voiced my caustic thoughts, I felt dreadful. I really had to stop, I thought, judging all men by my ex-husband’s standard. “I’m sure it’s the former,” I said. “It’s a long time ago, of course, but I can still remember that being a sixteen-year-old girl is no picnic.”

He looked at me. “Thank you for saying that,” was all he said. Then he rallied, “How about a liqueur? I found some of that in the grocery store too.”

We sat in the living room, filled with my furniture, and I chatted away, answering his questions and making up, I hoped, for my silence earlier in the day and my recent uncharitable thoughts. It was, I suppose, one of the more pleasant police interrogations I’ve been through. I told him about the shop, how Galea had sent me to Malta, about the party that would never happen. I told him about Anna Stanhope’s play and all the preparations for the performance. I told him all about trying to get the house ready, and all the funny, and not so funny things that had happened. I told him about Nicholas the plumber, the electrician, the paint job, and how, at the very last minute, Joseph had gone missing.

“I wonder where he went,” I said, not really expecting an answer.

“I’m afraid I know the answer to that one,” he said slowly.

I looked at him.

“Joseph went to Rome.”

NINE

Wandering knights, rudely wrenched from your most holy temple, Jerusalem. Pursued across the Mediterranean by a wave of history you call the Infidel. To Rhodes, only to be exiled again. To where? Will no one give you sanctuary? Here—My tiny island, the fee one falcon. A home at last, the Knights now mine. But not a haven. You are not yet safe.

Whatever his shortcomings in life, in death Martin Galea seemed, like Imhotep, designer of Egypt’s first great stone building, the step pyramid of King Zoser, to be headed for deification. In eulogizing him as one of Malta’s greatest sons and counting him among the world’s greatest architects, Malta’s English-language media seemed incapable of mentioning Galea without comparing him to Frank Lloyd Wright or Mies van der Rohe. His youth on the island, his rising above poverty and adversity, his flight to America and triumphant return as prodigal son took on almost mythic proportions.

It was no different back home, I discovered, in speaking to Sarah and Alex. Reporters and editors had gathered Galea to their collective bosom, his all-too-human frailties lost in the hyperbole that surrounded his design achievements, his talents appearing god-given, if not god-like, in proportion.

How galling it must have been to those who had seen his darker side: those design colleagues and competitors who had endured his less than gracious demeanor in victory and his scathing and personal criticism of their work; the cuckolded husbands who had given Galea commissions only to find the price tag included their wives; the abandoned mistresses tossed on some emotional slag heap after gambling and losing in a high-stakes and soul-destroying game. All of them were in some way the detritus of a life arrogantly and carelessly lived. And perhaps none of them had suffered more from Galea’s casual cruelty than the young woman abandoned like some lost Ariadne by a callous lover.

I sat alone in the kitchen with Marissa the next morning. I had arranged to meet her early on the pretext of settling the house accounts. Neither of us had any idea what would happen now that Galea was dead and his wife was missing, and I needed to know how much money was left in Malta for house maintenance. I’d decided, at Rob’s suggestion, that I’d have to try to contact Galea’s solicitors and make arrangements for the house and the Farrugia family, as well as for Dave Thomson, whose shipping bills had not been paid before Galea’s untimely demise. We went over the accounts and discussed how I planned to proceed. Then, as delicately as I could, I told her what Rob and I had learned the day before in Mellieha. She looked out the window for a long time before she began to speak, but when she did the words just poured out of her.

“I waited for him for a long, long time,” she began. “Long after I married Joseph, long after Anthony was born. I thought we were a couple, you know. We’d been together for at least three years. I helped him with his schoolwork; he’d never have got the scholarship without me, and I thought he would come back for me as he’d promised, to carry me away with him to an exciting new life in America. But of course he never did.

“He asked me to run away with him, you know. To elope. I can remember his excitement as he described what we would do. He said we’d write my parents after we got to Canada, when we were married, and that when he’d made his fortune, we’d bring them over too. He had very grand plans.

“But I thought it would kill my father. I was an only child, much adored and a little spoiled, a bit like Anthony, perhaps. I could not bring myself to run away. And I wanted to have a wedding. A real wedding. So Marcus went alone. He said he’d write, send me his address as soon as he got settled, but the letter never came. For a while I deluded myself into thinking that something terrible must have happened to him, but in my heart I think I always knew this wasn’t so. He never knew about Anthony. I didn’t know myself until after he had gone.

“Joseph saved me from a terrible disgrace. He is very kind, you know. But more than that, he is direct and dependable. Over time I have come to value these qualities a very great deal.

“Joseph was a widower. His wife and baby daughter died one winter of the flu, a freakish accident really. For several years after that, he remained alone. He was a friend of my uncle, my father’s younger brother, and I guess he heard what happened from him. My father, when I told him about the baby, went into his room and closed the door and stayed there two days. After that he never was the same.

“When Joseph made his offer of marriage to my father, I was reluctant at first to accept. I still expected a letter from Marcus and believed that when he heard about the baby, he would come back to marry me. My father hit me, slapped me across the face, when I told him I wanted to wait for Marcus. It was the first and last time he would ever strike me. I left his house that night and never returned. My father died six months later, my mother shortly after that.

“And so I married Joseph and we moved to Siggiewi. Anthony was born soon after. Joseph is a good man, but life has not been easy, moving to a new town so far from home. Oh, I know by American standards it is not very far, but it seemed a great distance to me. It took a long time to reestablish ourselves, for Joseph to get work. Joseph worked pretty steadily around Mellieha where he was known. When we moved he had to start all over again, and jobs were very slow coming in the early years. Here people deal with those they know, relatives and friends. But we’ve managed. I did what I could. I sold my lace embroidery work, and worked for a while part-time in a store.

“We were very happy when Joseph got several months’ steady work on this house. We were a little worried about what would happen when the project was finished, but then one day, Joseph came home and told me the owner was looking for a couple to watch over the property for him, caretakers of sorts. He suggested we both go and present ourselves to the owner and apply for the job.

“I know you are thinking that it is strange that I didn’t guess by now who the owner was, but Joseph never referred to Marcus… Martin by name. You may think it is even more strange that Joseph didn’t know who Anthony’s father was. But we never spoke of such things. Joseph always said that our lives before we married were to be considered a closed book, never to be reopened. He said we both had loved other people, but that we were now a family. So I have never asked him about his first wife, nor ever talked about Marcus to him. Joseph has always been the type to keep to himself; he hates gossip, so while there was talk around Mellieha, it never reached his ears.

“Can I describe that day to you? Anthony, Joseph, and I, all in our Sunday best, drove over to the house to meet the owner and see if we passed muster as potential caretakers. Sometimes I wonder what we must have looked like, the four of us standing in a little circle outside the house, only Anthony oblivious to the little drama that was unfolding. How the Fates must have laughed at the three of us, each coming almost simultaneously upon a sudden realization that would change our lives forever. Marcus knew right away, I’m sure of it, about Anthony. I could tell from the look he gave me, the way he looked back and forth between the two of us. And Joseph knew too, somehow.

“Marcus offered us the work. Joseph said we’d think about it. We had the most terrible row that night. Joseph said there was no way we’d accept the job. I said we had to, that I wanted a decent life for my son. In the end, he agreed. What choice did we have? God knows, we need the money. And Marcus has never touched me, not once. He never even shook my hand.

“No, what he did was much, much worse than that. It was not me he wanted, it was Anthony. He wanted a son.

“Anthony has not been an easy child to raise. He has his father’s restlessness, an almost frightening need for affection and approval, ambition way above his station in life, and at times a lack of sensitivity to those about him. But I think he is, at the heart, a good boy, and Joseph could not have loved his own son more.

“Marcus started spending time with the boy whenever he was in Malta. He took him around the island explaining all about the buildings, taking him to fine restaurants and buying him fancy clothes—all the things Joseph and I could not do. And gradually he began to drive a wedge between Anthony and his father… Joseph, I mean.

“I don’t blame Anthony. How could I? I was just as dazzled by Marcus Galea when I was his age. Anthony talked incessantly about Marcus, and finally announced he wanted to be an architect. I don’t think I ever noticed how good Anthony is at drawing. I was as proud as any mother at the pictures he drew for me, and I thought some of the chalk drawings he did of the streets around our town were quite lovely, but I didn’t see the talent there. Marcus did.

“The idea of sending Anthony to study architecture was so far beyond our means that it was ludicrous. But then Marcus came to the house and offered to pay for Anthony’s education. He said he would speak to the dean of a school of architecture in Rome where he’d lectured, and try to get Anthony accepted there. But then he suggested that a preferable alternative would be the University of Toronto where he had graduated and where he was on the Board of Governors. He said that Anthony could live with him and his wife while he was at school to save money. Anthony was thrilled by the idea of going to America. I could see it in his eyes. But I watched the light go out in Joseph’s.

“I looked at Marcus standing there with his smug little smile and his expensive clothes—my God, his sunglasses probably cost more than Joseph could make in a month!—and I hated him. Really, truly hated him. He knew we wouldn’t say no, that we would not jeopardize our son’s future!”

She sat looking down at her hands for a moment or two, unable to say more.

“But you could have said no,” I said quietly.

“And what good would that have done?” she burst out. “Anthony is a lot like Marcus. He would have gone anyway, wouldn’t he? Marcus would have paid his way, and we would have lost Anthony forever.”

“Does Anthony know Martin Galea is his father? Have you told him?”

“No!” she said vehemently. “I never will!” Then turning and grasping my arm very tightly, she said to me, “Please promise me you won’t tell him. Promise me!”

“I promise, Marissa,” I said slowly. “But you will have to tell him eventually, you know.”

She just looked at me.

“We know Joseph was in Rome on Thursday, Marissa. He may have some explaining to do should we find Galea was killed there.”

“Joseph didn’t kill him. He didn’t even know he was there.”

“Then why was Joseph there, Marissa?” I asked.

“I have no more to say,” she replied bitterly. “Nothing. I have promised. But Joseph would not—could not—kill Marcus Galea.”

There was no changing her mind. Not then. I left her silting there, silent and morose. I would have liked to sit there with her, try to persuade her that to talk about Joseph was better than saying nothing, but I had other responsibilities to consider, a young friend I couldn’t disappoint.

We were to begin our setup for the performance at Mnajdra, meeting first at the University, and then traveling together by chartered bus to the site. I’d promised Dr. Stanhope, and more importantly Sophia, that I’d be there. When I arrived at the auditorium—Rob having dropped me off there on his way to Tabone’s office in Floriana—there appeared to be an altercation of some sort taking place outside the door to the building. A group of people was shouting and gesticulating at someone, and that someone turned out to be Anna Stanhope. It took me a while to ascertain what all the shouting was about, but it soon became clear that it was a group of parents objecting in the strongest terms to some of the redoubtable Dr. Stanhope’s more feminist teachings. Clearly, they did not want their daughters taking part in the performance. Dr. Stanhope was seriously outnumbered, with only Victor Deva beside her, wringing his hands and making a gesture as if to shoo people away. Mario Camilleri, the PR type from the Prime Minister’s office, tried valiantly to calm the crowd, but being singularly unsuccessful, opted instead to pull Anna and Victor back into the building for safety.

I could see Sophia in the crowd with a man, her father presumably, although I’d only seen him in profile in the window the night we drove her home. He had a firm grip on her arm and was trying to pull her away. Sophia’s mouth was set in a stubborn line, but I could see she was wavering. A couple of her fellow actors were starting to move away with their angry parents.

It was beginning to look as if the sound and light show was not to be. Then the crowd suddenly began to clap and drew back to allow a silver-grey limo to pull up to the steps in front of the University building. Someone I could hear, but could not see very well from my position near the back of the crowd, began to speak rapidly and energetically in Maltese. No matter that I couldn’t understand a word, I found the voice compelling, the plummy tones of an orator, and I could feel the mood in the group begin to shift. Sophia’s father let go of her arm and she edged her way to my side.

“Who is that and what’s he saying?” I whispered to her.

“It’s Giovanni Galizia, the Minister for External Relations. He’s telling them that he, unlike some others, has a vision for Malta in which we play a prominent role in the Mediterranean, that he believes we must take our place on the world stage. He says others may be content for Malta to be a mere pawn in European politics, but he believes that after this performance all the world will know of Malta, that the leaders of Europe, many of whom do not appreciate Malta’s glorious history, will be here to learn of it, and that they, as parents, and their daughters will help bring prosperity to all Maltese.” Sophia looked at me and made a face.

I laughed. Just the kind of speech you’d expect from a politician, I thought, but I had to give him credit. This was not the kind of crowd I’d have liked to have taken on. Galizia apparently moved into the crowd to press the proverbial flesh, although I still couldn’t see him. Soon, the limo pulled smoothly away, and even though you could not say the parents were all smiles exactly, the crowd began to disperse. Mario Camilleri, for some reason, glared at the back of the retreating car.

“Who are these others Galizia referred to, by the way, the ones with no vision? Or was it just political rhetoric?” I asked Sophia.

“He means the Prime Minister, Charles Abela,” she replied. “I think maybe the two of them don’t get along. Abela is sick, recovering from surgery. The deputy Prime Minister has been filling in for him, but Galizia is acting as if he has the job,” she added. “He probably hopes Abela will have to retire, but it looks as if he’ll recover completely and be back at work soon.”

“That would explain why Mario Camilleri wasn’t looking too keen. I assume he’s on the side of the PM in this feud.” Sophia nodded. “How do you think this episode happened in the first place?” I asked. “What set the parents off like this? Surely not just the girls talking about the play at home.”

“Well, there’s no question they aren’t very keen on Dr. Stanhope’s teachings. But we think it’s Alonso, Marija’s brother. We think he’s spying on us and telling our parents,” Sophia replied. “But we need his help, so there’s not much we can do.” I personally doubted that he was spying. Alonso was just a nice big teddy bear of a boy, I thought. I put it down to schoolgirl paranoia, perfectly understandable in light of events.

Just then Anna Stanhope, who’d beaten a hasty retreat when the crowd got ugly, returned rather pale and flustered. I assumed she had been frightened by the experience, but it soon became apparent that she was unfazed by the parents, but quite unbalanced by the presence of Victor Deva, who was being his usual overly charming self. Her appearance had changed too. Instead of her usual dull shirtmaker dress and sensible shoes, she was wearing a skirt, a pink blouse with a ruffled collar which displayed a fair amount of her more than ample bosom, and rather more stylish sandals. Her hair seemed wispier than usual, and she had taken the time to apply makeup with what seemed to my eye to be a somewhat unpracticed hand.

I decided she was totally besotted with Deva, who in turn fluttered about her paying her extravagant compliments and rushing to help her every time she tried to do something. I rather unkindly decided he was an aging Lothario out to get Anna Stanhope’s money, but the flaw in this was that I wasn’t at all sure she had any money for him to get, and secondly he had bought a lot of lighting equipment which couldn’t be cheap. I concluded there was just no accounting for tastes.

Deva and Alonso, the gofer and suspected spy, lifted three heavy crates of lighting equipment and my two wardrobe containers onto the bus, and then we all got on and headed for Mnajdra, the girls chattering happily as we went. Anna Stanhope and I sat together, with Victor Deva and Alonso across from us. Anna and Victor exchanged meaningful glances from time to time.

“That was quite the scene with the parents,” I said.

“Nasty lot, aren’t they?” she said. “Dinosaurs, mindless slaves to religion, if you ask me. Should be ashamed of themselves, stunting their daughters’ development like that. Got me sacked from my part-time job, you know. Now they’re trying to stop the play. They’re very much against my teachings about the Great Goddess. They think it gives their daughters ideas—makes them uppity. But the point is, it’s true: Malta really was a major center of Goddess worship for many centuries. Oh, I know there are archaeologists who dispute that, most of them men, of course. But why, I ask you, when you find dozens, hundreds even, of female figures and symbols like the triangle, and only a handful of phallic symbols, why on earth would you conclude their god was a man?

“The temples here are extraordinary, and they have found as many as thirty Goddess figures, some of them ten feet high. You can’t argue that some more advanced civilization passed through here and built the temples, because there are no temples that date to the time these were built that are even remotely like them. They are absolutely unique. You’d think the Maltese would be proud of that. And whether they like it or not, there is a very long tradition of worship of a Great Mother Goddess throughout the Mediterranean that extended long after the temple builders of Malta, to the era of recorded history—to Roman times essentially.

“She was worshipped under many different names, and the rituals may have varied, but the pattern of Her worship is strikingly similar.”

“Which is?” I asked. This was all new to me, as it obviously was for the parents of Malta.

“The Great Goddess, representing the power of nature, is usually associated with a child, usually Her own, divine but of lesser status. This child never attains real adulthood. He remains forever a youth. But he often becomes the consort of the Goddess as well as Her child. The young god dies, disappears from earth. The Goddess, in extreme mourning, searches for him all over the earth, and often as far as the underworld. While She searches, life on earth goes awry. Because She is the power of earth, crops don’t grow, animals and men cease to procreate. Finally a divine deal is struck. The youth, the so-called dying god, is reunited with his mother/consort for a part of the year, and must spend the rest of the year in the realm of the dead.

“And so we have these divine pairings, Great Goddess and dying god, through much of ancient history. Inanna of Sumer, Queen of Heaven and Earth, and her Dumuzi, Ishtar or Astarte with Tammuz, the warlike Anath with Ba’al in Mesopotamia, Isis and Osiris in Egypt, Aphrodite and Adonis in Greece, Cybele and Attis in Rome. Their sacred marriage and the god’s death and return represent the cycles of Nature, and provided the basis for earthly kingship for many centuries. Earthly kings took their right to rule through the institution of the sacred marriage to the Goddess: They became, in effect, the earthly embodiment of the dying god. The power of the Goddess diminished over time, of course, and gradually the patriarchal gods took over, but this does not take away from the tremendous power the Great Goddess exerted over life for millennia.

“If people here think learning about this tradition gives their daughters ‘ideas,” then so be it. I think it’s a good antidote to all the Adam and Evil kind of stuff they get in church schools. Neanderthals!“

“You’re not teaching anymore, but you’re going on with the play, I take it.”

“The show must go on, don’t they say? I don’t much mind about the teaching job. I’m on sabbatical and I can survive without the income. But I think the play’s important, and so, obviously, do the girls. They’ve rebelled, as you can see, and `turned up despite their parents. Warms my heart, I’ll tell you.”

“What happened to the temple builders, by the way?” I asked, thinking about the scene in the play about the temple builders where the music is supposed to end abruptly and the lights go out quickly.

“You mean did a group of parents put a stop to the temple building?” She hooted. “Seriously, nobody really knows. All activity just stopped. Maybe famine, drought, a plague of some sort. One of the great mysteries of history!”

When we got to Mnajdra, we found the site had been closed off to all but our group and a number of workmen who were erecting a large awning designed to protect the guests while they were watching the performance. Several members of the police and army were watching over the proceedings. Security for this performance was going to be very tight, that was clear. A guard met the bus and checked off each of our names as we disembarked, then all our cases, mine with the wardrobe and all Victor’s electrical equipment, were opened and searched.

We got to work. We did a quick run-through of one of the later scenes in which two of the girls represent women trying to find enough food to feed their families during the German blockade of the island during the Second World War. I knew the story of Malta’s heroism during the war: The day after Mussolini joined forces with Hitler, the bombing of Malta had continued until the island acquired the dubious distinction of being the most bombed out place on the planet. Such was its strategic importance in the Mediterranean that in a two-month period, twice as many bombs fell on Malta as fell on London in a year at the height of the blitz.

Rationing began in 1941, the island completely cut off by the Axis blockade. In August of 1942, two weeks before the island would have had to surrender, five out of an original convoy of fourteen Allied ships limped into the Grand Harbour with supplies. For its heroism, and in recognition of the terrible suffering the islanders had sustained, Malta was awarded the George Cross, the only nation ever to receive it.

I knew that the islanders had suffered terribly, on the brink of starvation, bombed day and night from Italy. But I had never heard the story so poignantly told, seen as it was now by these students, and even though I’d heard the scene before, I was again quite moved by it. It was one of the parts that Sophia had written.

“This scene is quite wonderful, you know,” I said to Sophia. “You have a rare talent for this. Maybe you should think about a writing career.”

She blushed. “Thank you. Dr. Stanhope said that too. I’d really like to try to write. But my father wouldn’t let me. He thinks I should get married soon and stay here and raise a family. He’s not too keen on Anthony either. If he goes away to school, my father won’t let me go with him. It’s a problem,” she sighed.

I’m a firm believer in the Prime Directive, whether it’s applied to intergalactic journeys or to the kind of travel the rest of us do: that is, that you should leave a place the way you found it and not do anything to affect the future. I realize this rule would severely restrict the activities of the Anna Stanhopes among us, to say nothing of the missionary zeal of various religious organizations and those nations with aspirations to empire. But there it is. I could not help feeling, though, on hearing Sophia’s words, that the world had not changed much since Marissa Cassar had decided to do what her father wanted rather than following her heart, and that a little education about the Great Goddess might be just what Sophia and her friends needed.

I left Sophia to help Victor, who was working away at his lights. I could see he really was good at “electricals.” I helped him string wires as the girls rehearsed and he worried a great deal about the exact placement of the poles. Camilleri and his assistant, Esther whatever her name was, were also helpful. They’d arranged for the grassy area in front of the site to be cleared and smoothed out so chairs could be placed there, and for the hydro people to string a temporary line all the way from the restaurant at the entrance to the temple site way up the hill. Most of the time, though, they fussed a great deal about the comfort of the guests. Camilleri watched as a couple of heaters were placed in the tents, since evenings were still cool.

“We’ll have a bar set up for them at the back of the tent,” he explained to me. “Champagne, caviar, the best, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

“After the performance there will be a state banquet at the Palace. We’re out to impress these people, to convince them we can play in their league, so to speak.”

Mr. Camilleri had seen to it that a temporary storage shed had been set up out of site behind the temple, so we were able to leave a lot of our equipment and the costumes there. After the rehearsal, we all piled back on the bus and headed into Valletta. I had been planning to walk back to the house, but Anna suggested I accompany them. “Victor is not entirely happy with the music we are using to open the show,” she said. “He has an idea, a modern Italian composer, that he thinks is just the ticket. Such a cultured man!” she said rather breathlessly. “Anyway, if you haven’t seen the market, it’s kind of fun, and if we hurry we can get there before it closes. Why don’t you come along?”

Since I had been trying all day to avoid thinking about the conversation I’d had earlier with Marissa and what the implications of what she’d told me in connection with the murder of Martin Galea might be, I decided to go.

The open-air market in Valletta is situated in the steeply sloped, narrow, and aptly named Merchant Street. The street is closed to vehicular traffic almost every morning, and vendors set up temporary stalls right down the middle of the street, from which they sell everything from tapes to T-shirts to towels. That day it was very crowded, and while we all started out together, I soon lost track of Victor and Anna, Sophia and the rest of the girls, as gradually we all went our separate ways, our paths crossing from time to time as we looked around. I saw Marissa and Joseph in the crowds, but they didn’t see me.

I was inching my way along, close to the buildings on one side of the street, when suddenly I felt a strong arm reach out of a doorway, grab me, and pull me into the darkness. It was the Great White Hunter again. “We’ve got to talk!” he croaked. “There is something you should know, something wrong. You, the others, danger!”

He was unshaven and reeked of alcohol and sweat. At close quarters, his jaunty hat was stained, as was his shirt. In the closeness of the doorway, I felt almost ill in his presence. I wrenched my arm away and made a run for it. Convinced he would follow me, I dodged through the crowds in the marketplace, looking for someone I knew.

I finally stopped and looked behind me, but couldn’t see him. By now the fright was passing, and I could feel myself getting angry. “Enough of this!” I said to myself, and then, determined to be the hunter rather than the hunted, I started looking for him to give him a piece of my mind.

At first I couldn’t find him, but then I saw his hat bobbing along in the crowd about a block and a half ahead of me. I followed as quickly as I could but gained very little ground because of the crowds. I did manage to keep him in view, however, and saw him turn down a side street. I reached that corner just in time to see him enter St. John’s Co-Cathedral, the place where he and I had already had our baffling conversation in the crypt.

By the time I got to the church, a tour group was slowly filing in, delaying me enough that there was no sign of him when I got inside. I moved quickly through the chapels on the left of the altar, but could not find him there. The gate to the crypt, I noted, was chained this time. Trying to keep my eye on the main doors as best I could, I looked in the vestry and then moved to check the chapels on the right-hand side of the church. He wasn’t there either. I couldn’t be absolutely certain he hadn’t left while I was checking the chapels, but there was still one place to look: the cathedral museum.

I paid the entrance fee and quickly walked through the first room where the Caravaggio was exhibited, then along a hallway and up a flight of stairs to a room with huge tapestries covering all the walls, and a choice of left or right. I listened carefully but could hear no sound. There was no one in sight, neither staff nor visitor. I chose to go to the right, since left led to the exit, and walked along a narrow hallway with windows on one side overlooking the street. I paused for a second or two to look out, and found myself overlooking the market. The vendors were beginning to take down their stalls, so the scene was even more chaotic than before, but I did catch sight of Anna almost directly below, and a little further down Marissa was talking to someone that I assumed was Joseph, although I couldn’t see his face.

I left the window, turned right at the end of the corridor, and came to a room, a dead end, with another display of tapestries and some glass cases filled with illuminated manuscripts. Once again there seemed to be no one there. I quickly circled the room to make sure GWH was not hiding behind one of the cases, checking for telltale bulges in the tapestries that would reveal his hiding place, but he was not there. I retraced my steps, looking out the window again. Anna and Victor were studying a tape at one of the stalls. Sophia and Anthony were chatting on the far side of the street. I could not see Marissa or Joseph.

I cut through the room with the tapestries and headed toward the exit. I found myself in a room filled with memorabilia of the Knights of Malta. Elaborate robes were displayed in high glass cases, and on the walls were crests and other items significant to the Knights. I didn’t see him at first, because the room was ill lit, presumably to protect the exhibits.

He was standing at the far side of the room, and watching him through one of the glass cases, I could see he was assiduously studying a suit of armor. I walked quietly up behind him, determined to frighten him as he had frightened me. But the Great White Hunter, whoever he was, had saved his worst encounter with me for last. He was dead, shot in the head, but still standing, locked in a ghastly embrace with the suit of armor, his body impaled on the Knight’s long sword.