I removed, having eaten, to the adjoining cafe, where the purchase of a small black coffee and a Metaxa would secure me the undisturbed occupation of a table for the rest of the afternoon. I chose a position from which I could observe both ends of the Liston and the far side of the Esplanade, supposing that if anyone approached it would be from one of those directions. I had forgotten that the shops and cafes of the Liston have entrances also on Capodistria Street, and that a new arrival at the table behind me might escape my notice.
“If I see an Oxford don being ravished by my sister,” said a cheerful English voice, “is it my duty to interpose myself between them?”
Looking round in some alarm, I saw that the occupants of the table were the copper-haired Fairfax twins. Their attention, however, not being directed towards me, I concluded that I was not the imagined victim of the hypothetical outrage.
“Chance,” said Lucinda, “would be a fine thing. I do think it’s mean of Selena to keep Sebastian away until the last moment — she might at least have brought him back to Corfu in time to have lunch with us. Didn’t anyone ever tell her that she ought to let other little girls play with her nice toys?”
“The toy doesn’t want to be played with,” said Lucian. “Take the advice of a brother who has your best interests at heart — forget this man and stick to Greek fishermen. Sebastian doesn’t fancy anyone but Selena.”
“I don’t see why,” said his sister plaintively. “What’s she got that I haven’t got?”
“Absolutely nothing, sweetheart, lots less of practically everything. But that’s how it is
“I’ve given up trying to explain that,” said his sister. “I just watch out for the signs and stand by to help with the debris.”
They both sighed, overtaken by that indulgent despair so often induced in children by reflecting on the conduct of their parents — closely resembling that induced in parents by reflecting on the conduct of their children.
The news that Sebastian and Selena were not as yet in the company of the Demetriou family filled me with a relief little short of euphoria. Moreover, it occurred to me that the circumstances afforded a happy opportunity to verify my opinion concerning a particular aspect of the matter under investigation.
I had still in my possession the photographs which Julia had found in the pocket of Deirdre’s coat. I took them out and put them down on my table, in the manner, as I hoped, of the conscientious tourist preparing to write postcards to family and friends. When next the waiter came hurrying past me I contrived a slight collision between us, in apparent consequence of which the photographs went flying in a colorful cascade across the space of ground between myself and the Fairfax twins. The two young people jumped up in good-natured haste to set about retrieving them.
“Thank you,” I said extending my hand, “that is most kind.” They made no attempt, however, to restore my property to me, but stood as if rooted to the pavement under the sunlit arcade, staring at the photographs, then at each other, then at me, then again at the photographs.
“Where—?” said Lucinda.
“How—?” said Lucian.
“I must apologize,” I said, “for their rather indelicate nature. They were not intended for public display.”
“It’s not that,” said Lucian. “It’s just — it’s just that we’d awfully like to know where you got them.”
“Yes,” said his sister. “Yes, we would. Can we offer you a Metaxa or anything?”
I accepted the invitation and joined them at their table.
“It would be indiscreet of me,” I said, “to explain exactly how the photographs which engage your interest come to be in my hands. I may say, however, that they were formerly in the possession of a young woman — now, sadly, no longer living — who had acquired them by rather dubious means from two cousins of hers. I believe, not to put too fine a point on it, that she had stolen them.”
“It was Deirdre,” exclaimed Lucinda. “I always said it was Deirdre — the little beast. Oh dear,” she added, biting her knuckles, “I shouldn’t say that now she’s dead. Oh dear, poor Deirdre.” The difficulty seemed almost universal of remembering, in relation to Deirdre, the maxim
“I perceive,” I said, “that you have some knowledge of the matter.”
“It’s an extraordinary coincidence,” said Lucian, “but we think that this girl’s cousins are people who are friends of ours. Quite close friends, actually.”
“So you see,” said Lucinda, “if we keep the photographs and promise to give them back to these friends of ours, it will all be all right, won’t it?” She made this suggestion with such lively enthusiasm that I hardly had the heart to disappoint her.
“I am afraid,” I said, “that that will not quite serve. Your friends, you see, had also acquired them by means not entirely orthodox — their title to them is by no means clear. Your friends, as you may know, have a relative whom they rather dislike — I will call him their uncle, though that is not the precise relationship. In recent years they have had few personal dealings with him; but there are certain points of contact between the circles in which they move. Their uncle has seen fit to interest himself in their activities and to inform their father of matters which he thought to merit disapproval. What especially infuriates your friends — a young man and a young woman, I believe, of similar age to yourselves — what especially infuriates them is that their uncle, in his own private life — but perhaps they have told you all this, and I trespass on your patience by repeating it?”
Shaking their coppery heads, they mutely reassured me that my narrative still held their interest.
“—that their uncle, in his own private life, is himself accustomed to indulge in practices which would cause a raised eyebrow among the strictly conventional. Last autumn, finding themselves in London, they saw an opportunity to be innocently revenged. Having learnt from some mutual acquaintance that their uncle had invited several of his friends to join him on a particular evening in certain idiosyncratic diversions, they intruded on the gathering in the guise of members of the police force, conducting what is known as a raid.”
“I say,” said Lucinda, resolutely ingenuous, “how awful of them. Weren’t they afraid they’d be recognized?”
“Evidently not. Their uncle had not seen them since they left school, and they made liberal use of wigs and false mustaches. You may perhaps think, knowing them as you do, that the girl would have had some difficulty in disguising her strikingly feminine appearance; but it is surprising — I have had a little experience with amateur theatricals — how easily a young woman of voluptuous figure may, with suitable padding, pass as a substantially built young man, provided that she does not open her mouth. Well, the enterprise succeeded beyond their expectations — not only did they embarrass their uncle, but they also secured possession of his camera, with which he and his friends had been photographing one another in various interesting poses. They developed the film, and the photographs which you are holding are the result. Your friends, I gather, made no immediate use of them, though they were comforted by the thought that if their uncle made any further attempt to interfere in their private lives material was at hand to discredit his opinion. Meanwhile, they kept the photographs in a place which they fondly imagined to be secure and private, taking them out from time to time merely for their personal amusement.”
“Deirdre didn’t know about all this,” said Lucian, “you can’t have heard about it from Deirdre.”
“No,” I said. “No, it wasn’t from Deirdre — though she evidently had a certain talent for knowing things she was not supposed to know and finding things she was not supposed to find. Certainly she found these photographs, on some occasion when she was visiting her cousins, and decided — I say nothing of her motives — to take possession of them. When her cousins discovered the loss they were, I rather think, more than a little perturbed: much as they disliked their uncle, they had never intended that such damaging photographs should pass into general circulation. Still, there was nothing to be done: they had almost forgotten the incident, until a few months later the photographs were scattered on the ground before them on the Esplanade at Corfu.”
“Oh,” said Lucinda despondently, “you know it’s us.”
They sat gazing at me with bewildered apprehension. Lucinda sought or offered reassurance by surreptitiously clasping her brother’s hand.
“I don’t understand how you know all this,” said Lucian. “You seem to know things that no one could know except us.”
“It’s as if you could see into people’s minds,” said his sister. “Who are you? How do you know all these things?”
