Free The Whispers of Nemesis by Anne Zouroudi Page A

something’s been at work. So that would prevent me from interring them. They might be – well, tainted. If something has – interfered with them.’
    â€˜You’re saying,’ said Frona, as Attis poured more brandy for Papa Tomas, ‘if there’s been witchcraft or the devil’s work, it might infect the other remains in the ossiary. Maybe they’ll turn into pigs, too. Or sheep, or chickens.’
    â€˜Well,’ said the priest. ‘The bones in the ossuary are sacred remains. They await their resurrection in their blessed natural form.’
    â€˜People wouldn’t want to see their grandmother resurrected as a goat,’ said Frona. ‘Is that what you’re saying? What claptrap.’
    â€˜Frona, please,’ said Attis. ‘Papa, please go on.’
    â€˜To continue,’ said the priest, accepting a plate from Maria. ‘If there has been no unusual intervention, then we must assume this is the work of human hands. Of malicious hands, in fact. In which case, plainly these are not Santos’s remains. So I couldn’t inter them as such, no.’
    Attis sighed, and poured more brandy for himself. Maria lifted a silver dragée from the cross marked on the kolyva , and replaced it exactly straight.
    â€˜But if they’re not Santos’s bones,’ asked Frona, ‘where is he? Who would have done such a cruel thing?’
    â€˜People,’ said Maria, darkly, prodding the blanched almonds with her fingertip. ‘Bad people.’
    A longcase clock ticked away the moments of a silence.
    â€˜You’ll be wanting to know,’ said Attis, at last, as he removed his glasses, ‘how much is in the account.’
    Frona, Maria and the priest all looked at him.
    â€˜How much?’ asked Frona.
    â€˜A substantial amount.’
    â€˜How substantial?’
    â€˜Exactly, I couldn’t say. Substantial.’
    â€˜And who knows this?’
    â€˜Myself. All of you, now. The bank where the account is held, of course. And Yorgas Sarris, as the publisher, of course; they have paid the royalties over the last four years.’
    â€˜So there might be,’ suggested Frona, ‘more money than he made in all his life.’
    â€˜After his death, sales grew to an impressive level, as you know,’ said Attis. ‘It’s a sad fact that Death may bring rewards for a talent which brought little success for the artist in his lifetime. Santos often compared himself to Van Gogh, who lived in poverty and became wealthy as he lay in his grave. And the comparison was fair. Now he’s gone, Santos’s beautiful poems are set texts in schools and universities, even internationally; I’m told he’s under consideration by the Sorbonne. Santos would have been very gratified, there’s no doubt of it, even though he was no businessman. His life was his art.’
    Frona laughed, bitterly.
    â€˜If you believe that, you didn’t know him at all. He worried constantly about money, about bills and debts. This house has had nothing spent on it since our grandmother’s time. It’s cold, and it’s draughty, and it’s inconvenient. The wiring’s unreliable at best, and when it rains, it’s dangerous. The roof leaks and the window frames are rotten; it’s overrun by mice, and riddled with damp. Santos loved this house, but he couldn’t afford its upkeep, and he hated to watch it fall down around his ears. And his wife hated it here. She was a city girl, like me and Leda. He always said she left him because she couldn’t live in this state. And Leda and I couldn’t live here now, even if we wanted to. The place isn’t fit for dogs. Look!’
    She pointed up at the ceiling, where brown stains of damp showed on flaking plaster, and at the cracked glass in the rotten window frame, the threadbare rugs and old furniture, at the oil lamps in readiness for power failures.
    Attis