The Bones of Santorini

The Bones of SantoriniAn Edward Tyrington MysteryJoni Swift Spirante Press Copyright © 2022 by Spirante Press, LLC All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For V who changed my life with four words Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty One Chapter Thirty Two Chapter Thirty Three Chapter Thirty Four Chapter Thirty Five Chapter Thirty Six Chapter Thirty Seven Chapter Thirty Eight Chapter Thirty Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty One Chapter Forty Two Chapter Forty Three Chapter Forty Four Chapter Forty Five Chapter Forty Six Chapter Forty Seven Chapter Forty Eight Chapter Forty Nine Chapter Fifty Acknowledgments Chapter One Edward sat alone and wondered about heaven and whether his father was looking down on him, transcribing all his mistakes in some great galactic ledger where no erasures were permitted, despite his wishing. He stared at the myriad stars shining beyond the dark outline of the ziggurat pyramid before him and pushed the anger he felt toward his father away. I will not think ill of the dead, no matter what he thought of me or the situation he left me in. The desert sands shifted beneath his polished shoes as he meandered back to the grand ball, bitter about having to keep up appearances as the wealthy son of Lord Tyrington when in truth, there was nothing about his current circumstance that could be construed as “wealthy.” I have a wealth of debt, he thought, smiling in his most sardonic way. Edward had left the ball after he was unexpectedly chosen to play violin for the attendees. His friend Henri had secretly arranged it. Edward had played poorly, he thought, and he rubbed his fingertips, which still stung from the violin strings. The ball was held by Isma’il Pasha, leader of Egypt in the Ottoman Empire. It was the pasha’s first time hosting a ball since his father, Said Pasha, had died. The event was designed to convince all investors that the new pasha was as committed to the Suez Canal project as the former pasha. Isma’il was younger and more impetuous than his father, which became evident when he insisted that a traditional Ghawazi dancer join Edward on stage. Her deep decolletage, bare midriff, flying purple and gold skirts, and shaking hips with gold coins broke his concentration. Never mind how her kohl-colored eyes bored into his or how scandalously she danced. He pushed the images of her lithe, mostly naked, body from his mind and resigned himself to one more hour before he could, by protocol, acceptably leave. As he crossed the sands to return to the ball, the cool desert night was rent by the sound of a woman’s scream. It was a hysterical scream that repeated three times with the same intensity that came from somewhere toward town. The quiet that followed brought Edward a sense of foreboding. What silenced her? The thought drove his heels across the sand, past the lanterns that lined the entrance to the ball, and onto the cobblestones into town, his heart racing as he ran. When he reached a small square, he found a crying woman with a footman walking her to a carriage. Behind them a man lay motionless on the ground. The copious blood on the cobblestones told the tale of a life extinguished and that it was futile to check for a pulse. Edward had heard how lawless the canal work zone could be, but none of the rumors were anything as brutal as what lay before him. The woman was wearing a claret ball gown with white lace accents. Her hair was pulled back from her face, but along her back it tumbled in long strawberry blond curls. Edward recalled admiring her when he saw her across the room speaking to the pasha. He had wanted to ask her to dance but was whisked away to play the violin. By the time he finished, she had left. Edward asked, “What happened?” The woman tried to speak but could not. Instead, she pointed at the body. The footman said, “Please get into the carriage, miss. I will speak to him.” She nodded and wept as he handed her into the black hansom. The footman closed the door and joined Edward. “What happened?” Edward asked again. “I don’t know, sir. I was driving the lady home when she told me to stop. She saw this man from the window and asked me to check on him, thinking perhaps he’d had too much to drink. I found him just like this. While I was investigating, she came over. It is quite a sight for a lady.” “Indeed,” Edward muttered as he scanned the area. If the footman’s story was true, the murderer may still be lurking nearby. They were at the edge of a courtyard surrounded on three sides by closely spaced, brown, two-story buildings, with three rather dark alleyways leading away from them. Each building had a single long balcony across the length of the second floor. Each balcony was spotless, with no sign of movement or really any indication that someone might live in these buildings. Based on the small size of the buildings, this part of town seemed to be for the small army of low-level Egyptian managers that directly oversaw the canal’s construction. Edward guessed they had been ordered to remove their possessions from the balconies to give an appearance of order and cleanliness for the guests of the pasha. The nearest lamppost was unlit, but light came