we distill ourselves. Very potent if you’re not used to it, but it can be guaranteed to keep out the marsh fever.”
It exploded in Chavasse’s stomach and spread through his body in a warm glow. He coughed several times and tears sprang to his eyes.
“Now this they wouldn’t be able to offer, even at the London Hilton.”
She opened an old tin carefully and offered him a cigarette. They were Macedonian, coarse, brown tobacco loose in the paper, but Chavasse knew how to handle them. He screwed the end round expertly and leaned across the table as she held out a burning splinter from the fire.
She lit a cigarette herself, blew out a cloud of pungent smoke and said calmly, “You’re no smuggler, I can see that. No seaman, either. Your hands are too nice.”
“So I lied.”
“You must have had a good reason.”
He frowned down into his glass for a moment, then decided to go ahead. “You’ve heard of the Virgin of Scutari?”
“The Black Madonna? Who hasn’t? Her statue disappeared about three months ago. The general opinion is that the central government in Tirana had it stolen. They’re worried because people have been turning to the church again lately.”
“I came to the Buene looking for it,” Chavasse said. “It was supposed to be on board a launch that sank in one of the lagoons in the marsh toward the coast. My friends and I were searching for it when the military turned up.”
He told her about Francesca Minetti, or as much as she needed to know, and of Guilio Orsini and Carlo and the Buona Esperanza . When he was done, she nodded slowly.
“A bad business. The sigurmi will squeeze them dry, even this smuggler friend of yours. They have their ways and they are not pleasant. I’m sorry for the girl. God knows what they will do with her.”
“I was wondering whether it would be possible to get into Tama,” Chavasse said. “Perhaps find out what’s happened to them?”
She looked at him sharply, her face grave. “We have a saying. Only a fool puts his head between the jaws of the tiger.”
“They’ll be beating the marshes toward the coast,” he said. “That stands to reason. Who’s going to look for me in Tama?”
“A good point.” She got to her feet and looked down into the fire, her hand on the stone mantel above it. She turned to face him. “There is one person who might be able to help, a Franciscan, Father Shedu. In the war, he was a famous resistance fighter in the hills, a legend in his own time. It would hardly be polite to arrest or shoot such a man. They content themselves with making life difficult for him—always with the utmost politeness, of course. He hasn’t been here long. A couple of months or so. I think the last man was taken away.”
“I could make a good guess about what happened to him,” Chavasse said. “This Father Shedu, he’s in Tama now?”
“There’s a medieval monastery on the outskirts of the town. They use it as local military headquarters. The Catholic church has been turned into a restaurant, but there’s an old monastery chapel at the water’s edge. Father Shedu holds his services there.”
“Would it be difficult to reach?”
“From here?” She shrugged. “Not more than half an hour. I have an outboard motor. Not too reliable, but it gets me there.”
“Could I borrow it?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “They’d pick you up before you’d got a mile along the river. I know the back ways—you don’t.”
She took down an oilskin jacket from behind the door and tossed it to him together with an old peaked cap. “Ready when you are.”
She picked up her hunting rifle and led the way out through the front door and down toward the river. There was still no boat moored at the little wooden jetty. She passed it, moving through dense undergrowth and emerged on a small cleared bank that dropped cleanly into the water. Her boat, a flat-bottomed marsh punt with an old motor attached to the stern, was tied to a
It exploded in Chavasse’s stomach and spread through his body in a warm glow. He coughed several times and tears sprang to his eyes.
“Now this they wouldn’t be able to offer, even at the London Hilton.”
She opened an old tin carefully and offered him a cigarette. They were Macedonian, coarse, brown tobacco loose in the paper, but Chavasse knew how to handle them. He screwed the end round expertly and leaned across the table as she held out a burning splinter from the fire.
She lit a cigarette herself, blew out a cloud of pungent smoke and said calmly, “You’re no smuggler, I can see that. No seaman, either. Your hands are too nice.”
“So I lied.”
“You must have had a good reason.”
He frowned down into his glass for a moment, then decided to go ahead. “You’ve heard of the Virgin of Scutari?”
“The Black Madonna? Who hasn’t? Her statue disappeared about three months ago. The general opinion is that the central government in Tirana had it stolen. They’re worried because people have been turning to the church again lately.”
“I came to the Buene looking for it,” Chavasse said. “It was supposed to be on board a launch that sank in one of the lagoons in the marsh toward the coast. My friends and I were searching for it when the military turned up.”
He told her about Francesca Minetti, or as much as she needed to know, and of Guilio Orsini and Carlo and the Buona Esperanza . When he was done, she nodded slowly.
“A bad business. The sigurmi will squeeze them dry, even this smuggler friend of yours. They have their ways and they are not pleasant. I’m sorry for the girl. God knows what they will do with her.”
“I was wondering whether it would be possible to get into Tama,” Chavasse said. “Perhaps find out what’s happened to them?”
She looked at him sharply, her face grave. “We have a saying. Only a fool puts his head between the jaws of the tiger.”
“They’ll be beating the marshes toward the coast,” he said. “That stands to reason. Who’s going to look for me in Tama?”
“A good point.” She got to her feet and looked down into the fire, her hand on the stone mantel above it. She turned to face him. “There is one person who might be able to help, a Franciscan, Father Shedu. In the war, he was a famous resistance fighter in the hills, a legend in his own time. It would hardly be polite to arrest or shoot such a man. They content themselves with making life difficult for him—always with the utmost politeness, of course. He hasn’t been here long. A couple of months or so. I think the last man was taken away.”
“I could make a good guess about what happened to him,” Chavasse said. “This Father Shedu, he’s in Tama now?”
“There’s a medieval monastery on the outskirts of the town. They use it as local military headquarters. The Catholic church has been turned into a restaurant, but there’s an old monastery chapel at the water’s edge. Father Shedu holds his services there.”
“Would it be difficult to reach?”
“From here?” She shrugged. “Not more than half an hour. I have an outboard motor. Not too reliable, but it gets me there.”
“Could I borrow it?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “They’d pick you up before you’d got a mile along the river. I know the back ways—you don’t.”
She took down an oilskin jacket from behind the door and tossed it to him together with an old peaked cap. “Ready when you are.”
She picked up her hunting rifle and led the way out through the front door and down toward the river. There was still no boat moored at the little wooden jetty. She passed it, moving through dense undergrowth and emerged on a small cleared bank that dropped cleanly into the water. Her boat, a flat-bottomed marsh punt with an old motor attached to the stern, was tied to a
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