Delve into Digging into Death ~ 1st with the Artist Isabella Newcombe

Celebrate with me!

The continuation of my publishing journey focuses this month on chapters from the first novel in the Into Death mystery series, Digging into Death.

Situation and Setting

This novel comes one year after my publishing debut in 2015, same month, just on the first rather than at the end of the month. We're in 1920, post-World War I, the Great War to end all wars (although it merely set the circumstances for the second World War). The island of Crete in the Mediterranean is turning to its winter season, cooler but still hot.

The Story Thus Far

And Isabella Newcombe is stranded by a malicious employer on the island, with not enough cash to book her return to England, her home since the start of WWI and certainly no references. She has managed to finagle a position at an archaeological dig, but the heat and stress has wiped her out. (You can read chapter 1 here: Chapter 1 https://maleebooks.blogspot.com/2026/10/a-year-long-free-mystery-to-celebrate.html). 

Herewith, chapters 2 and 3.

Chapter 2 :: Saturday, October 4

A cool cloth covered Isabella’s eyes. Distant voices echoed but not clearly enough to distinguish the one she dreaded. A bird trilled. A gentle breeze cooled. She wanted to lie quietly in this peace but dared not. Holding the cloth, she sat up and swayed.

“Careful. Don’t move too quickly.” The man’s voice, deeper than Gawen Tarrant’s, yet with the same lilt of Welsh beneath the public school accent. The mattress sank, and a strong arm bolstered her. “Drink this.”

She removed the cloth to see an enameled cup advancing. She barely caught her breath before the cup touched her lips, and she had to drink. The whiskey burned its way down her throat. When her coughing subsided, the man leaned her back onto the bed. She blinked at this rougher version of a Tarrant and remembered that the professor’s brother was on this dig.

“What happened?” she whispered.

He set the cup on a side table. In the time he gave himself before answering, she noted several differences to Gawen Tarrant. This rugged version had a tanned face marred by a stubbly beard. Dark hair curled over his opened collar. And bright blue eyes framed by thick lashes every girl would envy.

She had to look away before he captured her heart. Lamplight left much of the room in shadow, but she spotted her satchel on a low chest behind him.

“Better now? Or is the room still spinning?”

She blinked, trying to marshal her scattered thoughts. “No, no, it’s—. I’m sorry to have caused more trouble.” She liked his blue eyes. The lamplight gave them a mesmerizing brilliance. By contrast, his brother’s vivid green eyes had seemed cold, indifferent to her plight.

“You came the other day with the Harcourt-Smythes. Don’t tell me they’re back.”

“No. No, just me.”

“And have you abandoned the terrors?”

At the apt naming, she responded to his smile before her spirits sank again. “I no longer work for them. I was dismissed Tuesday night. They left the hotel the next morning.”

“Have you eaten since then? No? Well, that explains your faint.”

“I fainted?” Disgust at her weakness flattened her voice.

“Call it a swoon. The heat and the climb uphill combined with three days without substantial food. You were bound to swoon. Why didn’t you eat at the hotel?”

“I need every pound to pay my passage home.”

“Yet you spent more days at the hotel.”

“Mr. Harcourt-Smythe said that he had paid my room through last night. The hotel manager told me this morning that he had not paid it. I thought myself blessed when I managed to coerce Prof. Arkwright into bringing me here.”

“I see. You twisted his arm and marched him to the lorry.”

The sally won him another smile. Isabella’s affinity for this Tarrant grew. He was passing from stranger to friend, and she still didn’t know his name.

That thought woke her caution. His touch to the damp curls around her face jangled an alarm bell. He might scowl and inspect her like a specimen on a pin, but she knew her pulse fluttered in her throat and her cheeks burned at the hint of intimacy.

“I want to sit up.”

“Not yet. You may be dizzy.”

She wriggled. “I don’t know you. Not your name or who you are—.”

“And you have recovered enough to remember propriety. I see I made no impression at our first introduction. I’m Madoc Tarrant, Gawen’s brother.” Spying her puzzled frown, he added, “I was covered with mud the first time.”

She remembered then, despite the two terrors’ distraction. During their tour they had watched workers digging out a wall half-covered by the recent mudslip. Arkwright had called a man’s name, and he had straightened to acknowledge them. Taller than the other workers, the mud had given him anonymity. His eyes had flashed white in his muddy face, then he’d bent back to work, giving them his broad shoulders. Muscles had rippled under his mud-slick shirt. Mud had plastered his trousers to his legs. Artist she might pretend to be, but then and now embarrassment colored her face. Isabella wriggled again.

“Lie still, Isabella.”

Her name on his well-shaped mouth did not help her composure. “How did I get—? Where am—? I was on the terrace. What happened?”

“Our housekeeper Dorcas found you, and I was first back, luckily for you. I carried you here, to my room. It’s the quietest in the house. Dorcas did the rest, not me. Your modesty remains untouched.” His flashing grin reassured her. “Dorcas would still be hovering if the others hadn’t returned, demanding dinner.”

“I must thank her. And you.”

“No thanks are necessary, Miss Newcombe.”

“Please, I must sit up.”

He helped her, tucking a pillow behind her. Then he walked around the bed to the window, open to the night air. The bird trilled again. A dog yapped unceasingly. Madoc Tarrant’s profile was sharply defined against the darkness. High brow and straight nose, square chin bristly with the day’s whiskers. The only trait he didn’t share with his brother were those blue eyes, but no one would ever confuse the two men. Tall, dark and handsome. If Nigel Arkwright were Apollo, which god was he? Hades? Then which god was his brother?

“What brings you to the dig, Miss Newcombe?”

Although that hint of Welsh reverberated to her bones, the question sounded too much like his brother to fluster her. She explained a third time, abbreviating it to the bare facts. He nodded as she recited it, and she had the distinct impression that he matched this version to one he’d already heard. From his brother or from Cecilia Arkwright?

“How did you manage to escape his advances the second time?”

“I climbed over the balcony railing.”

“A rather drastic measure. Weren’t you frightened?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know what else to do. I shoved him off the first time with the only football block I know. I wanted to hit him with a lamp, but if I upset him or hurt him, then he might involve other people. A doctor. Or the police. I didn’t want that. So, over the railing I went. It wasn’t as scary as the mountains I hiked with my father in America.”

He scowled into the darkness. “Have you considered that Harcourt-Smythe has shoved you into a more troublesome situation than casting you penniless into a foreign land? Has he made it impossible for you to return to a position as governess when you return to England?”

Isabella inhaled sharply. The Tarrant brothers both pierced to the heart with their questions. “I have considered that. They will not give a recommendation. Even with two excellent references behind me, a new position will be extremely difficult to find.”

“You have family to help you?”

She dropped her gaze and saw her hands betraying her, twisting and bunching her skirt. She forced them open and smoothed the wrinkles. “No one, not since my father’s death four years ago. I have an aunt in the States, but she is not a wealthy woman. I would not want to drain her few resources with a problem I should be able to solve.”

“Did your father leave nothing?”

“He had very little, a small inheritance from his father. His illness used up the residue of the monetary inheritance. The house I cannot touch.”

“Being a governess is a lonely future. Days upon days of teaching other people’s children. Is that all you aspire to?”

His question turned the work into slavery. In defense, she told him more than she normally would have. “I do have a plan, Mr. Tarrant. I wanted several references from the British upper-crust. With those, I hoped to attain a position at a private school for girls. My father taught classical studies at Palmerstoke in Virginia before he was hired at a boy’s preparatory school in Kent. His teaching life was not so drear. Dr. Ivers—he tended my father—he hired me to teach his son then helped me to a position with Sir Clive and Lady Baskille. Both wrote excellent references, but after the Harcourt-Smythes—.” Her fingers clenched, ruining her pressing of the gray skirt, although she didn’t realize it. “I shall be fortunate if the London agency agrees to represent me a second time.”

“Do you want to be a governess? Do you want to teach dead languages to girls more interested in gossip and fashion? Or do you want to sketch and paint?”

Isabella goggled at him. Madoc Tarrant crossed to the low chest where her satchel spilled open. Her sketchbook lay open beside it.

“You searched my things?”

“Cecilia Arkwright showed me your sketch of the site. I carried up your satchel.” He brought the sketchbook and sat beside her. “You’re an artist, Isabella.”

“But you searched—.” She bit her lip. His use of her name a second time barely registered against the greater invasion of her privacy.

“I didn’t prowl through your valise. I did nothing except look through this. Once Cecilia showed me your first drawing, I wanted to see more.” Flipping through the pages, he stopped at the temple of Delphi. “You’ve captured that feeling of light, of prominence, yet it still looks secluded, secret. And here.” He turned to a fishing boat, its sails puffed with wind. “I can feel that breeze. You’ve caught the sun sparkling on the water.”

Isabella wanted to snatch her private drawings and cradle them protectively. Instead, she tucked her hands behind her. She barely heard his praise for the roaring in her ears. She concentrated so hard that she nearly didn’t hear the answer to her morning’s prayer to Zeus.

“I may have a solution to your problem. Gawen is planning a treatise on overlooked archaeological sites. Line drawings like your temple at Delphi would illustrate his points more clearly. He was going to hire someone, but with you here, on site—.”

She began to hope but dared say nothing. Technical drawings were not the same as personal sketches. She had no doubts about her skill. The problem lay not with her. Madoc Tarrant was not his brother.

He studied a farmer with a curly beard, reminiscent of the statue of Poseidon. Then he flipped to today’s work. “For a quick sketch this is very accurate. The quartered sections, the ropes, and here where Petrie is, I can see the different building layers.” He paused. She didn’t speak. After a flash of his blue eyes, he cleared his throat. “Gawen is also writing a series of articles about modern archaeology, the science over the treasure hunt. I’ve told him he’s a dry author. Sketches of the dig, of the workers, those would personalize his articles.” He shut the book. His hand compassed the cover. “Are you up to it, Miss Newcombe?”

“A job,” she breathed.

At his slow smile her heart skipped a beat. “Yes, a job. Your eyes are sparkling. You’ll never be able to hide your moods.”

She didn’t question why he had proposed the work. Her hopes threatened to scale Mt. Olympus. But she also knew who ran this dig. “It’s not possible, Mr. Tarrant. Your brother clearly said that he doesn’t want me here.”

“My brother has little imagination, hence his boring writing. He will listen to me, Miss Newcombe. We’ve already discussed the need for illustrations. His publishers agreed. The monies are set aside, but Gawen must commission the artist. Believe me, when he sees your work, he’ll jump at the opportunity. This work, for the treatise and the articles, it can lead to more commissions if you reach the potential these sketches say you’re capable of. Will you do it?”

“And if your brother says no?”

“He won’t. And since starvation is not an option, you also won’t say no.” He handed over the sketchbook and stood. “Do you still hate me for looking at your drawings?”

She hugged the book. “How can I when it leads to this? You’ve given me a dream opportunity. Thank you, Mr. Tarrant.”

“I doubt you’ll thank me when you discover what a stern taskmaster Gawen is. The first article is complete, waiting for its artwork. You’ll have to discuss it with him after you read the article.” He reached the door.

“Mr. Tarrant, who would have illustrated the articles if I had not agreed?”

“I was going to turn my hand to it, although I’ve no patience for drawing. I certainly wouldn’t have matched your skill.”

“I won’t offend you by taking this work from you?”

“Believe me, it’s no hardship to shed that particular job. I’ve enough to do, directing the workmen and scheduling the supplies and handling the payroll. Anything else?”

“This room—have I put someone out?”

“Just me, but I’ll doss down in the old porter’s room. That may solve a couple of problems. Dorcas will bring you a dinner tray. See that you eat everything on it. You can leave the tray in the hall. Then lock the door. I have the only other key.”

“Yes, O Master.”

He grinned, nothing like the slow smile that affected her heart, and she grinned back. He left, long strides down the long balcony that faded toward the distant voices.

The housekeeper came with a supper tray before Isabella finished rummaging through her satchel to see what else Madoc Tarrant had prowled into. A tiny woman clad all in black, Dorcas looked weathered by work and life. Following her was a gap-toothed man lugging Isabella’s heavy suitcase. He dropped it by the tall chest.

At Isabella’s request the housekeeper showed her the bathroom, a small tiled room near her own. Isabella wanted a long soak but settled for a quick wash. When she returned, Dorcas had closed the shutters and was unpacking the suitcase into the chifforobe. Isabella had no chance to see if Madoc Tarrant had prowled there as well.

As she finished her dinner, the housekeeper reached the bottom of the suitcase. She shook out the nightgown that Isabella had shoved there after inadequate mending. Dorcas clucked over the clumsily resewn strap and draped it over her arm. She also demanded Isabella’s clothes with the empty tray. When she bustled out, everything was neatly stowed and Isabella sat in bed in her slip.

She locked the door behind the housekeeper. For the first time since Harcourt-Smythe had begun his advances, she felt clean and safe.

A dove replaced the songbird, its coo muted by the closed shutters. The dog was still barking. Isabella blew out the lamp then opened the window and leaned into the cooling air.

Cedar and cigar smoke scented the night. In the clear sky the bright moon seemed more brilliant than a wintry English sun. The dove cooed then took flight with an alerting shrill.

Footsteps crunched on gravel, and Isabella remembered the hillside path around the house. She eased into the room’s blackness. A man came from beneath the gnarled olives. The moon silvered his fair hair. Arkwright. His cigar tip glowed. He dropped it, ground it out with his heel, and continued down the hill, toward the dig. The cedars soon hid him.

Muted through the shut door she heard laughter, a woman’s bright laugh over the men’s deeper voices. She wondered where they were and what they were talking about.

An owl hooted, drawing her attention back to the hillside. And a second dark shape separated from the olive grove. He followed Arkwright but stayed off the gravel and in the deeper shadows. When he reached the path, he had to cross moonlight. One of the Tarrants, but it was too dark to tell which one. Madoc, she hazarded. He cast a quick glance along the house, and she was glad she had blown out the lamp. The moon cast his face in stark angles, remote and cold, not like the man who had made himself her friend. He dropped down the hill at an angle to the path, an approach that would take him to the site before Arkwright.

She closed the shutter and fumbled her way through the mosquito netting to the bed. Sleep eluded her. Was this new job as lucky as it first seemed? Why had Arkwright gone to the dig at night? He couldn’t work in darkness. Had he wanted to get away from the house?

She remembered how charming Cecilia Arkwright had seemed while Mrs. Standings had sat cool and aloof, smoking an endless series of cigarettes in a red enameled holder. She could not remember much about Prof. Standings. There was a small boy, guarded by a diligent governess. Isabella couldn’t remember how many students were on the dig. Dinner on Saturday evening had included everyone, but she had soon found it necessary to keep the girls occupied on the courtyard. Several times she had looked into the sitting room. Mrs. Harcourt-Smythe had chattered away to Mrs. Standings while her husband had focused on Cecilia Arkwright. Their voices were low murmurs, and he had shifted his chair very close to hers.

Had Prof. Arkwright escaped on this night-time walk because his wife charmed his colleagues? Or did she charm them so he could escape? Why had Madoc Tarrant followed so stealthily? And where was Gawen Tarrant?

Isabella shook her head at her strange fancies. Huddled under her covers, she listened to the noises of a strange house. The wind increased, and the shutters creaked. The others retired, voices louder as they climbed the exterior stair to the balcony that wrapped the courtyard. A woman laughed. Doors shut. Footsteps came partway down the hall, then another door shut.

Her racing mind refused to retreat for sleep, so she tried to divine the house’s layout from the little that she’d seen. The two-storied house surrounded the courtyard with its pool and lovely bougainvillea. The upper rooms all opened to the balcony. Perpendicular to the covered entrance was a flagstone hall, with the kitchen at one end. The huge sitting room with its long dining table seemed to run the length of the square. Everything bespoke the house’s age: exposed beams stained by time, cracked plaster and peeling paint, vivid tiles cracked and chipped yet still beautiful. The thick stone construction had withstood many harsh Mediterranean summers. Since this room had a view of the path to the dig, it had to be at the back of the house. The members of the dig were all housed here, but no one else. The Harcourt-Smythes had camped like an Egyptian expedition; he had relished the adventure, although Isabella had had to contend with his daughters’ voluble protests.

Isabella tossed to her side. Her eyes adjusted enough to distinguish the chifforobe and low chest through the netting. Her satchel still gaped open on the chest.

What had Madoc Tarrant meant? How could letting her have this room solve a problem? He had claimed not to have searched her satchel, that Cecilia Arkwright had shown him her sketchbook. Had Cecilia searched it? Had someone searched her suitcase? Isabella had nothing embarrassingly private, but she felt invaded and powerless.

Especially since Gawen Tarrant had her pitiful wages.

As she fretted over the scattered events, snoring began along the balcony. So mundane a sound rattled her worries from their foundation. She flipped her pillow to the cool side and resolutely shut her eyes.

She dreamed of a bloody battle. Horsemen threw spears. Chariot wheels whirled with flashing scythes.

She woke, sweating, screams in her ears.

Isabella started from the bed. The mosquito netting tangled her, and she nearly panicked before she slid under it. The shock of cold stone cast the dream away, and she remembered where she was. She blundered along the wall and flung the window open.

All was silent. The birds had tucked into their wings for the night. Even the dog finally slept. She drank the cool air, scented with cedar. A bright moonbeam shafted into the room, across the snarled netting and tumbled bed, and glinted on the glass carafe on the washstand. Isabella fumbled her way to it. She shakily poured the water and gulped it, spilling a little.

A night breeze drifted in as she finished the water. She shivered in her damp slip. Opening the chifforobe, she felt blindly for another. She dropped the sweaty one on the floor. As she closed the chifforobe, she heard a metal snick, like a lock being turned. She froze, listening a long time, but she heard only the owl.

Isabella crept back to the window and watched the moonlit hillside until yawns overpowered the dream. As she reached to close the shutter, she saw movement on the hillside and retreated to deeper shadow.

A man came up the path from the dig. The moon had shifted to the low horizon directly across from her window. The shift cast the path through the cedars into blackness. She waited for him to come onto the gravel, but he had either stopped or taken another way. She reached again for the shutter, and he emerged. She froze, her white arm stark against the dark wood, but he didn’t look up. He climbed, head bent, hands in pockets, not as stealthy as at early evening.

What had Madoc Tarrant to be so dejected about?

He continued beneath the olive trees and around the house, out of sight. She hurriedly closed the shutter and crawled back into bed. She listened for him in the house. Eventually, the footsteps came, not loud but not walking with care. A door opened.

“Gawen? Have you seen Nigel?” Cecilia Arkwright. Although her voice was muffled, it came clearly through the extreme quiet.

“Sorry, no. I’ve been in my study going over the supply ledger with Madoc. Did Nigel go out for a smoke?”

“Hours ago.”

“Off on a ramble, no doubt. Goodnight, Cecilia.” He walked nearer. A door opened and shut. The other door shut.

He had lied, for Madoc Tarrant had been on the hillside, not in his study.

Why had he lied? Combined with his brother’s secret tracking of the professor, it was more mystery than Isabella had ever encountered. She tried to stay awake, listening for Nigel Arkwright’s return, but she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

Chapter 3 :: Sunday, October 5

Isabella woke with the conviction that Cecilia Arkwright had lied to Gawen Tarrant. The metal snick that she’d heard must have been the door shutting when Nigel Arkwright had slipped into his room, long before Madoc Tarrant came back to the house. Cecilia had lied, and Prof. Tarrant’s responding lie had been equally smooth.

Secret visits to the dig. Treasures worth stealing. Lies and counter-lies. She had tumbled into a mystery. How disappointing if it were only conflicting scientific theories.

She didn’t dawdle over dressing, but she wavered over what to wear. Their view of her this morning might form the backdrop for her time here. If she wanted the artist’s job, she should dress with an artist’s flair. Yet Harcourt-Smythe’s blotting dismissal required a modest dress. She settled on a pleated linen dress and tied a sash of her favorite blue for a splash of color against the white. She gathered her hair back with a matching ribbon.

All the doors of the sitting room were opened to the courtyard. At the far end the others had gathered for breakfast along the dining table. Isabella felt the battery of eyes as she passed a corner desk and clustered chairs on her way to join them.

Madoc Tarrant scraped back his chair as he stood to welcome her. “Here she is now.” He indicated the empty chair beside him, against the wall and between him and Frederick Petrie.

Gawen Tarrant had also risen to greet her. He offered neither smile nor scowl, and she could not tell if his brother had mentioned the illustrations idea. Surrounded by strangers, she was too shy to broach it herself.

 “I told you a governess is no slug-a-bed,” Cecilia declared, sitting on her husband’s right at the table’s head. She offered a welcoming smile. This morning she looked elegant in cream silk and navy linen. Around her dark cap of hair she wore a cream band tied with a flamboyant bow. Matched to such casual dash, Isabella felt like an ingénue. Seated at the table’s center, Mrs. Standings was a splash of bright florals with ruffles, pretty but not stylish.

While she slipped to her appointed chair, Arkwright stood more tardily and took it upon himself to introduce everyone. “You will remember Prof. Standings.” He indicated the man across from him. “And his wife.”

Isabella smiled and nodded. Madoc reached across her to pour coffee into her cup, and she had to peek over his arm as Arkwright introduced the four students. At the dinner Saturday evening, she had sat squeezed between her chattering charges and had scarcely noticed them. Her employer had dominated the conversation, drawing out the other women with his reminisces of London parties and mutual acquaintances. With golden curls that claimed kinship with a sun-kissed god or an angel, Richard Lamb outshone everyone at the table, including Cecilia Arkwright. Seated on Prof. Arkwright’s left, he scarcely acknowledged the introduction. Isabella smiled at Frederick Petrie, dapper as a British cricket player. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown suit, nothing set him apart except his thin, loose limbs. Young Hamilton Matthews’ gangling arms revealed his age more than his freshly scrubbed face did.

“And Phillip Castlereagh here,” Arkwright added, “beside my wife.”

With last night’s lies and secrecy echoing clearly, Isabella was intrigued by the territory each person had staked around the table. Only Prof. Arkwright retained his seat from last weekend. Everyone else had changed, and she wondered if that were due to Prof. Tarrant’s return. He had supplanted Cecilia from the foot of the table. She had shifted to her husband’s right. Opposing armies, with allies drawn up for defense. And Isabella was caught in no man’s land, between Madoc Tarrant and Frederick Petrie. She preferred the open side between Katherine Standings and Richard Lamb.

Under cover of passing the toast, Madoc said, “I’ve spoken with Gawen. He wants to see your work. After breakfast.”

“Madoc, don’t monopolize our visitor,” Mrs. Standings chided. “How long do you stay, Miss Newcombe?”

That question struck with an arrow-straight aim into her dilemma as well as pointing out her position as a stranger to these people. Isabella had no answer.

Prof. Tarrant leaned back and propped on his chair-arm. “I’ve offered her a breathing space. After the Harcourt-Smythes, she needs it, don’t you agree?”
            “Where did you meet them?” Petrie asked, his gaze on the toast he over-buttered. “I never saw them before this week’s invasion.”

“They’ve lurked on the fringes of the archaeology community since before the war. Marmalade, Isabella?” Cecilia offered the jam jar. As Isabella took it, the woman added, “I believe he deals in antiquities.”

“Is that right, Miss Newcombe? Harcourt-Smythe sells antiquities?”

“I was merely the governess, Mr. Petrie.”

Nigel Arkwright cleared his throat. “He salts his collection with a few artifacts.”

“Treasure hunter,” Gawen snorted.

“Treasure hunters are needed,” Standings said blandly. “Universities cannot fund every dig. We need funding from wealthy collectors as well. And public interest at museums also raises funds. If every little trinket winds up hidden in university archives, no dig will ever be funded.”

“What I know of him, Tarrant, is all aboveboard. I knew him before the war,” Arkwright said. “He’s had several lean years with most of the archaeological digs suspended. Now we have Armistice, there will be more for him to sell. Trinkets, mostly. Nothing museum quality. He’s no blackmarket dealer.”

“It is curious,” Standings said with a blandness ironic in relation to his words, “that an antiquities dealer appears as we begin having thefts of recovered artifacts.”

“Not thefts.” Petrie lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air. “Misplaced. We found a couple of them.”

“A couple found when I can list a half-dozen more of finer quality that are still missing,” Tarrant snapped. “Museum quality.”

“Keep your hat on, Professor. When we catalog the storeroom, I’m certain we’ll find them. Not every one of us understands the significance of our work.” Petrie flicked a glance at the gangly student.

Hamilton Matthews didn’t look up from his eggs.

Cecilia lifted her coffee cup and left it suspended in the air. “What did you think of Mr. Harcourt-Smythe when you met him at Knossos, Gawen? Kat and I found him charming. His wife as well.”

“I had no dealings with him. Petros gave him the tour.”

“What work did you accomplish at Knossos, Professor?” Lamb injected.

“Since you three had finished the interesting work, I drudged. We cleared the debris from the past winter and rebuilt the roof protecting the throne room.”

“You think Evans is planning a more extensive excavation? That was the rumor at the British School when we stopped in Athens, that he wanted the site brought to a workable state before he returned.”

“That would explain the British School’s proviso in our excavation contract with Crete. Why else would the BSA request a measured layout of the site and the adjacent areas?”

As he and Lamb discussed the major site, Cecilia around Petrie. “Isabella, you have untainted eyes. How does our excavation compare to Knossos?”

Isabella swallowed her bite of egg. “How can I compare them? I’m not trained.”

“Do give us your honest opinion,” Castlereagh prompted. “Which site do you prefer?”

Isabella looked for malice in his eyes but saw none. Older than his fellows, he had served his time in the trenches. She didn’t remember who had said those words to her, but the information didn’t excuse the slight she heard in his voice.

Madoc Tarrant had heard it as well, for he set down his coffee. He had to lean forward to glare up-table at the man. “I wouldn’t answer that, Miss Newcombe. No matter how you couch your answer, you will offend one of these archaeologists. They have different interests and different theories, different everything.”

She glanced at him. His eyes, very blue and clear, smiled at her, and she knew he remained the same man who had offered help last evening. He hadn’t changed. She set her fork down and swept her gaze around the table. “Then I will offend no one. I do not see any true answer. Without an understanding of archaeology, I cannot understand what I am seeing.”

Petrie whistled. “A woman who admits to ignorance. Now there’s a rare object.”

“I will not let you sidestep my question. You are the public with untainted eye, Isabella. You must have some opinion.” Cecilia swirled her coffee. “You toured Knossos, did you not? And you have not only toured our excavation, but you sketched it yesterday and this past weekend. Come, tell us what you think.”

“Ask my opinion of the Coliseum or the Parthenon, Mrs. Arkwright. There I know what to judge. I can only tell you that Knossos is archaeology on a grand scale, and here you are compact, tightly-focused. I can see the energy of your work and its scientific elements; at Knossos I see the remnants of such work. I do not know what else you wish me to say.”

“Did you explore the Grand Staircase?” Lamb asked.

“Mrs. Harcourt-Smythe did not wish her daughters to venture down the steps. After we heard that it had once fallen, she was afraid that it might do so again. Was that you, Prof. Tarrant, on the far edge of the site?”

“We were repairing a drainage trench in preparation for the winter rains.”

“Nigel has heard that Evans wishes to reconstruct the palace as he did the staircase.”

“A desecration of the science,” Gawen Tarrant grumbled.

“Restoring the first glories of Greece,” Arkwright countered.

“Exactly,” Isabella interjected. “If you call my eye ‘untainted’, then this public thinks both need to be seen, the one to reveal history as it was, the other to explore history as it was, and through both to understand archaeology and the origins of civilization.”

Lamb laughed and shoved away from the table. “Miss Newcombe, you’re a diplomat. You’ve removed the bone before our debate could degenerate into an argument.”

She blinked. “I have?” Had he just provided the reason for last night’s lies?

Lamb crossed one leg over the other and dug into his pocket. “Archaeology is a science of balances. To preserve we must reveal, and to reveal we must destroy. What we destroy, we cannot restore. As scientists, our difficulty is deciding how much to reveal. Too much destroys the site; too little does not uncover all the site can teach. If you stay a few days, you will hear this argument several times. To reach the layer that interests Prof. Tarrant, we must dig deeply. Prof. Standings wants to preserve every layer above. Prof. Arkwright wants to find everything in the ground.” He shook tobacco from a pouch into his pipe.

“While Harcourt-Smythe,” Madoc slipped in, “wants any artifact unaccounted for. Isn’t that what he was asking you, Arkwright?”

Discomfited, Arkwright cleared his throat. His resemblance to the god Apollo had dimmed since yesterday. “They wanted a tour. He wanted to discuss purchasing—.”

“Nigel informed him that our artifacts are shared between St. George’s University and the Heraklion museum.” Cecilia’s calm interruption acted like a warning touch on her husband. He retreated to his coffee.

Isabella remembered Arkwright’s hotel dinner with the Harcourt-Smythes. Secrets, lies, valuable artifacts, and an antiquities dealer. This mystery had indeed turned interesting.

Gawen Tarrant tapped his fingers on his chair-arm. “This Harcourt-Smythe obviously believes archaeologists are an unethical lot. I suppose we should thank the pantheon of gods that he did not remain camped on our doorstep.”

“Several of our best artifacts would fund a small dig next season.”

“We have no right to dispose of them, Petrie. Madoc, would you be so kind?” Cecilia handed her coffee cup down-table to be refilled. “The artifacts belong to the university and our Cretan hosts.”

“History owns them,” Gawen murmured, “not any one person.”

“History returned to the present,” Mrs. Standings added. “That’s what Isabella said,” and Isabella hoped her jaw hadn’t dropped. What had dissipated the woman’s earlier malice? “I wish I had said it, but after weeks of sorting potsherds, I can muster little wit. I’m seeing pottery bits in my dreams.”

“Nightmares, surely?” Lamb suggested, and she laughed and agreed.

The talk turned to their plans for the day, and Isabella divined that this was the only day no active digging occurred. They began with no immediate plans, but by the time she finished her egg and toast and two cups of bracing coffee, the Arkwrights had decided to visit the French archaeologists excavating Mallia. Mrs. Standings planned to go with them. Prof. Arkwright muttered, not quietly, “At least there I will see proper respect for Minoan remains.”

“I’d like to go as well,” the skinny Matthews said. “See what they’ve dug up since I stayed there after my week at Knossos. When we’re digging, I forget how isolated we are from each other. You coming, Lamb?”

Puffing to light his pipe, he didn’t answer until it burned to his satisfaction, then he declined. “My camera has a date with a meadow. I’ll enjoy your gossip this evening.”

“And our taskmaster,” Cecilia said. “Come with us, Gawen. I don’t think you’ve spent one Sunday away from this village.”

“Last weekend, driving to Knossos.”

“That was work. Don’t slave in that study all day.” Her tone made it a prison cell.

“I’m going to the dig later, to see how you’ve progressed this week. I didn’t really have a chance to look it over yesterday afternoon.”

“We’ve had no progress at all,” Arkwright growled. “Nothing new uncovered.”

“After a week’s absence, my eyes may see what yours missed. And Lamb has offered his notes, so I can update my journal. That will consume most of my day. Offer my regrets, Cecilia.”

“With the motorcar we can squeeze in one more. Madoc, I know better than to ask you. I’ve never determined exactly how you spend your Sundays.”

“I fish. I swim. I hone a taste for the local wines.”

“Isabella, come with us to Mallia. Those French archaeologists will charm you.”

Madoc leaned forward. “After her faint yesterday, she needs to rest.”

They stared at her, and she wanted to sink. Or stomp Madoc Tarrant’s foot.

“I said you were wilting, didn’t I?” Cecilia said lightly. “Rest today. Regain your bloom. Our housekeeper will be delighted to coddle a foreign lady. She’s disappointed with Kat and me. Kat, will you ask for wine and a luncheon from Dorcas? And please manage to convey to her that we will not return for dinner. Nigel, will you fetch the motorcar? We’ll have a good day for our drive.”

Since the others rose as well, Cecilia Arkwright had quickly disposed the table. Isabella wondered if she would ever manage it as gracefully.

Although he was standing, Madoc poured another cup of coffee. Gawen eyed it then him. “Rough night, brother?”

“Up late,” he returned and saluted with the cup. “I have to be sharp for all the ragging I’ll get today.” Gawen snorted and strode off, leaving Isabella alone with Madoc. He slid her chair back as she stood. “Wait until the others leave before you come to Gawen’s study.” Then he stepped through the opened doorway and disappeared as well.

She found her room tidied and her window opened. Isabella went to drink the view. Besides the cedars and the ancient olive grove climbing the hill, she had the god’s mountain, painted in shades of blazing white, as if age had leached the living color from the earth. A hawk spiraled in the cloudless sky, a blue so pristine no artist could imitate it.

Voices soon reached her through the open door. Had they not yet discovered how sound carried along a passage of stone walls and stone floor?

“You shouldn’t have suggested Mallia.” In no way did Gawen Tarrant sound like a dour professor. “You know he’ll come back angry.”

“Where then?” Cecilia demanded. “Gurnia? Or let him sit drinking all day in a café in Sitía or Agios Nikólaos? I’d rather hear the argument than deal with him too drunk to walk straight. Or think straight.”

“You don’t have to field the other side of the argument. No, go on to Mallia. You were right to choose it. We’re in a damnable situation, Cess.”

“I’m trying, Gawen. Believe me.” Her voice lightened with a clear teasing note. “You should come. That would give him the chance to show you up with the French.”

“I thank you,” he said dryly. “No, Cess, I know what you meant. Better if I don’t go. Enjoy yourself. The French will certainly delight in your visit. You may have a different argument than the one you expect.”

“I’d rather deal with that one. Gawen—.” Yet whatever she’d started to say remained unspoken. Her heels clicked away. Isabella didn’t hear Gawen Tarrant leave.

She hadn’t planned to eavesdrop. Her door stood open, and his door was right beside hers. If they didn’t want anyone to hear, they could have shut the door.

Her mystery had just spun another coil, one that had spiraled deeper than she would have imagined.

Trying not to speculate on that intimate conversation, Isabella waited at the window for the cranky automobile to sputter away. Richard Lamb, burdened with a heavy pack and  tripod, climbed the hill. He stood silhouetted against the mountain as he gauged his path. Then he disappeared down the other side, off for his date with a meadow. She heard an engine roar as it was revved, but she didn’t move. Apprehension pinned her to the window. The future she wanted was close to her grasp—would it vanish when she reached for it, an elusive illusion?

“Back at your window, I see.”

Madoc stood in her doorway, slouching against the jamb. Hands in the pockets of his khaki drills, shirt collar opened, he looked like the reckless adventurer who broke the heroine’s heart in dime store novels. Tall, dark and too handsome for an out-of-work governess. Rather than answer, she looked back at the azure sky. His blue eyes also wouldn’t translate to paint.

“It’s the best view in the house.”

“Nothing like England or home,” she said. “In no way comparable.”

“But beautiful.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Even by moonlight.”

Yes, he had seen her last night. Isabella faced him. The sunlight behind her gave the advantage of shielding her face. “Why did you follow Nigel Arkwright to the dig?”

She didn’t think he would answer that straight question. His honesty surprised her. “I thought he was going to the site, but he never appeared. I lost him on the hillside. Nor did I hear him come back. I was awake a long time, listening, thinking.”

She wondered why he gave her the truth, then she wondered why she was surprised. Once again that strange connection had thrown them beyond new acquaintance. A stranger would have parried her question with a charming lie. She owed Madoc Tarrant the same honesty. “Could he have come back before you?”

“This morning Gawen said not. He went to bed after I came back, and Cecilia stopped him to ask if he’d seen Nigel.”

“Yes, I heard that conversation. Before that, long before I saw your return, I heard a door catch or a lock.”

That startled him. Mindful of the echoes along the balcony and the courtyard, he eased the door shut, even though the others had left the house. “What’s this?”

Isabella repeated what she’d heard last night.

“That was before Cecelia spoke to Gawen? Well, well. She was covering for him.”

“Covering for him? While you were trailing him?” She had indeed tumbled into a mystery. Isabella planted herself on her bed. “Mr. Tarrant, what is going on here?”

“I wish I knew. Artifacts go missing then turn up, or they get displaced from where they were left. For two weeks, every morning when we got to the dig, the quartering ropes were unstrung. I never found any tracks to lead to the culprit. The mudslip stopped that, but then the potsherd trays started being mixed. The sorted trays were dumped with the rubble.”

“Accident? Someone blundering through your work? Or sabotage?”

Those blue eyes flashed as if her questions pleased him. “Or someone looking for something they expect us to find or to have found. Or are afraid we’ve already found.” He shook his head. “Gawen says it’s nothing. During the war I learned to look askant at orders and men and—well, I’m alive and other men, better men aren’t. Maybe I’ve not been demobbed long enough to get over my—my—. I don’t know what to call it. My waiting for trouble.”

“Inklings of trouble,” Isabella substituted. “This, though, this is more than intuition. You have evidence, either of sabotage or attempts to cover theft.”

“I’m glad you agree. I think my brother’s blinding himself. I don’t know enough archaeology to pinpoint the problems. As small as this site is, everyone still works separate locations. I don’t have eyes watching everywhere, and I have to be away sometimes. This past week, with Gawen at Knossos and my work on the landslip, my instinct tells me that things weren’t just disrupted; they also went missing. But I have no evidence.” He plucked her sketchbook from the low chest and handed it to her.

She took the cue but said, “Explain your brother’s week at Knossos. I thought archaeologists only worked a particular site, but your brother, Mr. Lamb, and Mr. Petrie, all of them spoke of spending a week there.”

“Arkwright went as well.” He shut the door behind them. Their voices and footsteps echoed. “A peculiarity with the dig contract, which the university was lucky to be awarded.”

“Your brother is a professor at St. George’s?”

“Natural History. Both Arkwright and Standings are in the Classics. According to the contract with the British School, each archaeologist and student must provide a week’s service at Knossos. Gawen scheduled the earliest weeks. He hoped to be going at top speed by now.”

“Instead of dealing with sabotage covering theft in time for the arrival of a shady antiquities dealer.”

“Miss Newcombe, I like the way your brain works.”

Isabella wasn’t sure that was a compliment.

 

All the Links

Digging into Death     https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1981014187/

Worldwide https://books2read.com/u/bzdM72

View the Trailer https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zX1BPx6VUnU

Main Site for Writers Ink Books, Chapter 1 https://writersinkbooks.com/free-fiction-ch-1-of-digging-into-death/

This Side Site, Chapter 1 https://maleebooks.blogspot.com/2026/10/a-year-long-free-mystery-to-celebrate.html