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Hebe walked on for some time, eventually coming to rest almost at the St Lazarus Bastion. She leaned against the bulk of an ancient cannon, dragged up on to the harbour wall many years ago after some great battle and left to rust slowly into oblivion, and wondered what the hour was. It was probably time to turn back, she realised, discovering that her feet were more than a little sore, for she had foolishly put on light shoes and the waterside cobbles pressed painfully through the thin soles.
As she turned she saw a small fishing boat, its sail flapping as it was tacked to and fro to catch the light wind. It had the distinctive high prow of the traditional luzzas, and was banded brightly in blue and yellow, although something about it was not quite the same as the local boats; it was a variant from Gozo, perhaps. It appeared to be heading for her part of the wharfside. As she watched it a small boy of eight or nine years of age, who had been sitting with his feet dangling over the edge tossing pebbles at the minnows, got up and began to stroll towards her, a wide wicker fish basket in his arms.
Meeting his father, she deduced. Perhaps it would be worth waiting and seeing what the fisherman had caught and if he was willing to part with some of his catch. She curled up in an embrasure beside the cannon and waited, watched by a tiny green lizard who flicked away as she sat, then settled again, an emerald jewel on a sun-warmed ledge of crumbling stone.
The little boat came on, dancing over the small waves, and glided neatly to a halt against the wharf only a few feet from Hebe’s perch. The fisherman was obscured by the sail and she waited patiently while he freed it and caught the tumbling canvas, bundling it up to stow away.
As soon as he straightened up Hebe realised this was no Maltese fisherman, however authentic his clothing might be. The tall, dark-haired, unshaven figure in its coarse linen shirt and canvas trousers, feet bare on the wet boards, was unmistakably Major Alex Beresford.
Chapter Three
Instinct kept Hebe in her place. She did not want to spy, but something told her that intelligence officers were hardly likely to wish to be seen by chance acquaintances under such circumstances. The Major could simply have been out fishing, or he might have had quite another purpose.
The boy called out a greeting, ‘Bongourno!’ and came to kneel on the edge of the quayside, holding out his basket ready for the catch.
Alex Beresford grinned up at him, a startling white flash of teeth against tanned and stubble-darkened skin. ‘Bongourno, Pauli. Kif int?’
The lad started to reply in Maltese, then caught himself and said carefully in English, ‘I am very well, I thank you, Signor Alex. That was good, no? Mama says I must practise if I am to find workings…work for the English.’
‘Very good indeed, Pauli. Hold the basket steady now, I have had a good catch.’
Alex Beresford began to toss the mixed collection of fish into the waiting basket, then suddenly his focus changed from his task and his head came up as he scanned the harbour wall. It was the same piercing bird-of-prey stare that had so startled Hebe when she first saw him. Was he so sensitive to anyone watching him, or was there something about her gaze which touched him? She held her breath.
‘Who is there?’ he called out sharply in Maltese.
‘It is only me,’ Hebe replied composedly in English, sliding down from her niche and out of the shadow. ‘Good morning, Major. Your Maltese is very good.’
‘Good morning, Miss Carlton. I have about six phrases and twenty words, all the rest is a mixture of Greek, French and Italian, but it seems to suffice. But what the d—how did you come to be here so early?’
‘I am out marketing; looking for fish, in fact, but the catch this morning was very dull. You seem to have done better, though. Will your young friend sell me any, do you think?’
Pauli, who had been following the exchange with bright-eyed interest, jumped forward, his basket of fish held out for her inspection. ‘Ghal bejgh…all for sale, Madonna.’
‘Kemm?’ Hebe asked. Not to bargain would be to be taken for a fool.
‘Irhis hafna.’ Pauli named an ambitious sum.
‘That is not cheap,’ Hebe protested, looking shocked. ‘I only want a few—that one, that one and those red snappers.’
Frowning with the effort of mathematics, Pauli adjusted his price down.
‘Gholi wisq!’ Hebe gasped in apparent horror, with a fair imitation of the Maltese matrons bargaining in the market. Never, her expression said, never had she heard of such an outrageous price for fish.
They wrangled amiably some more, then Hebe handed over a sum that was roughly double what she would have paid in the market, let him put the fish in amongst the palm leaves with which she had lined her basket and smiled as the boy skipped off with a wave and a jaunty, ‘Sahha!’
‘Sahha!’ Alex called in response, turning back to Hebe. ‘You paid him well, his mother and little sisters will be proud of him.’
She smiled down at him as he stood, bare feet braced on the wet bottom boards of the boat. ‘He looks as though he works hard.’
‘He does. He approached me as soon as he saw me sail into harbour and offered to do any odd jobs for me in return for what fish I catch. He runs errands, takes messages—and eats anything he can lay his hands on.’
Questions were crowding into Hebe’s brain, clamouring to be asked, but she bit her tongue. So few days had passed since the Major had arrived in Malta, surely he could not have had time to purchase a boat, and the more she looked at it, the more she was convinced that it was not a local boat. Could he have arrived in this little vessel all the way from the Ionian islands? No wonder he had looked so exhausted.
‘Are you going to moor her here now?’ she asked casually, swinging her basket.
‘I was,’ he replied, eyeing her with some amusement. ‘It is considerably less crowded than it is nearer the fish market. Why? Do you wish to be conveyed to somewhere?’
‘Well, yes,’ Hebe admitted. ‘I have walked much further than I intended, and in quite the wrong shoes, and my feet hurt.’
