It was Faithful Penelope, but not as she was usually portrayed, especially by the soppy pre-Raphaelites, with great tragic eyes and billowing hair, endlessly staring at the horizon in the hope of spotting her wandering husband.

This was something quite different. A medieval painting of Penelope on a barge, gaily tipping her persistent suitors overboard with a bargepole and a serene smile of satisfaction.

‘She was a strong lady, Penelope.’

Penny jumped. She hadn’t heard the curator approaching.

‘Do you think so? Some people think she’s a bit pathetic.’

He laughed uproariously. ‘Not at all. She was strong. And clever. We have a copy of that picture in the guidebook, if you would like to buy it?’

‘I would indeed. What a great museum.’

‘Thank you. I’m afraid you will probably be our only visitor today.’

‘Then I’d definitely better buy the guidebook.’

She walked back, clutching the book. When she got back she’d tear the picture out and put it up on her wall to remind her of strong Penelope!

Moira insisted on joining Stelios as he went to look for the old men, rather against his better judgement, but he began to realize that refusing Moira’s company would take more strength of purpose than he possessed; in fact, probably an armoured tank. So together they approached the gaggle of old men seated on a low wall right at the far end of the harbour. There were about six of them, a couple wearing shorts and baseball caps, one in a jaunty striped top, another who looked very ancient indeed in sober navy and finally the chatty one in the beret. They sat there all day, in the shade of the tamarisk trees, providing a chorus on the activities unfolding in front of them, the stupidity of tourists, the meanness of the cafe owners who didn’t offer them free drinks and, Moira suspected disapprovingly, the level of attractiveness of every woman who passed.

Their memories might be less than sharp, but they still recalled that Moira had bought them all a coffee yesterday and greeted her effusively.

‘Kalimera, sas!’ she replied equally enthusiastically. ‘And this is my friend, Stelios Stavropoulous.’

They looked him over critically. ‘Too old for you, kyria,’ pronounced one.

Stelios made a great play of looking wounded. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he greeted them in Greek, ‘I’m sure very little escapes you that happens on the island. My friend here says we should be talking to you about where to look for the missing statue of Aphrodite.’

They all burst into laughter.

Moira surveyed them sternly. She hoped this wasn’t all a wild goose chase.

‘Perhaps if your friend purchased some ouzo, our memories might be usefully jogged?’

‘Ouzo?’ Moira replied, shocked. ‘It’s eleven o’clock in the morning!’

Stelios elbowed her unsubtly. ‘Of course!’ He smiled all round. ‘And where can the best ouzo be purchased for unjogging memories?’