‘Have you ever heard of St Bernadette of Lourdes, Mr, er . . .’ interrupted the professor.

‘Georgiades. Of course I have, but that was a load of claptrap too.’

‘Then what exactly is your explanation for the hand holding the apple, Mr Georgiades?’ Professor Brinkley asked politely.

‘And for the marble bench outside your cabin that has somehow disappeared?’ Dora added, not politely at all.

‘Why don’t you just go back to your museum – stuffed, no doubt, with stolen Greek artefacts – and leave us alone!’ shouted Xan, refusing to answer her question. ‘And may I remind you that whether or not I build a house here, this is still my land!’ His long aristocratic face, with its high domed forehead and drooping moustache, hardened into a look that made Dora think of feudal landlords who could throw their troublesome tenants into an impenetrable prison; or, even better, stick them down an oubliette where they would drown in its stinking waters.

‘Charming man,’ commented Professor Brinkley as they marched silently back through the grove towards the mule track.

‘Isn’t he?’ agreed Dora. ‘Come on, let’s go and celebrate the fact he hasn’t had us shot, or horsewhipped us, with a visit to Treasure Island!’

The view from the top of the hill was so amazing that the professor made them stop for a moment and look at it. ‘I have to do this in Cambridge sometimes to remind myself what an incredible place it is. No matter how wonderful your surroundings, you stop seeing them – but just look at that!’

The small bay unfolded beneath them, its waters a bright turquoise, shading into aquamarine where the sandbanks made it shallower and a dark deep blue out towards the horizon. The sand on the small beach looked white and tempting and promised to be so soft you could almost feel it between your toes. The cliffs encircling the bay were golden stone saved from crumbling by clumps of sea holly and wildflowers. The warm, waxy scent of angeliki, with its tiny white flowers, hung heavy and sweet in the air. They breathed it in and smiled in deep contentment.

‘Makes me want to run down and jump straight into the sea!’ laughed Professor Brinkley. ‘But I’d probably break my leg doing it at my age.’

‘Nonsense!’ Dora insisted. ‘You look as sprightly as one of Ariadne’s goats. Why is she wearing a bell, by the way? She doesn’t usually.’

‘She broke into Mr Georgiades’ house and ate everything he keeps there. He was very angry. My father says she has to wear a bell so we know where she is.’

‘That goat has very good taste,’ murmured the professor. They had just reached the beach bar.

It was unrecognizable from Dora’s last visit.

‘O Thee mou!’ Ariadne whispered respectfully, looking round in awed amazement.

‘What’s she saying?’ whispered Dora.

‘OMG, is how I think my students would translate,’ replied Professor Brinkley.