‘I really don’t think so,’ I said. ‘He looks frightened.’
‘Good. Can you hear me, son? Here’s what I want you to do. If you can manage to sit on the floor with your hands above your head, I’d like some answers to some questions. If you’re a good boy, I won’t even handcuff you. If you do anything I don’t like the looks of, this lady here is probably going to stick a fork in you, so I think you’re going to be good. What do you think?’
Trudi grasped the fork meaningfully, but lowered it so the tines rested on the carpet. Not for the first time, I was quietly pleased that Letitia’s gun – if she indeed had one – was well out of sight. I didn’t think we’d even need Trudi’s gardening fork, but you never knew.
The youth uncoiled himself slowly, as if everything hurt. It probably did, though I wondered why. Surely the peaceable and gentle professor hadn’t belted him? Here was a mystery over and above how he had come to be here at all. He sat himself in a morose little huddle in the middle of the carpet and stared at his shoes. Battered runners, with laces coming undone. He held both hands to his hoodie for a moment. Splitting headache, I diagnosed. There was a hint of St Sebastian awaiting the receipt of his fourteenth arrow. He shook his head, allowing the hood to fall to his shoulders. Unkempt black hair straggled down the back of his neck. He smelt of terror, dirt and something else I couldn’t get a handle on. As requested, he clasped his long, grimy fingers on top of his head.
His eyes darted around the room. Take away the dirt and the fear and he might have been beautiful. Surrounded by malevolent women as he was, it might well be that Letty White was the least scary person in the room. Again his mouth opened, but no sounds came out.
Letitia rolled her eyes. ‘Have any of you got a bottle of water? I don’t want anyone going into the kitchen yet.’
Trudi had a spray-nozzle water-bottle tucked into her belt. I recognised it at once. She used it to spray delicate shoots. I hoped she hadn’t put any fertiliser in it. She handed it to the youth, who helped himself to several sprays’ worth of refreshment. He handed the bottle back to Trudi warily, still mesmerised by the gardening fork apparently.
Letitia fixed him with a piercing eye and said, ‘Okay, son, what’s your name?’
He flinched as if someone had flicked a paper pellet at him. ‘Jordan King. I –’
And that appeared to be it for the present. Something was happening in his throat, but no more sounds emerged. He seemed to be trying to swallow a cricket ball, and failing.
Letitia White’s voice grew softer, as if she were trying to entice a twitchy stallion out of its stall and into harness. ‘Look, Jordan, this isn’t a proper interview. We’re not at that stage yet at all. We’re just talking. All that formal stuff happens down at the station. I can arrest you right now if you like, but I’m beginning to think you want to be helpful. You’re just a bit embarrassed by all this, aren’t you? Was it all your idea, or did you have a mate to help you?’
His head shook violently. ‘No! I’m alone. No one else was here.’
She almost purred. ‘See? You can talk, can’t you, Jordan? Now, why did you pick this apartment in particular? Did you try every door until you found one that was open?’
‘No. Just this one. I found the door open.’
‘And what were you looking for, Jordan? Money? Easily convertible goods?’
Head shake. ‘No. I’m not a thief.’
‘You could have fooled me. And do you know who lives here?’
That got a reaction. Jordan’s long, oval face flooded rose, and his eyes positively flickered with lightning. ‘A heretic.’
‘I see. Any particular heresy you have in mind, or are you just generally hunting for heretics you like the look of?’
My breath shortened. I assumed that Letitia was making a joke, but it seemed to have got in amongst him. Surely not? Does anyone really expect the Spanish Inquisition?
‘Just this one. He has something that doesn’t belong to him. I came looking for it.’
‘And then? How did you finish up on the floor?’
‘I don’t know. I think someone hit me.’
Ms White looked meaningfully around the room, and we all shook our heads. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I suggested. ‘Any of us might have done that, if we’d seen him menacing our dear friend. But we really didn’t.’
‘Jordan, stay quite still. I want to look at your head. You were wearing your hoodie when you came in, were you?’ Nod. She leant over him, examining his head and the interior of the hood. Both were marked with blood. While Letty White looked around the room, I took a closer look at our intruder. He was far from clean. But there was more than grime in there. He bowed his head, and he seemed to be praying. I leant a little closer and saw that inside his jacket was far more chest hair than a youth his age could possibly possess. A distressing miasma began to fill the room. From within that hoodie arose a reek like the interior of Count Dracula’s underpants. If that was what I thought it was …
Meanwhile Letitia found what she was looking for on the low coffee table: a smear of dark blood staining one of the corners. I hadn’t noticed it before. She turned to Jordan. ‘Might you have slipped over, do you think?’
‘Yeah, maybe. I don’t remember anything except being hit over the head.’
DSC White looked at the carpet. It was securely fastened to the floor.
‘May I?’ I put in.
Letitia nodded.
‘Is it possible you tripped over a cat?’
‘Maybe. I remember there was a cat.’
I nodded. This seemed only too likely. I was glad that Nox had survived the encounter unharmed.
‘So you possibly tripped over a cat and hit your head on the table there.’ Letitia pointed, then pulled out her radio and walked to the side of the room, muttering into it. Then she turned back to the youth. ‘What were you looking for, Jordan? This thing you claim doesn’t belong to the person who lives here?’
‘It’s a book.’
All the blood must have drained out of my face, because I saw Letitia White give me a penetrating stare. This was definitely Not Good News. I had tampered with a crime scene, and the one thing I had thought could not possibly be relevant to the investigation had turned out to be crucial. How could I possibly have known that?
There was a soft knock at the door, and presently Professor Monk was with us again, accompanied by Detective Constable Helen. He was still dressed as before, but carried his déshabillé with studied nonchalance.
‘Professor Monk.’ Letitia indicated the seated Jordan. ‘Can you imagine what this young man might possibly be trying to burgle your flat for?’
I noticed that the rosy blush on Jordan’s face had mutated into a glare of silent hatred.
The Professor blinked benignly. ‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t the foggiest. Perhaps he can enlighten us, hmm?’
‘Well?’ Letitia prompted.
‘He knows what it is,’ Jordan growled. His lips had peeled back from his dazzling white teeth in a snarl. I hoped he wasn’t turning canine on us; we were most of us cat people in Insula.
‘Well, no, young man, I’m afraid I don’t.’
The youth almost howled with anguish. ‘Don’t lie to me! You’ve got something that belongs to the Church! You should give it back!’
‘Ah, you mean this?’ Professor Monk held up a small USB stick. Thank the goddess for that. I was filled with admiration for him. With a little creative misdirection he had saved his manuscript from confiscation, and got me off the hook as well. Without even looking at me, he turned to Ms White. ‘I carry it with me all the time, you know. And despite what this deluded youth appears to think, if it belongs to anyone at all, it would be the University of Tel Aviv. It is the Gospel of St Joseph of Arimathea. Or so we think. We don’t precisely know yet, but it’s all very exciting. I’m having such fun with it.’
Jordan gave him a Torquemada look of utter loathing. ‘It is full of erroneous doctrine!’ he protested.
Professor Monk gave him a considering look. ‘And how would you know that, young man, hmm? Do you read Ancient Greek? Latin? Hebrew? Aramaic?’
‘I can read Latin.’
‘Ain tu? Mirabile dictu.’ He scanned Jordan’s face for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, you probably wouldn’t know that. And who sent you to my apartment? The Dominicans? I doubt that. They’re rather keen on learning these days, you know.’
Jordan relapsed into obstinate silence, and Letitia White gestured angrily. ‘All right, this is getting a bit too mystical for my liking. I’m sorry, Professor, but I’ll have to take that USB away as evidence. You will get it back. And I’m sending for the SOCOs, the scene-of-crime officers. This isn’t just a normal break-in anymore. Is there somewhere you could go until they’ve finished here?’
‘But of course,’ said Mrs Dawson. Though uninvited to our little conference, she had nevertheless materialised at the appropriate juncture. ‘Do please join me in Minerva. I shall put the kettle on. I think tea all around might be just the thing.’
‘Before you go,’ interposed Letty. ‘Professor?’ She held up a small plastic ziplock bag. ‘The memory stick?’
‘Ah, of course!’ Professor Monk handed over the USB, and DSC White sealed the bag.
‘All right – Helen, could you stay here until the SOCOs arrive? Jordan, you’re coming down to the station with me. When we get there, you’ll make a full statement, sign it, and show me some ID – which you had better have on you, by the way. And then … well, we’ll see, won’t we? Be good and I might even let you go home today.’
‘K.’
As Jordan King was escorted down the stairs by the stern detective senior constable, we trooped up the stairs to Mrs Dawson’s apartment. I looked back to see Detective Constable Helen Black standing in front of the open door like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell. All she was lacking were the two extra heads.
When we were comfortably ensconced in apartment 4A, Dion Monk looked at me with a confiding eye and held up one finger. ‘Now that our friends have departed …’ He grinned.
I held my breath in anticipation.
‘I do have some news for you about our little friend.’
‘Do tell,’ I urged.
He leant comfortably against Mrs Dawson’s arm and nodded. ‘I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t track down the memory at first. But I seem to recall he was in one of my first-year classes. Most of one’s first-year cohorts come and go, passing by like the idle winds, but a few stick in the memory. Jordan is one of them. A most conceited boy: quarrelsome and argumentative. I was obliged to reprove him on one or two occasions.’
‘That must have been a few years ago,’ I pointed out. ‘You’ve retired from teaching.’
‘Yes, it would have been a few years ago. But I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere more recently. Perhaps when I gave a public lecture last year about the Dead Sea Scrolls.’
‘Did you mention anything about the Gospel of St Joseph?’ I asked.
He blinked. ‘I may have done. That would explain his uncalled-for irruption into our lives, perhaps?’
‘Except that we still have no idea why he thinks you’re a heretic, do we?’
‘I fear not.’ I wasn’t sure why, but a certain gleam in the Professor’s mild and gentle eye made me think that he knew more about this than he was letting on. I let it pass. After all, it was his project. And his burglary.
Mrs Dawson clasped his arm. ‘Never mind, dear. Doubtless we shall find out in good time.’ And she poured the tea.
Philomela: When Therese asked me if I wanted to come stay with her, I nodded as vigorously as I could. What I wanted to do was to shout: YES, OF COURSE! Because I’ve heard about this Corinna Chapman. She solves mysteries and I wish she would solve mine. But for that I will need to speak – and for now all I can do is sew.
Well, if Corinna can’t help me, perhaps that is the answer. When we have finished the Battle of Maldon embroidery, I will begin a new design. I will make an embroidery about what happened to me and show it to the police. It’s been done before. There was a medieval role player in Sydney who made one to describe what happened to him at his university. It’s beautiful, and terrible. His church should die of shame for letting that happen to him. We’re Greeks. We don’t let our priests do that. One whiff of scandal and the priest is sent away to a monastery, like the one on Mount Athos. But his embroidery helped my friend Gary, even though the priests died before they could be punished properly.
So, if I cannot speak, I will do that. But if I should recover my voice, well, I will shout my story with all the rage that is trapped within me. I will be furious. For a long time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fringed curtains of thine eye advance and say what
thou seest yond.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST, ACT 1, SCENE 2
By now, I’d pretty much had enough for one day. I thanked Mrs Dawson for the tea and returned to my own apartment, hoping to find Daniel within.
Disappointed, I checked my phone. One unread message, from my dearest beloved. I scanned it hungrily.
Expect me after 4, ketschele.
It was now three forty-two pm. My heart quickened – then I recalled that I had promised to sit in on the actors’ rehearsal today. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind if I stayed for only half an hour. That would be long enough for me to get some idea about them. We lived in very close quarters here at Insula, and I liked to have a sense of the measure of the men and women within our midst. Reluctantly, I texted Daniel back.
I’ll be busy till 5.
I wanted a drink now. But virtuously deciding to forgo my G and T until Daniel’s arrival, I opened the fridge door and took inventory.
I felt against my knee the gentle headbutt of Horatio, who’d decided that he’d like a look too. Reading from top to bottom I found the following: butter, cheese, brandy (what was that doing in my fridge?), eggs, cream, milk, bacon, creamed corn, half an onion, dejected ham, depressed tomatoes, suicidal spring onions, a sobbing remnant of chutney in a sad little jar and precisely three beans. I wondered if I could make a three-bean salad out of them. This had been one of the many culinary banes of my girlhood, thanks to the over-optimistic kitchen habits of my tree-hugging parents.
On the very bottom shelf I found a sealed plastic dish containing leftover roast leg of lamb. I unpeeled the lid and inspected the interior, while Horatio looked at me with a wild surmise. His expressive tail flicked upwards, and he miaowed a lot: just cut me some of that intoxicating meat and I’ll let you have the rest.
This sounded like a deal I could live with. I began to slice the meat. One for you, one for me, and three for the pot. Soon the leg bone gleamed white in the afternoon sunshine. I watched Horatio settle down on the kitchen floor to give the lamb his full attention. What could I make for dinner with these scraps and remnants? I recalled one of my grandmother’s favourite recipes. ‘Never waste food!’ she had admonished me. ‘When it looks like all you have is leftovers and ingredients, cook them up together.’ Grandma’s pot-luck, I said silently. This one is for you.
I chopped, sliced, diced and excavated, and soon my big pot was nearly filled. I ground pink rock salt and black pepper on top with nutmeg and allspice, and placed it on the stove with the heat on low and the lid firmly covering it, so that Horatio would not be able to assist me any further. By now he had slipped away to wash his paws and radiate general pleasure from his favourite chair. I reached into my storage pantry, pulled out a picnic basket and filled it with sourdough, cheese, the gin bottle, sliced lemon, tonic and a small portable ice box.
It was twenty past four. My esky would be fine for the half-hour I was intending to spend with the actors, I decided.
Back downstairs I went to the door of Mars. I rang the bell, and the summons was answered by Luke, who wore a tight-fitting pl
ain white T-shirt which showed off his muscles to excellent effect. I could sense him noticing my admiration. He didn’t seem to mind. ‘Hi, Corinna,’ he said in a bass sort of voice. ‘I’m not in this scene, so I’m on Door instead. Come and watch.’
I caught my breath. I had been expecting just a plainclothes run-through rehearsal with books or scripts. What I saw was a darkened room with one brilliant spotlight. It certainly hurt my eyes to look at it. I looked at the floor instead. Wriggling slightly inside a voluminous black cape appeared to be two bodies, giggling. Four shapely legs protruded from the cape. They were moving in a highly suggestive manner. A clear contralto voice announced itself, and Sam entered, wearing jeans and a black leather jacket and carrying a box of cask wine under one arm.
‘I shall no more to sea, to sea, here shall I die ashore.’ She stared down at the bodies, did a double-take, blinked, and muttered: ‘This is a scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral. Well, here’s my comfort.’ She pretended to drink from the cask, and blinked again as the bodies on the floor continued to wriggle. Then she began to sing in a deeper pitch, tenor heading towards baritone:
The master, the deck-washer, the boatswain, and I,
The gunman and his friend
We loved Moll, Meg, Marian, and Margery
But none of us cared for Kate.
Kate had a gutter mouth –
Sam paused as renewed giggles erupted from beneath the coat. Another double-take, then the song resumed. I saw Luke press a button somewhere and accordion music played in the background as Sam continued:
Would cry to a sailor, ‘Go hang!’
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
Another pause as Sam looked down at the bodies in the cape, and poked experimentally at one of the protruding legs. Wriggling of some sort was still happening. She shook her head and continued. ‘This is a scurvy tune too. But here’s my comfort.’ Another pretend drink, and an agonised cry came from within the cape.
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