The Spotted Dog

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘No, I never heard that either.’ Daniel bowed his head, and Meroe stood up.

  ‘I think the police must be done with Professor Monk’s apartment by now,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should go there now, and I will perform the cleansing ritual.’

  Daniel went with Meroe while I escorted Horatio back to my own apartment. I had just put the herbs I’d gathered in my pot and settled Horatio down with some kitty dins when my phone rang. It was Daniel.

  ‘Corinna? You’d better get up here right now.’

  When I arrived, the door was flung open. Meroe, Daniel and I stared at the interior. It looked like there had been an invasion of Visigoths.

  Philomela: My body hurts all the time. I’m used to it now. And while I would love to be able to dance again, I can live without that. Without my voice, though, I am utterly lost.

  CHAPTER NINE

  These violent delights have violent ends.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 2, SCENE 6

  ‘Hello? Letitia? You’re not going to like this, but …’

  No, she didn’t. Within fifteen minutes she was back, with the SOCO team and Detective Constable Helen. Surfaces were dusted for prints, disturbances examined, assurances given that none of us had tampered with the crime scene and so forth. Helen played with Nox, who was enjoying the attention and allowing his sense of personal outrage to be soothed into comfortable oblivion. Within half an hour the besuited ones had gone, together with Detective Constable Helen. Meroe too had departed. Thus far we had not gathered any more of an audience, which seemed fair enough; the residents of Insula had had enough adventures for one day. I certainly had.

  Detective Senior Constable White leant against the wall of the corridor and called upon her Maker to save her.

  ‘Corinna, this time it really wasn’t our little friend Jordan – he’s still in the cells. On that basis, I’m letting him go for the time being. Even if our Second Burglar is connected with Jordan, there is no way he could have told them he’d failed in his attempt. I am going to assume they’re still after the same thing. Bizarre as this may seem. Now can any of you explain to me what is so special about this damned gospel? Don’t tell me you’ve discovered the secret identity of Jesus’s descendants? Please tell me this isn’t a Dan Brown mystery.’

  I exchanged glances with Daniel. ‘I really don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘But I’m beginning to think it might be. Why two separate burglars, at least one of whom appears to be a religious fanatic, chose today to break into the Professor’s apartment to find his USB stick is more than I can understand.’

  She reached into her pocket and held up the thumb drive. ‘We probably won’t know anything until the Professor has deciphered whatever is on here, so I’ll give it back to him. And of course I’ll ask everybody else in Insula all over again. But I’m assuming none of them have heard anything, since they’re not here gawping. All right, carry on. You can help the Professor clean up.’

  I leant on Daniel, feeling both shaken and stirred. Very soon we could hear sounds on the staircase. Then the lift purred its way upwards and the doors opened to reveal Anwyn, standing by Philomela’s wheelchair. ‘Hi, Corinna,’ said Anwyn. ‘We’ve just heard, and we thought we’d both help out. Therese is cooking dinner.’

  I wished I was.

  Mrs Dawson and the Professor entered together from the stairwell. He looked resigned, as though he’d just been invaded by Spartan hoplites for the fourth time this month and it was only to be expected. She looked furious. ‘This is utterly monstrous!’ she fumed, patting the Professor’s arm. ‘We are all going to help clean up.’

  And so we did. But as my beloved began to put things back where they should be, which would be a long process, I had eyes only for Philomela. She rolled her wheelchair over to a pile of books, and leant down to pick up several old Penguin classics. I had no idea what she was doing, but her eyes were flashing like thunderbolts.

  ‘That splendid lady detective has asked me to call her if anything is missing,’ Professor Monk was saying. He took off his glasses and gave them a quick polish. ‘But I don’t think there is.’ Eventually he too noticed Philomela, and he walked over to gaze down at the small collection she had made. ‘Ah, yes, well done,’ he said. ‘You have collected all my Ovids. Very kind of you.’

  She placed five of the six books she had garnered on one of his bookshelves. The Professor held out his hand to take the last, but she shook her head violently and began flipping through the pages. When she had found what she wanted, she held it out and jabbed her finger urgently at the text.

  The Professor craned his head forward for a moment then drew in his breath sharply. ‘Oh dear,’ he muttered. ‘Very well, my dear. Yes, I understand what you’re trying to say.’ He stood in front of her and reached out his right hand as if to soothe a frightened animal.

  Reluctantly, she put out her own right hand, briefly squeezed the Professor’s, then dropped her hand back in her lap.

  ‘But this is going to require some careful thought and a good deal of understanding and patience from both of us,’ he continued. ‘Would you mind if we leave this for now? I’ve had several shocks today and I’m not exactly at my best. But yes, I do understand. You didn’t pick up that book by chance, did you? You wish to draw my attention to the tale of Philomela, your namesake – because Philomela lost her tongue, and had to write things down to communicate with her sister Procne. Am I right?’

  She nodded. The fire in her eyes had subsided to a steady gaze now.

  ‘Very well, Miss Philomela. We shall discuss this tomorrow. Is that acceptable?’

  Philomela hung her head for a moment, then nodded once more.

  I exchanged glances with Anwyn, who gave a shrug of incomprehension that mirrored my own feelings. It looked as if ancient manuscripts were taking over my life. Perhaps my future was written on a copper scroll somewhere in the West Bank. I looked forward to finding it and having someone translate it for me.

  Mrs Dawson decided it was time to take charge. ‘Now, Professor,’ she announced in her best Luncheon Is Served voice, ‘I really do think that we’ve all had enough excitement for one day. Do, please, come and stay under my roof tonight, in case anyone else should wish to disturb your rest. Anwyn, will you take your friend back to your apartment? I will lock the door here.’

  This was absolutely fine with me, and Daniel took my arm. Fortified with gin, we walked back downstairs to my apartment. I closed the door, locked it, slipped the deadlock, and put the chain on its hook. I was going to have an evening with my Daniel and I didn’t care if they brought a battering ram. Then I went to my bedroom for a quick change of clothes. I wanted to surprise him.

  It certainly had the desired effect. His eyes widened with delight when I re-emerged, and he kissed me, running his hand down my back as he did so. I had thrown off my street clothes and most of my underwear and attired myself in my blue, purple and gold caftan.

  ‘This is new?’ I watched his face calculating, wondering if he should have registered this creation already in his sartorial memory bank.

  ‘Indeed it is. I made it with batik cloth presented by Jon and Kepler. I gave them some wow-wow sauce.’

  ‘Is there really such a thing? I’ve read about it in Terry Pratchett’s books, of course. Doesn’t the Archchancellor say something about his father swearing at wow-wow sauce, and exploding after a charcoal biscuit?’

  ‘There really is. And since Kepler is from South-East Asia, where they like their tastebuds scarified, I thought they would like it.’

  ‘And they did?’

  ‘Very much so. I’ll be refilling the jar when I get a spare moment from burglaries and lost animals. If my kitchen explodes suddenly one day, you’ll know why.’

  I removed the lid from my slow-cooking pot and inhaled. The eggs were sitting on the kitchen bench in their carton, so I broke two into the pot.

  ‘They are certainly idiosyncratic eggs,’ Daniel commented. ‘The yolks are differ
ent colours.’ He opened the box and looked at the remaining eight spheroids. ‘Different-coloured shells, too.’

  ‘They came from named hens reared in hotel-standard accommodation,’ I assured him.

  ‘The hens really have names?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ophelia and Juliet, apparently. And you can taste the difference.’

  ‘And the roast lamb I see you have in the pot? Raised in a health spa, no doubt?’

  ‘Oh yes. After all those horrible exposés of mass-produced meat I can’t even look at cheap supermarket stuff. It’s more expensive, of course. But I don’t care.’

  He ran his finger down the side of my cheek. ‘Very proper. Animals understand about being killed and eaten. But we owe them a happy life up until their unfortunate finale. Are you thinking of raising chickens in Ceres?’

  I laughed, stirred the pot a few times, and began to set the table for two. ‘Raising dough for the bread keeps me busy enough. But Trudi is talking about getting a hive. We shall have homegrown honey.’

  Daniel sat down in his chair and shook his head. ‘I wonder how Lucifer will cope with swarming bees.’

  I turned off the pot, took my biggest ladle and served up two steaming, fragrant heaps of casseroled leftovers. ‘We may expect the odd mishap, I expect. But Lucifer can find trouble anywhere.’ I laid the plates on my table and gestured at them. ‘Grandma’s Pot-luck, just like Grandma used to make. I hope you like it.’

  He leant forward over the table and kissed me lightly on the lips. ‘It smells wonderful.’ Then he ate a spoonful and smacked his lips. ‘And it tastes even better.’ A cook always likes an appreciative audience. He grinned at me. ‘Is wow-wow sauce this good?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s from a nineteenth-century recipe from The Cook’s Oracle.’ I consulted my internal recipe index. ‘Butter, plain flour, beef stock, white vinegar, parsley, pickled cucumber, Worcestershire sauce, salt, black pepper. Oh, and English mustard.’

  ‘Really? That alone would render it incandescent. No wonder the British built such a vast empire. Being brought up on English mustard would make anyone want to take it out on somebody else.’

  We ate companionably, chatting of this and that. And we admired Horatio’s casual elegance as he sauntered in, sniffed his bowl of fishy kitty dins, curled his tail around his front paws and looked up enquiringly. Daniel gave his head a friendly stroke, and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I think he wants mice pie,’ I explained. ‘I’m hoping he will accept kitty dins in lieu.’

  With an all-but-audible sigh, Horatio bent his head to work. We did likewise. When our bowls were empty, I looked at Daniel. ‘More?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, ketschele, I need to be light on my feet tonight. I’m off in search of Alasdair’s poor little dog.’

  ‘Any word on the streets today?’

  ‘None. Frankly, we have too many mysteries on our hands. I’m trying to think of a connection between them, but I don’t think there is.’

  ‘I don’t think so either,’ I said ruefully. ‘Unless – could our double burglary have anything to do with the ransomware problem at the Cafe Delicious?’ I suggested.

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t think of any reason why it should be related. There’s a lot of ransomware around these days. It’s usually Russians or East Europeans.’

  ‘Other people hack computers, surely? The Chinese?’

  ‘No. Oh, the Chinese are brilliant hackers, but they’re more concerned with espionage, either industrial or political. I never heard of any of their hackers putting porn on anyone’s computer. They’re a bit fastidious like that. No, this says Slavic countries to me.’

  ‘Is there a reason why they treat everyone else as prey?’

  ‘The Pan-Slavic Brotherhood has legitimate grievances. But I can’t see how our other crimes might be connected with the Russian Bloc. Surely not the break-ins. Our boy Jordan with the hair shirt is surely Catholic, isn’t he?’

  ‘I can’t imagine what else he could be. But I thought Catholics were law-abiding.’

  ‘Except the mafia, perhaps. But yes, you’re right. Anglo-Catholics are frighteningly law-abiding as a rule. It’s a mystery. And what is up with Philomela, I have no idea, although the good Professor seems to have an inkling. But one puzzle at a time! I need to find a dog, and quickly.’

  He made as if to rise, but I put my hand on his arm. ‘Could I persuade you to stay for dessert? It does go in a separate stomach, you know.’

  He sat down again at once. ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘Wait and see.’ I covered my pot and put it in the fridge, then removed a tray from the freezer and put it on the table. ‘Strawberries and lemon sorbet, with a light soupçon of gin.’

  He clapped his hands in delight, and I watched him eat without haste as I sampled my own bowl. I longed to take him to my bed and ravish him all night long. Sometimes on weeknights this was feasible. Usually not, since he works late hours, while mine are so early they’re almost the previous night. On Friday night, however, my wonderful man, I will take you in my arms and ravish you until morning. I hope.

  He stayed to wash my dishes for me, hugged me lovingly and set off on his quest of canine rescue. I considered a look at the TV, but decided against it. The world has grown so impossibly strange. I cannot be bothered with pay TV, and free-to-air is filled with depressing explosions and orange-haired clowns pretending to be world leaders. Nowadays the television is chiefly for watching DVDs. But tonight I retired to bed with the The Healer’s War. A strange book for bedtime reading, you may say, and normally you would be right, but I was finding it oddly therapeutic. As I closed the cover and laid the book on my bedside table I believed I understood poor Alasdair Sinclair a lot better now. I sighed contentedly as Horatio took up his customary position on my bed (curled up with his back to mine), and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Have I mentioned how my heart leaps at four am? Alarm clock rings its clarion call to arms, alarm clock is flung to the carpet and trodden underfoot by somnolent baker, Horatio looks up in affront and goes back to sleep. Slippers are donned, shower administered, heavy boots booted, overalls overcalled; coffee, ovens, dough, and I experience the darkness of the soul in the early dawn, brightened only by the invincible cheerfulness of Midshipman Jason.

  I was only a few minutes into my routine when there was a loud disturbance outside. Angry voices could be heard: baritone and bass. One of them sounded familiar. ‘Midshipman? I’m all over dough here. Find out what’s going on, will you?’

  ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n.’ He opened the street door and disappeared.

  Conversation seemed to be happening, but it didn’t sound dangerous. I administered kitty dins to Heckle and Jekyll, despite their low body count (no rats, three mice and something I couldn’t identify and didn’t want to; even the rodents were too hot to want to forage much in this weather), watched them wolf it down and saunter off, tails in air, in search of further patrons. Dawn was just glimmering in the sky above the skyscrapers, and a procession loomed dimly towards me, led by a huge, dark figure holding a smaller shape by the collar, Jason bringing up the rear.

  As they paced towards me up the dim alley, I recognised the gigantic form of Ma’ani from the Soup Run, gentle enforcer to the down-and-out community of inner Melbourne. He doesn’t look for trouble. Trouble just evaporates as soon as he hoves into sight. He is about nine feet tall and nearly as wide.

  I turned my attention to the specimen he was escorting. Both sandshoed feet were trailing off the ground. A distressing miasma of studied unwashedness preceded him by a couple of metres. As my eyes became accustomed to the dim light I realised it was none other than our uninvited guest, Jordan King.

  Philomela: At last. Somebody understands.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thou art wedded to calamity.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 3, SCENE 3

  There are moments when words fail me. This wasn’t one of them. All the accumulated frustrations of the pr
evious day boiled over, and I let myself go more than somewhat.

  ‘Why, Jordan, how nice of you to drop in again. Actually, no, I don’t know why I said that. I am far from pleased to see you. Is there something you forgot to do during your last visit, like turning on the fire hydrants or pouring yoghurt on my first editions? Perhaps you would like to redecorate my apartment by throwing paint on the walls and smearing apricot jam all over my carpets?’ I paused for a moment. ‘No, wait, that wasn’t you, was it? There seems to be a queue to break into our apartments here in Insula. I suppose there’s some sort of roster, is there? You and our other burglar are taking turns? Do let me know so we can accommodate you as far as is possible.’ I showed him my teeth.

  Since Jordan seemed neither willing nor able to say anything for himself, Ma’ani grumbled into life, like a front-end loader preparing to level a building site.

  ‘What’s this bloke doing hanging around here, Aunty Corinna?’ Ma’ani shook Jordan, as gently as possible, while still holding him well off the ground.

  My unwelcome guest shivered like a sapling in a hurricane. He now resembled one of those pole-squatting Stylites who had fallen off his pillar. He still didn’t speak, so Ma’ani continued in a low, menacing rumble. ‘You trying to burgle our aunty’s bakery, son? ’Cos if you are, I’m gonna give youse a belting. Aunty Corinna is a friend of ours. Why don’t youse go and break into some rich bloke’s house in Toorak? What’re ya doing here, anyway?’

  I could have asked Ma’ani to put Jordan down so he could explain himself, but I didn’t feel like it. I was beginning to find Jordan as a hanging basket more tolerable than his previous incarnations.

  Finally he coughed into life. ‘I’m here on God’s work,’ he gasped.