The Spotted Dog

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘Sure, Letty. What’s on your mind?’

  She grinned at me. It was such a copper grin. The answer to that question, she was saying silently, was: more than you could possibly imagine.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d managed to get through a night without being burgled again.’

  ‘Strange though it may be to hear, yes, I did. I could even get used to this.’

  Del Pandamus hovered beside my table, and Letty gave him a look. ‘G’day,’ she said. ‘Can you get us two flat whites?’

  As Del retreated to his Italian coffee machine (he does have one, for people like Letty and others unacquainted with the mysteries of Greek coffee) she leant back and sighed. ‘I have to say that your burglaries don’t look like the same person. The MO is all different. I don’t see our friend Jordan breaking into your apartment in a mask, and anyway, apparently he was in Ma’ani’s custody at the time. I’m just wondering why we have two different burglars.’ She eyeballed me long and hard. ‘Especially because Ninja Guy was looking for something in your apartment. I’m inclined to accept our friend Jordan at face value. I mean, yes, he’s looking for heresy in Dion Monk’s apartment. It’s way too weird to be a fairy tale.’ She paused. ‘Speaking of fairy tales, I’m beginning to think that there were a few subtitles in Professor Monk’s thumb drive and notebook dog-and-pony show. I think somebody might have pulled a fast one with some evidence there. Anything you’d like to tell me about?’

  I returned her eyeballing and raised her an eyebrow. ‘It is possible, of course. All things are possible.’

  She nodded. ‘Thought so. You know what? I don’t give a stuff about his researches into lost Gospels. And the reason I don’t give a stuff about them is that weirdo Bible stories don’t give rise to Police Matters. As you know, Corinna, there are things which are Police Matters, and things which aren’t. Unless you’ve got a kangaroo loose in the top paddock, like Jordan King, I don’t think that the Mystic Scrolls of Destiny cut it as Police Matters. If Jordan ever gets away from Sister Mary’s mountainous bodyguard, we’ll haul his arse into the Magistrates Court, and if he promises to be a very good boy in future he can get a good behaviour bond and go away forever. Assuming, of course, that you and the Professor are amenable to this?’

  I nodded, and she accepted a steaming flat white from Del Pandamus. Constable Helen continued to smile winningly at me, and did not say a word. She didn’t need to. Her Look was manifest. You listen up good to what Letty says, okay?

  We sipped quietly until the three of us were alone again, and Letty raked me with another piercing gaze. ‘Yeah. But Ninja Guy worries me. Either you people are hiding something from me – and in that case you can colour me a very unhappy police officer indeed – or else this is something which they think you have, and you really haven’t got it. I’m ruling out a rival bread consortium wanting to steal your sourdough.’ She gave me a look of studied innocence. ‘Daniel not with you today?’

  ‘He was this morning,’ I informed her.

  Her appraising look gathered in my caftan, and my aroma of effulgent wellbeing.

  ‘Yeah, I bet. Now the problem I have with private detectives is that they have – as it were – an Agenda of Their Own. I don’t have a problem with Mr Cohen, considered as a Private Dick. He’s a lot more sensible than many others I could name, and I reckon he can handle himself in a crisis. And, of course, he has Friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ I responded, with maximum studied innocence.

  ‘Don’t mess me about, Corinna. He has access to … let’s say “sources of information” which a mere humble detective can only dream about. And what I want to say is this: if you and Daniel come into possession of any pertinent intel, I need you to tell me about it. Really I do. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

  I wasn’t going to commit Daniel to anything at all in absentia, so I merely said, ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  She rose to her full one-sixty-five-centimetre height then sat down again. ‘Oh yes, I meant to tell you about the mask. I called in some favours and had an express DNA job done on it.’

  ‘Sorry, but how do you get DNA off a mask?’

  ‘It was in contact with his face, and that’s all they need. Normally this takes weeks. But as I said, I’m worried about this case. There may be, as we say, ramifications.’

  ‘Any matches with known criminals?’

  ‘Enquiries are continuing.’

  Helen went inside to pay, while Letty continued to give me the Constabulary Once-Over. ‘Don’t forget what I said, Corinna. I suspect even Daniel might think twice before venturing out of his depth. This one’s got silly buggers written all over it. But not in a good way. Cheers.’

  She left at a quick march, and I finished my yoghurt and honey at my leisure.

  Philomela: I borrowed Anwyn’s laptop today. At first I couldn’t even remember how to do it, but it started to come back to me. After some practice by myself, I decided that this will work after all. I cannot even begin to tell you how horrible it has all been.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Adversity’s sweetest milk, philosophy.

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

  On my way back to Insula, I was rather astonished to see Marie again, sans dogs. She ran towards me, looking like someone who had just remembered that she’d left the gas on.

  ‘Marie? Forgotten something?’

  She patted my arm and looked mortally embarrassed. ‘I did forget something. I don’t suppose you have any bread left, do you? I really need some sourdough. It was the one thing I forgot. Half a loaf will do.’

  ‘I might have. We’re closed now, but I usually keep some leftover bread for myself. Care to come and have a look?’

  I unlocked the front door and looked behind the counter. Sure enough, I had a loaf and a half left. I held up the half. ‘It’s yesterday’s. Is that OK? And are you sure that’s enough?’

  ‘That would be awesome.’ A huge grin broke across her flawless features. ‘Thanks. How much?’

  ‘Oh please! Don’t bother. I’ve locked the till, and the day’s finances are concluded with maximum prejudice.’ I tucked the half-loaf into a brown paper bag and handed it over.

  Her gaze then fell upon my Bosch print. ‘That’s The Garden of Earthly Delights,’ she commented. ‘Bosch was a bit out there, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I think he was so far out there he’d gone through a doorway into Narnia.’ I noticed her fingers tracing around a figure in the third part of the triptych, which depicts a musical hell. God knows what Hieronymus was snacking on. Magic mushrooms, at a guess. There was a hapless man with a rather nice bum halfway into a terrible fate. And, yes, there was music inked on his buttocks. She began to sing – without words – what sounded to my untutored ear like something sweetly medieval.

  ‘Of course, you can read music. That sounds pretty.’ A sudden inspiration struck me. ‘Marie, if I hum you a tune, can you tell me where it comes from?’

  She turned to me with a puzzled air, but nodded. ‘Sure. I can try.’

  I did my best to recapture the hum I had overheard from my burglar. At first, Marie could make nothing of it. Suddenly her eyes lit up, and she blushed fire-engine red.

  ‘Corinna, it wasn’t this, by any chance?’ She began to sing in a language I had never heard before: repeated descending phrases, each one starting a little lower than the one before. She looked at me, half defiant and half enchanted.

  ‘I really think it may have been that. What is it?’

  She laughed. ‘It’s called “Beautiful Mountain Girl”. It’s a traditional song from Armenia, where my family comes from. I learnt it when I was little. The first boy who wanted to marry me used to serenade me with it. Then Kate learnt it and sang it to me, accompanied by a duduk she’d borrowed. That’s when I knew she was my true love.’ She fluttered her eyelashes playfully. ‘Where did you hear it?’

  I considered telling her that it had been hummed by a man who was burgling
my house at the time, but my mouth closed like a mousetrap. Of all the things to share with this wondrous girl, this wasn’t in the top thousand. ‘Oh, just somewhere around. But it’s been haunting me ever since.’

  She laughed again. ‘Music’s like that. Gotta run now. Thank you so much. Kate really wanted some sourdough. I think we may be having garlic bread tonight.’

  I let her out, and returned to Insula in a thoughtful mood. The sun was still shining down from an eggshell-blue sky, and while we’d probably hit our expected top of thirty-three it wasn’t unpleasant for those who didn’t have to walk far. But the atrium was blessedly cool, and I ran my fingers through the waters of the impluvium. The fountain gurgled away melodiously to itself. No wonder the Romans had liked this sort of thing. Italian summers aren’t as fierce as Australian ones, but days like this are common enough there.

  I let myself back into my apartment and took out my phone. Ave, Corinna, we’re in Ceres. Care to join us? Only Professor Monk would send me a Latin greeting, though he had refrained from putting the whole message in the tongue of Cicero out of deference to my linguistic deficiencies. He had come fashionably late to the world of mobile phones, but appreciated the convenience. And I appreciated the invitation. I wondered what other mysteries might be elucidated today.

  As I waited for the lift, I went over my earlier lunchtime meetings. The actors? Probably not involved, as I had suspected. Letty White? Good news about the mask, anyway. For the rest, she knew that I knew more than I was letting on, and wasn’t happy (in that peculiar constabulary Not Happy fashion) that I was holding out on her. Too bad. There’s no fun being a private investigator without a certain interplay of mutual distrust with the law. But I would try to keep her in the loop, as much as I thought appropriate. Marie? What a girl! Her beloved was a lucky woman. But how bizarre that all roads seemed to lead to Kilmarnock. I really would have to visit this mythical land someday soon. But not without my Daniel.

  At the summit of Insula the lift doors opened, and I beheld a charming sight. Sitting on garden chairs around the large, white-painted wooden table amid the greenery were Therese Webb, Anwyn and Philomela in her wheelchair. All three were stitching away at a large piece of calico, with Anwyn holding up the middle and the other two at either end. Professor Monk sat opposite them, holding a book which I perceived to be his favourite recreational reading (Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura). On the ground, facing off with mutual mistrust and agonised apprehension, were a small chocolate point Siamese cat and Therese Webb’s King Charles spaniel Carolus.

  There was a certain frisson in the air. The dog was attempting to burrow backwards into Therese’s trouser leg, all the while looking with brown-eyed incredulity at the cat. The cat was hunched down next to Anwyn’s skirt, looking balefully and fearlessly at the dog. Eventually Carolus retreated behind his mistress’s shoes and averted his gaze, and the cat settled down on delicate paws and relaxed. I squatted down and held out my hand. At once the cat strolled over to say hello, and allowed me to caress its silky head. Which I did until Anwyn looked up. ‘Bellamy? Where are you? Oh, hello, Corinna.’

  The cat immediately leapt up onto the table and sprawled out on the centrepiece of the tapestry, which seemed to feature a number of men in early homespun armour and some viridian grasslands.

  ‘Corinna, my dear,’ said the Professor, laying down his book. ‘You’re just in time for some formation cat worship.’

  The other two laid down their needles and thread and leant back in their respective chairs while Bellamy (for I presumed it was he) displayed his spotless cream-coloured coat under Anwyn’s caressing hands.

  ‘Bellamy is the reason I’m visiting Melbourne,’ Anwyn explained. ‘He appears to have hitched a ride from my house and turned up in the northern suburbs. I picked him up on the first morning.’

  ‘You have a feline hitchhiker? I have to say that’s … unusual,’ I observed.

  ‘It is rather. But he’s a very unusual cat. Carolus is so far unimpressed, though.’

  Therese Webb laughed. ‘Well, yes, to an extent. I’m surprised it’s taking him so long to get used to him. He gets on fine with all our local cats here, but something about Bellamy seems to have him worried.’

  Anwyn leant forward and continued to caress Bellamy’s head. His paws stretched out horizontally and his citrine eyes closed. Loud purrs filled the fragrant garden. ‘I think the reason Carolus is put out is because back home Bellamy has two dogs called Nutmeg and Digby who are his most devoted servants. I only got Bellamy because the dogs were heartbroken when their cat Onslow died from renal cancer. Onslow bossed the dogs around and they loved it, and him. So they needed a new cat and Bellamy fitted in immediately.’

  ‘The dogs love him, so he expects all dogs to do the same?’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh yes. And while Carolus is a polite and friendly dog, he’s not ready to commit to that sort of relationship.’

  Dion Monk administered some cat caresses of his own, and cooed appreciatively. ‘Well, you’ll just have to content yourselves with human admirers today.’

  Bellamy looked as though he was absolutely fine with that and went on purring.

  The Professor gave Anwyn a sidelong glance. ‘Did he really hitchhike from Adelaide? Did he stand on the side of the highway holding up a sign in his paws reading Melbourne or bust?’

  Anwyn grinned. ‘Possibly. He was found in someone’s backpack. He’s always climbing into my shopping bags and I think he must have stowed away and gone to sleep there. The people who found him in their car in Northcote had just driven from Adelaide, and they checked his microchip and rang me. The mystery is how he came to be in the backpack in the first place. They’d been in Bedford Park, which is where I live, but they swear they hadn’t been near my house. Just one of those little mysteries.’

  The Professor nodded sagely. ‘Siamese are notoriously inscrutable. So you drove here yourself to pick him up, of course?’

  ‘Of course. And I thought I may as well make it a proper visit, since we’ve got this tapestry to work on.’

  ‘And where did you find this paragon of cats?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘My friend Celsa occasionally breeds Siamese kittens. So I bought him for one hundred and fifty dollars and a knitted cap. She lives in Ballarat, but she’s one of us.’

  I looked at her in incomprehension.

  ‘We’re medieval role-players. And this is my latest project, ably assisted by my hearth-companions.’ She inclined her head at Therese and Philomela, both of whom smiled: Therese with some pride, and Philomela like a mouse menaced by a cat. Anwyn lifted Bellamy up into her arms. ‘Come on, dear. Mummy wants to show off our handiwork.’

  Bellamy protested, but allowed himself to be laid across her lap. He subsided into immediate slumber. Anwyn stroked him with loving hands. ‘He really could be an Olympic sleeper. Well, Corinna, what do you think?’

  I couldn’t make much out of it, and turned enquiringly to Professor Monk.

  He scanned it approvingly. ‘No Normans here, I see. Vikings and Saxons, I think. And the writing looks like Old English, which I don’t speak, unfortunately. But that is a fine piece of work. Please, Anwyn, do expound, if you would be so good.’

  She beamed at him. ‘Very good! The Bayeux embroidery was made by English women; the Normans didn’t have the skills. And yes, the text is Old English.’

  I scanned the writing at the top. Ða ðær Byrtnoð ongan beornas trymian meant nothing to me. The stitching I thought I recognised. ‘Brick-stitch for the heavy work, and couching for colour contrast?’ I ventured.

  Anwyn grinned. ‘Well done, Corinna! Recognise anything else?’

  There was a huge (presumably English) warrior in chain mail waving a sword, and water in front of him labelled flod. There were other men in armour with evil-looking expressions. Several scenes had been blocked out, including what looked like the death of a giant. There were also borders top and bottom filled with serpents, houses and other decorations. It wa
s like a Dark Age cartoon, or graphic novel. I scanned to the end. It didn’t look good.

  ‘Those guys look like Vikings,’ I suggested, pointing at the attackers.

  ‘They are. The quote is from the Battle of Maldon, in 991.’ Anwyn’s face took on a faraway expression. ‘It was a tragic defeat for the English, because their idiot commander Byrhtnoth allowed the Vikings to cross the river to make a fair fight of it. He and all his men fell where they stood.’

  Now she closed her eyes and began to chant. ‘Hyge sceal ðe heardra, heorte ðe cenre; mod sceal ðe mare ðe ure maegen lytlað.’

  She opened her eyes again. ‘That was put into the mouth of one of his warriors. “Mind must be harder, heart the keener; spirit burn the brighter as our strength lessens.” One of the others also said: “I shall not stir a foot’s pace from here, now that my dear lord lies dead.” He was an idiot, and his men died for it. But they killed and wounded so many of the Vikings that the latter all went home to East Anglia afterwards.’

  ‘So it was all for nothing?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that. The East Anglian Vikings were pretty quiet for the next few years, but Alfred the Great wouldn’t have put up with commanders who gave up strategic advantages out of a misguided zeal for glory. He saved Anglo-Saxon England from the Vikings when everyone else had given up.’

  ‘This is nearly a hundred years after Alfred’s death, of course.’ Professor Monk looked up at the sky for a moment. ‘Did you say Byrhtnoth?’

  Anwyn nodded.

  ‘I believe I have paid my respects to him. He’s buried in Ely Cathedral. Bishop West’s chapel, from memory. Right next to someone called Archbishop Wulfstan. I remember asking the vergers who he was, and they didn’t seem to know. Wasn’t he a giant of some sort?’

  ‘Six feet nine inches tall. So much for the theory that everyone was tiny in the Dark Ages. But he really was that height; they measured his bones in the eighteenth century.’