I thought about this. ‘Anwyn, weren’t the Welsh and the Saxons hereditary enemies? Yet here you are, commemorating a heroic Saxon defeat. It just strikes me as rather odd that you would do so.’
‘Yes, they were our enemies, though after they turned to Christianity they improved. Do you know, they blamed us afterwards for not converting them?’
‘Really? That’s unexpected.’
‘Yes. They were converted by the Scots, who were converted by the Irish, and then they turned to us and said, “Well you might have told us before about all this!” I found them quite different from what I imagined. Did you know the West Saxon Royal House was descended from a son of Noah born on the Ark?’
Professor Monk’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s disturbing. Shem, Ham and Japhet didn’t fit in to their genealogical wishes, so they invented a new one? I would have thought the god Woden might have been a better fit for them.’
‘Him too. The Old Testament and saints’ lives were their TV. Most of their surviving poetry is about that. Beowulf is a bit of an outlier.’
Professor Monk grinned, his eyes sparkling. ‘Only four dragon-scorched manuscripts made it to the modern age, as far as I’ve heard.’
Fascinating though this scholarly symposium undoubtedly was, I felt that now might be a good time to interrupt, before the Remembrances of Things Past slipped into overdrive. This was my day off and there were still things I needed to find out. But I didn’t want to tackle Philomela directly. She still looked scared and on edge. If she had something to tell me, it had better be approached in a roundabout fashion.
‘Dion, I was wondering if you’d given any further thought to our little mysteries?’
At once his eyes focused on me, and his white-bearded chin nodded almost imperceptibly in approval. ‘Well, yes and no. I am yet to solve the mystery of what abominable heresy I am supposed to be harbouring. Although, thanks to your quick wits, Corinna, I have managed to get a little further in my researches. It would appear that Jesus and Mary Magdalene really were married, and seem to have had at least one child if not more. However, all this has been common coin for many years now, and not just through our friend Dan Brown. So we have not really advanced on that front, although …’
He paused, and gave me a sidelong look. ‘There is a rather exciting development in the travels of Mr and Mrs Jesus and family. I’d prefer not to say more about it until I’m more certain of my studies, but there may be something altogether new which we have not seen before. Perhaps this may be what our friend Jordan has been overexciting himself about. But unless Burglar Secundus was after my Gospel as well – which seems to me quite improbable – I am beginning to believe that somebody else thinks I have something in my flat which is an artefact worthy of active pursuit.’
I looked at his aged face. He was glowing, like an old warhorse roused by the sound of bugles. In the bright sunlight his short, clipped beard shone and his bright blue eyes could have held all the warships of Agamemnon. There was something different about him of late. I wondered whether it was the burglary that had so galvanised him, or the obvious attentions of Mrs Dawson.
‘Letitia White and Helen think so too. I just saw them at Cafe Delicious. But you haven’t such an artefact, have you?’
‘On my life, Corinna, I really haven’t. I am the temporary guardian of some biblical-era scholarship. I have some Greek pots, but nothing valuable on the black market. I will continue to give my mind to the problem, but I have nothing to add for now. I wish I did.’
Therese Webb spoke for the first time. She slipped her needle into the calico embroidery and smiled. ‘We have made significant progress in another area. Philomela has been practising on Anwyn’s laptop. She can’t speak yet, but she can manage a little typing. Ask your questions, and she can answer you.’
I tried not to get too excited, but my heart did a few cartwheels. Anwyn picked up her laptop from the table and handed it to Philomela, who opened the lid and fumbled with her finger and thumb at the pad until she had produced a blank Word page. Her terrified eyes locked on mine for a long moment, then she bowed her head.
‘Can you remember what happened to you?’ I asked softly.
She tapped a few keys and turned the screen towards me.
YES.
‘Did someone hurt you?’
YES.
‘Was it someone you know?’
NO.
‘Where did this happen?’
AT HOME.
‘Philomela, where is home?’
It took her a long time to spell it out, and she made a few mistakes before she was satisfied. She turned the laptop again, and without too much surprise I read KILMARNOCK.
‘And what happened?’ I held my breath, because this was the big one.
Again she struggled hard, her brow creased with effort. Then she sighed, closed her eyes, and turned her screen to face me.
I gasped.
THEY KILLED MY SISTER.
Philomela: Finally! Now it will be easier. And maybe someday I shall be able to speak with my mouth again, rather than relying on a laptop with a faulty caps lock key. It looks like I’m shouting. Then again, why should I not shout? I feel like shouting. I want them hounded to their graves and beyond. My sister’s blood cries for vengeance.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Villain and he be many miles asunder.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 3, SCENE 5
For the moment I leant back in my chair, because things were happening quickly and I did not want to add to the melee. Professor Monk, like me, was staying out of it. The other two women had risen, and their arms met around Philomela’s shoulders. Philomela’s eyes had closed, and she was resting her head on Therese Webb’s bosom. Endearments and sympathies were being uttered. But these were drowned out, because in the general confusion someone had trodden on Carolus and he was letting the world know all about it. Bellamy, instantly awake, had fled in a cream-coloured streak of outrage into the undergrowth.
Feeling that I might be better employed as a cat-rescuer, I followed the trail into the parsley forest. ‘Bellamy?’ I called, but could neither see nor hear anything. Then I looked back, in time to see the following.
Carolus had launched himself straight into Philomela’s lap. Instinctively her small, scarred hands had wrapped around the little dog and begun to caress him. He stopped barking immediately and whined a sad, thoughtful little whine and lay still. The others fell silent, and Philomela’s mouth opened. She crooned the words ‘Agape mou!’ and everyone froze.
In the pool of silence, Dion Monk looked at her. ‘Taxeis Ellenika?’ he asked softly.
‘Ne.’
‘Kai mileis Ellenika?’
She opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing came out. The Professor’s hand made soothing gestures. ‘It’s perfectly all right, my dear. We know that you can speak, but you’re not ready just yet. But it will come. Some time when no one’s expecting it. Don’t try to force yourself to talk. Just wait for it to happen. You will get there in good time. But what we need for you to do is tell the story, if you can, on Anwyn’s laptop. I’m sure she will let you borrow it for as long as you need.’
Anwyn’s arm was still around the younger woman’s shoulders. ‘Yes, of course. And once you’ve written it all down, it will be like a crushing weight has been lifted from your shoulders.’
Philomela nodded, and Carolus wagged his tail hopefully. He was still in Philomela’s lap and wasn’t going anywhere. Philomela pulled the laptop towards her, tapped a little more, frowned, and shook her head in frustration. Finally she typed:
ASK ME.
Professor Monk waved me over to the table and I sat down next to Philomela. The computer was open in front of us. I pressed the caps lock button and the little green light faded. Then I stared at the screen. It was very hard to think up appropriately precise questions. It would have been so much easier if she had been able to type it all herself, but the trauma had gone deeper than the merely
physical.
I began: ‘So this happened at home? Were you in the house, or outside?’
Outside.
‘And you were there with your sister when it happened?’
Yes.
‘Did you see them?’
Yes.
‘How many of them were there?’
???
‘More than one?’
???
‘So you didn’t really see them?’
No.
I had a long think about this. Clearly I wasn’t asking the right questions yet. I looked at Dion Monk and the others, but they merely shrugged. I presume the idea was that it would be better with only one person asking. What was I missing? She’d seen them, only not really.
‘Did they shoot her?’
No.
‘Was it a knife?’
No.
‘Did they kill her from far away?’
No.
‘Up close then?’
Yes.
‘But you didn’t see them properly? Were you out the front of your house, or out the back?’
Front.
What could have happened? I risked a quick look at her. She was very pale, and her thin lips were trembling. Perspiration beaded on her face. ‘Do you want to stop now?’
No.
No, she really didn’t. Her deep brown eyes shone with absolute determination to see this through. So. We needed a murder weapon that killed up close, yet didn’t let you see the assailants properly. What could do that? Then illumination dawned.
‘Was it a car?’
Yes!!!
At last. Now it would be easier. ‘Were you in the driveway?’
Yes.
‘Do you have a garage that locks with a sliding door?’
Yes.
‘And they rammed into you both against the garage door?’
Yes.
‘And your sister died immediately?’
Yes.
I was expecting tears, but her delicate oval face had now set in a frozen mask. ‘And you were badly hurt. Was anyone else home?’
Yes.
‘Did they see the car?’
Drove away.
‘Is there any chance you could describe it?’
Yes.
‘A big car?’
Yes.
‘What colour?’
Black.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Professor Monk was writing busily. I was glad he was taking notes. We would need them for Letty White. While I was not abdicating my rights to independent action, we would have to let her know about this.
‘A big, black car. Tinted windows?’
Yes.
‘Have you seen it before?’
Yes.
‘Is it local? You’ve seen it parked in your neighbourhood?’
Yes.
‘An SUV?’
Yes.
‘Do you know the people whose car it is?’
No.
‘You think this was a case of mistaken identity?’
Yes.
It seemed only too likely. Gangsters being in most respects utter morons, their victims are frequently innocent bystanders. ‘They may have dumped the car by now. Then again, they may not have. Would you know it again?’
Yes.
I wondered how to proceed now. I didn’t want to have to take Philomela with us, but we had to be certain of the address if we were going to stake them out. I now suspected that Philomela’s assailants were mixed up in at least one of our mysteries. Maybe more? It was too early to tell; but perhaps our cases might not be as separate as they seemed. We needed to go and see for ourselves, preferably without taking a traumatised and wheelchair-bound victim to revisit the scene of her sister’s death. I wasn’t sure of myself, but I now suspected that her sister’s killers and the dognappers might be the same people. Or maybe the ninja burglars instead. Why? I didn’t have anything concrete yet. But my best guess was that they were also the dognappers. Maybe it was all about drugs and they thought Geordie could smell them out. Philomela and her sister were the victims of mistaken identity. Melbourne’s criminal classes had developed a cavalier disregard for innocent bystanders in recent years. But there was more here than coincidence. There had to be.
‘Can you write down your address?’
A vestige of a smile touched the corners of her lips. She reached into a small handbag then handed me her driver’s licence. From this I learnt that Philomela Venizelos lived at 34 Anzac Drive, Kilmarnock. I hadn’t even considered the idea that she might have a driver’s licence. I handed it to Dion Monk, who wrote down the address and handed it back to her.
‘Would you prefer not to go there? Because, thanks to you, we’ve got a lead now.’
Not yet.
‘You can stay here for a while. You’re not going anywhere if you don’t want to.’
Thank you.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’
Yes.
‘About who it might be? Do you think they might be gangsters?’
Yes.
‘You say you’ve seen the car. Was it outside a big house?’
Yes.
‘Did it look fortified? Like a motorbike gang clubhouse?’ I was thinking of some TV footage I had seen, with iron gates, barbed wire and sentry towers during a police raid on one notorious gang. I had been struck at the time how much the fortress looked like a prison, which, in essentials, it was.
No. Normal big house. Rich people.
I paused. This was the biggie, and I really didn’t want to ask it. But I had to. Even though Letty White would be asking it herself in due course, anyway, she wouldn’t necessarily let me know the answer. ‘All right, Philomela, I know you said you think this was a case of mistaken identity, but are you sure? While you and your sister mightn’t have done anything wrong, it’s possible someone else in your house has got mixed up in bad company.’
She shook her head, frowned, and began to type again. She had several tries at it, but eventually came up with the following:
No. Mum housewife. Dad teaches school. Brother George is good boy. Works hard at school. No trouble ever.
I mused. Mistaken identity it was, then. ‘Philomela, is there another house that looks like yours where criminals might live?’
Yes. Four, five houses away. Other side of road. Bad people go there late at night. We stay away from them.
‘Have you heard them speaking?
Yes. Only once.
‘Was it a language you knew?’
No.
‘Did it sound like Russian?’
No. More like Turkish, but not.
I had no means of knowing what her guess was worth. I must find out about Azeri and what it sounded like. But … I remembered that the dognappers couldn’t be Muslims. Did we have two rival gangs of different ethnicities? It looked like it.
‘All right, Philomela, is there anything else you can tell us? This has been very traumatic for you, I know – you can stop now if you like.’
She shook her head, smiled weakly, and handed the laptop back to Anwyn, who gave me a steady look. ‘I’d better take her back inside, I think.’ She turned to Philomela. ‘Would you like that?’ she asked.
Philomela nodded.
‘Now, where is that cat of mine?’
I suddenly remembered an episode of The Goodies – that vintage British comedy show– which was a send-up of Watership Down. I made my way under the foliage and began to call out. ‘Bellamy! Where’s Bellamy?’
Anwyn came to join in, grinning.
‘I named him after that show,’ she confessed. ‘Bellamy! Where’s Bellamy?’
Out from the parsley forest came a small cream-coloured cannonball, launching itself straight into Anwyn’s arms. At once Bellamy was folded into a loving embrace, and I followed them back to the long table. Bellamy was carefully lowered into Philomela’s lap. He glared briefly at Carolus, who had carefully alighted on the ground, then closed his eyes. Anwyn pushed t
he wheelchair back towards the lift, accompanied by Therese, with Carolus padding behind like a small, flop-eared footman.
I glanced at Dion Monk, who gestured to me to sit down. It appeared that he might have more to contribute to the elucidation of our mysteries.
Philomela: So tired now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST, ACT 5, SCENE 1
Soon the Professor and I had the rooftop garden to ourselves. The bright sunlight made his white beard and tonsure shine. He looked as if he might have stepped straight out of the Book of Kells.
‘Well now, Corinna, that was something of a surprise, was it not?’ he offered.
I lay back in my chair with my back to the sun and stretched. ‘Indeed it was. That wasn’t anything like what I had expected. It would appear that our mysteries are connected after all.’
One cautious eyebrow rose. I realised that he wasn’t up to speed with our investigations, and filled him in accordingly. ‘And so,’ I concluded, ‘aside from our Catholic soldier of Christ, it appears that we may only have one mystery – or one set of mysteries – after all. We have at least one, and probably two different criminal gangs, one or possibly both resident in the mysteriously threatening land of Kilmarnock. And they have erupted into our little urban village because somebody wanted Alasdair’s dog, for whatever reason; because some of them crippled our unfortunate guest and killed her sister; and –’ I gave the Professor what I hoped was a penetrating look ‘– because somebody thinks one of us has something which will give them an advantage in their turf war. Whether it’s a thing I’m supposed to have, or you, or Mrs Pemberthy for that matter – I have no idea. But they’re looking for something. This hasn’t been random break-ins. They want a specific thing. Maybe a mystic artefact? Are you sure you don’t have anything like that?’
He shook his head. ‘My dear, unless organised crime syndicates have begun to take an interest in biblical scholarship, I have not the faintest idea. The trouble with criminals is that we tend to invest them with demonic subtlety, when most of the time …’ He raised one aged hand and waved it dismissively
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