‘There you have me, unless –’ He paused, and looked at the sky for a moment. ‘The Spear is in Vienna. Hitler stole it during his rise to power, because he thought he was the reincarnation of Klingsor, from the medieval German epic poem Parzival, later commemorated in one of Wagner’s little pantomimes. The spear is supposed to bring victory to whoever holds it.’
I face-palmed myself. ‘Yes, all right. And the Armenians are technically Christians, even though they’re also an organised crime gang.’
‘Though hardly in Hitler’s class,’ Jon interposed.
‘And they think that, like Geordie, it would be a useful addition to their arsenal in this turf war with their neighbours. But that doesn’t get me any closer to understanding why on earth they should think we’ve got it here.’
Jon clasped his hands in front of him and stretched. There was something catlike about him, I realised. A large, friendly cat, with perilous claws. ‘Corinna, what you need to recall about the Armenians is that they’ve been Christians a lot longer than we have. They see themselves as the Real Thing, along with the Copts and the Antiochians. As far as they’re concerned, the rest of us are people who hopped on board for the ride when the Byzantines instituted a hostile takeover and made the Christian Church into Salvation Incorporated, which was the brainchild of the Emperor Constantine. And one of the artefacts Constantine borrowed in order to consolidate his reign as emperor of the Romans was the spear of Longinus. Ever since then, everyone who was anyone wanted it. And whoever had it prospered.’
‘Except Hitler?’
‘He had a pretty good run with it. Now whether the spear in the Hofburg in Vienna is the same one is another question. But that doesn’t really matter for our purposes. All that matters is that the Armenians could quite easily believe in it. And that would account for the multiple burglaries of Insula.’
‘It would?’ I said doubtfully, as Horatio leapt onto the table and sniffed at my laptop. Jon leant close and held out his hand. Horatio gave a little mew of recognition, and touched his nose to Jon’s hand on the screen. ‘I can’t think offhand of anyone less likely to be holding a sacred relic.’
‘They may think Dion Monk took it from the Third Reich in the last days of Hitler.’
‘WHAT?!’
Horatio disappeared, at speed, with a mad scuttle of claws on the floor. I stared, utterly stupefied, at the smiling face on the screen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST, ACT 2, SCENE 2
Gobsmacked doesn’t even begin to cover what I was feeling. It was as though he had calmly announced that we were going to be invaded any day now by battalions of flying beetroot. Steady breathing, Corinna. I seemed to hear Meroe’s voice telling me to be centred and calm.
‘All right, Jon,’ I managed. ‘I am assuming you haven’t gone troppo. After all, why should you? You’re used to the tropics. So you are telling me this on the level. Not that I assume Dion Monk actually has this Heavenly Spear of Destiny or whatever it is.’
‘I don’t think so either. I think we would all be living far more resplendent lives if he had it. At the very least we should have taken over Southbank by now and be looking speculatively down St Kilda Road.’
‘Jon, how could our very own Dion Monk – whom we love dearly – even be a slightly credible suspect for this? I imagine criminals are ridiculously superstitious, sure. But why him? Oh, hang on.’ I paused, thinking hard. ‘One thing I forgot to mention about our dear Professor is that he’s been working on a new Dead Sea Scroll, or something like that. Is there any conceivable way the Armenians might know about that?’
Horatio sat down, still with ruffled fur, next to my feet. I reached down and stroked his head behind his ears. He began to purr, clearly feeling that the loud noise I had emitted might have been only a regrettable and never-to-be-repeated obtrusion.
Jon nodded. ‘I think it highly possible. Who knows what they think is important? They might even be trafficking in holy relics.’
And that was true enough. ‘But I don’t see how he could have any connection with these people. How would they even know about him?’
Jon’s eyes twinkled. ‘What about his former students? Can’t you imagine some quiet, studious little Armenian sitting up the back of the lecture theatre busily taking notes?’
I considered this. ‘He must have taught thousands of students. Tens of thousands. Most of them he won’t even remember, unless they spoke up in class. And one day he makes a casual remark about this spear, someone leaps to a conclusion, and ten years later …’
‘Our bright little guy or girl tells the Godfather that this retired professor has the Spear of Destiny.’
We stared at each other. It was possible. ‘No, wait. You were saying it’s in Vienna?’
‘That’s right. I think it spent most of the war in Nuremberg. Near the end, in 1945, it was supposed to be removed to a safer place, but Allied bombers destroyed the underground bunker. The Allies discovered it and brought it back to Vienna, where it is today – so far as we know.’
‘Meaning there’s still a possibility it was stolen in transit and a fake was handed back to the Austrians. But I still don’t see how Dion Monk fits in to any of this. It’s ancient history now, surely?’
Jon leant back and sipped his tea. ‘He certainly knows Vienna well; he and I have swapped travellers’ tales about Austria. He was born in Wales, he went to Cambridge University, he made his way out to Australia, became an academic … and in one of his lectures he says something quite innocent which conveys the impression that he has seen this spear. Someone does the maths and works out he came to Australia to live after the war, and …’
‘But he can’t have been in Vienna in 1945,’ I objected. ‘That would make him nearly a hundred.’
‘Well, yes, it would. And he isn’t. He looks a fit sixty. I believe he’s quite a bit older than that, but he isn’t a hundred. Yet …’
I thought I caught his drift. ‘Yet if he really had the Spear of Destiny he could be any age?’
‘Not exactly. As far as we know, the spear doesn’t grant eternal life. But do they know that? Criminals are the most superstitious people on earth. They probably think it has all sorts of mystical properties. If you ask me, I’d say your little friend was indeed one of his former students; one of the quiet ones who sit up the back of the lecture theatre, up to no good and constantly making notes. This burglary was probably his idea. I doubt that the Godfather is that interested in holy relics. It would be a great coup for an unimportant member of a crime family to come up with the actual spear. There’d have to be a promotion in it.’
‘“Job description: Senior Assistant Standover Man. Key selection criteria: The applicant must be ruthless, appropriately villainous and able to bully, maim and kill. Highly desirable: The applicant should have experience in acquiring holy relics”?’
He laughed. ‘You would be amazed to know how accurate that might be.’
‘All right, Jon. Thank you. I really mustn’t take up any more of your time. Should I ask Professor Monk about this?’
‘I wouldn’t. You don’t want to alarm him any more than he is already, do you? Are you really going to burgle the Petrosians today? Please be careful. They are, as I have already noted, not nice people at all.’
‘We just want the dog.’
‘And then you’re getting out of there as fast as possible?’
‘Promise. The cops can have them after that. Thanks, Jon. Have a splendid day.’
He grinned. ‘It’ll be less eventful than yours is likely to be, I hope. I’ll pray for you.’ He bowed, with his hand on his heart, and the screen went blank.
I looked at the kitchen clock. By now it was eleven-forty, and I fancied a cup of herbal tea and a lie-down before I did anything else.
A cup of steaming rose-hip tea later, I stretched out on my bed and gave renewed thanks for my air conditioning. How
anyone had managed to do anything constructive in Australia before the invention of Winter Boxes was more than I could imagine. Our settler forebears did some daft things, sure. Not for the first time, I wondered how I would have gone on a farm in the scorching heat of an outback summer. I sipped in comfort, while a light sensation of Settling In at the end of the bed announced the arrival of Horatio to keep me company. He lay on his side, with his belly exposed to the air-con outlet vents, and closed his eyes. And I reviewed my case anew.
Some historians don’t believe in causation. Stuff just happens, they exclaim. All your attempts to impose a narrative structure on the course of events are the merest post-hoc rationalisation. I had heard this view expounded (usually by philosophers in resolutely unfashionable clothes) and I didn’t care for it. The whole civilisation project depends on cause and effect at least shaking hands occasionally. The repeated and cordially detested incursions into our home by zealots and gangsters could not be a random series of happenings. There had to be some urgent reason for it. Had Jon uncovered it? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I grew that he was right. It was a crazy theory, yes. But violent criminals generally are crazy. If they had any sober talent for cerebral crime they would be manipulating the stock market and defrauding the gullible. And while it was crazy, there was a berserk logic to it. Except possibly for Jordan King. There I had no ideas at all. Who knew that freelance Inquisitors still walked the earth?
I closed my eyes, and rested my head on my down pillow. I had not seen Professor Monk since yesterday, when we had had our rooftop meeting with Philomela. I wondered if he was still staying with Mrs Dawson. The police had surely finished with his apartment by now. But Mrs D had seemed very insistent that he share her quarters. I looked at my cat, who returned my look.
‘Horatio? I believe that Mrs Dawson and the Professor’s feelings for each other may have ripened into something more than mere friendship. What do you think?’
Horatio arched his back luxuriously and subsided, closing his eyes. Human relations were no concern of his. And I wasn’t going to intrude on their privacy. They had been the Couple Most Likely for some time now. It appeared that she had chosen her moment well with the burglary. It would be just like him not to wish to obtrude himself upon others, and perhaps she felt that matters required a Certain Expedition. I wished them joy of each other. And I remembered I had another call to make before we commenced our harebrained schemes. I had asked for my present to be ready on Monday, but they might have it ready now. I rose, put on my summer shirt and slacks and wandered out into Calico Alley to visit Marie and Kate. I doubted the girls would open their shop early, but a lot of Sunday traders opened at noon.
Heard It Before was open. A resolutely bearded hipster was searching grimly through an enormous cardboard box of vinyl LPs. Without haste, but seeking … something. I exchanged glances with Marie. She and Kate were holding hands behind the counter. ‘Hi, Corinna.’ Kate handed me a beautifully gift-wrapped package about the size of the palm of my hand. ‘It’s a thumb drive, but you can have a CD as well if you want.’
I accepted it gratefully. ‘That’s okay.’ I didn’t think Daniel even had a CD drive on his computers anymore. ‘Thanks so much.’ I looked longingly at the rainbow ribbons. Someone had spent time on this. It looked like a paper orchid. Marie’s perfect face dimpled.
‘If you want to listen to it yourself, you can have the disc, if you like?’ I nodded, and she handed me a black plastic CD cover. I drew in a breath. Entwined in the midst of a tropical floral arrangement was the name Daniel in a script I had never seen before. Marie’s finger pointed to the bottom. ‘There’s his name in Hebrew.’
‘That is amazing!’ I was impressed, as who would not be? I was a little bit at a loss as to how to express proper thanks. They had gone to so much trouble over this, and all for seventy-five dollars. At this moment, the hipster covered my embarrassment by erupting in quiet, bearded exultation.
‘Brilliant!’ he announced, grasping a record cover and rushing to the counter with it. ‘Dad will be rapt.’
‘Birthday present?’ Marie took it from him then paused, holding it up. ‘You do realise this hasn’t got Stevie Nicks on it, don’t you?’
‘That’s why he wants it. Some guy called Peter Green. And this has “Albatross” on it.’
I admired the cover art. A nun appeared to be holding an enormous seabird in a stone quarry. It could be an albatross, I supposed. What they were doing there was anyone’s guess.
‘Gift-wrapped?’ Marie wanted to know. Her hands were poised in mid-air, and I saw for the first time a treble clef inked into the underside of her wrist.
Mr Hipster shook his head and handed over his credit card, accepted his package in a brown paper carry bag and strode out happily into Calico Alley.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Who knew?’
Their lips curved in matching grins. I gained a distinct impression that these two were Sharing a Moment, so I left them to it and ambled back towards my apartment. It was half past noon, and already the sun was getting its eye in. There was a light breeze helping out somewhat, but it must have been thirty-something degrees already. I sat down on a seat outside Cafe Delicious. Del did not usually open on Sunday, and this was no exception. But he had left a small wooden bench outside, purely for weary passers-by. A heavy padlocked chain held it in place. Kindness to strangers was one thing, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
To my surprise, a very old lady in a demure red summer dress walked straight up to me and nodded. Her hair was perfectly white, and her eyes were the colour of black olives. She sat on the bench next to me and stared straight ahead for a long moment. I looked at her sidelong. She was aged beyond guessing. When she finally spoke, her voice was cracked, yet musical, like an ancient magpie.
‘You know, dear, when you’re as old as I am, you don’t bother with formality anymore.’ She turned abruptly to face me. ‘You’re in trouble, I know. But I think you’ll be all right.’
I gaped at her. ‘Hi. I’m Corinna. You?’
Her face crinkled in a toothy smile. ‘Justine Rood. As in the cross. Somehow that seems appropriate right now, though I can’t think why.’ She extended a slender, wrinkled hand towards me. I shook it with care, as though greeting a newborn kitten. She nodded again. ‘Well, good luck, Corinna. You’ll need it.’
And with that, she stood up and disappeared around the corner. I clutched the Ring of Otherworlds Meroe had given me tightly in my fist for a long while. The hot summer wind buffeted my hair, and I rose, looking around for any more accidental sibyls. No one else was about.
I let myself back into the cool darkness of my apartment, took the CD from its case and loaded into my Big Box. Then I lay down on my bed and let the Celtic twilight wash over me. Except it wasn’t. There were cool, sweet airs, and some measured dances, and some catchy tunes in a style quite different from what I expected. As I drifted away to sleep I heard Marie’s and Kate’s blending voices singing about love and contentment. But my dreams were anything but content …
I was walking on stony earth in bare feet, and my feet hurt. Thunder and lightning sounded all around me. I smelt the acrid scent of wet earth, and voices were crying on the wind. On a hilltop above me I saw three crosses, and from each hung a man in a loincloth. I stared at the central figure, hoping for a sign, but his head was lolling and his eyes closed. Rain fell on him and marked his brown body with streaks of reddish-brown mud. Roman soldiers stood by the crosses. They looked bored. Two were playing with knucklebones: holding them on the backs of their hands, tossing them up and catching them again. I looked to the right, and three women in black stood with their arms outstretched.
I saw their cowled faces, and knew them. There was Meroe, and Kate and Marie. Tears streamed down their cheeks to further moisten the wet earth. I saw one of the soldiers shake his red-plumed head in frustration. I heard him say, ‘This is tedious.’ He was leaning against a long spear with a pointed iron head. It was
as tall as he was, and he gripped it in both hands. His biceps bulged and gleamed in the rain. He looked at the other soldiers, and they shrugged. He raised his weapon and pushed the spearhead into the side of the man in the middle. A stream of blood, mingled with water, flowed out onto the ground. I heard the three women scream, and I screamed with them. The spearman staggered back, and a flash of lightning illuminated his face. His dark eyes flared open in shock, and terror, and awe. His mouth opened wide. I saw blackened teeth, and his tongue lolled. His right hand still clutched the spear, but his left hand opened, and he pressed it to his brow. Then he crossed his arms over his breast, bowed his head, and thunder rolled, and lightning flashed; and I shut my eyes in pain and anguish. Someone was singing. I thought it was Meroe, but it was in a tongue I did not know.
I opened my eyes again and saw the women taking him from the cross, which was now lying on the ground. The sky was darkening, but away in the distance I saw the soldier still carrying his spear in his right hand, and three long bloodstained nails in his left. As I watched, he took off his red-plumed helmet and flung it away. I looked back at the women struggling with the cross, and suddenly I saw Jon, wearing a plain white tunic with blood splashed all over it. He embraced Meroe, Marie and Kate in turn, and leant over the dead man, wrapped him in a long white cloth, picked him up and carried him away in his arms. High on a distant hill I saw Philomela against a blood-red sunset, no longer in her wheelchair but standing, dressed in a Greek chiton. She was cursing. I could not hear what she was saying, but her words rang in my ears like blows from a hammer. I looked back at Jon, and saw he was still carrying the bleeding figure of Jesus. Then I saw a small ship sailing away into the distance. I stood on the seashore and waved sadly. Meroe was on the ship, and she put her finger to her lips. Then she opened her mouth, and her voice echoed like a small bell in my head. ‘All shall be well!’
‘Corinna?’ I woke to find Daniel leaning over me. ‘Ketschele, what’s wrong?’
The Spotted Dog Page 21
