Jordan gave him a Torquemada look of utter loathing. ‘It is full of erroneous doctrine!’ he protested.
I kept having visions of Michael Palin in his red robe, mugging for the camera with Diabolical Acting.
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.