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 different 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?’