‘Oh yes. Ophelia and Juliet, apparently. And you can taste the difference.’
‘And the roast lamb I see you have in the pot? Raised in a health spa, no doubt?’
‘Oh yes. After all those horrible exposés of mass-produced meat I can’t even look at cheap supermarket stuff. It’s more expensive, of course. But I don’t care.’
He ran his finger down the side of my cheek. ‘Very proper. Animals understand about being killed and eaten. But we owe them a happy life up until their unfortunate finale. Are you thinking of raising chickens in Ceres?’
I laughed, stirred the pot a few times, and began to set the table for two. ‘Raising dough for the bread keeps me busy enough. But Trudi is talking about getting a hive. We shall have homegrown honey.’
Daniel sat down in his chair and shook his head. ‘I wonder how Lucifer will cope with swarming bees.’
I turned off the pot, took my biggest ladle and served up two steaming, fragrant heaps of casseroled leftovers. ‘We may expect the odd mishap, I expect. But Lucifer can find trouble anywhere.’ I laid the plates on my table and gestured at them. ‘Grandma’s Pot-luck, just like Grandma used to make. I hope you like it.’
He leant forward over the table and kissed me lightly on the lips. ‘It smells wonderful.’ Then he ate a spoonful and smacked his lips. ‘And it tastes even better.’ A cook always likes an appreciative audience. He grinned at me. ‘Is wow-wow sauce this good?’
‘Oh yes. It’s from a nineteenth-century recipe from The Cook’s Oracle.’ I consulted my internal recipe index. ‘Butter, plain flour, beef stock, white vinegar, parsley, pickled cucumber, Worcestershire sauce, salt, black pepper. Oh, and English mustard.’
‘Really? That alone would render it incandescent. No wonder the British built such a vast empire. Being brought up on English mustard would make anyone want to take it out on somebody else.’
We ate companionably, chatting of this and that. And we admired Horatio’s casual elegance as he sauntered in, sniffed his bowl of fishy kitty dins, curled his tail around his front paws and looked up enquiringly. Daniel gave his head a friendly stroke, and raised an eyebrow.
‘I think he wants mice pie,’ I explained. ‘I’m hoping he will accept kitty dins in lieu.’
With an all-but-audible sigh, Horatio bent his head to work. We did likewise. When our bowls were empty, I looked at Daniel. ‘More?’
He shook his head. ‘No, ketschele, I need to be light on my feet tonight. I’m off in search of Alasdair’s poor little dog.’
‘Any word on the streets today?’
‘None. Frankly, we have too many mysteries on our hands. I’m trying to think of a connection between them, but I don’t think there is.’
‘I don’t think so either,’ I said ruefully. ‘Unless – could our double burglary have anything to do with the ransomware problem at the Cafe Delicious?’ I suggested.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t think of any reason why it should be related. There’s a lot of ransomware around these days. It’s usually Russians or East Europeans.’
‘Other people hack computers, surely? The Chinese?’
‘No. Oh, the Chinese are brilliant hackers, but they’re more concerned with espionage, either industrial or political. I never heard of any of their hackers putting porn on anyone’s computer. They’re a bit fastidious like that. No, this says Slavic countries to me.’
‘Is there a reason why they treat everyone else as prey?’
‘The Pan-Slavic Brotherhood has legitimate grievances. But I can’t see how our other crimes might be connected with the Russian Bloc. Surely not the break-ins. Our boy Jordan with the hair shirt is surely Catholic, isn’t he?’
‘I can’t imagine what else he could be. But I thought Catholics were law-abiding.’
‘Except the mafia, perhaps. But yes, you’re right. Anglo-Catholics are frighteningly law-abiding as a rule. It’s a mystery. And what is up with Philomela, I have no idea, although the good Professor seems to have an inkling. But one puzzle at a time! I need to find a dog, and quickly.’
He made as if to rise, but I put my hand on his arm. ‘Could I persuade you to stay for dessert? It does go in a separate stomach, you know.’
He sat down again at once. ‘Of course. What is it?’
‘Wait and see.’ I covered my pot and put it in the fridge, then removed a tray from the freezer and put it on the table. ‘Strawberries and lemon sorbet, with a light soupçon of gin.’
He clapped his hands in delight, and I watched him eat without haste as I sampled my own bowl. I longed to take him to my bed and ravish him all night long. Sometimes on weeknights this was feasible. Usually not, since he works late hours, while mine are so early they’re almost the previous night. On Friday night, however, my wonderful man, I will take you in my arms and ravish you until morning. I hope.
He stayed to wash my dishes for me, hugged me lovingly and set off on his quest of canine rescue. I considered a look at the TV, but decided against it. The world has grown so impossibly strange. I cannot be bothered with pay TV, and free-to-air is filled with depressing explosions and orange-haired clowns pretending to be world leaders. Nowadays the television is chiefly for watching DVDs. But tonight I retired to bed with the The Healer’s War. A strange book for bedtime reading, you may say, and normally you would be right, but I was finding it oddly therapeutic. As I closed the cover and laid the book on my bedside table I believed I understood poor Alasdair Sinclair a lot better now. I sighed contentedly as Horatio took up his customary position on my bed (curled up with his back to mine), and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Have I mentioned how my heart leaps at four am? Alarm clock rings its clarion call to arms, alarm clock is flung to the carpet and trodden underfoot by somnolent baker, Horatio looks up in affront and goes back to sleep. Slippers are donned, shower administered, heavy boots booted, overalls overcalled; coffee, ovens, dough, and I experience the darkness of the soul in the early dawn, brightened only by the invincible cheerfulness of Midshipman Jason.
I was only a few minutes into my routine when there was a loud disturbance outside. Angry voices could be heard: baritone and bass. One of them sounded familiar. ‘Midshipman? I’m all over dough here. Find out what’s going on, will you?’
‘Aye-aye, Cap’n.’ He opened the street door and disappeared.
Conversation seemed to be happening, but it didn’t sound dangerous. I administered kitty dins to Heckle and Jekyll, despite their low body count (no rats, three mice and something I couldn’t identify and didn’t want to; even the rodents were too hot to want to forage much in this weather), watched them wolf it down and saunter off, tails in air, in search of further patrons. Dawn was just glimmering in the sky above the skyscrapers, and a procession loomed dimly towards me, led by a huge, dark figure holding a smaller shape by the collar, Jason bringing up the rear.
As they paced towards me up the dim alley, I recognised the gigantic form of Ma’ani from the Soup Run, gentle enforcer to the down-and-out community of inner Melbourne. He doesn’t look for trouble. Trouble just evaporates as soon as he hoves into sight. He is about nine feet tall and nearly as wide.