‘All right, Mr Ninja. Hands up!’ I bellowed.
I ran across the room to stand between him and the exit. Yes, I know: the safer option would have been to encourage whoever it was to leave. But a boiling rage had erupted inside me. I had had altogether enough of this nonsense, and someone was going to be very sorry. The eyes followed mine. The chin nodded. He – I had to assume it was a he – lifted the torch and waved it in menacing circles. I slid towards him and jabbed him in the chest with the end of the umbrella. It must have hurt, for he grunted, and danced away towards the bathroom. I managed to stab him again in the side as he moved. My bathroom had a double-sided lock. If I could lure him in there I could turn the key on him and imprison him until help arrived. But his eyes flicked over the lock with the key still in it, and he pirouetted away from the door and back towards my bedroom.
‘Stay out of there!’ I growled. No ninja was going anywhere near my cat!
I moved to block his passage to the bedroom door, and he darted at once towards the front door. I managed to land another jab in his stomach, and he fell to the carpet. I knelt over him and reached for the ninja mask, and what I saw beneath made me gasp with a feeling of vast, numbing surprise. Then I was headbutted with an old-fashioned Glasgow kiss, and all the lights went out.
Philomela: Now that an opportunity has presented itself, I find I am not ready. But the Professor is a kind man. I will tell him everything. Soon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A very ancient and fish-like smell.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST, ACT 2, SCENE 2
My alarm went off, and I reached out to suppress it. Instead of my bedside table, my groping hand touched carpet. Since when had I installed carpets on my nocturnal furniture? Oh. I hadn’t. What Rupert Brooke has styled the rough male kiss of blankets were entirely not in evidence anywhere to hand. The smooth male kiss of Daniel was also not apparent. I wished it were. The light appeared to be on, so I opened my eyes cautiously, ready to close them again on general principle if the prospect were too dire. Why was I lying on the floor? Most importantly, why did I feel as though I had experienced the entire percussion ensemble of the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra playing toccatas and fugues on my battered body?
Since I appeared to be still alive, I groaned. The last time I had woken up on the carpet had been when my former husband James had introduced me to tequila. This was not something for which I had volunteered. In any marriage there is generally one person being held hostage by the other’s mood swings, and sooner than watch him pout like a disappointed toddler I had done my wifely duty. I had sucked that lemon, licked that salt, and slowly melted into a cactus-flavoured heap on the floor. Next morning he had complained of a hangover, and I had nursed him with liquid infusions and as much sympathy as I could muster. Which, given that my own head felt as though it had been bathed in the interior of a Hawaiian volcano, was not very much.
I lay where I was and attempted some form of recollection. Little by little, the events of the preceding night leaked back into my mind like a muttered confession. Disturbed shelves, check. Books and DVDs no longer on floor. My nocturnal visitor had put them back, though (as far as I could tell) out of order. My eyes flicked to the front door. Mr Ninja had thoughtfully shut it behind him. I remembered that he wore a mask, and that I had made a determined effort to remove it. When I had accomplished this, I thought I remembered feeling shock at the face beneath it: sufficient to throw me off guard and give my burglar an undeserved opportunity to knock me out. Unfortunately, all I could remember was the surprise. Of the features revealed beneath the mask, I recalled nothing.
My hand patted around me, and touched fur. I looked beside my prone body to discover my devoted Horatio, hunched up and alert, next to me. I stroked his head and ears, and he mewed at me. This wasn’t his usual morning mew of: What do we want? Breakfast! When do we want it? Now! This was solicitude, pure and unalloyed by personal greed. He began to purr. Then he wriggled northwards and began to wash my face. This was a thing he did on occasion, when he thought I needed it. I never really knew whether he was telling me I love you, human! or I’m going to keep doing this until you feed me.
After a couple of minutes of tender exfoliation I dragged myself to my feet. Panadol and cold water seemed to be called for, and I availed myself of both. Horatio wrapped himself around my ankles and mewed up at me again. Are you all right? he wanted to know. And what about breakfast, now I have fulfilled my maternal duties?
I went to the kitchen, fed him kitty munchies and a small tin of fish (extra rations for standing guard over me beyond the call of duty), turned the kettle on and checked my apartment quickly. So far as I could tell, nothing was missing. My handbag was untouched. Whatever he wanted, he had not found it. I made coffee, inhaled the bitter, bracing scent of roasted pick-me-up and considered my predicament.
Point the first: surely not Jordan King again? I thought this highly unlikely. He had shown no interest in me at all. He had displayed a truly Jansenist contempt for women in every fibre of his repellent body when we had spoken. He might suspect me of hiding the Dead Sea Scroll of Doom or whatever it was, but those who have been suppressed by Polynesian giants tend to stay that way. And Sister Mary should have him well in hand. She intimidates most people. I have seen her cow and berate a government backbencher without breaking stride. While I am by necessity unfamiliar with religious zealots, surely the Jordan Kings of the world would be all the more likely to hearken to the admonitions of nuns.
Point the second: did Jordan King have an accomplice? Was Mr Ninja his backup? Or was this related to one of our other mysteries? And if so, which one? The missing dog? The Gospel of St Joseph? The Café Pandamus ransomware?
Point the third: why could I not remember what I had unveiled when I ripped down the ninja mask? What could have been so incredible as to make me completely drop my guard? After all, I had gained much the better of our duel until then. Yet I had been so taken aback that I had allowed this vile intruder the chance to give me a Gorbals kiss. My forehead still throbbed like a long-remembered insult.
Point the fourth: unlike Miss Marple, Sherlock Holmes and all the televisual sleuths with nothing to do all day but solve crimes, I had bread to bake, staff to administer, and a business to run. I drained my coffee, staggered into the bathroom and examined myself. External blood? None. Complexion? Pallid, verging on sepulchral. Eyes? Far too much Count Dracula there, with added bruising manifesting around the margins even as I watched. The phrase Black Eye never does justice to the multicoloured splendour which often occurs. I was due for a pair of beauties. I washed my face, changed into my work clothes and returned to the kitchen for boiled eggs and sourdough soldiers.
Down in the bakery I resumed my morning rituals. Heckle and Jekyll were rewarded for their haul (three mice, one undersized rat and two moths) and had sauntered out for their morning adventures. It was now Thursday. I fervently hoped that I might make it to the weekend without another attempted burglary. Jason seemed sleepier than usual, and had not paid me much notice at first, but when at last he did he stared as though I had turned into someone completely different.
‘Captain? How’s the other bloke?’
I explained, in brief, and he shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But why? What’s so special about Insula every burglar in Melbourne wants a piece of us?’ he demanded. ‘Why does this keep happening?’