Bound by Mystery Page 24

  Then there was the senator himself. Honorius might have decided Laskarios would never sell to him but Menas would, or even that he could get a better price from Menas in return for sharing his savings.

  John came to the front gate and an imposing clock formed from a massive stone block with a half hemisphere scooped from its side. A thin gnomon, projecting horizontally over the curved depression, cast its shadow over the hour lines engraved there.

  So many ways to mark the hours and yet, take away the moving shadows, the falling water, the turning wheels, and where was time itself? For all that it could be seen or felt, it might as well not exist.

  ***

  When he entered the kitchen, John was surprised to see Gaius lounging there, a half empty jug of wine in front of him. He was telling a rotund woman John took to be the cook a scandalous tale about Empress Theodora. The cook’s assistant, Albia, peeled garlic bulbs at the other end of the table. Their pungent odor filled the long room.

  Gaius looked up at John with a guilty expression.

  The cook gave John a nervous sideways glance, emptied a bowl of vegetables into a pot on the brazier, then checked one of a series of tiny water clocks of various sizes arrayed on the shelf over it. Each one, John surmised, held a different amount of water to indicate cooking times for various dishes.

  “How do you calculate meal times?” John asked the cook.

  “Well, Excellency, the master was very particular about that so we use that to make certain they are not late.” She pointed a ladle to a nondescript example similar to the one in the study. Her round face clouded as she remembered Laskarios was now beyond caring what time the evening meal was served.

  “What time did you send Albia to Laskarios’ study?”

  “The same time I always send her to ask what to prepare for the meal, Excellency. At the sixth hour.”

  “Albia.” John sharply addressed the girl who was chopping her garlic, apparently oblivious to the conversation.

  She stopped chopping and stared at John in confusion.

  “You told me you found your master dead at about the fourth hour, but the cook says she sent you to his study at the sixth.”

  The girl’s expression turned to fear. “But I’m sure the clock said it was about the fourth hour, Excellency sir.”

  “Are you certain? Did you look at the kitchen clock?”

  The cook glared at the girl, who was screwing up her face in a painfully visible effort to gather her thoughts.

  “No. I looked at the clock in the study. I don’t usually look at clocks,” Albia finally said. “Why would the likes of me need to? I do what I’m told, whatever time it might be. But the master’s room was so quiet. It was as if he had sucked all the sound out of the air when he died. All I could hear was that horrible drip, drip, drip, from the clock, so I couldn’t help but look at it,”

  ***

  Laskarios’ body had been removed from the study but John, Gaius, and Menas nevertheless skirted the spot where it had lain. Menas continued to look smug, but now his smirk was a rigid mask concealing whatever his real feelings might be.

  John walked to the window and looked down at the shadow cast by the miniature obelisk two stories below, then over to the water clock. “The water level indicates one time but the sun, strangely enough, does not agree.”

  Menas’ features remained frozen.

  Gaius looked on, bewildered and not entirely sober.

  “When I was a young mercenary in Bretania,” John continued, “before I came to Constantinople, a colleague drowned in a swollen stream.” He controlled the quaver that threatened to break into his voice. Deep water frightened John more than all the concealed knives at the imperial court. “When we pulled him out, almost immediately but too late, he might merely have been sleeping. For drowning leaves no signs.”

  Menas laughed. “I’d wager you’ve never encountered a bloated corpse floating by the docks, sir.”

  John shot a glance at Gaius. “The Lord Chamberlain is correct,” the palace physician said. “What are called the signs of drowning are mostly the effects of long submersion in water.”

  “As a former sailor you would know that,” John told Menas. “Which is why you pushed Laskarios’ face into the bowl of that water clock. He was too feeble to struggle. There were no marks. Any dampness would soon evaporate in this heat or be mistaken for sweat. Like my dead colleague, he looked as if he had slipped off to sleep. Forever. Not uncommon for old men in failing health.”

  Menas’ smirk twisted into a smile. “But it makes no sense, sir. Remember, Laskarios died after the third hour and before the fourth. The senator was with me between the third and fifth hours, as he will confirm.”

  “And the senator was telling the truth. You left Honorius in the garden at the fifth hour, came up to the study, and killed your master. The cook’s assistant, Albia, thought she discovered the body at the fourth hour because she looked at the water clock in here. But it was showing the wrong time because when you drowned him Laskarios inhaled water. About two hours’ worth.”

  Menas’ laugh was not convincing. “But—”

  John cut him off. “Your initial plan was for the death to appear natural. You should have kept to it. Perhaps you noticed the missing water, or it may be that you didn’t and only realized what had happened when Albia told me in your presence what time she’d found Laskarios. In either case you decided you might as well show you were innocent to be doubly safe. You’re a clever man, Menas. Too clever for your own good, trying to use your murder weapon to demonstrate your innocence.”

  Menas’ gaze darted around the room. He took a step toward the doorway, which had suddenly been blocked by two imperial guards.

  “I took the precaution of sending a message to the palace before summoning you to the study,” John said.

  Menas whirled around. Gaius stepped into his path and Menas knocked him down.

  Before John or the guards could react, Menas had flung himself out the open window.

  ***

  No doubt the steward had intended to escape. It was, after all, only a two-story drop. Unfortunately for his future schemes he had forgotten the sundial below the window.

  By the time John and Gaius got to Menas he was dead, impaled on the sundial’s sharply pointed obelisk, his blood spreading across the dial.

  “There are few who were as devoted to the hours as Laskarios,” John observed with a thin smile. “Now time has taken its revenge.”

  Taking the Waters

  Kerry Greenwood

  What we look for in publishing is people who love books. I had an American publisher once, but they decanted my first two novels into the USA as though they were bargain counter Christmas crackers at a dusty, down-at-heel Two-Dollar Shop. They came and went without discernible impact, so I forgot all about it. Much later, Allen & Unwin (my Australian publisher) alerted me to Poisoned Pen Press, and I resolved to investigate. Everyone I spoke to encouraged me, so I signed up. PPP is the ideal press for mystery writers, because they love books, and actually want to sell them. This makes all the difference. They are charming, enthusiastic, and more like a family than a corporation. The writers talk to each other. I do not know of any other publishing house where this happens. I have never regretted my decision. Thank you all!

  —K.G.

  ***

  Miss Dorothy Williams (assistant and companion to The Hon Phryne Fisher) was sitting in the embrace of the leather-cushioned passenger seat of the Hispano-Suiza. She was terrified, as usual. Her lips moved as she sat, but silently. She was protected from the early spring chill by her cable-stitch cream cricket jumper, heavy worsted jacket, brown woollen skirt, lisle stockings, and boots. She also wore an Improved Freda Storm Veil for Frightened Passengers, but it was not helping as much as she had hoped. It was grey, like Dot’s mood, with double elastic, and further anchored by t
wo vicious-looking hatpins stuck into her brown plaits, one from each side. In her mind, she was re-checking the luggage. Her own (a small suitcase and the picnic basket), and Miss Fisher’s two enormous valises which occupied the remainder of the car boot. She realized that if anything had been left behind, it was now far too late to worry about it.

  Her eyes remained resolutely shut. Phryne’s lips would purse when Dot exclaimed at passing barrows, bicycles, carts, and assorted vehicles. Words Had Been Exchanged in the past, and it was better if Phryne pursued her imperious path through Melbourne’s traffic unobserved by her prayerful companion. Dot was now invoking the succour of St Christopher, patron and guardian of travellers. A small silver medallion hung from her neck, and both her neat hands were clasped around it.

  While her eyes remained closed, her ears were receiving a good deal. Curses, shouts, car horns, police whistles, and the rebuking clangour of a passing tram. Better not to know, she decided, and continued her novena. When she had finished, Dot inhaled deeply. The passing air was astringent, but clean; and there was no sound but the roar of the eight-cylinder engine and the wind. She opened her eyes to find herself careening down a steep hill into what appeared to be a valley of apple orchards.

  ‘Where are we, Miss?’ she ventured in a timid voice.

  ‘Just heading into the Avenue of Honour in Bacchus Marsh, Dot,’ Phryne informed her. ‘Where there is a thirty-miles-per-hour speed limit, with which I intend to comply.’ She eased the motor back to a gentle purr, and Dot looked at the road with interest. Flourishing elm saplings lined both sides.

  ‘There are plaques there, Miss,’ Dot observed. ‘Were they planted in memory of those fallen in battle?’

  ‘Yes, Dot. Most of them brutally murdered by incompetent generals.’

  Dot, who knew well that Miss Phryne had played a considerable role herself in the Great War, decided to let this pass. ‘You don’t mean Sir John Monash, surely, Miss?’

  ‘Indeed not. He and General Allenby were the only generals commanding who seemed to have any idea how to win a war without getting half their own men killed.’

  So many dead, from one small town. Dot crossed herself. ‘And where are we going, Miss?’ Phryne silently handed Dot a book, with a bookmark. It appeared to be the Victorian Government Tourist Bureau guidebook. An envelope marked page 196. It was addressed in firm, cursive script to The Hon Phryne Fisher, 221B The Esplanade, St Kilda. Dot turned the envelope over. The return address announced itself as Capt Herbert Spencer, The Mineral Spa, Hepburn Springs.

  ‘Read it, Dot. Captain Spencer wants our assistance.’ Dot read as follows, written in what she decided was a firm, manly hand.

  Dear Miss Fisher

  I know that you served with distinction in the War, and you will be aware that all too many of our brave survivors suffer from shellshock. The Army and the Ministry show them little sympathy, and even less help. You will know well that they are not shirkers or cowards; but men who have endured more than flesh and blood can manage. At my spa I am attempting to provide my patients with the rest, recuperation, and care they so badly need. I hope that, when you have seen my establishment for yourself, you may see your way clear to supporting my endeavours.

  If I may trespass a little further on your patience, I may say also that a local girl has gone missing, and I have reason to believe that the local police (in whom I have little confidence) suspect that one of my patients is to blame. I do not believe this for one moment, but will cheerfully abide the result of any investigations you may wish to undertake. Would you care to join me for dinner this coming Thursday?

  I remain, Honourable Miss Fisher,

  Your most obedient servant

  Herbert Spencer (Capt, retd)

  ‘So there we have our case, Dot,’ said Phryne, as they passed by a most impressive Town Hall and began to climb out of the snug valley again. ‘Captain Spencer intrigues me. And he may prove to be a most attractive young man, or so I hope. I am delighted to discover that one Herbert at least remains alive and helpful. So far as I knew, the War had killed off every Herbert, Albert, and Clarence in the nation. The girls are back at school, Mrs B has gone off to visit her sister, Mr B and Tinker can mind the house and the domestic animals, and I can feel a small adventure coming on. And I have never been to Hepburn. Doctor MacMillan recommends it highly. The roses should be out, and I hear that it is a most beautiful village.’

  Dot perused the page on Hepburn Springs, and discovered that it was two miles the other side of Daylesford, and promised a most invigorating climate more than two thousand feet above sea level. The curative properties of the mineral springs were extolled at length, although sinusoidal electric baths sounded a bit extreme, even for her headstrong and fearless employer. Dot made a firm vow to herself that having electricity applied to her bath would happen only over her lifeless body. And a shilling a time? A mere sixpence would purchase a hot or cold mineral bath without high-voltage shocks being applied to her person. A hot bath sounded like a splendid idea.

  ‘Dot, I am a little concerned about the girl. If I like the good Captain and his work, I shall certainly give him a reasonable sum. The problem with these small country towns is that the police feel they have to keep the local movers and shakers happy. If there is crime, and convenient incomers to blame for it, then they are all too prone to bend the facts to suit their convenience.’

  ‘Miss, it says here that one of the springs is sulphur? That can’t be right, surely?’

  ‘Indeed it can, Dot. The idea of a brimstone bath is appealing, in a strange way. And the others sound wonderful.’

  The remainder of their journey was so pretty that Dot sometimes kept her eyes open, despite the throaty roar of the engine. What she could see of the countryside fleeting past her looked quite green and attractive. To Dot’s immense relief Phryne turned off the highway and began to head up into a forested woodland. This meant slowing down enough so Dot could enjoy the view properly. They climbed steadily, driving through a small town which appeared to be Daylesford. Halfway down the main street, a loud whistle sounded. Phryne pulled over on the brow of the hill and observed a very large uniformed policeman. His puffy right hand was held palm outwards, right in their path. Phryne stopped in the middle of the road and leaned over the side. ‘Good afternoon, Officer,’ she announced brightly. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

  His flabby, porcine features frowned horribly at her. ‘Hold it right there! May I see your driver’s license, Miss?’

  The Irish brogue was unmistakeable. So was the exasperating air of self-righteous stupidity which accompanied his shiny sergeant’s stripes. Just what I need, Phryne considered. She handed over her license, and wondered if he would need any help with the longer words. He frowned again. ‘Miss Frinny Fisher, is it?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘And where would you be off to, then, Miss Fisher?’

  ‘Hepburn Springs. And if you would be so kind as to give me my license back, I would like some afternoon tea. I am staying at the Mooltan, if you think that is any of your business.’

  The Sergeant started, as if he had been bitten by a snake. ‘You don’t want to go in there, Miss! Some very dubious characters there. A young woman has gone missing, and the one who abducted her is staying right there. But I’ll be having him, don’t you worry. And some of the others.’ Phryne held out her gloved hand, and with reluctance the Sergeant handed her license back and stood aside

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. And I hope you have a really annoying day.’

  Dot gasped as the car roared off down the main street. Soon the Hispano-Suiza purred gently down a hill into a village which announced itself as Hepburn Springs. Suddenly Phryne turned off the road and puttered around a curving gravel pathway flanked by rose bushes (partly in flower) and lavender. As they drew near the house, Dot regarded what was evidently Mooltan. It was a snug two-storey bluestone h
ouse with an iron-laced slate roof and two windows on each side of the front door, and five on the second storey. Balconies with potted plants lined the upper storey. It would be warm in winter, and cool in summer. Phryne engaged the handbrake and stepped out of the car, dressed in black trousers, black leather flying jacket, helmet and goggles, and black boots with sturdy flat heels. She inhaled deeply. ‘Smell that country air, Dot!’

  Dot did so, and unobtrusively kissed her St Christopher medallion, giving devout thanks that she would not have to be driven anywhere for a few days. As they emerged from the Hispano-Suiza, a youthful figure came from the front door and walked towards them. Phryne smiled at her.

  ‘Hello, You must be Miss Dulcie. I’m Phryne Fisher, and this is Dot. Doctor MacMillan’s friend. She sends you her best.’

  Dot realized that she had mistaken the men’s clothes and haircut. Dulcie grinned. ‘Yes, we were expecting you,’ she said, with broad Australian vowels. Another young woman appeared (in a long, grey skirt and woollen jumper). ‘This is Alice.’

  ‘Afternoon tea’s ready,’ said Alice. ‘I hope you like scones, cream, and jam?’

  ‘Yes, we really do. And some tea, to wash away the grime of roads. And policemen.’

  Alice coloured. ‘You’ve met our Sergeant? He’s a bit…abrupt.’

  Dulcie patted Alice’s hand. ‘Stupid and offensive is what you mean. His name is Sergeant Offaly.’

  ‘Never mind him. Come inside.’ Dot looked back at the car boot, but Alice shook her head. She was pretty, in an Irish fashion: dark, waved hair framing a delicate face with dark green eyes.

  ‘Dulcie will get your luggage. Come inside and have tea.’

  As they sat down to feather-light scones, mulberry jam, and thick, fresh cream, Alice poured the tea and Dulcie hustled their bags up the wooden staircase. ‘This is wonderful,’ Phryne approved. ‘Who made the scones?’

  Dulcie reappeared and leaned on the back of a chair. ‘Alice did. And the jam. We’re not usually open till September, but any friend of Doctor MacMillan is welcome. She stays here a fair bit. It’s comfy.’ Dulcie’s light blue eyes flickered. ‘Business or pleasure, Phryne? And will you be dining in?’