The Spotted Dog Page 6

  Trudi led the way in, preceded by the points of her weapon. And there was Professor Monk in the middle of his parlour, standing agape over a recumbent body. Nobody I knew, and no one else seemed to have any ideas as to how he had come to be so unexpectedly among those present. There was blood, though not enough to suggest imminent danger of death. The smell of it filled the room, and Lucifer was taking it in and pawing the air in excitement. It was a young man, so far as could I could see, wearing nondescript pants and a hoodie the colour and texture of decaying vegetation. I bent down beside him. He was motionless, but a faint suggestion of respiration seemed to be happening.

  I looked up at Professor Monk, but his presumably unwelcome intruder was not at the forefront of his mind. He shook his head, wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief, and called out in tones of anguish and concern, ‘Nox? Where are you, my little friend? Where is my little darling? Basilissa!’

  I stood up in time to see Therese Webb and an unknown woman join the gathering. Professor Monk ignored them. An expression of devotion and relief passed across his face as a small black kitten emerged from the bedroom. She was affronted. She stomped heavily across the fallen intruder towards her protector and clambered up him, pausing only at his shirt-fronted chest. She dug all four sets of claws into him as he cradled her in his ancient arms and began to coo soothingly to her in what I could only presume was Ancient Greek.

  I looked again at our visitor. Still nothing happening there. I supposed we should do something about him, though I was in no hurry. Mrs Dawson watched the Professor indulgently for a while, and laid her slender hand on his arm.

  ‘Come along, darlings!’ she commanded. ‘Come and sit in my apartment. You shall have a stiff drink, Dion, and so shall Nox.’

  The kitten looked at her with a moment’s surmise then climbed onto her shoulder. Professor Monk allowed himself to be led away, and I looked at Trudi. She was leaning on her garden fork, but the substantial muscles in her bare arms were tensed. She glared at the fallen youth as if he were an unwelcome sprout of deadly nightshade. I felt that he would be well-advised to play dead so long as she was anywhere near him.

  I reached for my phone and began to dial Detective Senior Constable Letitia White, known to me as Letty through long and not always pleasant association. I thought it would save time and needless explanation if I called her, rather than having to introduce a brand new cop to my cast of thousands. At least Letty knew who we were and what we all did for a living. While I waited for the call to be answered I turned to the recent arrivals.

  ‘Hello, Therese. And you must be Anwyn?’ Therese’s two guests had been named as Anwyn and Philomela, but I recalled that the latter had been in an accident. This one was a plump, sturdy woman wearing an Indian skirt and blouse and adorned with a great many silver bangles and necklaces. She grinned at me.

  ‘Hello, Corinna. Yes, I’m Anwyn. Therese has told me so much about you!’

  I nodded politely as a grumpy voice came on the line. ‘Corinna? What can I do for you this bloody awful day?’ Just for a moment I wondered if she ever regretted giving me her phone number. Then again, perhaps I was brightening up her working life and giving her diversion from the diurnal run of boring crimes and equally boring criminals.

  ‘Hello, Letty? Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but you did say to ring next time something untoward happened. We seem to have a body.’ I gave it a nudge with my foot. ‘I think it’s still alive, but we should probably have it seen to.’

  A squawk of scandalised interrogation sounded in my ear.

  ‘Yes, well, we don’t know anything about him. He’s in Professor Monk’s apartment. Trudi is standing over him with a garden fork, so if anyone’s in danger it isn’t us … Yes, an ambulance is probably indicated. I’ll stay here until I see you.’

  I put my phone back in my pocket and smiled.

  Anwyn was gazing at me in some astonishment. ‘So this sort of thing happens a lot here?’

  ‘All the time,’ I told her, then turned to our gardener. ‘Trudi, are you happy to keep an eye on our little friend here?’

  She nodded, and waved her weapon suggestively. ‘Oh yes. My grandmother used to do this when we had Germans.’ She pronounced the word as though it rhymed with vermin, which seemed fair enough considering that the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands had been brutal.

  ‘We’ll keep you company, Trudi,’ Therese said. ‘I’ll fetch our embroidery.’ Trudi pulled over some chairs from the side of the room and sat in one of them, still balefully glaring at the Professor’s unwelcome guest.

  Therese headed for her apartment and I trooped towards the stairs to Mrs Dawson’s. With three sceptical women and one four-foot garden implement to watch over him, I didn’t think our friend would be any trouble. Then I had a sudden illumination and doubled back to Professor Monk’s apartment. In his study I found his precious leather-bound commonplace book, which contained all his working notes. The front page was in plain English, and began with the title The Gospel of St Joseph. My Biblical knowledge was nothing special; but I’d never heard of that one. Flicking through the pages, I saw Latin, and Ancient Greek, and who knew what else, handwritten in orderly rows. I stuffed it into my bag. I didn’t know how long his apartment would be embargoed, and he would fret without his pet project. Then, prompted by I knew not what instinct, I went into the kitchen. The fridge door was open, and so was the freezer cabinet. Odd. I didn’t want to interfere with a crime scene more than was needful, but this was a bit unusual. I had a closer look. The ice cubes were melting in their plastic trays. So that meant that the doors had been open for … how long? Maybe an hour?

  Now this was strange. Why would Professor Monk have left his fridge door open for that long? You cannot read anything into that, I could hear a sceptical detective constable opine; old people can be forgetful. Perhaps he had opened the fridge and freezer doors and then been distracted by something, like his cat. Except that Professor Monk’s mind was still razor-sharp, and he showed no signs of age-related inattention at all.

  It seemed to me that this was an extremely thorough burglar. Most burglars are happy to make their visitations as evanescent as possible, but this one had been here nearly long enough to grow a spare beard. I peered into the freezer and found a plastic packet of prawns beginning to thaw. I slipped them into my bag as well. I knew someone who would be very glad of them, and I did not think they were any sort of Clue. Even for the Famous Five. I left the rest of the Clues untampered and left the apartment.

  I found Professor Monk reclining in a most elegant armchair, wrapped in a gorgeous Chinese silk robe (red, with golden brocade dragons) that would have been far too big for the elegant Mrs Dawson, and was doubtless the property of the late Mr Dawson. The Professor’s shoes and socks had been removed, and his slippered feet luxuriated in the deep carpet. He held in his hand a tall gin and tonic, complete with a lemon slice, and he appeared recovered from his ordeal.

  ‘Ah, Corinna,’ he remarked. ‘There you are!’

  It was a scene of ultimate comfort. At his side sat Mrs Dawson (in matching armchair), also sipping a G and T. On her impeccable Chinese carpet was a blue china bowl filled with milk. A small black kitten was attending to it, with both ears pinned back. So far as Nox was concerned, Outrages had been committed and she was owed compensation. The tiny sound of furious lapping could be heard from the bowl’s interior.

  Mrs Dawson smiled at me and rose. I presented her with the packet of prawns and her mouth curved in a smile. ‘I know someone who will be happy to receive some of these,’ she said. ‘And the remainder will be paella this evening.’

  She disappeared into the kitchen with the prawns and returned, taking up a protective position on the left of the reclining Professor Monk. He beamed at her.

  ‘Gin and tonic?’ Mrs Dawson offered.

  ‘Not yet, but later would be wonderful,’ I answered.

  What I had had in mind for the afternoon had certainly included a G and T
or so, relaxing in the Temple of Ceres on the roof, but I was resolved to have it only after the alarums and excursions had been satisfactorily concluded.

  ‘Professor, you may want to keep this by you,’ I suggested, producing his notebook from my bag.

  His eyes lit up, and he patted the small table by his right elbow. ‘Leave it there, Corinna, if you would be so kind. Many thanks! I have no idea when I am likely to regain the use of my apartment, and I do not want policepersons morrissing through my notes. I do not believe for a moment they are pertinent to the crime scene.’

  ‘We may probably assume that they are not. Professor, if you do not mind my asking, what can you tell us of your intruder? Had he an introduction, or did he simply barge in without so much as leaving his calling card on a silver tray?’

  ‘It is a mystery,’ the Professor admitted. ‘We have not met before. I am sure I would have noticed. I had left my front door open, since my basilissa wanted to explore the building. I was consulting a Latin dictionary in my study when I heard what sounded like the arrival of several tonnes of coal into my parlour. Goodness knows what he meant by it.’

  ‘Are you certain he was alone?’

  His deep blue eyes exchanged a piercing look with mine. ‘No. I cannot be certain, but I believe he was. Had he been accompanied, there would have been, at the very least, footsteps running away down the stairs.’

  ‘All right, I won’t ask you any more for now. I’m going back to your apartment, Professor. And this time I shall search it as thoroughly as I can without getting fingerprints everywhere.’

  ‘And we shall remain here, Corinna,’ Mrs Dawson stated. ‘Do keep us informed, Corinna.’

  The door to Dion Monk’s apartment was still open. I looked through it towards the parlour. It appeared that the audience for today’s pageant had grown rather than diminished. We had Visitors, standing mostly in a clump along the far wall, looking down at our burglar. The young man appeared to have regained consciousness. But he lay where he was, with three kitchen chairs placed around him at equal intervals. Trudi had her garden fork poised, and it appeared that Anwyn and Therese were armed with pins, needles, scissors and stilettoes. Trudi waved her free hand at me.

  ‘All in order here, Corinna,’ she announced. ‘We have an agreement. He lies quietly on the floor, and I don’t stab him with the fork. Please shut the door.’

  Taking out my handkerchief, I wrapped it around my hand and lightly closed the door on the burglar and his guards. Then I gave the newcomers the once-over. Standing apart from the others, and looking at me without expression, was Meroe, dressed in one of her usual gypsy wraps. She nodded, but did not speak. Her eyes were taking everything in, but she preferred silence until she was sure of herself. I surveyed the remainder of the crowd. There were two men and three women – though there was more than a whiff of intersex in their attire and attitudes. All were in their early twenties as far as I could tell. Four were dressed informally in long trousers and white T-shirts emblazoned with RMIT PERFORMING ARTS. The fifth sat in a wheelchair a little away from them. She appeared to be watching everyone else. She was mousy-looking, and wore a pale blue shirt and jeans. Her hands grasped the wheels of her chair. In her lap was a loop of crewel, half finished, in bright colours. I could not see what it was going to be as yet. But it looked good.

  They all looked at me expectantly. Clearly I was required to make the introductions.

  ‘Hello, I’m Corinna, and I live here. I’m the local baker. If you like bread, or bready products of any kind, please ask me. And you are …?’

  ‘We’re actors,’ announced the tallest of the five youths in a voice brimming with self-assurance. A salesman’s handshake was proffered, and I duly accepted it. He reeked of private school and privilege with a capital P, though he looked decent enough. Grammar rather than Scotch, I guessed. ‘I’m Stephen, though I’m Trinculo for the duration. We’re from Mars,’ he added helpfully.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said, though I knew what he meant. Mars, also known as apartment 3B, was generally vacant. I deduced, without evidence, that it was an investment property owned by someone’s parent. Probably that of Stephen Trinculo. I turned to the others.

  ‘Luke, currently being Prospero,’ said the next, encasing my hand in a slender, elegant palm. You could have fooled me, but there it was. I had it from his own exquisite lips. He was very dark-skinned and looked decidedly Caribbean, though without the dreadlocks.

  Next in line was Claire, it seemed, though she introduced herself as Caliban. I was getting the idea by now. I had never imagined Caliban as short, neat and blonde, any more than I had imagined such an ethnically diverse aristocratic sorcerer, but it was evident that my horizons were going to be forcibly broadened. I suspected the presence of the late Bertolt Brecht in somebody’s dramatic studies.

  Then there was Sam (presumably Samantha, though one never really knows): tall, slender and olive-skinned. ‘I’m Ariel,’ she explained. ‘We’ve moved in here while we’re rehearsing The Tempest.’ She exchanged glances with the others then said, ‘Would you like to come to a rehearsal? We’re doing Act 2, Scene 2 this afternoon.’

  ‘I would be delighted,’ I said, curious to know what brave new world was this they were inventing. ‘Where and when?’

  ‘Mars, four o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  I turned to the last of our newcomers, sitting up in a wheelchair against the wall. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Her name is Philomela,’ said Meroe quietly. ‘She is unable to speak. She’s staying with Therese and her friend.’

  I looked questioningly at Philomela, who nodded. She had short, dark, bobbed hair and beautiful brown eyes which looked intelligent and perceptive.

  ‘Would you care to join your friends?’ I asked her.

  She nodded again. I opened the door and wheeled her inside next to Therese.

  ‘Well, people,’ I said to the actors, ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing much to see. The police are on their way and until they’ve done their bit they’ll want to keep the crime scene as clear of people as is reasonable.’

  ‘Is anyone hurt?’ Claire asked. ‘We heard the alarm go off, so we left the play and came to see if anyone needed help.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ I told them. ‘Did you hear or see anything apart from the alarm?’

  Apparently they hadn’t. ‘Well, in that case, as soon as we know anything ourselves, we’ll let you know. All I can say is that we appear to have a mysterious intruder who is being held under guard in the parlour. And that’s all I know. Splendid of you to be doing Shakespeare. Well done. All right, let’s bring the curtain down on this act, yes?’

  At that moment the intercom buzzer sounded. ‘On second thoughts, could one of you go down and open the front door? If it’s a police officer, let them in.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’ Claire wanted to know.

  I was going to say, ‘Hit them with a brick,’ but you never know if new acquaintances are going to take you literally. Instead I pressed the speaker. ‘Who is that?’ I enquired.

  ‘Detective Senior Constable White, as requested. Corinna, let me in, will you? It’s like a pizza oven out here.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Meroe, and disappeared down the stairs.

  The actors exited stage left, and within the apartment all was quiet. Presently, up the stairs came the awful majesty of the law, in the form of Detective Senior Constable Letitia White, accompanied by a whipcord figure whose identity badge proclaimed her to be Det Constable Helen Black. She refrained from introducing herself, but contrived to project an atmosphere of calm authority. I liked her slender face and short black curls, and her deep brown eyes. They were in standard summer plain clothes: hovering somewhere between Italian Bespoke and Maison Target. Matching summer slacks (grey), blouses (ecru), jackets (oyster) and sensible flat shoes (slate). There was a definite statement of Grey in
their attire, and their faces matched their outfits. They nodded politely, but they didn’t seem all that pleased to see me.

  Philomela: When they took me to hospital, they said I wouldn’t be able to see again. My glasses were destroyed. But when I got new ones I could see perfectly. And I found I could read. Then they told me I’d never be able to walk again. And I can, in a way. And they told me I’d never speak again. And it’s true I cannot speak, nor write. Not yet. And that is the worst loss of all. When you are in a wheelchair and you have aphasia, people think you are an idiot. But while I may be rendered dumb, I am no fool. And I will find a way to tell my story.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The god of my idolatry.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 2, SCENE 2

  I looked around for Meroe, wanting moral support, but she had disappeared. I suspect she has access to secret dimensions and can come and go as she pleases.

  I opened the door to the parlour to find the scene unchanged. Trudi, Anwyn and Therese looked like the Three Fates. Anwyn even had the shears of Atropos, and was holding them meaningfully. In the corner of the room, Philomela sat unnoticed in her wheelchair. She was hunched up, but taking it all in. None of them took their eyes off the youth on the floor. Remarkably, he still had not moved.

  Letitia took in the scene with a glance, and gestured to an empty sofa.

  ‘You may as well sit in on this, Corinna. I’d rather have you where I can see your hands above the table. All right. Whose apartment is this, for starters?’

  ‘Professor Monk’s,’ I answered. ‘He is currently upstairs in Minerva – that’s 4B – being attended to by Mrs Dawson.’

  The detectives exchanged a glance, and Helen left to interview the victim of the incursion. Letitia glared down at the figure on the carpet.

  ‘All right, son. What’s your story? What the hell is this about?’

  The youth goggled at her. His pale lips opened, but no sounds emerged. Nothing, in fact, but a rasping choke. His eyes were wide and terrified. Letty White looked at me. ‘Is this bloke armed?’