Raisins and Almonds (10 page)

The Detective Inspector split a scone, slathered it with jam and cream, sighed happily and began to read.

Phryne took the buff folder and extracted the autopsy report on one Shimeon Ben Mikhael otherwise known as Simon Michaels, native of Salonika. As she read she made notes, and tried not to think of a dark young man dissected on a cold marble table. Much better to just think of him as a body.

Observations: a tall young man somewhat underweight, bearded, recently washed and healthy Some bruises on the right knee and hip, as though he had recently fallen, probably sustained in the spasm which had also cracked his spine. Small transverse cut on the ball of the right index finger. A clean cut, probably from a razor or from the edge of a piece of paper. The pathologist paid no further attention to it or to the bruises. No tattoos, scars, or identifying marks and he had all his own teeth. His wisdom teeth had not fully erupted so his age was estimated at between sixteen and twenty-five. Cause of death: strychnine poisoning. Contents of stomach: a starchy scented fluid composed of bread and black tea. Subject died about one hour after eating this austere last meal. Fingernails and contact traces: substance under the nails referred for chemical analysis. Phryne leafed through the folder and found another report. It was found to be common glue, such as is used by carpenters and shoemakers. Chemical burns on the hands.

To the sound of a Detective Inspector slurping his way through a second cup of tea, Phryne reviewed her notes. There was no doubt that he had died of the effects of strychnine. The pathologist had made a note:

'No strychnine found in the stomach contents, but it passes into the bloodstream quickly, being one of the most fast-acting poisons.'

Phryne replaced all the pages, ordered them quickly, and closed the folder. She replaced it exactly as it had been, laid her notebook on the hall table, and came in saying brightly, 'Well, Jack dear, how nice to see you! Is Mr Butler looking after you? No, really, I couldn't eat another thing, Mr B, not after that wonderful lunch.'

'Miss Fisher,' said the policeman, standing up and swallowing a mouthful of scone. 'Nice of you to ask me to tea. No one has a hand with scones like Mrs Butler.'

He wasn't adverting to the report which he had carelessly left on the table where any passing nosy woman could read it, so Phryne didn't mention it either. She sat down at the tea table. 'Any news?'

'No, no one seems to have seen anything. However, I've got hopes of something breaking soon. Has to be soon, or the case'll go stale and my chief'11 go spare. You got anything?'

'Not really, but you shall have it as soon as any of it makes sense. You know Miss Lee didn't do it, Jack, don't you?'

'We haven't got a lot of evidence, certainly,' admitted the policeman. 'But have you found anyone else who fits as well?'

'I'll meet the rest of his friends tonight,' said Phryne. 'At Kadimah, in Drummond Street. Then we shall see what we shall see, and hear what we shall hear. There's some secret element in this, Jack. I've had those papers translated. They were in a code, and they translate into another code. The pictures are all the stages making the philosopher's stone.'

'Like Johnson's play,
The Alchemist
?' asked the policeman. He had been to a night course in Elizabethan drama and had never regretted it. Shakespeare was now his constant companion.

'Yes, like that,' answered Phryne, a little taken aback. 'I'll find out more when I have time to read the texts. I've even got Elias Ashmole's
Theatrum Chemicum Brittanicum.
Miss Lee found it in a French auction and bought it for the dead man. Poor thing. Never even saw it. However, I don't know if it will help. The Rabbi had a lot of books, but they were all in Hebrew and he said that he knew nothing about alchemy.'

'Rabbi?'

'Rabbi Elijah. Simon Michaels was his student. He lives in St Kilda. If you are going to talk to him, Jack, I have to tell you that he's ... difficult.' She smiled at her choice of words.

'Difficult?'

'Really difficult,' Phryne emphasized.

'Well, must be going,' said Jack Robinson reluctantly. He had, however, cleared the plate of scones. 'I'm afraid that you may have taken on an impossible task, Miss Fisher. I don't see how you're going to find this murderer when the resources of the police force can't track him down.'

'But the resources of the police force aren't trying to track him down,' Phryne pointed out reasonably. 'You don't believe he, she or they exist. I do. So I have the advantage,' she said, escorting him to the door.

'About the only advantage I have,' she added, as the door shut on Jack Robinson and the buff folder.

She poured herself a cup of the cooling tea and thought. She had sent Dot to the market to look for the customers, Bert and Cec to the understorey to find out whatever it was that was making her feelers twitch. The girls were still with Rebecca Levin, having studied up on Leviticus. Mr and Mrs Butler had a free evening tonight, and Phryne needed to read some alchemy so that she would have a sporting chance of understanding Kadimah's conversation on the topic.

She took her notebook up to her own room, scribbled for a while, then sat down to attempt to acquire some grasp of alchemy and of the Holy Kabala, which she felt was a big task for one rather somnolent afternoon.

She laid out Waite's
The Holy Quabbalah
, the
Theatrum,
Thomas Vaughan's
Lumen de Lumine
and
Euphrates
, the
Secreta Secretorum
by Roger Bacon and Dee's
Monas Heiroglyphica. The Emerald Tablet Explain 'd
by an anonymous Elizabethan lay open on her bed.

She read solidly for an hour, swore, lit a cigarette and rolled over onto her back with
Secreta Secretorum
balanced on her stomach. The black letter Elizabethan printing was easy to read but it made very little sense, and as for the Holy Quabbalah, she had grasped only the very first of the first principles, that is, that it needed a lifetime's study.

'And I don't have a lifetime,' she said aloud. Thomas Vaughan the Brecon man was the easiest alchemist to follow, and by far the most charming.

On the same day my deare wife sickened, being a Friday, and at the same time of day, namely in the evening, my gracious God did put into my head the Secret of extracting Oyle of Halcali, which I had once, accidently, found at Pinner in Wakefield in the dayes of my deare wife. But it was againe taken from me by wonderful judgement of God for I could never remember how I did it, but made an hundred attempts in vaine. And now my Glorious God (whose name be praysed forever) hath brought it again into my mind and on the same day as my deare wife sickened; and on the Saturday following, which was the daye she dyed on, I extracted it by former practice.

And how his wife felt about it, left to die without her husband, was another matter of course. Phryne resisted the urge to fling the books out of the window and began again.

What was alchemy? An attempt, the difficult rabbi had said, to raise matter to its perfect state. Good. That meant base metal into gold and men into immortal bodies. And how did one go about this task?

One first acquired a patron with a lot of money, and purchased or made a lot of equipment. Phryne wondered whether to tell Mrs Butler that her
bain marie
which kept the soup warm was an alchemical vessel invented by Miriam, sister of Moses—later called Maria Prophetissa in case Miriam seemed too Jewish—who had founded
alchimia practica.
Previously it had been a theory. Miriam seems to have actually tried to do it, thought Phryne, wondering if she had succeeded. The first principle was
solve et coagula
, that is, to dissolve and to recombine. Thomas Vaughan told her 'in this matter is all the essentiall principles, or ingredients of the elixir, are already shut up in Nature and wee must not presume to add anything to this matter ... for the stone excludes all extractions, but what distill immediately from their own chrystalline universal Minera'. Keeping that in mind, one began to make the first mixture, the so-called gold yeast. Everyone was vague on what else went into it except for gold in fine powder and a lot of mercury metal. Then, knowing that there are three elements— salt, sulphur and mercury—one cooked this gold yeast with some other ingredient, called
Terra Adamae—
Adam's earth, the material of the first creation. Phryne noted that since one could not just send down to the grocer's for half a pound of Adam's earth, that there must be a recipe for that also, but could not find one.

The first stage was reached when the material turned black. The illumination from Simon Michaels' books showed it: the head of a crow, beak open. This
melanosis
was also, in the Emerald Tablet, called Adam's earth. Phryne stopped trying to reconcile the varying accounts and continued with her list.

Adding some other liquid, variously described as 'womanseed' or more bluntly 'monthly blood', to the black mixture and heating it again with orpiment and borax made it turn white: the
leukosis
or albedo stage, the purifying or purgation of the mixture. The picture fluttered onto the satin bedspread: a white dove.

Distilled in an alembic, the funnel-shaped vessel, the matter was sublimated by high heat and the gas trapped in a coil of pipe. This was
conjunction
the mystic marriage where the red king lay with the white queen. The two entwined crowned figures joined the other pictures and Phryne scribbled busily.

Then, if one was really lucky,
xanthosis
or yellowing would take place with the addition of unslaked lime, ground bones and more mercury. It occurred to Phryne that with the amount of mercury vapour that these wise men were breathing, it was no wonder that they saw visions of Hermes Thrice Great. In due course they would also have seen rhinoceroses on scaling ladders.

Finally, after the work of years, the mixture buried in fresh horse dung to be heated to just the right temperature, the watcher would see the span of colours called the peacock's tail and would achieve
rubedo
and 10515, completion. The red king would be enthroned and the
lapis philosophorum
would elevate the alchemist to heights of knowledge such as other men would never share.

Thou shalt see ... a shining carbuncle most temperate splendour, whose most subtile and depurated parts are inseparably united into one with a concordial mixture, exceedingly equal, transparent like crystal, compact and most ponderous, easily fusible in fire, like resin or wax yet flowing like smoke; entering into solid bodies and penetrating them like oil through paper; friable like glass, in powder like saffron, but in whole Mass shining like a ruby His life would be crowned. He would be untouchable, immortal. He would not seek riches, as Elias Ashmole said, And certaynly he to whom the whole of nature lies open, rejoyceth not so much that he can make Gold and Silver, or the Divells to become Subject to him, as that he sees the Heavens open, the Angells of God Ascending and Descending, and that his own name is fairely written in the Book of Life.' He would live forever in his dark robes, wrapped in his ecstatic visions, and his lamp would never go out, for it would be fuelled by Oil of Eternity.

Phryne closed her books and glanced out the window. It was darkening towards dusk. She heard the tree branches scrape the glass. The wind must have changed. I am getting uncommonly jumpy, she told herself.

Surely no one was really trying to make a philosopher's stone in 1928? It sounded both ridiculous and impossible. The instructions and recipes were all vague and where, exceptionally, they weren't vague, they were all different. If Ashmole said that one used mercury, bole ammoniack and saltpeter and Robert Fludd said that the same operation was achieved using slaked lime, verdigris and oil of tartare, then how could the chemical result be the same?

Phryne, in common with all girls at her school, had learned a little chemistry, known with a jolly laugh as 'stinks'. She recalled watching as the teacher poured mercury into a chamber and heated it. Phryne had seen it oxidize into a red powder, then she had watched in amazement as the powder had been heated again and little beads of silvery metal had popped up out of the oxide. That was alchemy, Phryne thought.

She got up and washed her face. She was losing her sense of proportion.

But if he wasn't trying to make a philosopher's stone, why did Simon Michaels have those parchments in his pocket, and why did an honest shoemaker like Yossi Liebermann burn his landlady's table with chemical experiments?

It promised to be an interesting evening.

Air: this is no Element, but a certain Hermaphrodite, the Gaement of two worlds, and a Medley of Extremes ... in this are innumerable magicall Forms of Men and Beasts, Fish an Fowle, Trees, Herbs, and all creeping things.

Thomas Vaughan,
Euphrates

Dot was not enjoying her attempts to extract information from Miss Lee's neighbours.

She had started at the nearest poulterers, and had waked what was clearly a long-standing feud.

'I'm investigating the murder in the bookshop,' she said to the boy behind the counter. He stared at her, momentarily forgetting the large chicken which he had under his arm. It also stared at Dot, and clucked.

'You know, two days ago. A young man was poisoned,' she encouraged. The boy gaped. Dot, who was nervous and shy, reflected crossly that she might get more answers out of the chook, and tried again. 'Is Mr Lane in?'

For answer, the poultry-bearer shuffled to the door and yelled 'Boss!' Then he seemed to feel that he had fulfilled his obligations and returned to his duties, which appeared to consist of staring out the window at passing girls and sucking his teeth. Mr Lane was stout and worried. He wore a bloodstained apron.

'This is too much,' he exclaimed before Dot could open her mouth. 'That bloke has gone too far this time. I'll have the law on him. I'll call the cops if he says one more word! It's slander, that's what it is. And libel,' he added, hedging his bets.

'Sorry?' said Dot, utterly fogged and a little taken aback by his vehemence.

'Don't I work hard?' demanded Mr Lane. 'Don't I put in all the hours God gave to support my wife and little ones and run my business?'

'Mr Lane,' Dot began.

'If he's sent you here about the chicken, I tell you, it was all right and if anyone says any different I'll do something, I tell you, starting with going round and knocking Gunn's block off!'

'Hello?' said Dot loudly. 'Mr Lane? I don't know what you're talking about. I came from Miss Lee and I'm trying to find out about the dead man in her shop.'

'Oh.' The red face lost a little of its pre-apopleptic colour. 'Miss Lee, eh? Nice lady. Sorry, Miss. It's just that Gunn is getting on my nerves. He says one of my chooks was off, and I swear, my chooks eat the same feed as his and they're all in the pink of condition. Look at that now.' He held up a limp plucked corpse for Dot to examine. She did so, pinching the breast and manipulating the feet to see if it was fresh.

'Perfectly good,' she pronounced. 'Fit to be served to the Queen.'

The poulterer relaxed and mopped his brow with a red handkerchief.

'Sorry to go crook at you. Thanks, Miss. Now, what can I do for you? It's terrible about Miss Lee, though trade's been up since it happened I'd rather it was for a different reason, if you see what I mean.'

'I need to find the customers who were in Miss Lee's shop before the murder happened.'

'You don't reckon she done him in?'

'No, I don't, and my employer, Miss Fisher, she doesn't think so either. Did you see anyone you knew in the market on Friday?'

'Yes, plenty of people. Most of my customers are regulars, though they won't be much longer if Gunn keeps on telling 'em my chooks are poisoned. I'll have the law on him if he opens his gob again. But no one I know went into the bookshop, Miss. No one came in here carrying a book, not that I noticed. My boy might know more, but he's a bit light on for brains. A few kangaroos loose in the top paddock, you know?' Mr Lane tapped his forehead. 'Not that he isn't good with the chooks, though. They've got a lot in common. Billy, c'mere. Do you remember anyone coming into the shop on Friday carrying a book?'

The boy looked frightened. Dot tried a gentle approach.

'I'm sure you're a good boy, Billy, and you like the chooks, don't you?' Billy nodded. 'And you remember Friday?'

'Man dead,' said Billy.

'That's right. Before the man was dead, did anyone come in here with a book?'

'No, but there was a lady.'

'You spend too much time looking at sheilas,' growled his boss, and Billy gaped again, losing whatever concentration he possessed.

'Tell me about the lady,' coaxed Dot.

'Lady with a chook on her hat,' said Billy importantly. 'Nice hat. It had a white chook on it. And shells.'

'Did she buy anything?'

'Two chooks,' said Billy.

'So she did. Why, does that mean something to you, Miss?' asked Mr Lane.

'It certainly does,' said Dot. 'I really want to find that lady. There can't be two hats like that in one market.'

'Well, if you really need to find her,' said Mr Lane slowly, 'I might be able to help.'

'How?' asked Dot.

'Well, she didn't want to carry two chooks and a dozen fresh eggs home in her hand, did she?'

'Do you deliver, Mr Lane?' asked Dot, reaching for her notebook.

'I do, Miss. But it doesn't seem right to give away a customer's address.'

Dot knew what was happening. Mr Lane was waiting for a bribe and Dot was momentarily at a loss. How do you bribe someone? Miss Fisher had not covered this in her briefing. She took out a ten shilling note and laid it on the counter. 'For your trouble,' she mumbled.

It was easier than she had thought. The note vanished with speed and Mr Lane seemed unaware that it had ever been there. He consulted his ledger.

'Delivery ... now where is it? Two chooks and a dozen ... yes. Here we are, Miss.' He jotted down the address and name on the corner of a piece of white wrapping paper. 'There you are, Miss. Good luck. Miss Lee's a real nice lady.'

Dot left the shop, vowing never to buy any of his produce. If he thought Miss Lee was a real nice lady, why did he need a financial inducement to give Dot the address? His chickens probably were poisoned, thought Dot, and went into the bird dealer's shop. So far, she was doing very well.

The air was full of twittering. Cages lined three of the walls. A profusion of rainbow-coloured finches, canaries and budgies occupied the smaller cages. Dot was bending to look into an elaborate wrought-iron construction when a gruff voice remarked, 'Pretty girl.'

Dot jumped. There did not seem to be anyone else in the small room. She looked around.

'Pretty girl,' said the voice again.

Dot heard a discordant whistle and then the jingle of a chain.

'Polly wants,' said the speaker, shuffling into sight.

It was the biggest white cockatoo that Dot had ever seen, sulphur-crested, with a beak which looked capable of opening tins. It was secured by one leg to a fine chain fixed to the perch, which allowed it considerable freedom of movement. It eyed Dot with its ancient cynical gaze and said again, 'Polly wants ...'

'Polly wants?' asked Dot. 'What does Polly want?'

'That's the trouble with that bird. He can't make up his mind,' observed another disembodied voice.

Dot began to feel that it was going to be a very strange afternoon.

From under the counter a small man arose. He was dressed in what had been a respectable blue suit, but he was liberally scattered with bird seed and he had hay in his thick fair hair.

'Sorry, I was just sweeping up some feed,' he said. 'What can I do for you, Miss? A nice budgie? Pair of lovebirds? How about a canary, I've got some fine singers.'

Dot explained her errand. Mr Gunn scratched his head, looking oddly reminiscent of the cockatoo. His fair hair spread like a crest, shedding bird seed.

'I didn't notice anyone carrying a book, not on Friday I remember the day because the police came and took statements from all of us. I was upset because that b... man Lane had poisoned some of my birds.'

'How do you know?' asked Dot, practically.

Mr Gunn blushed. 'It was the end of the week, and I was out of sunflower seeds, see, and he has an open sack of them, so I borrowed a couple of handfuls—I would have put them back at the end of the next week when I get my delivery It was for the one cage of zebra finches. They're seed eaters, Miss. I saw Lane throw a handful to a couple of penned chickens. Then, in the morning, I found my finches dead, and I saw his boy plucking a pair of chickens. They hadn't been killed in the usual way. Their necks weren't broken. He was selling poisoned chickens to the public, and I'll keep telling people that. It's not right.'

'What was wrong with the sunflower seeds? Did you ask him?'

'Well, no, I couldn't, could I? But those finches were healthy the night before and dead the next day and so were his chickens. I'm partial to a sunflower seed or two myself,' said Mr Gunn, looking more avian by the moment. 'Bl... very lucky I didn't eat any myself. Some ant poison or something must have got into the feed.'

Dot debated whether to tell him that Mr Lane was thinking of suing him for libel, or slander, but decided that it was not her argument and took her leave politely of both Mr Gunn and the parrot.

'Polly wants ...' it temporized as she shut the door.

'Make up your bloody mind,' said Mr Gunn, irritated.

By the time Dot reached Mrs Johnson's teashop she was ready for a nice cuppa and a sit down. She had drawn blanks in all the other businesses on this side of the market. Fred Marryat had shouted over the thud of his press that he hadn't seen anyone with a book and had offered her a special deal on personal cards, no rubbish, printed in the most elegant type and in the best style. Dot knew that visiting cards have to be engraved, not printed, and refused politely. Anthony Martin the chiropodist noticed only feet, though he was an encyclopedia of information on his special subject.

'People all walk differently,' he told Dot, who had sat down in his chair. His shop was hung with photographs of feet and posters which enjoined the reader to wear properly fitted shoes. An articulated skeletal foot occupied the counter. 'That's why second-hand shoes are always likely to pinch. You wear your shoe into the shape of your foot. Now you,' he looked at Dot's stockinged feet, 'you walk like you're in a hurry, lots to do, must get on. You wear your shoes on the ball of the foot. Nice straight wear though, not pigeon-toed or crooked. No bunions. Last you a lifetime, those feet. Got a good grip on the earth.'

Dot was pleased and bought a tin of foot powder, guaranteed to soothe and refresh.

Mrs Johnson was blonde, pretty and slightly harried.

'I'll do my best to help,' she declared. 'Imagine, arresting Miss Lee for murdering someone, it's absurd. All the traders think so. Mr Johnson nearly got himself arrested, calling the police a gang of Bolsheviks. Of course, he is hot tempered,' Mrs Johnson said admiringly. 'He wasn't a bit scared. Told them right to their faces that Miss Lee couldn't do a thing like that. And I told them too. But they arrested her anyway. Is there anything she needs, Miss Williams? And is she all right?'

'She's got books and comforts and things like that,' said Dot. 'She's brave. She's bearing up. But I'll tell her that you were asking after her, that'll cheer her up. Now, I'm trying to find the customers for that morning. Did you notice anyone?'

'Oh, dear, well, I saw a woman in the most absurd hat. And I think Mr Doherty's young men came in for a cup of coffee, they had a book. Something about horse-racing, I think it was.'

Dot took out her notebook. 'Who's Mr Doherty?' she asked.

'He runs a garage and a livery stable, not much livery now but he shoes the dray horses, we still have some drays. He has an interest in the grain and feed shop two doors up. Nice young men.'

'Do you know their names?' asked Dot.

'The tall one's called Smith—they call him Smithy. And the other one must be called Miller, because they call him Dusty. Does that help, Miss Williams?'

'Yes,' said Dot, hoping that it did. 'You didn't see anyone else?'

'I was busy that day,' said Mrs Johnson. 'That silly girl of mine got herself married, and now she's in the family way, and she's sick. I was run off my feet. I didn't poke my nose out of my own door until Miss Lee came in and said that the young man was dead. White as a sheet, she was, poor girl. I really must go, tell her I was asking after her, will you?'

Dot continued her walk to the grain and feed shop. It had a number of sacks outside. Each one had its cat, couchant. Dot wondered if the hay cat always sat on hay, or whether it swapped with the corn cat, the wheat cat and the chicken food cat. They were well fed and sleepy, and moved obligingly when the merchant came to measure out his produce with a tin scoop. Dot, fascinated, noticed that as soon as the man was finished, the cat leapt back and settled down again. Clearly everyone in this shop was well adjusted to their roles.

'Yes, Miss?' asked a burly man. Dot explained her mission.

'Miss Lee, eh? Never believed she done it. You want the boys? Dusty! Smithy!' he bellowed, in a huge voice which shook the walls. 'You talk to the lady,' he ordered, as two young men came skidding into the shop. One was still carrying a tally.

'We're short a sack of sunflower seed,' said one. Dot refrained from comment. Crime appeared to be endemic in the Eastern Market. She explained what she wanted for what felt like the thousandth time, and the shorter young man nodded intelligently.

'You're trying to eliminate the innocent, eh? That's what Sexton Blake does, eliminate the innocent. Me and Smithy went to the shop about oh, I don't know, tennish? On our smoko. We wanted a book on how to win on the gees, because we ain't been doing too flash lately. Miss Lee sold us one, and we'll be millionaires when Smithy works out his system, eh Smithy?'

Smithy nodded uneasily.

'Was there anyone in the shop when you came in?'

'This weird female in a hat with a bird on it who was giving Miss Lee h..., er, having an argument about what an atlas was. I mean, everyone knows what an atlas is! And someone had just delivered a big box full of books, I stubbed my toe on it. Anyway, we looked around a bit and then the hat went away, we bought our book, had a cup of coffee at Mrs Johnson's, and came back here. Then we had to take a horse to the farrier's so we missed all the excitement.' Mr Miller sounded rather disappointed.

'System,' said their boss with infinite scorn. 'Youse'll both be in Queer Street with Smithy's system. If there was such a thing, bookies'd be begging in the street, and yer don't see that happening, do yer? Well, then.'