The Castlemaine Murders (6 page)

The boots did not have conventional cloth laces but were held together with strips of what Phryne thought might be kangaroo hide.

Then she took each boot, turned it upside down and shook it firmly. Nothing was going to make her put her hand inside. She evicted one puzzled spider, who summed up its change in circumstances with great speed for an arachnid and leapt for the bookcase. Otherwise there was nothing but more red dust. Phryne took a probe and pried at something stuck to the insole. A fragment of paper.

She drew it forth and used a delicate pair of tweezers to unroll it. Red paper, printed in black—would the mummy have been so courteous and far-sighted as to have included his name and address and possibly instructions for the future disposal of his remains?

Phryne flattened the paper at last and read ‘Admit O . . . Marvels . . .’ It was a ticket for the Carter show. Drat.

More information on the Carter show would be forthcoming from Mr Josiah Burton, who was coming to dinner that night. Phryne spared a moment to worry. She would not tolerate her scholarly and charming friend meeting with any affront in her own house. She must confront Eliza and make sure that if she could not cope with dwarves at dinner with the courtesy expected of an English gentlewoman then she could dine off a tray in her own apartments. A firm line was going to be necessary with Eliza, and Phryne was going to draw it as soon as she returned home.

There was absolutely nothing more to be got from the boots. No maker’s tag, no markings, only a lot more red clay. Phryne had exhausted the possibilities of the clothes and therefore had to reluctantly return to the fascinated figures around the mummy.

He was bare now of paint and masking papier-mâché and he shone slightly with linseed oil. Phryne controlled her distaste as Dr Treasure began to exhibit the glories of his subject to his distinguished guest.

‘Except where you broke his ankle joint, so careless of you, Phryne, he is intact. He even has all his fingers and toes. If we rehydrate him a bit we might even be able to take his fingerprints. What a piece of work is man!’

‘Indeed,’ said Phryne.

‘He has been preserved by someone using Egyptian methods,’ said Dr Treasure. ‘There is no Y incision but one cut along the right side of the abdomen, here closed with stitches. This is where the viscera were removed. And the brain . . . but you already know about that.’

Professor Ayers coughed and continued: ‘I presume that his abdomen was washed out with eucalyptus oil—there is still a faint scent of it about him—quite a good substitute for cypress oil. Then the body was stuffed to keep its shape.’

‘What did they stuff it with?’ asked Jane, agog.

‘That we shall presently see,’ promised Professor Ayers, almost smiling. Jane was proving an education for Professor Ayers. ‘The Egyptians used rolls of linen, sawdust, any rubbish that was hanging around. The body was then laid in dry natron for seventy days.’

‘As Herodotus says,’ prompted Jane.

‘So after the poor helpless body was gutted, stuffed and salted like a fish, what did they do with it?’ asked Phryne. The scent of linseed oil and leather was giving her highly inappropriate memories of a cricketer to whom she had been very close. Extremely close. In the pavilion, if she remembered correctly. Before a county match. Thinking of sex in association with this human wreck she considered improper.

‘After desiccation it was washed in wine—here I believe they used turpentine—and then anointed with resin and bandaged. Here we see no bandages or amulets but I believe my thesis is sound.’

‘So do I,’ said Dr Treasure.

‘There’s a mark on his forearm,’ said Jane. ‘Here.’

‘You’ve got good eyes!’ exclaimed Professor Ayers rather enviously. ‘Take the glass, Miss Jane. What can you see?’

‘A bruise? No, wait, it’s all colours,’ replied Jane excitedly. ‘I don’t suppose, Professor, you could just call me Jane? I’m not used to being called Miss. I’m just Jane.’

Ayers unbent. His previous experience of children of the female persuasion (loud, vain, greedy) had not prepared him for eager, intelligent, educated Jane.

‘Very well. Colours? What do you make of it then . . . er, Jane?’

‘It’s a tattoo, isn’t it?’ she asked. She looked into his face for signs of agreement. Not, Phryne thought, for approval.

‘I believe that it may be,’ said Ayers. He took the glass and bent over the twisted forearm. ‘Chinese, I think. The Chinese have always done the best tattoos. Much superior in application and artistry than the crude western ones in harsh blue ink. Well, Treasure? Don’t be shy. Show the ladies your illumination.’

Blushing, Dr Treasure rolled up his sleeve. There was a fish on his upper arm. Jane took the glass and examined it minutely. So did Phryne.

‘Where did you get it?’ she asked.

‘Hong Kong. In my uproarious youth I was the doctor on a cruise ship. I don’t show it to just anyone, you know. Some fellows consider tattooing to be rather low. I wouldn’t have it done now, of course, but with tattoos there must be no regrets, for they’re perfectly indelible. Isn’t it pretty?’

‘Gorgeous,’ said Phryne truthfully. It was a carp, all floating fins, done in delicate etchings of orange, gold and black. She tore her lascivious mind away from wondering if the rest of Dr Treasure matched the muscular and lightly tanned arm and considered the tattoo on the mummy.

It was some sort of crest or coat of arms. The shape made this clear. Two supporters of a fish-tailed kind, then a quartered shield topped with a helmeted head. The plumes had survived intact, as had the tails of the mermen (if they were mermen), but the shield was stained, or perhaps the flesh under it had been bruised. Heraldry had never interested Phryne, but she knew her sister Eliza had made a close study of it. Eliza knew
Debrett’s Peerage
almost by heart. Phryne found a pencil and tried to sketch the design exactly as she could see it.

It was blurred. Ayers finally shook his sleek head and rubbed his eyes. ‘No, I can’t make out any more. I have a friend who has been getting interesting results from photographing disputed manuscripts through different filters. I’ll ask him to call and bring his plate camera. Now, what more have we to see?’

The autopsy now required that the body be turned over and every inch scrutinised before any cutting was done. Phryne was uncharacteristically wishing that she belonged to the class who could be sent to make tea. Dr Treasure might have been reading her mind.

‘Phryne, could you do me a service? Would you go into the house and ask my wife to tell Mrs Bernstein to make tea for us? Coffee for Professor Ayers and for Jane . . . what can I offer, my dear and most promising colleague?’

‘Ginger ale, Miss Phryne, if you please,’ said Jane decisively.

Phryne went.

The house was a haven, comfortably if shabbily furnished with things which someone’s relatives hadn’t had room for but couldn’t bear to throw away. Nothing matched but nothing jarred. The parlour contained, reading right to left, a woman playing the piano, a small girl dancing uncertainly, a baby making a spirited attempt to gum a biscuit and a large dog of the labrador persuasion. He was sitting under the highchair, salivating quietly, in the sure and certain knowledge that fairly soon, infant grasp and concentration being what they were, the biscuit would be his. All looked up at Phryne’s entrance.

‘No, no, please don’t stop,’ she said quickly. ‘You make a charming picture.’

‘You’re Miss Fisher, aren’t you? So nice to meet you again,’ said Mrs Treasure. She was a plump, dark-haired woman in a stylish crepe dress. She had the air of effortless serenity usually only possessed by small dark people wearing saffron robes. ‘Do meet my family,’ she said, beginning to play her simple tune again. ‘I am Anne Treasure, the dancer is my daughter Phoebe and the baby is my son Charles. And the dog is called Huggy Bear. As you might have gathered, I did not name him. Can I help you with anything or are you seeking refuge from the laboratory?’

‘They want tea, coffee for Professor Ayers and ginger ale for my daughter Jane, and I wanted to get out of there,’ confessed Phryne.

‘Well, if you can take over the piano,’ said Mrs Treasure, ‘I shall give the order. And I think a nice gin and tonic is indicated for us. If it wasn’t for the sustaining power of gin, I would never have survived child rearing. As long as you keep playing, Phoebe will keep dancing,’ she added as Phryne slipped into the seat beside her.

It might have been a threat or it might have been a promise, but Phryne picked out the notes for the tune, which she recognised after a while as Ravel’s
Bolero
, and Phoebe kept dancing. The baby duly dropped his biscuit on Huggy Bear, who gave an adroit twist and ‘clop’ of jaws. The biscuit never hit the floor. Charles missed it. Or perhaps he was taking exception to Phryne’s uncertain touch on the keyboard. Just when he was reddening with intent to roar, Mrs Treasure came back.

‘Mrs Bernstein will bring the tray,’ she said. ‘I will mix us a drink, so essential on such a warm day. I’m not going to ask about Mark’s work—I never do. You may stop playing now, Miss Fisher, thank you. Phoebe, go with Miss Fraser, now, it’s time for your nap.’

A large competent woman in a navy wrapper had appeared at the door. She bore the struggling baby off in mid roar. Phoebe followed, still dancing. Huggy Bear fell in behind. There might, he felt, be more biscuits.

‘I like your house,’ said Phryne, sipping. The crowded bookshelves held no skulls and there were no anatomical diagrams on the walls, which was an improvement on Dr Treasure’s ideas of domestic design.

Mrs Treasure laughed pleasantly. She had a rich, cultured voice.

‘My dear, the furniture is all castoffs. No point in having good furniture if you have children. One would be forever telling them not to bounce on the couch. Too fatiguing for me and too irritating for them. Do smoke if you wish. Mark is always trying to bring horrible things in jars into the house, and I am always telling him to take them back to the laboratory, so that’s enough friction for one household. But he is a dear good fellow.’

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Phryne.

It was pleasant to sit in a room which was not scented with science, but she knew she could not remain long. Someone was doubtless dying to tell her something new about their beloved mummy. Phryne enjoyed her drink and her Sobranie and waited for the tray which a severe woman brought to the door of the laboratory, where there was a table. ‘And no further,’ she declared. ‘Not after them rats!’

‘Rats?’ asked Phryne when Mrs Bernstein had safely gone.

‘She went in once just as Mark dropped a cage in which he had a few white rats. They rather swarm, rats, especially when they are dropped. Apparently one ran over her foot. After that she won’t go near the laboratory.’

‘Thank you for the drink,’ said Phryne, picking up the tray and opening the door into science.

‘Do come again,’ said Mrs Treasure, seeming to mean it.

Phryne laid down the tray and announced, ‘Tea.’

‘We have made progress,’ Jane proclaimed, taking her glass of ginger ale.

‘We certainly have,’ beamed Dr Treasure. ‘We have been over the whole body and made a small incision to see what he is packed with. Most amazing, Phryne, you won’t believe this. Tea? Ah, yes, tea. Thank you.’

‘What won’t I believe?’ asked Phryne, cushioned against further shocks by a comfortable gin.

‘First, we have the bullet. It was still in the skull, jammed in under the jaw. It’s not a bullet, Phryne. It’s a ball. Like they used in the old days. And what’s more . . .’ Dr Treasure paused to sip and lost his place. Professor Ayers leapt into the gap.

‘We know when he was mummified.’

‘We do? How? Did you find a date of preservation? Or a canning date, like they put on tinned ham? This mummy made in 1921?’

Professor Ayers did not even acknowledge her attempt at wit.

‘Better. We found out what his abdomen was packed with.’

‘What?’ asked Phryne, feeling like the straight man in a comic crosstalk act. They were so pleased and so excited and they really needed her to be astonished and impressed.

‘Newspaper,’ said Jane triumphantly.

‘Newspaper?’ demanded Phryne, astonished as required. In fact, more astonished than was required. She really was surprised.

‘And we’ve got some which hasn’t been rendered entirely illegible by the body fluids. Here.’ Ayers presented a stained and crumpled piece of newsprint.

‘Part of a masthead. The something
Mail
,’ read Phryne.

‘And here . . .’ Dr Treasure had regained the initiative as Ayers gulped his coffee. ‘The pièce de résistance.’

‘My God,’ said Phryne very quietly. ‘Gentlemen, you are amazing.’

On the strip of paper was clearly printed ‘July 27th 1857. Attempted Expulsion . . .’ While Phryne was still staring at it, Dr Treasure put down his cup and delivered his considered medical opinion.

‘This was a healthy young European man, under twenty-five, with dark hair and probably brown eyes. He was about five foot four and well built, the muscle adhesions on the bones are marked. He was left handed and had been doing hard physical work; there are callouses on his hands. He has a tattoo on his arm which came from a Chinese source, probably a port like Shanghai or Hong Kong. If I had to make a finding of death I’d have to say that there are no gross injuries, all the other bones appear to be intact and he died of homicidal or accidental violence due to a bullet to the head. Right between the eyes. At close quarters, as there is some gunpowder tattooing. After death, soon after, he was mummified in a manner which duplicated the Ancient Egyptian. From the stitches, which are surgical silk, I assume that the mummifier was a medical gentleman with a knowledge of the classics and an experimental turn of mind. How the young man got to be where he was found, that is for the remarkable Miss Fisher to explain.’

They all beamed at Phryne. She was genuinely impressed. But while their research was ended, hers was about to begin.

‘Difficult. But possible. And what would you say was the date of death, gentlemen and Jane?’

‘Oh, we are in agreement about that too. Somewhere around the date of the newspaper, Miss Fisher. Look for your missing young man in about 1857,’ Ayers told her.