Cooking the Books by Kerry Greenwood

Author:Kerry Greenwood
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Publisher: Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd
Published: 2010-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

I had the greatest difficulty in finding Cupboard. I walked up and down that stretch between Swanson and Bourke several times before I realised I was on the wrong side of the road. Finally I located it between one shop and another; a little barred door which presumably led down a stair to a den of some sort. It was not far from the building with Puck emblazoned above it. There was the parchment, stuck under the door. I pulled it out. Pockets’ idiosyncratic handwriting was instantly recognisable.

Three wise men of Gotham, it read. I knew this one and recited it as I headed for home, which presently meant a shower and a gin and tonic, rather stressing the gin, which I felt that I had earnt.

‘Three wise men of Gotham, went to sea in a bowl. If the bowl had been stronger, this story would have been longer.’ Gotham? Why did I associate that with Batman rather than a rhyme?

Home, hot and tired, I had my shower, put on my loose gown, patted my cat and provided a few treats, fired up the computer and researched Gotham, then took self, cat and esky to the roof garden.

I was clean and comfortable and felt quite good until I saw that the temple of Ceres contained Jason, crumpled into a corner. He looked rough and angry. I sailed in, put Horatio down, and said, ‘Hello, Jason,’ in as equable a voice as I could manage. ‘I’m working on a mystery for Daniel. Want to help?’

‘Corinna,’ he said. He looked piteously up into my face as I sat down next to him. He had been crying for some time. His eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Jason,’ I replied.

‘How could you?’ he choked, and was gone.

Damn again. How was I going to explain to someone who would not stay to be explained to? I might send him an email, I thought. I knew he had a second-hand laptop which the Lone Gunmen had given him as outmoded by several weeks. And we had wireless broadband for the whole building. I doubted that I could express myself well enough in writing to comfort him. But I would try as soon as I finished this drink.

Crossly, I poured myself a stiff gin and sat down to contemplate the wise men of Gotham.

There were a lot of stories about them. Apparently, King John had been about to set up a hunting lodge in their area, which would have been ruinous; huntsmen riding over crops, common land enclosed, winter fodder and wood from the forest cut off. So they behaved like lunatics in front of the King’s spies, and he decided that trying to fence in the cuckoo might be catching, and took his hunting lodge elsewhere. Gotham was crazy like the fox. They definitely would have been able to distinguish a hawk from a handsaw, whatever quarter the wind was in. The stories had that odd feel which I had also encountered when Professor Dion read me his translation of Aristophanes.

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