Free Dead Man's Chest by Kerry Greenwood

of Australia, the rudest savages as to whom we possess accurate information, magic is universally practised, whereas religion in the sense of a propitiation or conciliation of the higher powers seems to be nearly unknown. Roughly speaking, all men in Australia are magicians, and not one is a priest: everyone fancies he can influence his fellows or the course of nature by sympathetic magic, but no one dreams of propitiating the gods by prayer or sacrifice.” Well, Mr Frazer, that seems a little harsh.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Jane, reaching for the second volume.
    ‘Assuming that if you don’t sacrifice to the gods then you are a rude savage.’
    ‘I’m a rude savage,’ said Jane unhesitatingly.
    ‘Me too. Though I would not advise rubbing ochre onto the person. I once got coated in red mud while caving, and it might have been easier just to apply another coat than get that muck out of my hair. It took hours. Almost caused Dot to swear.’
    ‘No!’ objected Jane.
    ‘Well, she blessed me a lot of times in the name of various saints and was distinctly heard to say “drat” more than once. That’s strong language for Dot. There’s a whole shelf of works on the Phoenicians in England here. It’s something of a fad at the moment, I believe.’
    ‘Phoenicians? Like in Ancient Greece?’ Jane climbed up onto a chair to reach the higher shelves.
    ‘Yes, those Phoenicians. They would travel anywhere to sell something or buy something. The Afghans of the ancient world. They traded around Africa for gold and ivory. They might have got as far as Cuba. They certainly bought their tin from Cornwall. Tin being essential to the manufacture of . . .’
    ‘Bronze,’ said Jane quickly.
    ‘Good! And since it was the Bronze Age, they’d feel silly without any bronze. They’d have to call it the Copper Age, and I don’t believe copper is at all useful for weapons.’
    ‘Too soft,’ said Jane. ‘Mind you, bronze is mostly copper with about ten percent tin thrown in to harden it.’
    ‘And it is beautiful,’ said Phryne, lifting down her armload of books and offering a hand to her daughter.
    ‘Oh,’ said Jane, who had never understood the term. ‘I suppose so, Miss Phryne.’
    The sofa and the table were piled with anthropological texts.
    ‘Well, there’s our research work,’ said Phryne.
    ‘What are we looking for, Miss Phryne?’ asked Jane, taking up a weighty tome and wondering where she had left her notebook and pencil.
    ‘Any clue as to the present or prospective whereabouts of Mr Thomas, or his destination, or even his closest allies,’ Phryne told her.
    ‘Ah,’ said Jane, who had found both notebook and pencil keeping her place in The Mystery of the Gilded Bones . Detect- ive stories could wait. This was a real-life mystery. Jane sat down to read through Mr Thomas’s first book. Phryne took the second. Jane was supplied, by Ruth, with a night-time cup of cocoa, and Miss Fisher took another gin and lemonade.
    Dot, Ruth, Tinker, Molly and Gaston (retrieved from under the couch and comforted with a biscuit) retired to the cosy confines of the kitchen and left them to it. Gaston was not happy. The kitchen was his kitchen, but the familiar furniture had gone and the human smells were different. He yearned for his people. He shivered, though the night was warm.
    Then the boy called him. The boy had not been a close friend but he belonged to the part of Gaston’s life which had contained affection and biscuits. He trotted into the bedroom, where the boy lay in a bed made up suitably with pillows, sheets and blankets. They, too, had the proper scent of the household.
    Tinker was uncomfortable. The house was making creaking noises and something appeared to be breathing near the window. He had never slept alone in his life. The bed was clean and he was clean and this, too, was strange. He kept getting tangled in his sheets, never having lain in sheets before. His new pyjamas, which he was wearing as a condition of