Free Dead Man's Chest by Kerry Greenwood Page A

his employment, were scratchy starched cotton and they pulled at various points where he had been used to wearing only a shirt, when his shirt was clean enough to wear. Every time he closed his eyes he expected that whatever had happened to the Johnsons was about to happen to him, for Tinker was sure that they were dead, probably murdered. A snake? A deadly krait, the ‘hundred steps’ snake which was all the victim would ever walk before he died horribly? Some sort of spider? There had been a huntsman on the ceiling and it was gone now. What would Sexton Blake do?
    Find an ally, of course.
    ‘Come on, Gaston,’ called Tinker, and heard the clatter of the little dog’s claws on the hard stone floor.
    Gaston leapt up into Tinker’s arms, turned around three times to give himself room, gave the boy’s face a passing lick, and settled down to sleep. Tinker closed his eyes and undid the top button of the pyjama jacket, letting in some welcome air and the smell of dog, to combat all this cleanliness.
    Both of them sighed deeply.
    Even though the huntsman descended the wall to find out if he was edible at all, and retired disappointed to catch moths, Tinker and Gaston did not wake again until daybreak.
    Morning was announced by the merry cries of the baker’s boy, the butcher’s boy (hoping to see his beloved Lily and retiring broken-hearted), the milkman, the grocery man and, oddly enough, the ham-and-beef’s adorable fourteen-year-old daughter, whose little brother had been caught playing with the fisherboys and had been confined to barracks for spanking, scolding and disinfection. Warned by the previous day’s experience, Phryne slept through this visitation. Jane also showed no signs of rising.
    Dot, who had agreed to cook breakfast for the duration, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon and eggs. Ruth sliced bread and laid the kitchen table for their breakfast. Molly ate rinds, as did Gaston. Tinker had fought his way into his new clothes and appeared, having voluntarily washed his own face and hands. This was easy, he explained, when you just had to turn on a tap and water came out. Hot water.
    ‘A bloke doesn’t even have to boil a billy,’ he said, sitting down where indicated and picking up his eating implements.
    ‘It is wonderful,’ agreed Dot. ‘I remember getting up in the freezing dawn to light the copper.’
    ‘Me too,’ said Ruth, shuddering slightly. ‘Fingers so cold they wouldn’t work. Dropping the matches. Praying that the little flame would catch.’
    ‘Here, hang on,’ objected Tinker. ‘How do you know all that stuff? You’re ladies.’
    ‘Certainly we are ladies,’ Dot told him. ‘Where does it say that a woman who works for a living can’t be a lady? Isn’t your mother a lady?’
    Tinker was astounded. His entire political and social world view had been knocked off its axis. Dot loaded his plate with provender, filled his cup with well-sugared tea, and bade him eat up and think about it later. Tinker could understand that, at least. And he had been told to do as Miss Dot ordered. Besides, he had never eaten tucker like this in his underfed life. Thinking, Tinker felt, could always wait.
    Ruth, between bites, wrote out her tasks for the day. It was rather a daunting list. The only trouble with Miss Leyel’s wonderful recipes was that they took a lot of peeling and chopping and mincing. Dot observed the fraught way in which she was chewing the end of her pencil and said, ‘Never mind, we will get a kitchen maid for you,’ and Ruth smiled and took the implement from between her teeth. Then she frowned afresh.
    ‘Not if it’s Lily again. What’s wrong with her, anyway?’
    ‘La-di-dah,’ said Tinker through a gargantuan mouthful. He liked to taste all of the components of this wonderful breakfast at once. He swallowed and went on, ‘All she thinks about is the movies. Thinks she’s Theda Bara. Works all right if you yell at her. That’s what Mrs Cook does. That Lily’s only