Free Earthly Delights by Kerry Greenwood

strolled nonchalantly ahead of me, sniffing at the occasional bloom in the condescending manner of a lord mayor at a local flower show. One almost looked for the elaborate gold chain around his furry neck. While he was deciding to give Trudi a second prize for her impatiens, I perched on a wicker chair and looked at the city.
    I have always loved Melbourne, except for the times when I have hated it (mostly at four am). The towers have never grown exceedingly tall, not like Hong Kong or Los Angeles, where walking on the street is like being a forest dweller in a huge planting of sterile trees. I hate that feeling of scurrying about under those monstrous structures, with me mouse-sized by comparison and feeling, obscurely, that I ought to watch out for a plummeting hawk. Only a few parts of Melbourne are like that. Mostly, it is still a city built by humans on a human scale.Frequent over-building and consequent bankruptcies and crashes do help to keep the builders in check. Mother Nature’s little way of keeping her balance among the capitalists.
    To celebrate I made myself another gin and tonic and raised my glass to a poor office peon who was staring at me with his tongue hanging out. Make your own destiny, I said to him. Even if it leads you into very strange places.
    He, of course, did not reply. Presently the sun went in and Horatio and I descended to our apartment. It was only four, so I decided to go down and ask the Professor if he needed me to bring him some dinner and—oh, yes—I had to visit Mistress Dread to report. Or else she might visit me and that was not a nice thought.
    Just as I was leaving the garden I found that someone had augmented one of Trudi’s painted pots with a slogan. I had to stoop to read it. This one said: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’
    I stood for a moment looking at it. I fought down the urge to wash it off or cover it up. The handwriting might be identifiable. There might even be fingerprints. Perhaps they could test the paint. It was in the same red as the ‘Whore of Babylon’ on Mistress Dread’s shop, and the same sort of unformed childish hand.
    I found a tarpaulin which Trudi must have left and draped it artlessly over the legend. This was bad. This was very bad. I had to see Mistress Dread and add this to her police report and that seemed to be the most sensible thing to do first, after I warned Meroe that she had an enemy and he had access to our building.
    I returned Horatio to our apartment, checked my own locks, and dived down to the Sibyl’s Cave. Meroe was still sitting there in silence and I lost my patience.
    ‘Someone has painted an anti-witch slogan in the roof garden,’ I said angrily. ‘Meroe? Snap out of it, this is important.’
    ‘Is it? They slaughtered us in droves in the Burning Times and witchcraft survived,’ she said in a dreamy voice. I could have shaken her. I fear that my vibrations were all of a jangle.
    ‘I don’t care about whether witchcraft survives,’ I snapped. ‘I care about whether a certain witch survives. Pay attention! What are you going to do?’
    ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I have locks and wards. There is no shortage of madmen who want to burn any woman with skill and intelligence—even now. He’ll have to get in, and then …’ She looked up at me and her eyes were bleak. ‘Then he’ll be sorry.’
    ‘I’d rather find out who he is and get him sent to a nice safe loony-bin,’ I said. ‘Did you get the scarlet woman letter?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. Some of the ice was melting in her manner.
    ‘So did I,’ I said. ‘So did Goss and Kylie. So did Mistress Dread and they’ve painted “Whore of Babylon” on her shop. This isn’t just aimed at you. But the slogan on the garden pot says “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”.’
    ‘Exodus 22:18,’ she said helpfully.
    ‘And I’m going to the cops,’ I continued.
    ‘No. Not on my account,’ said Meroe firmly. Now she was definitely with