Death at Victoria Dock Read Online Free PDF

crimson-hot iron as it cools
from the smelting? That is what Jones’ blood looked like,
and felt like. My senses are charred.
I shall feel it as soon as I dare, but now I must not.’
    Wilfred Owen, Diary: May 1918
    Phryne was possessed of sudden disgust. She told Dot to find Bert and Cec and ask them to dinner, then ran up the stairs and flung herself into a padded chair in front of the window which looked straight out to sea. She poured a small whisky and lit a cigarette, for she could still smell blood on her breast, and it worried her.
    I must be going mad, she chided herself. I’ve seen lots of dead men. And I do not smell of blood. It is washed off me and I am wearing different clothes. I must take hold of myself. Ah. Here are the books which Dot has obtained from the library. I shall drink this whisky and then another and I shall feel better.
    Having given herself suitable orders, she opened the first book and began to read as much as was known, which was not much, about Latvia, Lithuania, Russia, and the Revolution.
    After two hours of concentrated study, the situation was still unclear and Phryne decided to stop and review her notes.
    Latvia appeared to have been fought over and shared out between all her neighbours. Poland, Sweden and Russia had all conquered it in turn and like Gaul it had been divided into three parts: Livonia, Courland, and Latgale on the border of Russia—an unsafe place to be. She was reminded of a comment about the constant war in Poland. ‘Well, if you pitch your tent in the middle of Piccadilly you are going to get run over.’ The Baltic had been troubled since written history began and seemed to ‘produce more history than they could consume, locally’ which might have been the reason that they had continually exported trouble.
    Nasty things had happened to Latvia during the Great War, and nastier when the Revolution had transformed October forever. Lithuania was forever fighting with Poland about who owned Vilna. It was closest to Russia.
    It appeared to be Catholic, as most of the Baltic coast was, which would not please the Bolsheviks. In the Great War it had been occupied by Germany and then Russia; the Soviets had reluctantly accepted the independence of the Baltic States in 1920. Litvinov had signed a non-aggression pact with them. Nothing more was apparent from the books, and Phryne reviewed the early history. The Swedes and Teutons had been driven out by the famous Alexander Nevsky in the battle of the Raven’s Rock. The name pleased Phryne, and she folded up the notes and poured herself another small whisky. Where to find some modern history? It did not seem to have been written down in these sober tomes from the public library.
    She thought of her friends, Vera and Joseph Wilson, who would certainly know what was happening in Latvia. They were red-raggers of the deepest dye, and very good company when they could be induced to talk about anything other than politics. Vera kept a political salon of the Trotskyite persuasion and Joseph sculpted. Or did he write poetry? Something artistic, anyway.
    Phryne called the Wilsons, who were home, and asked herself to supper that night. It appeared that a lot of company was expected. She did this in cold earnest, having attended Wilson suppers before. It was a measure of her dedication that she did not flinch.
    ***
    Dinner with Bert and Cec was always amusing, especially as Mrs. Butler liked them and made unusual efforts with the food.
    ‘Who was on the gates, Miss?’ asked Bert, and snorted when Phryne described the watchman.
    ‘That’s Tom. He’d never notice a murder. Might get him into trouble. He only notices some poor coot who’s trying to take out a tin or two of peaches or a bar of chocolate. He loves pinching them. But anything big and nasty, Tom’s not your man. You musta scared him out of ten years’ growth, Miss.’
    Bert chuckled and accepted another roasted potato. The saddle of lamb was perfectly cooked and had