The Castlemaine Murders by Kerry Greenwood Read Free Book Online

she were any judge—and as fragile as old washleather. Phryne took up Dr Treasure’s magnifying glass. Something was written or perhaps, yes, stitched into the waistband. It was so blurred and broken that she could only guess at it. Was that a T? Followed, perhaps, by a B? A washing mark, maybe. Otherwise the moleskins were cobwebby, worn, dirty and fragmentary. There was scarcely enough trouser to keep even a mummy decent.
    There were no rags of undergarments, though they might have fallen entirely to dust, and no socks in the dusty boots. Poor TB, if he was TB, had not even been given a slave’s loincloth before he had been dressed in these foul rags and displayed like a guy.
    The boots were interesting. They looked too good to be wasted on a carnival figure, for all the walking he might do. Jane had suggested that they were not his boots because they had fallen off, but surely the total loss of flesh would explain that? If he had been about 64 inches tall he might have had a size . . . seven, perhaps, boot. Phryne borrowed some linseed swabs and cleaned one side of the left boot, noting that the soles had plenty of wear in them. Layers of dust came off and under it a splash of white and then a streak of red. Blood? No. Blood dried black. This was red clay. Under close examination she could see that both boot soles bore traces of red clay. Tenacious stuff, red clay. Phryne had once been smeared with clay during an injudicious foray into the sport called caving, and after trying to remove it from her hair had decided that it might be easier just to plaster the rest of herself with red clay and start a new fashion. Where was the nearest red earth? Not on the black soil plain. Towards Ballarat, perhaps, or Bendigo.
    The boots did not have conventional cloth laces but were held together with strips of what Phryne thought might be kangaroo hide.
    Then she took each boot, turned it upside down and shook it firmly. Nothing was going to make her put her hand inside. She evicted one puzzled spider, who summed up its change in circumstances with great speed for an arachnid and leapt for the bookcase. Otherwise there was nothing but more red dust. Phryne took a probe and pried at something stuck to the insole. A fragment of paper.
    She drew it forth and used a delicate pair of tweezers to unroll it. Red paper, printed in black—would the mummy have been so courteous and far-sighted as to have included his name and address and possibly instructions for the future disposal of his remains?
    Phryne flattened the paper at last and read ‘Admit O . . . Marvels . . .’ It was a ticket for the Carter show. Drat.
    More information on the Carter show would be forthcoming from Mr Josiah Burton, who was coming to dinner that night. Phryne spared a moment to worry. She would not tolerate her scholarly and charming friend meeting with any affront in her own house. She must confront Eliza and make sure that if she could not cope with dwarves at dinner with the courtesy expected of an English gentlewoman then she could dine off a tray in her own apartments. A firm line was going to be necessary with Eliza, and Phryne was going to draw it as soon as she returned home.
    There was absolutely nothing more to be got from the boots. No maker’s tag, no markings, only a lot more red clay. Phryne had exhausted the possibilities of the clothes and therefore had to reluctantly return to the fascinated figures around the mummy.
    He was bare now of paint and masking papier-mâché and he shone slightly with linseed oil. Phryne controlled her distaste as Dr Treasure began to exhibit the glories of his subject to his distinguished guest.
    ‘Except where you broke his ankle joint, so careless of you, Phryne, he is intact. He even has all his fingers and toes. If we rehydrate him a bit we might even be able to take his fingerprints. What a piece of work is man!’
    ‘Indeed,’ said Phryne.
    ‘He has been preserved by someone using Egyptian methods,’ said