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Authors: Robin Adair

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Halloran looked surprised. “Why, my dear sir, how did you know? Yes, indeed, the amount would be a halfpenny.”
“And how widely known would the parable be?”
“Why, it would not be all that hard to stumble across. Possibly it could be found at the subscription library and reading rooms. Mr. McGarvie may well have it at his stationery warehouse. Even I have it in a volume at my office. And, of course, there have been Jews in Sydney since the arrival of the First Fleet.”
Dunne nodded thoughtfully. He needed time to think about all that had happened. Even though he had found a Gentile instead of a Jew who knew the answer, the first riddle had indeed led them to a strange verse recording a cycle of faraway violence. Yet here and now they seemed involved in just such a cycle.
But where to next? Perhaps the corpse held more clues, he thought. He beckoned to Captain Rossi to follow and left Dr. Halloran idly wondering if a fire-damaged cast-iron Stanhope press would be a good investment. Although, if pushed, Halloran would have been the first to admit he had scant knowledge of printing.
Outside, the patterer hoped to see Miss Dormin again, but she had disappeared.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Riddles lie here, or in a word,
Here lies blood …
—John Cleveland, “Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford” (1647)
 
 
 
 
 
 
R
OSSI AND YOUNG DUNNE WALKED BACK ALONG KENT STREET. The magistrate planned to turn off after a few blocks and return to his court, while the patterer continued across town to his ultimate destination, the hospital beside the Hyde Park prisoners’ barracks.
“Why were we sent the halfpenny with the verse?” Dunne wondered aloud. “Apart from equaling two
zuzim
, what was its relevance?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Rossi “but I suppose it may be significant.”
“Let’s be logical,” said Dunne. “Was the killer making the point that he was changing the parable’s original currency into English coin?”
“Very well. So?”
“So, does it mean that he has also given much of the parable’s wheel of death and destruction an English context? By ‘English’ I mean here, in Sydney. Yes, there
is
still an angel of death—our quarry. But forget the ox, the water, fire, staff, dog and cat, and reckon that, instead, there are Englishmen—here—at risk. And so far it seems it all has something to do with soldiery.”
“And the kid?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we can forget that, too. Or perhaps there is an English local equivalent that started the circle here.”
“The victims in the verse kill each other,” pointed out Rossi. “Our victims seem to have a common nemesis.”
“Perhaps our angel would be happy for them to kill each other. But if they won’t oblige, he will.”
Rossi grunted. “You’ve overlooked the end of the loop—the Most Holy, who slew the angel of death.”
“Yes, well …” The patterer had a sudden thought. “Perhaps our angel wants to be caught and punished. If so, he’s not just taunting us, he’s
guiding
us! So we
must
be about to receive another clue. Or there’s one we’ve overlooked.”
“Well,” sighed the magistrate, “it’s a poser, whichever way you look at it.”
The patterer stopped in his tracks, turned to the magistrate and asked urgently, “What did you just say?”
“I simply said that it’s a poser …”
“No, no—the last bit; you said, ‘Whichever way you look at it.’ ”
“Well?”
“Well, indeed! Tell me, how exactly were you standing when you tried to read that last line of type?”
Rossi frowned. “Ah, I was facing the end of, what did you call it, the galley? Why, is that important?”
Dunne shook his head impatiently. “Were you at the head of the column of type or at the galley’s open end? I mean, were all the letters upside down?”
“Why, no. When I come to think of it, I was at the open end and the letters were the right way up. Backward, of course, but …”
“Patience, Captain. The last line you tried to make out—it wasn’t quite as unintelligible as the rest above?”
The magistrate agreed.
The patterer grabbed Rossi’s lapel excitedly. “Let’s go back to the scene of the crime and take another look at that typesetting.”
THE
NEW WORLD
was deserted, apart from one constable nearby, guarding against looting. Not that this was an automatic protection, Dunne thought as he saw the man hastily hide a bottle at Rossi’s approach.
The patterer had always taken a professional interest in the colony’s police. He knew that the mounted force, set up only a few years before to hunt down outlaws, was a success though accused of questionable tactics. But after more than ten years, the foot patrols labored under a welter of problems. They were under-strength, and pay and morale were low. Why, in the mid-’20s, in a force that should have hovered around eighty bodies at any one time, there had been twenty-five resignations and sixty or so sackings for drunkenness, dishonesty or other misconduct. And many constables were ex-convicts, causing suspicion or mistrust among all members of the populace.
“Sed quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”
murmured Dunne.
“But who is to guard the guards themselves—Juvenal?” replied Rossi, earning a raised eyebrow from the patterer. “That’s at least
one
piece of Latin that police chiefs know!” the magistrate said with a wink.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A compositor early acquires the art of reading type both in reverse and upside down. The line you have just read appears to the compositor like this:
—John A. Spellman,
Printing Works Like This
(1964)
 
 
 
 
 
 
I
N THE COMPOSING ROOM, THE PATTERER PICKED UP THE GALLEY OF type and then carefully, so as not to spill the tiny characters, centered it on a perfectly level stone-topped table. Keeping the lines of type firmly together by blocking them with a heavy metal wedge, he lightly coated the typeface with an ink-sodden dabber made of horsehair and wool covered with sheepskin. He next covered the inked surface with a sheet of paper and, with a clean padded roller, took an impression. He peeled off the proof to reveal a column, not one and a half inches deep, its lines in a very small typeface. On examination, this text proved to be an incomplete recitation of government orders, but the last line seemed to have no place in the report and the first line read, puzzlingly, “All eight point.”
Dunne showed the proof to the magistrate. “It’s hard enough to read now,” he said. “The typeface is a very small one—it’s called Ruby—so small that you can print more than a dozen lines to the inch.”
Rossi looked at the galley proof and shook his head. “But that’s damned odd. When
I
looked at the type I couldn’t decipher the beginning, but could make some sense of the last line. Now the tables are turned.”
The patterer laughed. “No wonder. You looked from the wrong end of the galley. A compositor masters the art of reading type in reverse and upside down. That’s why we say, for ‘be careful,’ ‘mind your
p′
s and
q′
s′—it′s old compositors’ lore, because
p
and
q
are the hardest letters to distinguish in reverse, along with
b
and
d
. You read what you thought was ‘exobus SISSE′ because you guessed correctly at the backward
e
and s. But you confused
d
in reverse for
b
, a backward numeral
2
for
S
and a reversed
3
for
E
.”
Rossi squinted at the proof. “But even printed, that last line doesn’t make sense. Now it reads: ‘32212 sudoxe!’ ”
“It suggests that Will Abbot didn’t set that last line—and that whoever did wasn’t really a printer. Oh, he understood a smattering, but not the rudiments. He simply set what he wanted to say just as he’d write it—from left to right. So it
prints
in reverse order.”
“So, it is meant to say …”
“Exactly—exodus 21223! Given that our amateur printer made several mistakes, it may be a reference to the biblical Book of Exodus, chapter and verse.”
AS THE INVESTIGATORS were leaving what was left of the
New World
printery for the second time that day, heaven smiled on their quest for biblical enlightenment. For they spied in the distance a bulky figure emerging from the nearby Judge’s House, which was now home to the newly arrived junior judge, James Dowling. The fellow steering a stately course for his carriage was the Reverend Samuel Marsden, an old man of sixty-three but still, with his great land-holdings, a leading figure in the colony even though his earlier powers were now in decline.
“Ah, capital!” said Rossi as he headed toward the cleric. “Who better to give us an opinion on matters spiritual than the gentleman who was once assistant chaplain for the entire colony?”
The patterer hung back, clearly not as happy as Rossi to see Marsden.
“Well, you do all the talking,” he muttered. “He’ll ignore us if he knows I’m not free, pass-man though I may be. He even loathes men who have done their time. He’d probably like to cut me dead—literally—if I stepped out of line in any way. He’s not known as the ‘Flogging Parson’ for nothing.”
He ignored Rossi’s snort and continued. “It’s true. Why, as a magistrate he used to scourge suspects until they confessed. And he had a woman at the Factory chained to a log for two months.”
Rossi simply snorted again and strode on, so Dunne kept silent and maintained a respectful pace behind him as they intercepted the minister.
Marsden was clearly interested in what was put to him as an official request and, after hearing the full details, agreed to help. He waved away a suggestion that perhaps he and Rossi should repair to a place that contained a Bible.
“No,” said the minister. “My sight may be fast failing now, but it has only sharpened my mind. And I have lived the words of the Bible all my years. Tell me the references and doubtless I should be able to identify them.”

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