Kerry Greenwood

TAMAM SHUD

THE SOMERTON MAN MYSTERY

This book is dedicated to the memory of my father AW Greenwood, much cherished, much missed. Daddy darling.

Introduction

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend

Before we too into the Dust descend;

Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and – sans End.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 23

My mother has a strict regard for truth. She loves facts, history, biography. But my father taught me fiction because he told wonderful stories. Dad was a wharfie and a knockabout bloke, who ran away from his nice respectable middle-class home when he was fifteen to be a shearer; who had been everywhere and done everything; who invented a special tool to replace dolls’ arms; who felt that if a story needed embellishment to make it a good story, then he was the man to embellish it. I listened to his stories with huge enthusiasm, but I never really believed him. You wouldn’t bet your life on my dad’s veracity.

Al Greenwood came back from working in Adelaide and took a job at Melbourne Port as an off-season wharfie. He stayed there for the rest of his working life.

So no one was more surprised than me to find that the Tamam Shud mystery was all true.

In 1948 my father went to Adelaide. He had just got out of the army and had been stringing wires at Woomera Rocket Range as a signaller. He was slim and tanned with a mop of red curls and beautiful brown eyes. A friend of his, a boxer called Ray Dunn (also known as Killer), had had a disagreement with John Wren, the crime lord of the time, and felt that trying his luck in another city for a while might be wise, so he and my dad palled up. They stayed in Adelaide for almost a year.

In December 1948, my dad told me, the body of a man was found at the bottom of the steps on Somerton Beach. He was clean, manicured, well-nourished and well-dressed and had no visible wounds. Someone had gone to the trouble of removing all the labels from his clothes, which attracted immediate attention from the constabulary. And in the fob pocket of his pleated trousers, overlooked at first, was a piece of paper with the words ‘Tamam Shud’ on it. ‘Tamam Shud’ is the last phrase of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the works of a Persian poet translated by Edward FitzGerald, which used to be a popular Christmas gift for relatives one did not know well. My father said that the rest of the book was found in a car belonging to a doctor, parked at the top of the steps down to Somerton Beach. The phrase ‘Tamam Shud’ had been torn out of it and on the back of the page there was an unbreakable code. The autopsy determined that the man had been poisoned but the poison could not be identified. He was buried in West Terrace cemetery and the police kept a body cast, but no one ever claimed him.

All true. I should have twigged, because, unusually, my dad’s story had no ending. No satisfactory solution. Years later, when I was casting about for a mystery to solve for a short story collection called Case Reopened, I remembered Dad’s Tamam Shud story and looked it up. And I found that not only had my dad been accurate, which was not like him at all, but that the case was even more peculiar than he had known.

Kerry as a fruit picker in 1975. Picking grapes was my own connection to Adelaide. For two weeks or more I would work all day dragging a bag of grapes through the rows of vines, happy as the sun was long.

I had my own Adelaide connection as well. I used to go there every summer in the seventies for the fruit picking. I stayed in East Terrace with a friend of mine and enjoyed the city, especially as a relief from all those grapes. But I have always been uneasily aware that under its hypercivilised veneer, Adelaide is an eerie place, where they rather go in for strange killings – Truro, Snowtown, The Family. Murder is universal but Adelaide murder always has a twist. I remember thinking, as I lazed around Central Market, drinking Italian coffee and eating jam doughnuts from the pie cart, that I would love to investigate the history of the city one day and see if I could work out what made it such a fey place.

They are all gone into the world of light. My Adelaide of the seventies is gone, along with my youth and strength. The Adelaide of 1948 is gone, both the authorised version and the one related to me by my dad. The man found on Somerton Beach is gone, cocooned in his mystery. My father has gone, three years dead. In this book I will try to understand all of them and provide some explanations and then I will have to close the book and let them all go.

I cannot tell you how that feels.

Chapter One

Up from Earth’s Centre through the Seventh Gate

I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,

And many Knots unravel’d by the Road;

But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 31

On 30 November 1948, Mr John Baines Lyons, a jeweller, went for a walk with his wife along Somerton Beach, as was their habit if the weather was warm. It was the last day of spring and hot, so they were strolling along the foreshore at about 7 pm. Near the foot of the steps which led down to the beach they saw a man sitting, supported by the sea wall. As they passed, he extended his right arm and then let it fall. They concluded that he was not dead, although possibly dead drunk, and walked on.

Some time later, around 7.30 pm, a woman called Olive Constance Neill, a telephonist, saw the seated man from the road above the seafront. It was a warm night and there were other people about, including a man in his fifties, wearing a grey suit and hat, who was looking down, possibly at the man on the beach. Miss Neill directed her companion Gordon’s attention to the seated man and said, ‘Perhaps he’s dead!’ Gordon gave a cursory glance, observed that the man might indeed be dead because he wasn’t reacting to the mosquitos, and they passed on. Possibly with other things on their minds.

‘X’ marks the spot. The place where the body was found on Somerton Beach, Adelaide.

At about 6.50 am, the same John Lyons, who must have been a very athletic man, went for an early morning swim. When he emerged from the sea, he met a friend of his and they noticed men on horses gathered around the man Mr Lyons had seen the night before. On inspection, Mr Lyons affirmed that the man was dead. He went home to call the police and then returned to the scene. Brighton Police Station sent their Constable Moss, who found a body in which rigor was already fully established.

The man was lying with his feet toward the sea, still against the sea wall. He was well-dressed but he had no hat. He didn’t appear to have suffered any stab wounds or bullet wounds. No bruises or blood were observed and there was no disturbance of the scene. He seemed to have died, very quietly and peacefully, where he sat. His half-smoked cigarette had fallen out of his mouth and onto his lapel as he slumped but his chin was not even blistered.

And there you have him. Somerton Man as he is called these days.

My dad told me about him as though he was a myth. In a way, he is. Certainly, he has become an object over which many theories have been laid. But he is also himself, poor man – cold as a stone, slouched on the sand like a marooned sailor, with his last smoke dropping gently out of his mouth – and he deserves his dignity. He was somebody’s son. Somebody, somewhere, missed him and mourned for him. I must never write about him as though he were a thing. He wasn’t just a mystery. He was a man.

The police ambulance took Somerton Man to the Royal Adelaide Hospital on North Terrace. There, at 9.40 am, the doctor declared that life was extinct, an ancient ritual which must be enacted, even if there is absolutely no chance that life is present – for example, in a person whose head is at least 5 metres away from their body. (In case you think I am exaggerating I should say that this example comes from my own legal experience. Traffic accident.)

Life could hardly have been more extinct in Somerton Man. The doctor who declared him dead suggested that he must have had a heart attack and sent him to the morgue for a post-mortem. The body was processed in the usual way, being stripped and tagged and refrigerated. There was nothing odd about a heart attack victim, so no special notice was taken of the half-smoked cigarette, but the contents of his pockets were logged, as follows:

Railway ticket to Henley Beach

Bus ticket to North Glenelg

American metal comb

Packet of Juicy Fruit chewing gum

Packet of Army Club cigarettes with seven Kenistas cigarettes inside

Handkerchief

Packet of Bryant & May matches

He had no wallet, no identity documents, no money and no passport.

My father was convinced that Somerton Man was an American because of his clothes, which he called ‘sharp’ (My dad was pretty sharp himself and had a keen eye for tailoring). Somerton Man was wearing jockey shorts and a singlet, a white shirt with a narrow tie in red, white and blue, fawn trousers, a brown knitted pullover, a brown double-breasted suit coat, socks and highly polished brown, laced shoes. Snazzy.

Somerton Man was a snappy dresser but it was a hot evening and he was wearing very heavy clothes for the weather. My own experience of Adelaide on a hot day is you find yourself wishing you could strip off your clothes at midday and bathe in the sea. Somerton Man was wearing the ensemble of someone who had come from somewhere cold, or who had nowhere to leave a change of clothes, or no lighter clothes into which he could change.

On examination of the clothes, it was found that every identifying label had been removed. This should have been the point at which someone smelt a Rodent of Unusual Size. Various commentators on this case have stated definitively that second-hand clothes always had the labels removed but as one who has dressed in op shop garments since early youth, I know this is not the case. What’s more, according to my more aged relatives, it never has been the case.

Before the seventies, when cheap mass-produced fabrics flooded into the West, clothes used to be much more valuable, by a factor of about ten, and consequently one labelled one’s clothes. In the days before iron-on glue, the labels bearing the name of the garment’s owner were usually sewn onto the manufacturer’s label. When you bought the garment in an op shop, you unpicked the original name tag and replaced it with your own. No used-clothes shop hoping for a profit would ever remove a prestigious tailor’s label from an expensive coat because the label would double the price. The only reason I can think of for removing all the labels is the concealment of Somerton Man’s identity.

Somerton Man had no money in his pockets. If he’d had any, it had gone with his wallet – if he had a wallet. And, to complete our survey of his garments, folded up into a tight little wad in his fob pocket, overlooked during the first survey, there was a scrap of paper torn out of a book that bore the words ‘Tamam Shud’. Of which, much more later.

The infamous note found hidden carefully in the watch pocket of Somerton Man’s coat. Was it a love token rather than a code?

Naked and cold, Somerton Man waited for his attending physician, whose task was to determine how he had died. The doctor in question, Dr JM Dwyer, decided that he had died of some irritant poison and sent samples of his organs – liver, muscle, blood, urine and stomach contents – for analysis. His fingerprints were taken and he was photographed. Somerton Man was now officially a Suspicious Death.

Not only Suspicious, but Unknown. While the forensic tests were performed and Somerton Man rested in his refrigerator, the police set about trying to find out who he was. Detective Strangway of Glenelg Station and his associates began by checking all the missing persons reports on hand but Somerton Man fitted none of them. Then they checked his fingerprints, which were not on record. And after that they went to the papers.

Police are almost always reluctant to make a newspaper appeal because they know they will be buried under the paperwork. Tips will flood in from people who have lost sons, brothers and, particularly, defaulting husbands and lovers all over Australia. Two people were sure that he was Robert Walsh, a woodcutter, but this positive identification was withdrawn when one of them looked at the body again and decided that it wasn’t him. In any case, Walsh was sixty-three and Somerton Man was younger and had soft hands, which woodcutters don’t, as a rule. Another firm identification as EC Johnson rather fell flat when the man concerned walked into a police station and asserted very firmly that he wasn’t dead. So Somerton Man wasn’t EC Johnson either. (Oddly, when I’m writing novels I always use Johnson as my default name for a character. If you see a Johnson in one of my books it’s because I haven’t been able to think of another name for him or her.)

I see no need to revisit all the dead ends which eventuated from this appeal. Suffice to say that Somerton Man wasn’t any of the 251 people he was, over time, thought to be. A vigorous and comprehensive rummage through all the missing persons in Australia failed to reveal his identity, although it must have eaten up a spectacular number of police man hours and cost a fortune in overtime.

While all of this was going on, the autopsy had taken place and the body wasn’t getting any fresher, so an embalming was arranged. Photographs taken before and after demonstrate the difference that embalming makes. The original police pictures show a younger, slightly plump man but after he has been embalmed, he looks aged and shrunken and not himself. If he had been an acquaintance, I might have recognised him from the original picture, but I suspect I wouldn’t have recognised the embalmed corpse. In any case, I know from experience that it is hard to identify the dead. Everything that made the face individual is gone with the last breath. The body cast they made of Somerton Man looks like a marble statue, Roman and ancient.

So far, so inconclusive. Then on 14 January, in response to a police appeal for unclaimed baggage directed to all lodging houses, hotels and railway stations, a suitcase was found in a locker at Adelaide’s Central Railway Station. It had been checked in after 11 am on 30 November 1948, the last day of Somerton Man’s life.

It was a nice, clean, respectable and not inexpensive brown leather suitcase. All the labels had been removed. In those days, labels were not tied on, as they are in airplane travel today. They were glued or pasted onto the leather. Having tried to remove some of the labels from my grandmother’s favourite suitcase because they were so pretty, I can tell you from first-hand experience that they cannot be stripped or cut off. They can only be removed by patient, gentle soaking with a sponge, which argues time and determination. Somerton Man really didn’t want anyone to know where he had been.

The suitcase contained the following items:

Red checked dressing gown

Red felt slippers, size 7

Undergarments – four pairs

Pyjamas

Four pairs of socks

Shaving kit containing razor and strop, shaving brush

Light brown trousers with sand in cuffs

A screwdriver

A cut-down table knife

A stencilling brush

A pair of scissors

A sewing kit containing orange Barbour’s waxed thread

Two ties

Three pencils

Six handkerchiefs

Sixpence in coins

A button

A tin of brown shoe polish, Kiwi brand

One scarf

One cigarette lighter

Eight large envelopes and one small envelope

One piece of light cord

One scarf

One shirt without a name tag

One yellow coat shirt (a shirt with an attached collar)

Two airmail stickers

One rubber (meaning an eraser)

One front and one back collar stud

Toothbrush and paste

So what can we make of these pitiful relics? As my father said, Somerton Man had good taste in clothes, though tending towards the gaudy. His case contained only enough for a few nights, a week perhaps. No extra shirts, for a start. This was a cleanly man who changed his clothes every day. He must have owned more shirts or what was the point of having more than one tie?

The most exciting discovery in the suitcase was the orange Barbour thread, which was not sold in Australia. Identical thread had been used to repair the pocket of Somerton Man’s coat. Waxed thread is not usually used to mend clothes: it must have been an emergency repair, intended to last only until he could lay hands on a seamstress. It seemed unlikely that the Barbour thread in the suitcase and the Barbour thread in Somerton Man’s coat were not connected, so the suitcase probably belonged to Somerton Man. Also, the clothes are his size and the slippers would fit his feet.

And some of the garments in the suitcase actually had labels with a name on them. There must have been cautious rejoicing amongst the exasperated police at that point, although they should have known it was too good to be true. The name, written on a singlet, a laundry bag and a tie, was T. Keane. Or possibly T. Kean. The call went out and a local sailor named Tom Reade was said to be missing. Was Somerton Man perhaps Tom Reade?

But when Tom Reade’s shipmates viewed the body, they all said that it was not their Tom Read. Meanwhile widespread searches through maritime agencies had revealed that no one was missing a T. Keane or Kean. Rats (or the equivalent), one can hear the law enforcement persons say.

The clothes were also marked with drycleaning or laundry marks, which were applied to clothes when they were submitted for cleaning, so that the cleaner could identify them if their tag was lost. These marks were 1171/1 and 4393/7 and 3053/7 but extensive searches of laundries and drycleaners found no one who used those combinations of numbers. Notably, the only marked clothes in the suitcase, which also had a name on them were those where the name could not be removed without destroying the garment – for instance, the singlet, where the name was written inside the band in indelible ink. And it also seems reasonable to assume that Somerton Man left the names where they were because he knew that he was not Tom or any other Kean(e) – not Terence, Tipton, Trevelyan and so on. Besides, it is unusual to buy second-hand underwear. Even if you are very poor, you usually save to buy new knickers. I speak from personal experience.

So why did Somerton Man have T. Keane’s laundry bag? It’s another mystery: this matter has a plethora of them. Tom Keane was said to be a sailor, so the laundry marks may relate to a ship’s laundry. Somerton Man might have been on the same ship as Tom Keane and picked up his laundry by mistake – although that doesn’t explain the tie, given that ties are drycleaned, not laundered. Somerton Man might also have deliberately swapped his own marked garments for similar garments belonging to Tom Keane, who would probably not mind, as long as he got a singlet of some sort, although it was not kind to nick Tom Keane’s tie as well. If the name on Somerton Man’s own tie was a problem, he could have adopted the solution used when I was a child – blacking out the old name in Indian ink and writing your own beside it. Indian ink is really black.

The clothes were all examined by experts. The police called in a tailor, Hugh Possa of Gawler Place, who explained that the careful construction of the coat, with feather- stitching done by machine, was definitely American, as only the American garment industry used a feather stitching machine. So the clothes were very high value schmutter indeed. Such coats, the police were informed, were not imported. They were made up to a certain stage and then could be quickly tailored to the figure. The sort of thing which might be bought by someone who wasn’t staying long in port, but was willing to pay a high price for a beautifully made, hand-finished suit. From which he then removed the label.

Somerton Man also had very snazzy taste in nightwear. His pyjamas and gown are brightly coloured, and his felt slippers are red. My father’s taste also tended to the bright. I have a Hawaiian shirt of his that can only be viewed through dark glasses. Such things were a mark of a free spirit. Men of the time might have considered these garments to be outrageous, even effeminate. That is another thing we will never know.

It is interesting that there was sand in the cuffs of the trousers in the suitcase. Unfortunately, although its presence was noted, the sand was not examined or analysed. In the same cuffs were stumps of barley grass, which is the stuff that grabs any passing cloth and screws itself into the weave. (It has to be cut out of cat’s fur and children’s hair, because it’s as adhesive as bubble gum.) Everyone always assumes that Somerton Man had just arrived in Adelaide on the day he died but the sand in the cuffs might mean that he had been to Somerton Beach before he arrived at the station and maybe changed his clothes afterwards. Or was he landed, perhaps, with his suitcase, on another beach, brought ashore by dinghy from a ship, walking the last little way across the sand and hoping – successfully, as it happens – to avoid notice? After which, a snappy dresser might have folded those trousers into his suitcase, still with sand in the cuffs, and put on fresh ones.

Somerton Man’s shoes were clean, however, and looked to have been recently polished. He can’t have walked ashore in them. Seawater does very nasty things to leather shoes. Did he tippytoe barefoot through the waves with his shoes in his hand? Did he put them on when his feet dried and stop at the shoeshine stand near the station, after he had his wash and checked his suitcase? My father said that the Central Station shoeshine man did a wonderful job, even on army boots. If so, Somerton Man must have paid him with his very last tuppence in the world.

Last but not least, my father, drawing on his experience as a wharfie, told me that the stencilling brush, the modified knife, the screwdriver, pencils and the scissors found in Somerton Man’s suitcase were all part of a cargo master’s equipment – the stencilling brush for marking cargo and the other items for cutting or replacing seals. Cargoes were more fun back in those days. Instead of containers, which are anonymous and boring, balanced for weight, there were bales and sacks and boxes and crates, all carried by men out of ships and along gangplanks. Hard labour.

My father always said that 120 pounds of grain was a lot easier to carry than 90 pounds of potatoes. I couldn’t carry 120 pounds (or 50 kilos) of grain if my life depended on it but they did, for eight hours, up and down and along, from the hold to the deck to the truck or railway flatbed. Sometimes the bales and sacks and boxes and crates were taken up to the deck and swung out on cargo nets. That’s why wharfies had cargo hooks, formidable little hand weapons, used for handling cargo, cleaning fingernails and settling differences of opinion. Working on the docks was called ‘being under the hook’ because another hook was holding up those nets, attached to a derrick, or crane, and handled with extreme care and delicacy.

There were some lovely cargoes. My favourite was the circus. One day a monkey stole Mickey Bower’s woolly hat and had to be bribed with a hastily acquired banana to give it back. Thereafter, Mickey’s gang was always of the opinion that the hat had looked better on the chimp. Most of the circus animals were in stout iron cages that could be swung down gently to the dock but the elephants had to walk onto a cargo hoist.

You can sling a horse, because even if it struggles, it can’t actually get out of the sling, but an elephant is another matter. There was a three-inch gap between the ship and the platform at the top of that hoist and I saw the elephant’s trunk go down and feel along the gap. She clearly thought: not a chance. That’s empty air under there. A horse can be pushed but even with six men shoving, when an elephant decides she is staying put, then put is where she stays. That elephant wouldn’t allow herself to be transported until an astute handler led the baby elephant onto the hoist by its little trunk and it got down all right. Even then, it was a struggle to make sure she didn’t leap after the baby. Wharfies hated animal cargoes.

I used to love watching my father handle horses. The racehorses came over from New Zealand on our ships, the Union Steamship Company. My dad always got the job of soothing them so that they didn’t have the vapours and break something valuable, like their precious legs. A hysterical horse is a frightening thing, like a revolving chainsaw with hoofs that screams a lot. But they always behaved for my father because he had a secret weapon – a box of those XXX peppermints. They were round, flat, white tablets, so strongly flavoured that just licking one of them destroyed 55 per cent of your tastebuds and made your eyes gush water. Horses adored them. As long as his peppermints held out, even the stroppiest stud would follow my father anywhere.

Some racehorses gave no trouble. The beautiful grey, Baghdad Note, was as tame as an old farm horse. On the other hand, one of the most splendid chestnuts I have ever seen decided to improve his chances of another peppermint by biting off my father’s vest pocket with the box in, luckily not taking any of my father with it. I had been reading about those flesh-eating horses in Greek mythology and I was glad that the Union Steamship Company hadn’t had to transport them to Diomedes because I knew who would have been leading them out of their loose box.

Cargoes. Boxes and crates and sacks and bales and cases, all marked with their ports of exit and entry, all carefully stowed in the holds of the ship, so that they could be removed in order. Stowage was an art form then. A ship is not like a truck, with a low centre of gravity moving in one direction along a flat surface. It floats in an unstable medium and therefore it has to balance or the ship will cease to float. Unsecured loose cargo can punch right through the side of a vessel in heavy weather.

As a result, the position of cargo master was a skilled and responsible one, requiring a sound practical knowledge of statistics, meteorology and physics, and a talent for organisation. He kept the chart of the ship on which every stowage was marked. A cargo master has to be a concrete thinker. Otherwise, he and a lot of other people are going to get very wet. If Somerton Man was a cargo master, as my dad suspected, all of this would have been true of him. There is other evidence to suggest that he might have been a seaman of some sort and a cargo master, who would not do manual labour, might well have Somerton Man’s unmarked hands and unbroken nails.

Which brings us to the body itself and what everyone made of it.

Chapter Two

What, without asking, hither hurried whence?

And, without asking, whither hurried hence?

Another and another Cup to drown

The Memory of this Impertinence!

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 30

Somerton Man, in extremis, was five feet, eleven inches tall, which is 180 centimetres. He had grey eyes, also called hazel – admittedly a fugitive colour – and blond to reddish hair, greying at the temples. He was healthy, well-muscled and clean, with manicured fingernails and toenails. He was uncircumcised. His legs were tanned. His toes were unusual, forced into a wedge as though he habitually wore tight, pointed high-heeled boots, like a stockman or a dancer or a person willing to suffer to be beautiful. His legs were tanned, in the manner of someone who worked in shorts, and he had what they called ‘bunched’ calf muscles, as seen in people who walk a lot, run long distances, dance or bicycle.

The easy smugness of death. The face that launched a thousand theories. The Somerton Man passed into mystery, taking all his secrets with him. Courtesy Gerald Feltus.

I examined the calf muscles of many of my friends, in itself a fascinating if unscientific exercise. (None of them wear high heels, by the way. The definition of high heels in 1949 Adelaide appears to have been about two inches and a riding boot has a two-inch heel so the boot doesn’t slip through the stirrup iron.) The bunched calf muscles, which look so good in trunk-hose, belonged to a middle distance runner, three medieval dancers, five bicyclists, several inveterate hikers, a rock-climber, a mountaineer, a rider and one ballet dancer, who had calf muscles like rocks. Somerton Man may have followed one – if not all – of these occupations, although he was probably not a ballet dancer. (Only because he was too old, I hasten to add.) Of course, if he was a cargo master, he would have had to walk miles every day, around decks and up and down companion ways, all day.

Somerton Man’s fingerprints. Despite all the cross-checking of police records, no trace of the man’s identity could be found.

His age was estimated as ‘about fifty’. He had only three small scars on his body – no tattoos, barcode or other marks. The absence of tattoos is significant because most working men at that time had tattoos. My father had lots. I used to call him the illustrated man, from a Ray Bradbury story he gave me to read when I was eight. My father’s first tattoo, a black cat was on his inner wrist, placed there when he was underage with a forged permission from his own father. There were two hula girls, one on each thigh. A full rigged ship on his arm. Jeannie (my mother’s name) on his other arm. A swallow, the navy’s good luck bird, which signifies land, and more on his chest. I thought they were bold and fascinating. As he grew old, the hair over the illustrations turned grey, making him look ancient and shamanic, blue lines visible through the silver fur.

The urge to decorate the body with ink has been with the male ever since poor Bronze Age Otzi, murdered on the way to Italy, his body only revealed when a glacier in the Otztal Alps melted. Any visit to a swimming pool in my youth yielded hours of tattoo watching. There is not a decorative mark on Somerton Man, however, and his ears were not pierced. Almost all sailors had a pierced ear, done when the seaman crossed the equatorial line, usually by the cook with a cork and a baling needle. Even my brother, who builds ships, has one pierced ear, as did my father. But officers usually did not have their ears pierced and Somerset Man’s ears were pink and perfect. In my view, he was not a working-class man.

His neat hands bear this out. There were three small scars inside his left wrist, a curved one-inch scar inside his left elbow and a round mark, possibly from a boil, on his upper left forearm. Those scars on his left wrist confirm my belief that he was a seaman. I have seen them before.

Someone who wears an oilskin, standing in salt seaspray, gets the sleeve of his non-dominant hand wet and the sleeve then scrapes across his inside wrist, where the skin is thinner. Salt is a powerful abrasive. It produces scrapes, then sores and then scars. A cargo master on a ship, giving orders about stowage in heavy weather, might easily have such scars. Somerton Man was probably right handed because it is his left wrist that has what the fishermen call ‘gurry sores’.

I met many of my father’s wharfie friends and a lot of them had been sailors. They used to gather in a cargo shed on the docks, which had been fitted out as a recreation room. I have always loved waterfronts. Apart from all their other fascinations they never sleep, and at that age, according to my mother, neither did I. So I used to tag along after my father, as unnoticed and accepted as a little dog, while the men played cards and gossiped. Yarned. Told stories. I would sit quietly in my chair with my orangeade, ears flapping, and I remembered it all. At eight years old I had a memory like a sponge. I could reproduce whole conversations and if I didn’t understand them, I stored them for future reference. I learned primitive Greek in the same way, just by being around Greeks. It’s like cooking rice by the absorption method, only where rice sucks in water I took in information. Voices. Accents. Clothes. Scents.

One old man, Harry, saw me looking at his wrist. It was the third time I had seen those white scars and I was curious. Harry explained that they were gurry sores and told me how he got them. Several other men had them too and they stripped back their sleeves to show me. The same Harry taught my father a very complex knot called a star knot and showed me his other scars – wide, flat bands across the palms of his hands. He said that as a boy he had been reefing topsails in a windjammer going around Cape Horn and his hands had frozen to the lines. He told me he had been lucky and when I expressed surprise, he chuckled and said that if he hadn’t been secured by his icy grasp, he would have fallen either into the sea or onto the deck and, thus, he would be dead. In those latitudes, he said, it wouldn’t make much difference which one you hit. Deck or sea would be equally fatal.

It never occurred to me, not once, how privileged I was to hear those stories.

The other scars on Somerton Man meant nothing to the examiners and they don’t mean a lot to me either, unless that boil mark was an injection scar. He was missing most of his back teeth and the remaining ones were stained from smoking. His hands and feet were smooth and well cared for. He had no bunions or callouses on his feet, even though he had forced them into wedge-shaped shoes. His nails were short and neat, cut and filed, not gnawed. His toenails had been neatly cut. His hair had been neatly cut. He was a fine presentable corpse.

The pathologist said that he had a ‘fine Britisher face’ and my mother thinks he looks Baltic. But he also looks dead, which is not helpful. Physiognomy is not an exact science, despite Lombroso, or indeed a science at all. Anyone involved in the legal system has seen little angels who like nothing more than torturing their classmates, and ugly old men with hearts of pure gold. If there is an art to find the mind’s construction in the face, we don’t have it.

But as to Somerton Man’s body and internal processes, there was a lot of information. Several doctors were involved in the investigation of the cause of death. The first was John Barkley Bennett, a legally qualified medical practitioner (or LQMP), who declared life extinct in the first place. Rigor was established and he thought that death had occurred within eight hours of his examination, at about 2 am.

By the time that John Matthew Dwyer LQMP saw Somerton Man, rigor was intense. The post-mortem lividity behind the ears and neck was deep, indicating that the body had not been moved. There was a patch of dried saliva on his cheek, which had run out of his mouth as he slumped to one side and the cigarette fell onto his lapel. Dwyer said that ‘His pupils were smaller and unusual, uneven in outline and about the same size. Certain drugs may be associated with a contraction in the pupils. Even barbiturates may do it, but it is by no means a distinguishing point.’

He added:

Sunburn marks were present up to the level of the crotch, and they were probably from the previous season. The fingers were cyanotic [bluish skin due to low levels of oxygen in the blood], there was sand in the hair but none in the nostrils or mouth. The scalp, skull and brain were normal, except that small vessels not commonly observed in the brain were easily discernable with congestion. There was congestion of the pharynx, and the gullet was covered with a whitening of the superficial layers of the mucosa with a patch of ulceration in the middle of it. The stomach was deeply congested, and there was a superficial redness, most marked in the upper half. Small haemorrhages were present beneath the mucosa. There was congestion in the second half of the duodenum continuing through the third part. There was blood mixed with the food in the stomach.

Both kidneys were congested and the liver contained a great excess of blood. The heart was of normal size and normal in every way. It gave the impression that it was the heart of a man in good physical training. The reason why I say that is that the muscle was quite tough and firm. Both lungs were dark with congestion. The heart, if anything, was contracted.

The spleen was strikingly large and firm, about three times normal size.

The points to which I gave consideration in my summary was the acute gastric haemorrhage, extensive congestion to the liver and spleen, and congestion to the brain.

There was food in the stomach. I would say that food had been in the stomach for up to three or four hours before death. It is difficult to give an opinion on that because if the person is in a state of anxiety, then digestion may be suspended.

I made microscopic examination of the diseases, and there is pigment in it, though I cannot say of which disease. It does not resemble malarial pigment, and I can only keep an open mind on the matter. The blood in the stomach suggested some irritant poison, but on the other hand nothing detectable in the food to my naked eye to make a finding, so I sent specimens of the stomach and its contents, blood and urine for analysis.

So far, what the learned doctor appears to be saying is that there was some poison present but that he observed no poisonous matter – leaves, herbs, toadstools, berries, dyes, ground glass – in the stomach contents. Those contents are interesting precisely because they are there. Irritant poisons, even alcohol, usually announce themselves by violent vomiting, until the person has thrown up the entire contents of their stomach and are just vomiting bile. One recalls the dreadful wines of one’s youth – I particularly have it in for Yalumba Autumn Brown Sherry but other contenders are Blackberry Nip, Cold Duck and a certain chianti derived from vines grown on the cold, polluted side of a Tuscan hill, which turned the lips purple. One starts throwing up and continues to eject liver, lights and everything one has eaten since primary school, including breast milk. Since Somerton Man had the remains of a pastie still in his tummy, there is no way he died of an ordinary irritant poison, not with all that starch and potato and pastry in his belly.

The final verdict was that he died of heart failure, which is like saying ‘he died because his heart stopped’. This was said to be caused by poison, whether self-administered or given with homicidal intent by another person or persons unknown could not be determined. Having said as much (or as little), the Coroner adjourned the inquest sine die – that is, for another day, when hopefully someone might be able to tell him something helpful.

Then again, suggested my learned friend and a senior scientist Vanessa Craigie – I have been boring my friends to death about Somerton Man for months – what about blue-ringed octopus or snake venom? Death, in fact, by natural causes?

What an interesting idea. Dad was always going on about Adelaide snakes and I unashamedly sponged on her for introductions. And got Nick Clemman, a senior scientist at The Threatened Fauna Project at the Department of Sustainability and Environment and author of A Field Guide to Reptiles and Frogs of… Practically Everywhere. He has never met a scaly person he didn’t like.

After outlining the problem and reading the documents, Nick said:

It is certainly plausible that a human-delivered puncture wound from a syringe/needle would remain undetected either amongst ‘abrasions’, or actually be the source of a ‘boil scar’ (especially if it was relatively fresh). Similarly, it is plausible that he may have accidentally put his hand down on a snake, or even attempted to catch or handle a snake he encountered (not recommended but people do such things). A ‘hot day and warm night’ are precisely the conditions under which usually diurnal snakes become nocturnal. They have poor eyesight, and rely largely on chemoreception (a bit like an advanced ‘super’ sense of smell), and are thus unfazed by darkness, instead using their flickering tongue to ‘see’ at night. Although most folks assume that reptiles love hot weather, and think that the hotter it is the more likely it is that they are active, high temperatures rapidly kill reptiles, and on very hot days they will seek cooler shelters during the heat of the day, and become crepuscular or nocturnal.

So, even if not especially likely, it is not impossible that this person was strolling along the beach, went to sit, and put his hand on a snake. Only a year or two back a friend of mine who works for the council showed me pictures of a large Tiger Snake that was on the sand on St Kilda Beach; a relevant example of snakes occurring on an actual beach (not just in the dunes), and in a very urbanised area. Also, beach-washed, venomous sea snakes also turn up from time to time on the beaches of southern Australia.

The time of year is certainly spot-on for snakebite risk; the start of summer is a time when many snakes are very active. If the victim was fully clothed and wearing long trousers, this lessens the likelihood of snake envenomation after inadvertently stepping on a snake. I mention this because snakes are often active after dark on hot days/nights, and are easily stepped on in the dark, but as local elapid (or front fanged venomous) snakes have very short fangs, long trousers afford some protection from bites to the lower legs. It is not out of the question that fangs would effectively penetrate light trousers, but it does lessen the odds. Of course, it remains plausible that he may have been bitten elsewhere on the body.

And generally on Adelaide snakes he had the following to say:

The Eastern Brown is not the only contender that naturally occurs in that general area. A close cousin, the clumsily named Strap-snouted Brown Snake (Pseudonaja aspidorhyncha), and the Tiger Snake (Notechis scutatus) are also possible, and both have the (proven) bioarsenal to rapidly kill humans. The near-beach habitat described sounds just fine for both species of Brown Snake, and for Tigers too. But both will also show up in areas with little or virtually no remnant ‘bush’.

Venom works differently to poison. It usually needs to be injected or absorbed, rather than ingested. Ingested venom (provided it is not absorbed through a mouth wound) would likely be rapidly and effectively neutralised by saliva. Still, I can’t see it becoming a popular condiment…

Re venom inhaled via cigarette or the like, I’m not 100 per cent sure, but my best guess is that it would not be fatal (again, it needs to enter the lymphatic or circulatory system to do its job as evolution intended). However, I am intrigued by what, if any, effects smoked venom would produce!

It is well within the bounds of possibility that any minor local/visible effects of envenomation could be overlooked post-mortem, especially back then, especially if there were other marks to ‘camouflage’ localised effects, especially if the victim was quite hairy, especially if the examiner suspected other causes, or was hurried, etcetera. As discussed, bites like this from some elapid snakes can leave little or no trace at the site of the bite, even when the bite proves fatal. The neurotoxins common in elapid venom can cause rapid death by asphyxiation via, in layman’s terms, preventing the brain’s signals from telling the diaphragm to breathe. It is a (very) long shot, but it would be possible to use snake venom to murder someone (milked venom delivered via a hyperdermic needle, or something like that), but that seems quite ‘hollywood’ to me…

Yeah, I still prefer the snake idea – sounds more likely than the octopus, even though it certainly would occur in the area. And a snakebite mark is almost invisible. No local rash or swelling, so don’t give up on the bite idea. Not impossible for someone who had a captive snake to bring it into contact with the victim.

My friend, Vanessa Craigie also had a suggestion to make:

I thought about blue-ringed octopus, which also causes death from motor paralysis and respiratory arrest within minutes of exposure, leading to cardiac arrest due to a lack of oxygen. They deliver venom by a bite from a horny beak, but given it’s such a tiny beast, such a bite probably wouldn’t leave much of a wound. They tend to live in crevices, but another Adelaide colleague says she’s seen them in a can on the beach. My problem with this one is again, what was the beach like – that is, were there any rockpools or beach rocks? Any sign that the victim had been in the water, even wading? On the downside, symptoms can include fixed, dilated pupils and nausea, so I’m not so keen on this one as an undetectable killer.

Nick added to this information:

Snakes in the Pseudonaja (Brown Snake) genus kill more people in Australia than other species, due to a combination of factors including: highly toxic venom that works especially well on mammals (like you and me), being common and abundant in disturbed areas where there are lots of people, and being more aggressive and inclined to bite than other species (as opposed to just bluffing, which many other snakes do, and humans frequently misinterpret as an attack).

Nick Clemman put me onto an even more eminent colleague, Dr Ken Winkel, the Director of the Australian Venom Research Unit at University of Melbourne, who was kind enough to read the autopsy results. He, unfortunately, could not advise me further. Though he could not have been more kind.

As to this mystery case, it certainly is that. I am not immediately struck by the possibilities of venom [no evidence of asphyxial mode of death, for example, whereas venom-induced paralysis is a very common mechanism of death after snakebite, especially in highly toxic elapids such as we have here in Australia, that is, things like death adders]. Ingested venom is not toxic so it would have to be injected. Many snake venoms cause inflammation and even tissue death at the site of injection, for example rattlesnake, vipers and many cobras, and this is associated with regional lymphadenopathy making their injection site somewhat conspicious – no evidence of that here as I understand it.

Snake venom often causes nausea and vomiting. So again no sign of that here as his pastie was still intact. Dr Winkel went on to explain further:

Also, as far as I can see digitalis [a heart stimulant derived from foxgloves] has been repeatedly suggested. This can be ingested and rapidly lethal. The pity is that this could have been confirmed today if they had kept tissue (especially blood) samples. The first thing I would look into is bone mineral analysis that should reveal where this person lived and something of their diet and habits in life. I would not think formaldehye would affect that kind of analysis – but I am not a forensic scientist.

Other ingested toxins could be responsible but, like Tetrotoxin (TTX) or a potent neurotoxin as used in Michael Crichton’s State of Fear scenario, this would most often cause a paralytic type of death leaving post-mortem evidence of that mechanism. One could posit a pure snake venom cardiotoxin but that would have been very hard to purify in that era and, due to the availablity and lack of means of chemical detection at that time, of digitalis-type cardiotoxic ‘poisons’, rather pointless.

And that about wraps it up for snake poison, unless it was injected into Somerton Man through that ‘boil mark’ or he put his hand down on a snake. In either eventuality, he was unlikely to retain his dinner or light a smoke. Oh, well, it was worth a try. And I am so grateful to all the kind persons who bent their minds to my problem. And my friends, who must feel seriously nagged by now. Sorry. But you have to admit that it is fascinating.

Chapter Three

The Wordly Hope Men set their Hearts upon

Turns Ashes – or it prospers; and anon

Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face

Lighting a little Hour or two – is gone.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 14

And so matters rested, with the overworked Adelaide police force receiving answers to their requests for information from all over the world. J. Edgar Hoover wrote back to say that Somerton Man’s fingerprints were not on record with the FBI and no one at Scotland Yard had identified them. Somerton Man was entirely, as police parlance says now, ‘off the grid’.

He had no passport, no demob certificate, no ration card, no seaman’s ticket, no union membership card. Without these things, or at least one of them, he would have found work hard to come by in Australia, where the police were prone to ask for identification from anyone who was in any way different – on the street late at night or consorting with known criminals (my dad said you could do that any night just by walking down Rundle Street) or simply unknown to them personally. Losing, abandoning or being robbed of his identity card was a very serious matter for Somerton Man.

I have my father’s demobilisation certificate before me and I am wearing his Redheads T-shirt, which I bought for him, as I type. He feels very close to me at the moment because I have just sorted out his papers, three years after he died. The beige booklet instructs me that Army Number VX501875 Signaller Alfred William Greenwood of West Footscray followed the correct procedure to get out of the army. On 25 March 1948, he was medically examined and X-rayed and found to be fit. On 24 April 1948, he received whatever pay was owing – twenty-four pounds and five shillings, to be exact. And suddenly he was unemployed, dropped at Central Station in Adelaide and given a railway warrant to take him back to Melbourne. No longer a number but a free man.

My father went home to see his mother and his sweetheart, my mother. (He even named his cat Jeannie, so she knew he was serious). Somerton Man, on the other hand, walked into oblivion. More can now be guessed about his movements after he arrived at Central Station on 30 November. He bought a ticket for the Henley train. He then requested a wash and a shave and was told that the station amenities were closed and he would need to go to the City Baths, which housed not only a swimming pool but an actual set of bathtubs for travellers who needed a wash. This detour would have caused him to miss the train, so when he returned to Central and checked his suitcase, all shaved and clean, he decided to take a bus. Both tickets in his pocket are now explained. I find it very pitiable that he groomed himself so neatly for what was about to come.

Adelaide Central Railway Station. It was from here that Somerton Man set out on his one-way journey to the seaside.

So, how much do we know about what happened next? Somerton Man took the bus to Glenelg and would have arrived there by noon. He is next seen sitting on the beach and – probably – dying at 7 pm on a hot night, wearing lots of clothes. His shoes are still highly polished. Where had he been in the interim? Somewhere along the way someone gave him supper – the pastie, which was still in his stomach. And in his watch pocket, folded up very small, was the last page of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the words ‘Tamam Shud’, which means, in effect, the end.

Detectives with the contents of the mysterious, label-less suitcase. The only thing they revealed was that the Somerton Man had ‘good taste in clothes, though tending towards the gaudy’. Courtesy Gerald Feltus.

Scissors, a cut-down table knife, a stencilling brush, orange Barbour’s waxed thread and a tie. Some of the items from Somerton Man’s suitcase, found in a locker at Central Railway Station, Adelaide.

The police began another vigorous rummage through public libraries and bookshops hoping to find the actual book from which the page was torn. Amazingly, on 22 July, Mr Ronald Francis remembered that his brother-in-law had left a copy of The Rubaiyat in the glove box of his Hillman Minx. When he called to enquire, he was told that his brother-in-law had found the book on the floor of the car and put it tidily in the glove box. On 30 November the car had been parked in Moseley Street, the street above Somerton Beach.

The next day Mr Francis took the book to the police. The torn out page matched and, what’s more, it contained a code and a telephone number in pencil. The case of Somerton Man had just become even more complicated.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam was a free – some say unduly free – translation of a Persian poet’s series of verses. How much of The Rubaiyat is Edward FitzGerald’s work and how much comes from old Omar is a matter for conjecture. As that eminent scholar, Renaissance man and good friend Professor Dennis Pryor once told me, ‘All translation is betrayal’. One can never get translation right. All that we translators can do is to do the best that we can to convey the meaning and the spirit of the writer, taking the different historical, linguistic and social conditions into account. That’s hard enough in Latin languages, like Provençal, and it must be hideously difficult in Persian. At least Khayyam was writing social criticism and love poems, which is a universal theme – although I find it hard to fully understand why he had it in for Sufis.

From the moment it hit the bookshops in London in 1859, The Rubaiyat was a success. I suspect I would not have liked Mr FitzGerald if I had met him but he was a good poet, despite his views on women as authors. He observed at one point:

Mrs Browning’s death is rather a relief to me, I must say: no more Aurora Leighs, thank God! A woman of real genius, I know: but where is the upshot of it all? She and her Sex had better mind the Kitchen and the Children: and perhaps the Poor; except in such things as little Novels, they only devote themselves to what Men do much better, leaving that which Men do worse or not at all.

He said this in a letter to WH Thompson on 15 July 1861 and I do wish he hadn’t. I really like The Rubaiyat but I am one of the female writers of ‘little novels’ he so despises. On the other hand, Robert Browning, the widower, wrote a very ferocious poem in response to this heartless comment, so I suspect honours are about even.

Besides, one must not confuse the writer and the book, especially when the writer is a translator. The Rubaiyat is a collection of quatrains, expressing a free, unsentimental yet lyrical and definitively alcoholic view of the universe, which quite captured the Victorian imagination. They were a serious people and here was a reprobate old poet who cared for no one, with no philosophy and no religion, apart from wine, women and song. The Rubaiyat is exotic, positively reeking of the mysterious Orient, with towers and minarets and bulbul, but familiar enough in its sentiments to be easily applicable to everyday life. It is easy to remember because the verse is so beautifully scanned and rhymed.

Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night

Hath flung the Stone that sets the Stars to flight;

And Lo! The Hunter of the East has caught

The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.

Its most famous stanza made beautiful and poetic and luxurious the consumption of sandwiches and cordial under a tree with one’s favourite boy.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough

A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and Thou

Beside me singing in the Wilderness –

And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

From being relatively unknown, FitzGerald became an instant celebrity and old Omar Khayyam kept him comfortable for the rest of his life, which is always nice to hear. In his introduction, FitzGerald informs us that Omar Khayyam was born in the latter half of the eleventh century and lasted until the first quarter of the twelfth. His poetic name means Tentmaker, possibly a family profession. He achieved his loafing, lazy life by being a schoolmate of a future Vizier. The four boys pledged that when one of them became powerful, he would give the others whatever they wanted. Nizam Al Mukh succeeded and gave the other two power and place.

All Khayyam wanted was an independent income and he got it: enough money to please himself. Not that he wasted his time in continuous drinking. He was an astronomer, a mathematician and a scientist. He was amongst the group of wise men who reformed the calendar. He wrote a treatise on algebra. But fortunately that left him a reasonable amount of time for lounging around under trees with houris. FitzGerald in his introduction comments:

Having failed (however mistakenly) of finding no Providence but Destiny, and any World but This, he set about making the most of it; preferring to sooth the Soul through the Senses into Acquiescence with Things as They were, rather than to perplex it with vain mortifications after what they might be. It has been seen that his Wordly Desires, however, were not exorbitant; and he very likely takes a humorous Pleasure in exaggerating them…

I first found The Rubaiyat in Grandmother Greenwood’s bookcase.

When I was a child there were three sets of significant bookcases in my life, as well as the ever-present scatter and pile of ordinary books all over our house. The first was Grandma McKenzie’s bookcase, a glorious collection of Edwardian books bound in pressed cardboard with wonderful covers and titles like Ida Pfeiffer and Her Travels In Many Lands and Adventures in the Land of Ice and Snow and The Fairchild Family, the only book that my mother ever removed firmly from my grasp and would not return, even though I begged her to. At the time I sulked briefly and then grabbed another book. It was the three-volume novel The Rosary by Mrs Florence Barclay and Mother never said a word.

When I read The Fairchild Family as a grown up I understood why my mother had taken it away from me. It is a grim, severe and merciless book of Victorian morality that I would snatch out of the hands of anyone under thirty, even now. The chapter where the parents take their children to look at (and smell) the body of a murderer hanging on the gibbet to show them how crime does not pay is worthy of Edgar Allen Poe. Or Stephen King.

The second bookcase was a large and beautiful cedar construction with glass doors in my parents’ house. It contained wedding present sets of books, fragile and precious. I read all of them: Myths of Many Lands, The Collected Plays of GB Shaw, The Collected Works of Charles Fort, The Children’s Encyclopedia by Arthur Mee, The Works of Dickens.

Bookcase number three belonged to Grandma Greenwood and also contained wedding present sets, this time of Trollope and Thackeray. I read them, too. My mother specialised in poetry, so when I was at Grandma’s one Sunday as usual, I was surprised to find a lovely little book bound in limp, violet suede, containing poems I had never seen, in a form with which I was unfamiliar. I remember sitting down in Grandpa’s comfy brown leather chair, reading it in one gulp.

The grandparents were in the garden with my father, showing him something to do with a new rose. Grandpa was an accountant, who grew glorious roses and loved Mozart and Gilbert and Sullivan. My father was totally uninterested in gardening and loved big bands and jazz. They had nothing in common, except us, but they maintained a polite and guarded truce. By the time they came inside and I had to go home, I had engulfed Omar Khayyam and adored it, so I asked very politely if I could borrow it. Grandma asked me if my hands were clean and told me to be very careful and put The Rubaiyat in a clean white envelope, which is what she always did with a book. I never lost or damaged one of them, not even the wedding present Trollope with pages as thin as rice paper, very easy to tear when reading under the blankets with a flashlight.

Thereafter I read Omar to my mother while we were cooking or peeling potatoes. We all liked him, even my little brother. The poems were, as FitzGerald said, a ‘Strange Farrago of Grave and Gay’. My favourite was:

The Moving Finger writes; and having writ

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out of Word of it

Or possibly:

And those who husbanded the Golden Grain

And those who flung it to Winds like Rain,

Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn’d

As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

The Rubaiyat was a particularly appropriate book to find in Somerton Man’s possession, I would suggest, because it was both commonly available and undeniably secular. (A Communist carrying a bible, for instance, would instantly draw attention.) Beautiful editions of The Rubaiyat with hand-painted illustrations, bound in limp, purple leather, abounded. Cheap editions were everywhere. It became a good gift for someone you did not know very well. Indeed, Saki Reginald remarks, ‘I am not collecting copies of the cheaper editions of Omar Khayyam. I gave the last four that I received to the lift-boy, and I like to think of him reading them, with FitzGerald’s notes, to his aged mother’. It continues to be in print, with a last surge during the 1960s, when it was read while stoned to appreciative audiences.

The Rubaiyat found in the car near to Somerton Man was a first edition, published in 1859 by Whitcombe and Tombs. This is curious in itself. If Somerton Man or his colleagues wanted a throwaway book to use for a book code, one would have thought that they would have chosen one of the commonly available editions. In fact, there are substantial differences between the editions of 1859, 1868 and 1872, which could have an effect on decryption.

The second odd thing is that The Rubaiyat is the only thing in Somerton Man’s possession which is not strictly utilitarian. Apart from that, his belongings contain not one single thing that points to his origins or his personality. Every person who has travelled comes back with a scatter of junk in their luggage. In the days before the euro, this used to include coins of all nations, along with receipts, notes, postcards and one lost butter menthol vulcanising itself to the lining of the suitcase or backpack. I remember being touched to tears by the itemising of the contents of the pockets of dead soldiers, which always included one picture of their girl or their family or their home or their favourite railway engine. Or their dog. Also a talisman of some sort – a pebble, a shell, a holy medal.

Not so our dead man. He had envelopes but no stamps, writing paper or pen. No address book. He had buttons but no coins except those of the realm and no photo of Mum or Mr Waggles. The Rubaiyat was his only extraneous possession, probably an expensive one. Which he treated with such disdain that he – or someone else – wrote telephone numbers and a code in pencil on the end page. The code is as follows:

W (or possibly M) RGOABABD

MLIAOI

WTBIMPANETP

MLIAB AIAIQC

ITTMTSAMSTGAB

The second line has been struck out and is repeated in the fourth line. There is an X over the last O, which may be significant, but no one has been able to break the code and determine its significance.

Book codes usually consist of page and word numbers and they are very hard to break because you have no idea what the letters or numbers refer to, unless you have the book in your hand. That is why they were so popular with spies in the fifties and that is why, lacking the book, they still cannot be broken, even with the spiffy technology that is now available. Extensive efforts have been made by Adelaide University to break the Tamam Shud code, using as a base the idea that it is a one-time pad encryption algorithm, but they need a copy of the first edition of The Rubaiyat and so far have not been able to find one. I would suggest they enquire at the six copyright deposit libraries in Britain, established since 1610 – The British Library in London, Cambridge University, the Bodleian, and the National libraries of Scotland, Wales and Dublin – but they have probably tried that.

The retired detective Gerald Feltus, who has written an excellent book on Somerton Man, believes that the code is a series of capitals which refer to the first letters of words, in the same way as SWALK means ‘sealed with a loving kiss’. For example, the final line of the code could mean ‘It’s Time To Move To South Australia Moseley Street’. When questioned by the media, Mr Feltus did not elaborate, although perhaps he will change his mind in future, if everyone who reads this book contacts him on his website and implores him to reveal the rest of the message.

I can demonstrate the advantages and disadvantages of a code made from first letters by replicating the To Do list I wrote this morning. It goes:

p/u dr cl

ss

t/a 3MBS

alf

b pp

AA batt

This means ‘Pick up drycleaning, sesame seeds, telephone interview.’ (T/a is lawyer’s shorthand for a telephone attendance.) Less obviously, ‘b pp’ is baking paper, ‘alf’ is alfoil and ‘AA bat’ means AA batteries. If I made my list into a Somerton Man code, it might read pudrcl ssta3 mbs alfbpp. And if I then ran it through an alphabet substitution, where a = k, it would read zkthiijk3crikbvrzz, which makes no sense at all. An alert code reader might notice the number of z’s and decide it was an alphabet substitution but that would just take her back to the original coded version.

Now, while you might be able to guess that p/u is pick up and dr cl is drycleaning, it is my own private knowledge that tells me that ss is sesame seeds, not sweet sauce or super sugar or swimming snakes or any other combination of things starting with ‘s’. The same goes for b pp and alf. This kind of shorthand is so personal as to be unbreakable. My friends wouldn’t be able to read it, unless I had previously sent them a list of my code words, and informed them that ss was only ever going to mean sesame seeds, which rather cuts down its use as a method of communication. On the other hand, it is only meant to remind me that I have run out of some household goods, whereas Somerton Man’s code may have had a more public significance.

Internet and text messages have made us aware of standard meanings for initials. I particularly like the phrase KTHXBAI which means ‘okay, thanks, goodbye’. New variations appear every day, a new generation of ROTFL and IMHO, not to mention new and imaginative spellings like Sk8r, which cut down the strain on the thumbs. Concerning the Somerton Man case, we might well say WTF? Frequency analysis will not reveal any meaning in a book-based code but if M always means the same word in the Tamam Shud code, why is it repeated four times – unless, perhaps, it means ‘help!’ On the evidence before us, it seems that this code must be the kind where the sender and receiver use a code book with agreed meanings for each letter or combination. And lacking the code book, this kind of code cannot be cracked.

Meanwhile, it is time to remind you that there was a telephone number pencilled on the back page of Somerton Man’s Rubaiyat, as well as a code. The telephone number was unlisted and belonged to a nurse called Teresa Powell or Johnson. (There’s that Johnson default setting again.) She lived in Moseley Street, Glenelg, just above Somerton Beach. And here the story gets very interesting.

The police questioned Teresa, who said she was not at home on 30 November but her neighbour mentioned that a strange man had called at the house. When Teresa was shown the body cast of Somerton Man, the police officer who exhibited it said ‘she was completely taken aback, to the point of giving the appearance that she was about to faint’. An odd reaction, perhaps. Nurses are, regrettably, used to death and Somerton Man’s face had been extensively plastered across the newspapers. Teresa must have already known that he was dead. If she knew him at all, that is.

When asked about the phone number in The Rubaiyat, she volunteered that she had once owned a copy while she was working at the Royal North Shore Hospital in Sydney, but in 1945 she had given it to Alfred Boxall, who was a soldier. This, as the alert reader will have noticed, is not an answer to the question. But she also said that the body cast was not of anyone she knew. The police decided to find Alf Boxall, hoping, I expect, that this mystery would finally be marked ‘closed’. But Boxall was not Somerton Man. He was alive and well, living in Randwick and working in bus maintenance. Boxall was unable to identify Somerton Man and what’s more, he produced his copy of The Rubaiyat, complete with its last words, ‘Tamam Shud’. The copy given to him by Teresa was the 1924 Sydney edition. In the front she had written what sounds to me like an invitation to begin or continue an affair, addressed to a lover.

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before

I swore – but was I sober when I swore?

And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand

My thread-bare Penitence a-pieces tore.

The police seemed to have read it in the same way as I do. At any rate, when Teresa pleaded that she was now married and such exposure would damage her reputation, the police acceded to her plea that they shouldn’t allow her name to be publicly known. She was known as ‘Jestyn’, which was the name by which she signed Alf Boxall’s copy of The Rubaiyat until her real name was accidently disclosed years later. Now we know her name but since she and her son and her husband and Alf Boxall are all dead, it probably doesn’t help all that much.

Alf Boxall reported that he had given The Rubaiyat to his wife in June 1945, which argues extreme brazen effrontery, complete innocence or something even odder. Mr Boxall said he owned a copy with Jestyn’s verse in the front but Mrs Boxall showed the police a Rubaiyat with no writing in it at all. Which seems to mean that Mrs Boxall had been given a clean copy (she said she’d had it since Christmas 1944) and that Mr Boxall’s inscribed copy was still in the bookcase. There were a lot of copies of The Rubaiyat around at the time but two in one household seems extreme. Someone is fibbing, although it might be no more than the standard marital covering up of a harmless flirtation. When Mr Boxall was interviewed in 1978 by ABC TV, he insisted that Jestyn was just one of a group of nurses with whom he and his mates had the occasional swift snort when they could get away from the hospital but it seems clear that he singled her out from the group, at least to some extent.

Teresa herself is an intriguing person. In 1945 she was nursing at Royal North Shore, where she was Jestyn and unmarried. Then she moved back to her mother’s house in Melbourne, had a baby and moved to Adelaide. When she told the police that she was now married, it was not true. She had taken the name of her future husband, Prestige Johnson, whom she would marry when his divorce came through in early 1950.

When Teresa was interviewed by the indefatigable Gerald Feltus, he found her evasive, unwilling to talk about The Rubaiyat and Boxall, insisting that ‘She didn’t know anything then, and she did not know anything now’. Feltus came to the conclusion that Teresa knew the identity of Somerton Man but he also thinks that her family knows nothing about it, so there is no point in harassing them. If an acute and experienced detective like Feltus couldn’t find out what Teresa knew, then no one can.

Researchers may have hoped that after her husband died, she would reveal something interesting, such as that Somerton Man was her lover, but they were disappointed. Teresa has taken her secret, if she had a secret, to the grave.

Chapter Four

And as the Cock crew, those who stood before

The Tavern shouted – ‘Open then the Door!

‘You know how little while we have to stay,

‘And, once departed, may return no more.’

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 3

Meanwhile, various physicans with an interest in the mystery of Somerton Man were considering the subject of poison, a subject on which I also have some expertise. Not because I meditate mass murder on an hourly basis, though there have been days, but because I write detective stories and poison can be the basis of a nice hard-to-solve plot. Mr A striking Mrs A over the head with the kitchen shovel and then sobbing that everything went black can only really give one a chapter or two, even after going into the psychology of that marriage. But Mrs A, who devotedly nursed Mr A through a sad, long drawn-out illness until he died, wept over his grave and claimed his insurance money – that is another matter.

The primary source for 1928, the year in which I have set most of my own novels, is Dr Glaister, a true trailblazer. He was a Scottish doctor from Edinburgh University who decided that what modern law enforcement needed was a textbook. Well, more of a casebook, actually. Glaister on Poisons is, for instance, where Dorothy Sayers learned that mushroom toxin has two forms, the synthetic or left-handed optical isomer and natural or right-handed optical isomer, information she made use of in the novel The Documents in the Case.

This is what Glaister says about poisoners. (One gathers that he is against them.)

Murder by poisoning is a crime of devilish wickedness and inhumanity which no language can adequately describe. Of all forms of murder it is probably the most cruel, and one of the most difficult to prove. The reasons for this are not far to seek. It is a secret crime based on a well conceived and thoroughly premeditated plan; the poisoner acts alone and adopts every precaution to avoid suspicion and evade detection… Cunning is an essential element in the successful poisoner and the exclusion of every sense of pity from his make-up is an inestimable asset, since he has to witness the results of his handiwork and watch the life of his helpless victim slowly drawing to its close.

I have always admired Glaister’s writing style, ever since I read the following sentence many years ago: ‘do the advances which are constantly being made in criminal investigation actually keep, not only abreast, but well ahead of the more enlightened poisoner?’ I also like ‘Women have always set a high standard in novel methods of poisoning but also that they seem to have found poisoning a simple and acceptable means for elimination’.

By the way, there are two Dr John Glaisters, father and son, both forensic pathologists, which is filial but confusing. Until I ascertained this, I thought that Glaister had lived a very long time indeed.

Scientific advances like the identification of DNA are recent – very recent. Back in the twenties they were still learning to group blood. Sherlock Holmes lacked a test to distinguish human blood from rabbit blood, so he invented one, but Sherlock Holmes was fictional, despite the number of letters he still gets at 221B Baker Street. The precipitin test for human blood was invented in 1901 but required a fair amount of blood. Mineral poisons like antimony and arsenic, that old favourite – the French court called them poudres d’inheritance – were effective but detectable. However, it was very hard to test for organic or vegetable poisons and there are so many of them, so easily available.

In an average garden there is laurel and belladonna lilies and yew trees. When I was a child we were all told the terrible story of a boy who decided to make a steak en brochette, used oleander stalks to cook it and poisoned his whole family. It doesn’t appear to be true – at least, I have not been able to find any record of it – but it did underline how dangerous an ordinary backyard could be. You can even distil cyanide from apricot pits or apple pips. Potatoes produce little green fruits above ground which are stuffed with solanium, a deadly poison in the nightshade family. (That information is, come to think of it, used in another Dorothy Sayers story, The Leopard Lady.) In Australia we have henbane, deadly nightshade and some of the most impressively toxic toadstools, Death Cap and Destroying Angel, so lethal that you should probably not spend too much time looking at them, much less handling them. Crunch up a few of those pretty beans produced by the castor oil tree and you can kill an elephant, although please don’t. Elephants are endangered. I like elephants.

Even now, organic poisons are hard to diagnose. By the time they have killed their intended victim, they have already metabolised into something that occurs naturally in the body and all of our science will not help if the person’s death is never investigated because they appear to have died a natural death. I suspect that there are a lot of perfect murders out there and that most of them involve poisoning. So neat, so quiet and so distant in time from the original dose.

So what did the distinguished experts make of the neat, quiet death of Somerton Man? The first suggestion, from John Dwyer LQMP, who had conducted the post mortem examination of Somerton Man at the city mortuary, was that a barbiturate or soluble hypnotic had been used. Such things vanish out of the body very quickly. At the inquest, the Coroner was shown a series of extracts from Poisons, their Isolation and Identification by Frank Bamford, the late director of the Medico-Legal Laboratory in Cairo, the second edition being revised by CP Stewart, reader in clinical chemistry at the University of Edinburgh: evidently a standard text. The foreword is written by Sydney Smith, a famous Home Office pathologist, who also wrote a very instructive book of reminiscences called Mostly Murder. Dwyer drew the Coroner’s attention to a series of specific quotes from Poisons – notably:

A patient sometimes dies of sulphonal poisoning long after the administration of the drug has ceased, and even after its complete elimination from the body…

and:

It is, however, a common experience of toxicologists that they have failed to detect certain alkaloids when there has been strong evidence of their administration; this occurs in the case of addicts whose ability to tolerate large doses is possibly due to the acquired power of the organs to destroy the drugs and some simple urethides and thiobarbiturates (pentothal for example) adaline and bromural appear to be entirely destroyed. Roche Lyon, another pathologist, reports five cases, three of them fatal, in which he failed to find these drugs in the urine or viscera, although in every case bromine was detected.

[Note: there is no bromine in pentothal but there are usually traces in the body.]

Dwyer was convinced that ‘While these quotations do not enable any conclusion to be reached concerning the cause of death in the Somerton case, the information does offer a possible solution to the dilemma’. But, as a matter of fact, what the information does is to confuse the matter even further. The writers of textbooks for the profession are not obliged to write down for the general populace but I wish these writers had told us what the sentence in square brackets actually means. Are they saying that there is usually a trace amount of the element bromine in any body at any time? In that case why is it significant? If it is not significant, why mention it at all? And why doesn’t pentothal contain any bromine if it is esjudem generis with the rest of the drugs in that paragraph? (See, I can use trade jargon as well as the next woman.) On a related tack, does the second quotation suggest that Somerton Man was a junkie? All in all, I suggest that Dwyer’s summary is extremely optimistic.

Indeed, by the time of the inquest, Dwyer had come to doubt his own theory, especially after hearing from the expert witnesses. He told the Coroner:

I think that it is a possible explanation, that barbiturate was taken or administered; it caused death, and became decomposed. That must be considered, but I do not think it is under ordinary circumstances a likely explanation… There is a big variation in the amount which people can stand. Even a quick acting one would require a massive dose to produce death by midnight if the man were alive at seven o’clock. If the dose were massive, one would expect to find it on analysis… in view of the chemist’s findings it is unlikely that barbiturates are responsible for the death…’

Dwyer also checked for signs that a hypodermic needle had been used, examining two marks between the knuckles and the back of the right hand, which, he said, ‘appeared to be recent abrasions before death’, but deciding that they were not significant. He ruled out an overdose of insulin as the cause of Somerton Man’s death, ‘on the findings of the liver’; he ruled out botulism because it required a twelve-hour incubation period and he ruled out prussic acid, whose ‘action is so rapid as to be practically instantaneous, so there would not have been time for the finding in the organs to have developed, particularly the microscopic finding’. And while he was unable to rule out diptheria toxin and aconite or aconitine altogether, he was also unable to confirm any of those possibilities. In short, Dwyer’s testimony established that Somerton Man was poisoned by a poison which could be detected, of which no trace remained in the body, and it was impossible to say whether he took it himself or whether he was murdered.

The Chemist and Department Government Analyst, Robert James Cowan, was the next witness at the inquest. He explained that he had tested for all common poisons, including cyanides, alkaloids, barbiturates and carbolic acid. He also tested for insulin. Somerton Man’s body contained none of them and Cowan concluded that ‘If he did die from a poison, then it was no common poison’.

After that, Professor John Burton Cleland LQMP, the Emeritus Professor of Pathology at the University of Adelaide, informed the inquest that there was nothing to indicate death from natural causes. He was a comparatively young man. The vessels of the heart and brain are described as being free from theroma [fatty deposits], so that if his death was attributed to a natural cause, one would have to think of some vagal inhibition, which would mean a sudden and unexpected death for which no preparation could be made, or possibly something like a diabetic coma, which would begin to overcome a person anywhere before they had time to retire to a place in which to lie down.

Vagal inhibition is usually a result of pressure applied to the side of the neck, something that can happen when the victim is playing sport or fighting. I remember being warned about it when I was learning karate. The blow or pressure, which might not even leave a mark, instructs the whole body to shut down and it does so permanently.

Continuing with the ghastly details, Cleland observed that:

Every poison we have suggested seems to have been discounted. We found no evidence of vomiting. A possible stain on his trousers did not look like vomit, and we did not detect any evidence of potato, and he had been eating potato. The internal organs were somewhat congested, but not deeply congested as might be expected from failure of respiration. If he had given himself an injection of tuberine, which is curare, he should have died a death from asphyxia. It does not seem that there is sufficient evidence from the post-mortem to suggest that.

Curare is the good old colourless odourless tasteless soluble and undetectable South American poison of Sherlock Holmes fame. It was used along the Amazon as an arrow poison but it had surgical uses in 1948, producing complete shutdown of all involuntary muscles, which rather precludes the heart beating and the lungs breathing. But it wasn’t curare that killed Somerton Man.

The indefatigable Cleland investigated other possibilities as well, saying:

Most of the common poisons would give vomiting or evidence of convulsions, something which would have drawn attention to the deceased. Cyanide would be very quick, and no bottle was found, or any smell of cyanide… It is difficult to find any poison that fits the circumstances.

Cleland also dismisses insulin, otherwise a rather attractive cause of death. I have been told by my diabetic sister that one oozes imperceptibly into a diabetic coma. ‘It sneaks up on you’ are her precise words. But apparently such an overdose would show up in an absence of glycogen in the liver and as abnormally low blood sugar. And it didn’t.

The second expert witness, Sir Cedric Stanton Hicks, University Professor of Pharmacology and Physiology, had another suggestion. Not wanting to give anyone who might read the inquest report any ideas, he wrote a name on a piece of paper and gave it to the Coroner. This might sound excessively cautious but consider the dreadful experience of our own Arthur Upfield, who, sitting around a campfire with some like-minded friends working on the rabbit-proof fence, concocted a murder method which was damn near impossible to solve. All you need to do, instructed Upfield, is to shoot the person, shoot a few kangaroos at the same time, burn all the bodies together and then sift the ashes and remove all identifiable human bits – teeth, buttons, gallstones, bullets. After that you put the ashes through a prospector’s dolly-pot, crushing them into powder, allow the powder to blow away on the wind and bury the tin containing the identifiable bits a long way away under an unmarked bush.

One of his audience thought this was such a good idea that he actually carried it out. His name was ‘Snowy’ Rowles, aka John Thomas Smith. Fortunately Rowles blew the original water-tight scheme by stealing the murdered man’s goods and being careless with the disposal of the remains. Notably, a wedding ring which had been repaired with the wrong alloy of gold – nine carat on an eighteen-carat ring – clinched the identification. At Rowles’ trial, Upfield had to testify that he had invented the murder method as an intellectual exercise. ‘I shall never forget Mr Justice Draper, the Trial Judge, and how he looked at me on the witness stand,’ he told his interviewer, Eric Clegg. Upfield was about to start his next Napoleon Bonaparte crime novel, The Sands of Windee. I find it amazing that he ever wrote anything again.

Returning to Sir Cedric Hicks, his handwriting is just as one would expect from a doctor but it is possible to make out the word ‘glucosides’. The two varieties mentioned were Digitalin and Strophantin, which are derivatives of digitalis purpurea, a heart stimulant which in the old days used to be called foxglove tea. Sir Cedric said that these drugs would have been easy to obtain – for instance, by pinching them from someone with a heart condition – and ‘difficult if not impossible to identify even if it had been suspected in the first case’. However, he was concerned that there was no evidence of vomiting because he believed that glucosides would have produced vomiting, convulsions and coma, although he speculated that perhaps the convulsions were minor and people may have walked over the marks in the sand. I was driven around the bend by Sir Cedric, who seemed incapable of making up his mind, but in the end he says that it’s glucosides or nothing. And, of course, if it had indeed been nothing, Somerton Man would have been able to attend the inquest and solve all the mysteries himself.

That was all the witnesses had to say about poisons but the Coroner himself made a very interesting observation, saying:

I have been discussing the circumstances on the footing that the body found on the morning of the first December was that of the man seen on the evening of the 30th November. But there is really no proof that this was the case. None of the three witnesses who speak of the evening of the 30th saw the man’s face, or indeed any part of his body that they can identify. If the body of the deceased was not that of the man mentioned and if the body had been taken to the place that it was found, the difficulties disappear. If this speculation, for it is nothing more, should prove to be correct, the original assumption that it was the deceased who left the suitcase at the luggage room, bought the rail and bus ticket, removed the clothing tabs and put the printed words ‘Tamam Shud’ in a pocket, would require revision.

Now that is a very interesting thought. When the Coroner, who had a fine legal mind, observed that there was no legal nexus between one set of observations and another, he was right. We do not know for certain where Somerton Man was between noon and approximately 7 pm, when he or someone very like him was sitting on the beach, dying. His polished shoes showed Somerton Man had not been trolling around Glenelg in dust all day, indicating that he had probably been inside. But if the man seen lounging asleep on the beach on 30 November, at the exact spot where Somerton Man was found dead the next morning was not, in fact, Somerton Man, then who was he – and what was he doing there – and where, oh, where was Somerton Man during the night? Was the man on the beach just keeping his seat warm for him?

Let us consider the arguments against the Coroner’s theory. One is that the beach was busy. It was a hot night and there were a lot of people around. Even in the early morning men were exercising horses and swimming in the sea. Adelaide may be a strange place but it is not so strange that no one would have noticed a man – or more probably two men – carrying a body down all those steps to the beach and arranging it so neatly that the dead cigarette in the corpse’s mouth just dropped onto his collar.

Moreover, if Somerton Man had died of digitalin poisoning but had vomited and convulsed elsewhere, as the Coroner suggests, he would not have had any stomach contents for the doctors to analyse. Nor, having convulsed and vomited in the process of dying, would he have suddenly become peckish for a pastie from the Glenelg railway station pie cart, the only source of any delicacies in Adelaide after about six o’clock, apart from a private home. What’s more, as anyone who has ever been nauseous would know, he would certainly not have lit a cigarette. Really not.

Oh dear, I do hope you are not reading this at dinner.

So, an examination of the available information suggests strongly that it was our man on Somerton Beach, all along. The evidence and theories presented at the inquest are comprehensive but inconclusive. Well, almost comprehensive. There was a Crippled Children’s Home in Moseley Street, just above the beach, but no one appears to have enquired there about strangers calling and dying inconveniently on the premises.

A page from the Inquest that held the findings of an inconclusive death.

The Crippled Children’s Association, established in 1939, set up Somerton Home as a place where the victims of polio could be cared for and receive an education, but in 1948 it was fully occupied by children with polio. A dreadful affliction. Polio killed many and maimed many others, all the way up to the President of the United States, until Salk and Sabin found vaccinations for it, for which we are eternally grateful. I still have the scar but better a vaccination scar than a life in an iron lung. Polio has largely vanished now in the developed world (although it is making something of a comeback as immunisation rates are falling) along with scarlet fever and diphtheria, whooping cough and the other plagues that rid the world of small children throughout history. (One of the reasons why I do not pine for the past, although I write about it, is the number of diseases from which I probably would have died before the age of five. Death puts a bit of a crimp in one’s writing career.)

Somerton House overlooked the spot where Somerton Man was found. Strangely, no enquiries were made here to discover any witnesses. It might have been the place of Somerton Man’s last supper.

The Crippled Children’s Home (also known as Somerton House) was established in an old bluestone house which had belonged to the Bickford family. Later, the Home accepted children with other disabilities including mental disabilities, and was renamed Minda, causing nasty little children to add ‘You’re a Minda!’ to their terms of abuse. But in 1948 only the poor polio victims lived there. They were as bright as buttons – the disease does not affect the mind – but badly damaged. Most of them would be unable to walk, except with calipers. The home has a good reputation. Inmates have written to the disability website in South Australia praising the matron, a World War I nurse called Matron Hacket, who ran the place like clockwork with compassion and intelligence. (This is, by the way, quite unlike the horror stories I have just been reading about the Magdalen Laundries run by the Sisters of the Good Shepherd. I must say it made a nice change.)

A children’s home probably went to bed early and would, of course, have had a kitchen, which might have been the source of Somerton Man’s supper, and an infirmary, which might have been the source of those glucosides – and the source of Somerton Man’s death, too. But no enquiries were made at the time and it is now really far too late to even try to find out. Besides, even with the trained imagination of a crime novelist, I find it difficult to imagine such a place and such a matron as a haven for murderers or secret spies.

Although stranger things have happened, especially in Adelaide.

Chapter Five

Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,

And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows;

But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,

And still a Garden by the Water blows.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 5

Examining the verifiable facts of the Tamam Shud case has, so far, only uncovered further layers of impenetrable – not to mention downright bizarre – mystery. At this point I am tempted to shrug dismissively and say, ‘That’s Adelaide’. However, for those who only know Adelaide from the outside, as a city of culture or a glorified country town, I need to explain what I mean by that. And for the insiders, I need to begin by establishing my own Adelaide credentials.

I used to come into Adelaide tired and dirty and, for the moment, cashed-up. I worked as a grape picker, which was good money, much better than a factory, and kept you out in the open air (along with the mosquitos, sandflies, snakes and other pests). I used to take the train from Melbourne and get picked up by the winery’s furniture van at Central Station, all clean and eager. They would cart the gang of us out to sleep in a shearing shed and cut grapes all day, every day.

Adding folk singing to my grape picking days allowed me to earn extra money to spend some holiday time discovering Adelaide.

It was monotonous work but not heavy and, after a while, soothing. Grape pickers don’t have to carry the grapes on their back but, rather, drop the cut cluster over their shoulders into a bag resting on the ground, which can be pulled along between the rows. I had tried other crops, apples and pears and soft fruits – you have to climb. Strawberries – you have to bend and crucify your back. Grapes – you don’t have to pull; you just clip the stem and the round, smooth, warm globes fall into your hand. I preferred the wine grapes, because it didn’t matter if they got slightly mangled, whereas every table grape had to be perfect. I could work faster on wine grapes.

I wore jeans, boots, gloves, a heavy flannelette shirt of my father’s and a straw hat – the last to general amusement. No one wore hats then. Thus protected from the weather, I motored along the row with my name on it, finding grapes where they hid themselves under the leaves, listening to the birds singing and the boss swearing and my fellow workers yelling tidbits of information across the rows. I had no partner. I was there for isolation and silence and, of course, money. I watched with great pleasure as they emptied my bag into the hopper, wrote down the weight and freed me to go back to the shed, take a cold shower, make myself some sort of dinner and sleep like a log.

I would do this for two weeks or as long as the vintage lasted. I spent nothing because there was nothing to spend anything on. I did develop a dislike for grapes and my clipping hand still aches a little at the memory. But it was all worth it when the van deposited me once more at Central Station and I went into the Railway Hotel for my one night of luxury. Near the station I purchased a pumice stone and soap. I always bought exotic scents; my favourite was called Rose de Gueldy. I also bought Pears shampoo for my hair, which was stiff with sweat and grime. I wouldn’t have let me into a respectable hotel but the Adelaide hotels were used to pickers. And in my pack I had night clothes, slippers, cosmetics and proper garments in which I would not mind being seen.

I would ascend to my room, lock the door, and run a huge bath, as hot as I could bear. Then I would peel off my frightful clothes and immerse myself, head and all, and start scrubbing. Sometimes I would have to drain and re-run the bath twice before I got back to my usual skin tone. Then I would wrap myself in hotel towels and lie down for a nap on my clean bed with sheets. Removing all that grime was exhausting. I felt as the sailors must have felt in The Weary Whaling Grounds as sung by Danny Spooner.

The weather’s rough and the winds do blow

And there’s little comfort here;

I’d sooner be snug in a Deptford pub

A-drinkin’ of strong beer.

After that it was time to put on my clean clothes and sandals and wander out into Central Market to see what was available. I would have been eating bread and tinned soup, so now I was avid for real tastes, real fruits – except grapes – and above all, meat. Central Market was a good place for a carnivore in those days. There was a pub that served steaks so big that they overlapped the edges of the plate, the first chargrill I ever tasted.

I used to buy a steak and a glass of red wine and eat my way through that steak, nibbling and nibbling until I had absorbed it all. Every meaty morsel. Every proteinladen bite. Then I would stagger back to the hotel, have another bath out of sheer swank, and next morning eat the hotel breakfast and get on the train for Melbourne.

That used to be all I would see of Adelaide, although later, when I had friends in the town, I used to go there for fun, because I had made enough money folk singing and cleaning houses to tide me over the holidays. That first brief glimpse had told me Adelaide was a big, sleepy country town, not unpleasant or unfriendly. But my dad’s stories told me different. Adelaide, he said, had a dark underside. Children vanished there. Strange things happened. He always told me to be very careful in Adelaide.

The first thing a native of Adelaide tells you proudly is that Adelaide was built without convicts. All volunteers, free settlers, not like your grimy crime-ridden hovels. It’s named after a queen. (No sniggering there at the back, please). It’s clean, planned and bright, with Colonel Light on his pedestal in the middle, supervising the activities of the devout citizenry. It’s the City of Churches.

And yet. Colonel Light’s statue is not in the middle of the city – he’s at the top of it, in North Adelaide. The city has no heart. The reason why it is a city of churches is not that the citizenry is necessarily devout but that, historically, Adelaide was settled by large numbers of protestant sects, who would arrive, build a church, have a schism and then build another church down the road, within convenient sneering distance of the unenlightened original. It’s like the joke about the Welsh Robinson Crusoe, who is finally found and exhibits the town he has built out of bamboo to his rescuers. There is the town hall, the bakery, the fish shop and two chapels. ‘Why two chapels?’ asks the rescuer (obviously English or he wouldn’t need to ask). ‘That’s the one I don’t go to,’ says Taffy the Shipwrecked.

And so it was in Adelaide. There are the beautiful main churches and, in the back streets, there are the rusty tin sheds of the others. This, oddly enough, made it a progressive city. Protestant progressives of the time wanted to free the slaves and bring about peace on earth and good will to all men, even if they were female. Women in South Australia got the vote in 1894, including indigenous women, at a time when Aborigines were not counted in the census and did not have the vote anywhere else. South Australians also invented a very sensible system of land holdings called the Torrens System, which was adopted all over Australia and made life as an articled clerk bearable. (Old law title searches were murder and got parchment fragments all over your clothes. Until you’ve tried to get powdered vellum out of a white shirt you haven’t laundered.) Anything that has been tried out in Adelaide and accepted, from legislative changes to new salad dressings of a major fast-food chain, will be acceptable to the rest of the country. If it fails in Adelaide, it will fail in the rest of Australia.

Adelaide elected Don Dunstan, for God’s sake.

What a man! Others have spoken lovingly of his iconic pink shorts. His tendency to wear a Greek tunic while playing the piano. His easy familiarity with people who were not white and protestant, partly because of his birth in Fiji. His comfort with his own sexuality. His defeat and his death were tragic and heroic. Not to mention a few minor law reforms, like the appointment of Australians as governor, first Mark Oliphant and then Doug Nicholls, who was also the first indigenous governor; the first woman appointed to the supreme court, Roma Mitchell; the declaration of native title; the extension of shopping hours; and the decriminalisation of homosexuality. Not to mention the creation of Rundle Mall, his encouragement of good food, arts, music and festivals and Don Dunstan’s Cookbook, which contains an excellent chicken curry. My partner David is related to Adelaidian Dunstans, and desperately hopes that he might be close kin to the fabled and fabulous Don.

Picture the scene. I am sitting on a purple towel on Glenelg Beach with my transvestite friend Vic, who is being a lady today, hence the purple towel and the fetching lilac dress with frills. I am wearing jeans and a T-shirt as usual. We have a bottle of red wine, of which Vic is drinking the most because, as she said, ‘If the prophet who declared that Adelaide is about to be wiped out by a tsunami this afternoon spoke the truth, I want to get in a few last drinks before someone calls “Time”.’ The prophet had told us that God would wipe out Adelaide because it was a wicked city, similar to Sodom or possibly Gomorrah, and it would all be our fault for our sinful ways.

Although I never met anyone who actually said they believed him, people were nervous. Some of the Hindley Street shops had clearance sales in the middle of summer and some people were said to have sold their goods and fled to the hills to watch the sea take the city from a safe vantage point. In Adelaide it is always difficult to sort out the irony from the anxiety. But still.

So, on 20 January 1976, Vic and I were getting progressively oiled and not a little sunburnt as we waited for the end. There were lots of people there with us. They too were having picnics (though because Vic was on one of her all-alcohol diets, we had forgotten about food) and time ticked on. I was explaining to Vic that apocalypse was a Greek word that just meant revelation, not disaster, when the time for the tidal wave arrived.

There was a stir at the back of the crowd. Pacing down through the groups of people came (I swear) Don Dunstan in a safari suit, riding on a camel – a good choice because it sneered all opposition out of its way, as camels do. You always know that they are calculating exactly where a half-kilo of semi-digested grass will do the most harm. The Premier had come to join his people at this moment of danger. If Adelaide was going to be hit by a great wave, it would have to get past Dunstan first.

It was the only time I ever saw him. He was slight but had such a commanding presence. He got down off his camel and stood with his arms outstretched, facing the sea. Surely he must have been just a little apprehensive? I was. The crowd was silent. We watched him. He watched the ocean. Even the camel stopped bitching, caught by the moment. I remembered Cuchulainn the Irish hero, cursed and fighting the sea.

Then the moment passed and Dunstan shook hands all round, got back on his camel and rode away. I grabbed the bottle from Vic and drained it in a toast.

What a wonderful man.

Speaking of the day when Dunstan defied the ocean and God’s vengeance on unrighteous wretches (that is, us), Adelaide has the highest number of atheists in Australia. It had no convicts and fewer Irish (and therefore fewer Catholics) than the rest of Australia’s state capitals, which meant that its servant class was free and probably quite stroppy. It was a capitalist venture that went broke and had to be bailed out by Her Majesty’s Government in the 1840s. It has only one tram route. It is a green and watered park in the middle of some very desolate deserts. There is no good reason for it to be where it is.

And it has the oddest crimes. No one from Adelaide can understand our fascination with Adelaide crime. They point out, rather stiffly, that their crime rate is lower than other cities, which is true. I am not saying that there is more crime in Adelaide. Just that it is odder.

It has been suggested that Adelaide works on a massive form of the Old Boys’ network. If you are alone in Adelaide, it feels uncaring and you will be isolated and lost. But if you know one person, they will introduce you into a network of other people and life will suddenly become vibrant and exciting and full of friends. It’s a series of cliques but they are big cliques, containing between two thousand and ten thousand people. You can know everyone in your chosen clique. This is the source of the ‘Adelaide Effect’ which means that any two Adelaide people encountering each other in, as it might be, Ulan Bator will find at least one acquaintance in common. Apparently it’s a hard and fast rule.

And so it is in regard to crime. Everyone has serial killers but only Adelaide had Snowtown, where the killers (plural, which is very unusual) stored the bodies in barrels in a disused bank. Everyone has homophobic attacks on passing homosexuals but only in Adelaide are the attackers the police and the assaulted (and, in fact, drowned) a university lecturer, Dr George Duncan. Everyone has cults but only Adelaide had The Family.

The Family murders were, as the Americans would put it, particularly heinous. A series of young men and boys – Alan Barnes, Neil Munro, Mark Langley, Peter Stogneff, Richard Kelvin – were raped and mutilated and murdered and thrown away like rubbish. They had all been dosed with knock-out drops, including mandrax, a restricted substance, which led the police to one Bevan Spencer Von Einem, who lived with his mother in a nice middle-class house in a nice middle-class suburb. Called Paradise.

Von Einem’s method was simple. The boys were enticed to begin with, plied with alcohol and promises of parties and girls. They were doped with a mixture of alcohol and rohypnol (now called ‘the date rape drug’), mandrax, valium and chloral hydrate marketed as Noctec, the original ‘Micky Finn’, and then ravished away to be held captive for the monsters’ amusement. I say ‘monsters’ in the plural because more than one person was definitely involved in their torture. Not all of the boys picked up by Von Einem were murdered. He never explained why some were released and some were killed. He showed no remorse. He admitted no guilt. And he never revealed who else was involved, so the stories about a high-level homosexual rape club were given free rein.

It might have been true. This was Adelaide, after all, home of the seriously weird crime. Think of Derrence Stevenson, who was murdered by his young male lover and stuffed into a freezer. The murderer superglued the lid and took off for Coober Pedy, presumably for the opal mining. You have to admit that that was unusual.

Everyone has road murderers, riders on the storm, but only Adelaide had Christopher Worrell, who took his homosexual mate Miller along with him when he killed hitchhiking girls on the road to Truro. He then had the bad taste to die before he could be tried. Miller wrote a nauseating little self-justification, Don’t Call Me Killer, explaining that he loved Chris dearly, was only along for the ride and never murdered anyone. Meanwhile, the most heart-wrenching book about any murder, It’s a Long Way to Truro, was written by Anne-Marie Mykyta, whose daughter Julie was one of Worrell’s victims.

Children vanish in Adelaide, too, most famously the three Beaumont children, who disappeared from Glenelg Beach. The wanted man – a thin harmless-looking creature, whose identikit picture was nicknamed Fred Nurk by the irreverent – was never found. Neither were the Beaumont children. Seven years later, Joanne Ratcliffe and Kirsty Gordon went missing, presumed murdered, from the Adelaide Oval. The task of taking a smaller sibling to the toilet was one I often undertook. Now, suddenly, it was dangerous.

The worst abduction – though they are all the worst, really – was of Louise Bell in 1982. A stranger came in through her window, picked her up and carried her away through the front door, never to be seen again. Her mother was asleep in the house at the time. No one in Adelaide felt safe anymore.

Yet it is a safe city. I am acquainted with perilous cities. South London. Les banlieues in Paris. My own bit of Melbourne in its time. Such places require care, preparation and luck to get through unmolested. Don’t carry a bag in your hand. Don’t wear good clothes or look too rich. Don’t carry a camera. Look straight ahead. Walk briskly, but not too fast or too slow. Never stop to consult a map. Do not ask for directions. And if you encounter the natives, melt spiritually into the streetscape and never, never meet their eyes. Aim to pass through with a ‘don’t notice me – nothing to see here’ field all around you. Act, in fact, like a scout in enemy territory.

Adelaide is not like that. One can walk around Adelaide in the middle of the night, as I and, indeed, my dad frequently did, and find no trouble if you aren’t looking for it. (He was. I wasn’t.) The only danger I ever felt was when threatened with the prospect of a pie floater from the pie cart. A pie floater is a dish of green pea soup with a meat pie floating in it, topped with tomato sauce. It looks decorative, like an Italian flag or a Margarita pizza, and it probably tastes wonderful if you are drunk and hungry enough. Fortunately, you can also get the pie without the pea soup.

The pie floater is an Adelaide invention, as are frog cakes, which my father loved, though he usually didn’t eat cake. Frog cakes are a form of petit four, made of cake, cream and green icing, in the shape of a frog with chocolate buttons for eyes. These days they are apparently made in strawberry and chocolate as well but in my time they were green icing or nothing. They have recently been awarded ‘icon’ status.

So that’s Adelaide. Justice, votes for women, the most sensitive skin in Australia and terrible drinking water. (Every time I arrive there I always forget that and brush my teeth with what tastes like industrial effluent.) Frog cakes, pie floaters and the Torrens system. The Family, Bevan Spencer Von Einem, slaughtered boys and a suburb called Paradise.

Strange.

There is an excellent book about The Family murders, written by Bob O’Brien, one of the detectives in the case, who puzzles over what it is about Adelaide that makes it produce such bizarre crimes. He is unable to shed any light on the matter but if we return to the idea of cliques, we may have an answer or, at least, the beginning of an answer. If you operate in groups all the time, then if your particular group becomes corrupted, you are all corrupted. That is what happened with The Family and in Snowtown. Even Worrell and Miller were a clique of two. One psychopath is bad but when there are two psychopaths or more, the effect is not so much additional as exponential. That’s why, when Adelaide is good, it is very, very good, and when it is bad, it is horrid.

That’s the closest I can come to a theory. Adelaide is such a straight up and down city that there is no room for any deviation, so when deviation comes, it breaks all the rules. My home city, Melbourne, is also as straight as it comes. A grid system made by Mr Hoddle, with big streets in which one can turn a coach and four and little streets, to keep the service vehicles off the boulevards. Tree lined. Decorative. And, like the old Roman roads, it could have been ruled with a spear shaft. Parliament at the top, Spencer Street Station at the bottom. Square. But somehow Melbourne, in its angularity, allows eccentricity in the lanes and squares and strange little shops and markets. The most attractive Melbourne streetscape is an arcade. And the town hall is in the middle of the city, not at the top like Adelaide.

The Torrens River breaks Adelaide into two unequal parts and that is not good for a city. It means that sometimes the left hand knows not what the right hand is doing. Which would, come to think of it, make Adelaide an admirable place for a nest of spies. (If that is the collective noun. A conspiracy, perhaps?) In true Adelaidian fashion, no outsider would ever know. But everyone inside the clique would…

Chapter Six

How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit

Of This and That endeavour and dispute?

Better be merry with the fruitful Grape

Than sadden after none, or bitter, fruit.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 39

From the days of the International Workers of the World onwards, Communists in Australia were relatively well organised, trade union based, most of them, and thus, well, yes, a clique. They were also very careful. When I was working on the Waterside Workers Federation archives in Canberra, I had to crack two substitution codes to read some of the documents – mostly lists of names and contributors to strike funds. The codes weren’t difficult. I suspect they were just meant to discourage the idle passer by, although I wouldn’t have had the nerve to read those documents over Big Jim Healey’s shoulder. When I was interviewing the old wharfies for my legal history thesis on the 1928 waterfront strike – the research that gave me Phryne Fisher – they used to call me comrade. I was honoured. It was the first non-gender specific title I had ever had, apart from ‘mate’, and only my father called me ‘mate’.

Nineteen forty-eight wasn’t only the year of the Tamam Shud murder. It was also the year that a frightful scandal struck the diplomatic service in Australia, causing both the English and the Americans to cut us off from all their secrets. Canberra was leaking like a sieve. (Although I don’t know why that is considered bad; after all, sieves are supposed to leak.) Information sent in conditions of utter secrecy had been disclosed to the Russians, otherwise known as The Enemy.

It is hard to recreate the fear in which Communists were held in that era. They were known as the Red Menace. Stalin had been exposed as a mass murderer of his own people, a totalitarian who gave a new and frightful meaning to the term. The Russians desperately wanted to duplicate the American success with the atom bomb but America had been faster at grabbing nuclear scientists when Germany fell and was ahead on points.

I remember the feeling of almost enjoyable dread in the seventies, knowing that some clown, either in the White House or the Kremlin, had his thumb on The Button and could wipe us all out. (Of the two, I was more afraid of the White House.) Tom Lehrer sang a merry ditty called We Will All Go Together When We Go and the arms race ticked on to three minutes to midnight.

Nineteen forty-eight was close to the beginning of that story, the story of the Cold War. The only difference between a Cold War and a Hot War, as far as I can see, is the number of people getting killed at the same time and in the same place. The Cold War produced plenty of hot spots where a lot of people were becoming dead quite quickly – for instance, Korea and Vietnam. It also produced the spy dramas like The Rat Catchers and Callan, which I loved to watch with my dad. We read John Le Carre and Frederick Forsyth as well but it was all set in Britain or America or Prague, not here in sun-drenched Australia. While our Russian neighbours might very properly flinch at the thought of a visit from the KGB, no one seemed worried about ASIO kicking the doors in at 3 am. I am still not sure why. Possibly because there is something fundamentally anti-Australian about spying. Possibly because, until 1951, peacetime espionage was not illegal.

In an extremely thorough and very heavy tome called The Defence of the Realm, Christopher Andrew says that in 1947 some Russian telegrams were broken by a decryption process called VENONA because agents were re-using one-time pads. The decryption revealed that the Russians had received top secret British documents on post-war strategy from their mates in the Australian Department of External Affairs, thereby demonstrating that Canberra was insecure. Promptly, the United States and England turned off the top-secret tap. It just wasn’t safe to tell those Aussies anything.

Sir Percy Sillitoe, the Director General of MI5, was sent to improve Australian security, without telling anyone in that notoriously chatty place how England knew something was wrong. (They had a cover story.) This attempt came up against HV Evatt, the Minister for External Affairs, a man with many faults but a fine and razor-sharp legal mind. When informed that a ‘Soviet defector had told us that Australia was insecure’, Evatt slashed the feeble cover story to bits. The British bit the bullet and let the Australians know about the decryptions.

Thereafter, the old system was abandoned and a shiny new one, modelled on MI5 and called ASIO (or Australian Security Intelligence Organisation), came into being on 16 March 1949. ASIO was required to consult the Security Liason Officer, an Englishman called Hambly, before they did anything but happily, Hambly reported that everyone was behaving like good little colonials and doing their best to trace and stop the leak.

ASIO had three main suspects, identified from the VENONA decrypts. One was a Tass journalist called Andreyevitch Nosov (Tass is an international news agency based in Russia). His code name was TEKHNIK and VENONA said he was the main point of contact for all Russian spies in Australia. Mr Andrew’s account of ASIO attempting to bug Nosov’s flat would have made good material for the Keystone Kops. Apparently they drilled a hole in the floor of the flat above to insert a microphone, only to find the Nosov carpet covered in plaster dust. If the spy had looked up, wondering about the source of the dust, he would have seen a really visible microphone in his ceiling. Subtle.

ASIO managed to get in and clean up Nosov’s flat but it wasn’t an encouraging beginning. The next person identified by VENONA was Jim Hill, who was appointed first secretary to the Australian High Commission in London early in 1950 so that the experts at MI5 could keep an eye on him. Hill was interrogated by Jim Skardon, MI5’s lead interrogator and the man who had coaxed a confession out of Klaus Fuchs (a German-British theoretical physicist and atomic spy). All he got out of Hill was complete denial and protestations of innocence but the discovery that Hill had been questioned led to the defection of the third person of interest, Ian Milner, whose codename was BUR.

Milner was an Australian diplomat, who had become a Communist at Oxford in 1934. He had been seconded to the United Nations in New York in 1946. After he heard about Hill, although possibly for other and unrelated reasons, he packed up and left for Prague, where he spent the rest of his life peacefully teaching English Literature at the university. Meanwhile, Hill returned to Australia, resigned from the External Affairs Department in 1950 and vanished out of history

The weird thing – to me, at least – is that everyone who was anyone knew that the main Communist agent in Australia was Wally ‘Pop’ Clayton, codename KLOD. That sounds far too much like Tintin to me. KLOD, indeed. Clayton had a circle of like-minded friends and was described as ‘shadowy’ and ‘furtive’ but also ‘not unlikeable’. Because the source of the intelligence was far too secret to disclose, Wally was never prosecuted.

Andrews says that arrangements were made by the Russians to fly him to Moscow but his passport was revoked before that could happen. In any case, he ended up as a snapper fisherman in Nelson Bay.

That never happened in Callan.

Wally Clayton was missing between 1947 and 1952, presumably in Russia, so he probably didn’t know Somerton Man. But this Communist scandal was to provide Robert Gordon Menzies with fuel for scare campaigns for the rest of his seemingly endless career. It is hard to sort out what actually was happening, due to the difference of opinion among historians. The Left have insisted all along that there was no Communist spy scandal, that it was all a beat-up. The Right insisted that it was real and serious. Now that a large number of documents have been released, clear analysis has been obscured by the Right saying ‘nyah nyah na na-na, we told you so’. None of which is helpful. It was real; it wasn’t just a beat-up. Surely we can agree on that?

Having agreed, what we got was an attempt to outlaw the Communist Party, known as The Communist Party Dissolution Act, which passed into law in 1950. It was promptly challenged by the Waterside Workers Federation (of which my dad was a member), and they managed to attract the formidable Doc Evatt as their spokesman. The High Court struck down the Act by a majority of six to one, largely because it had a reverse onus – that is, you had to prove you weren’t a Communist. The court also stated that the penalties were too heavy – five years’ jail – and that the act precluded an appeal to a higher court. (Courts absolutely hate being precluded.) So Menzies decided to put it to a referendum, even though referenda have a truly sorry history in Australia.

One of the most quoted speeches in Australian legal history was made by Evatt. I was required to read it as a law student.

First the Reds, then the Jews, then the Trade Unionists, then the Social Democrats, then the Catholic Centre Party, then the Roman Catholic and Lutheran Churches. It is the old Totalitarian road; the road that led to the horrors of Belsen; the way that lost millions of lives in the Second World War and untold sacrifices of our peoples in the world struggle against Hitler, Mussolini and Japan.

It was a version of the speech attributed to Pastor Martin Niemoller:

First they came for the Communists and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the Socialists and I did not speak out because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.

As my Welsh ancestors might have admiringly said, ‘There’s words’.

Evatt’s speech had its effect. The referendum in September 1951 failed and the Communist Party was allowed to continue to exist. And presumably Australia got better at spying.

Where atomic secrets were concerned, the places to be were Maralinga and Woomera. At Woomera they probably were testing rockets. Deserts are useful for that sort of thing. No chance of a wayward rocket wiping out anything other than the occasional kangaroo or the inconvenient and unimportant native. Or, indeed, Australian soldiers who didn’t matter, either. As for Maralinga, it was relatively near to Adelaide (in Australian terms, 300 kilometres to the west) and the British were planning on exploding something there with more bang than any given rocket, so there one could expect Russian spies to be positively swarming, like the serpents.

The main port for both Maralinga and Woomera was Port Augusta, which would have been full of unionists. On the wharf itself there were Painters and Dockers, Carters and Drovers, Waterside Workers Federation, Seamen’s Union and Railway members, a lot of whom were Communists and all of whom knew how to keep a secret. If there were spies trying to winkle out atomic secrets, you would have expected to find them in Port Augusta, not Adelaide. But the train does take you from Port Augusta to the city and various commentators have thought that Somerton Man got off a train on 30 November. Was it a train from Melbourne or, perhaps, from the other direction? Was Somerton Man coming into Adelaide with a dangerous secret for which someone killed him?

It is quite possible.

Consider the links between Somerton Man and my father. Alfred Greenwood, a signaller, had just been demobbed and spent some time stringing innumerable wires across the Woomera Rocket Range. I have a black-and-white photograph of a tall pole with a signaller sitting on the cross piece and nothing at all in any direction. ‘The lone and level sands stretch far away.’ My dad reported that the desert was hot during the day, cold at night, and had more venomous ‘Joe Blakes’ than he considered really respectable.

‘The lone and level land stretches far away.’ AW Greenwood, demobbed and working as a signaller.

Soldiers from Woomera were allowed to go on leave into Adelaide. My father said that his beautiful tan – they all seemed to be clad only in shorts and boots – washed off in the harshly chlorinated brackish waters of the City Baths. They were the same baths where Somerton Man shaved his face and washed his body on his last day. He and my father may have passed each other in the locker room, noticed that each other was stylishly dressed (‘sharp’) and perhaps stopped to exchange a ritual ‘g’day’.

By 1948, governments all over were reluctantly releasing the reins of the economy that they had gripped so tightly during the war. Rationing – which had managed to equitably feed Britain, probably for the first time ever and had actually nourished previously unimportant creatures like pregnant women and children – was increasingly exasperating to the people in general. In Australia, some things were still rationed, notably petrol, but rationing in Australia had always been looser, possibly because this is a big country and someone usually knows someone who can lay their hands on a bit of beef or a pound of butter. For a consideration. Or a favour. Australians do not react well to regimentation.

Rationing was one of the reasons why the American soldiers had been so envied and loathed during the war. ‘Over paid, over sexed and over here.’ Not only were they better fed by their canteens, which had unheard of delights like ice-cream, but they had luxuries like perfume and stockings, dear to the female heart. They also wore very spiffy uniforms, tailored and smart, while the battle dress of the Australians was, in my father’s phrase, censored for my delicate ears, like ‘a wet sack full of spaghetti tied up ugly’. My dad used to do tailoring and alterations for his mates. He taught me to sew on a sewing machine, then gratefully handed over the worst job, replacing zippers, to me. He was good like that. No wonder I have problems with gender roles. He also taught me to skip. Boxers train by skipping. He was very adept, although he didn’t know the skipping rhyme ‘Old Mother Moore’ so I had to learn it in the school yard.

I heard a riposte when I was a child that I have just understood now, as I am typing. A Yank says to an Aussie, ‘We got all the girls’ and the Aussie replies, ‘Nah, mate, you just sorted them out for us’. Ouch. However, the Americans also had glamour, money, Big Bands and Swing. My father loved their music. He loved their tailoring. He liked their accents and he never had any trouble competing for female attention. If he had seen Somerton Man in the baths and decided, on the basis of his tailoring, that he was an American, he would still have said ‘g’day’. Then Somerton Man would have gone on to his date with destiny, while my father went on to the Central Market for a cup of coffee with his old mate Killer.

It is still difficult to find out exactly what everyone was doing at Woomera Rocket Range but it certainly needed a lot of wires. My father, otherwise known as Sig. Greenwood A 2nd/1st Aust Line Construction Sqn, took home with him the battery’s copy of Underground Cable Notes and Aerial Line Notes. (Both of them were issued by the Postmaster General’s (PMG) Department and property of the Australian Signaller Training Battalion Bonegilla. If they are still around, I may have to mortgage my house to pay the overdue fines.) The booklets tell signallers why they are important.

Lines of Communication are Vital in War. One pair of wires may be carrying 12 telephone and 18 telegraph messages at one time. Any of those messages may be a matter of life and death. A damaged insulator, a pole knocked over or a broken wire may:

Isolate defence areas;

Delay urgent national work;

Silence a call for aid;

Interrupt important preparations;

Hold back a vital warning;

Imperil troops and civilians;

And give the enemy the flying start that makes all the difference.

Cutting lines of communications is the first duty of enemy paratroops and

Fifth Columnists.

Don’t do the enemy’s job for him.

TRUNK LINES ARE LIFE LINES,

FOR YOUR SAFETY KEEP THEM INTACT.

What did my father tell me about Woomera?

That it was bloody hot during the day, then bloody cold at night. That the stars in the night sky were as close as lanterns. That it was top secret. That the food was lousy but that was standard. There has been no army in the history of the world where the soldiers have appreciated the food. Caesar’s legions bitched about Roman army food, though that does seem to have been un cuisine horreur. At least modern armies actually feed their soldiers, unlike those unlucky enough to follow Napoleon, who had to rob peasants or starve. But the unvarying army food does explain why my father never ate apricot jam again. He would leave the house when we were making it, too. He told me that any concoction, however dreadful, could be improved by adding vegemite, because then it tasted of vegemite. My partner David employed this theory at a particularly frightful choral camp, apparently catered by lunatics and famous for its fish-flavoured chocolate mousse. He possessed himself of a large bottle of chilli sauce and put it on everything, so that it at least tasted of something identifiable, like my father’s vegemite.

My father told me that the baccarat school he started in an idle moment had been very successful, until he had offended one of his fellow soldiers, who then stranded him out in the middle of nowhere all day. The sun was unrelenting and my father had only boots, shorts and a hat. No water or food, no firearm. He stood next to the pole he had erected and moved around it with the sun, either repenting his bad deeds or meditating revenge – guess which? – as he revolved slowly with the shadow. He said he ignored the passing snakes and they ignored him. He played word games in his head. And then the jeep came and got him and he was given water. I do not know what he did to his assailants because he would not tell me.

He told me that the best way of avoiding official notice was to carry a clipboard and look busy. He did this for days before anyone questioned him. He said that the persons in any organisation with whom you absolutely must make friends are the cooks. And he volunteered to build a tennis court in order not to go back on the wires. He had never even considered doing so before and he could not play tennis. But he built it and it was still there when he left. He often worked terribly hard to avoid doing what he was told. A trait I have, regrettably, inherited.

My father told me that every couple of months jeeps full of Important People would arrive in conditions of greatest secrecy, including radio shutdown and darkness, and poke their noses into the arrangements. They would be flown over the rocket range and then everyone would be told to say nothing whatsoever about anything and they would go away again. He also said that if you wanted to know anything about Woomera, you just had to go to the pub, buy a certain person a beer and listen. So much for security. The closest big city to all of these places was – you guessed it – Adelaide, an excellent place for a nest of spies, because, as I may have mentioned before, there is something odd about Adelaide.

So am I prepared to claim that Somerton Man was working for the Russians? It is, at least, a possibility. As part of the ABC’s attempt to solve the case of Somerton Man, in 1978, there was an interview with a spook, which deserves consideration, perhaps for what was not said rather than what was said. The interviewee, John Ruffels, is a researcher working on the theory that Somerton Man was a spy. He comes to an interesting conclusion about the manner of his death.

My theory is that he discarded the book… was taken some place for interrogation, not strong armed or beaten but injected with a truth drug, sodium pentothal for instance ... An overdose was administered. Then in a panic or some sort of standard procedure ... they cleansed everything of labels and [dropped him on the beach to die].

I shall speak later about the use of sodium pentothal and I don’t think that the murderers cleansed the body of labels because the suitcase was label-less as well. I think Somerton Man rendered himself unidentifiable. If the Tamam Shud case is an example of the Funny People at work, they were very inefficient.

But then, we knew that.

Chapter Seven

’Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days

Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:

Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,

And one by one back in the Closet lays.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 49

In a very Australian move, Somerton Man was buried by a pub, the Elephant and Castle hotel in West Terrace, Adelaide. The publican, Leo Kenny, was a well-liked man and a member of a well-known family, and the pub itself was the main port of call for the funeral trade, the pathologists, the police and the stonemasons, which I’d wager meant that they had very little trouble from the local toughs. It takes a rare form of suicidal insanity to attack people who can kill you without a trace, declare you dead, bury you and erect your headstone While-U-Wait. Police pubs are usually very quiet. Officers who really need a quick drink to face the world outside get desperately intense about being interrupted. Even my clients at the Magistrates Court, not known for their quick wit or sense of self-preservation, were never silly enough to try to hold up a police pub.

The patrons of the Elephant and Castle took up a collection so that Somerton Man should not be buried as a pauper in an unmarked grave. The Salvation Army conducted the service when he was interred on 14 June 1949. ‘This man had someone who loved him,’ said Captain E J Webb. ‘He is known only to God.’

Over the grave a headstone was erected, which says, ‘Here lies the unknown man who was found at Somerton beach 1st Dec 1948’. Thereafter, a woman was observed putting a red rose on his grave every year on 1 December. Police interviewed the woman and reported that she had no connection to the case but, frustratingly, they do not give her name. Later, observers noticed that pebbles had been piled on the grave, which is a way of marking a Jewish resting place, but Somerton Man was uncircumcised and therefore very unlikely to be a Jew. Though it is possible. Some Jewish children, trapped in Germany and sent to Christian institutions by prescient parents, remained uncircumcised to escape annihilation. But Somerton Man, who must have been born around the turn of that century, was too old for this to have been his fate.

Years passed without much more than a series of by now predictable headlines declaring that the body of Somerton Man had been identified, followed next day by the news that he had not. Lost luggage was inspected without result and missing persons were either found or continued missing. Nothing. Finally, on 14 March 1958, the long-suffering Coroner, Thomas Cleland, came to the reluctant conclusion that he had to close his inquiry, saying, ‘I, the said Justice of the Peace and the Coroner, do say that I am unable to say who the deceased was. He died on the shore at Somerton on the 1st of December 1948. I am unable to say how he died or what was the cause of death’. And that, for the legal system, was that.

Subsequently, the autopsy reports, the suitcase, and The Rubaiyat were thrown out in successive police springcleanings. Other writers have waxed indignant about this but I perfectly understand. The police evidence lockers are always bulging with stuff, so when a case is stonecold, that is what has to happen to the evidence. Besides, supposing we still had the actual socks that Somerton Man wore, would it help us at all? Even if we had samples of his DNA, to whom would we compare it? I have to admit I do wish that the actual autopsies had survived but want, as Grandma used to say, must be my master.

Just after the Coroner called it quits, a New Zealand prisoner named EB Collins announced that he knew Somerton Man. The story appeared in the Sunday Mirror, which was published in Sydney. Gerald Feltus, who has access to the police reports, states that the New Zealand police interviewed Mr Collins, who declined to impart any more information, stating that he was going to be paid a lot of money for his story by a newspaper. However, no story subsequently appeared.

A copy of The Rubáiyat of Omar Khayyám, the works of a Persian poet that seemed to be the key to the seemingly unsolvable death on Somerton Beach on 31 November 1948.

Information volunteered by prisoners is always suspect but it does show that the Somerton Beach mystery still interested the media. The interest has never gone away. The media have had a lovely time with Somerton Man. My researcher collected over a hundred newspaper clippings from the invaluable Trove on the internet, each of them reporting a new solution to the mystery, all of which somehow proved not to be conclusive.

Then there are the coincidences. Fictional detectives are fond of making pronouncements like ‘There are no coincidences’, and they are right in two senses – firstly, in the sense that no coincidences can happen in an intricate, infinitely complex world system in which butterflies flapping their wings create tornados, and secondly in the sense that no coincidences are allowed in fiction. Fictional investigations have much stricter rules than investigations in real life. In the Golden Age of detective stories, the most important rule was that the murder should never turn out to have been committed by a wandering axe murder whom no one had previously noticed. This is not because there are no wandering axe murderers in the world; sadly, there are. It is because readers of crime fiction rightly demand three things – a crime, a detective and a solution. Crime fiction is a puzzle and the author must play fair and give the reader all the facts they need to solve the mystery. Coincidences happen all the time in real life but if they happen in crime fiction, the reader feels cheated. Usually, however, an editor will return a coincidence-ridden manuscript and sternly instruct the author to rewrite it, so the reader never gets to see it.

Coincidences happen in court on many occasions. My favourite was the little ratbag who, after spending his youth with a collection of like-minded friends stealing cars and causing trouble, had been sentenced to a youth training facility but had escaped. He ran away to South Australia, got a job and a bank account, got married, had children and took them back ten years later to visit his old mum in Melbourne, counting, quite reasonably, on the fact that he had changed a great deal and that no one was actively looking for him. Then he stepped out on a crossing and was run over by a car and the police officer who picked him up off the road was – you guessed it – the one who had originally put him away. Apparently, the cop said ‘Hi, Jimmy’, and Jimmy said ‘Hi, Sarge’. When the case came to court, I argued that the Children’s Court sentence was meant to reform and keep him out of trouble, which it appeared to have done, so could we call it quits? And we did.

There have also been some remarkable coincidences in my own writing career, notably the day when my Muse suggested South China Sea pirates for a novel I was already writing. I was at court at the time and rather busy. ‘Nonsense,’ I told her. ‘I am already writing this book. I can’t knock off for a month’s research.’ But she persisted, so I said, ‘All right, Muse, I have to pass Sunshine Library on the way home. If I put my hand on a book about South China Sea pirates in the early twentieth century, I’ll do it. If not, not,’ which at least stopped her nagging. On the way home I ducked into Sunshine Library and there in the middle of the returns tray, right in front of my eyes and right under my hand, was The Black Flag: A History of Piracy in the South China Seas in the Early 20th Century by James Hepburn. I borrowed the book and put the pirates into the plot because ignoring something like that could cause my Muse to get huffy and I would hate to offend her.

Whole philosophical theories have been based on coincidence or synchronicity. Think of Jung. Think of Koestler. The world is not ruled by straight logic or exact causality. Not all of the things that look as if they might be connected are connected. Not all of the things that happen at the same time or in the same way have the same cause. Take, for example, the cases that are often cited as being similar in some sense to the enigmatic death of Somerton Man.

The first is the case of Clive Mangnoson, a two-yearold child, who, in June 1949, was found dead in a sack on the beach at Largs Bay, which is about 20 kilometres down the coast from Somerton Beach. Lying next to the child was his father Keith, suffering from exposure. The two of them had been missing for four days. The child had died of unknown causes and the man was unable to give an account of what had happened. They were found by a man who said he had been led to them by a dream. Mr Mangnoson’s wife said that the family had been terrorised by a man wearing a khaki handkerchief over his face, who, after almost running her down, told her to ‘keep away from the police or else’. Mrs Mangnoson subsequently had a perfectly understandable nervous breakdown.

The connection between the Mangnoson case and the case of Somerton Man is that Keith Mangnoson was one of the people who thought he knew Somerton Man’s identity. He had gone to the police and told them that Somerton Man was one Carl Thompsen, whom he had met in Renmark in 1939. So was young Clive Mangnoson killed by unknown means in order to force his father to withdraw his identification? In which case, why did the killer or killers leave Keith alive? Wouldn’t it have been easier to kill the father and allow the child to live? And why go about it in a way that inevitably attracted attention, in the same way as Somerton Man had attracted attention?

It sounds like a fuck-up to me and I entirely agree with the proposition that if you have a choice between seeing something as a conspiracy or as a fuck-up, you should always go with the fuck-up. But there may be something in the idea. Perhaps the idiots who killed Somerton Man so clumsily took out poor little Clive Mangnoson, as well, and drove his father mad. We still don’t know what killed that poor little child but small children are fragile creatures and they have always been easy to kill.

Before that, another body had been found on Somerton Beach. The South Australian Register reports that on 12 January 1881 an inquest was held on a man who was found dead by a couple looking for some privacy in the sand dunes. Witnesses had seen the man, heavily clothed for the weather, walking along the beach on 6 January ‘looking despondent’. Nothing more was known of him until the lovers found him on 10 January, by which time he had decomposed so far as to be unrecognisable. The man had with him a bloody razor and a knife, both of which would be ‘most inconvenient for inflicting the wound on the throat’. The Coroner brought in an open verdict, having decided that there was not enough evidence to point to suicide, although he thought it probable. Like Somerton Man, this man was never identified.

The death of Somerton Man has also been linked to a suicide by poisoning. A certain Joseph or George Saul Haim Marshall was found dead in Mosman in Sydney with a copy of The Rubaiyat on his chest. He was the brother of a famous barrister called David Saul Marshall, who was Chief Minister of Singapore. The presence of The Rubaiyat at both Marshall’s and Somerton Man’s deaths strikes me as coincidental in the highest degree. To my mind, Marshall’s suicide seems more likely to be an example of the Werther Effect. In the late eighteenth century, hundreds of young men read The Sorrows of Young Werther, a long, soggily romantic, Gothic, self-pitying and very boring novel by the poet Goethe, and then killed themselves in the same way that Young Werther did. Similarly, The Rubaiyat might have supported or comforted a potential suicide, since Khayyam’s conclusion is that this life is all there is, and once over, it is over forever – a philosophical position that might convince the suicide that the pain they were feeling would finally stop.

Commentators on the Tamam Shud case have also noted that Jestyn gave Alf Boxall a copy of The Rubaiyat in Clifton Gardens, which is close to Mosman, and that a woman called Gwenneth Dorothy Graham, who testified at the Marshall inquest on 15 August 1945, was found thirteen days later, naked in a bath with her wrists slit but no Rubiayat on her chest. Her death may have been the result of a a suicide pact with Marshall but drawing a connection with the death of Somerton Man seems to be stretching coincidence too far. In short, with the possible exception of the Mangnoson case, the other cases most commonly compared to the Tamam Shud murder seem to shed no light on the death of Somerton Man.

What then, you might ask, can modern forensic science tell us about him? The scientists must be able to tell us something, I hear you insisting. After all, they’d clear it up in fifty-seven minutes on CSI. Well, let’s see.

In March 2009, Professor Derek Abbott, Director of the Centre for Biomedical Engineering at the University of Adelaide, set up a task force of geeks hoping to solve the mystery. Their website is a joy, even if you know no mathematics, which I don’t. But although their enthusiasm is charming, even they have not cracked the Tamam Shud code – and if they haven’t done it I believe it cannot be done without further information.

When Professor Abbott researched Somerton Man’s Kensitas cigarettes, which had been placed in an Army Club packet, he discovered that the Kensitas were actually the more expensive brand. This seems an odd thing to do. Usually, people transfer cheaper cigarettes into an expensive packet out of swank, on the same principle as decanting cask wine into expensive bottles. (You’re not fooling anyone with that, by the way). On the other hand, it is not uncommon for someone to offer a down-on-his-luck mate a handful of cigarettes to fill up their own empty packet. I have done it myself. It isn’t as insulting as just handing them the whole packet as though it was a charitable donation. So Professor Abbott’s discovery raises the possibility the poison might have been given to Somerton Man in the form of a cigarette. And inhaling the poison might have changed its effects. Maybe an inhaled poison wouldn’t cause one to throw up.

Professor Abbott also looked at our man’s teeth, such as were left of them, and found that Somerton Man had hyperdontia of the lateral incisors, a genetic disorder that is only apparent in 2 per cent of the population, making it both rare and significant. Although his body is buried, we have photographs and a cast of Somerton Man’s upper body, allowing us to establish that he also has unusual ears.

Back when Bertillon was setting up his system of physical measurement, which preceded fingerprinting, it had already been noticed that ear shapes could be classified in the same way as fingerprints – although the classification of ears is not as useful, because there are comparatively few ear prints found at crime scenes. (It does occasionally happen, however. One of my clients left behind most of one ear when he dived through a window to escape pursuit, though that resulted in a jigsaw puzzle game called ‘match the missing body part’, rather than an expert examination of prints.) Ear prints can sometimes be found on walls and on windows but they have not been as widely accepted as fingerprints and they have been rejected as evidence in the US courts. However, they are, if not unique, pretty distinctive.

A forensic anthropologist Maciej Henneberg, Professor of Anatomy at the University of Adelaide, has provided an analysis of Somerton Man’s ears, establishing that he has an upper hollow, called a cymba, which is bigger than the lower hollow, the cavum. My sister Janet has ears like this with very short lobes, which made piercing her ears painful. (This does not, by the way, mean I believe that we are related to Somerton Man.) The more usual model is the other way round, an ear with a larger cavum and a smaller cymba.

This combination of hyperdontia and an unusually shaped ear appears in photographs of the son of Jestyn/Teresa Powell. Somerton Man had her phone number in his Rubaiyat and his body was found just below her house. Was he the father of Teresa’s son as the media has suggested? Allow me to observe that this is just like them. After all, the hyperdontia and the ear shape are general family traits. Why jump straight to the conclusion that Somerton Man was Teresa’s lover and the father of her child? Why couldn’t he be her brother or uncle or cousin? Nothing brings out the ghouls like death and sex or preferably both. It’s a truism of newspapers.

I have two reasons for disagreeing with the ghouls – a practical reason and an emotional reason. In practical terms, Teresa Powell was a nurse. She may have been surprised by an unplanned pregnancy but she was working at the Royal North Shore Hospital in Sydney and nurses knew things that many other women in 1948 didn’t, one of them being a safe place to get an abortion. If Teresa Powell didn’t want to keep that baby, she didn’t have to do so, which argues that she knew and loved the father and was sure that he would take care of both of them.

And on the emotional level, it seems unlikely that she was relying on Somerton Man, given that she already had a man to marry, as soon as his divorce came through. She may well have been in Adelaide to remove herself from temptation and make sure that Mr Johnson divorced his previous wife without any complicating factors. Under the old Matrimonial Causes Act, anyone who might be involved with a divorcee was obliged to pass the interval between the decrees nisi and absolute, as AP Herbert says, in another country. Or in a nunnery. Any suggestion of collusion and the divorce was off. I do not know whether Mr Johnson was suing for divorce or being sued and at this late date I do not propose to pry. But it is a matter of public record, and as I have referred to earlier, that he married Miss Powell in 1950 as soon as he was free to marry, and they stayed married until he died in 1995 and she died in 2007.

Gerald Feltus, who as we know interviewed Teresa for his book on the Tamam Shud case, was sure that she knew the identity of Somerton Man but that doesn’t necessarily prove that he was her lover. While it is true that Teresa Powell gave a Rubaiyat to a drinking companion in Sydney, I am recapping here, I am not convinced that this links her to Somerton Man. After all, there is no naughty little verse in the front of Somerton Man’s first edition and no inscription from Jestyn, just her phone number in the back of the book, scribbled there perhaps because he had nothing else to write on. (There is no notebook, either in his pockets or his luggage). I do believe he came to Somerton Beach to see Teresa but I don’t think he was her lover. He left his suitcase at Central Station. He wasn’t expecting to stay. If someone comes up with some DNA from the hair caught in that plaster cast, I’d bet a good dinner at my favourite restaurant Attica that the DNA tests would prove that Somerton Man was related to Teresa Powell but not the father of her son.

Like my father, I have always been a cautious gambler and, like him, I never bet my bus money, which means I am tolerably certain about this bet. But if I am wrong, I get another dinner at Attica, so there is, as my nephew says, no actual downside. In any case, there is no way of proving or disproving this theory at present. Professor Abbott’s request for the exhumation of Somerton Man in October 2011 was refused by the Attorney-General, who said that there was no public interest (this phrase has a precise legal meaning) in such an exhumation which ‘went beyond curiosity’. Besides, the chance that Somerton Man and Teresa’s son are not in some way related is estimated at one in 20 million – although that’s the sort of chance that wins lotteries, so it does happen.

Meanwhile, as well as analysing the ears of Somerton Man, Professor Henneberg also examined the photograph of a man called HC Reynolds and found Reynolds’s ears and other facial markers to be the same as the man found dead on Somerton Beach. Henneberg goes so far as to say that ‘Together with the similarity of the ear characteristics, this mole, in a forensic case, would allow me to make a rare statement positively identifying the Somerton Man’. So who is HC Reynolds? The photo in question comes from an old ID card, issued in 1918 by the American authorities and later given to Gerald Feltus by a person he describes only as ‘Ruth Collins, an Adelaide woman’. On the ID card HC Reynolds is identified as British and eighteen years old at the time – the right age for Somerton Man, who was estimated in 1948 to be in his late forties or early fifties.

The photograph from HC Reynolds identity card issued in 1918 was examined by a Professor Henneberg, who found that the man’s ears and other facial markers appeared to be the same as those of Somerton Man. Courtesy Maciej Henneberg.

ID cards were issued to sailors who wanted to go ashore in American ports and didn’t have passports. Passports are a relatively recent invention and not every sailor had one, especially in that era. Extensive searches through various English and Australian archives have failed to find anyone by the name of HC Reynolds who was born, as he must have been, in 1900. One researcher, who is convinced that the ID card was issued to a shipwreck survivor, is still checking survivor lists. It is possible that the researchers haven’t consulted the right database yet but it is also possible that Reynolds wasn’t his real name. Identity is not an absolute. One of Australia’s more famous heroes was an English deserter who was actually called Kirkpatrick but enlisted in the army under the name of Simpson. (He and his donkey later attracted some notice.)

In 1900, birth registrations were patchy. Any genealogical researcher – and there is an army of them out there, combing through all the records in search of their great grandfathers – can tell you that sometimes you need to check baptismal registers and family records, not only to pin down the date of a birth but to establish whether it happened at all.

Adoptions in the old days were frequently informal. The big difference between any country, then and now, is that there was a surplus of children then. Before reliable contraception, many women had, perforce, far more children than they could feed, so some of those children went to orphanages and children’s homes and sisters and aunts. Children born out of wedlock were often not even registered, if they were born at home, and some of them were quietly done away with. The writer and historian Lucy Sussex reports that her grandmother found a tiny skeleton buried in a vicarage garden and buried it again, saying with compassion that it must have been ‘a servant’s child’ and that it was best to ‘let sleeping dogs lie’. In short, even if our HC Reynolds is definitely not on the official record, at least under that name, there might be many reasons for it.

Somerton Man continues to attract speculation. There is an article in the 1994 Criminal Law Journal by that excellent judge and historian, John Harber Phillips, who gives a nice little summary of the case and decides that Somerton Man died of digitalis poisoning, despite the previous forensic objections to this idea. My sister believes that the story of Somerton Man is a love story and she might be right. Others have suggested that the piece of paper in his fob pocket saying ‘Tamam Shud’ is a love token rather than a code. We are also told that Stephen King’s novel The Colorado Kid is based on the case of Somerton Man. It is the story of a man found dead on a beach with no identification and the newspaper reporters who try to solve the mystery. I do not usually admire King but I am an avid watcher of Haven, the TV series derived from The Colorado Kid, and the book itself is an interesting meditation on the nature of apprenticeship, experience and learning.

However, it is not about Somerton Man, according to Stephen King himself, who says in his introduction to the 2005 edition that the book was, in fact, inspired by the case of a woman found dead on the shore in Maine. King reports that a fan sent him a clipping, which he has since lost, about a young woman with a bright red purse, who was seen walking on the beach one day, found dead on it the next and remained unidentified for a long time. King loves the strangeness of Maine and in his introduction he says, ‘In this case I’m not really interested in the solution, but in the mystery’.

The same could be said of all of us who have puzzled over the mystery of Somerton Man. ‘Wanting,’ says King ‘is better than knowing.’ And he may be right.

In her 2010 article ‘The Somerton Man: an unsolved history’, Ruth Balint, a senior lecturer in the School of History and Philosophy at the University of New South Wales, goes to considerable lengths to understand her subject. For instance, she is conducted around Adelaide by Gerry Feltus, the detective who published his own book on Somerton Man in the same year, visiting various places that are important to Somerton Man’s story, like the station and Somerton Beach. There are theories that point to the Somerton Man being a displaced person, which do make sense considering the time and place.

After the ruin of Europe, thousands of people flooded into the less destroyed parts of the world. Nazis tended to go to Argentina, for example. On the other hand, my old and distinguished friend Dennis Pryor came to Australia from England as a ten-pound tourist and never wanted his money back. Australia was seen as a fresh start, innocent of the dreadful animosities of old Europe.

Balint sees Somerton Man as a wandering refugee, clad in anonymous second-hand clothes, rather than attributing his lack of labels to deliberate action. She points to a conversation the police had with ‘Mr Moss Keipitz, an Egyptian, employed in Adelaide’, who told the police investigation that Keane, the name on Somerton Man’s tie, could have been an Anglicisation of Keanic, which is a Czechoslovakian, Yugoslav or Baltic name. (My mother did think he looked Baltic.) However, Balint adds that since Somerton Man’s fingerprints were only sent to the United States and to other countries in the British Commonwealth, not to Eastern Bloc countries, there is no way to prove or disprove her theory. She observes that there are an infinite number of potential endings to the mystery, which is interesting and also true but not helpful.

One of my favourite theories is that Somerton Man was a time traveller, related to Teresa Powell because he was her great-great-grandson come back from the future, where clearly it is colder than here, hence the heavy garments. According to this theory, Somerton Man was waiting on the beach for the Mothership but he was killed by an acute reaction to some local allergen or a death ray from his enemies before he could be picked up. As one who read their first speculative fiction story at eight – a time travel story by Ray Bradbury called The Sound of Thunder, which scared the hell out of me – I love the idea. Both of the unidentified dead men found on Somerton Beach were inappropriately dressed for the weather in their current location but were they, perhaps, appropriately dressed for their ultimate destination – a colder future earth or a chilly day on Mars? The only trouble with this hypothesis is that time travel really is impossible. Much as I like the idea.

A similar degree of suspension of disbelief is required by the idea that Somerton Man was an alien/human hybrid. As a matter of fact, this theory requires that disbelief be not so much suspended as hung out of the window by its heels. I suspect that the theorists watched The X Files and thought it was fact. Still, it’s an attractive hypothesis, based on the fact, uncovered by Professor Abbott, that Somerton Man had some unusual genetic features – those odd teeth and strange ears. However, strange ears do not a Vulcan make, nor a fairy, werewolf, elf or supernatural personage of any sort. Despite what you may have read in Twilight. Despite the novels of Charlaine Harris. No, really. Srsly.

The mysterious code. Many have tried to break it, no one has succeeded – yet.

In the end, after all the theorising, Somerton Man remains an ambiguous figure. Was he on our side or on their side? Was he a good guy or a bad guy? Where did he come from, what was he doing there, how did he die? Only a novelist, I suggest, could possibly provide a solution, because every hypothesis put forward so far has had to ignore at least one of the facts, like the Marx brothers packing a suitcase by cutting off the bits which don’t fit. And my own solution is only a story, or rather, several stories; and I am a storyteller who draws inferences from many sources. We cannot really hope to solve this mystery now, even if we dig up poor Somerton Man and trace his blood relatives by their DNA or the shape of their ears.

When I asked my father to expand on the story of Somerton Man, he confessed that he knew no more. But then he said ‘It’s because it’s a mystery, see, little mate, stories where you know the solution, you forget about them. But if you don’t know – if you can’t know – well, they stick in your mind’.

And they do. It has stayed in my mind all these years.

Chapter Eight

But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me

The Quarrel of the Universe let be:

And in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,

Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 45

Somerton Man is a mystery and he belongs much more now to fiction than to fact – to my father’s domain, rather than my mother’s. But fact should never be abandoned when it is available. When I turned to the newspapers to find out what else was happening in 1948, I read them all and then woke from sleep with a catchcry in my ears: ‘Arms for Israel’.

I first heard that slogan as a child, in relation to the 1967 Six Day War but, of course, the State of Israel was established in 1948 – on 14 May, to be precise. My parents and their old friends Maxie and Shula sat round the radio waiting for the count in the United Nations. They held their breath. They cheered when our representative, Herbert Evatt, said that Australia voted yes. Then England, who had tried so hard to stop the exodus from the concentration camps to Eretz Israel, abstained.

But the State of Israel was proclaimed as soon as the British mandate ended, which was the signal for immediate attack by just about everybody in the Middle East. ‘Drive the Jews into the sea!’ they cried – Egypt and Syria and Jordan and the others, all with Russian armaments and other weapons they had been sold, despite the arms embargo which prevented everyone from legally selling arms to Israel.

When I was a young woman I met an old lady called Rachel, who was a sweet grandma in a pink fuzzy cashmere jumper with jingly pearls around her neck. She was knitting as she told me how she had held out with forty other fighters at a kibbutz on the Jerusalem road. They had fought for their sisters and their children and their goats, all hiding in the basement behind them. A survivor of the Warsaw Ghetto had sneaked out at night and used a Molotov cocktail to blow up a tank and block the road, so the human waves could be picked off as they climbed and fell. Out of forty fighters, seventeen had died but they had bravely held up the advance of the Egyptian army for more than twenty days. Clearly, the Egyptians did not know how to use all those nifty field guns that the Russians had donated; one of them would have wiped all the kibbutz’s resistance.

After the Israeli army came and liberated them, she asked how long they had been fighting, and was amazed to find it was weeks. She had utterly lost count of time. When she looked in a mirror and saw the haunted eyes, the singed hair, the lost eyebrows and the sooty tattooing from the back blast of the Sten on her face, she did not know herself. And she slid to the floor and slept for twelve hours. Then she woke up, washed her face, and slept again, because the Egyptians had retreated and the kibbutz was safe. For the moment.

I asked, ‘Didn’t you feel terrible, killing them all with your Sten gun?’ and Rachel said, ‘Of course, I can still see every one of their faces in my mind. But we would never surrender Israel, just die in her defence, so better take as many enemies with us, nu?’

And she kept knitting. I don’t think I have ever been so disconcerted. I knew about soldiers but Frau Rachel M was something different. That sort of resistance went against the long-held Arab belief that Jews were cowards, which came about because Jews were not allowed to carry arms or serve in Muslim armies, paying a hefty tax for their exemption. In fact, the entire concept of Jewish cowardice was white-anted and the Jews suddenly became cruel oppressors, literally overnight.

Given later political developments, it is hard to envisage 1948 and remember how very alone Israel was, how tiny, how oppressed and powerless – and how very close 1948 was to the time of those films of the liberation of the concentration camps which my mother saw at the cinema. The British filmed the liberation of Bergen Belsen because they had an acute historical sense and they didn’t want anyone to be able to say that it hadn’t happened (which hasn’t stopped the Holocaust deniers). But it did happen. I have spoken to people who were there as prisoners, and to Dennis Pryor, who was a member of a forlorn Friends Ambulance unit, with their five blankets and their packets of aspirin and bottle of iodine, trundling along through the shattered gates into hell.

My mother wept as she watched that film and later I saw it and wept as well. What possible recompense could be offered for such cruelty and deprivation? And where could Jews ever feel safe in the world again? One reason why Hitler was so successful was that many German Jews like the man who told Dennis Pryor about his ‘Deusche Hertz’, his German heart, had thought of themselves as Germans first and then Jews, just as I would feel myself to be Australian and then Anglican. On the extensive list of betrayals in world history, Hitler almost makes it into Stalin’s league where massacring his own people is concerned.

After the genocide of the camps, no one could think of themselves as any nationality first. The survivors had to think of themselves as Jews. A Jewish homeland became the only way the world could possibly try to make sure that this atrocity never happened again. But as soon as the Jews got there, it seemed that they were about to be ‘swept into the sea in forty-eight hours’, as the demagogues boasted.

Let us examine the timeline of the War of Independence. It was not exactly a declared war. It just happened because armies invaded. If you look out of your door and find the street full of soldiers who mean to kill you, you can reasonably assume that you are at war. In this case, the war could be said to have started in March 1948 with the siege of Jerusalem and it lasted for almost a year, with intermittent truces brokered by Britain or America. The first Czech arms arrived in April and the war continued until the first truce, 11 June to 9 July, then blew up again until 17 September. That truce did not last long either and the next ceasefire did not come about until 7 January 1949. Armistice agreements followed – on 24 February with Egypt, on 23 March with Lebanon, 3 April with Jordan and 20 July with Syria.

In other words, on the relevant date for the death of Somerton Man, 30 November 1948, there was a war in the Middle East for which Israel still desperately needed arms. Thus many non-Jewish people felt it was not only righteous, but potentially exciting to help Israel. At the beginning of the war Israel had no air force and no navy and it was buying a lot of ordnance from anyone who was willing to risk British disapproval, then employing the captain of any ship willing to run the blockade.

Nineteen forty-eight was the time of Operation Balak, an arms smuggling operation, named after a biblical king of the Moabites whose name means, roughly, Destroyer. The Zionist military organisation Haganah recruited pilots and sailors in Europe for Operation Balak, including an English pilot, Gordon Levett, who flew Avia S-199 fighters, supplied by Czechoslovakia, from that country to Rehovot airfield in Israel. Repeatedly. He flew many missions, bringing in new planes, people, arms and ammunition. This admirable man was not a Jew and he was certainly not in it for the money. He was in it for the thrill, and because he had a strong sense of justice and felt for the underdog Israel. He said, ‘I shall leave the world a better place than when I entered it because I helped to found the state of Israel’.

Czechoslovakia supplied a lot of arms to Israel and Australia sold them at least four planes. Australia had voted ‘yes’ to the establishment of the nation, so someone selling arms to Israel from Australia was breaking no laws. A lot of people might easily have done so. Amongst my father’s friends, there were a reasonable number of smugglers, although smuggling in the innocent old days just meant evading the government duty on clothes, silk, perfume, tobacco, alcohol and jewellery, especially watches. I never met drug smugglers until I started my career in the Magistrates’ Court – and they were a different kettle of fish altogether.

Large amounts of ‘uncustomed goods’ used to come through Melbourne Port in the days before containerisation. (And now too, of course, but it isn’t anything as interesting.) Some of the old smuggling methods were very ingenious. There is a space between the inner and outer hull of a ship and Portland Bill (that couldn’t have been his real name) tied his watches onto a long thin line, slipped the necklace of watches down into the hollow between the two hulls and secured the end to a porthole window sill, which he had holed and then patched. No one ever found them.

I thought the old-style smugglers were very exotic. Some of them had rings in both ears and they all had that sparkle in their eyes that identifies the risk taker, the downhill skier, the parachute jumper. You can see it in athletes and in con men. It’s very attractive and totally unreliable but, as Phryne would say, inadvisable has never meant undesirable. Like my clients in the Magistrates’ Court, the smugglers put the sort of effort and brains into evading the law, which would have made them a good career if they had been obeying the law. But that always misses the point. They liked the danger, they loved the risk, they were adrenaline junkies. They told me three separate ways to slip into Melbourne Port without attracting notice from the authorities, all of them dangerous. A man called Rene, pronounced Reen, told my father how he had run the Rip at its height in a small boat. My dad asked, ‘Why run it? Why didn’t you wait until the tide turned?’ and I remember the flash of white teeth as Rene grinned and replied ‘Oh, but that wouldn’t be any fun!’

Australian sympathy has always been with the underdog and Australia, the Jewish Encyclopedia informs me, has never had a pogrom – one of the very few countries to be so distinguished. Australian soldiers in Palestine during General Allenby’s 1917 campaign made friends with the kibbutzim. They didn’t see the Israelis as major threats to world peace but as people who offered them tea and allowed them to join in the kibbutz feasts. One returned soldier I knew was very proud of his ability to dance the hora. The Jewish authorities in Jerusalem furthered the general good will by warning shopkeepers not to overcharge Australian soldiers for their souvenirs. By 1948 there were plenty of disaffected and bored unemployed Aussie soldiers, airmen and sailors who might not have minded stepping a little way over the line for a good cause.

I do not mean to say that Australian politics were clearly pro-Zionist or anything as simple as that. Chanan Reich’s instructive and thorough book Australia and Israel: An Ambiguous Relationship details the endless bickering which went on in the United Nations, as well as domestically. Some of the denunciations of Israel by the Catholic church are disquieting to read, since this is soon after Hitler and they knew what the end product of such demagoguery could be. But basically, as a country, we came down in favour of the establishment of a Jewish state. Meanwhile, no one in Israel thought that the ‘sea of enemies’ was going to ebb any time soon, so there was a market, and where there is a market, there is a seller.

For a price. And for the delicious danger.

If I had been around at the time, for instance, I might have bought a biggish tramp steamer, say 900 tons – that’s a reasonable burden. For the purposes of this narrative I will call her Deborah, the name of a very strong-minded biblical general. I would take my SS Deborah up to New Guinea, where a word in the right ear might get me a lot of abandoned American army hardware for a song or two, which I would stow in the hold in crates marked ‘scrap iron’. (As a wartime souvenir, a friend of my dad’s brought back a complete Bren gun, broken down into components and shipped as ‘bicycle parts’. He said that he had captured it and therefore it was his.)

My SS Deborah would sail through most inspections because if Customs opened the top crates, all they would find would be oily bits of unidentifiable iron. Besides, Customs wouldn’t bother searching a tramp too thoroughly, because there were so many of them. Until recently, tramp steamers were the mail boats, carriers of small luxuries and cargo runners to many islands. When I got a job on one in the seventies, we carried mail and also videotapes, books, cosmetics, whisky, pharmaceuticals (like aspirin, insect repellant, disinfectants, not prescription or illegal drugs) and lots of not strictly necessary things, such as oil paints, pencils, ribbons, embroidery thread, dyes, pins and needles. Tramp steamers were like the pack peddlers of old, making life easier for the inhabitants of islands too small to merit visits from official ships. Now I believe that those islanders are supplied from planes but tramps were a fact of the sea for a long time and not, perhaps, excessively scrupulous about what they were carrying, or for whom.

After that I would take my SS Deborah down the coast and around Australia, then past Fremantle to Africa and thence to Israel. I would sniggle my way through the blockade and arrive in Haifa, which was under Haganah control from 22 April, where I would donate my armaments and my ship, starting the nucleus of an Israeli Navy. And I wouldn’t have been the only Gentile to do so. If the Adelaide Jews knew that Somerton Man had been smuggling arms to Israel, for instance, they would certainly have put the little commemorative pebbles on the grave of a righteous Gentile.

So could our Somerton Man have been a smuggler? That would explain the sand in the cuffs of his other trousers and confirm the idea that he might have been landed by dinghy, avoiding official attention, and walked ashore. It would explain his cargo master’s gear and the way his hands were unmarked, even though he was definitely connected to the sea. It would explain why he was sitting and waiting on Somerton Beach. He was waiting for a boat to fetch him. Like any smoker who is faced with an uncertain wait, he lit a cigarette to beguile the time and died, so gently that the cigarette went out in his mouth, and didn’t even singe his cheek or the collar of his expensive, snazzy coat.

But even if we conclude that Somerton Man was a smuggler, how likely is it that he was smuggling arms to Israel? He may, of course, just have been moving various precious cargoes through various dutiable ports but that theory doesn’t seem to be consistent with the manner of his death. Certainly, smugglers are sometimes killed because a crate of watches has gone suspiciously astray or because they are suspected of being a nark but Somerton Man wasn’t tortured or even roughly handled, which tends to be the first recourse of scoundrels. He was simply killed, efficiently and cleanly, in a manner more consistent with politics than criminality. In smuggling terms, that would seem to define him as an arms smuggler and if he was selling arms, where else other than Israel could he sell them in 1948?

Let us survey that rather grim and depressing year. In terms of conflicts, it began with the attacks on Jews in Palestine and their appeal to the United Nation leading to the 14 May declaration of the state and the consequent war. In February there was the Communist takeover of Czechoslovakia but since the Czechoslovakians were selling arms to Israel, no one was likely to be smuggling them into that country. There was a civil war in Costa Rica and Tito had finally split with Stalin, so the Russian advisors were recalled from Yugoslavia, but in both cases there is not a lot of connection with Australia.

For most of 1948, the Russians blockaded Berlin and the Berlin airlift kept the city going. Dennis Pryor told me that the planes flew in one continuous stream, approaching, landing, unloading, refuelling and taking off. If a plane missed it’s landing it could not go around and try again. It had to land elsewhere because the planes never stopped. A remarkable effort. It lasted for eleven months, after which the Russians gave up and lifted the blockade. Again, an interesting story but not something that would have been considered terribly important down in the Antipodes.

Greece was having a terrible civil war but Greek affairs mostly involved Greeks – and still do, whereas Jewish affairs involve Jews, who are much more widespread than Greeks. Any Greeks in Australia were probably so thankful to be out of Greece that the idea of supporting either side would not have struck them as a possibility. That, at least, is what the Greeks I knew in the fifties said to me.

Meanwhile, President Truman was re-elected. The US Marshall Plan (or the European Recovery Program) went ahead providing monetary support. Europe was being repaired, settling into the new world order. South Africa had embraced apartheid, which was unpleasant but not relevant to this enquiry. The Phillipines had a rebellion. There was an oncoming war between South Korea and North Korea, exacerbated by Russia, China and America putting their oars in as usual. The Dutch were in trouble in Indonesia, which is closer to Australia but already had a lot of unclaimed ordnance, both Japanese and American, so neither the Dutch nor the Indonesians would have needed to buy extra from Australia. And as 1948 shaded into 1949, Ireland became independent of Britain, the Communists defeated the Nationalists in China and the Soviets detonated their first A-bomb. Makes you feel privileged to live in the present, doesn’t it?

In short, if we decide that Somerton Man was an arms smuggler, the only likely destinations from Australia would seem to be Ireland or Israel. In a Phryne Fisher short story (see page 176) I considered the possibility that Somerton Man had been involved in smuggling armaments to Ireland, so I shall concentrate on Israel here. If Somerton Man was supplying arms to Israel, why would his associates or masters or enemies decide to kill him? Who would want to intercept his cargo? The British? Any local Arabs? Possibly the Catholics, who had opposed the establishment of Israel very fiercely? Or perhaps our very own security service?

‘This man had someone who loved him. He is known only to God.’ Somerton Man was buried by a pub, the Elephant and Castle Hotel in West Terrace, Adelaide. Courtesy Gerald Feltus.

Let us see how that might play. By going against the blockade, Somerton Man had offended the spooks’ sensibilities. They didn’t want to hurt him or bruise him. They just want him dead and they must have hoped that the death would be marked ‘natural’ and not investigated. But they didn’t know that Somerton Man had already disposed of all his identifying documents, right down to his luggage labels, and purged his baggage of all those incidental coins and stamps and talismans of home. As a result, the very solitude and peace of Somerton Man’s death attracted the attention that it was designed to avoid.

In which case, that satisfied expression which so haunts me might be caused by the fact that his boatload of armaments had sailed, that the crates in its hold were on their way to defend Israel, and it was too late, far too late, for it to be intercepted. Those arms might have been abstracted from an ammunition dump in Adelaide or from Woomera, where my father worked briefly. During the war and in its aftermath, there were always those quartermasters who improved the shining hour by selling their stock.

But for Somerton Man, the fight was over.

Chapter Nine

Myself when young did eagerly frequent

Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument

About it and about: but evermore

Came out by the same Door as in I went.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, stanza 27

So who was Somerton Man and how did he come to be dead on Somerton Beach? I have floated a score of hypotheses to explain him and now it is time to tell you a story – although first I shall award him a name, using the ones most commonly given to children in 1900. (I researched 1900 birth names when I was working on the very first Phryne Fisher novel. My mother always did tell me that nothing you learn is ever wasted.)

The story goes like this. Henry Charles Reynolds is British and has been a sailor most of his life. He joined the merchant marine and has landed in a lot of ports but he likes America and may have lived there for a while. He joined the navy when the war broke out and served in the North Sea convoys and perhaps even our own Scrap Iron Flotilla, whose names I learned because they were so compelling – Vampire, Voyager, Vendetta, Waterhen and Stuart, which prowled the lethal waters around New Guinea, looking for trouble. And finding it.

Henry has an interesting war but is not injured or scarred. After the war he is employed in the British naval blockade of Haifa, where the British sternly turn back the refugee boats from ruined Europe. He feels for those Jews, for the drained, exhausted women and children, and he decides to help them if he can. Discharged from the service, he is at a loose end, so he obtains a position on a cargo vessel plying around Australia. It is a biggish ship, which does its own laundry, and he bunks with a man called Tommy Keane. When Henry decides on a smuggler’s life, he docks all his labels, packages all his memorabilia and swaps a couple of his more unimportant garments with his cabin mate. He knows who he is and he isn’t T. Kean or Keane.

Henry has made all the contacts that a cargo master always makes and he may have done a little smuggling of watches and perfumes on his own account. He now wants arms for Israel, so he joins a tramp steamer – we shall call it Hatikvah – run by a member of the Jewish Overseas Brigade whom he met during the blockade. There were a lot of these irregular troops around. They helped the Israelis to kidnap the German Nazi Lieutentant Otto Eichmann from Argentina, for instance, and take him back to Israel for trial.

After the arms are obtained from Adelaide or Woomera, Henry asks for permission to go ashore to see his sister or cousin Teresa Powell, who lives just above Somerton Beach. The vessel has to be refuelled, so the captain gives him leave, and he packs his case, taking only as many garments as he will need for four days, leaving behind all his talismans and pictures. He can’t go ashore at Somerton for some reason, so he is dropped at Glenelg and then goes into Adelaide itself, where he has a wash and a shave and changes his clothes. That tramp is a dirty little scow and he wants to make a good impression.

Uncertain of his welcome, Henry puts his suitcase in the station locker. Teresa is not the only person he knows in Adelaide. He is expecting to pick up some money, come back from Somerton, collect his suitcase and go somewhere else in the city to stay with a friend. Possibly he dials the phone number he has penciled in the back of his copy of The Rubaiyat and finds that no one answers but he decides to go there anyway. He arrives in Somerton, finds that Teresa is not at home and decides to wait.

Then he realises that he has his code book in his pocket, having brought it because it has her phone number in it. This is a major breach of security. The code is a one-time algorithm, relying on a mnemonic. Henry drops the book into an open car, meaning to retrieve it later, but first he tears off the page with the key words on it, rolls it up small and stuffs it into his fob pocket, where an ordinary search will not find it.

And while he is idling there in Moseley Street, someone recognises him and entices him into a private house or, perhaps, the kitchen of the Crippled Children’s Home, where he is given food and tea and many questions are asked, politely and quietly. No one lays an ungentle hand on him. Who are his interrogators? They might be our very own CIS (Commonwealth Investigation Service), the highly inefficient collection agency which pre-dated ASIO, at the point when Australia leaked all its secrets to good old Wally the Comm – the reason, in fact, that ASIO was invented. They might be Americans, anxious to guard their atomic secrets. Or they might be any local chapter of murderous fanatics. And they might be the local representatives of the British Secret Service, though the British seem to have been much more effective and less prone to clumsy mistakes.

This matter was handled clumsily. It attracted a great deal of attention.

Henry’s interrogators may have given him sodium pentothal or scopolamine, regarded at the time as truth drugs. They may have reacted catastrophically, rendering Henry not talkative but sleepy or paranoid. I am sure that he didn’t speak. He looks far too smug and safe in his death for that. But his questioners decide that he has to be disposed of. They notice that he smokes and offer him a handful of very expensive cigarettes. Henry takes them. He hasn’t a penny on him and he has a heavy nicotine habit.

Then his interrogators let him go and he walks down to the beach to wait for his relative to come home. Like every smoker in the world faced with a wait, he lights a cigarette. And the poison in the cigarette, inhaled and potent, kills him very quietly and he dies on the sand.

Alternatively, the interrogators inject him with snake venom through the ‘boil scar’ on his arm but in either case he dies as though he is falling asleep.

And passes into mystery, taking all his secrets with him.

My dad came home from Adelaide, eventually, in early 1950, with a beautiful new tan, a craving for frog cakes, and his old mate Killer, who had avoided any further trouble and was settling down with his wife and his baby. My father was leaving behind his army life, doffing his slouch hat, and going back to the wool classing. But it was the off-season, so he got a job on the wharf, and was so enchanted by the company that he stayed there for the rest of his working life. The only remnant of his shearing life was a disinclination to eat roast lamb. He had picked up a lot of useful skills – he could mend anything, make anything, cut hair, tailor clothes, fix engines. An all-round useful man.

And I miss him so much. He had no son until my little brother was born, so he taught me his country skills – I can make rabbit nets, mend toys, re-glue fine china, replace glass, make knots. I remember being so proud of myself when I finally finished a Great Ocean Platte, which was a doormat for many years.

And his reflexes were still very fast. When a criminally negligent loon loaded a cargo container with engine parts at one end and candles at the other, making it terminally unbalanced, it broke the forklift and fell towards my father. He fled and rolled so fast that instead of being crushed, he just had ‘Harbour Trust’ emblazoned in a bruise on his broken ribs, where he had rolled against a bollard.

Old soldiers do die, but you have a lot of trouble catching them.

And now I have to leave 1948, say goodbye to the Adelaide of my youth, when I was strong enough to work all day dragging a bag of grapes through the rows of vines, and happy as the sun was long, when no one I loved had ever died. I have to abandon the contemplation of the mystery of Somerton Man and leave him to sleep quietly in his grave, with all his secrets safe. And I have to watch my father, with his beautiful brown eyes and his mop of red curls, my splendid father, dead three years, walk off through the door into Night, where I can hear his mates, also dead, popping the crown caps off bottles of Fosters. The door into Night is shut.

And I am here. At the door of Day. And now I can open it.

David Greagg breaking down the code

The code has been studied by the devoted cryptologists Professor Derek Abbott with Dr Matthew Berryman (supervisors) and Andrew Turnbull and Densley Bihari (Honours students). Critical design review 2009: who killed the Somerton man? www.eleceng.adelaide.edu.au/personal/dabbott/wiki/index.php/Cipher_Cracking_2009 and if anyone can break it by computer, they will. The work is ongoing.

Following is mathematician David Greagg’s analysis of the code which also shows the workings of the box code. Box codes were popular between the wars. The idea for this approach comes from Dorothy L Sayers’ Have His Carcase, where there is an elegant description of how a box code works.

The Message

A lot of problems are immediately apparent. There are (possibly) 50 characters in the message. Everyone else seems to think that the opening letter is M. However, whoever it is, he writes M differently. It may well be a W. The letters are arranged in five lines as follows:

w/m rgoababd

m liaoi

w/m tbimpanetp

mliabo aiaq (c?)

(i?) ttmtsamstgab

The Ws are possibly M, though this, is in my view, questionable. It could even be an H. There is rough underlining beneath (and indeed through) line 2 and a double line with a cross just above line 4 over the O. The MS is messy, not well calligraphed and there is doubt over the two letters between lines 4 and 5. Our writer was arguably not accustomed to writing and it is possible that these are merely accidental scribbles. For this reason, the possibility than line 2 is meant to be deleted is also probably not sustainable. There is also some doubt about the M at the beginning of line 2.

Box Codes

The most tempting hypothesis in the first instance is a box code based on the keyword TAMSHUD. The absence of J anywhere might well point to a 5 x 5 box code where I and J are traditionally conflated. Against that, there is also the problem that there is also no F, H, K, U, V, X, Y or Z. So we have only a 20-letter alphabet to choose from. If other writers are correct, there is also no W. There are also major problems because a box code needs all letters in pairs. The letter distribution per line is 9, 6, 11, 11, 13; or else 9, 6, 11, 10, 12 if the C and I are omitted.

How this works is that the key letters of Tamam Shud are arranged first in a 5 x 5 box, with I and J treated as equivalent letters. All the remaining letters are then written in ordinary alphabetical order thereafter. Using this box the letters must be arranged in pairs, and the pairs of letters are swapped around a vertical axis. In this code, the word ‘so’ is coded as AQ. The word ‘go’ remains as it is, since G and O are on the same vertical axis.

The idea behind a crib is that cryptologists look at incomprehensible ciphertext (or encrypted text) and use a clue about a word or phrase that might be expected in the ciphertext. In this case, Omar Khayyam, Rubaiyat, FitzGerald and so on. If this phrase was appropriate, this would create a ‘wedge’ or a test to attempt to break the code. A sample of cribs with tamshud as the keyword is as follows:

1st line with initial W: ZOGOMDMD (plus an extra letter)

1st line with initial M: HPGOMDMD (plus an extra letter)

1st line with first letter omitted: OLOADMDB

2nd line: HIGMPG

This really doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere. I also attempted box codes with other keywords: omarky (Omar Khayyam), rubaiyt (Rubaiyat), fitzgerald and jestyn (the possible name of the nurse). Sample cribs are shown below:

omarky:

1st line with initial W: XAEAABAB (plus an extra letter)

1st line with initial M: RMEAABAB (plus an extra letter)

1st line with first letter omitted: AIAOBADB

2nd line: KFGRRE

rubaiyt:

1st line with initial W: SBHNBABA (plus an extra letter)

1st line with initial M: MRHNBABA (plus an extra letter)

1st line with first letter omitted: FUPBABAC

2nd line: QFAIQB

fitzgerald:

1st line with initial W: VAISHEHE (plus an extra letter)

1st line with initial M: CDISHEHE (plus an extra letter)

1st line with first letter omitted: DIPRHEME

2nd line: KDTROI

jestyn:

1st line with initial W: YPGOBABA (plus an extra letter)

1st line with initial M: LUGOBABA (plus an extra letter)

1st line with first letter omitted: OLOAABDB

2nd line: LMIAOI

Another possibility is that the use of tamam shud (the final phrase of The Rubaiyat) is an inverted clue and the true keyword should be based on the first two words of FitzGerald’s Rubaiyat. These words are Awake! For, giving awkefor. Not only are there two words in both cases, but seven keyword letters:

1st line with initial W: WRGOKOKO (plus an extra letter)

1st line with initial M: HDGOKOKO (plus an extra letter)

1st line with first letter omitted: HOOAOKDB

2nd line: LMGKBG

It would seem fruitless to persist with this theory.

ETAOINS and extended ETAOINS

If it is a letter substitution code, we can use tamshud equals ETAOINS. The questionable letters here are no longer so important as in a box code, where one extra (or fewer) letter changes every single letter in the crib. Begin with a restricted ETAOINS, leaving code letters as lower case and cribs as upper case.

Here t is replaced by E, a by T, m by A, s by O, h by I, u by N and d by S:

wrgoTbTbS

AliToi

wEbiApTneEp

AilTboTiTqc

iEEAEOTAOEgTb

Immediately we run into difficulties. There are too many vowels clumped together and not enough elsewhere, given that the only other true vowel available is U.

If we replace w with m, as others seem to think it is, we get:

ArgoTbTbS

AliToi

AEbiApTneEp

AilTboTiTqc

iEEAEOTAOEgTb

If we are to extend the substitution to the entire alphabet, then rather than using modern computer analysis of letter frequencies, we should use the printers’ type boxes as used by Samuel Morse. This list is given as:

ETAOINSHRDLUCMFWYGPBVKQJXZ

Using this list, we may assign the other letters of our alphabet as follows:

Ta m shud b c e f g i j k l n opq r v wxy z

are to be replaced by:

ETAOINSHRDLUCMFWYGPBVKQJXZ

The great advantage of this system is that is does offer a plausible explanation for the absence in our 50-odd characters of the least common letters V, K, Q, J, X and Z. Unfortunately, our possible crib then (with ‘m’ rather than ‘w’) becomes:

AVUGTHTHS

AWCTGC

AEHCAPTYDEP

ACWTHGTCTBR

CEEAEOTAOEUTH

Little, or far too much, can be made of this.

Using awkefor instead of tamshud gives us the following ETAOINS code.

Here a is replaced by E, w by T, k by A, e by O, f by I, o by N and r by S:

Our message begins:

T/m SgNababd

m liEoi

T/m tbimpEnOtp

mliEbN EiEq (c?)

(i?) ttmtsEmstgEb

Since so few of our main code letters appear in the message, we can probably rule this possibility out straightaway.

Restricting the Sample Part 1

All authors have commented on the cryptic nature of the message. It does not appear that using all 50 letters that anything can be made of this which resembles English, or any other plausible language. One author has suggested that the letters are simply the first letters of a message. This would account for the fact that it seems impossible to crack this code using any traditional methods. The fatal drawback to this is that if this is so, virtually any message can be constructed with those initial letters. There is not nearly enough information to show that any one message is superior to any other.

If the message is indeed cryptic, then it is possible that the cross in line 3 is meant to be the end of the message, and the other letters are there simply to confuse the issue. Our reduced text is:

wrgoababd

mliaoi

wtbimpanetp

mliabo

The fact that lines 2 and 4 are similar may be of importance. The absence of rare letters in English also tends to support the idea of an ETAOINS code. Beginning with the reduced ETAOINS we have:

wrgoTbTbS

AliToi

wEbiApTneEp

AilTbo

Possible words for line 1 are: ????T?T?S equals allstates, annotates, hesitates, apostates, appetites, irritates, meditates, thestates, detonates, and a number of less likely words. Most of these may be ruled out at once, since none of the missing letters can be any of tamshud. The initial A is not an insuperable obstacle, since if other authors are correct that the first letter is m, this construes as A in this code. The letter b would almost certainly be a vowel, and could be E, I or O, but not A. This rules out every one of the suggested words. The idea that b equals E is plausible, since our reduced coded sequence has four bs. This means our initial line is now ????TETES. However, no English words appear to fit this sequence. There is also the problem that b should not be E, since if tamshud equals ETAOINS then t should be E rather than b.

The second line has possible words including acetic and arctic, which obey the rule that the missing letters cannot be any of tamshud. Arctic looks promising, since our code letter i occurs at letter 3 and 6, which would then construe as C. For line 4, however, this gives a pattern AC?T?? which only gives us words like ACETYL and other even less likely cribs. This does not seem to be leading anywhere productive.

Restricting the Sample Part 2

If part of the message is indeed gibberish, another possibility is that the message does not in fact begin until after the cross. This gives our message as (assuming the c and i are just scribbles as previously suggested) two lines of 4 and 12 letters:

aiaq

ttmtsamstgab

Our box code gives us:

MGSO

TTTMASSMAFMD

The use of TT here seems to rule out a box code using tamshud as our keyword with lines of 4 and 12 letters. If we expand using the extra c and i we get:

aiaqcittmtsamstgab:

In this system our crib is:

MGSOBKTTTMASSMAFMD

Again, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. The problem with adding two extra letters is that the problem with the letter T is still there. Arbitrarily choosing only one of the two extra letters gives an uneven number of letters.

Using omakhy as our keyword, the crib is RGAQ (CI) TTKPRRPLQAB.

Using rubaiyt as our keyword, the crib is IAIP (EB) TTNYXRMSTGBA.

Using fitzgerald as our keyword, the crib is TRLP (CI) TTHGPDMSGTEH.

Again, no plausible solution emerges from this. The use of the TT is an endemic problem on its own, and if it is a box code at all then the keyword must be something entirely different.

If we reduce the sample this way, the problem with tamshud equals ETAOINS remains:

aiaq (c?)

(i?) ttmtsamstgab

becomes

TiTqc

iEEAEOTAOEgTb

The vowel combination in the last line is an insuperable obstacle.

Conclusion

Neither box codes nor ETAOINS letter substitution would appear to be a solution to our code. The code still seems unbreakable.

Forensic pathologist Shelley Robertson’s analysis of the autopsy

Can death due to ‘natural causes’ be excluded?

I find the pathologist’s eagerness to exclude natural causes as the cause of death somewhat disconcerting. From the snippets of the pathology report I have seen, there is significant pathology present, that is, englarged spleen (3 times the normal size). If it is really this big, it suggests that the deceased may have had an underlying haematological condition or some strange infectious disease. Then there is the bleeding into the stomach. The mucosa is described as ‘congested’ which is a very nonspecific finding and if it really was due to the irritant effects of some ingested toxin, one would expect there to be perhaps involvement of the oesophagus or some evidence of vomiting (not the half-digested remains of the pastie sitting there). Many cardiac conditions are currently recognised as causing sudden death by producing a rapidly fatal cardiac arrhythmia (for example, QT syndrome). These were probably not recognised in the 1940s. I agree that the circumstances surrounding this man’s death make natural causes unlikely but I haven’t seen anything in the pathology comments to exclude natural causes so vehemently.

Red herrings

I see a few things again in the ‘pathology snippets’, which I think only have the potential to give misleading information. These include the description by the pathologist of ‘pupil size’ which really can’t be ascertained properly after death. Then there is the ‘high set calf and pointy toe stuff’ described by the taxidermist/death mask maker (and his qualifications in this area would be???). There is also mention of the deceased having ‘an athlete’s heart’ and ‘inflammation of the bowels’. Athlete’s can have considerably enlarged hearts which may, in themselves, cause an increased susceptibility to cardiac arrhythmia. But is this what the pathologist really said? And it would need to be confirmed by the weight and description of the heart. I don’t know what is meant by ‘inflammation of the bowels’ – this needs further description.

Toxicology

I recognise that the methods of detection used in those days were fairly primitive, but I think most commonly available poisons would have been able to be detected in the stomach if they had been ingested by mouth. It is not clear if blood was also tested. This would hopefully pick up injected compounds. The pathologist states there were no needle marks on the body (but then, he did such a great job of examining the clothing that he missed the bit of Tamam Shud paper – what else did he miss?).

The suggestion that the deceased was sitting still but able to move (witness accounts of arm moving and crossing/uncrossing legs) makes the short-acting anaesthetic agents, particularly barbiturates, pretty unlikely. I think the same applies for scopolamine and it should have been able to be detected if there was enough on board to cause death.

The late Justice John Harber Phillips (in his wisdom) says that death was due to digitalis (he also says that ‘the state of the liver would exclude insulin’ and I have no idea what he means there or how he manages to reach that conclusion). Again, I think if death was caused by ingestion of a cardiac glycoside such as digitalis, it should have been detected.

In summary, I don’t believe death due to natural causes can be ruled out in this case, and the notion that he died by poisoning is problematic to substantiate in the absence of any discernable poison, even given that testing in those times was fairly primitive compared to current technology available.

Tamam Shud:

A Phryne Fisher Mystery

When I was asked to write a short story for the collection Case Reopened I remembered my father talking about Somerton Man. The internet was still called books then, so I obtained all my information from a large volume entitled Crimes that Shocked Australia, where the code was printed incorrectly. As a result, I unintentionally misled my mathematician, who laboriously arrived at a solution that is, alas, wrong. Because the Tamam Shud mystery happened in 1948, I had to write about Phryne as she would be after World War II. This is the only story that ages her. I did wonder how she would manage and I should have known that, apart from not liking Dior’s New Look, she would be as wonderful as ever.

Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare

And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,

A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,

Fools ! Your Reward is neither Here nor There !’

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Phryne Fisher could have stayed to watch the Germans march into Paris. Being a woman with no taste for Moments of History she had left on a Plymouth-bound fishing boat some days before and had found London more to her taste. She had called upon some Home Office acquaintances, beguiled the Phony War with cocktail parties, and had only enlisted in the French Resistance when Dunkirk had brought its battered, oil-stained soldiers back in the flotilla of little ships. It was the little ships that decided her. Any nation that could have the miraculous luck to retrieve an army which should have been massacred or taken prisoner was the side to be on.

Born with the century, she was a lithe and beautiful forty-one years old when she came into Tours and began to collect the dangerous, secretive women and men who would be her Resistance to German invasion of France. London identified her as the Black Cat: La Chatte Noire. The war had been long; the danger and constant strain had frosted her black hair with white, and graven deep lines around her eyes. The fall of France and the defeat of Hitler came not a moment too soon for Phryne. London had been shattered; she did not stay. As soon as there was a transport going south on which she could wangle a place, she fled back to Australia, wanting sunshine and butter and peace.

And in Adelaide, City of Churches, she had rediscovered sleep without dreams, and wine not bought with blood, and trains in which she could travel without having to worry about partisan bombs. She was still wealthy. Land in Australia had not lost its value. Taxation was still low. Rationing was avoidable. The house in St Kilda Road remained her principal place of residence. But Adelaide had become a holiday place for her, one with such deep immemorial peace as the grounds of Cambridge no longer held.

Therefore, she was very angry when she found a dead man on Somerton Beach.

Only one memory, of all the dreadful memories, still came between her and sleep. Not every night, but often enough to plague her, and to make her wonder if she was forever damaged. A young German, captured by the Maquis, refusing to reply to questions about troop movements and numbers. He had been very frightened; she had smelt his fear. He had cowered back into the wall of the ditch, his flesh shrinking from the idea of torture. And yet he had not spoken. Pale and smug in death as though proud that he had kept faith and honour intact, his white face haunted Phryne’s sleep and occasionally flashed in front of her waking eyes.

And here, as she walked up from the water to the steps that led to the road and her car, was the same face. He was older than the German soldier had been. She put his age at about her own: forty-eight. He was tall, well built and good-looking. His eyes were shut and he looked as though he was asleep, if one could ignore the slackness of the hands and the drooping of the head. She touched him. He was cold. And it was seven in the morning on 1 December 1948, and it was going to be a very hot day.

Surprising herself, she fought down a sob.

‘I’ve seen enough dead men in the last four years, why should this one affect me?’ She called herself roughly to order. That’s enough, Chatte Noire, up you go. Go to one of these nice houses and have the police called. It is nothing to do with you. This is not your dead man, Phryne!’

Almost against her will, she noticed that there were no marks in the sand around his feet. He was sitting on the bottom step, his feet on the beach. He looked as though he had felt unwell, sat down and died where he was. His clothing was all in order and there seemed to be no mark on him. Nice clothes, brown suit, topcoat, white shirt, his tie still in place and tied with a Windsor knot. Unmarked and quite dead. Yet there was that secret smile on his lips. She wondered what colour his eyes were.

Then she ran up the steps and knocked at one of the house doors, to tell the comatose inhabitants that there was a corpse on their nice clean beach.

* * *

‘Marie!’ Phryne called as she came into her small house on West Terrace. ‘Marie, p’tit, est-ce que tu dans le maison?’

‘Oui,’ replied a light voice from upstairs. ‘Bonjour, Madame.’

Marie had been acquired in Carcassone, a child of twelve orphaned by a shell and removed by Phryne from a nasty destination. She had resisted all attempts to send her away after the war, and no one could find any survivors from the Jewish colony in that city. So she had come to Australia with Phryne. She was small, dark and intense, and so pretty that Phryne did not expect to keep her long.

She came down the stairs and caught sight of Phryne’s face.

‘What has happened?’

‘I found a dead man on the beach. I have seen enough dead men but I never expected to find one here.’

‘Murdered?’

‘No, he appears to have just died.’

Marie saw that Phryne was more shaken than she was willing to admit. She ran down the stairs and took her arm.

‘Come. We shall have a tisane. With a little cognac’

Side by side in the hall mirror, Phryne saw the dark, glowing, flawless face of Marie and her own countenance. Middle-aged, she thought, surveying the corded throat and the streaks of grey in her hair. Her eyes looked back at her, still intensely green, but wary and dilated.

‘Yes, you’ve seen a thing or two,’ she said to her reflection. ‘All right, Marie, tea and brandy it is. I can’t absorb shocks like I used to.’

Marie considered that Phryne was clearly still very attractive and, in any case, the best-dressed woman she had ever seen. She paid no attention and hustled her into the kitchen.

* * *

Two men sat huddled over a formica table in the most depressing pub in Hindley Street. They were careful not to attract attention; so careful that the other drinkers had noticed the air of cold seclusion that surrounded them and had given them a wide berth, isolating their table in the middle of a pool of silence.

‘When does she leave?’ asked the smaller and darker man. His red-headed companion sighed and scrubbed at his jaw with a hand calloused like a bricklayer’s.

‘Evening.’

‘Waste a few words on me, Damien,’ begged the first. ‘Which evening, for the good God’s sake?’

‘Tomorrow evening,’ said Damien. ‘And do not go on about words, Brian. It is words which got us into this and words which always betray us.’

‘So it is,’ agreed the dark one, ‘so it is. Are you going, then?’ he added, as Damien stood up.

‘I am. You will be for Melbourne?’

‘The morning train, yes. No sign of the suitcase? He probably left it at the station.’

‘No sign. They will raid the station tonight. He may have left it in a locker.’

‘They are not going to like this, Damien.’

‘No, Brian. They are not going to like it.’

‘Likely I am going to my death, bringing them the news of our failure.’

‘Yes.’

‘God be with you, Damien.’

‘And with you, Brian.’

* * *

Phryne had absorbed her tea and brandy, and was having a bath when the policewoman arrived. She came out to speak to her dressed in a heavy silk gown which dated to the 1920s. Such fabric was not to be found in a postwar world, mused Woman Police Constable Hammond, sitting down, at Phryne’s invitation, on the couch. At least this lady, she realised with relief, was not going to have hysterics and cry on her uniformed shoulder. In fact, thought WPC Hammond, as the green eyes of the middle-aged lady met her own soft brown ones, this was a woman who knew a good deal more about death than she did, and was no longer startled by it.

‘Miss Fisher? Er… Lady Fisher?’

‘Just Miss Fisher. What’s your name? Nice to see women being given some position in the world at last. Constable, are you? Well, I hope they make you a sergeant. Would you like tea or coffee? And how can I help you?’

‘My name is Hammond, I would like some tea and I came about the dead man on Somerton Beach.’

‘Yes, I thought that it might be that. Marie, can you make some tea? It’s all right, this is Australia and she is a police officer.’ Phryne smiled at Hammond. ‘Marie has only met people in uniform in the war and they always wanted to send her to Ravensbruck. You’ll have to excuse her, Constable. Now, what about the man on Somerton Beach?’

‘What were you doing there, Miss Fisher, and where was he when you first saw him?’

Phryne began to explain, in a crisp, ordered narrative which WPC Hammond took down in her notebook. When Phryne had finished, the officer looked up and asked, ‘Miss Fisher, I’ll be frank with you. The bigwigs have been onto us when we made a routine check on you, as a witness. They say that you were in the Resistance during the war in France. I’m going to ask you this, even though my boss wouldn’t like it.’

‘Well, ask.’

‘Did you know the man? Did he have any connection with… with what you were doing during the War?’

‘No, I didn’t know him. I don’t know anything about him. If I did there are people I would have called, things I would have done, which I won’t burden you with. But I didn’t call anyone and I didn’t do anything because I honestly did not know the man. To my knowledge I’ve never seen him before. Now have some tea and tell me more. Why all this mystery?’

Hammond took some tea, which was excellent, and said slowly, ‘we don’t know who he is. There’s no identification on the body – no labels, no tailor’s marks, nothing in his pockets.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘No. No keys, no wallet. Just a little bit of paper with TAMAM SHUD written on it. In his watch pocket where it might have been overlooked by whoever searched him, if anyone did. I say, this is good tea.’

‘Ceylon,’ said Phryne absently. ‘Well, well, Tamam Shud, eh? That, as I recall, is the last word in The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, A Persian version of ‘The End’. How… symbolic. Of something. Did he suicide, then?’

‘No – or if he did, the pathologist can’t find a cause of death. He seems to have just sat down and . . . and died, Miss Fisher.’

‘Heart failure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. That’s medical jargon for ‘Died of Death’. Interesting.’

‘Thing is,’ said the police officer slowly, ‘there is something about his face.’

‘Something?’

‘Yes, he doesn’t look like a suicide. No despair. The pathologist says that he has an educated face, but that’s not just it… he looks… like he has a secret, like he died well. I’m too fanciful, that’s what my sergeant says.’

‘No, you aren’t. I saw it too,’ Phryne winced. ‘The smug and unassailable face, the Knight with his Quest achieved. Safe in death with his secret unbetrayed.’

The young woman stared at Phryne, astonished to hear her own thoughts so cogently expressed.

‘Yes, Miss Fisher, that is it. Safe and pleased. And a good-looking man, too, hazel eyes and a fine well-cut jaw, nice fair hair and broad shoulders. The pathologist says that he was terribly healthy and athletic and there was no reason for him to die.’

‘Well. Let’s look at it. Suicides usually leave a note. No note?’

‘No, unless you call that scrap of paper a note.’

‘Was it handwritten?’

‘No, Miss Fisher, torn out of a book.’

‘Then find the rest of the book. And he has been searched. One could conceivably remove all the labels and things from one’s clothes – that has been done for many reasons, I have done it myself. But everyone has something in their pockets – a coin or two, a ticket… How did he get out to Somerton Beach? By car? The tram? A handkerchief, a pen, a watch – did he have a watch?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘I can’t think that this was just an ordinary robbery. If there was nothing wrong with him, why did he die?’

‘He might have been scared to death,’ suggested the young woman.

Phryne tutted.

‘Did he look scared to you?’

Police Constable Hammond looked away, recalling the dead face.

‘No.’

‘Nor to me, and I saw him a couple of hours earlier. It’s a mystery, all right.’

Constable Hammond finished her tea. She stood up. ‘Miss Fisher…’

‘Yes, Constable?’

‘I’ve heard about you. You were a famous detective back before the war, weren’t you? For years and years you solved mysteries, they say.’

Phryne smiled. For an old woman, thought the police constable, she had a beautiful smile.

‘I have had my successes.’

‘Well – the war bods say that you are clear for any level of security. Could you could you help me? If I can solve this, I’ll be in line for promotion. It’s not been easy, being a woman in the police force. And it’s all I ever wanted to do. I’d be good at it if they would only give me a fair go. I turned down two good offers of marriage to stay in the cops. Nice blokes but I’d have to give up work. I’m on my own; no relatives. And I could be a really good cop, I’m sure. But I’m not going to get any help from my sergeant or any of the others. They don’t like women PCs all that much.’

‘My dear girl,’ began Phryne, then looked at the young woman. Dedicated, earnest, dark-eyed and plain. She would make a good sergeant, and Phryne might be able to help her. The social forces keeping women down were intensifying, as they had after the first war. Soon it would be ‘Back to the kitchen, girls’ again. Phryne was also struck by a sudden image of the dead man on Somerton Beach, and the young Wehrmacht soldier dying proudly in his ditch. She shivered.

‘All right, if there is something that I can do, I will. Come and see me when you have some more info, and we’ll talk about it. But don’t tell your sergeant, there’s a dear. I have met enough sergeants to last me a lifetime.’

WPC Hammond left feeling happier than she had been since she caught sight of that strange dead face. Phryne Fisher was old, of course, and possibly not as sharp as she had been in the late 1920s, when Hammond had been a child. But Miss Fisher might be able to help her find a murderer and solve a mystery and get the promotion she felt she deserved.

Marie closed the door after her with that peculiarly Gallic sniff which sounds like ripping linen and expresses extreme disdain.

‘She means to use you, Madame,’ she scolded Phryne. ‘Use your skill to get advancement!’

‘Yes, so she does,’ agreed Phryne. ‘And why shouldn’t she?’

Marie sniffed again, and went back to the kitchen.

* * *

Phryne spent two days restraining herself from calling any of the people whom she had known in France because she had a strong compulsion to do so, and she had always distrusted strong compulsions. She did not want to get involved. The papers were full of the unknown man on Somerton Beach; his face confronted her from every newsstand and every paperboy cried his mystery.

But she did not call until WPC Hammond returned with a code.

‘Here it is, Miss Fisher. You any good at code-breaking?’

The young woman was excited, her face flushed, though that might have been caused by the weather. A scathingly hot north wind was blowing. Phryne was clad only in a thin cotton shift and felt that she would really like to remove her skin and soak her bones in cold water.

‘No. I was involved in… other duties. But I know someone who is,’ she said, remembering Bernard Cooper, who had been at a place called Bletchley doing something awfully Top Secret involving codes. Bernard was in Adelaide, in the Hills. And she had not seen him since 1945, in London.

‘Here it is.’

Phryne studied the paper. It looked like complete gibberish and, therefore, was probably a code.

‘It was found in a doctor’s car. He left it parked above the beach and he found the book in it the next morning. The tamam shud in the dead man’s pocket matches it, the tears match, and the typeface, it was torn out of the end of this book. I couldn’t bring you the book, Miss Fisher, but it’s a standard pocket edition. No name and no other marks than these. And all of the top security bods have been puzzling over it, no one has managed to make head nor tail it of it. What do you think?’

‘Hmm. You’re sure that it is all there? What about this peculiar cross over the O in the third line?’

‘I copied it exactly. That’s how it is set out and that cross is there in the original. Can you break it?’ asked WPC Hammond eagerly.

‘I can’t, no, but I know someone who might be able to. I’ll take it to him. And don’t worry about security,’ she added, ‘he had the highest clearance of all of us. He worked on something codenamed Enigma, which no one but Winston Churchill was allowed to know about. I should be able to get you an answer in a day or two, provided he’s willing to help. Has anything else happened?’

‘Well, yes, but I don’t know if there’s a connection. Someone – several someones – broke open all the lockers in the left-luggage office of the Adelaide Central Railway Station last night. Didn’t pinch anything, just left all the stuff strewed on the floor.’

‘What were they looking for?’

‘I think it was the suitcase that we found earlier that day. It hasn’t any wallet or keys or passport in it, though, but the clothes are the right size. And there is a laundry bag with a name stencilled on it.’

‘Well, what name?’

‘Keane. Or Kean. Otherwise there are just clothes and a toothbrush and some soap, a shaving brush, that sort of thing. All American-made.’

‘So it may not belong to him.’

‘Or it may,’ said Hammond.

‘Keane,’ mused Phryne. ‘Any initial?’

‘T or A E. The A could mean that his name was Anthony, T for Tony and A for Anthony. I reckon that there’s a fair chance that the man was called Anthony E Keane. Not that it helps. No one of that name is missing in South Australia. The other states haven’t got back to us yet.’

‘Well, that’s promising. I’ll go and see my friend, and if he will help we should have an answer fairly soon. Nothing more from the pathologist?’

‘No, but he’s convinced that he was murdered. He says that there are poisons that leave no trace. He’s basing his theory on the face, on the expression.’

‘Well, so are we. If he took poison, where’s the bottle or paper it was contained in? There was nothing around his feet, I noticed.’

‘So did I but he could have thrown it into the sea.’

‘Yes. Well, I’ll get on with the code, and I’ll call you when I’ve got an answer.’

WPC Hammond looked suddenly uneasy.

‘No, Miss Fisher, don’t call me. I’ll come and find out what you’ve got in two days time.’

‘Hammond, I should like to have had you with me in France,’ said Phryne. ‘You have a fine sense of security.’

* * *

Bernard Cooper was home. The sound of his gentle voice made Phryne feel safe for the first time since she had encountered her dead man.

‘Bernard dear, it’s Chatte Noire.’

‘Phryne!’ he sounded astonished. ‘What are you doing here? When can you come to dinner?’

‘Tonight, if you like. Where are you?’ He gave the address.

‘Come early, ma chere chatte – the road’s a bit rough and the turning is hard to find in the dark. Nothing wrong, cherie?’ he asked, sounding worried. ‘No need for me to alarm the legions?’

Phryne smiled. Bernard could probably summon up the entire army, navy and air force if he felt the need.

‘Nothing like that,’ she assured him. ‘I have a puzzle to show you.’

‘Oh, dear, and I had thought it was for the pleasure of my company.’

‘It is that, as well. I’ll come now, if you like.’

‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘I do like.’

Phryne hung up, gathered a shady hat and sunglasses, and called upstairs, ‘Marie! I’m going out. I won’t be back tonight. I’ve written down where I’ll be and the telephone number. All right?’

‘Oui, Madame, I am going to the pictures.’

‘Oh? With that nice greengrocer?’

‘Oui, Georges.’ She pronounced it in the French manner. ‘He is dreamy.’

Phryne smiled and went out into the searing street. She unlocked the Sprite and drove carefully up into the Adelaide Hills, concentrating on the uncertain surface of the road and hoping that higher up it might be cooler. A little thing like petrol rationing would never worry Phryne Fisher.

* * *

Bernard Cooper lived in a large colonial house with verandahs, perched on the side of a cliff. It looked vaguely uncertain, as though at any moment it might slide into the abyss. He was waiting for her as she negotiated the steep drive and parked the car at the back door.

‘Come in, come in, ma chatte, ma cherie! You must be parched. I have a nice bottle of the local champagne cooling at this moment.’ He put a hand under her elbow. ‘All right, Phryne?’

He had aged, Phryne thought, and he thought the same thing about her.

War had not been good to Bernard Cooper. It had furrowed his brow and lent a faint trembling to his hands. Phryne, he noticed, had white streaks in her black hair, and lines around her mouth and neck that had not been there before she went to France. He cleared his throat.

‘You look splendid,’ he said, and Phryne grinned at him.

Suddenly the original Phryne was there: impudent, confident and beautiful, her green eyes shining. He caught his breath.

‘Come in,’ he repeated. ‘This weather is really enervating. I hardly do anything in the summer,’ he added, closing the door against the harsh sunlight and leading her into a cool panelled study. ‘Just aestivate and pray for rain. Here we are, a nice bottle of bubbly.’

‘Bernard,’ said Phryne, sitting down and casting aside her sunglasses and hat, ‘you are babbling.’

‘Quite right, cherie, I am,’ he confessed.

‘What are you covering up for?’ she demanded, putting a hand on his arm.

‘Oh, Phryne,’ he said, looking at her quite without artifice, ‘I never thought that we would grow old.’

‘No, neither did I. But I’m not old yet,’ she added briskly.

‘Give me a glass of champagne and pull yourself together, Bernard, my dear. You are not old, either. You are still the shaggy bear I loved in London, and I still love you.’

Bernard smiled and poured the wine.

‘I still love you, Phryne. I have never been able to get you out of my mind.’

‘Are you alone here, Bernard? Where’s Stephanie?’

‘Stephanie’s dead. Didn’t you know? She died of heart disease. Two years ago. We got all the way to Australia, bought the house that she always used to talk about – you remember, during the Blitz, we used to talk about the hills and the rosellas and the wine? We’d only been here a year and she died.’

‘Oh, Bernard, I’m so sorry…’

He smiled again, ruefully. ‘At least she got here. She got what she wanted, even if she only had it for a little time. There were so many others who never knew what it was to be free and at peace.’

‘That’s true.’ Phryne reached across and took his hand. The strength was still there, the tension of strong muscle under the thinning skin. His hair was still shaggy and blond, his beard almost white; his eyes were still the colour of a trout stream, pale grey flecked with gold.

‘I am glad to see you again, Phryne,’ he said quietly, and she kissed him.

‘Well, what about this puzzle?’ he asked, as she drew away.

‘Take some more wine and tell me about it.’

Sensing that her kiss had started something that Bernard would need time to adjust to, Phryne produced the paper and he laid it flat on a solid oak table, under a strong electric light.

mrgoadard mtbimpanetpmliaboaiaqc

ittmtsamstgab

‘Hmm. Not an alphabet code, I think,’ he said.

‘How can you tell?’ asked Phryne, who had never understood codes.

‘Not enough letters. I mean, not enough different letters. An alphabet substitution uses all of the letters of the alphabet and there are several which don’t appear. A box code, possibly, or an ETAIONSHRDLUCWME’

‘Sounds Greek,’ she commented.

‘It’s based on the frequency of the letters in the English language. Where was this found or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘It’s the code relating to the dead man on Somerton Beach. They’re calling it the tamam shud mystery. You haven’t heard of it? Don’t you get newspapers up here?’

‘What, news? I don’t want to hear any news’, he said in horror, as though Phryne had offered him nice, fresh axolotl salad. She shook her head at his isolationism and sipped more wine. It was quite passable, and blessedly cool.

‘Hmm, yes. Can you see a pencil? And my glasses? Yes, thanks, yes, I’ll just run through the alphabet and see…’

He found a long strip of lettered paper, laid another one beside it, and began to check code letters against their equivalents. Phryne could see that he was about to become totally absorbed, so she wandered off to explore the house.

* * *

It was large and furnished with an odd collection of whatever someone had thought worth hauling up the mountain along with boxes of books and household items which the late Stephanie had brought from England and had never got around to unpacking. Phryne had liked Stephanie, which was why she had not persisted in the affair with Bernard, although he had always attracted her and had been a warm and delightful lover. She found some English magazines and sat down on the balcony to read them. The wind was not so hot here in the hills; the leaves were brushed, not lashed, by the moving air. She was engrossed in a report of a debate in the House of Commons about the Employment Prospects of the Returned Serviceman when she was summoned by a shout from inside.

‘It’s unbreakable, unless we have the code word,’ announced Bernard in tones of rising wrath. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me, Phryne?’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Phryne. ‘The code word must be TAMAM SHUD, and I should like to make love with you.’

‘TAMAM SHUD, eh? I’ll just make a note of it,’ he scribbled on the alphabet strip, ‘and then, as to your second proposal…’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, and enveloped her in a huge hug.

* * *

WPC Hammond was drinking tea when a paper was thrown across her desk.

‘Circulate that, Hammond. The tailor says that the man came from America – at least, he swears that’s where his clothes were made.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘You had any bright ideas?’

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘Women ! I don’t know why they let ’em into the force. No good at detection.’

‘Sir,’ said Hammond stonily.

Something of the ice in her voice made itself felt to the sergeant.

‘Yes, well, no one else has solved it, either.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Have all the ships checked. See if anyone has lost a crewman.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And get on with it!’ Hammond stood up.

‘Yes, sir.’

She went out without another word. The sergeant swore. He hadn’t wanted a female detective. They had made him have one, to look after the whores and the lost children and to search women. But no one said he had to like WPC Hammond, and he didn’t.

* * *

A young man came out through the railway gates and into the hot sunshine. He doffed his hat as he went into the Railway Hotel and ordered a beer. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed, and his complexion had not seen much sunlight. He sat neatly, with his feet together and his elbows pressed to his sides. The barman slid the beer across and said, ‘Too hot for you, mate?’

‘Far too hot.’ The voice had a faint accent, possibly Canadian, possibly somewhere closer. The barman moved the client’s panama hat aside and wiped the bar. The hat had PH marked on the sweatband.

‘Another beer,’ said PH. ‘And will you join me?’

* * *

Phryne lifted her head from the bare chest of Bernard Cooper when he groaned as though in pain. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I’m just remembering…’

‘Remembering Stephanie?’

‘No, not that. You must have noticed how some memories come back to haunt you when you are feeling wonderful.’

‘Yes, so they do.’

‘Why, what’s yours?’

‘Just move your arm a little, Bernard. Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes, my dear Phryne. Swap’s fair dealing. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.’

‘All right.’ She breathed in the scent of male human and sweat and mingled gum forest, exhaled by the outside hills. ‘It was a young soldier, a Wehrmacht, you understand, in field grey, not an SS man in black with death’s heads. Just an ordinary young man; and we had captured him because he knew when a train was coming, a train carrying a Resistance prisoner who had to be rescued. Jean Moulin. You recall?’

‘I gather that Jean Moulin was killed by Klaus Barbie in Lyons’

‘Yes. But we did not know that he was dead my Maquis captured him, this soldier, and I was keeping watch while they interrogated him. I heard the guttural voices, in the dark, in the country, with the scent of mimosa ‘Sprecben Sie!’ they threatened; and he said ‘Soll ich nichts sagen: Will ich nichts sprechen.’

‘I should not speak and I will not speak,’ translated Bernard, his white beard scraping Phryne’s cheek.

‘Yes. Rather poetic, really. They threatened him again, ‘Sprechen Sie!’ and I saw his face in the torchlight as he said ‘Nie.’

‘Never.’

‘Yes. Just ‘Nie’ and then he said nothing more.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Oh, we killed him. Of course. He haunts me; the face, the face of the dead young man with a cold, pure, smug smile. He kept his secret beyond death. We never did find out what train it was.’

‘My poor Phryne.’ Bernard held her close as she shivered. The black hair, striped with white, fanned across his chest. ‘And yours?’

‘Oh, yes. Mine. I found out something when I was breaking codes. Just a routine message.’

‘What was it?’

‘Destroy Coventry.’

‘Oh, Bernard!’

‘I decoded it twelve hours before the bombers came. Thousands of people died. I knew it was going to happen. I did nothing.’

‘There was nothing that you could do.’

‘They said, you see, that if we warned Coventry, the Germans would know that we could break their codes. So they didn’t say anything. Coventry went all-unknowing to its doom. And I knew.’

Phryne turned in Bernard’s embrace to touch his mouth with her own. He responded with slow and delicious kisses. She found the place on his hip where a shell splinter had scarred him.

‘What did that?’

‘The Blitz’. He chuckled. ‘A pair of old crocks we are. How did you come by that scar, eh?’

‘A Gestapo man didn’t like my answers.’ He ran a meditative finger down her thigh.

‘But you got away?’

‘Oh, yes. I had… friends’

‘Yes, and you still have. Old Archie’s been on the phone, telling me to help you all I could and to make sure that you didn’t get into any trouble.’

‘Oh? What trouble could I get into in Adelaide?’

‘That’s up to you, my dear. As long as you did not bring your dead man with you.’

‘No, I swear.’

All right, then, presently we shall get up and I shall make tea, and then we shall solve your little puzzle.’

‘So easily?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so.’

‘Presently,’ said Phryne.

* * *

‘We assume that TAMAM SHUD is the code word,’ instructed Bernard Cooper, hunting for his glasses and his lost pencil, ‘and we look at the frequency of letters in the English language.’

‘What if it’s in another language?’

‘Then we are in trouble.’

‘Oh.’

‘Where’s that confounded pencil?’

Phryne handed it to him.

‘Thank you. We leave out the duplicated letters. Now, if we assume that TAMSHUD refers to ETAJONS, then we have the first problem.’

‘What’s that?’

‘U does not appear. So let’s approximate and take P to mean N. It’s just a guess but this is a long message and it should have at least one N.’

‘All right.’

‘Now that gives us AUR GT ST US AEK. Hmm. Possibly this is not as easy as it looks.’

‘No, wait. The dead man’s initials are AEK. Anthony E Keane. Or Kean. GT might be ‘Go to’ and ST might be ‘station’. And they think he might have been an American. That gives us US. United States.’

‘Mmm, but what about this AUR?’

‘It’s the chemical and Latin term for gold.’

‘Mmm. Well, if we assume that the first line is sort of correct, which I think is a bold assumption… then we have to look at the next line. Now we have ANT in the middle, and we might guess that it is preceded by W, making WANT. Am I going too fast for you?’

‘No, go on.’

‘Now I’ve assumed that code B equals K, that’s what gave us his initials S and the sender of the message appears to be WT K.’

‘WT, indeed. You know what WT stands for!’

‘So I do – wireless transmission, the call sign being K. So the object of the WANT might be a person.’

‘Wait, Bernard, aren’t you going to tackle the rest of the letters?’

‘Mmm? No, my dear, that is the macron.’

‘The what?’

‘The macron. The O with a cross over it. It is understood that either the message runs backward from that point or that the rest is gibberish. Just put in to fool the opposition…’ He read on a little and frowned.

‘Phryne, did you do any code-breaking during the late unpleasantness?’

‘No, none. A little sabotage, a few assassinations and a lot of intelligence gathering, why?’

‘You never came across the Irish/Nazi connection, then?’

‘No. Bernard, what are you talking about?’

‘I was working for a while on transmissions which the Nazis sent to the IRA. There was a lot of traffic, mostly intercepted, and nothing ever came of it – in fact, I felt sorry for those poor spies, parachuted into Ireland and having the Irish being all Irish at them. They stood out like sore thumbs and the amount of radios and equipment that went into bogs or police hands was phenomenal. But there was one name, you see, which always came up when there were killings to be done. They are gunmen.’

‘Yes?’

Bernard turned the message, mostly decoded, for her to see. The light shone down strongly on the letters. It now read AUR GT ST US AEK WANT P- ENA-WT K.

‘Sorry, Bernard, I’m not with you.’

‘There were two of them, two brothers. Patrick and Michael Heaney, but often, because the Germans don’t like double vowels, called HENAY. That was their codename. P and M Henay. And offhand I can’t think who else K might want except P Henay.’

* * *

The young man with the panama hat approached the gate of the station, where a crowd was gathering for the departure of the Melbourne train. A small dark man paused at the door, saw his face and was about to cry out, when he was held in what looked like a fraternal embrace.

‘Come for a little walk, Brian,’ said the young man, and Brian came with him to the head of the train.

‘Where is the money?’

‘So help me God, I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell.’

‘Did you use the stuff?’

‘I did, but he just upped and died!’

‘Goodbye, Brian,’ said the young man.

‘Patrick, for God’s sake…’

‘No more words,’ and Patrick pushed Brian just hard enough to send him under the Melbourne train, and walked quietly out of the fuss without ever being noticed.

* * *

‘Well, we had better call someone,’ said Phryne. ‘I think that your surmise is correct and Adelaide has more Heaneys than it needs. Who would be able to help?’

‘Archie, I think – yes, Archie would be our best bet. There’s the telephone, Phryne, you call him. I’ll get another bottle of wine. I feel unwell. I have never acquired a taste for assassins.’

Phryne dialled the number as he called it and was presently talking to a cool, educated voice, to which she could just put a face – a well-fed, complacent face with silvery hair; a politician’s face. What was Archie of military intelligence doing in Australia? She had last seen him in London.

‘Phryne, my dear! I heard about your dead man.’

‘It’s about him that I am ringing. I’m in the mountains with Bernard Cooper…’

‘Half his luck!’

Phryne ignored the tone of the chuckle. ‘And he’s decoded the message. It appears that you have an IRA gunman amongst your nice citizens.’

‘Name?’

‘Patrick Heaney.’

‘Oh, indeed. Patrick Heaney, eh? There has just been an accident at the railway station, you know,’ he added absently. ‘A little Irish American called Brian Sean Ryan. Now I wonder… very well, Phryne, we will look for Heaney.’

‘So you know him?’

‘Oh, yes, I know him. Have you told anyone else?’

‘Bernard. And my companion knows where I am,’ responded Phryne automatically. She did not know Archie well and she was constitutionally cautious.

‘I meant anyone official.’

‘Yes, a young police constable called Hammond. She’s very bright, and I’d like to see her promoted if we can’t solve this one publicly.’

‘I’m sure that can be managed. Are you coming back to Adelaide?’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Very well. Should have it cleared up by morning. When you come in, call on me, eh? Parliament building. Anyone will show you the way. I’ll be expecting you’.

* * *

Phryne accepted another glass of the cool pale wine and said, ‘Bernard, who is Archie? I mean, what is his position? I recall him very imperfectly.’

‘Sir Archibald Donaldson. You’ll like him but not as much as you like me, I hope. He’s in Parliament House. I… I don’t go into the city much, Phryne, but I’ll come in with you if you like.’

‘No, Bernard dear, you stay here and aestivate, and I’ll come and join you on occasion. How does that sound?’

‘That sounds lovely. I’ll write out your message for you, then, and…’

‘And?’

‘I think we might go back to bed, don’t you?’

* * *

A phone call from Sir Archibald Donaldson to a lowly police constable is unusual. Hammond was so overcome that she listened without saying a word. Then she said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and gave the phone to her sergeant.

‘Yes, sir, of course you can have her,’ he agreed with insulting alacrity. ‘I’ll send her right over, sir.’

Hammond stood up and straightened her seams.

‘You’re on loan to the Funny People,’ said the sergeant unpleasantly. ‘And I hope they keep you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ agreed Hammond, and walked out of the office.

* * *

Sir Archibald was affable, kind and rather distinguished, though dreadfully old. Hammond liked him. He sat her down at his imposing desk and stated, ‘This is the situation, Miss Hammond. Your dead man appears to have had some rather nasty friends. Now you know the dead man’s face and you also will be shown rather a lot of pictures. Your chief says that you have a photographic memory; I want to know if you’ve seen any of these men on the streets. Take your time, now.’

Hammond began to leaf through a pile of pictures. Notes about the subjects’ colouring, height and build were on the back. Eventually she sorted out three.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ She gave the photos to Sir Archibald. ‘The top one has red hair and a scrubby sort of complexion and is tall and thin. The second one is small and dark, with brown eyes and black hair. I saw them together outside the Railway Hotel in Hindley Street yesterday morning.’

Sir Archibald matched the descriptions to the written legends on the photographs and raised an eyebrow. ‘And the third?’ he asked.

‘He’s slim and has pale brown hair and pale eyes – perhaps they are blue. He’s hard to remember – hard to get a fix on, if you see what I mean. Taller than me but not much. Nicely dressed.’

‘Where did you see him?’

‘In Rundle Street, sir. This morning.’

‘Right. Now, Miss Hammond, let me tell you who these people are. The dark one, Brian Sean Ryan, was found dead under a train this morning. I would suggest that the red-haired one is his partner in a lot of nasty enterprises. His name is Damien McGuire. And the pale-eyed person is Patrick Heaney, an IRA murderer.’

‘My gosh, sir, in Adelaide?’

‘Indeed. Now, what I want you to do is to walk around to where you saw Mr Heaney this morning. It is Heaney we really want. And if you see McGuire you can pick him up as well. There will never be less than three men following you and they will come at your signal. All right? Will you do it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good girl. Off you go now.’

Hammond left, three men falling in as she moved like hounds to heel. Sir Archibald’s secretary watched the young woman pace idly down the street, looking in shop windows as though she had hours to kill.

‘Do you think she can do it, sir?’ he asked.

Sir Archibald smile. ‘Oh, yes, she can do it. If they are there to be found, she will find them.’

* * *

Hammond found her first prey by his fiery hair; he was waiting in a queue outside the shipping office not a hundred yards from Sir Archibald’s office. She pointed him out to her followers, who closed in on the tall seaman, spoke very quietly to him, and walked him along the street as though they were close friends. Hammond followed behind, and never heard the shot that clipped the feather off her absurd little hat and lodged in Damien McGuire’s chest.

The pale-eyed young man replaced the rifle in its case and drove out of the city toward Melbourne in a very lawabiding manner. Petrol rationing was not a problem for the IRA. The faithful kept them well supplied with coupons.

Hammond and her three attendants dragged Da– mien McGuire off the road onto the footpath. He was badly injured. Blood bubbled up from his lips when he tried to speak. ‘A priest,’ he gasped. ‘Get me a priest.’

One of the attendants ran across the road to the church. Hammond tried to ignore the stench of blood and desert dust and fear that infected the quiet street. She stared into the man’s watering eyes and said compellingly, ‘Tell me. The man on the beach.’

‘It was the new stuff, they gave it to us, a truth drug, they say. He had taken money from the Cause, and he was running, Keane was. But he intercepted a message that told him that we was onto him; and he hid the suitcase, and we never found out where. We shot the stuff into him, into his scalp, and he just said, ‘I will tell you nothing,’ then he closed his eyes and he was gone. ‘Get me a priest, for I’ve death on me!’

‘Yes, yes,’ soothed Hammond. ‘We will get a priest.’

‘Don’t leave me!’ He gripped her hand. Hammond wiped the bright red arterial blood from his lips with her only linen handkerchief, carried for this important day.

‘I won’t leave you,’ she promised.

The priest came in time to give the last rites to the dying man.

After murmuring the correct responses, Damien McGuire never spoke again.

* * *

Phryne Fisher, Hammond and Sir Archibald gathered in his office the next day to pool their information.

‘He knew they were onto him,’ murmured Phryne. ‘He had discovered or stolen the coded message and then, just in case, he tore off the tamam shud page and hid it where they would be unlikely to find it. He left us clues to his murder. Then he went to his meeting, having hidden a suitcase full of… what?’

‘What does the code say?’ asked Hammond.

‘AUR. Gold. Money, I suppose. Belonging to the IRA. And he was running away with it.’

‘Yes. And they shot him full of some truth drug – there’s some stuff they have in America called scopolamine. It’s been used as an anaesthetic, but a few people have a sensitivity to it – and it kills them. And there’s no way to test for it yet,’ Sir Archibald told them.

‘They injected it into his scalp so there was no mark,’ said Hammond.

‘Yes. And it killed him.’ Sir Archibald was staring out the window.

‘And he died with his secret intact. How frustrating.’ Phryne got up and began to prowl the room. ‘Come along, I haven’t been on the tram for ages,’ she said. ‘Let’s go out to the beach.’

‘Now?’ asked Sir Archibald, shocked.

‘Yes, now.’

‘Oh, very well,’ he agreed grumpily.

* * *

On the journey he refused to be interested in the landmarks and would not enter into the spirit of the ride at all. Phryne was disappointed in him.

‘Well, here we are – Somerton Beach. What are we doing here?’ he demanded.

‘We’re going paddling – at least, I am. Excuse me.’ She turned her back to him, removed her stockings from their garter belt, and took off her shoes.

‘This is where you saw him, isn’t it, Hammond? By the way, what is your first name?’

‘Dulcie, Miss Fisher,’ replied Hammond, running the stockings through her fingers and wondering where Miss Fisher got quality like that.

‘Oh. Now, he was sitting on the bottom step, wasn’t he, with his feet about here? The tide doesn’t come up this high. It rarely gets wet.’

‘Yes,’ said Hammond, getting the idea.

Phryne began to dig with her hands in the soft yellow sand.

‘You see, I wondered why he came down to sit here; I also wondered where he could leave a valuable thing when he didn’t seem to know anyone in the city. Where safer than under his feet? And here we are.’ She had scraped away the sand from a leather suitcase. ‘Lift it carefully, won’t you? These things have been known to be boobytrapped.’

Sir Archibald lifted the suitcase very gently by the sides. There appeared to be no wires attached to the handle.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Phryne, brushing sand off her legs and putting on her stockings and shoes. He stood back a little.

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘Look.’ Smoke began to trickle from the suitcase; thick yellow smoke with a pungent smell.

‘We would never have got it open,’ he added. ‘There’s always a phosphorous bomb in them, just sufficient to destroy the contents. It’s activated by any movement But not to worry, my dear ladies,’ he said as he strolled back toward the police guard. ‘I know what was in it. Cheques, mostly, from prominent members of the Melbourne Irish community. There have been… er… rumblings about it. But all gone now.’

‘What about that murderer?’ asked Hammond indignantly. ‘He’s not been found.’

‘No, but he will get his comeuppance. Some other place, some other time. Intelligence work requires one to be philosophical, you know.’

‘And the TAMAM SHUD mystery?’

‘Will remain a mystery, I’m afraid. But your assistance has been essential and much appreciated, Miss Hammond. I expect to see you rise high in your chosen profession, quite high. Quite soon.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And as for you, Miss Fisher, if you would care to lunch with me…’

‘No, thank you, Sir Archibald, I have another engagement.’

Phryne, in her Dior New Look red dress, straw hat and sunglasses, led Dulcie Hammond off Somerton Beach and took her into the city for a quiet drink and a comfortingly good lunch.

* * *

Phryne went home. She poured herself a glass of red wine and deliberately summoned up the image of Keane’s face, the unassailable smug face, and found that the image had lost its intensity. Taking a deep breath, she deliberately called forth the dead young soldier. There was the scent of mimosa, and of salt, the slime stench of stagnant water in the ditch, and the guttural Provençal voices, the torchlight, the concern over the fate of Jean Moulin. She waited for the pain. But she could no longer see with aching intensity the face of the young German soldier, or the countenance of the dead man on Somerton Beach. With the solution, however disappointing, of the tamam shud mystery, they had been obliterated from her mind, as frost-images melt off glass. She felt light. She felt as though she had recovered from an illness.

* * *

She was lying on a sun lounge in the shade of her own fernery, sipping at a glass of a rather good Adelaide Hills burgundy, when a telegram was delivered.

It said:

CONGRATS DEAR CHATTE STOP. HAVE REMEMBERED MEANING OF LAST PHRASE IN RUBAIYAT STOP IT MEANS AN INDISSOLUBLE MYSTERY STOP COME BACK SOON TO YOUR LOVING BERNARD STOP.

Phryne picked up The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and opened it at random.

And those who husbanded the Golden Grain

And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain

Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn’d

As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

What, without asking, hither hurried whence

And, without asking, whither hurried hence?

Another and another Cup to drown

The Memory of this Impertinence!

‘Marie!’ called Phryne into the cool house. ‘Marie! Another bottle!’

Bibliography

Andrew, Christopher 2010, The Defence of the Realm: The Authorized History of MI5, Penguin Books, London.

Bouda, Simon 1991, Crimes that Shocked Australia, Bantam Books, Sydney.

Clegg, Edward (His Honour Judge Clegg QC) 1975, Famous Australian Murders, Angus and Robertson, Sydney.

Coupe, Stuart and Ogden, Julie (eds) 1993, Case Reopened, Allen and Unwin, Sydney.

Feltus, Gerald Michael 2010, The Unknown Man: A Suspicious Death at Somerton Beach, Gerald Michael Feltus, Adelaide

FitzGerald, Edward (trans.) 1965, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Ward Lock, London.

Glaister, J Dr 1954, The Power of Poison, Johnson, London

Goldsworthy, Kerryn 2011, Adelaide, NewSouth, Sydney.

Heller, Joseph 2000, The Birth of Israel 1945–1949, University Press of Florida, USA.

King, Stephen 2005, The Colorado Kid Hard Case Crime, New York.

Lowenstein, Wendy and Hills, Tom 1982, Under The Hook, Melbourne Bookworkers, Melbourne

Miller, James William 1984, Don’t Call Me Killer, Harbourtop Books, Hawthorn.

Munro Hector Hugh (Saki) 1967, Reginald on Christmas Presents in The Penguin Complete Saki, Penguin Books, London.

Mytka, Anne-Marie 1981, It’s A Long Way To Truro, McPhee Gribble, Melbourne.

O’Brien, Bob 2002, Young Blood: The Story of The Family Murders, HarperCollins Publishers Australia, Sydney.

Phillips, John Harber (His Honour Judge Phillips), Criminal Law Journal, Vol. 18 1994, pp108–110.

Pudney, Jeremy 2005, Snowtown, HarperCollins Publishers Australia, Sydney.

Reich, Chana 2002, Australia and Israel: An Ambigous Relationship, Melbourne University Press, Melbourne.

Smith, Sir Sydney 1984, Mostly Murder, Panther Books, London.

Resources

On snake venom:

Dr Ken Winkel

Director, Australian Venom Research Unit

Department of Pharmacology, University of Melbourne

On forensic pathology:

Dr Shelley Roberts is a forensic pathologist with 25 years experience.

Websites:

Wikipedia is a good start, and then I suggest you progress to Ask Reddit, where everything that anyone has ever thought concerning Somerton Man will be vouchsafed to you. I have tried to contact persiankitty, who tried the code in the Persian language, and whom I believe has a really good idea, but she did not reply. If you can talk to her, do ask her for the rest of her translation.

And all of the documents in the case, including the police notes and both inquests, are to be found at

www.eleceng.adelaide.edu.au/personal/dabbott/wiki/index.php/Primary_source_material_on_the_Taman_Shud_Case

which should tell you all you have ever wanted to know about Somerton Man, except who he was, and why he died. Sigh.

Acknowledgments

Tamam Shud could not have been written without the devoted assistance and skill of Michael Warby, researcher extraordinaire; David Greagg, duty Wombat and mathematician; anthraxia and other internet geniuses; Jenny Pausacker; Vanessa Craigie; Nick Clenmann; Dr Ken Winkel; the learned forensic pathologist Dr Shelley Robertson; my poor friends, who had GBH of the ear after listening to me rabbit on about Somerton Man for months; and the sterling example of Gerald Feltus, who never let go of the coldest of cold cases.

About the Author

KERRY GREENWOOD is a crime fiction writer best known for her detective series of Phryne Fisher books, recently made into the television series, Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries. She has written a number of plays, is an award-winning children’s writer and has edited and contributed to several anthologies, including one about women murderers called Things She Loves: Why women kill. She lives in Footscray, Melbourne.

Copyright

A NewSouth book

Published by

NewSouth Publishing

University of New South Wales Press Ltd

University of New South Wales

Sydney NSW 2052

AUSTRALIA

newsouthpublishing.com

© Kerry Greenwood 2012

First published 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publisher.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Author: Greenwood, Kerry.

Title: Tamam Shud: the Somerton man mystery/Kerry Greenwood.

ISBN:

9781742233505(pbk)

9781742241289(epub)

9781742243818(mobi)

9781742246178(epdf)

Subjects:

Dead – Identification – South Australia – Adelaide – Case studies.

Anonymous persons – South Australia – Adelaide – Case studies.

Murder victims – South Australia – Adelaide – Case studies.

Death – Causes – South Australia – Adelaide – Case studies.

Somerton Beach (Adelaide, S.A.).

Dewey Number: 614.1

Design Josephine Pajor-Markus

Cover design Sandy Cull

Map Di Quick

Cover images Somerton Man corpse. Courtesy Gerald Feltus

Printer Griffin Press

All reasonable efforts were taken to obtain permission to use copyright material reproduced in this book, but in some cases copyright could not be traced. The author welcomes information in this regard.

This book is printed on paper using fibre supplied from plantation or sustainably managed forests.

Content

Kerry Greenwood
TAMAM SHUD
THE SOMERTON MAN MYSTERY

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

David Greagg breaking down the code

Forensic pathologist Shelley Robertson’s analysis of the autopsy

Tamam Shud: A Phryne Fisher Mystery

Bibliography

Resources

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright