Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

1 4 Kerry Greenwood
walked ahead, Phryne and Julia behind, and there was still not
a thought of what to do in Miss Fisher’s mind.
Death under the ground, the Rabbi had said. Beware.
It would be so much easier if it had been her. She would
have kicked and fought and could have got away, far enough
for a shot to find Chaim’s black heart. But Simon was limp prey,
going where he was pushed.
They stumbled down the stairs and into the main hall of shops.
Phryne heard twittering from the birdshop, and a sleepy voice
demanding ‘Polly wants…’ before it fell silent in its usual indecision.
The stench of rotten oranges, Phryne knew, would forever call up
this nightmare suspense, the sight of the boy’s blood, and the miasma
of hatred which surrounded Uncle Chaim like a rank mist.
They had almost reached the door when it crashed open,
and Chaim flung himself back against a wall with Simon in
front of him.
The knife was against his throat. Julia bit her knuckle to stop
a scream. Benjamin Abrahams swore.
‘Don’t come no closer,’ screamed Chaim.
A figure out of a Talmudic story, preternaturally tall, bearded,
his gaberdine slick with water so that he looked like he was
wrapped in metal, raised one hand and pointed at Chaim.
‘Thou shalt do no murder!’ he boomed, and the voice echoed
in the empty market. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked like
artillery behind him, and Chaim slashed wildly with the knife.
Simon whispered ‘Schma Yisroel.’ Chaim faltered and missed.
For a split second he was a little off balance, and Phryne saw her
chance. She dived forward and tackled Simon, knocking him
down and out of Chaim’s grasp.
They rolled across the floor and into a corner. Simon buried
his head in Phryne’s breast and shuddered and she held him tight,
unable to look away from the Prophet Ezekiel in the doorway.
Lightning flashes silvered his hair and made a carved stone
of his face. He took another step, and cried again, ‘Murderer!
There is the mark of Cain upon you!’