Cora Franks sat behind the polished counter at Curios with a notepad in front of her and a pen in her hand, tapping the pen against the paper and wondering what on earth she could say.
She had spoken at four funerals. One for each of her parents, one for Betsy Dell’s husband, and one for her father’s sister—Lynette—who was such a horrible woman that it was very difficult to muster up anything nice to mention.
And now she was faced with this new challenge of what to say at the funeral of a man she had never met, and had no idea about whatsoever.
Cora tapped her pen and wrote down the only things she could be certain of: the quality and vintage of his suit, the date and approximate time of his death, the reassuring quality of his face. He looked like an old-fashioned movie star—that’s what she had thought at the time. And she had felt he was very dependable.
How she had formed such opinions, just by looking at his resting countenance. But oddly enough, Lil Chapman seemed to agree. They’d discussed it on the night he was found, over a glass of brandy, and Therese had rolled her eyes. Then Lil had reiterated it just that morning over tea. Just before she left to go back next door, Lil had said it like this: ‘Don’t you think he looked like a really decent person? Like, a bit noble or something?’
And Cora said, ‘Yes,’ and thanked Lil for her input.
Now, Cora wrote down Decent and Noble and then she sat back on her stool and sighed, and she was sitting there quietly thinking when Detective Sergeant Anthony Simmons and Constable James Hall walked through the door and approached the counter.
Cora Franks looked at them over the top of her reading glasses.
‘Hello, Tony,’ she said. ‘James.’
‘Hi, Cora,’ said Constable James Hall, who seemed to Cora to always look like he’d just heard something rather surprising.
‘Mrs Franks,’ said Detective Sergeant Simmons.
And it just stuck Cora like a pin the way Tony called her that. Mrs Franks. There was something about the way he said it, so disdainfully, that made Cora wonder how any child of Elsie Simmons could have turned out so aggressive.
‘I’m just putting some words together,’ she said. ‘For the funeral of the unknown man.’
‘I heard about that,’ said Tony. ‘A funeral with no body. Don’t you call that something else?’
‘I think it’s a called a commemorative service,’ said Hall.
‘You call it a funeral, Tony,’ said Cora, and she took off her glasses and set them down on the counter.
Simmons grinned and he put one hand on the polished benchtop, another on his hip. He towered over Cora in a deliberately commanding position. ‘Much to my disappointment, we’re here to talk about antique silver,’ he said, still smiling.
Cora nodded, desperately pleased that they were there on official business, and determined not to show it.
Simmons began to explain, quite vaguely, dispensing as little information as possible, how a particular piece had come into their possession—an antique—and they were wondering if Cora could take a look at it.
‘You want my professional opinion,’ said Cora.
‘We thought it wouldn’t hurt if you took a look at it,’ said Simmons, as Hall casually examined the watch cabinet, taking particular interest in the watches with the thin gold bands.
‘What is it?’ asked Cora Franks.
‘It’s part of an ongoing investigation,’ said Simmons, and Cora said, ‘Well, if it would help in your investigation,’ and then embarked on on a tangent about the funeral for the unknown man, and how Elsie Simmons had told Cora first about the Somerton Man business, and that Cora was still astounded that it was so pertinent. Elsie was like an elephant with her memory. ‘She may be getting a little forgetful here and there, but she can recall 1948 as clear as crystal; she’s a wonderful resource.’
Simmons experienced the distinct discomfort he felt when someone spoke about his mother, even in friendly terms, and the instinct rose in him, as it always did, to come to Elsie’s defence.
It had been his idea to come to Curios and speak to Cora Franks, even though it went against his personal preferences. He could have sent Franklin along with Hall, and avoided Cora altogether. But on his drive to the station that morning he knew he wouldn’t do that. Despite his aversion to the woman, Simmons was a man who liked to see things for himself. He wanted to walk into Curios with the comb and watch her face as he showed it to her. Why? He wasn’t entirely sure. There was just something about how it was all beginning to fit together in his mind.
Hall stood upright again as Simmons produced the clear bag with the comb in it from his pocket. ‘This is it here,’ said Simmons. ‘It’s a comb, obviously. Just wondering if you have any thoughts about it.’ He said this casually and set it on the bench.
Cora Franks raised her eyebrows.
She put her reading glasses back on and picked up the plastic bag and held it so the silver comb was a foot from her face. Then she turned it over in her hand to inspect the marks on the handle, and looked up at Tony Simmons.
‘Well I’ll be damned,’ she said.
‘You recognise it,’ said Simmons.
‘It’s just the weirdest thing,’ said Cora Franks, plainly aghast. ‘I was just thinking about it. Just yesterday.’
‘You were thinking about the comb?’ asked Hall. He looked at Simmons and then back at Cora Franks, whose eyes were wide and bright.
‘Well if you want to know about it, it’s German. I can tell you that for certain. German-made, sterling silver, either late nineteenth century or very early twentieth century. It belonged to a set. I have the brush and the mirror at home. I use the brush every night. It has lovely soft bristles.’
Cora looked quite pleased with herself now, being the custodian of such information, and Simmons stared steadily, careful not to react, even as he felt within him an engine firing up. It was deep down in his belly: a little motor of excitement. ‘Huh,’ said Hall, confused. ‘Why were you thinking about the comb yesterday?’
‘Well, because I had the whole set in my cabinet. It’s the kind of thing you sell as a set. If you lose a piece—well, you can’t sell them separately. And I was talking with my new neighbour, Benny; she’s the new girl working at the Royal. You see, Benny’s mother used to work for me. And I was telling Benny how I had to let her mother go.’
Hall retrieved his notepad from his pocket, and a pen from his other pocket and he wrote down the name Benny while Simmons just stood there, his arm on the bench, his body tingling.
‘When did the woman work for you?’ asked Hall.
‘It was 1971,’ said Cora.
‘1971?’ asked Hall, looking more surprised than usual.
Staring straight on at Cora, Simmons calmly breathed in and out of his nose. ‘You’re talking about Vivian Moon,’ he said.
And Cora Franks narrowed her eyes, peering over her reading glasses, and she said: ‘Yes, I am, Tony. I was talking about her yesterday and here I am talking about her again. What I’m telling you is this: Vivian Moon worked for me and I fired her for stealing this comb in 1971 and I’ve never doubted that decision for a second.’