Away With The Fairies (31 page)

She dragged her mind back to the matter at hand.

Lin Chung returned. He seemed to have come back into focus. In place of the scar was a perfectly believable rubber ear, exactly tinted to match his skin. Cousin Choi was grinning with delight. So was Lin Chung.

‘I said I was fortunate, did I not?’ he asked Phryne, seeking her approval first.

‘Very nice,’ she responded. Madame Lin nodded, as though she had had an opinion confirmed.

‘The banquet is being prepared,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you would like to inspect your cargo, Chung? It has cost you a great deal.’

‘It has gained me more than I hoped,’ he rejoined. ‘Therefore, our family’s profit increases. Will you come and see, Phryne? The war has interrupted trade, but I have brought back some very fine cloth.’

Phryne took his hand.

The main hall was filled with silk. Bolts of cloth from gauze to double damask lay side by side from one wall to the other. The thick oilcloth, the underlying blue cotton and under that the inferior silk which had been sewn around them to protect them from weather had been removed. Bright as jewels, coloured like a rainbow. Phryne marvelled that anything so beautiful could have come out of the noisome holds of that well-known phantom, SS
Apu/Gold Mountain
.

‘The silk is well enough,’ said Lin Chung dismissively. ‘But these are the most valuable treasures. I stored them in the centre of the bolts.’

‘Incense burners?’ asked Phryne. They were overelaborate and fussy, made of greenish metal. Twelve of them were set out on a long table. They needed a polish, whatever they were.

‘One of them, sold in New York, will pay back the money borrowed for my ransom three times over,’ said Lin Chung. ‘The peasants have looted many former Imperial palaces. I bought these from some charcoal burners who were using them to cook their lunch. They are Shang bronzes,’ said Lin, a little disappointed by Phryne’s response. ‘But I bought this for you.’

It was a statue made of the most precious jade, mutton-fat. A lady danced in a swirl of draperies and flowers, perfectly poised, almost translucent. Every petal was present. Her face was averted, but she was smiling.

‘She’s gorgeous,’ said Phryne. ‘Perfectly beautiful! Where did she come from?’

Lin shrugged. ‘The Winter Palace, I believe. I paid a reasonable price for her; the merchants in Macao know the meaning of profit. But I couldn’t leave her there, Phryne. She reminded me of you.’

‘I’ve never been paid such a compliment,’ said Phryne. ‘Who is she?’

‘A Taoist divinity,’ said Lin Chung. ‘A translation might be the Flower Fairy.’

‘I don’t seem to be able to get away from fairies,’ said Phryne. Lin Chung laughed and kissed her.

Phryne bought Dot a drink at the Adventuresses Club. Phryne had a negroni, a fragrant mixture of gin, Cointreau and Campari. Dot, who did not usually drink during the day, had a sherry cobbler, a decoction of sherry, mint and lemonade. The bartender, a small, wizened old woman called Nell, mixed a wonderful drink. She had been badly embittered by her failure to become a recognised drinks mixer and was delighted that the Adventuresses appreciated her skill.

‘I made some serious mistakes in investigating Miss Lavender’s murder, Dot,’ said Phryne.

‘Your mind wasn’t on it,’ soothed Dot. ‘Anyway, you found Mr Bell.’

‘In the end. I should have been onto him as soon as I heard that evasion about being a flyer. And he was looking for something in Miss Lavender’s letters, too. I should, also, have thought about Mrs Opie. She was looking for that letter from “Devoted” with its fine linen weave and its flashy seal, not the embossed one. The letter she was looking for was in the safety deposit box.’ Phryne toyed with the orange zest from her drink. ‘And all’s well that ends well, as you would say, but there are still some question marks above certain people. Did Miss Grigg really not wonder about the purpose of her music box? Miss Gallagher—was she really flirting with me because she was worried that Miss Grigg was involved with Mr Bell in some smuggling racket? Is Wendy Mr Opie’s child, or that of the long lost Giovanni? Was Mrs Charlesworth unaware that the letter book contained a letter about primroses every few months? Did it matter that a poisonous person like Miss Lavender got killed? Was Mr Bell actually doing anything wrong by removing pictures from places where they weren’t appreciated and selling them to people who would love and cherish them?’

‘Murder is wrong,’ said Dot, who was firm on this point.

‘True,’ said Phryne, and drank her drink. Nell brought her a sour, refreshing cocktail of her own devising, known as a ‘Phryne’ in her honour.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ counselled Dot. ‘As you say I always say, all’s well that ends well. By the way, a man in a uniform delivered this for you.’

‘Another parcel?’ asked Phryne. It was a square box, large enough to contain a big dictionary but not nearly heavy enough. She opened it with Nell’s seal-cutting knife.

‘Lots of shavings,’ said Phryne. ‘Dear God, I hope it isn’t …’ She put both hands into the box, not without trepidation.

And lifted out a Roman pot. It was of red terracotta and figured on it in black was a fat, cross little harpy. She had pendulous breasts and her beak gaped with displeasure. Phryne loved her instantly.

‘With the grateful thanks of the Italian nation,’ read Dot from an embossed card. ‘And you are to visit the embassy to be awarded the Order of St Michael.’

‘Remind me to write them a really nice thank-you letter,’ said Phryne.

‘Will you accept the award?’ asked Dot.

‘Not even from Il Duce’s own hand,’ said Phryne.

Three days later she attended Miss Lavender’s funeral. She had thought that she might be the only mourner, but the Presbyterian church had summoned the congregation and both Hewlands were there, separated by enough space to preserve their purity from a mob from
Women’s Choice
. Phryne was glad to see them again.

‘Miss Fisher,’ Mrs McAlpin greeted her. ‘How nice. I trust that you will return to see what that remarkable French woman has done with the Worth? I am taking the photograph tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Phryne. ‘Hello, Mrs Charlesworth. I’m sorry about Mr Bell.’

‘Not your fault,’ said Mrs Charlesworth graciously. ‘Our new Agricola is a nice reliable old lady with an interest in botany and the most beautiful garden. And Professor Keith has agreed to answer the gardening questions for the next issue. Miss Herbert is going to take over the fashion pages. I have promoted Miss Nelson and I’m sure that she will replace Miss Prout, though not too enthusiastically, I trust.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Phryne. It was a nice day for a funeral. The service had been restrained, delivered by a pastor who had known Miss Lavender and forgiven her her trespasses. The sun shone brightly on the uncut green grass and twinkled off mourning angels and broken columns.

Miss Prout was standing on the other side of the congregation, in black, pointedly ignored by all. Phryne decided that she hadn’t seen her.

‘She was a strange woman,’ commented Mrs Charlesworth. ‘Mrs Opie says that she was being blackmailed just to be her friend.’

‘How is Mrs Opie?’

‘Better, I think, now that it is all out in the open. Her husband has received a salutary shock. Of course, we knew about this early lost lover, poor Mrs Opie talked about her Giovanni a lot. But never in my life would I have expected him to be John Bell! He never spoke to her, never reacted to her— in fact he was very seldom in the same room with her. Of course, Wendy disliked him. I assumed that was why he made tracks whenever Mrs Opie came into the office.’

‘Wendy’s instincts were sound,’ commented Phryne.

‘Small children, like dogs, are hard to deceive,’ agreed Mrs Charlesworth.

‘I suppose so,’ said Phryne.

The cortège moved towards the grave. Birds sang. There was a smell of crushed grass. Six stalwart coffin bearers sweated under the weight of an elaborate casket with brass handles.

The solemn ritual continued. The pastor gave his final blessing. The coffin was lowered into the grave and earth cast on it; the most final sound in the world, Phryne thought, clods thudding hollowly on the lid.

‘We’ve ordered a gravestone; there it is,’ said Mrs Charlesworth. The others clustered around, waiting for Phryne’s judgment, waiting also for some release from the pall of death and mourning. A final word needed to be spoken.

The gravestone was propped up against another tomb, waiting for the earth to settle on Miss Lavender’s resting place. It was of pink granite, Miss Lavender’s favourite colour. On it was carved the usual information surmounted by a fairy, dancing. Phryne recognised Miss Lavender’s own drawing, from the border of ‘Hilda and the Flower Fairies’ which she had proofread some aeons ago.

‘Poor Miss Lavender,’ said Phryne, speaking the epilogue. ‘She was a strange, unhappy, unpleasant woman who did some questionable things and to some extent ensured her own destruction. But she wasn’t entirely responsible. She was always, and now she is eternally, away with the fairies.’

The Hewlands, sour-faced, withdrew in extreme dudgeon as one by one the whole congregation began to laugh.

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