Dead Man's Chest (16 page)

‘Don’t do anything for the present,’ Phryne advised her adoptive daughter. ‘Close your eyes and centre your energies, as Lin Chung would say. Now, Miss Lavinia, what did you say?’

Miss Lavinia was reluctant to repeat it, but Phryne insisted.

‘I always suspected those boys of being the pigtail snipper. So did Mrs McNaster. We used to see them go out down the tree—and we noticed that they were always out when the outrages occurred.’

‘Any more evidence than Mrs McNaster’s feelings?’

‘No,’ confessed Miss Lavinia. ‘But they are very bad boys.’

‘Certainly, but that does not make them snippers. Jane, what do you say?’

‘I was down at the filming, the cinematographer was letting me look through the viewfinder, it was really interesting,’ responded Jane, her voice becoming firmer as she spoke. ‘Then the director said, “Pack up, boys, that’ll be all for the day, the light’s wrong now.” So the people began to drift away. The next-door boys were there all right. I saw them. Lily had her hair combed and plaited into a long plait like I used to have and she was talking to the people beside her, then she just went down. I didn’t see anything at first, but then I crept to the front. Her throat was cut, her pigtail hanging by a few hairs. She was bleeding like a fountain. So I came home to tell you. That cop’s on the way, they said.’

‘Ah, Constable Moron,’ said Phryne. ‘That’ll be a help. Now, we need to make you feel better, Jane. What would you like?’

‘I think I’ll go and lie down,’ said Jane. ‘Perhaps Molly would come with me?’

The faithful hound, delighted at being awarded another suffering human to comfort, fell in behind as Jane was helped up the stairs.

‘She’ll be all right,’ said Dot.

‘As long as she has that darling doggie with her,’ agreed Miss Lavinia. ‘What a terrible thing to happen! And in Queenscliff, too!’

‘Yes,’ replied Dot, who was glad that Hugh had chosen to go fishing. ‘Tell me, Miss Lavinia, what sort of dog will you buy when you have your own house?’

‘Well,’ said Miss Lavinia, happy to be distracted, ‘they say that terriers are very faithful, but I would really like a dog which would enjoy walking with me. I like walking.’

‘So do I,’ said Dot, sitting up in her chair. ‘What about taking a little walk now? Get out into the fresh air, do us good. That looks like a nice forest, up behind the town.’

‘Lovely,’ said Miss Lavinia. ‘I’ll just get my hat. We might see a dear little bunny, or even a fox.’

Phryne left them to it.

Hugh returned with Tinker and a basket of fish, which he had cleaned at the pier, thus reducing weight and gaining merit with the local stray cats. Reminded that they were dining out at the Queenscliff Hotel on this night, he gave the basket to Tinker.

‘Go round and give them to your mother, lad,’ he said. Tinker beamed. He liked being a Provider. He stood, poised on one foot. He did not want to take Hugh anywhere near his poverty-stricken household in its shameful tent.

‘Off you go, I’ll see you at Miss Fisher’s house,’ said Hugh, understanding instantly. Tinker sped off, stopping only to greet an acquaintance. It was Harry, whom he had last seen at the Ellis’s yard.

‘You got another job, Eddie?’ asked Harry.

‘Yair,’ said Tinker. ‘Good job, too. Gent gave me all these fish.’

‘You’re well out of Ellis’s,’ said the boy. ‘Been real narked since you stood him up for his threepence. Even belted Bluey. But you missed all the excitement on the foreshore.’

‘Yair?’ asked Tinker. He wanted to move on. His mum would be real pleased with this free dinner, and he had sixpence to give her from his wages. That meant she could buy potatoes, flour and lard, and there would be fried fish and chips for tea for all his siblings.

‘Lily got her throat cut,’ said the boy with relish. ‘Right there!’

‘Yah,’ said Tinker, expressing scorn and disbelief.

‘True dinks! See it wet, see it dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie!’ the boy assured him.

‘Who done it?’ demanded Tinker.

‘Dunno. She was in a crowd and she just dropped. Phantom pigtail snipper got her. Doctor’s sent her to Geelong. Gotta go,’ said Harry. ‘C’n y’ spare a mate a few measly fish?’

Tinker handed over some of the smaller fish. Then he went on to the tent at the back of his mother’s house, whistling thoughtfully through his teeth. The guv’nor would have to know about this. And he could gather some statements from witnesses, as well. The boys of Queenscliff had all been watching the filming.

The company assembled for the short walk to the Queenscliff Hotel, looking scrubbed and pleased with themselves. Hugh had slept for an hour, caught eleven mullet, an eel and a feral boot, which had put up an heroic struggle. He was slightly sunburnt and felt agreeably tired. Dot and Miss Lavinia had seen several bunnies, a fox, and a plethora of possums, one of whom had come down to ground level to demand his share of the apple which Dot had been eating. Dot had given him the core, and he had taken it from her hand. She doted on his cute little nose. Jane was pale but composed, Ruth rosy and rested. Tinker was intensely uncomfortable in his starched collar. He was sweating a little and delighted to find that it was fast losing its iron grip on his neck. He had lived in Queenscliff all his life, but had never gone into the Queenscliff Hotel—not through the front entrance.

It was imposing. Phryne had once landed in Queenscliff from an impromptu aeroplane adventure and had been impressed by this hotel’s comfort, its unobtrusive good taste and the quality of its breakfasts, which were legendary. She had not had time to really look at the opulent sitting rooms, the stained-glass panels, the newspapers all ironed for easy reading and the huge crystal bowls of fresh flowers which lent the air a charming fragrance, mixed with the aroma of roasting meat and red wine.

Phryne smiled at the head waiter and they were ushered into the grand dining room. Candles, epergnes, heavy silver cutlery, spotless starched napery. Tinker suppressed a ‘Bloody hell!’ out of deference to his hostess. Phryne, in her purple, silver and black gown, took the head of the table, and the others seated themselves. The sommelier approached for a conference and Hugh whispered to Dot, ‘I never been in a place like this before, Dot. Can I ask for a beer?’

‘Beer for the gentleman,’ ordered Phryne. ‘One glass of champagne each for the young persons, a sherry for Miss Dorothy and I will have a
kir royale
to begin with.’

The young persons tasted their drinks and watched Phryne drink the glass of sparking purple liquid. What it was, thought Tinker, to be one of the ruling class. He would have run a mile before confronting that tall, snooty, frightening bloke in the tail coat. Miss Fisher just smiled at him and he rolled over—so to speak—and put his paws in the air. The guv’nor, he concluded as the delicate soup appeared, was a top-notch lady. Tinker was glad that he had joined the Fisher household. He proceeded to deliver his report. Phryne was pleased with him!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Stabat mater dolorosa Juxta crucem lacrimosa

There stood the weeping mother at the cross

Jacopone da Todi
Stabat Mater

Sunday and a bright clear hot day. Morning broke with Mrs Mason banging at the door and screaming. Phryne woke, dragged on a dressing gown and went down, intending to deliver a blistering, mustard-plaster snub. There had been altogether far too many people banging at her door lately and she meant to see the end of it. Also, the medicine cabinet was running out of sal volatile.

Mrs Mason, however, was not alone. Accompanying her were a very embarrassed Constable Dawson and three hangdog boys. Muttering something quite actionable between her teeth, Phryne opened the door and admitted them.

‘Good morning,’ she said frostily.

‘Oh, Miss Fisher, I forgot you had no Johnsons! I’m so sorry! But the boys . . .’

‘Come in to the parlour,’ said Phryne, beginning again what was seeming like a weary litany. ‘Sit down and tell me all about it.’

The one who did not obey her instruction was the policeman. He stood stiffly at the door, a true guardian of the King’s peace, and blocked the avenue by which the miserable felons might escape the full weight of the law.

‘He wants to arrest them!’ shrieked Mrs Mason.

‘Does he?’ Phryne was intrigued. ‘Why?’

‘Because he says we slit up that silly tart,’ snarled Fraser.

‘Lily?’ asked Phryne.

‘We never,’ sobbed Kiwi.

‘And what,’ said Phryne with a tinge of asperity, ‘do you think I can do about it?’

‘You must help me!’ screamed Mrs Mason.

‘Must I?’ asked Phryne, interested. ‘Why?’

Mrs Mason was silenced.

Kiwi said, ‘We didn’t do it,’ again.

‘Did you see who did?’ asked Phryne.

‘No. There were all these people, it was a crowd. She just made this gurgling noise and down she went. Then everyone yelled and milled about and I couldn’t even tell who was next to me.’

‘So you don’t know if Jolyon or Fraser did it, either?’

‘No,’ said Kiwi, looking green. ‘It was horrible.’

‘All you can say is “I didn’t do it,”’ Phryne told him.

‘I didn’t!’ he protested.

‘And I didn’t either,’ said Fraser.

‘Nor me,’ echoed Jolyon.

‘Then why, of all the people in the crowd, has this gallant constable arrested you?’ she enquired.

‘We had blood on us,’ mumbled Kiwi.

‘Yes, but throat wounds are very generous, they spatter blood on all and sundry,’ Phryne told him. ‘Why you three?’

The boys wriggled. The constable said, ‘Is Detective Sergeant Collins at home, Miss?’

‘He isn’t staying here,’ said Phryne. ‘He’s at the Home by the Sea boarding house on the Esplanade. I can, however, send for him. Why do you want him?’

‘I believe he might be a witness, Miss.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Phryne. ‘We dined together last night and I think he would have mentioned witnessing an attempted murder on the foreshore. Just as a matter of interest. But you stay here and I shall have him fetched and we shall see what we can make of this business.’ Phryne swept out into the hall and found her entire household, agog.

‘We have a problem,’ she told them. ‘Ruth, Jane, can you go and start breakfast? There may be a lot of extra mouths. I would kill, at present, for a cup of coffee—just a hint. Tinker, get dressed and go and get Hugh Collins, on the request of Constable Dawson—tell him Dot will give him breakfast. On your bike, Tinker, this is urgent. Dot, can you hold the fort for me in the parlour while I go and get dressed? I feel that this robe, though charming, is somehow not quite the thing for boys and investigations. Thanks,’ she said, and ran up the stairs in a cloud of billowing silk figured with dragons.

Tinker ran for his own room. Jane and Ruth retreated to the kitchen. Dot, in her candlewick dressing gown, hair firmly in a plait, found the sal volatile, sighed, and went into the parlour. Half an hour later and Hugh Collins was in the parlour, relieving Constable Dawson’s mind. He almost dared not arrest three such highly connected young malefactors—that had always preserved them before—but now he had proof that they were concerned in a serious assault. He couldn’t ignore that. He had telephoned for the duty sergeant at Geelong and he was on his way. What else could he do? The young felons might run away. He had to secure them somehow.

Detective Sergeant Collins was a large presence, even in flannels. He had the three boys seated on the sofa, side by side, and had banished their hysterical mother in Dot’s custody to the dining room. He believed that tea was being supplied to them and wished he had managed to get his hands on a cup before he had to go and be a policeman. But that was often the case.

‘Now then,’ he said to Constable Dawson. ‘We’ve established that I didn’t see anything unusual on that foreshore yesterday. What evidence do you have that these three are involved in an attempted murder?’

‘They are bad boys,’ said the constable solemnly.

‘Granted,’ replied Hugh. ‘What else?’

‘They’ve got a plait of hair,’ said the constable. ‘They showed it to some boys down the pier last night.’

‘Did they?’ asked Hugh. ‘And where is said plait of hair?’ he asked Jolyon, Kiwi and Fraser.

‘It was just a joke,’ Kiwi began.

‘Shut up, you nong!’ snarled Fraser.

‘Shut up yourself,’ retorted Kiwi with spirit. ‘You got us into this, Animal. I’ll say what I like, so there!’

‘Sucks to you,’ muttered Fraser.

‘We took the hair,’ explained Kiwi. ‘We thought it’d be a joke to scare the fishos with a tale. So that’s what we did,’ he ended lamely.

‘Where’s the hair now? And where did you get it?’ demanded Hugh Collins.

‘It’s in the cypress tree, I can get it for you,’ offered Jolyon. Released with a nod, he sped out of the house. Hugh persisted with the rest of his question.

‘Where did you get it? Did you cut it off the victim?’

‘Lily? No, no, that wasn’t us!’ wailed Kiwi. ‘It was just a joke!’

Hugh changed his wish from a cup of tea to a pint or so of strong beer. He closed his eyes and began again. The litany grew more and more confused.

Phryne Fisher, at the end of her patience and fortified with coffee, stalked into the room and pinned Fraser with her gaze. He glared back at her. The gaze held until he blinked and looked away. Phryne could outstare a cat.

‘You used a razor,’ she said, and he nodded, as fascinated as a bird before a cobra. ‘You cut off the plait and enjoyed the screams.’ Another nod. ‘No one noticed you because you were boys and you had a football with you.’ Nod. ‘You hid the hair? No, you did something with it. You sold the hair to Miss Leonard, to make wigs.’ Nod. ‘But the plait you were showing the fishos wasn’t Lily’s hair.’ Nod again. Phryne turned to Hugh. ‘They’ve been terrorising the girls of Queenscliff for a rag, the little beasts,’ she said in a quiet voice which had the scathing quality of hydrochloric acid poured into the ear. ‘They relished the screams and the panic and the girls wrapping their heads to preserve their hair. The horrible little public-school oafs. Payment from Miss Leonard financed other nasty, puerile pursuits, I am sure. Of them we will not enquire.’

Kiwi breathed a sigh of relief. Fraser was still mute and entranced. Hugh nodded. Constable Dawson blinked. He had never met anyone like Miss Fisher before.

Jolyon returned with the plait. The hair was not as blonde as Lily’s hair. Phryne examined it briefly. Then she called into the kitchen, ‘Jane!’

Jane arrived, drying her hands on a tea towel.

‘What did you do with your hair when you cut it off, Jane dear?’ asked Phryne.

‘I don’t recall,’ said Jane. ‘I didn’t want it anymore. I might have dropped it out the window.’

‘You did,’ Phryne told her. ‘Hugh, you can see it is the same shade.’

Both policemen rose to match the plait to the original. Both agreed that it was the same.

‘These benighted morons improved the shining hour by pinching Jane’s discarded hair to big-note themselves before the fisherboys,’ said Phryne. ‘Apart from assault, theft and other things relating to the phantom pigtail snipper, they are innocent. They didn’t injure Lily.’

‘Your reasoning, Miss Fisher?’ asked Hugh Collins.

‘Only one of them is tall enough to cut Lily’s throat from behind,’ she told him. ‘It was cut in a straight line, so they say. And the other two would have told on him before now. Also, they had blood on them. The would-be murderer, standing behind the victim, would be shielded by her body. Now give them back to Mrs Mason and get them all out of my house,’ she added. ‘This audience is over.’

Constable Dawson, the boys and Mrs Mason were ushered out. Phryne stamped through the kitchen and out into the garden to greet Gaston and smoke a calming gasper. After ten minutes Dot sought her out, carrying a pacifying pot of coffee and a new-baked roll.

‘You could go back to bed,’ she suggested. ‘It’s still real early. No tradesmen today, it’s Sunday. I’m off to mass soon, is there anything else I can get you before I go?’

‘No, thank you, Dot. It’s going to be hot, I shall go for a swim as soon as I have calmed down. Boys. I cannot imagine why they were invented.’

‘Me neither,’ agreed Dot, who assumed that they were created to render difficult the lives of women, as her grandma had always said.

Dot left to adopt suitable garments and primp a bit, as Hugh was escorting her to mass, to return to a gargantuan breakfast. She hoped the bacon would hold out with such appetites as Tinker and Hugh at the one table.

Phryne sat in the soothing vapours of various herbs and smoked another gasper and drank another cup of coffee and, after some consideration, ate her roll with raspberry jam and good Queenscliff butter. That was one horror removed for her girls, anyway. Ruth had been seriously concerned about the phantom pigtail sniper. Had those little bastards told her the whole truth, however? Phryne went inside and up the stairs at a run.

She met Miss Lavinia descending for breakfast, told her that one mystery had been solved, and began to ascertain how anyone could have got into the Thomas house. Jane was not clear on what she had done with her hair. Had she really dropped it out the window? Or had those fiendish boys found a way into the next-door mansion?

If so, she was going to make them even sorrier than they were at present. She began at the side of the house facing the Masons. Little guest rooms, almost identical. One window each, latched and locked. All the latches worked so far. Her own room, on the balcony. French windows locked and with the added security of hooks on each one. The bathroom, ditto. The other guest rooms, ditto, ditto, ditto. The room of bones, closed and locked. Good. The house was sealed up as snug as a bug in a rug, ergo, no boys, and Jane had indeed flung her tresses out the window, like a flapper Rapunzel. Phryne went into the bathroom to wash her grimy hands with rose geranium soap. The idea which had been floating around in the Antarctic Sea of her mind crystallised into an iceberg.

Locks! Mr and Mrs Johnson had left the house secured, even hiding the valuables in the cellar.

So why had they left the back door open?

She lathered her hands and rinsed them slowly, dried them carefully, and went down to examine the back door with her magnifying glass, which was where Tinker caught her.

‘Guv’nor, the way you got the truth out of them oafs was . . .’ He didn’t have a word for his entire admiration. ‘What’s afoot?’

‘Have a look, Tinker, and tell me if you can see any scratches.’ Phryne passed him the glass. Tinker was thrilled. He was helping with another investigation. He looked. He peered. No scratches.

He said so and handed the implement back. It was a lovely thing, rimmed in flourishes of Benares brass, a perfect shining disc.

‘Why do you want to see scratches?’ he asked.

‘That would mean that the lock was picked. There are no scratches, ergo . . .’

‘The lock wasn’t picked,’ concluded Tinker.

‘Right. And when we arrived the back door was open. Which means?’

‘The Johnsons left it open,’ reasoned Tinker. ‘Not bloody likely,’ he added. ‘They was real careful!’

‘Right; I agree with you. And therefore . . .’

‘I dunno, Guv’nor,’ confessed Tinker.

‘Yes you do—someone opened it with a key. How many keys to this door?’

Tinker was alight with excitement.

‘Three, there’s only three. Mr Johnson used to complain about it because he had one key, the people who came to stay had one key—he kept that in Melbourne—and Mr Thomas had the other, and he couldn’t leave one for the plumber when they was havin’ trouble with the pipes and he and Mrs Johnson were going to be out . . .’

‘Someone has Mr Johnson’s keys,’ said Phryne. ‘Perhaps that same person has Mr Johnson as well.’

‘Guv,’ said Tinker. ‘That old biddy over the road used to watch all the time, and poor Miss Lavvie used to be with her. You could hear her screeching for Lavvie all the time, even in the middle of the night. Miss Lavvie might know something.’

‘And she will tell me all about it after she has had breakfast, when we are moving her and her goods and chattels to Madame Sélavy’s house. Has anyone seen the doctor lately?’

‘He’s been in the house, Guv’nor, you know, they’re in mournin’. By the number of bottles bein’ delivered, I reckon there’s a lot of rejoicin’ goin’ on, now Mrs Green has taken ill and all and can’t take offence.’

‘Mrs Green has been taken ill?’

‘Took to her bed in the high strikes, they say, and that doctor from Geelong come out to see ’er. Funeral’s on Monday. That maid Bridget was over this morning borrowin’ tea and sugar from Mrs Cook, they’re expecting so many for the viewin’. Which is today,’ added Tinker hopefully. ‘Mrs Cook’s making a cake, maybe Miss Ruth would like to . . .’

‘She shall,’ said Phryne. ‘And we shall attend. You and me, Tinker dear. Suddenly I feel much better,’ Phryne told him. ‘Let’s wander along to the kitchen, suggest that Miss Ruth makes a cake for the funeral baked meats, and get poor Miss Lavinia on the road.’

Ruth felt that she had still not fathomed the mysteries of Impossible Pie, so they left her compounding another and met Miss Lavinia in the hall, her miniscule luggage around her feet.