Death Before Wicket: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 10 (5 page)

A window opened far above and a female voice called, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Phryne Fisher,’ Phryne yelled back. ‘Looking for—’

‘Don’t say it!’ urged a male voice behind the woman. ‘Cop this and come in, Phryne. Third floor.’

A key tied to a celluloid baby doll bounced down the flaking blue paint of the facade. Phryne caught it. The kewpie had been filled with sand and was quite heavy.

Phryne and Dot mounted the hollowed sandstone steps through a peeling blue door and climbed stairs. The house smelt strongly of frying onions and old mattresses. They avoided a pram on one landing (it contained a collection of newspapers and bottles) and a dismembered bicycle on the next, finally arriving out of breath at the third floor attic. The landing was gritty with fallen plaster and Phryne was out of humour. When the door opened and she could speak again, she demanded, ‘What’s going on, Chas? You knew I was coming today.’

‘The landlady’s been around,’ whispered Chas through a face full of stubble.

‘That’s why you are growing a beard?’ Phryne was amused.

‘It’s all right for you capitalists,’ exclaimed the young man bitterly. ‘I get five shillings a canvas if I’m lucky and the canvas itself costs a shilling, not to mention the paint. I’ve moved so often that my furniture’s got wheels. Meet my model. This is Blonde Maureen.’

‘Hello,’ simpered Blonde Maureen, taking Phryne’s hand, holding it for a moment and then dropping it. She was undeniably blonde, listless and pretty. ‘Well, hoo-roo, Chas. See you tonight at Theo’s.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said Phryne. She produced the picture of Joan Thompson. ‘Do you know this woman?’

‘Why, what’s she done?’ demanded the model.

‘Nothing. I just want to talk to her. Do you know her? There might be a few shillings in it,’ hinted Phryne.

‘Nah,’ decided Blonde Maureen. ‘For a moment I thought she looked like Darlo Annie, but now I ain’t sure. Sorry.’

They heard her clatter down the stairs.

‘Well, Chas, how about you?’ Phryne offered him the photograph. ‘If you can find her for me, I’ll pay your rent.’

‘True dinks, Phryne?’ exclaimed the artist eagerly. ‘Give us a look.’ He took the photograph over to the light. This was provided by a large gap, innocent of glass, which might have been meant to have a shutter in the days when this house had been clean, respectable and ordered, fifty years ago.

Chas Nuttall had always been a thin young man, careless of haircuts and dressed in old flannels and whatever shirts came to hand. He was still underfed, scruffy and badly dressed, and his nascent beard accentuated his resemblance to a sundowner who had been on the wallaby far too long. Phryne liked him because, however poor, he had always resisted the siren call of work. Chas Nuttall was devoted to his art and, like all artists, was always ready to shamelessly sacrifice everyone else, as well as himself, to his Muse.

It was a pity that his Muse did not inspire him to paint anything recognisable. His canvases were splashed with roughly cube-shaped bridges, houses and nudes, garishly coloured and carelessly drawn. Phryne was leafing through the paintings stacked against the wall—the frying pan might have disgraced a stockman’s camp and the bed might not have been made in the present century, but his paints were all laid out in meticulous rows and his palette was exact—when she heard him exclaim, ‘Cripes! It
is
her!’

‘Is who?’

‘Blonde Maureen was right, I think,’ said the young man, biting his lip. ‘I think this is Darlo Annie. Looks a good bit younger here and…er…not so glamorous, but I reckon it’s her.’

‘Good. Where can I find her?’

‘She’ll be at Theo’s tonight. She’s always at Theo’s. Though come to think of it I haven’t seen her for a few days. Works out of Palmer Street, usually.’

‘One of Tillie Devine’s women?’ asked Phryne.

‘Maybe. I don’t…I haven’t got the money to…and in any case I don’t like to…’ stuttered Chas.

Before Dot could say anything, a nasal voice and a sharp knock interrupted.

‘I know you’re home, Mr Nuttall, you come out here! If I don’t get my rent then it’s out of my house you’ll go neck and crop and all your nasty paintings. You owe me seventeen and sixpence and I’ll have my money!’

‘The landlady?’ asked Phryne.

‘How did you guess?’ asked Chas, scratching his bristling chin.

Phryne opened the door and smiled at a scrawny woman in a wrapper and down at heel slippers. ‘Hello, here’s the back rent.’ She counted it out into an astounded hand. ‘Here’s an extra month,’ She counted that out as well, then instructed, ‘Leave the receipt on the hallstand. Goodbye,’ she said and shut the door.

‘Now, Chas dear, you don’t need to grow a beard; have a shave, there’s a good chap, or even the Artist’s Ball will be shocked. You look like a swaggie. Now, Chas, listen carefully. I’ve paid the rent and I won’t ask for it back. Are you sure that the woman in that photograph is Darlo Annie?’

‘Like I said, fairly sure. She’s pretty, isn’t she? Bit like Nellie Cameron. Darlo Annie’s got blonde hair and big china-blue eyes—that help?’

Phryne looked at Dot, who nodded.

‘Might have helped, at that,’ she agreed. ‘Thanks, Chas. I’ll see you tonight at Theo’s—where is Theo’s?’

‘Thirty-four Campbell Street—only gets going after about midnight. Any cabbie’ll take you there,’ said Chas, searching for a razor amongst a mess of belongings. ‘If I see Darlo Annie I’ll try and keep her with me—if you can give me a pound for her time. I’m a bit short this week. Though now I don’t have to worry about the rent I can buy a new tube of cerulean blue.’

Phryne handed over a pound, returned the kewpie doll she had been holding all the time and escorted a very miserable Dot down the stairs.

‘I’ll go to Theo’s after I return from the University,’ she said. ‘I can at least find out if Darlo Annie is your sister Joan. If so, what do you want me to say to her?’

‘You aren’t going to take me with you?’

‘No, Dot dear, I think I’ll get on better on my own.’

‘Tell her—tell her I still care about her and ask her to come home,’ said Dot, dragging in a huge breath. ‘Whatever she’s done, she’s still my sister.’

‘Bravo, Dot. Now let’s get out of here. If I’m going to be trawling Bohemia tonight, I’ll need a nap.’

The Hotel Australia seemed even more of a cool, clean haven after Woolloomooloo, Darlinghurst, heat and dirt. Phryne bathed and lay down to sleep, and Dot sat up to watch the harbour and worry. The children would be all right. If Jim Thompson had abandoned them Dot could afford to pay for their keep until they could be conveyed to Melbourne and lodged with her mother. She knew that Phryne would lend her the money. But how could a good girl like Joan have been transformed into Darlo Annie, leaving a good husband and two innocent little ones for a life of vice?

And even if she had done so, where was she?

The harbour was transformed into one great mirror by a flash of bright sunlight, and Dot’s eyes filled with tears.

Phryne woke refreshed, drank coffee, and dressed for the Vice Chancellor’s dinner. Her gown, in deference to academic sensibilities, was modest, for Phryne. The loose lines of a sapphire-blue silk Poitou tunic swooped decorously to the floor, leaving her slim arms bare. Phryne slid one thick silver bracelet above her elbow. It was a copy of one found in a grave at Mycenae, figured with gorgon faces, and might amuse the Professor of Classics. She donned dark stockings and shoes and long sapphire earrings. Dot laid a silver fillet with a panache made of peacock feathers on her sleek black head. Phryne surveyed herself in the glass. The eyes of the feathers reflected her own green gaze. She blew her reflection a kiss. A pleasant ensemble, she considered: not daring, but delightful.

She had managed an invitation to this dinner in honour of a retiring professor through three telephone calls and one rather boozy lunch. James Cobbett, the Reader in English Literature at the University of Melbourne, had succumbed to her wiles with gratifying speed, bolstered by Phryne’s undoubted social position and wealth. The University was a closed community, Phryne knew, and one to which she had no natural entree. She had attended no university herself. She had no academic bent. She was, however, beautiful, intelligent, well-read and rich, and the Reader had wondered what Sydney would make of her. He hoped that it wouldn’t be an endowment of a chair. After all, her namesake had already given Sydney a library.

Phryne left Dot with firm injunctions to call Room Service, dine well, and drink two glasses of wine. The VC’s Daimler was comfortable and scented with cigars. Phryne was content to add her own Gauloise Gitane fumes and a dash of Jicky to the ambiance.

The car left George Street West, took a road which crossed a paddock and some building works indistinguishable in the half-dark and passed through large iron gates attended by a sweating keeper dressed in the standard Australian costume: boots, shorts and a dustcoat. He waved the car through and shut the gates again.

‘Excuse me, Miss? Miss Fisher?’ The driver, who had not spoken a word, allowed the car to slow a little as they climbed toward a massive Gothic pile on a hill.

‘Yes?’

‘Miss, can I ask you a favour?’

‘Ask,’ said Phryne.

‘Could you sort of not mention to the VC that the gatekeeper’s improperly dressed?’

‘Was he? I didn’t notice. It’s not likely to arise in conversation,’ she assured the driver.

‘Thanks, Miss.’ His voice was so heartfelt that Phryne was curious.

‘Could the gatekeeper really get into trouble for his costume? I mean, he’s only there to open and shut the gate. One wouldn’t think…’

‘Oh, no, Miss, he could lose his place, and it’s a good job. He ain’t been the same since he came back from Villers-Bretonneux. He got blown up. He’s married to my sister. He’s supposed to wear what they call livery, like what I’m wearing, but he says it was wearing a uniform which got him buried in mud and anyway it’s too flamin’ hot to wear a uniform on a night like this and I have to agree with him.’

‘Me too. But I gather that the VC wouldn’t. What’s he like, then? You ought to know him better than anyone.’

‘He’s all right,’ said the driver slowly, running the car along the frontage of what looked like one of the larger Gothic churches. ‘But he’s set in his ways and he’s mad on the dignity of the University. He wants us to be like Cambridge and Oxford, and he’s disgusted by these lax Aussie ways.’ A suspicion of a grin was seeping into the driver’s voice. Phryne smiled into the rear-vision mirror.

‘Not a word,’ she promised. ‘Lord, what a building! There’s miles of it!’

‘Built by Sir Edmund Blacket, Miss, pride of Sydney. He also nicked the best land. The VC’ll tell you all about it. I’ll escort you in, Miss,’ said the driver, ‘and I’ll be back here at eleven to pick you up.’

‘Any tips?’ asked Phryne, allowing herself to be helped out of the Daimler.

‘Drink the sherry, not the madeira,’ said the driver. He was a middle-aged man with a gentle smile. ‘Don’t touch the fish.’

The entry of an unescorted, exceptionally stylish woman into the Great Hall attracted a gratifying amount of attention, and Phryne was immediately grabbed by two gentlemen eager to make her acquaintance. She smiled benignly at each.

‘Miss Fisher? I recognised you immediately. James Cobbett asked me to look after you, introduce you around and so on. My name’s Bisset. Jeoffry Bisset. Reader in European languages.’

‘And the Vice Chancellor asked me to look after you,’ snapped a sharp voice. ‘M’ name’s Kirkpatrick. Professor of English.’

‘Delighted,’ said Phryne, ‘and I shall shamelessly retain both of you.’

‘Sherry or madeira?’ asked Bisset, who had been well trained in what a young woman required of an escort. Professor Kirkpatrick, who hadn’t, snarled something under his breath. The server stood poised with his heavy silver tray of little glasses. It appeared that sherry or madeira comprised the only beverages on offer and Phryne, forewarned by the driver, chose sherry. It was dry and young but perfectly pleasant.

‘Glad you chose the sherry,’ said Bisset. He was a tall, shambling young man with shaggy pale hair and vague blue eyes. ‘We’ll be introducing you to the VC soon and he thinks that women who drink madeira are…’ He subsided into silence, horrified by what he had just heard himself say, and Professor Kirkpatrick took the advantage.

‘Let me point out some of the interesting aspects of the Great Hall, Miss Fisher,’ he said smoothly, offering her his arm. ‘It was built by Edmund Blacket in 1859 in a style he called Tudor Perpendicular Gothic. The dimensions are based on the Guildhall in London. You really need to come during the day to see the windows at their finest; the glass was made in England and shipped out here, though the actual stone is from Pyrmont.’

Phryne admired the marble statues of two benefactors, William Wentworth and John Challis, and then stood under a magnificent window depicting Schoolmen and considered the angel roof.

‘Wonderful,’ she murmured with perfect truth. Wooden secular angels crowned with gold leaned out from the hammer beams, each bearing a book. Forty-five feet above her head was Poetica, flanked by Dialectica and Grammatica.

‘They constitute the Trivium; that is, the three subjects which gave a scholar in the Middle Ages the rank of Bachelor of Arts.’