Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (20 page)

‘Saw the most amazing thing this morning,’ commented Jack Leonard as he piloted the car out from the curb. ‘This spiffing young woman turned up at Bill McNaughton’s school and spun a Moth.’

‘They will spin, if you mistreat ’em bad enough,’ agreed Henry Maldon absently. He was beginning to wonder about Candida. Usually she was reliable, but she had a strange, wilful streak and might wander anywhere, if it struck her as a compellingly good idea. ‘Amateur, was she?’

‘No, old boy, an expert. It was a controlled spin down to three hundred feet, then she zoomed out of it, and all with good old Bill in the dickey. Then she upped and waltzed out onto the top wing and walked from one end to another. I tell you one thing, Henry, if I could find a woman like that, damned if I wouldn’t marry her. But she wouldn’t have me. Poor Bill, he was as white as a sheet when Miss Fisher finally let him take the crate down. Nearly kissed the runway. You aren’t listening, are you, Henry?’

‘No,’ agreed Henry. ‘I can’t see her anywhere.’

‘Miss Fisher?’

‘Candida!’ he snapped. ‘Drive round again, Jack, and do stop talking. I want to think.’ Jack Leonard, although childless, did not take offence, and turned the car yet again.

CHAPTER TWO

To be poor and independent is very nearly an impossibility

William Cobbett
Advice to Young Men

Phryne whisked Dot into town, taking St Kilda Road at a sedate twenty miles an hour.

‘Are you all right, old thing?’ she called. Dot, huddled into her blue coat, did not answer. Phryne pulled up outside a small house on The Esplanade, which was her newest acquisition, and turned off the engine.

‘Dot?’ she asked, shaking her maid by the shoulder.

Dot turned on Phryne, her face still blanched with shock. ‘You nearly scared me to death, Miss. When I saw you climb out of that machine I thought . . . I thought . . .’ Phryne enveloped Dot in a warm hug.

‘Oh, dear Dot, you mustn’t start worrying about me. I’m sorry I scared you, my dear old bean . . . there, dry your eyes, now, and don’t concern yourself. I’ve done that trick thousands of times, it’s easy. Anyway, next time I do something like that, don’t watch. All right? Now, have you got the keys? All the inside work should be finished, and the housekeeper should be here.’

Dot sniffed, pocketed her handkerchief and found the keys. She smiled shakily at Phryne, who had leapt lightly out of the car and was waiting at the front gate.

It was a neat, bijou townhouse, faced with shining white stucco so that it looked like an iced cake. It had two storeys and a delightful attic-room with a gable-window which Dot had claimed. She had never had a bedroom of her own until she came to work for Phryne, and she still found the idea tantalising. A room with a door which you could lock, a place to be completely alone until you wanted to let the world in.

Phryne stood aside in the little porch to allow Dot to open the front door, which was solid mahogany. The hall was dark, and Phryne had lightened it with white paint, upon which the stained glass fanlight cast beautiful colours. The ground level rooms, which as yet were sparsely furnished, were floored with bare polished boards and overlaid with fine Turkish rugs. In front of the large fireplace was a rug made of sheepskin, on which Phryne intended to recline. The decor was cool greens and gold, reflecting the timber floor, and there was only one painting; a full-length nude holding a jar out of which water was spilling, to fall in a cascade at her feet. It was called ‘La Source’ and it bore a striking resemblance to Phryne herself. Dot disliked this painting intensely.

Phyrne called into the silent house ‘Hello? Anyone here?’ and in answer a stout woman in a wrapper fought her way through the bead curtain and said, ‘Well, Miss Fisher, is it? I’m Mrs Butler. The agency sent me. Mr Butler is outside, dealing with the plumber.’

‘Phryne Fisher, and this is Miss Dorothy Williams, my personal maid and secretary. What’s wrong with the plumbing?’ asked Phryne, wearily, for she had spent weeks on the design of a luxurious bathroom and indoor WC, and she was going to have them no matter what the plumber said. So far he had charged her twice his quoted price and she was minded to become quite harsh with him if the house was not entirely ready, with everything that was supposed to flush, flushing.

‘Mr Butler is dealing with him, Miss. You’ll find that it will all be ready tomorrow when you move in, just as you wish,’ soothed Mrs Butler, with a hint of steel in her voice. If she cooked as well as he managed plumbers, Mr and Mrs Butler were going to be a find.

Now, what about a cup of tea, Miss? I’ve got the kettle on, and perhaps you’d like to see the kitchen, now that it is all finished?’

‘Yes, I would, thank you, we’ve had a tiring day, eh, Dot? And more shocks than are good for us, perhaps.’

Dot followed Phryne through the bead curtain into the kitchen. It was a big room, with a red brick floor and new green gas stove on legs. There were two sinks, newly installed, and a hot-water heater with a permanent flame. Phryne’s new dishes had all been washed and stacked in an old pine dresser, and the window was open onto her neat backyard, with garden furniture and a fernery. The despised outdoor lavatory was newly scrubbed and painted for the use of the domestics.

Mrs Butler tipped boiling water into the teapot and set it down. Phryne took a chair.

‘Well, it all looks nice. How do you think you’ll like it here, Mrs Butler? Is there anything you need?’

‘Not so far, Miss. The tradesmen call every morning, and all the appliances work. Nice to have a gas stove. An Aga stove is warm in the winter, and there’s nothing better for bread, but it’s a trial in the summer, to be sure. And the electrical fires are lit, and the real ones, Miss. The house will warm up in a few hours. It will be ready for you tomorrow, with luncheon on the table. Will you be dining in?’

‘Yes. I haven’t much on hand at the moment. How about your room, Mrs Butler? I thought that you would rather bring your own things.’

‘Yes, Miss, it’s fine. Nice view over the yard, and my suite fits in perfect. I’m sure we’ll be very happy here. Your tea, Miss.’

Phryne drank her tea, and paid attention to the raised voices in the yard. Mr Butler and the plumber appeared to be exchanging hearty curses. Phryne noticed that Dot still looked rather pinched and suggested, ‘Come up and have a look at your room, Dot. You’ll want to see how the furniture fits in. Thanks for the tea, Mrs B. I hope we’ll be here about eleven tomorrow.’

Dot raced up the stairs to the first floor, where Phryne had a bedroom in moss green and a sitting-room in marine tones. She opened the door to her own little stair. It was carpeted with brown felt, had an enchanting twist in the middle and led into the attic-room.

Because it was at the top of the house it was always warm, and Dot, who had been chilled to the bone since early childhood, luxuriated in heat. She had chosen the furniture herself: a plain bed, wardrobe and dressing-table, a washstand and jug, and a table and padded chair by the window. It was all painted in Dot’s favourite collection of colours: oranges and beiges and browns. Covering her bed was a bedspread made of thousands of velvet autumn leaves. Dot sank down on it with delight.

‘I saw it in the market, and thought that you’d like it,’ said Phryne’s voice behind her. ‘Here are your keys, Dot. This is the room and this is the door at the bottom of your stair. I’ve got a spare pair and Mrs Butler has them in her bunch so she can clean, but otherwise you are on your own. I’ll just go and look at my bed-hangings.’ Phryne went out, closing the door behind her.

Dot rubbed her face on the velvet, then smoothed it into place again. Of all the presents she had been given in her short life, and they had not been many, this was the best. This space was hers alone. No one else had any rights in it. She could put something down and it would remain there. She could lock her door and no one had a right to make her un- lock it. Her mistress might be vain, promiscuous and vague, not to mention prone to frightening Dot to death, but she had given Dot a great gift and had sufficient tact to go away and let her enjoy it. Dot sat in her padded chair, stared out to sea and loved Phryne from her heart.

Phryne inspected her bed-hangings, which were black silk embroidered with green leaves, and her mossy sheets, which were dark to show off her white body. Her carpet was green and soft as new grass, and her mirrors appropriately pink, and framed in ceramic vine leaves. All she needed now was a bacchanalian lover to match the room.

She smiled as she surveyed her male acquaintance. No one leapt to mind. However, something would come along. She might leave it for awhile until she found out how her staff would react. She had yet to meet the plumber-conquering Mr Butler. Phryne calculated that she had given Dot enough time to enjoy her room and called softly, ‘Dot? Let’s go and have dinner, or would you like to stay? You can come along in the morning, and help me pack.’

Phryne did not hear the feet on the stairs, but Dot’s voice was close. ‘Oh, can I stay, Miss?’

‘Certainly. Come to the hotel at about eight, though. We’ve got a lot to do.’

‘Oh, yes, Miss,’ breathed Dot.

Phryne collected her coat and drove back to the city. She telephoned a flying friend she knew from her schooldays, and asked her to dinner, to reacquaint herself with the aeroplane world.

‘Bunji’ Ross was a bracing young woman with an Eton crop and shoulders like a wrestler. She had begun life as a track rider, but had been discovered to be female and thrown out of the stables. She had no chance of becoming a jockey as she was too tall and heavy, but found that the same qualifications that had made her a good rider made her a good flier. She had sharp reflexes, strong hands and, most importantly, she never panicked.

‘Of course, Phryne, you never met Ruth Law, did you?’ asked Bunji, as she sat down in the Windsor’s plush dining-room and stared hopelessly at the menu. ‘I say, old girl, I don’t really go for all this stuff, you know. I suppose steak and chips is out of the question?’

‘Steak and chips you shall have, Bunji, old bean,’ agreed Phryne, turning to the waiter.
‘Filet mignon
and
pommes frites
for madame, and bring me lobster mayonnaise. Champagne,’ she added to the hovering wine waiter. ‘The Widow ’23. No, I didn’t meet Ruth Law, what was she like?’

‘A charming woman, and a simply ripping flier. But she was involved in a bad crash and her husband had a
crise de nerfs
and begged her not to fly again. As far as I know she hasn’t. Terrible waste. I hear you did a Perils of Pauline on a Moth, Phryne.’

‘News travels fast out here.’

‘Well, everyone knows everyone in the flying fraternity. Mostly it is a fraternity, too, with only a few other females in Melbourne. But there’s more coming up, you know. I’ve got six in my class at the moment; good girls, too. Like I always say, all you need for flying is good reflexes and light hands. You don’t need brute force. In fact brute force will crash you nine times out of ten. Trouble is the cost of a ’bus. Look at Bill McNaughton, he’s just spent a small fortune on a new Fokker, and what is he going to do with it? Fly over the South Pole; by all that’s crazy.’

‘I met him,’ said Phryne, as the waiter filled her glass.

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, he was flying the Moth while I did my stunt.’

‘You’re a braver woman than me, then.’

‘Why, what’s wrong with him?’

‘Brute force, like I say. Wrenches his machine around as if there were no such things as metal fatigue and tensile strengths. Saw him rip the wings off a Moth once, and that takes doing. You know how forgiving they are, nicest little things, apart from a tendency to buck—a child could fly them. But Bill has never learned that muscle ain’t the solution to every problem. That’s what’s wrong with him.’

‘I told him to keep her to a steady path and compensate for the tilt, and he did.’

‘Well, that’s more than I would have thought of him. I wouldn’t try it. He’d be just as likely to loop the loop with you aloft. I’d say you had a lucky escape, old girl. Let me fill up your glass. You look pale.’

‘I feel pale,’ agreed Phryne. ‘What do you know about him, then?’

‘Bill? His father stumped up manfully for him to start his flying school. It ain’t going well. He’s a lousy teacher. Yells at his pupils and frightens them into fits, then won’t let them try on their own. They either give up flying or come to me. I’ve had three of his ex-pupils. He’d reduced all of them to pulp, especially the men. He doesn’t really think that women can fly, so he’s not so hard on ’em. It don’t do a young man any harm to be pulped occasionally. Stop ’em from getting above ’emselves. However, you can’t expect them to pay for it. He’s a bruising flier—brave but brash, and he breaks his machines. Luckily, he’s a good mechanic so he can repair his own. Word is that he gets on very badly with his dad, which is not surprising, because they are much alike. Both big, loud, self- opinionated bastards. This steak is jolly good,’ added Bunji, and tucked in joyfully. Phryne picked at her lobster mayonnaise and sipped champagne. She was obscurely worried about Bill McNaughton. Having intruded on his life, she now felt responsible for him.

‘Why not fly over the South Pole?’ she asked, idly.

‘Too big,’ said Bunji with her mouth full. ‘The North Pole is big, but most of it is ice, and so when some of the ice melts there’s a lot less land to cross. The South Pole, I believe, is mostly land overlaid with ice, and when the ice melts it ain’t going to get any smaller. And ice does funny things to planes. Look at poor old Nobile, the Italian, who took the airship over the North Pole. The planes sent out to rescue him all crashed, either on landing or on taking off again. That Fokker of McNaughton’s was one of the planes they sent out after him, and it only managed one journey before it crashed, nose heavy in icy air. Nothing can carry enough fuel to stay up all the way over; that’s the problem. If we could refuel in mid-air it would be different. Without a working radio and a few new inventions, it ain’t possible, Phryne. And I’m the woman who flew the Pyrenees in January. I know about snow. What shall we have for dessert? And can you lend me a gown, Phryne? I’ve got to go to a ball, to get a prize for that speed event, and they won’t let me wear my flying togs.’

Phryne sighed, as every dress she had ever lent Bunji had come back ruined; but she smiled, suggested trifle for dessert, and agreed. After all, considering her childhood of miserable poverty, it was nice to have so many dresses that it did not matter that one of them was ruined. She ate her trifle, reflecting that grinding poverty, though loathsome while one is in it, has the advantage of making one enjoy money in a way denied to the rich-from-birth.

It also enabled one to fulfil one’s sillier impulses. She reached into her bag and gave Bunji her newly printed card.

‘Miss Phryne Fisher. Investigations. 221B, The Esplanade, St Kilda,’ read Bunji. ‘You becoming a private Dick, eh? What larks! And what luck about the address.’

‘It wasn’t luck, I just added a B to 221. I bought the house for the number. You must drop in and see me, Bunji. Now come upstairs and we’ll find you a gown.’

Luckily, none of Phryne’s favourite gowns would fit the chunky Bunji, who was satisfied with a plain, loose artist’s smock in dark velvet which Phryne had bought on a whim and never worn.