Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (25 page)

‘What was that?’

‘When he would rear and scream—so that I feared for his knees and even more for my life—I fed him honey-soaked oatmeal and brandy. He did not relish the taste at first, but after a while he would sidle over and try to seize the bottle from my hand. It would make him calm and happy again and lie down in his stall. Fortunately, horses do not suffer from the hangover. I got to Melbourne and left “Dark Day” with regret. He was sorry to part with me, too, but I instructed his new keeper about the brandy. He arrived safe in New Zealand and sired many children. I wandered around Melbourne until I found this place, and Guiseppe took me to his chest. He found me a studio and introduced me to many artists, and I have not had to touch my mother’s money. I am a good sculptor. And I like it here. The food is good and the climate is like Florence and the women are beautiful and complaisant. A reasonable man cannot ask for more. Then, more was given to me. Amelia was at a party given for the gallery students, and when I saw her I realised that here was the body I had been looking for all my life. She was a crushed little thing, and I could hardly get a word out of her. Even the brandy did not make her effusive, just sleepy and sad. It was not until I had laid siege to her for many months that she let me get closer. It was a heart-breaking thing when I finally discovered why she was not the virgin which her bearing and manner led me to expect.’ Paolo finished his pasta and gulped more wine.

‘Imagine forcing a child! Her father was a monster and I am profoundly glad that someone has seen fit to remove him from this world. It was not, however, me. I am going to marry Amelia and remove her from that house of sorrow, and she will grow fatter and happier and have many children. She loves children. I, also. I must show you the figures I did of her protegés.
Scugnizzi
, street-children, one and all, but the vitality of those undernourished bodies! And another thing. Have you seen her portraits?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, laying down her fork. ‘I just bought an armload of them.’

‘Then you must have seen,
bella
. You are a lady of taste and refinement. She has a great gift. She needs to do more work, her lines are still uncertain and her colour needs developing, but she can catch a likeness. Only one in three hundred students has that skill. She will be very good, when she gets away and comes to live with me.’

‘What about your family? You are a Roman Catholic, aren’t you?’

‘This is not an impediment. I have spoken to Father John. She will become a Catholic, and thus avoid eternal damnation, which she would not like. Then we shall be married in the Church. I, in turn, will renounce the delights of my models, once we are married. Thus it is fortunate for me that you came to me when you did, for I shall always remember you,
bella
.’

‘I will also remember you, Paolo,
carissimo
. Have you any idea who could have killed McNaughton?’

Paolo shrugged eloquently. ‘It could have been anyone. But I think it is Bill the brother. Him I do not admire. He is too much like his godforsaken father. I can see him hitting his father over the head with a rock; yes, certainly.

‘Otherwise,
bella
, the possibilities are endless. He tortured his wife, and she has a secret lover. I do not know anything about him, but I assure you there is one. I overheard her speaking to him on the telephone. “No, dearest,” she said. “It is too dangerous. He will kill you. There is no hope for us,” she sighed, and hung up the receiver. Her sigh would have broken your heart,
bella
. It seemed to contain all the sorrow of the world. Then she turned and saw me and begged me to say nothing. Naturally, I agreed.’

‘Did you tell Amelia?’

‘Of course not. She had enough to bear. But what a man, this McNaughton! Everyone hated him. His servants loathed him. He dismissed his driver recently, and beat him and kicked him into the road. He might have crept back and laid an ambush. In any case,
carissima
, it was a good deed and I hope that you do not find out who did it.’

‘I have to get Bill out of trouble, Paolo. Therefore I must find out who did it.’

‘It is a sad world,’ said Paolo portentously, ‘when one who does Australia a single service must suffer for it. Here is Guiseppe with the fish. You will like this,
bella
, it is a Neapolitan recipe. Did you say that you hope to get the brother Bill out of jail? Then perhaps I should take Amelia to my studio. He does not like me.’

‘You shall go and comfort Amelia. She needs you badly,’ stated Phryne, taking another glass of wine. ‘I shall deal with Bill. I promise that he will not say a word.’

Paolo took up her hand and kissed it.

The fish was highly spiced, and Phryne was feeling more than a little tipsy. She ordered strong black coffee and it came with a glass of cold water. She nibbled small almond biscuits and surveyed the room.

There was a shriek of recognition before Isola hurled herself across the café and threw herself into Phryne’s arms.

‘
Carissima
! It has been centuries. And Paolo, my dearest. How do you come to be here together? Aha! Paolo, you wicked goat, you have been seducing my friends again.’

Paolo grinned. ‘How could I resist, when all your friends are so like you?’

Isola slapped playfully at his cheek, and missed. Phryne, finding Isola something of an armful, deposited her on a chair brought by a waiter, who winked. Phryne should have guessed that Isola had captured Paolo. She had a supernatural talent for finding skilful lovers. Sometimes they came in odd shapes, but if they had been Isola’s choice they could be relied on to be worth the trouble. She had been honing her instincts on Melbourne men for some years.

‘How is the poor Amelia?’ demanded Isola, tossing back her thick tangled hair. ‘I heard of the death of her disgusting father. I suppose that it was not you, Paolo?’

‘No, I regret.’

‘Pity. I was intending to kiss the murderer soundly.’

‘It is a sad loss to me,’ murmured Paolo. ‘But I did not do it, Isola. Amelia, it appears, is fairly well. Tomorrow I go to her. Phryne has taken over the investigation.’

‘Phryne, if you find him I shall be seriously displeased,’ announced Isola in her deepest, throatiest voice.

‘I shall be desolated,’ said Phryne politely. ‘What is that dress, Isola? You must be freezing.’

‘It is the mode
Égyptienne.
Is it not seductive?’ Isola stood up. She was clothed in a long, white, closely pleated gown. A collar of bright turquoise beads covered her shoulders, and her magnificent breasts lifted the fabric so that it fell uninterrupted to the floor. She looked like a lewd Corinthian column. She certainly looked seductive, but Isola would have looked seductive in gunny sacks tied with old rope.

‘Is this new?’

‘But certainly. Have you not seen the illustrated papers? There have been great discoveries at Luxor. They have found the tombs of many kings, and in them linen and jewellery and many fine objects. Everyone knows about Luxor! Even the children are playing pyramids. Madame
le modiste
in the building where I live made this for me, provided that I wore it into society. I am the first, but there will be many others. Do you like it, Paolo?’

‘Magnificent. I would like to sculpt you. To capture the smoothness and lightness of the fabric, while suggesting the body underneath, presents a fascinating problem. Come and model for me and I shall essay, Isola. If your current lover does not object.’

‘Him? Pah! I have discarded him. He demanded that I leave the stage and go and become a good wife. Me, I have sung for princes. But I have no time to sit for you,
carissimo
,
at the moment.’

Glancing hungrily at one of the waiters, she floated away.

Paolo shrugged again. ‘Ah, that Isola! The only woman I have ever met who looks on love in the same way as a man.’

‘Still, her judgement is to be trusted,’ observed Phryne. ‘And you have to admit that she is magnificent.’

‘Assuredly. She has always been so. The gown, that
Égyptienne
gown, I shall obtain one from the
modiste
and sculpt Amelia. I shall call on the woman tomorrow and have the gown and some clay sent to the house. Amelia likes sitting for me, it calms her. My mind is clear, now that I have completed the nymph.’

‘Are you selling it?’ asked Phryne. Paolo shook his head. ‘I am collecting sufficient pieces for an exhibition. There,
bella
,
you may buy if you wish.’

‘I will look forward to it,’ said Phryne. ‘And now I must go. I have to be at court tomorrow. I shall see you again, Paolo.’

‘At the house of McNaughton,’ agreed Paolo, standing up.

Phryne paid Guiseppe the surprisingly small total and took herself wearily home.

There had been no word about Candida. Jack Leonard was running out of what he had previously thought was an endless fund of aeroplane talk. Molly had gone upstairs to feed baby Alexander, and now sat rocking him and dropping tears on the upturned face. The baby resented this and did not suckle freely.

Henry Maldon started when the telephone rang and snatched it from the receiver. ‘Yes?’

‘Henry Maldon?’ whispered an androgynous voice.

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve got your little girl. She’ll be fine if you sit tight and don’t call in the police. A letter will arrive tomorrow. Carry out the instructions and you will have her back unhurt. Call the cops or try anything, and you’ll have her back in little pieces.’

‘I won’t call the police,’ gasped Henry. ‘Is she all right? Let me speak to her.’

‘Tomorrow,’ promised the voice, and there was the final click of a breaking contact. Henry threw down the phone and swore.

‘Was that them?’

‘Yes, Jack. They say that we have to wait for a letter. Oh, Jack, how am I going to tell Molly? And how are we going to bear it?’

‘You can bear most things,’ said Jack. ‘You’re a brave man. What about the time you walked out of the Sahara?’

‘That’s different,’ snapped Henry. ‘That was only me. This time, it’s Candida.’

Haggard with exhaustion and strain, he poured another whisky. It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wrest once the law to your authority To do a great right do a little wrong

Shakespeare
The Merchant of Venice

The Melbourne Magistrates’ Court was cold and stony, and Phryne was not feeling very well. The crowd of solicitors did not elevate her mood. All men, it appeared. She caught sight of Jillian across the depressing courtyard and struggled through the press of suits to catch her by the arm.

‘Ah, Phryne, I have spoken to the prosecutor and he has no objection to bail with reporting conditions. The informant is our old friend and he hasn’t any objection either. I just have to go in and get the matter on, and we should have Bill out in two ticks.’

Phryne caught sight of Detective-inspector Benton, and called to him. He ploughed through the crowd towards them.

‘Miss Fisher! How is the detecting?’

‘I still have much to learn. Thank you for not objecting to bail. Tell me, can I see the body? And can I have a look at the murder weapon?’

‘What will young ladies take up next? Very well, Miss Fisher. Come over to my office once you have regained possession of your client and I will show you the weapon. You can’t see the body, I’m afraid, but you can read the Coroner’s Report if that will do.’

‘It will indeed,’ said Phryne, pleased. She really did not like corpses much. She pushed her way into Court One and saw that Jillian Henderson was on her feet. She looked as plump and self-confident as the city pigeons outside, and as sure of her place.

‘If I might draw the court’s attention to the matter of McNaughton, your Worship?’

A very old magistrate found his glasses, focused them on Jillian and smiled thinly. ‘Yes, Miss Henderson?’

‘A bail application, your Worship. I have spoken to the informant and the learned prosecutor, and I believe that they have no objection.’

‘Is that the case, Senior-sergeant?’

A huge policeman scrambled to his feet. ‘Yes, your Worship. The informant agrees that there is no reason why the accused should not be bailed.’

‘Very well, Miss Henderson; now all you have to do is convince me.’ The magistrate leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.

Phryne was close enough to hear the prosecutor mutter: ‘Damn the old cuss! This’ll take all day.’ He sorted his notes, looking for the details of the crime.

‘This is an alleged murder, your Worship. The victim was my client’s father. The evidence against him can be summarised in three points: Firstly, he had a violent argument with his father. Secondly, he cannot be proved not to have been at the scene of the crime when his father died. Thirdly, he is very strong, and the crime required strength. For want of better evidence, your Worship, I shall be moving that the matter be struck out at Committal. For the moment, your Worship, even supposing that my client did kill his father, which is strenuously denied, there is no point in keeping him in custody. In your Worship’s vast experience, your Worship must have seen a lot of domestic murderers. They do not repeat their crime. I may add to this that my client is a man of unblemished reputation with no criminal record. He has never come to the attention of the courts before. He is willing to surrender his passport and offer a surety and agree to whatever reporting conditions your Worship considers proper. As your Worship pleases . . .’ Jillian sat down. Phryne was impressed. So, evidently, was the magistrate.

‘Yes, well, I see no reason not to accede to your request, Miss Henderson. Stand up, accused. You are bailed on your own recognisance to appear at this court on the 17th of August 1928, at ten of the forenoon, and not then to leave the precincts of the court until the matter has been dealt with according to law. You are required to report to Carlton Police Station between the hours of nine in the morning and nine at night every Friday until the date of your hearing. Should you fail to report or appear or otherwise breach the conditions of your bail a warrant will be issued for your immediate arrest and you will have a further charge to answer in addition to those already preferred against you. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Bill.

‘Does your client agree to the terms of his release, Miss Henderson?’

Jillian leapt to her feet. ‘He does, your Worship.’

‘Take him down, usher. Accused, you will be detained until you sign your bail notice, and then you are free to go.’

Jillian and Phryne left the court.

‘This way, and we’ll collect Bill. Golly, Phryne, that was easier than I expected. Old Jenkins must be tired. Usually it takes a good hour of solid argument to persuade him to let anyone out of police clutches.’

She led Phyrne out of the court building and along the street to the watchhouse. It was a grimy building that smelt of despair and carbolic in roughly equal proportions. Phryne hated it instantly.

‘Yes, it does pong,’ agreed Jillian, having noticed Phryne’s grimace. ‘And you never get used to it, somehow. Good morning, Sergeant. How are you this bleak and miserable Wednesday?’

‘I’ve been better, Miss Henderson. Have you come for McNaughton?’

‘I have, so hand him over—surely you don’t want to keep him?’

‘Not particularly,’ replied the desk-sergeant, a gloomy individual with a long, drooping face. ‘I’ll see if they’ve finished with him.’

He was gone for ten minutes. He returned with Bill and the bail notice.

‘Please check your belongings, sir, and sign this if they are all correct.’

Bill, who was shaky and subdued, checked his hat, keys, wallet, cigarette case, lighter, miscellaneous coins and spark-plug. He signed. The copy of the bail bond was ceremonially folded and placed in an envelope. Phryne was close enough to Bill to feel him quivering with impatience.

‘Steady,’ she murmured. ‘We shall be out of here soon.’ She laid a hand on his arm as though he might bolt. Jillian, on the other side, did the same.

Bill contained himself until they were out in the street again. Once there, he drew in long breaths of comparatively clean, cold air. ‘My God! I need a drink. Come on, ladies—the Courthouse Hotel.’

Although the Courthouse was not an ideal hotel for ladies, neither Phryne nor Jillian demurred. Bill offered both of them an arm and almost ran across the street into the comfortable beery snug, where he ordered a jug of beer. Phryne had gin and Jillian tonic water, as she had a conference in the afternoon and did not want to breathe all over the client.

‘They lose confidence,’ she explained, ‘if you stink of alcohol. It’s a dry profession,’ she added. Bill had not spoken since the beer had arrived. He had been supplied with a glass but he disdained it. Lifting the jug effortlessly he engulfed the drink in a seemingly endless gulp. When he lowered it, the jug was half empty.

‘Miss Fisher, I didn’t kill my father,’

‘I know. This is Jillian Henderson, a dear friend of mine, who has undertaken your defence.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Henderson. You certainly did a job on that old magistrate. He was giving the other applications a very nasty time indeed. I was surprised to see you, but I’ll be delighted if you’ll manage my defence.’

Here was an alteration. Three days in jail had humbled Bill McNaughton most impressively. Phryne called the barman and ordered another jug.

He brought it, and set it down in front of Bill. ‘This one’s on the house, mate. Boss says you’re a great advertisement for his brew.’

Bill laughed, finished the first jug, and then grew solemn again.

‘If I didn’t kill him—and I didn’t—then who did?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. All I need from you is an exact description of the two people you saw on your walk.’

‘I think you’ll do this better on your own. Let me know, Phryne. Don’t forget to report, Mr McNaughton, or we may not be so lucky next time. Bye,’ said Jillian and zoomed off to free more birds from the constabulary cage. Bill looked after her.

‘Miss Fisher, I feel like the prodigal son. I would have been better off with the swine and the husks. Do you have any idea of what a place like that is like?’

‘I once spent a night in a Turkish prison. It sounded and felt like the depths of hell, and there were bedbugs.’

‘Yes, that is it. The depths of hell with bedbugs. I’ll do anything to avoid going back there. I say, that woman is hot stuff in court, isn’t she? You could see that the magistrate was pleased. She didn’t waste a word. Would it be all right if I sent her some flowers? I could have kissed her, but I didn’t think that she’d like that.’

‘Here is her card. I’m sure that she would love some flowers. Now drink up. Before you go back to your mother’s house for a long bath, a bed with sheets and a proper shave, there are a few things I need to tell you.

‘Amelia is a very good artist. She will be great. Therefore, I would have you pay her the proper respect. There is an uncertainty in her work which I attribute entirely to you. Yes?’

‘She really is good? I never really looked at her stuff. Father scoffed at it so I didn’t bother. Very well. I’ll not tease poor Amelia. An artist, eh?’

‘Here. This is a portrait of your father.’

‘It’s caught the pater perfectly. Who did it?’

‘Amelia. I bought it from her.’

‘Lord, really? Amelia?’ He took a gulp of beer.

‘And another thing. When you get home you will probably find Paolo Raguzzi there. You will not call him a greasy little dago. You will be nice to him. He is not only a good sculptor but he loves your sister truly and . . . er . . . fairly faithfully, and she needs his support. He will probably want to model you; if so, you will agree. In return I will get you out of trouble.’

‘You’ll find the murderer if I do my Angel of the House and don’t upset the mater?’

‘Yes.’

‘Deal,’ said Bill promptly.

‘The people who passed you on the path. What did they look like?’

‘The first was an old man, a tramp, with a battered old felt hat and a sugar sack over his shoulder. I didn’t see his face. The girl was a pretty young slip, in a red bathing-costume and cap. I couldn’t see her hair but she was tanned and small—maybe five feet tall. I seem to have seen the girl before, but not the old man.’

‘Any smell?’

‘Smell? What do you think I am, a bloodhound? None in particular.’

Phryne wondered again at the noselessness of man.

‘Had the girl been in the water?’

Bill absorbed more beer and thought deeply. ‘Yes, her costume was sticking to her body, and her arms and shoulders were shiny.’

‘Did you get the impression that the old man and the girl were connected?’

Bill thought some more and finished the beer.

‘I didn’t notice, really. I was in a rage. I often run down to the river and go for a quick swim when things get too personal at home.’

‘I thought you were going to the aerodrome for your arguments in future.’

‘Yes, I was to take the old man out there.’

‘Did you kill him?’

Bill looked Phryne in the eye and said solemnly, ‘No. I wish I had. Then I wouldn’t mind being charged.’

‘All right, Now, I shall see you into a taxi.’

‘No fear! I’m going to walk. I need to stretch my legs. I will behave, Miss Fisher. I just hope you can get me out of trouble.’

She watched him stride off down the street in the direction of Kew. She crossed to the police station to find Benton and the murder weapon.

She was directed to his office and sat down while he fetched the rock from the safe.

‘Can’t have important clues lying about. See,’ he said, opening the grey cardboard box and exhibiting a squarish block of bluestone. ‘It was brought down with great force. Much more than any woman could muster. There’s blood and matter on the obverse, but none on the back, indicating the blood did not spurt. The murderer might not have had a spot on him. Seen enough?’

Phryne looked very carefully at the sides of the stone, and especially the blotch of blood on the striking face.

‘Doesn’t that bloodstain fade towards the middle? Have a look. There seems to be less blood in the centre than you would find at the sides. What could cause that, do you think?’

Benton came to look.

‘No, I can’t see that, Miss Fisher. Is that all?’

‘Was there anything on the stone apart from blood and brain?’

‘Hair, Miss, a clover burr, a few hemp strands, a few leaves, a bit of bubblegum. Nothing important.’

‘No. Thank you, that was most interesting.’

‘Here’s the Coroner’s Report. Cause of death: massive head injuries.’

Phryne skimmed through the report. ‘Body of well- nourished middle aged man . . . cleft cranium . . .’

‘It seems to have fallen on the top of his head rather than the back,’ she observed.

‘Depends on how you look at it. Now I think he was donged from behind. The fact that the rock is a flat surface makes it difficult to say. The cranium is quite cloven through the middle.’

‘Hmm. Well, thanks a lot. Have you found those witnesses yet?’

‘No,’ muttered the detective-inspector, straight-faced.

‘Thank you so much for your time,’ said Phryne politely, and left.

She sat in the car and wrote a hasty note to Bert and Cec, then drove to Carlton to drop it into their boarding house. She wondered what Bert would do when Cec got married at the end of the year, and decided that he would manage. Cec’s intended was a sensible young woman who understood the bond between the two men. There would be no separating Bert and Cec this side of the death which they had so often faced together. They were skilled, if rather direct, investi- gators, and Phryne left her problem in their hands with a certain relief.

She arrived home very tired and ate the lunch served to her by Mrs Butler with relief. A telephone message in Dot’s neat schoolgirl hand informed her that Paolo was with Amelia, that Mrs McNaughton was as well as could be expected, and that Bill had arrived and was behaving like an angel. Phryne decided that she had done enough detecting for one day, and went to take a long hot bath with her
Nuit de Paris
bathsalts. After that she took what she considered to be a richly deserved rest.

Jack Leonard rolled off the couch in the Maldon’s living-room and strove to unkink his muscles. It had been the most uncomfortable night of his life, equalling in discomfort the Turkish brothel with the bedbugs, but without the compensating atmosphere.