Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (32 page)

Dot hurried back to the hotel. She had the nightgown and slippers in the light bag, and the thought of a cup of tea spurred her on. An aeroplane was attracting a crowd down on the foreshore, and a stern lifeboat man was warning the children away.

Dot ran up the steps and was just in time for breakfast.

‘Oh, I say, pity that Phryne is missing this,’ opined Jack Leonard. Dot thought so, too. She went up to room six and opened the door. Phryne was half-awake.

‘What’s that delicious smell, Dot? I’ve had the most amazing dream. I was clinging on to the back of a car . . . hang on. That wasn’t a dream. Dot, where are we?’

‘Queenscliff Hotel, Miss, and breakfast is waiting. Why not wash your face and brush your hair and come down? I’ve never seen a breakfast like it.’

The Queenscliff Hotel was famed for its breakfasts. Phryne put on the black slippers and brushed her hair as ordered. She and Dot descended into a cloud of steam savoury enough to make a glutton swoon. Phryne’s stomach growled reproachfully. Dot felt almost faint with hunger. They passed the formal dining-room and the cocktail bar and burst into the back parlour at something not too short of a run. Jack Leonard gave a cheer as Phryne came in and supplied her with a big plate.

‘Now, Phryne, you must keep up your strength. There won’t always be policemen to carry you around.’

‘So I didn’t dream the policeman either. How odd.’

‘What would you like?’ asked Jack, leading her to a long row of silver chafing dishes. ‘There are kidneys and devilled ham in this one, scrambled eggs in this one, mushrooms in this one, sausages, rissoles, fried eggs, and they can make you an omelette in a moment.’

‘This is too much. Get me a bit of everything, Jack, and bless you.’

Phryne sat down at a small table. A waiter took her order for tea and offered her a newspaper, which she waved away. When furnishing the hotel someone had bought a job lot of life-size negro figures made of wood or papier-mâché. At the feet of the one with the gold turban sat Candida, eating fruit compote with perfect equanimity. Phryne raised an eyebrow at Molly.

‘She says that the poor man must be lonely, so she’s gone to keep him company,’ Molly explained. ‘Have some of this compote, it’s marvellous. Essence of summer. I wonder where they found melons, pineapple and strawberries at this time of the year?’

Jack placed Phryne’s plate before her, and she had demolished it, with three slices of toast and two cups of tea, before he had time to complete one across in the
Times
crossword. Phryne went back to the buffet and gave herself more bacon, scrambled eggs, mushrooms and kedgeree. This she ate with two slices of toast. Dot had found the diversity of things to eat miraculous. All that food! She picked at everything.

Phryne tried the fruit and found it delightful, then stood up and stretched.

‘I bags first bath,’ she said, and Dot raced after her as she fled up the stairs.

Ten minutes later she was lying in a hot bath and Dot was soaping her feet. She was so stiff that she could not possibly have reached them.

‘Oh, your poor toes, Miss!’

‘I suppose it isn’t any use asking you to call me Phryne, is it, Dot?’

‘No. It ain’t right. And you are changing the subject. You’ve bruised them toes so that you won’t be able to put a shoe on your feet for a week. You’ve cut your hands and there’s a little cut on your brow. It won’t cause a scar, Miss,’ commented Dot. ‘Let me have your foot again. I’ve sent your clothes to be cleaned, and they say they’ll be back this afternoon. Miss Candida’s as well. Mrs Maldon wants to get rid of that nightgown. I didn’t think of buying a new one for her. That’s better, Miss. Hang on to my hand and . . . up we go!’

Dot dried Phryne, clad her in the nightgown, and put her to bed between clean sheets.

Dot took a bath, replaced her chemise, and lay down in her own bed for some sleep. She was rather worn out from worrying about Phryne and Candida and Henry and Bunji.

The Maldons had been given a room with a bath, and the hotel had provided a cot draped with white muslin. Candida was impressed with it. It resembled the cradle of the Princess’s baby in the
Blue Fairy Book
. She was a cleanly little girl and was delighted to see how much dirt coloured the water. When she was finally ready and wrapped up in several towels, her father claimed the bath and firmly shut the door.

Candida surveyed the room. It was lovely. She admired the gold chandelier, and the swags of ivy picked out in gold leaf on the high ceilings. The French windows opened onto the balcony and through them she could see the sea. The heavy curtains of oyster-grey silk had been elaborately draped in order to frame the view. In front of the window was a carved blackwood love seat, a round low table with a bowl of roses and three delicate-legged chairs. There was an escritoire and matching chair on one side of the fire and a washstand on the other.

The great bed was of brass and stood at least two feet off the floor. It was heaped with pillows. Candida climbed up and bounced experimentally.

Molly darkened the windows and took off most of her clothes. She got into the bed and found that Bear and Candida were already there.

‘Bear wants to know when we are going home.’

‘Tomorrow morning. We are just going to have a little sleep. Daddy will be here in a moment. Do you want to sleep in the cot?’

‘Me?’ asked Candida indignantly. ‘It’s for a baby.’

Molly smiled and closed her eyes. When Henry came out of the bathroom, he found both of his women fast asleep.

Phryne woke refreshed and stiff at two o’clock. Dot was still sleeping. The blind let through a little cool winter light, and she could hear the sea. She inspected the clothes that Dot had bought, especially the odd little hat. She put it on and peeped into the mirror. It was striking. The beads added weight, so that it sat down well upon her head. She looped the scarf around her throat.

‘O woman of mystery,’ she said blowing a kiss to her reflection. She put on the black skirt and the red jersey top, then went downstairs to see if any of the rest of her party were awake.

The desk clerk smiled at her. ‘The rest of them have gone for a walk on the shore, Miss Fisher,’ he said respectfully. ‘The little girl insisted.’

Phryne smiled. Candida was prone to insist. She gathered up her skirt and went down the steps and across the road, following the path to the pier.

It was a cold day, and few people were on the foreshore. Phryne found Candida, her parents, Bunji and Jack sitting on the sand and making rather ineffectual castles.

‘That’s not right,’ said Candida as her castle dissolved before a strong lee wind. ‘Make me an aeroplane, Uncle Jack.’

Jack Leonard moved down the beach a little and found that the damper sand held its shape better. Bunji came with him to advise.

‘Make a Fokker,’ she suggested. ‘Did you see her, Phryne? I had to put her down on the sand. Had a bit of a struggle persuading the old girl to stop, seemed to want to go on into the waves, and that wouldn’t have done, you know. The lifeguard was delighted to watch it for me. He was in the Royal Flying Corps. Fascinating old bird. I think the nose ought to be a bit longer, Jack.’

Jack obediently lengthened the nose. Candida found suitable pebbles for the finer details.

Molly and Henry were sitting on a cold stone step. Molly was leaning back into Henry’s embrace. He had his head on her shoulder. Phryne was about to withdraw when Molly held out a hand.

‘We owe it all to you, Phryne. We don’t know how to repay you.’

‘There’s no need to repay me. I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds. The really brave person in this was Bunji. Henry must have told you what a good flyer she is.’

‘Great skill,’ agreed Henry. ‘She can scent the air currents, I reckon. Who is this Mike that Candida keeps talking about?’

‘Did you read the Sherlock Holmes stories?’ asked Phryne, seating herself at Henry’s feet.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘“I think we must have an amnesty in that direction”,’ quoted Phryne. ‘He was dragged into the plot by his revolting wife. The monster I delivered to the cops this morning was the prime mover. When Sidney shot the wife and was trying to shoot Candida, Mike realised that he couldn’t go along with it, shoved Candida out into the garden and told her to run. Then he attacked Sid. That’s where I came in. I shot Sid in the wrist and had a conference with Mike. He saved Candida’s life. Even if we all gave character evidence for him he’d be looking at ten years in the pen. So I gave him a hundred quid and told him to go home and report his car stolen. They will suspect him, but they won’t be able to prove anything. He is a good chap, Henry met him.’

‘So it was Mike who kissed Candida goodbye? I’m glad that I met him. I owe him a great deal.’

‘I told him to get in touch with me if he couldn’t get a job. If he does, I’ll turn him over to you.’

‘You did well, Phryne. It would have been awful to have to give evidence against him.’

Molly’s eyes strayed to Candida, engaged in making wheels for the plane. The child was dressed in her blue frock, and had Bear secured to her back with a handkerchief.

‘I don’t think she’s suffered too much,’ said Phryne, ‘though she’ll probably have nightmares. She didn’t see the woman fall when she was shot and she escaped Sidney’s attentions.’

‘I was wondering about that. He’s a child-molester, isn’t he?’ asked Henry. ‘I . . . didn’t know how to ask her.’

‘No need. He may have had designs on her originally, but when she came out from under the ether Sid told me that she was sick all over him.’

Henry laughed aloud. ‘That’s my girl!’

Dinner in the formal dining-room was hilarious. Phryne purchased good champagne and after a while everyone was happy. The food was excellent, from the entrée of cream of pumpkin soup, through an exquisite cheese soufflé, a
filet mignon à chasseur
, and sherberts made of peach, nectarine, pomegranate, lemon, orange and grapefruit. The coffee was fragrant and the handmade chocolates remarkable.

Phryne, who had bagged the quaint hat, ate as though she had been fasting for some months. Dot was freshly surprised at each course. Candida, who had been allowed to stay up by special permission, had presided over the ceremonial burning of the nightgown, the last trace of her captivity. She was engaged in assisting Bear to eat his chocolates. Golden candlelight from the tall sconces glittered off the massive silver epergnes and dishes; the log fire burned brightly. Tall vases of lilies and gum tips lent the air a delicate scent. Of all endings to adventure, this was the best possible.

‘To Candida!’ cried Phryne, and raised her glass. Uncle Jack allowed the child to take a sip from his glass. The bubbles tickled her nose. She chuckled. She knew that it was the custom to respond to a toast. She clutched Bear close to give him confidence, and stood up on her chair.

‘Uncle Jack, Aunty Bunji, Mummy, Daddy, Dot and Phryne,’ she began. The table was silent. Candida was overcome with sudden affection.

‘Thank you for finding me and bringing me Bear,’ she said, then launched herself into Phryne’s arms, and kissed her moistly on the cheek.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

He that dies pays all debts

Shakespeare
The Tempest

Returned in good order to Melbourne, Phryne spent Thursday afternoon cleaning the car with Mr Butler’s assistance. She gave her household an edited account of her adventures, and did not go out until Thursday afternoon to Fitzroy. She wanted to find Klara. As Klara was locally notorious, this did not prove difficult.

A thin little gutter sparrow sat in a café, staring into an empty cup of tea. She looked up as Phryne walked in and smiled with genuine tenderness.

‘Phryne! Come and buy me some tea. I’m parched. Got a job for me?’

Phryne bought the tea, which she would not have touched for quids, and explained. Ancient eyes started out of a childish face.

‘And they’ll kill him the next day?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll do it for ten quid. If I didn’t have to make a living I’d do it for nothing. Sidney Brayshaw, eh? Bonzer. Will you make the arrangements?’

‘Can you? I don’t know if Briggs is still at Pentridge.’

‘Sure. Give me another twenty to square them.’

Phryne produced the money. ‘You won’t fail me, Klara? I gave my word.’

‘No. I’ll not fail,’ promised Klara, tracing a cross with a grubby forefinger on the flat breast of her gym tunic. Phryne left quickly. She found Klara unsettling.

Thursday night was appointed for Phryne’s seduction of the delightful Dr Fielding. It was not until Mrs Butler was asking her what she fancied for dinner that she remembered.

‘Oh, hell, I forgot. Mrs B., I asked that nice young doctor to dinner.’

‘You have been busy lately, Miss,’ agreed Mrs Butler. ‘So we won’t quarrel about it this time.’

Phryne took the hint and smiled. ‘I hope that there won’t be a next time,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Can you manage a simple, light dinner?’

‘Vegetable soup, lamb chops, green beans,
pommes de terre Anna
? Apple pie and cream?’ suggested Mrs Butler.

‘Good. Very nice. Then coffee and liqueurs in my sittingroom upstairs. Can Mr B. take care of the fire? And leave the woodbox full. After he’s brought the coffee, Mrs B., I don’t want to be disturbed.’

Mrs Butler pursed her lips and nodded. Phryne wondered if the two of them were going to give notice in the morning. Assuming, of course, that the doctor was amenable to seduction.

Phryne bathed luxuriously and dressed carefully in a loose, warm velvet from Erté. It was black, with deep lapin cuffs and collar, and a six-inch band of fur around the hem. She brushed her hair vigorously and applied just a little rouge.

Dot assisted her into the gown and knelt to adjust the soft Russian boots around Phryne’s slim ankles.

‘You fancy your chances, Miss?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s clumsy, but rather endearing, don’t you think?’

‘You be careful,’ warned Dot. ‘This one’s an Aussie. They got different ideas about their girls, not like them Russians.’

‘And Italians,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I’ll be careful, Dot. Are you going out or staying in?’

‘I’m staying in,’ said Dot, giving the bootlace a final tug. ‘I’ve been to the library and I’m going to read and listen to the wireless. I won’t disturb you, Miss. I can come and go by my own stair.’

‘I hope that this doesn’t upset you,’ said Phryne. ‘Or the Butlers.’

‘They’ll be sweet,’ said Dot. ‘Just like I was. It’s a bit of a shock at first, but you get used to it. Have a nice time, Miss,’ and Dot, innocent of any envy, went down to take her own dinner with the Butlers. Phryne smoked one gasper after another, worrying. Dot was right. Australian men were different. She did not want to get involved in an emotional relationship. She had no patience with dependence and no understanding of jealousy.

She heard the doorbell ring, and sailed downstairs to meet her guest, with outward poise and inward qualms.

He really was beautiful, she reflected as he escorted her into the dining-room. He had pale skin, curly brown hair, and was well-built and tall. Phryne took her seat and accepted a glass of white wine from Mr Butler. The young man contrived by a miracle not to knock over the vase of ferns in the centre of the table and smiled ruefully.

‘I’m afraid I’m still clumsy, Miss Fisher.’

‘Really, you must call me Phryne. I’m not your patient, Dr Fielding.’

‘Then you must call me Mark.’

‘You haven’t been a doctor long, I gather. Why did you choose medicine?’

This was always a safe question to ask any professional. Soup was served. It was good—perhaps a little too much celery. Mark Fielding ate fast, as though he was about to be called away at any moment.

‘I want to be useful,’ said Mark Fielding. ‘I want to heal the hurts of the world.’ He laid down his spoon. ‘That sounds silly, doesn’t it? But there is such a lot of pain and suffering, and I want to ease it. I work with old Dr Dorset; he has great experience, but he’s a cynical old man. He says that everyone in the world has ulterior motives. What do you think?’

Phryne took in a sharp breath as the unreadable brown eyes flicked sidelong to look at her. Yes, she could believe it. Her own motives were nothing to boast of.

The excellent dinner concluded, Phryne lured Mark upstairs with a promise of coffee and kirsch. She accepted the tray from Mr Butler, observed that the woodbox next to the fire had been replenished, and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

‘I shan’t want you again tonight, Mr B.,’ she said. ‘Sleep well.’

‘You too, Miss Fisher,’ he replied with perfect gravity, and chuckled all the way down the stairs.

‘I know what she is, Mrs B.,’ he said at the kitchen door. ‘She’s a vamp.’

‘Ah, well,’ sighed his wife. ‘At least it ain’t like the last place. Young men are clean about the house. It’s better than the old gentleman’s greyhounds.’

Thereafter Phryne’s household always referred to her lovers as ‘the pets’.

Mark Fielding leaned back into the feathery embrace of a low, comfortable sofa in front of a bright fire.

‘Oh, this is nice,’ he sighed. ‘Listen to that wind outside. It’s beginning to rain, too. I wish I didn’t have to go home . . . I mean,’ he corrected himself hurriedly, ‘I mean . . .’

‘You don’t have to go home,’ said Phryne calmly. ‘I wouldn’t turn a dog out on a night like this. Stay with me, Mark. It’s warm in here.’

She was lying at full length on the hearth rug, prone, with her chin cupped in her hands, the short cap of black hair swung forward to hide her face. She had not looked away from the fire as she spoke. The young doctor was astonished. He had never been propositioned by a woman before.

He glanced around the room. Every surface was velvety, textured, soft. The pinkish mirror wreathed in vine leaves reflected his face crowned with a garland. He tried to sit up but the sofa was unwilling to release him. He sipped the remains of his kirsch and yielded up his body to fate.

‘It’s kismet,’ he said softly, as Phryne gathered her gown about her and pulled him down into her arms.

Phryne closed her eyes as the red mouth came down onto hers, the lips parted, then the mouth moved down her throat to the open collar of the velvet gown. For such a clumsy young man, Mark Fielding removed a lady’s clothes with startling skill.

Phryne, naked, and stretched out in a pool of velvet and fur, drowsed up out of a fiery trance to glimpse the flash of thigh and buttock, and he slid down to lie beside her.

She reached up to catch her fingers in the curly hair, as silky as embroidery floss, and bring the face down for her kiss. As he slid his strong hands between fur and skin to gather her close, he whispered, ‘Phryne, are you sure?’

Phryne had seized him, locking his waist with her thighs. She was sure.

Mark abandoned himself to unimagined delights. The heat of the fire caressed his skin. The scent of Phryne’s breasts and her hair, musky and amorous, almost drowned him in sweetness.

When Phryne awoke, the fire was out, and someone seemed to have amputated her legs at the hips. She groaned and tried to sit up. The numbness was explained by the weight of the beautiful young man asleep on top of her. Phryne shook him, laughing and shivering. ‘Mark, wake up, you’re crushing me.’

Mark Fielding was dragged up out of a deep dream by the hand on his shoulder. ‘It must be Mrs Murphy’s baby,’ he murmured. ‘All right, I’ll be down in a min . . . no wait, what . . . oh, Phryne,’ he remembered suddenly, shifted his weight, and hauled her into his arms. ‘Oh, my dear girl, how cold you are, and how cold I am, too.’

‘We fell asleep, and I think we ought to go to bed before we catch our death. You’ll have to carry me,’ said Phryne smugly. ‘I’m numb.’

Mark staggered up, stamped a few times to recover the use of his feet, then lifted Phryne without effort and bore her into the bedroom. He flung her into the huge bed then dived in after her. The invaluable Mrs B. had left a hot waterbottle, and they snuggled close together, limbs entwined, and began to thaw into life. Oddly enough, when Mark Fielding was to think of the amazing Phryne Fisher, that was the moment he remembered as being the most intensely erotic.

The morning of Miss McNaughton’s party dawned, cold and bright. Phryne did not see it. She breakfasted in bed with Dr Fielding, sharing toast and buttery kisses. He left at nine, begging to be allowed to return that night.

Phryne had obtained Detective-inspector Benton’s solemn promise that he would attend Miss McNaughton’s party, and Jillian Henderson had rather warily agreed to come. Bert and Cec reported that they had completed their investigations and there was only Miss Wilson left to interview.

Phryne decided to ring her. She found the number and a light, feminine voice identified herself as Margaret Wilson.

‘Miss Wilson, this relates to the complaint you made to the police last week.’

‘That horrid old man stole my clothes when I was swimming!’ exclaimed Miss Wilson. ‘I was so mad that I went straight to the police, even though I only had my bathing costume on. But that is all fixed. They lent me a coat to go home in, and the next day I got my clothes back.’

‘Think carefully. Did you pass anyone on that path?’

‘Yes, Bill McNaughton. I was going to ask him to help me but he was in one of his rages, and there is not a lot of percentage to be got out of Bill when he’s like that.’

‘Miss Wilson, where have you been all week?’

‘In retreat, at Daylesford. I go every year. Why?’

‘Bill’s father was murdered. You are the only person who can say that Bill was on that path.’

‘Lord! Poor Bill. I must go and make a statement, then. Should I go now?’

‘No. The slops had their chance. Can you come to Miss McNaughton’s children’s party tomorrow?’

‘Yes, of course. Will that help?’

‘About twelve. Do you know Miss McNaughton?’

‘Oh, yes, we went to school together. Why didn’t Bill say that he saw me?’

‘He didn’t remember your name.’

‘Isn’t that just like Bill. He never even looked at his sister’s friends. All right, Miss Fisher, I shall be there tomorrow. Thank you,’ said Miss Wilson, and hung up.

Phryne and Dot drove along the gravelled drive and left the car in the carriage yard. The front door was open and there was the sound of someone playing the piano with more exuberance than skill. The sound of running feet echoed down the hall.

Mabel showed Phryne in and took her coat. The house was clean and decorated with balloons and streamers.

‘We’ve put the table in the conservatory, Miss Fisher. It’s out the back. The room with the stone floor. That policeman has arrived. So has Miss Wilson from around the corner, two of your agents, and a lady lawyer called Miss Henderson.’

‘How are things now, Mabel?’

‘Ever so much better, Miss,’ said Mabel, lowering her voice. ‘Mr Bill hasn’t had a single rage, and Mr Paolo is charming. Such a nice man, for a foreigner. He’s playing the piano at the moment so the children can play musical chairs. Come out, Miss, it’s such a pretty sight.’

It was. The conservatory was a big block added on to the back of the house. It was floored with black slate and masses of plants were suspended from the beams. Paolo was thumping wildly on a baby grand piano, looking like a fatherly faun. A scatter of children were running around a diminishing number of chairs. Presiding over the ginger-beer, orange-pop, lemonade and a quiet tray of cocktails was Mrs McNaughton. Phryne hardly knew her. Her cheeks were flushed and she was wearing a paper hat. With her was a tall man in a Harris tweed coat. He had a moustache of impressive proportions and held a whisky and soda in his left hand. His right hand was missing and the tweed sleeve was neatly pinned up. This was Gerald. He smiled dotingly at Mrs McNaughton and raised his glass to Phryne.

Jillian Henderson was deep in converse with Amelia over the properties of begonias and tuberoses, for which she had a passion. Detective-inspector Benton sat on the edge of the chair looking exquisitely uncomfortable. The children gave him uneasy glances. They knew a cop when they saw one.

Bert and Cec, having been provided with beer, were seated at a cast-iron table, watching the game with approval.

After a final burst of Chopin, Jim was left in regal possession of the last chair. He accepted the prize penny, and gave it to Elsie to store in her drawers.

Phryne stepped into the middle of the floor and clapped her hands.

‘Before we have lunch, we are going to play a new game,’ she told the children and watching adults. ‘The game is called, “Murder”.’

There was a buzz of excitement. Bill came in from the garden, saw Margaret Wilson, and roared, ‘Margaret Wilson! I knew I’d seen that red bathing costume before.’

‘Bill, join in the procession,’ ordered Phryne. ‘Bert and Cec, you bring the kids. It will be all right. I promise. Come along.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Dot.

‘To the tennis-court,’ said Phryne. She led her congre- gation across the manicured grass until they all stood under the tree.

‘When I spoke to you on this spot last week, Benton, I asked you two good questions, and you didn’t listen to them. Do you remember what they were?’

‘Where did the rock come from, and why was the deceased on the tennis-court in his street shoes. Yes, I remember. I said that the fact that the stone was imported showed that the crime was premeditated, and that the place was chosen to be out of sight of the road.’