Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (34 page)

‘What happened? Where’s Mother?’ came the cracked voice, prevented only by bodily weakness from shrieking.

‘Hush, hush now, you’re safe, and they are out looking for your mother.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the woman dazedly. She saw Phryne’s expensive dressing-gown, edged in fox fur, her Russian leather boots of rusty hue, and an aloof, pale, delicate face, framed in neat, short black hair and with penetrating green eyes. Next to this vision of modish loveliness was a plain young woman with plaits, dressed in a chenille gown like a bedspread.

‘I’m Phryne Fisher and this is Dot Williams, my companion. Who are you?’

‘Eunice Henderson,’ murmured the woman. ‘Pleased to meet you. Where is Mother? What is happening? And what’s wrong with me? I can’t have fainted. I never faint.’

‘No, you didn’t faint. We are in the Ballan Hotel. Someone chloroformed us—the whole first-class carriage. I knew that I should have motored to Ballarat, but I do like trains, though I’m rapidly going off them at the moment. Luckily, I was in the last compartment, and I am a very light sleeper. I broke the window, and then opened all the others and dragged everyone out. You I found lying on the floor of the compartment, with a spilt glass near your hand, and there was no one else there, I can assure you. The window was open—could she have fallen out?’

‘I suppose so—she is a thin little thing, Mother. I can’t remember much. I was asleep, then I heard this thump, and I felt ever so ill, so I got up to get some water, and . . . that’s all I can recall.’

‘Well, never mind for the moment. There’s nothing we can do until the searchers come back. They have roused the railwaymen and they’ve all gone walking back along the track. They’ll find her if she is there. Why not go back to sleep? I’ll wake you if anything happens.’

Eunice Henderson closed her eyes.

‘Miss, she must have been the Eunice that the old lady was nagging all the time on the train,’ whispered Dot, and Phryne nodded. The journey had been made unpleasant not only by the children, but also by an old woman’s partially deaf whine in the forward compartment, as unceasing as a stream and as irritating as the mosquito which had caused Phryne’s sleep to be so light. She had reflected during the journey that the mosquito was the lesser hazard, because it could be silenced with a vigorous puff of Flit.

‘Eunice, the window is shut—you know that I hate stale air!’ ‘Eunice, the window is open—you know that I hate a draught!’ ‘Eunice, I want my tea!’ ‘Eunice, you are so slow!’ ‘Eunice, when do we get to Ballarat?’ ‘Eunice, are you listening?’ ‘Eunice, where’s my novel? No, not that novel, you stupid girl, the one I was reading yesterday. What do you mean, you didn’t bring it? What other mother has to endure such a stupid, graceless, uncaring daughter? At least you’ll never marry, Eunice, you’ll be with me until I die—and don’t think you’ll get all my money—don’t frown at me, girl! No one loves a poor, deserted old woman! Eunice! Where are you going?’

Phryne thought that if Eunice had finally tipped Mother out of the train, she could understand it. But it did not look as though she had. Surely Eunice would not have drugged the whole train—or burned herself so badly.

Under the burns and the soothing cream, Eunice was rather good looking. She had strong, clean features, rather masculine but well-formed, and curly brown hair kept firmly controlled under bandeau and net. Her eyes, Phryne remembered, were a rich brown, and she was long-limbed and athletic. Why should her mother have been so sure that Eunice would never marry? Admittedly, there was a shortage of young men, and a superfluity of women—the War to End All Wars having slaughtered the manhood of the Empire—but they were there if one tried. Perhaps Eunice had never had the chance to try. Mother was a full-time career.

Dot poured herself another cup of tea and began to twist her plait into a knot, which meant that she was thinking.

‘Miss, could she have . . .?’

‘I don’t think so, Dot, because of the burns. She didn’t need to go through all this pretence. All she had to do was boost Mother out of the window, wait a few minutes, then stagger out into the corridor and faint. The train would be miles away by the time she ‘recovered’, and then all she had to do was gasp that Mother was looking out of the window, lost her grip and fell, and that would be that. No old lady would survive a fall from a fast-moving train, at least, it’s unlikely. No. Someone altogether other has contrived this, and a clumsy attempt it is. The previous theory at least has the virtue of simplicity. This one is too elaborate and should not prove too hard to solve, if it is murder.’

‘If it’s murder, Miss? What else could it be?’

‘Kidnapping? Some frolic that went wrong? I don’t know, Dot. Let’s wait until we see what develops. Would you like to take a short nap? I can watch for a while—I’m not sleepy.’

‘Neither am I,’ said Dot. ‘I don’t want to ever sleep again!’

They watched until four in the morning, when a respectful, soft-footed maid came to ask if the Hon. Phryne Fisher could spare Sergeant Wallace a word.

Miss Fisher could. She rose from her seat on the floor and wrapped her cream dressing-gown around her, and followed the maid into what looked to be the hotel’s breakfast-room. Phryne was too tired to be hungry, but thought longingly of coffee.

Miraculously, the policeman had before him a full percolator and several cups. He poured one for Phryne and she sat sipping gratefully and breathing in the steam.

This sergeant was one of the large economy-sized policemen, being about six-and-a-half-feet tall and several axe- handles across the shoulders. The Australian sun had scorched his milky Celtic complexion into the hue of council house brick. His light grey eyes, however, were bright and shrewd.

‘Well, Miss Fisher, I’m Sergeant Wallace and I’m pleased to meet you. Detective-inspector Robinson says to give you his best regards.’

Phryne looked at this country cop over the edge of her coffee cup. He grinned.

‘I telephoned the list of passengers to the central office an hour ago, Miss Fisher, and Robbo was on duty. He recognised the name. Thinks a great deal of you, he does. We went to school together,’ he added. ‘Geelong Grammar. I won a scholarship. However. How are you, Miss? Feeling more the thing?’

‘Yes. But Miss Henderson is still very unwell—and worried about her mother. Have you found her?’

‘Yes, Miss, we’ve found her all right.’

‘Dead?’

‘As a doornail. We brought her into Ballan a few minutes ago. Did you see her, Miss? To identify, I mean?’

‘Yes, I saw her,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I would know her again.’ She thought of the tiny, wizened figure, her thinning white hair carefully combed and dressed in a bun, her fingers laden with many emeralds.

‘Would you do it, then, Miss? I’m only asking to spare Miss Henderson, and they have no near relations. And Robbo, I mean Detective-inspector Robinson, has a high opinion of your courage, Miss Fisher.’

‘Very well. Let’s get it over, then. Lead the way.’

The huge policeman shouldered his way out of the breakfast-room into a cold yard, and thence into a stable smelling of dust and hay and horses.

‘We put her in here for the moment, Miss,’ he said solemnly. ‘We’ll take her into the Coroner’s later. But I want to make sure that it’s the right woman.’

He lifted the lamp high, casting a pool of soft golden light. ‘Is this her, Miss Fisher?’ he asked, and drew back the blanket from an untouched face.

‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘Poor woman! How did she die?’ As she spoke her hands touched the skull, and felt the terrible dent where consciousness had been crushed. The skin was clammy and chill in the way that only the dead are cold. The eyes were shut, and someone had bound up the jaw. Mrs Henderson wore no expression now but peace and faint surprise. There was nothing here to shock Miss Henderson. Phryne said so.

‘Maybe not from the face,’ said the sergeant grimly. ‘But have a look at the rest.’

Phryne drew off the blanket and stepped back a pace, astonished and sick. Such a fury had fallen on the old woman that scarcely a bone was whole. She was covered in red clay. Her limbs were broken, even her fingers twisted out of true, though no part of her seemed to be missing. She laid the blanket back over the wreck of a human creature and shook her head.

‘What could have done that? Did a train run over her?’ ‘No, Miss. The doctor has a theory, but it’s not a nice one.’

‘Tell me, while we go back to the hotel,’ she said, taking the sergeant’s arm. He closed the stable door carefully and waited until Phryne was seated with a fresh cup of coffee before he said, ‘The doctor reckons she was stamped on.’

‘Stamped on?’

‘Yes, Miss, by feet.’

‘Ugh, Sergeant, I hope your doctor is wrong. What a dreadful thought! Who could have hated her that much?’

‘Ah, there you have me, Miss. I don’t know. Now tell me exactly what happened this night, from the time you got on the train.’

Phryne gathered her thoughts, and began. ‘I boarded the train at six o’clock at Flinders Street Station with my companion, Miss Williams, a bunch of narcissus, a picnic basket, a trunk, a suitcase, a hatbox and three novels for railway reading, intending to go to Ballarat to visit some of my cousins—the Reverend Mr Fisher and his sisters. I believe that they are well known in the city and they were expecting me, so you can check with them, and tell them that I shall be along as soon as I can. We were seated in the fourth compartment of the first-class carriage. We saw to the baggage, then had a cup of tea and a biscuit from the dining car. There I made the acquaintance of Miss and Mrs Henderson, and the woman with the children.’

‘Mrs Agnes Lilley, that is, Miss, and Johnnie, Ernest and George.’

‘Quite. Those children were the most pestilential set of little nuisances who ever afflicted a train. Mrs Henderson found them particularly annoying, I thought. I had a few words with that poor old lady on the subject of modern children and how they should have all been drowned at birth, and then Dot and I went back to the compartment. We had some tea in the thermos and we didn’t need to stay in the dining car. I noticed that the couple—’

‘Mr Alexander Cotton and his wife, Daisy,’ put in the sergeant helpfully.

‘Yes, she seemed ill and nervous, and he was bringing her a cup of tea. A clumsy young man. He spilled it all over a passing child and I refilled it from my flask so that he didn’t need to go back to the dining car and doubtless spill it all over again. That sort of young man can continue being clumsy all night, if pressed. I also noticed that his wife is very pregnant, because I find expectant women uncomfortable travelling companions. I hoped that she wasn’t going to deliver in the train, which I believe is not uncommon. Can I have some more coffee?’

‘There’s none left.’ The sergeant pressed a bell, and the landlady came to the door.

‘Could we have some more coffee, Mrs Johnson? Is Doctor Heron still here?’

‘Yes, Bill, the doctor’s watching over one of them kids. He’s worried about the youngest. I’ll get some more coffee in a tick—shall I fetch the doctor?’

‘No need at the moment, just catch him if he looks like going home. Thanks, Mrs J.’

‘I was reading one of my novels and Dot was asleep, and I dozed off over the pages with my light on, then I smelt chloroform. I woke up, and broke the window.’

‘Why did you wake up, Miss Fisher? Everyone else just seems to have got sleepier.’

‘I hate the smell of chloroform,’ said Phryne, lighting a gasper to banish the remembrance. ‘That sweet, cloying stench—ugh! I must have inhaled quite a lot, though, I could hardly move.’

‘How did you break the window, Miss?’

‘I hit it with my shoe,’ lied Phryne, who was not going to disclose the presence of her pistol unless she had to. ‘And I damaged the heel, blast it. A new shoe, too.’

Should the sergeant search, he would find Phryne’s high-heeled shoe with window glass in the leather and glass damage to the heel. Phryne had carefully ruined the shoe on the way to Ballan. She believed in being just as truthful as was congruent with sense and convenience.

‘Yes, and then what happened?’ asked the sergeant.

‘I staggered out and opened all the windows, and I pulled the communication cord.’

‘Yes, Miss, that was at 7.20 p.m. The guard looked at his watch—Railways policy, evidently—and how long do you think that opening the windows took?’

‘Oh, about ten minutes. I felt the train stop for a while when I was letting in the air.’

‘Ah, yes, Miss, that times it. Water stop for three minutes at 7.15 p.m.’

‘There was some sort of bump—I thought it came from the front of the train—but I was getting very wobbly by then.’

‘I’m sure you acted very properly, Miss Fisher. If you hadn’t broken that window, the whole carriage would have been gassed, and the doctor says that some of them kids would have been dead before the train got to Ballarat. A terrible thing, and Mrs Henderson dead, too.’

‘Can she have fallen out of the window, do you think?’

‘Fallen or been dragged,’ said the sergeant grimly. ‘Here’s the coffee. Thank you, Mrs J.’

Mrs Johnson withdrew reluctantly—it was not often that anything interesting happened in Ballan—and the sergeant poured more coffee for Phryne.

‘What did you see, Miss, when you opened each compartment door?’

He got out his notebook and licked his pencil.

‘In the compartment nearest me were Mr and Mrs Cotton. They seemed to have fallen under the influence together, for he had his arms around her and she had her face buried in his shoulder. They were half-conscious. Then there was Mrs Lilley and her frightful children—she was stirring and moaning, but the children were all dead to the world . . . what an unfortunate metaphor, I beg your pardon. In the first compartment the window was open, Mrs Henderson was gone, and Miss Henderson was lying on the floor, prone, with a cloth half-over her face.’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘A skirt and blouse, and a woolly shawl. She had a spilled cup near her hand, as though she had dropped it where she fell. The smell of chloroform in that confined place was awful, it stung my eyes until I could hardly see.’