Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (35 page)

‘And then what did you do, Miss?’

‘I pulled the communication cord and the guards came, and we got everyone out of the train. Where is the train, by the way? You can’t have left it sitting on the line all this time, not if you haven’t closed the rail link altogether.’

‘No, Miss, we haven’t closed the line, not now we’ve found the body. The rest of the train has gone on to Ballarat, but the first-class carriage is still here in the siding, in case we can find a clue. You didn’t happen to notice anyone you didn’t know walking through the train, did you, Miss? After you came back from the dining car.’

‘Only a rather good looking young guard—blond, he was, with a very nice smile.’

‘A young man, Miss? I saw all the guards on that train, and there was none of ’em under forty.’

‘Are you sure?’ demanded Phryne, who had a clear recollection of a rather ravishing young face under the cap: unlined, smooth, tanned, and certainly not more than twenty-two or -three years old.

‘Quite sure,’ responded the sergeant. ‘Would you know this man again, Miss?’

‘I think so,’ temporised Phryne. ‘Perhaps. But you’d better start looking for a blond young man, Sergeant, because I think that he might be your murderer.’

CHAPTER TWO

Then a very gentle voice in the distance said, ‘She must be labelled “Lass, With Care”, you know—’

Lewis Carroll
Alice Through the Looking Glass

There was nothing to be done for the rest of the night but to recruit as much strength as possible. Phryne curled up in an armchair, and Dot went to lie on her bed. Miss Henderson awoke at intervals, was reassured, and lapsed back into sleep. Gradually the cold, before-dawn grey light seeped into the room, and Phryne dozed off.

Her dreams were most uncomfortable, and she was glad to wake. All through and around a peculiar series of events constructed by her bewildered subconscious was the picture of the old woman as she had last seen her: the broken limbs, the pathetically twisted fingers, bare and broken . . . Phryne said, ‘Rings!’ and woke herself up.

‘Thank God for waking, I could not have stood that dream much longer. Her rings! All those emeralds, and they are gone. I must tell that nice sergeant, but first I must have a bath and some breakfast and find some clothes. I wonder how long we shall have to stay here? And how is Miss Henderson?’

Phryne bent over the patient, and found her sleeping normally, her face still and peaceful under the burns. Her heartbeat was strong and regular. Fairly soon she would have to know that her mother was dead, but with any luck Phryne would not be the one to tell her.

Phryne tiptoed into the room allotted to herself and Dot, and found that her maid was awake and had run a bath, set out Phryne’s clothes, and was herself washed and dressed.

Phryne shed her cream velvet and fox fur dressing-gown gratefully, pulled off her silk pyjamas, and subsided into the steam, scented with Phryne’s favourite bath oil, Rêve du Coquette.

Afterwards she dried herself thoroughly, as though she could scour the memory of death off her skin with the hard hotel towelling, and dressed for what looked to be a cold, nasty winter’s day in trousers of black fine-loomed wool, a silk shirt in emerald green, a jumper knitted with rather amusing cats, and the black cloche. She pulled on her red Russian boots and took a red outer coat of voluminous cut with deep pockets.

Dot was dressed in a long warm skirt and a woolly jacket in fine undyed fleece. She had a wheat coloured shirt and thick lisle stockings, but was still pinched and shivering.

‘You should wear trousers, Dot, they are the only sensible clothing for this sort of weather.’

‘Oh, no, Miss,’ was all that Dot would reply through chattering teeth, so Phryne gave up and led the way into the breakfast-room. It was eight-thirty in the morning, and someone should surely be stirring.

The breakfast-room (which Phryne was sure would double as the dining-room) was a large room with bay windows, now looking out onto miserable cows and battered scrub. Every leaf was hung with dew, as the early fog condensed, and it was grey and chill, a suitable morning for the aftermath of a murder. However, the chafing dishes were set out next to a tall coffee-pot and all the makings for tea, and a scent of toast and bacon was in the air. The room was decorated in pink and black, jazz colours, and tall vases of gum leaves lent the air an outback scent. It was modern and stylish without being so
outré
that it would be out of fashion in a year.

Miss Fisher was pleased to approve, and to load her plate with eggs and bacon and toast. Dot joined her, equally hungry, and they were drinking their second cup of tea before they had time to speak.

‘You know that they’ve found the body, Dot?’

‘Yes, Miss, that cop told me. How did she die?’

‘I’d say a massive fracture of the skull, but she was extensively damaged, Dot, I hope and trust after she was dead. And her rings are missing—all those emeralds.’

‘Robbery?’ asked Dot.

‘Murder, Dot. Robbery was probably an afterthought. No one would go to all that trouble just to rob an old woman, rings or no rings—at least, I don’t think so. People are strange. Have some marmalade, it’s excellent.’

‘When do you reckon that cop will let us go?’ asked Dot, taking some marmalade. Phryne was right—it was excellent.

‘Have to be fairly soon, Dot, after all, they’ve found the body and none of us could have killed her . . . except me, of course. I wonder if he suspects me!’

‘Suspects you, Miss!’ Dot was indignant. ‘You wouldn’t go through all this mucking about if you wanted to kill someone. Like a play, this is, not like real life.’

‘You are very acute, Dot. That is exactly what it is. Just like a play. Elaborate, theatrical and stagey. Hello! Here comes our policeman now. Who has he with him?’

Sergeant Wallace came into the breakfast-room, leading a girl by the hand. She was about twelve or thirteen, with two long plaits of brown hair and a skimpy, too-tight dress in shabby winceyette. She was carrying a battered leather attaché case and a felt hat, the elastic of which was frayed by chewing. The sergeant led her over to Phryne’s table and said:

‘Well, Miss Fisher, Robbo said that you have a talent for mysteries, and here’s one that I can’t solve. This young woman was on the train, that’s clear enough, for she had a ticket to Ballarat in her pocket, done up with a safety pin. She was found standing on the platform at Ballarat. No one came for her, and no one knows her, and she can’t remember her own name. She can’t tell us anything at all about herself, and I don’t mind telling you I’m stumped. Perhaps you’d do me the favour of taking charge of her for the moment, until we can get the Welfare onto it?’

At the mention of the word ‘Welfare’, Dot had gone pale, and Phryne did not fail to notice this, feeling rather the same herself. In her childhood of straitened circumstances, the Welfare who took children away so that they were never seen again, was a hideous phantom.

‘No, no, there is no need to trouble them,’ she said hastily, taking the girl’s hand and sitting her down beside Dot. ‘We will be delighted to look after the poor little mite, won’t we, Dot?’

Dot nodded and went to fetch a fresh cup and a plate for the girl. The sergeant was about to leave when Phryne seized his arm.

‘There’s something I forgot to tell you,’ she whispered. ‘Her fingers were bare, weren’t they? And when I saw her first, they were loaded down with rings—valuable ones, mostly emeralds and diamonds.’

‘Thanks, Miss Fisher, that is a help. Robbery might be the motive, then, though I can’t imagine how that advances matters. How is the daughter?’

‘I left her sleeping peacefully. I’ll send Dot to help her with her toilet as soon as she’s finished breakfast. Dr Heron had better see her again before she gets up, she was very deeply drugged.’

The sergeant agreed and went away. Phryne came back to her table to find that the girl had been helped to eggs and bacon and toast and tea, and was eating as though she was famished.

‘Slow down, old thing, there’s plenty more,’ she said, and the girl looked up, smiled, and laid down her knife and fork to take a gulp of tea.

Phryne let her eat in peace as she observed her. Neat table manners, someone had taught her well; and if she had plaited her own hair, she was a tidy creature. She could not help the winceyette dress, which had been made for someone less coltish and thinner, and Phryne resolved to get rid of that dress as soon as possible. Though she had not spoken, she had understood what Phryne had said. Therefore she spoke English, which was a help. There were permanent blue shadows under the eyes which spoke of childhood illness, but she seemed sturdy enough. The nails on the large well-formed hands were bitten to the quick.

The girl finished her breakfast, pushing back the plate with a satisfied sigh, and Phryne poured her some more tea.

‘I’m Phryne Fisher, and this is Dorothy Williams. What’s your name?’ she asked quietly, and the girl’s brow puckered.

‘I can’t remember!’ she said, and began to cry.

Dot hastily supplied her with a handkerchief and a hug, and Phryne said quickly, ‘Never mind. We’ll call you Jane. Would you like to come and stay with me for a while, Jane?’

Jane stopped crying and nodded, drying her face. Phryne smiled.

‘Good, that’s settled. Now I have to go and talk to that nice policeman again, so why don’t you find yourself something pleasant to pass the time. There are books and games on that shelf. Dot will help you. See you in an hour or so, Dot.’

Phryne slung her red coat around her shoulders, checked that cigarettes and money reposed in her pockets, and sauntered out into the chilly yard to find the sergeant.

She found him staring mournfully at the stable door, from whence two well-dressed men were carrying a stretcher.

‘Going for autopsy in Melbourne,’ he said in answer to her question. ‘I hope she was dead when all that happened.’

‘So do I. And I haven’t got far with the new puzzle, either.’

‘No? She don’t remember?’

‘She don’t. I have called her Jane. Was she definitely on that train?’

‘Why, yes, Miss, she was seen on it, second carriage from the end. Second-class ticket, single. Nothing on her to identify her, so the Ballarat people shipped her back, thinking that the two mysteries must be connected.’

‘That is not necessarily the case,’ said Phryne. ‘She could have nothing to do with it.’

‘And that’s true too,’ agreed the sergeant, in deepest gloom.

‘Well, they’ve taken the body away, and now I have to break it to Miss Henderson. Hang on a tick. It would come much better from a woman. I don’t suppose that you . . .’

Phryne sighed. She had thought that this might happen.

‘All right. I’ll tell Miss Henderson if you take me to see the scene of the crime.’

‘Deal,’ agreed the sergeant, and Phryne returned to the hotel.

Miss Henderson was sitting up in bed and taking a little toast and tea when Miss Fisher arrived. Dot had taken the child Jane into the bathroom and was abjuring her to wash behind her ears. Miss Henderson took one look at Phryne’s solemn face and said, ‘Mother’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid she is.’

‘You know, I thought she must be.’

Miss Henderson began to cry, in a helpless way, seeming to be unaware that she was still holding a piece of toast in one hand and her cup of tea in the other. Phryne took away the cup and the toast and gave Miss Henderson a handkerchief, three of which she had prudently provided.

Miss Henderson wiped her face and leaned forward, grabbing Phryne’s wrist in a fierce grip. ‘You are a detective, are you not? I read about that case of the unspeakable little man you caught in Queenscliff. And the Spanish ambassador’s son’s kitten. You’re clever. You can catch him for me.’

‘Catch whom?’ asked Phryne, fighting the urge to free her hand. ‘Calm yourself, Miss Henderson.’

‘The murderer, of course.’

‘Do you really want to hire me? Think about it. I may find out the truth.’

‘That’s what I want you to find,’ said Miss Henderson firmly. ‘I know that Mother was a nuisance. I have quite often felt like killing her myself, God forgive me, but that does not mean that I did it or contrived it. Murder is such a monstrous thing. And why? Why? The person she injured most was me—hounding me, nagging me, day after day, hour after hour, until I thought I’d go mad! If anyone had reason to kill Mother, it was me, but I didn’t. And now I don’t know what to do or where to turn.’

She sobbed for a few minutes, then took control of herself again, putting down the handkerchief.

‘So I want to hire you, Miss Fisher, to find whoever killed my mother. Find out the truth.’

‘All right,’ agreed Phryne, sitting down on the end of the bed. ‘On condition that you drink the rest of that tea and don’t get up until the doctor has seen you.’

‘I’ll be good. Miss Fisher, tell me—did she suffer?’

‘No,’ said Phryne, thinking of the great blow the old woman had taken to the head—surely no awareness could survive that. ‘No, I’m sure she did not suffer.’

‘How did she . . . die?’

‘She was hit on the head very hard,’ said Phryne. ‘One heavy blow. But her body was much damaged after she was dead—the fall from the train, possibly.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘No, the body has gone to Melbourne for
post-mortem. You can see her later. She looks fine. Her face is quite untouched. She will not shock you.’

‘She shocked me enough when she was alive,’ commented Miss Henderson wryly. ‘I doubt that she’ll shock me that much now that she is dead.’

Phryne left Eunice Henderson to her tea and found Dot, who had Jane’s clothes over her arm.

‘Well, any name tags or laundry marks, Dot?’

‘Nothing at all, Miss. I tell you one thing, she’s a cleanly little madam, but she ain’t used to a bath. She’s been cat-washing since she was a baby, I reckon.’

Phryne recalled cat-washes, because she had taken them herself until the death of some young men had dragged her upwards into the world of running water and bathrooms. One obtained a bowl of hot water and, standing on a mat and removing one article of clothing at a time, one washed first face and hands, then the upper body, removing the shirt, then the lower body, removing and replacing the skirt, until finally one stood both feet in the basin (assuming that they would fit) having washed the whole person in about two pints of hot water, or one kettle-full. It was satisfying in an economical sort of way, but was nothing like the joyful sensation of sinking into a hot, scented bath. Phryne almost envied Jane the pleasure which she must be experiencing.

‘What about the clothes themselves?’

‘Hand-me-downs,’ said Dot without hesitation. ‘See—hem’s been let down twice, and the colour’s faded with a lot of washing. Homemade,’ she added, exhibiting the inside collar where no label had ever been attached. ‘And not very well, either. Her singlet and bloomers are wool, but old and scratchy, and thin enough to put your fingers through.’

‘Well, she can’t put those back on,’ commented Phryne. ‘Can you find something of mine that will fit?’

‘No, Miss, I’ll go out directly and buy her some suitable clothes,’ said Dot, shocked that this waif should be clothed in Phryne’s silk underwear. ‘That would be better, Miss.’ Phryne gave Dot enough money to purchase clothes to last Jane until she got back to Phryne’s own house, and dragged herself away to find the sergeant yet again. He was still standing in the yard, gloomily smoking a cigarette and communing with the crows who were gathered on the milking shed fence.