Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (45 page)

Two men came quickly, out of an alleyway. They disregarded Klara, brushing her aside, and both grabbed for Phryne. She dropped to her knees under their weight; she heard her stocking tear and felt her knee graze. They had one arm each, and she could not reach her pocket. They did not say a word. Phryne’s breath scraped in her chest. They were taller and heavier than her.

A master-at-arms had once spent three weeks teaching Miss Fisher the elements of unarmed combat. She was not afraid, only very angry that she should be taken thus off guard. She allowed her fury free rein.

‘Crack’ went the first one’s knee as she kicked back, hard, then rammed her high-heeled shoe down on his other foot. He let go. With the impetus from that Phryne flung herself at the other attacker. Her elbow caught his ribs; her knee came up with all her force, and he fell to his knees, dropping a cosh. Phryne, fast and lethal, retreated a pace and kicked again, and felt a rib or two break with a curious, dry sound.

‘Bastards!’ panted Klara, standing on the other attacker’s stomach with one foot on his throat. ‘Pete musta changed his mind about the girl.’

‘No, not Pete, I think.’

Phryne kicked over one man and dragged his head up by the hair.

‘Who sent you?’ she hissed. The man looked up glazedly into blazing green eyes and winced.

‘Who?’ Phryne shook him and bashed the skull against the ground a few times. ‘Tell me or I’ll kill you.’

The knife was at the attacker’s unsavoury collar. He blinked.

‘I just reckoned you’d be rich, dressed up like that,’ he croaked, and fell out of consciousness.

‘Fitzroy is so bad for the nerves,’ sighed Phryne. ‘Leave him alone. I owe you a good dinner and a night out, Klara. What shall it be?’

‘The Bach concert on Tuesday, and dinner at the Ritz,’ decided Klara. She dusted off her hands and pulled down her gym tunic. ‘I prefer Johann Christian, but I can put up with Johann Sebastian. We can get a taxi at the rank. You all right, Phryne?’

‘Fine,’ agreed Phryne, pulling up her torn stocking. ‘I’m fine.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘Give your evidence,’ repeated the King angrily. ‘Or I’ll have you executed, whether you are nervous or not!’

Lewis Carroll
Alice Through the Looking Glass

Phryne woke on Thursday morning knowing who had murdered Mrs Henderson, and wondering what she was going to do about it. The method was obvious; the motive transparent, and even the face of the blond guard was beginning to resemble one which she had seen in real life.

‘How shall I do this? It will break poor Eunice’s heart.’ Phryne took her morning bath without appreciating the scent and dressed in haste.

It had to be Alastair Thompson. He was used to disguise. He had a terrible temper. He had no alibi for the night in question. All that he had to do was to chloroform the people, sling a rope around Mrs Henderson, and cast a line over the water tower. He was a rock climber. Then he could haul her up, and himself, and leave no tracks. Whether he dropped her or trampled on her did not matter. All he had to do was to get rid of the mother and Eunice would fall into his arms and give him all her money, of which Phryne supposed that there must be a fair amount.

Phryne decided to call Detective-inspector Robinson, and when she had established contact with him, found that he had reached the same conclusion.

‘I’m bringing him in for questioning today,’ he assured Phryne. ‘I’m of the same mind, Miss Fisher. I’ll let you know.’

Phryne decided that there was no need to worry Miss Henderson with any news until she could say something positive, and closeted herself with her solicitor, who had drawn up the adoption papers.

‘But Miss Fisher, you have kept the girl from her guardian’s care,’ he protested. Phryne grinned and shoved Miss Gay’s ‘documents’ at him.

‘She has no legal guardian. Miss Gay is her aunt, but no adoption proceedings were ever taken. Here’s her birth certificate and all. Poor little thing. Have you sorted it all out?’

‘Yes, Miss Fisher. If you will just put your finger on this seal and repeat after me, “To this adoption I hereby put my name and seal”—just a legal form, Miss Fisher, you understand—and it is all completed.’

Phryne complied.

‘She’s mine, now?’

‘After the judge has approved this, yes.’

‘Excellent. When can you get it into court?’

‘In due course, Miss Fisher.’

‘That won’t do. “In due course” means at least six months.’

‘It is a practice court application, so I can probably get it into the list for next week,’ said the lawyer, shocked yet again by Miss Fisher’s disrespect for the law. He bundled up his papers and took his leave.

Jane tapped at the door of the parlour. ‘Miss, I’ve recalled something.’

‘Good. What is it?’

‘I remember Miss Gay. She took me and Grandma to her house. It was a horrible place. Grandma . . . something happened to Grandma.’

‘It will come back. Nothing more about the train?’

‘No. Was that your lawyer, Miss Fisher?’

‘Yes. I just signed the adoption papers. You’re mine now, Jane, and no one can take you away.’

Phryne told herself that she should have known better than to say things like that. Jane began to weep, threw herself at Phryne and held her tight, and Ember scratched his way onto her upper arm, balanced like a small black owl, and glared.

‘You are quite right, Ember,’ Phryne told him. ‘It was a very silly thing to say. Never mind. Jane, my dear, here is a hankie, and I think that we should sit down. All this emotion is wearying, isn’t it?’

More emotion was expressed by a horrified client on the telephone.

‘Miss Fisher, I must first thank you for retrieving my daughter.’ He began with deceptive calmness. ‘But do you know what they have done to her, those hounds?’

‘I have a fair idea,’ admitted Phryne. ‘She has certainly been beaten.’

‘Beaten, and . . . and . . . assaulted, and the doctor thinks that she may have a . . . venereal disease.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who were they?’ he screamed. ‘Tell me their names!’

Mr Hart dropped any pretence of control.

‘I don’t know their names, and if I did I should not tell you. Private vengeance is unsound, and moreover illegal. Leave them to me.’

Some nuance in her voice must have told Mr Hart that he was talking to a very angry woman.

‘You know them?’

‘I shall know them. And they shall all be very, very sorry. I promise.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Mr Hart, subdued.

‘Nothing. They have ravished your daughter, and a thousand offences beside. Leave them to me. Your daughter needs you now. She is an innocent victim, poor thing. She probably won’t remember anything about it, so don’t remind her. I am sure that you can find her the best of care. Then take her right away from Melbourne for six months. Switzerland has some very pleasant scenery.’

‘I put my confidence in you, Miss Fisher.’

‘So you may, Mr Hart.’

She hung up the phone. How was she going to find the abductor and avenge poor Gabrielle Hart? But now she was determined. She had given her word.

Detective-inspector Robinson surveyed the young man in the clutch of two policemen with approval. He was a fighter, this one, and it had taken the combined strength of four officers to bring him in. Even now he was straining in the grip of the station’s two heaviest and strongest officers.

‘It is my duty to warn you that you do not have to say anything, but that anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence,’ he said quietly.

The prisoner demanded, ‘What are you charging me with?’

‘The murder at or near Ballan on the night of the twenty-first of June 1928 of Anne Henderson by strangulation,’ said the policeman, and Alastair Thompson laughed.

‘Then you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll tell you where I was on the night of the twenty-first of June 1928.’

‘Well, I’m glad that you have decided to tell me at last.’

‘I was in the city watch house,’ sneered Thompson. ‘Drunk and disorderly. I was fined five bob the next morning. Cheap at the price, considering. Go on. Ask the watchhousekeeper!’

This was a surprise. Detective-inspector Robinson, however, preserved his habitual calm.

‘Book him in, please, Duty Officer,’ he requested civilly, and the young man was forced into a chair to be photographed, stripped of bootlaces, tie and braces, and placed with a certain celerity into a nice quiet cell.

‘Get those developed and send across for the drunks book,’ he snapped, and an underling carried off the camera and raced across the road to the watch house, demanding the cell register for the twenty-first of June.

‘You can’t have it,’ snapped the sergeant. ‘It’s my current book and I need it. Tell Jack Robinson to come and inspect it himself. What’s all this about?’

‘Murder suspect says that he was banged up on the night,’ gasped the cadet. ‘He’ll skin me if I come back without it! Have a heart!’

‘You can copy the page,’ said the sergeant, relenting. ‘And you can note at the same time the names of the officers what were on duty on the night of the twenty-first. Who was it?’ He leaned ponderously over the counter. ‘Aha. Sergeant Thomas and Constable Hawthorn. You can have Hawthorn, for all the use he is, but you can’t have Thomas, he’s on leave.’

‘When will he be back?’ asked the cadet, scribbling furiously with a spluttering pen on the back of a jail order. ‘This nib is frayed, Sarge, I swear.’

‘He’s in Rye on his honeymoon,’ replied the sergeant, grinning evilly. ‘Didn’t leave no address. There you are, son, and take Constable Hawthorn with you. Hawthorn!’ he bellowed.

A faint voice echoed from the cells, ‘Yes, Sarge?’

‘Get across and see if you can identify a prisoner of Jack Robinson’s, will you, lad? And you needn’t hurry back. Get some lunch.’

‘But Sarge, it’s only half-past ten!’

‘Get some breakfast, then,’ snapped the sergeant, and the cadet conducted Constable Hawthorn back across Russell Street to the detective-inspector’s office, waving his jail order the while so that the ink would dry.

The cadet peeped up at Hawthorn. He was very tall—over six feet—and pale, and vague. His mouth had a tendency to drop open and his eyes had the dull, unfocused gaze which the cadet had previously only seen in sheep.

Hawthorn asked mildly, his voice as bland as cream, ‘What’s this all about, young feller?’

‘Please, sir, the detective-inspector has a suspect for the Ballan railway murder, and he says that he was in the watch house that night.’

‘And he wants me to identify him?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh,’ remarked the tall constable, and accompanied the cadet to Robinson’s office.

The copy was laid down on the desk and Robinson scanned it irritably.

‘You read it, boy,’ he snarled at the cadet, and the boy read, ‘John Smith, 14 Eldemere Crescent, Brighton.’

‘He’s an old customer . . . name really is John Smith, too, and no one ever believes him—has to carry his birth certificate around with him. Says he’s never forgiven his father for it . . . no, that ain’t him. Go on.’

‘John Smith, The Buildings, East St Kilda.’

Now I don’t know that one. Do you recall that John Smith, Hawthorn?’

‘Yes, sir. About . . . er, well, smallish, and er . . . fair, with . . . er . . . blue eyes, I think, sir.’

‘Could you identify him?’

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said Hawthorn. ‘I think so.’

Detective-inspector Robinson grunted, got to his feet, and led the way to the holding cells. A furious face glared up at the window-slot as he drew back the bolt.

‘Have a look, son. Is that the man?’

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ agreed Hawthorn happily. Robinson gritted his teeth, and gave the order to release the suspect from detention.

‘I didn’t want to tell anyone that I’d got drunk, so I gave a false name. I believe that this is not unusual. May I go now?’ asked Alastair, with frigid politeness.

‘You may go, but you are on bail. You may not leave the state or change your address without notifying us of your whereabouts. Do you understand that?’

‘I understand,’ said Alastair, with a smile that showed all his teeth, and he turned and left the police station.

Detective-inspector Robinson lifted the telephone and requested Miss Fisher’s number.

‘I don’t think that it’s disasterous, but it certainly casts a lot of doubt on my theory,’ said Phryne when the exasperated policeman reached her. ‘Have you examined his handwriting? He would have had to sign himself out. And are you sure of the police witness?’

‘No, Miss, that I am not. Boy’s a fool. However, identification is identification.’

‘Wasn’t anyone else there?’

‘Yes, but the sergeant is on his honeymoon, I can’t call him back.’

‘No, but you can send him a photograph, can’t you?’

‘Yes, I’ll do that. And I’d keep out of Alastair’s way, Miss Fisher, if I were you.’

‘I can look after myself,’ said Phryne crisply. ‘Get weaving with the photo. See you soon,’ she added, and hung up.

The cadet was very impressed that the detective-inspector could swear for so long without repeating himself.

Bert in later years said that breakfast at Miss Gay’s was the single most miserable experience of his whole life. ‘Not sad, mate,’ he explained. ‘But down right starving mean stone the crows and starve the lizards dirt miserable.’

The table was laid, as before, with cruet and mismatched plates, and Mr Henry Burton’s special dishes.

They sat in a hungry circle around a vat of horrible porridge, as thin as library paste, scorched and lumpy, while Mr Henry Burton said grace in an unctuous voice. Bert refused the clag, but the others ate voraciously. Mr Burton was breaking his fast on new rolls, hot from the oven, cherry jam, and butter. He had a pot of brewed coffee next to him. Bert accepted a plate of incinerated egg-powder and bacon so burned as only to be of professional interest to a pathologist. He tried to make a sandwich with his two pieces of stale white bread and marge, but the bacon broke as he touched it with the knife.

‘Can’t you give a man a feed?’ asked the tradesman, holding out a plate on which reposed a four-days’-dead egg and bacon of transcendant carbonisation.

‘I can’t take your bacon back to the kitchen, Mr Hammond,’ snapped Miss Gay, slapping at Ruth’s head as she passed. ‘You’ve bent it.’

Bert drank a cup of tea and chuckled.

After breakfast, the workers departed, and Mr Burton showed signs of going out. He took his hat and his stick, donned a fleecy-lined overcoat, and yelled for Ruth.

‘Call me a cab, girl.’

Bert grabbed the moment. ‘I’ll get you one, sir, he said civilly, and stepped into the kitchen, where Miss Gay kept the telephone.

‘Ruthie!’ he whispered, ‘we’re taking Mr Burton. Here’s a card. You go to this house if she hurts you again.’

Ruth nodded, stowed the card in her pocket, and Bert slipped back into the hall.

‘At the door in a moment, sir,’ he said, and went down the rickety front steps to look for Cec, who was due directly.

The bonzer new taxi pulled up, and Bert opened the door for the gentleman, closed it and jumped into the front seat.

‘Here!’ protested Mr Burton, ‘I didn’t ask you to share my taxi!’

Bert grinned. ‘It’s my taxi—well, half mine. This is my mate, Cec. Say hello to the nice gent, Cec.’

Cec muttered ‘hello’ and kept his eyes on the road.

‘Where are you taking me?’ asked Burton.

‘A lady friend of ours wants to see you real bad.’

‘Which lady?’

‘The Honourable Phryne Fisher, that’s who.’

‘Is she a fan? I hope that she does not want her fortune told. I don’t tell fortunes, you know.’

‘No, she wants some mesmerism done,’ said Bert.

They were on Dynon Road and fleeing like the wind for St Kilda. If he could keep this oily old bastard talking, that would be all the sweeter.

‘Yair, some of that hypnotising what you done on the Halls, they say you used to be great.’

‘Used to be? My dear sir, I am the Great Hypno. You yourself have seen my powers.’

‘Yair, I remember. You made shielas as stiff as boards and laid ’em between two chairs. But I don’t reckon you could put anyone under that didn’t want to be,’ said Bert easily, and Henry Burton bristled.