Murder on a Midsummer Night (16 page)

‘Nothing, Miss Phryne, we were just going to read in the garden and maybe go swimming a bit later, when the sun’s off the water. Jane got a bit sunburned yesterday,’ said Ruth. ‘And I’ve got a cooking lesson with Mrs Butler at three. Ice cream,’ she added. ‘You make a chocolate custard and then—’

‘Good. Don’t go out unless you have my permission, all right?’

‘Right,’ said Jane solemnly. Then, eagerly, ‘Is the young man ill? Is the doctor coming?’

‘Yes, he’s having hysterics, and no, the ordinary doctor isn’t coming, my medical student. Instead, you can see a real Chinese doctor in practice if you promise to sit quiet and not ask any questions until he has gone. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ said Jane, eyes shining. This was better than swimming, which she did not particularly enjoy. One got sand in uncomfortable places and her shoulders were red and sore from yesterday’s sun. Her burned epidermis had already begun to desquamate.

Mr Butler accepted Miss Phryne’s orders that she was not At Home to anyone except Dr Shang, the police or the fire brigade, and conveyed her request for Chinese tea to Mrs Butler. She was used to this and sent in the tiny cups, spirit stove, kettle, teapot and the canister of Buddha’s Tears tea of which Lin Chung was particularly fond. Dr Shang arrived, was admitted, and was conducted into the smaller parlour by a deferential Lin Chung.

He was a short, robust doctor, with such a beautiful lined oval face that Phryne longed for him to have been rendered in ivory. His Western clothes hung on him like a sack and Phryne considered that a robe would have suited him much better. In front of an enthralled Jane, he took James Barton’s wrist in his strong fingers and sat as if listening. Then he took the other wrist out of its desperate grasp on Dot’s hand and listened to the pulse tick along inside it. Then he opened the patient’s mouth by squeezing his cheeks, grunted and said something to Lin Chung.

The doctor opened his bag and Jane saw, as she crept closer, a fascinating collection of herbs, spices, weeds, and—could they really be dried cicada shells? Dr Shang made a selection, placing the harvest in a square piece of white paper, which he folded neatly and handed to Jane.

‘Take it into the kitchen and boil it in a pint of water for five minutes,’ instructed Lin Chung. ‘Then strain it into a china jug and bring it back. And bring a tablespoon, if you please, Jane.’

Jane flew, immensely flattered that he had entrusted her with this crucial mission. Dr Shang sat down and accepted some tea. He drank a cup, smoothed his moustache, and made a comment.

‘The doctor says that you have excellent servants,’ said Lin, annoyed. ‘I shall correct his mistake.’

‘Don’t bother, just don’t tell Jane,’ said Phryne.

‘Very well.’ Lin supplied the second cup.

‘Do I pay a fee to the doctor himself?’ asked Phryne.

‘No, he will send an account when we see how the patient does. He only gets paid if his treatment works, you know.’ Lin poured the ritual third cup for the elderly man. He smiled and made an admiring comment about the tea.

Jane came back with the medicine. It had a peculiar and rather penetrating scent, like old leather shoelaces cooked with grass clippings in vinegar.

‘One tablespoon every hour,’ instructed Lin Chung. ‘I will see the doctor out, Phryne. Good luck getting the boy to drink that stuff,’ he added, as Dr Shang bowed a little, patted Jane on the head and gave her a coin, and went into the hall.

‘Well, Dot, he trusts you, see if you can get him to drink it,’ Phryne urged.

‘Rather him than me,’ muttered Dot. She took the spoon and touched James’s lower lip with it. ‘Swallow this, there’s a good boy,’ she coaxed. ‘Then you shall have a peppermint.’

James, who was receptive to a firm female voice, swallowed as ordered. His eyes shot open and he sat up, retching.

‘What was that stuff?’ he choked.

‘Medicine,’ said Dot. ‘Here’s your peppermint.’

‘You’re drugged,’ said Lin Chung, coming back. ‘Our people indulge in opium. We know a lot about treating opium poisoning. You need to cleanse your system. Then you might be able to tell us what this is all about and why you need Miss Fisher’s protection.’

‘Am I safe here?’ asked James, staring around wildly.

‘As houses,’ said Phryne. ‘Come now, who is trying to kill you?’

‘My sister,’ said James. ‘Blanche White. Val and Luke. Stephanie. Veronica. And that bastard Gerald Atkinson.’

‘Oh,’ said Phryne blankly. ‘Why?’

‘Because they think that I’ll tell about the treasure.’

‘And about the murder of Augustine Manifold?’

‘Poor Augustine,’ said James, suddenly and inconveniently sleepy. ‘He was a good fellow.’

And he fell deeply asleep, leaving Phryne exasperated.

‘Lunch!’ announced Mr Butler.

He opened the postbox in fear and trembling, because he had not been able to raise fifty pounds. All he could squeeze out of the pawnbroker had been twenty-five. And that was going to cause trouble when she searched for her garnet set. Still, she hardly ever wore it.

The envelope was there. The enclosure said
Fifty next time
.

He drew a shuddering breath, almost of relief.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

We know one thing about the spirits.
We know that they lie.

Harry Price
The Detection of Fraudulent Mediums

James Barton slept the rest of the afternoon, which was full of incident. The first caller was Eliza, who came to report on the state of Augustine’s shop.

‘Mrs M is going to keep it going,’ she confided. ‘As a monument to Augustine. Put a spoonful more sugar in my tea, will you, Phryne? Mrs Manifold keeps a very bare table. And she likes that herbal stuff that tastes like grass. Perhaps it is grass, that would be cheap. But she accepts that she has to pay Sophie and Mr Yates a fair wage for their skill and expertise. Cedric Yates has agreed to stay, the man really is an artist in wood.’

‘But he doesn’t talk much,’ put in Phryne, passing the ginger biscuits.

‘No,’ responded Eliza, gobbling two of them. ‘And I think it would be better to get a young chap, or even another young woman, for the shop. It isn’t good for a young woman to be alone all the time, there are nasty people about, and I am concerned about Sophie.’

‘Are you, Eliza? What’s wrong with her?’ asked Phryne.

‘I am not sure, but I’d say it was the usual problem.’

‘A pregnancy?’ asked Phryne with her sister’s bluntness.

‘No, no, my dear, at least not so far as I am aware. I mean a man,’ said Eliza.

‘Really?’ said Phryne without noticeable tact. ‘But she’s . . . not prepossessing.’

‘No, but there’s someone for everyone, they say. That certainly worked for me,’ said Eliza, smoothing down her shabby dress. ‘Sophie giggles at nothing, blushes unexpectedly, and watches the door like a hawk, especially towards closing time. I’ve asked Mr Yates, but he just said—’

‘Dunno,’ quoted Phryne. Eliza nodded. ‘Well, they sound like all the symptoms of love, I have to say. Worse, I expect, if you know you aren’t pretty and this man might be the only one you’re going to get. Jack Robinson said there was a sniff of a boyfriend, but he didn’t know anything more. This could be important, Eliza, can you do some spying for me? I need to know who that boyfriend is.’

‘All I know about him is that he rides a motorbike,’ said Eliza.

This struck a spark somewhere in Phryne’s memory but she could not drag it to the forefront. She abandoned the attempt for the present.

‘Lurk,’ she told her sister. ‘Hire a taxi and sit in it all night if you have to, here’s some funds. Take a picnic and Lady Alice and you can do your accounts in the car. But I need that boyfriend, and I need him soon. I’ve got James Barton here in a state of collapse, saying that the Atkinson clique were trying to kill him. Things have come to a pretty pass and I need to solve this before anyone else gets killed.’

‘Do you think that they killed Augustine?’ asked Eliza, accepting the money and levering herself to her feet.

‘Hard to think of anyone else, isn’t it?’ Phryne replied.

Eliza kissed her and took her leave. She’d never been a spy before. It was all very exciting.

Hardly had Mr Butler cleared away the tea things than the bell pealed again. He went out, and returned despite her orders, escorting an incandescent gentleman. Phryne recognised the apoplectic complexion and the sneer.

‘Mr Johnson?’ Phryne stood up. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You have to stop!’ he shouted.

‘Stop what?’

‘Stop investigating,’ he jerked out the sentence. ‘Meddling, busy women, always poking their noses into other people’s lives!’

‘Mr Butler, see Mr Johnson out,’ said Phryne, stepping back out of the way of the grasping hands. ‘He’s leaving now, and he won’t be back.’

‘You’ve got to listen to me!’ he cried. ‘Stop this now, you silly bitch!’

‘Sorry,’ said Phryne, ‘Mr Butler, would your large young man still be in the kitchen?’

‘I believe so, Miss Fisher,’ said Mr Butler calmly.

‘You might fetch him, if you please,’ said Phryne, without taking her eyes off the madman.

Mr Johnson dragged a wad of cash out of his pocket. He flourished it at Phryne. His face was purple and he was sweating like a pig.

‘I’ll give you all of this if you’ll mind your own business!’ he grunted. ‘Take it!’

Mr Butler had returned with the giant. Phryne examined him. Several axehandles across the shoulders and gentle brown eyes like a Jersey cow.

‘Hello,’ said Phryne. ‘I’m Phryne Fisher.’

‘Ted Rowntree,’ mumbled the large young man, taking her hand with wincing delicacy and then giving it back uncrushed.

‘Could you do me a service? Put that wad of bills back into Mr Johnson’s pocket and escort him to the door. Then shove him through it, and I would not object too strenuously if I saw him bouncing down the steps.’

‘My pleasure, Miss,’ said Ted. He dispossessed Mr Johnson of his money, stuffed it into his inside pocket, then picked the man up by one shoulder and his waist and carried him into the hall. Phryne heard the door open and close rather conclusively. Ted and Mr Butler came back.

‘We should have hired a chucker-out before,’ Phryne told Mr Butler. ‘It’s so easy if you weigh half a ton and have a grip like a gantry. Thank you, Ted. Expect a little extra in the pay packet for this additional labour. And you too, Mr Butler. Mrs B must be feeling like she’s running a hotel.’

‘Luckily, both the girls are helping her, and Miss Dot as well,’ he said, suppressing the fact that Mrs Butler had indeed delivered herself of such sentiments not ten minutes ago. ‘But Mrs Butler always appreciates a new hat, Miss Fisher.’

‘She shall have one with feathers on,’ Phryne assured him. ‘And an extra half day in which to go shopping, when we get to the end of this case. Cases. I promise. And I will hold my birthday party at the Windsor. I shall owe far too many people an invitation. And I hope that this flood of visitors will dry up fairly soon! I am astonished. Now, should I wander into the kitchen in, say, ten minutes, to congratulate our valiant skivvies?’

‘Ten minutes, Miss Fisher, that would be appreciated, I expect.’

Even Mr Butler was not going to second-guess a cook in her own domain. Phryne lit a cigarette and considered Mr Johnson. Then she considered the Bonnetti case. Then she stopped considering it and read a copy of
Australasian Home Beautiful
because she felt that what her mind needed was less concentration and more distraction. An article on the latest developments of art moderne glass kept her interested for the required time. Musing on her cases, she suddenly said, ‘Simon!’—the motorcyclist and the supplier . . . and Sophie? Time to talk to the staff.

The kitchen was full of steam. Jane was washing up. This was a good division of labour, because although she was blindingly intelligent, Jane wasn’t very coordinated, so Ruth was drying. Dot was peeling potatoes. Mrs Butler was piping cream onto a gorgeous but wobbly pink jelly, seemingly composed of strawberries. She completed the cream and stored the shape in the American Refrigerating Machine, then wiped her hands on her apron.

‘I’m so sorry about the visitors,’ apologised Phryne. ‘I had no way of knowing that they would come. There’s a new hat in it for you, Mrs Butler, and my sincere admiration.’

‘That’s all right, Miss,’ said Mrs Butler. ‘I’ve got lots of help.’

‘So I see. Think of a treat, Dot, girls. After today you will deserve one. Drat, there it goes again, that doorbell!’ exclaimed Phryne, leaving the kitchen in a hurry. ‘Who is it this time?’

‘What would you like to do?’ asked Dot of the girls. ‘She means it about a treat.’

Jane was about to propose a visit to the Medical Museum at the University of Melbourne but caught herself in time. She had finished all the dishes and cutlery and was now emptying the sink in order to refill it with fresh hot water to rinse glasses.

‘What about the theatre?’ said Ruth diffidently. She hadn’t got used to treats.

‘Oh, yes, please,’ said Jane.

‘That would be nice,’ said Dot, who would not have suggested it. ‘We can go to the new musical,
Variety!
Shall we?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Ruth and Jane.

‘Then keep drying,’ instructed Mrs Butler, imagining her new hat. Something light in pale straw for summer, she thought. With white feathers and maybe a pink flower or two. She knew just the milliner. Her old summer hat had been caught in the rain and was uncertain as to brim and discoloured by water. For this, Miss Phryne could have as many visitors as she chose.

The next one was a depressed Jack Robinson, who came to drink beer and report nothing much happening in the Manifold case.

‘I’ve got a new murder down at the docks. Fifteen men in the offing and they were all in the toilet when it happened. A two-man toilet. They must have been sitting on each other’s laps. Thanks, Mr Butler. That’s bonzer.’ He drank deeply, downing first the mandatory soda water and then the amber liquid. ‘So what I have to tell you, Miss Fisher, is that unless you can give me a good lead in the Manifold case, it’s going to go down the . . . sorry. It’s going to go into pending.’

‘Which means no further action,’ Phryne translated.

‘Yair,’ said Jack, and drank more beer. ‘I’ve searched and I’ve asked and I’ve been all round the traps, but nothing’s come to my notice.’

‘Get up and tiptoe to the smaller parlour door,’ said Phryne. ‘If he’s still asleep, don’t wake him.’

Robinson did as she asked. Then he tiptoed back.

‘Strewth! That’s one of them!’

‘That’s James Barton, who ran to me for protection against the others, whom he swears are trying to kill him,’ she informed him. ‘Later, when he wakes, I shall have information out of him if I have to draw it like teeth.’

She snapped her own pearly white teeth and Jack Robinson drank more beer. He was fairly sure that, given the right circumstances, Miss Fisher would definitely bite.

‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll keep it alive a couple more days. Still got some avenues to pursue. We ain’t going to solve that wharf case, anyway. No one saw nothing. You just have to ask them. But you’ll let me know?’

‘As soon as I know anything,’ Phryne promised. ‘I have to do something about the Bonnetti baby first. I have agreed—as a favour to the Church, no less—to find out about this wretched infant, and if I can just tell you about it . . .’ She summarised the Bonnetti baby case, and added, ‘If you would just be a dear, Jack, and send out a notice to all pawnbrokers and dealers for anything which might have come from that house.’

‘That’s a tall order, Miss Fisher!’

‘Not really. I believe that a collection of Dresden figures has been stolen and sold. There will be more.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw their imprints left in the dust on a mantelpiece. They all should be marked “Bonnetti” on the base. It’s a standard precaution. All my ornaments and paintings have “Fisher” on them. I’m serious, Jack, I think that someone is looting the estate. But I’ll have the whole solution soon. Dot has to go and see a priest.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Jack Robinson, with the clarity induced by alcohol on top of a night’s lost sleep, ‘you frighten me.’

‘And I frighten myself,’ Phryne assured him.

Jack Robinson left. As he had drunk his beer out of the bottle he did not add to the washing up. Dot, released from scullion’s duties, put on her hat and told Phryne that she was going to see the priest at St Mary’s, young Father Kelly, who had lately come from Donegal and was homesick for the soft green fields and limestone outcrops of the Gaeltacht. She had the O’Rourke inscription in the palm of her white cotton glove. The incomprehensible Irish inscription, written by the dying Patrick O’Rourke on the wrapping around the coin:
Tá sí milse ná seo rud eile
. Dot did not mean to lose it.

Thus it was only Phryne who was attending when James Barton awoke from a sweet sleep and felt the need to confess. Lin Chung, who had supervised his nap, had excused himself to attend to some business and was talking on the telephone in the hall. The young man was awake, his eyes were relatively clear, but his hand was shaking as he laid it on Phryne’s wrist.

‘I can stay here?’

‘For the moment,’ said Phryne. ‘Until the danger has passed. Providing that there is a danger, of course. Drink some water, James, and tell me what’s on your mind.’

‘Murder,’ he said. ‘I just got out of there with a whole skin.’

‘I know the feeling,’ responded Phryne.

‘It’s those damn hidden masters. Pris is entirely under the influence of Blanche and she is under the influence of Steph and they are all under the influence of Gerald and it’s all gone to hell.’

‘Would you care to particularise?’

‘They’ve been getting muddled messages from the spirits,’ he said. ‘About who to trust and what to do, and where the bloody treasure is. There are two spirits, Selima, who was a slave girl in Ancient Rome at the court of Heliogabalus and was smothered in roses, and Zacarias, who is some sort of Jewish high priest or prophet and was stoned to death. Both of them come through the medium of this utterly bogus Indian called Charging Elk. I mean, Indians don’t really say things like, “How! White man speak with forked tongue,” do they? I mean, outside the movies?’

‘I have never met an American Indian so I cannot tell, but I think it very unlikely,’ Phryne assured him. ‘Got it so far; two spirits brought through the veil by Charging Elk, the Synthetic Indian.’

James managed a smile. It wasn’t a very good smile, but it was better than his expression of unsettled panic.

‘Well, it all went along merrily at the beginning, when we got a lot of information, I mean they got a lot of information, and the spirits appeared to make sense, or at least sentences. But since . . .’

‘Augustine died?’

‘He was a good . . .’ James began, but Phryne held up a monitory hand.

‘Don’t. Is it since Augustine died that the spirits have lost their coherence?’

‘Yes,’ said James, faintly astonished. ‘But he wasn’t at the seances.’

‘No matter. Go on.’

‘Well, Selima appears to be sulking and all they can get is Zacarias, and he said . . . he said . . .’ He broke down, sobbing.

‘Buck up, James, do!’ urged Phryne. ‘I can’t protect you unless I know what the danger is! Spit it out!’