Queen of Flowers (12 page)

‘Them?’ His voice was sweet, husky, only half-broken.

‘They’re jolly girls. But they aren’t like you, Miss Fisher.’

Help, thought Phryne, the next time I use that look I must cut down the wattage considerably if the subject is younger than twenty-five.

‘I am not under discussion,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to find Rose Weston. Can you help me?’

He stumbled a little, but picked up the rhythm again. ‘Is she . . . missing?’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘I don’t know where she is,’ he said carefully. ‘Rose . . . well, she’s a bit . . . fast. She throws herself into things.’

‘Indeed. You don’t know where she is, but do you know where she was intending to be?’

‘She said she’d meet me on the beach,’ he said miserably.

‘I didn’t go. I don’t . . . I mean, I did think . . . but I can’t afford
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to get into trouble. Everyone knows that her family is not quite, you know, and . . .’

‘What time and which beach? Come on, the dance is finishing,’ hissed Phryne.

‘Where the caravans are. At midnight. I sleep in the same room as my brother. I can’t get out late at night. I think she knew that. I think she was . . . playing some game in her head.’

‘You are much brighter than I gave you credit for,’ said Phryne, releasing him as the music stopped. ‘Now, you may kiss my hand, yes, like that, and thank me for the dance, and go back to Joannie and Diane. They, my boy, are your chosen species, and if I were you I’d stick with them.’

The beautiful boy kissed her hand, thanked her for the dance, and fled. Joannie and Diane received him with cries of joy. So Rose Weston had gone to a tryst, and had been left like that unfortunate Cretan maiden Ariadne on Naxos. However much Phryne privately thought that anyone was better off without that bounder Theseus, she had been disconsolate.

And Ariadne had been found by the Bacchic rout and Dionysos. Who had found Rose Weston? And what had they done with her?

Lin returned. He smiled at Phryne. ‘So you danced with the pretty boy,’ he observed.

‘So I did, and got some information out of him. Now I need to talk to one of the musicians and I need to do it now, because Bert and Cec are coming to afternoon tea. I don’t suppose you play the viola, Lin dear? You have so many unexpected talents.’

‘Not that one, I regret,’ he said. Whatever small prickle of jealousy he might have been feeling—could anything male ever be that beautiful?—was assuaged by Phryne’s matter-of-fact tone. She did not have a new lover on her mind at the
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moment. Just a new puzzle which seemed to have become urgent.

‘Viola is doubling violin in this tune,’ he said. ‘You could extract her without harming the dance.’

‘What a good ear you have,’ said Phryne. ‘And what a pity that I never learned the piano and Camellia never learned the moon guitar.’

Camellia giggled. Phryne’s confession of complete musical inadequacy had been an instant bond between them. Camellia was very pleased with her new life. And she had never been so delighted with a flower show. Everything was so beautiful that she felt like a child in a sweet shop—a little dizzy and very greedy. Already she had ordered a collection of tulips which would make a remarkable display in Miss Fisher’s little garden come spring.

Phryne beckoned Miss Marie Bernhoff out of the ensemble and she laid down her viola and came, wiping her brow and chin with a silk handkerchief.

‘It’s very hot up there,’ she complained. Lin slipped away to get her a cool drink and Phryne drew her into a corner behind a pillar.

‘You shall have lemonade,’ she promised. ‘Did you know that Rose Weston is missing?’

‘Yes, Mrs Weston came to our house and my father was very cross with her. He told her that I was not to associate with her daughter anymore and called Rose several bad names, though luckily he did it in Czech and I don’t think poor Mrs Weston understood him. My father hates to be woken up in the morning as it is.’

‘Do you know where Rose might have gone?’

‘Well, she rather made a fool of herself about that pretty boy there,’ said Marie coolly. ‘But I could say the same of
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Joannie and Diane—you’d think they had more sense,’ she said without emotion.

‘Why did your father say nasty things about Rose?’ asked Phryne. Lin had returned with a tall frosted glass of lemonade and Marie thanked him politely before gulping half of it.

‘Oh, that’s saved my life. Very kind of you,’ she said. She looked at this soigné Chinese gentleman, and then she looked at Phryne. An introduction was in order.

‘This is Mr Lin,’ said Phryne. ‘And his wife, Camellia.

Might I introduce Miss Marie Bernhoff?’

They shook hands.

‘You play well,’ said Lin judiciously. ‘But this is just café music, of course. I should like to hear you in something complex—Bach, say.’

‘Oh, there’s no one like Bach,’ said Marie enthusiastically.

‘Hold on a moment. Tell me about Rose and then you can get back to Johann Sebastian,’ Phryne said quickly. She knew conversations about Bach. Days could go past. Continents could drift. Fossils could form. Marie dragged her mind away from music.

‘Father says he saw Rose at Anatole’s very late and in bad company. Father is never wrong about that sort of thing. He says . . . well, he called her a very bad name. That’s all I know.

Except Rose said she could take Derek away from those two idiots. Nice thing if she could. They’re quite mad about him,’

concluded Marie, with the air of having said her last word on the subject. ‘Now Bach—’

‘Did you see where she went yesterday?’ demanded Phryne.

‘Off down Fitzroy Street towards the sea, and that’s the last I saw of her,’ said Marie, and Phryne relented. Lin and Marie deserved a small indulgence in Bach.

‘Come, Camellia, show me your new flowers,’ she said.

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Phryne and Camellia, arm in arm, went off to look at an astounding array of orchids. They ranged from alarming purple-toothed trumpets which looked like they might creep out of the conservatory by night and eat the family, to the smallest and most attractive, pincushion sized plants with tiny flowers.

‘Perhaps these might suit,’ said a familiar voice.

‘Detective Inspector Robinson, how nice to see you,’

Phryne exclaimed. ‘This is my favourite policeman, Camellia.

May I introduce Mrs Lin? She designed and planted my garden.’

Detective Inspector ‘Jack’ Robinson lifted his hat with great respect. Miss Fisher’s back yard had been transformed and here was the lady who had managed it. He hoped she spoke English.

‘My own particular passion is orchids,’ he said. ‘But you’ve done a lovely job on that garden. So small and everything in its place.’

‘I am also very fond of orchids,’ said Camellia, looking down modestly. ‘I was wondering which ones might be best for Miss Fisher, and now you are here, perhaps you would be so kind as to advise me.’

‘Well, there’s always the catteleyas,’ he said, delighted to have found a fellow devotee. Such a neat little woman, too, excellent English, and very sound on flowering vines. ‘They’re pretty tough.’

‘There is a north facing wall,’ said Camellia. ‘I believe it would support a trellis. But the pots have to be cared for, of course.’

‘And I’m not the one to remember to water them,’ said Phryne cheerfully. ‘Jack dear, have you had a Rose Weston reported missing?’

‘Not as far as I’ve heard,’ he said. ‘Why?’

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‘I’m trying to find her. I wondered if we were on the same track.’

Jack Robinson looked uncertain. His mind was still on orchids, their care and feeding.

‘Nothing’s come to me, but I only get them after . . . sorry, Mrs Lin . . . I mean, after . . .’

‘Quite,’ said Phryne. ‘Jack dear, you are looking tired.

Something up at the Homicide Squad?’

‘No, more on the Home Front,’ replied Jack Robinson.

‘My sister’s come to live with us. Her husband has left, curse him, and she’s got three small children. I mean, glad to have her, always been fond of Syl, and it’s not that the house isn’t big enough. It’s just—well, they make a lot of noise and Syl’s very upset. I’ve sort of got out of the habit of kids now my own are growing up so fast.’

‘Too bad. Poor woman. Poor you as well. Now, I’m going home, and I can leave you in Jack’s capable hands, Camellia.

Lin is over by the musicians talking about Bach. Detach him after about an hour and take him home. I’ve seen these fits of music before. Toodle-pip,’ she said, and sailed out of the town hall, content that she had left her guests in excellent company, discoursing on their favourite topics.

Which didn’t get her any closer to finding Rose Weston.

Mr Rory McCrimmon to Miss Anna Ross

20 January 1913

Sweet Anna, I think of you always. Today we three were playing
our hearts out for the Folk Song folk and I thought, I would
play the better if Anna was here listening to me, so I imagined
that you were there, that I could see your sweet face before me,
and I played better than I ever had before. Though it sounds a
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little strange when they play the music on that disc, it is us, the
three of us, and me piping like a storm.

When we come back, Anna, I have something particular
to say to you, my rose of all the world. Can you not guess what
it is?

With all my love

Ruari Dubh

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CHAPTER SEVEN

’ Tis seven long years since he left this land
A ring he took from off his lily-white hand
One half of the ring is still here with me
And the other’s rolling at the bottom of the sea.

Anon

‘The Dark Eyed Sailor’

The arrival of Bert and Cec coincided with the return of the sanatorium party and it took some time before everyone was sorted out around the parlour table, each with their chosen refreshment in front of them, ready to tell their tale.

Phryne listened without comment to the reports of Mrs Ross’s words and slid a notebook and pencil across the table to Jane.

‘Write them down as carefully as you can,’ she instructed.

‘Then turn the book upside down and give it to Ruth to do the same. What was on the chain, Ruth?’

Ruth passed it over. Phryne examined it.

‘It looks like half of a finger ring,’ she said, puzzled.

‘A nice ring. Made of entwined gold wire. I’ve never seen one like that before.’

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‘I have,’ said Cec. He was tall and pale. His Scandinavian ancestors had given him his blue eyes, his tow-coloured hair and his fatalism. Bert said ‘she’ll be right’. Cec never believed it. He turned the trinket around in his strong fingers. ‘Sailors used to make these,’ he told Phryne. ‘It’s a knot called a great ocean plait. Then I suppose they just welded the ends in.’

‘Yair,’ agreed Bert. He was short and stout and inclined to be ruddy of complexion. ‘I’ve seen sailors wear these. One sort falls to pieces when you take it off—them Indians wear them.

So you can’t pretend you ain’t married, see? If you take it off you can’t get it on again. But this is fixed and it’s been cut in half with something like bolt cutters. Who’d want to do a thing like that?’

‘A token, perhaps?’ asked Dot. ‘Like cutting a coin in half?

My uncle did that when he went off to the war. My aunt’s still got the two halves.’

‘A token between lovers who have to part,’ said Ruth.

‘That’s sad.’

‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Phryne briskly. ‘But it’s an old story now, and nearly at an end.’

Ruth took the notebook from Jane and began to scribble busily, her face averted.

‘Now, I need to find Rose Weston,’ said Phryne. ‘I last saw her walking away down Fitzroy Street at about four o’clock yesterday. I don’t know what happened to her after that, but she thought she had a tryst with a very pretty young man.

Girls,’ she said, conscious of her audience, ‘some of this—in fact, most of it—is not going to be suitable for your ears. Dot, would you like to escort the young ladies out? I believe that there is ice cream,’ she added, with low cunning. ‘And Molly needs a walk.’

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Ruth abandoned the notebook and complied. Jane cast a longing look at the symposium—there might be interesting anatomical details—and followed Ruth. Phryne waited until the door had closed behind them.

‘Rose thought she had a meeting on the beach at midnight with a very desirable young man.’

‘What does this young bloke say?’ asked Bert.

‘He never went,’ said Phryne. ‘He was scared of getting into trouble.’

‘Boys have changed since my day,’ grinned Bert. Then he stopped grinning. ‘But that means the young cow left the girl on the beach . . .’

‘At that hour,’ said Phryne. ‘Unprotected.’

‘This isn’t good,’ Cec decided.

Phryne continued: ‘No. Derek says she wanted him to meet her where the caravans are. I was there this morning—that seems like such a long time ago—and it was quiet. Some dogs and a rush of horses but pretty light on for humans.’

‘Yair, but I bet you wasn’t trailing along the beach in a dress,’ said Bert. ‘Wringing your hands and saying “I’m all alone”. I bet you were in that boy’s rig.’