Queen of Flowers (32 page)

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and he’s been going out of his mind. He needs the help and Biddy needs a home. It was a neat match. Now, we must listen carefully to the Lady Mayoress’s speech, then it’s every girl for herself. See you soon, Mr Butler.’

‘Have fun, Miss Fisher,’ he replied, sliding the great car around the side of the town hall and parking.

The town hall was bedecked with paper flowers, strung with paper streamers, and wreathed in paper ivy. Underneath this the floor space had been divided into booths, which displayed every sort of hand craft that the mind of woman had ever imagined, and some which indicated a worrying state of sanity in the inventor. There was a high-pitched hum of female voices, like a beehive in summer. Jane took Phryne’s hand.

‘It all looks very grand,’ she observed.

‘Might I point out all those old books over there?’ Phryne saw Jane’s eyes light up. ‘Get Ruth’s present first,’ she advised.

‘One thing I’ve learned about second-hand book stalls, the ones which you would buy are never the ones which other people buy. I think that is so nice of them. Well, well,’ Phryne added, surveying the palpitating crowd. ‘Everyone who is everyone is indeed here. Which includes us, of course. All of my flower maidens,’ she said tonelessly. ‘And Derek. How nice.’

‘Is he a boy?’ asked Jane. ‘He’s so pretty I thought he was a girl and wondered at him wearing trousers. Gosh,’ said Jane, staring openly.

‘Not you, too,’ said Phryne crossly. ‘Handsome is as handsome does is particularly apposite in relation to that young man, Jane.’

‘I don’t want him,’ said Jane, a little taken aback by the ferocity of Miss Phryne’s tone. ‘I was just looking.’

‘That’s what they all say. Come along, we’ll struggle inside so we can hear the Lady Mayoress.’

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In sidling and occasionally shoving their way inside, Phryne passed right in front of Diane Pridham. Beside her, Joannie laughed and flirted with Derek, who seemed rather unresponsive. Jessica Adams smiled excitedly. Marie Bernhoff was thinking about music and gave a vague wave, though she might have been conducting an imaginary orchestra. Diane gave Phryne a hundred watt glare.

‘You lost him for me,’ she hissed.

‘No, actually, you did it yourself,’ said Phryne amiably.

‘You can’t take a boyfriend along on a murder and not expect the relationship to show signs of strain. In any case this is not the place to discuss it. You’ll be lucky if you don’t go to jail, but don’t blame me. The fault’s entirely yours,’ said Phryne, and seeing a clear space, sprinted for it, Jane at her heels. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Room, at least, to breathe.’

‘And there’s the Lady Mayoress,’ said Jane. ‘And Miss Jones.’

The speech was mercifully brief. The Lady Mayoress thanked everyone involved—including, for the first time, Miss Jones, who blushed pink—got in a few advertisements for the Lord Mayor’s Fund and the Ladies’ Fund, and was cheered.

The assembled ladies were delighted. The last Lady Mayoress had quoted her own poetry and gone on for forty-five minutes.

This one knew what it was to feel that, somewhere, a bargain waited with one’s name on it.

Phryne did not share the popular view. Her method was to stroll along the more unfrequented aisles, buying whatever took her fancy from the stalls which looked sad or neglected.

She then sent her purchases off to the next bazaar. It was a great convenience because she always had something to donate.

Jane was more careful and examined everything, even pokerwork cigarette boxes one-eighth of an inch too short for any mortal cigarette and lumpy cups made by lady potters,
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almost too solid to lift even without the coffee. Phryne was wondering irritably why anyone would paint perfectly good white china with designs of shepherdesses when she was bumped quite heavily. She staggered and turned. Her assailant was Diane Pridham.

‘You’ll be sorry,’ she snarled, and battered her way through the crowd toward an exit, trampling on small children and pushing through groups of girls.

Phryne propped herself up beside the tea enclosure and lit a cigarette. This ought to make sharing the same float with Diane very interesting. Phryne might prove to be the first Queen of the Flowers to be assassinated in her own parade.

Jane had found the old books and could safely be left for a while. Phryne purchased a few armloads of assorted wares—

lampshades made of shells, ashtrays made of gun casings, jazz-coloured garters, a charming stuffed dragon toy which was destined for Lin Chung, and a cigarette case made of mother of pearl scales, which was a find. It was the first thing she had ever found at a bazaar that she might actually keep. She found the perfect present for Dot: a picture made out of pressed autumn leaves in all her favourite shades. Ruth, if she ever came home, would be pleased with a gramophone recording from the Folk Song Society of Highland Dances, which included pipes played by Rory McCrimmon, drums by that snake Neil McLeod, and fiddle by Hamish McGregor. Phryne had all the things carried out of the crowded hall and into the street, to find Mr Butler—of all people—reading the telltale pink pages of what was either the ‘Sporting Globe’ or—gasp—

the ‘Hawklet’. Phryne hoped it was the ‘Hawklet’, so she could read it next. She glimpsed the masthead as he hastily folded it. Good. The ‘Hawklet’ it was. Phryne dismissed her carriers with thanks.

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‘Lots of stuff, Mr Butler. Can you load it for me? Take care, that lampshade is wobbly.’

‘Wobbly?’ asked Mr Butler, steadying it. ‘It’s cock-eyed, if you ask me. Still, bazaars will be bazaars. Mrs B always comes home from them with some useless thing which has caught her fancy. I saw one of those flower girls of yours,’ he added. ‘She stormed out like she had a bee up . . . like a very unhappy and angry person,’ he said, hastily amending his language.

‘The dark one?’ asked Phryne, dropping her new cigarette case into Mr Butler’s hand as he nodded. ‘Take care of this, it’s ducky.

That was, I’m afraid, Diane Pridham. She is not one of my admirers at present. Nothing to be done about that. One of the reasons that she is so angry with me is that she did it all herself.

Never mind. Can’t be helped. Jane is likely to be back in about an hour with more books than she can carry. Let her loose where there are second-hand books and she’s like a fox in a henhouse.

I’d better go and help. See you soon, Mr Butler. Oh, and keep the paper for me? I always like to catch up with the “Hawklet”.’

Mr Butler agreed. He spread the paper out again. The banner headline read ‘Johnson and Weston—new light on an old fraud’.

His eyebrows rose. If what the ‘Hawklet’ was alleging was true, then Rose Weston had better stay where she was, for about ten years. Or maybe twenty. Until the scandal died down.

Phryne went back into the town hall. Now that she had surveyed most of the booths, she knew where she might find useful things. She had presents to buy and purchased them without fear or favour, according to the taste of the intended recipient. Jane had bought Ruth’s present, it was clear, because she was sitting on the floor beside the second-hand book stall, leafing through a stack of volumes taller than she was.

Miss Jones fluttered up to Phryne. ‘Such a good turnout,’

she said. ‘Such lovely things.’

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‘Miss Jones,’ said Phryne. ‘I have bought you a present.’

She handed over a large bag. It had two straps, so that it could either be slung over a shoulder or carried in the hand.

It had innumerable pockets and was big enough to hold a pad of foolscap paper and a lot of pencils. It was decorated to within an inch of its life with tassels, little silver bells, barbola gumnuts and silk blossoms. It was embroidered with gum blossoms and gumnut babies in pink silk. Tatting in three shades of olive decorated the edges. And the body of the bag was a bright shade of green.

Miss Jones, already overwhelmed by public recognition of her work, By the Lady Mayoress! From the Platform!, was freshly touched. ‘Oh no, Miss Fisher, I couldn’t,’ she said, reaching out and touching the embroidery. So fine! And so much beautiful decoration. And the gumnut babies. So sweet.

She had never owned such a beautiful, frivolous thing.

Phryne was not going to let Miss Jones get away with modestly declining a present. ‘You can and you shall. The little bells make it hard to lose, ditto the colour, and it has a place for your glasses and all your notes. Really, you must take it, Miss Jones, or I shall be offended.’

‘Well, very well, thank you,’ said Miss Jones. Miss Fisher was a little frightening and she had said the last sentence with a straight face. ‘Thank you. It’s lovely. Now I really must . . .’

and Miss Jones was gone, clutching her beautiful handbag to her bosom. Phryne felt suddenly disgusted with her own snobbish taste and decided to collect Jane and go home for a penitential reading and attempted translation of the poems of François Villon—always a good stretch for the mind and a sobering reflection on how much French she didn’t know—and a nice calm evening. Dot would be home late, after she had settled Biddy into her new home. The Butlers were going to
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the movies, so dinner would be cold and could be taken late or early. James was performing at a concert and the only possible visitor was Detective Inspector Robinson, who was supposed to be coming for a consultation about what to do with Rose. And Robinson might easily find that domestic trials prevented him waiting on Miss Fisher, who seldom had them.

It took three people to carry Jane’s books to the car. She was flushed, dusty, and delighted.

‘I got all of the
Classical Encyclopaedia
!’ she exclaimed as the great car started. ‘And the
Cambridge Ancient History
. And a lot of Greek plays and a textbook on anatomy.
Gray
’s. And some novels and some poetry and I bought this for you, Miss Phryne. With my love,’ said Jane.

It was a slim, leather-clad volume entitled
The Golden
Journey to Samarkand
by James Elroy Flecker.

‘Lord, Jane, what a lovely thing, just what I wanted,’

Phryne told her. ‘You’ve got a good eye,’ she said. ‘It’s a first edition. What did you get for Ruth?’

‘Well, there were lots of romances, but I didn’t think she’d fancy them anymore, so I got this.’

Phryne hefted the sober, heavy, blue book.

‘
Scotland Described
by James McGregor. A good solid factual book, with plates. A good choice,’ Phryne approved.

‘I found a present for you but it’s in the boot. Well, that gives you something to do when we get home. I’m going to do some translation. I’ve been swanning around fixing people’s lives far too often than is good for me. I’ll show it to you when it’s finished,’ said Phryne. ‘It’s called the “Ballad of the Hanged Men”. You’ll like it.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ said Jane.

They occupied the remains of the afternoon quietly. Phryne handed over her present, which was an ingenious clip for
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holding a book open without damaging it. Jane was delighted.

Phryne chewed her pencil and stared out of the window, an essential part of any translator’s working life. Jane catalogued her new books, dusted them, and ranged them in her bookcase.

The overflow was stacked neatly on the floor.

James practised the fiddle and then dressed for his concert.

Mr and Mrs Butler put on their hats and went to the movies.

A cold collation was eaten and the leftovers carried out to the kitchen. Molly, foiled in her attempt to steal the ham, accepted a few scraps instead. Rose Weston, recovering, demanded a mirror and was told that she could have one tomorrow. The house was quiet.

Jack Robinson arrived at about eight and accepted a whisky and a chair.

‘That Biddy is remarkable,’ he said. ‘The little kids just hang on her every word. Poor little creature, she’s still cheerful, and she’s never had a reason to be. My sister’s plotting to get her to stay forever. And her little sister is a good-natured child. Thank you for your present, Miss Fisher. Miss Dot’s taken care of a new wardrobe for both girls. They didn’t even own a hairbrush between them. She’s staying to supervise the early evening. Now, what are we to do with your patient?’ asked Jack Robinson.

As if in answer, the kitchen door swung open, and two men came into the parlour. One was an idiot, drooling and mouthing. The other was a small thin man, and he carried a sawn-off shotgun.

Mr Rory McCrimmon to Miss Anna Ross

It cannot be, Anna, I love you more than life itself and I must
go. Do not wait for me. Find another husband. I will not see
you again. I could not bear it. Your heartbroken Rory.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I met Murder on the way

Percy B Shelley

‘The Mask of Anarchy’

‘Where’s the girl?’ demanded the man with the shotgun.

‘Who are you?’ asked Phryne, jumping up. ‘No, actually, what I mean is, who the hell are you?’

‘Allow me,’ said Jack Robinson, getting to his feet. ‘This is Mongrel,’ he indicated the idiot. ‘And this is Neville Simonds.

You’ve heard a lot about him.’

‘I certainly have,’ said Phryne. She was moving away from Jack Robinson as she spoke. The gun could have only one target at a time.

‘You’re the nobby slut who queered our pitch with Weston, ain’t you?’ asked Simonds. He hadn’t been sleeping in a bed lately. There were leaves on his coat and in his hair.