Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (4 page)

‘Can’t I wash in the sea?’ asked Tinker, who was used to Queenscliff and its clean waters. He had gone for a swim every morning since he could walk.

‘Not in a St. Kilda sea,’ Phryne told him. ‘That would not make you cleaner. And walking naked into those waters might expose you to unpleasant things, the least of which is prosecution for public indecency. You can go swimming when we buy you a suitable costume. Sorry, Tinker, it’s indoors and fresh water for your ablutions. Agreed?’

‘Agreed, Guv,’ said Tinker, and received the key as though it were a medal. He had never known a space which was his own. He would have agreed to any conditions. Washing, though he was at a loss to understand why the guv’nor thought it was so important, was a minor concession.

‘But keep your raggedy clothes separate. They smell just right. You may need them for my investigations.’

‘Right you are, Guv,’ said Tinker.

‘And Mr. Butler will give you a key for the back door when he has another cut. Just in case you need to come in during the night.’

Phryne wondered how Tinker would like isolation, now that he had it, and was gracefully providing a refuge in case Tinker found himself subject to night terrors. He had lived in extremely cramped conditions all his life and might find privacy threatening, in the black night of a strange garden. He just said, ‘Thanks,’ and vanished into the shed. Phryne heard him testing the lock.

‘Good,’ she said to the door, and went inside for a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit and the accumulated mail, which overflowed the silver salver on which Mr. Butler presented it. Dot joined her in the sea-green parlour, bringing her embroidery. Phryne slit envelopes and discarded letters into a wastepaper basket.

‘Rubbish,’ she commented over the noise of crumpling. ‘Dross. Invitations to events long past. Appeals for charities.’

‘Nothing interesting?’ enquired Dot, stitching a boronia flower.

‘This one is from the Socialist Women,’ said Phryne. ‘And here is an art show which might be intriguing; proceeds to go to feeding the unemployed. Here is my copy of
The Woman Worker
. That is always worth reading. Invitation to a levee at the…damn. I wasn’t expecting any callers. I wonder who that can be?’

The doorbell had chimed. Mr. Butler paced to the door with magisterial speed. Phryne listened. She was not in the mood for entertaining visitors. However, this one was admitted without delay. Few people had automatic entrée to Phryne’s house. She stood up to shake hands with her favourite policeman.

‘Jack dear,’ she greeted him. ‘What brings you here on such a clement day?’

John ‘call me Jack, everyone does’ Robinson looked glum. This was his usual expression. He was a tallish man with an instantly forgettable face which had served him well in his career. Even people he had repeatedly arrested didn’t really remember what he looked like, that allowed him to arrest them again. He sat down heavily in the offered chair and accepted, unusually for him before lunch, Mr. Butler’s offer of a whisky and soda as well as tea. Phryne diagnosed a particularly difficult case, probably involving society people, which had compelled him, much against his inclination, to ask for Miss Fisher’s help.

‘You interfered in a fight in Little Lon last night,’ he said to Phryne.

‘Certainly. Some nasty people were about to beat a young woman reporter. An action in very bad taste. Why do you ask about it? Has someone had the nerve to complain?’

‘No, though two of them thugs are still in hospital. Said they were routed by some Chinks. Nothing to do with you, Miss Fisher,’ said Jack meaningly; he knew all about Miss Fisher’s bodyguard. ‘It’s the victim.’

‘Polly Kettle? What about her?’

‘She’s been kidnapped,’ said Jack, and gulped down the whisky and soda in one draught.

Chapter Two

All successful newspapers are ceaselessly querulous and bellicose. They never defend anyone or anything if they can help it; if the job is forced upon them, they tackle it by denouncing something or someone else.

H.L. Mencken, Prejudices, First Series

‘Oh, dear,’ said Phryne. ‘So soon.’

‘What?’ asked Robinson.

‘I mean, she was pursuing a very perilous line of enquiry and appeared to have the sense of self-preservation of a chocolate Easter egg in a blast furnace. Dr. MacMillan and I gave her very low odds of surviving. Even so I expected her to last longer than this.’

‘What was she trying to find out?’

‘What had happened to three girls who absconded from a nursing home just before they were due to give birth.’

‘Yes, they were reported missing. By Mrs. Ryan, the woman who runs the home. Bit of a harridan but very religious.’

‘Did Polly speak to her?’ asked Phryne.

Jack sipped at his tea and reached for one of the ginger biscuits.

‘Yes. Interviewed her. Looks like the girls all took off together. Though they might not have stayed together. None of their families have heard from them. Though they wouldn’t expect to, very traditional families, turned their daughters’ pictures to the wall and cast them from their door, the mean bastards. Sorry, Miss Fisher.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ Phryne told him.

‘Miss Kettle talked to Mrs. Ryan, told her that she was going to the morgue to look at the unclaimed bodies, which we had already done and they ain’t there, then Mrs. Ryan’s son Patrick saw three men grab Miss Kettle and shove her into a big black car and that’s the last anyone has heard from her.’

‘I see,’ said Phryne. ‘What do you make of Patrick?’

‘Big bruiser, not too bright. Idle. Bludger. Lives off his mum and probably steals from her. But she dotes on him. The father took off for Adelaide years ago. Dead, now. The grog got him. He’s her only child. Doubt he has enough imagination to make anything up.’

‘No other description of the car but big and black?’

‘No, he doesn’t know anything about cars.’

‘Or the men?’

‘Men in suits wearing hats. Average size, medium build, wasn’t close enough to see their faces.’

‘Ah, the perfect witness.’

‘Yeah. Trouble is, I hear that Miss Kettle had been asking around all the…er…houses…about the missing girls. That wasn’t wise. Any of them might have resented it and wanted to shut her mouth. I haven’t got the time or the manpower to investigate all the brothels in Melbourne. Sorry, Miss Dot.’

Dot nodded. She knew the term.

‘So you want me to enquire and expose myself to the same danger?’ asked Phryne teasingly.

Jack Robinson bridled, which is difficult to do sitting down with a teacup in your hand. But he managed it.

‘You won’t be in any danger,’ he protested. ‘Everyone knows about you.’

‘Do they? And what do they know about me?’ asked Phryne.

‘That you’re not to be trifled with,’ said Robinson. ‘Look, this is really unofficial, and if you don’t want to do it, I’ll understand.’

‘Oh, I didn’t say that,’ said Phryne. ‘I liked Miss Kettle. I’ll start with talking to her editor. He might know what she was intending to do. Then, perhaps, the convent where the girls had been working. Dot will accompany me there so I don’t offend any local religious rules. Then the pious widow. Then—a few of the more strong-minded businessmen. But I fear, Jack dear, that all I will ascertain is that poor Miss Kettle is no longer with us.’

‘Just find the body,’ said Jack callously. ‘Then we can take her off the books. My boss is going crook at the number of open files. And while you’re at it, you can find those girls, too. If you can spare the time.’

‘Piece of cake, Jack dear. And with my other hand… Oh, by the way,’ said Phryne artlessly, ‘how did you know about that attack in Little Lon? There were no cops around while it was happening. I didn’t see any, at least.’

‘Information received,’ said Jack Robinson. He wilted a little under Phryne’s gaze. ‘We were keeping an eye out for that girl,’ he admitted. ‘She was getting into dangerous waters.’

‘Yes, seriously shark-infested,’ agreed Phryne. ‘Huge, swarming, heavily toothed sharks. Where did she go after she left the Adventuresses Club?’

‘Home,’ said Robinson. ‘As far as I know.’

‘So she was abducted this morning from Mrs. Ryan’s house,’ said Phryne.

‘Yes. About eight. Here’s the address and all. I hope you can find her before…’ Jack did not complete the sentence. ‘Of course, we’ve got alerts out for her. But we’ve got nothing to go on. You might have more luck.’

‘I hope so,’ said Phryne.

The conversation continued quickly. Jack Robinson’s orchids were blooming fabulously in the still-hot summer. Phryne told him about the treasure hunt at Queenscliff. When he arose to take his leave he was a more contented policeman.

‘Well,’ said Phryne. ‘Ring my sister Eliza, if you please, Dot, and ask her and Lady Alice to lunch. I need her insight into the Unfortunate class. If she says yes, warn Mrs. B there will be two extra at the table. And then come upstairs. This is going to be intriguing. What does one wear to talk to an editor?’

***

Mr. Trevelyan was a much tried man. The exigencies of getting his paper out every day had thinned his greying hair and furrowed his brow and, by the redness of his nose, either ruined his digestion or driven him to the bottle for consolation. The last thing he needed, he conveyed, was an aristocratic visitor to ruin his day further.

But he was relatively polite, asking Phryne to be seated, removing some spills and files so that she could do so, before offering tea and asking her business.

‘Miss Kettle,’ said Phryne. She had chosen a light green suit and a primrose silk shirt for her encounter with the fourth estate, with a matching spring green hat. ‘She’s been abducted. I’m looking for her. Have you any idea what she was working on?’

‘Polly Kettle! That girl is a nuisance! I’ve already had the police here, two reporters out sick after that banquet last night, and the printers screaming for copy.’

‘Your life is hard,’ sympathized Phryne.

‘No one knows what an editor’s life is like,’ complained Mr. Trevelyan, inspired by her unexpected kindness. ‘Reporters and printers and newsboys asking for more money, all of them with their grubby hands in my pockets, and scarce worth trying because I’m just breaking even—and that’s on a good day. Kettle wanted to be an ace newshound. Good ambition for a young man, not so good for a young woman. There are places where she can’t go. I told her that. I told her! Places where she would be in danger.’

‘And danger seems to have hold of her,’ said Phryne.

‘So the cops said.’ Mr. Trevelyan had the grace to look momentarily sorry. ‘She didn’t tell me anything about what she was working on. She did her garden parties and her cooking column and her society news and then she went waltzing out on some frolic of her own.’