Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher Page 14

  Lydia was reposing on a chaise-longue covered with pink velvet, and she was herself attired in an expensive silk robe of blinding pinkness. Phryne felt as if she had stepped into a nightmare. Lydia looked just like a doll — the curly blonde hair, the delicate porcelain skin, the soft plump little hands. . Phryne sat down on the end of the sofa and asked, she hoped sympathetically, ‘How are you, Lydia?’

  The little-girl voice whined as high as a gnat. ‘I’m not at all well, and no one’s come to see me, and I sent for you hours ago, and I’ve been waiting all this time!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lydia, but I was not in when your message arrived. I came as soon as I could. Has the doctor been?’

  ‘Yes, and he can’t find anything wrong with me. But there is something wrong with me. It’s not fair. John eats the same as I do, and he’s not ill. And he’s not here. He’s so cruel!’

  ‘Is there nothing that you eat that he doesn’t eat?’ asked Phryne. Lydia’s smooth forehead wrinkled.

  ‘Only chocolates. He doesn’t like chocolates.’

  ‘Poor Lydia. Can I order something for you? A cup of beef tea? Some soup?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t eat anything,’ declared Lydia, flinging herself back into the embrace of her pillows. Phryne, fighting her instincts, took the small hand in her own. It was hot.

  ‘Lydia, have you ever thought that you might be poisoned?’ she asked as gently as she could. There did not seem to be an acceptably euphemistic way of putting the question. Lydia gave a dramatic wail of terror and hid her face.

  ‘Come, you have thought of it, haven’t you?’ Lydia sobbed aloud, but Phryne, bending close, made out, ‘John. . so cruel. .’

  ‘Well, I suppose that he must be chief suspect. How do you get your chocolates?’

  ‘Why, John buys them. . he always has. .’ The china-blue eyes opened wide. ‘The chocolates! I’ve always been ill after eating chocolates! And he bought them! It must be him!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Lydia. Come now, this isn’t the first time the idea had occurred to you, is it?’

  From out of the depths of the pillows came a muffled, ‘No.’

  ‘Have you never said anything to him about it?’

  ‘No, Phryne, how could I?’ The white face emerged, hair tousled attractively.

  ‘Why don’t you let me speak to him?’ asked Phryne, and was immediately clutched hard by surprisingly strong fingers.

  ‘No!’ The voice was a scream. ‘No, you mustn’t! Phryne you must swear — you must promise not to say anything to him! I couldn’t bear it!’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Phryne in a reasonable tone. ‘If he’s trying to kill you, he should be warned that we’re onto him. One warning should be enough.’

  ‘No! Promise!’ and Phryne relented.

  ‘There, there, I shan’t say anything. I promise. I swear. But you see that we can’t leave it at that, Lydia.’

  ‘Yes, we can,’ announced Lydia with hysterics threatening in her voice. ‘I won’t eat anything that he doesn’t eat, and then I’ll be safe.’

  ‘Very well, I must go now, Lydia, I’ve got to dress; I’m going to the Melba Gala tonight. Shall I call your maid?’

  ‘No, I’m all right,’ said Lydia. ‘But come and see me again soon?’ she pleaded, and Phryne found her own way out, deeply thoughtful and not a little disgusted.

  She drove back to the Windsor, finding Dot in her own garments again, placidly mending stockings and listening to the wireless. A sugary arrangement of Strauss waltzes offended Phryne’s ears and she hurtled into the bedroom to rummage through the clothes.

  ‘Do turn that off, Dot, I’m oversweetened for one day, and run me a bath. How did you get on with the garments?’

  ‘They’re still crumpling nicely, Miss,’ said Dot, pointing out a bundle of pink cloth which had been damped and screwed into a ball. ‘By tomorrow midnight they’ll be dry and such as no good girl would think of wearing. I’ve scuffed the shoes and the hat will never be the same again,’ she added.

  ‘Good girl. Now what am I to wear to the Gala? The gold? No, too obvious. Perhaps the peacock-blue. . yes. Dot! Find my sapphire earrings and black underthings. The black shoes and sables.’

  Phryne stripped off her charcoal and green costume, and rang for Turkish coffee. She wanted, if possible, to remain alert.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw

  Or heard or felt came not but from myself

  And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

  Wallace Stevens ‘Tea in the Palaz of Hoon’

  The Sanderson home was imposing, but understated; more like the houses of the wealthy in Europe than the flashy Cryer establishment. A butler showed her in to a drawing-room decorated with restrained elegance and the company rose to meet her.

  Here, to her surprise, was Bobby, soi-disant Hon. Matthews of cricket ball fame, John Andrews, without his wife, and several politicians, who were so close to identical that Phryne could not recall if she was speaking to Mr Turner (Independent) or Mr Jackson (Labor) or Mr Berry (Conservative). Their wives obviously patronised the same milliner and the same couturier, and were also hard to distinguish from each other. Phryne greeted Mr Sanderson with affection and met his wife, a rounded, shrewd woman with a twinkling eye. The rest of the guests seemed uncertain as to how to take Miss Fisher. Bobby Matthews, at least, showed an unequi- vocal reaction. When he saw that he was unobserved, he scowled blackly. Phryne smiled.

  Sherry was brought, and conversation became general. Phryne slipped through the crowd and bobbed up at the Hon. Bobby’s elbow, causing him to start and almost spill his drink.

  ‘Well, well, Bobby, how very unpleasant to see you again! Sent you out to the colonies, did they? I wonder what the colonies did to deserve you. What have you been doing in Melbourne? Floated a few companies? Sold a few shares in Argentinian gold mines?’

  ‘I’m involved in several business ventures,’ replied Mat- thews stiffly. ‘And I don’t like your tone, Miss Fisher. What were you doing in Paris all that time, eh? Would you like me to tell this company about the Rue du Chat-qui-Pêche?’

  ‘Certainly, and I’ll extol your prowess at cricket.’ Phryne smiled dazzlingly and held out her cigarette for a light. Bobby lit it with the look of a man who wished that it was Phryne that he was igniting, and said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘Look, you don’t have to ruin me, Miss Fisher. I’ve got a good thing going here. These colonials are a lay-down misère for a county accent and a title. I’ll split the proceeds, if you like.’

  ‘Sit down, Bobby, and stop looking so scared. I am not intending to expose you. . but you can rely on me doing so if you damage anyone I’m fond of.’

  ‘How will I know who to steer clear of?’

  ‘Put it this way — you can make hay of all of the present company, except for Dr MacMillan.’

  ‘That leaves me enough scope.’

  ‘Do you know anything about the coke trade here?’

  ‘Cocaine? I don’t get entangled in that sort of thing.’

  ‘Too virtuous?’ asked Phryne, blowing a smoke ring.

  ‘Too careful of my own skin. They are not nice people to know. But I’ve heard a few things. The main man is called the King of Snow, but no one seems to have any idea who he is. I believe that the stuff is being imported in sackfuls, but it’s not my business.’

  ‘And how long has this King been reigning?’

  ‘Three years, I think — I gather that he has taken over all the little operators, and some of them have been found in the Yarra encased in concrete. His methods are rather crude. A friend of mine is in the trade — he says that the only way to survive is to pay the King whatever price he demands. You’ll be fished up in a cement waistcoat if you don’t watch your step.’

  ‘I have every intention of watching my step. Don’t rejoice too soon, my Bobby. Now, tell me all you know about the Andrews family.’

  ‘So far,’ smiled Bobby, ‘it has been sm
all pickings. The man is an idiot. Unfortunately, his wife doesn’t like me. She has quite a bit on her own account, but she has resisted me fiercely. . she’s the brains of that outfit.’

  ‘Is she, indeed? And she hasn’t fallen into your most attractive arms, Bobby? Strange.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ agreed Bobby without modesty. ‘Most of these hoi polloi have been positively predatory. She’s got a whopping big share in several very good companies. No Argentinian gold mines for Mrs Andrews. Luckily her husband has bought a controlling interest in more than a few of the useful stocks which I had the forethought to bring with me when I was banished. I have a big deal coming off soon, with Andrews. If it works, we’ll be rich.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘Then I’ll be rich.’

  ‘Good luck with it, Bobby. Your secret is fairly safe with me — but let me know if you get a line on the King of Snow. I’m interested in him.’

  ‘And I’ll send lilies for your funeral,’ promised Bobby.

  Phryne floated away to engage herself in an interesting discussion on water supplies with all four politicians.

  She was agreeably surprised by dinner, which was well-served and beautifully prepared, and she complimented her hostess. Mrs Sanderson smiled.

  ‘My dear, when you’ve done as many dinners as I have, you are prepared for anything. Politicians seem to spend half their lives talking, and the other half eating. Tonight’s company is rather select — some of those parliamentarians eat like pigs. Are you looking forward to the concert, Miss Fisher?’

  ‘Indeed. It is in honour of the hospital, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, Madame Melba arranged the concert herself, in order to help her less fortunate sisters. All proceeds are going to the Queen Victoria Hospital — and they could do with the money. Madame Melba is not accepting a fee. She is a most charitable woman.’

  ‘Have you met her, Mrs Sanderson?’

  ‘Once — yesterday. Small, plump and imperious, but with a lovely speaking voice and a charming manner. The concert should be most interesting. I hope to meet Dr MacMillan there — I sent her a voucher for our box, for she could not come to dinner.’

  ‘Dr MacMillan? My Dr MacMillan?’ asked Phryne.

  ‘I didn’t know that she was yours, my dear, but if you mean the Scotch lady doctor, then that is she.’

  ‘How do you know her, Mrs Sanderson?’

  ‘I’m on the board of the Queen Victoria Hospital. I do hope that she does find a skirt to wear; I fear that Melbourne is not ready for her trousers.’

  ‘Had I known that she was coming, I would have gone and dressed her with my own hands,’ said Phryne. ‘She is a most amazing woman.’

  ‘My dear, I know! She had to go to Edinburgh for her degree, and all those men wouldn’t let her practice. They even tried to ban women students from learning anatomy, God forgive them, and now I see in the newspaper that they are trying to keep them out of the wards again, saying that now there is a hospital for women they can go there, and not interrupt the men’s reign in the others. Really, the folly of men makes me seriously angry. Dr MacMillan must have been very dedicated in order to ever become a doctor.’

  The gala was everything that Melbourne had hoped. The Town Hall was crowded, all seats had been sold, and to Phryne’s delight, Dr MacMillan was there, dressed in a respectable dark velvet gown and hat, though she was scented with iodine, as always.

  ‘Well, are you here, Phryne? You see that I am in all my glad rags. They dressed me like a child and forbade me my trousers. I’ve told all my patients not to dare to give birth until I come back so all should be well. Is this Melba woman in good voice?’

  ‘I believe so. Hush, here she comes.’

  A storm of applause greeted the singer as she was welcomed by the conductor. Madame Melba wore flowing, dark red silks, heavily beaded on hem and shoulder, and Phryne reflected that she must be a strong woman to stand up under the weight of her garments. The orchestra began the ‘Addio’ from La Bohême, and Melba began to sing.

  It was an authoritative voice, pure and pearly without being in the least thin, every word meticulously pronounced and carefully pitched. But what endeared her to Phryne was the amount of emotion with which she loaded every note. Here was a dying courtesan bidding farewell to life and to love, and tears pricked Phryne’s eyes. The short, stout woman had gone; here was langour and white draperies and fainting suitors. She finished the song and allowed the orchestra to display its talents in several rondos; then she was back with the ‘Willow Song’ from Otello and the ‘Ave Maria’, and she had most of her audience in tears.

  Finally, garlanded and knee deep in flowers, she came back to sing ‘Voi che Sapete’ with such clarity and mastery that the audience were dragged to their feet, to cheer, throw flowers and applaud until they split their gloves.

  ‘Fine voice,’ said Dr MacMillan. ‘She could sing seals out of the sea.’

  ‘I want a word,’ said Phryne, recovering from a dream of music. ‘I may send you some stuff to be analysed for mineral poisons — can you do that for me?’

  ‘Aye, or, at least, the laboratory can — what about the cocaine, Phryne? Are you not getting yourself into deep waters?’

  ‘Yes, and there are sharks. Here, take this, and give twenty quid of it to the girl who brings you the samples — her name’s Maureen or Brigit — and I’ll come and see you tomorrow.’

  Phryne kissed Dr MacMillan goodbye, thanked her hostess heartily for the excellent entertainment, and swept out in the milling crowds to walk back to the Windsor.

  ‘I hope,’ she added to herself as she stalked up the hill towards Parliament House, ‘I do hope that I know what I am doing.’

  She found Dot drinking tea and reading the newspaper.

  ‘Did you have a nice time, Miss?’ she asked, putting down her cup.

  ‘Delightful,’ Phryne called over her shoulder as she sailed into her bedchamber to remove her clothes. ‘Did anyone call?’

  ‘Yes, Miss, Mrs Andrews telephoned and asked you to remember that you promised to see her soon.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ came Phryne’s voice, muffled in cloth.

  ‘No, Miss, except for that cop. He was most upset that you were out, Miss. Asked you to ring him as soon as you come in.’

  ‘I’ll call him tomorrow — it’s after midnight. Throw me a dressing-gown, Dot, please.’

  Dot passed her the gown and Phryne came out of the bathroom.

  ‘There’s a letter for you, Miss.’

  Phryne took the envelope. It was marked with the Scott’s Hotel emblem at the top left-hand corner. She tore it open.

  ‘Dearest Phryne,’ it began in a flowing and extravagant script. ‘Please allow me once more to worship at the temple of your beauty. I will call at your hotel at eleven.’ It was signed, ‘Your devoted Sasha.’ Phryne snorted, crumpled the letter, and flung it into the waste paper basket. Sasha’s mercenary nature was fully revealed. However, Phryne thought as she tucked herself into bed, he had his charms.

  Smiling a little, she fell asleep, and her treacherous body recalled Sasha very well. Two hours later she awoke, flushed and wet, and took her second bath of the evening entirely on his account.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Poison grows in this dark It is in the water of tears Its black blooms rise

  Wallace Stevens ‘Another Weeping Woman’

  Woman Police-Officer Jones pinned a red geranium to the shoulder of her thin, cheap suit, and walked the steps of the station. She had arrived at ten minutes before three and it was now five minutes past. She feared that Butcher George had smelt a rat and was not going to show. She was excited rather than afraid, and she clasped hands that were innocent of a wedding ring across her artfully padded middle. She eyed the traffic, always heavy around Flinders Street Station, and noticed a battered cab, which she was sure she had seen pass only five minutes ago. It slid past again. She paced the pavement and looked into the hatter’s window, tryin
g to control her breathing.

  When she turned again there was the van as promised, and a tall man with short hair was beckoning.

  ‘You Joan Barnard?’ asked the man. Jones nodded. ‘You got the money?’ She held up her purse. ‘Come on, then, in the back,’ and she climbed into a musty-smelling interior, and sat down on the floor. She could not see out of the windows. They seemed to turn a corner, then another and down a long street with a few lurching stops. The gears were faulty, and grated. She could not see the driver.

  The van stopped in a noisy street with a smell of cooking. The door opened, and she was grabbed roughly by the arm and dragged so swiftly that she only had time to notice that she was in Little Bourke Street, and the taxi she had noticed before had stopped nearby.

  She was ushered through a blistered door and into a parlour. It was very old-fashioned, with a piano and easy chairs and a table with a wax bouquet under glass. Incongruously, there were two camp beds with old blankets on them in the corner away from the window.

  ‘Got the money?’ demanded the tall man with the cropped hair, putting out a dirty hand. Jones gave him the ten-pound note and he grinned unpleasantly.

  ‘Take off your underwear and lie down on the table and we’ll soon have you fixed,’ he said as he removed the wax flowers and the tablecloth off the dining table.

  ‘Lie down and I’ll take all your troubles away. Then you can go back to being a virgin again.’

  He advanced on her, unbuckling his belt, and Jones backed until she came up against the table, fumbling for her purse as she went.

  ‘If you want to be relieved of your burden, girlie, I’m the one to do it. I’ll even give you a discount — if you please me. Ten per cent eh?’

  Jones found her whistle, and blew hard. The whistle shrilled in the small room and Butcher George jumped, still clutching the glass dome and the tablecloth, then ran for the inner door. Jones, shaking with outrage, dived after him, tripped him, and sat down hard on his back, dragging his hands back and twisting his arms viciously. All the fight went out of him and he whimpered.