Death in Daylesford Read online

  Phryne turned back to the discomfited youth. ‘Who was that man, James?’

  ‘Johnnie Armstrong. He’s always ticking me off in the field. He says I don’t concentrate.’

  ‘I see. And does he bowl flippers too?’

  The young man’s face looked a little downcast. ‘He can, and should. It’s those long fingers of his. Such an advantage, and I don’t have them. But he prefers to bowl left-arm fast. He likes hitting batsmen.’

  ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you.’

  The youth gave Phryne a puzzled look, and his face brightened. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. Delighted to meet you, Miss Fisher.’ He bowed and departed, presumably pursued by a bear.

  ‘And you, young man. What do you bowl?’ Phryne turned to the donor of the orange, who seemed vaguely familiar. He laughed with tolerant scepticism.

  ‘I’m Graeme Forbes. I bowl left-arm orthodox and bat a bit. I only gave him the orange because otherwise he’d have upset the whole table rummaging for it. He’s a bit clumsy, but a splendid chap. I say, I love your dress, Miss Fisher. Is it Erté?’

  ‘Not quite, but a splendid guess, Mr Forbes. Are you interested in fashion?’ She looked this young man over carefully. By sheer chance her three main suspects had all introduced themselves, more or less. This one was a bit on the plump side, with wavy blond hair and gentle blue eyes.

  ‘Not really,’ he conceded. ‘But I’ve been reading up on it. Because of girls, you know? See, the problem with us boys is that most of us live on farms, and no one wants to hear you talk about farming. I mean, we already know all about it, and it’s a bit dull, to be honest. And lots of girls aren’t interested in cricket. You aren’t, are you, Miss Fisher?’

  Phryne gave him a shrewd look. ‘Well, yes, Mr Forbes, I am. I once saw Lionel Tennyson bat with one hand against McDonald and Gregory in the Headingley Test. You don’t get cricketers like him anymore. But that aside, I do like to listen to people talk. I learn such a lot about them that way.’

  This, if it went home at all, was allowed to pass harmlessly through to the wicketkeeper. He nodded. ‘Indeed? Well, that’s wonderful to hear. But most girls don’t care for it, so I thought I’d learn about fashion, because girls like to talk about dresses and suchlike.’

  ‘Any particular girl you have in mind?’

  The man blushed beneath his freckled suntan. ‘Well, yes. But she’s working in the kitchen tonight. It’s all right. She’s a splendid girl. I don’t really hope, you know. I think she’s too far above the likes of me. But she’s very sweet, and I admire her greatly.’ Suddenly embarrassed, he straightened his back. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Fisher. I talk too much. But I am delighted to meet you.’ He clicked his boots together, bowed, and retreated.

  Phryne sat herself down with a large mug of fruit cup, laced it unobtrusively with cognac and watched as the girls and boys paired off with decorous invitations. No girl refused a proffered hand, and in their place Phryne would not have either. The band began to play in earnest, and the youth of Daylesford disported themselves on the dance floor. The evening’s entertainment had a decidedly Irish flavour. The Waves of Tory, the Pride of Erin and the Walls of Limerick were three which remained in Phryne’s memory. Each was briefly announced, and everyone seemed to know what to do immediately. Her suspects? James Hepburn was dancing ably and cleverly, despite his mishap with the orange. A faintly mocking Johnnie Armstrong danced as if he were a trifle bored by it all, but he never missed a step. Graeme Forbes was on occasion caught out of position, zigging when he should have been zagging and vice versa, but each time a dextrous female hand would drag him back into position. Phryne observed the girls intently as they did so. While Mr Forbes was clearly known to be awkward on the dance floor, it appeared he was not only tolerated but possibly loved. The rolling of eyeballs at his repeated missteps was kept to an all but imperceptible level. All three men danced with Colleen O’Rourke and not one gave any sign of brooding menace or proprietorship. And, finally, she watched Kenneth McAlpine, who danced like a battleship surrounded by pinnaces, clumping his massive feet down only after a lightning inspection to ensure that no one’s feet were likely to be trapped underneath his mighty tread.

  The boys, taken en masse, were handsome enough, and none seemed notably ill at ease or exuded the unmistakable perfume of Warning! Danger! Pericoloso! to be expected from at least one member of a medium-sized crowd. Alice, Phryne noticed, had accepted the hand of a grave young man who offered his to her. Phryne could not recall seeing him around before. He was better dressed than the other boys. He wore a dark amethyst silk waistcoat, his shirt was a dazzling white, his trousers clearly tailored and his small feet encased in black patent leather. Alice and her favoured boy grinned at each other and danced expertly. This was a new development, and Phryne did not know how to interpret it. Meanwhile, sets were turned, willows stripped, arches formed and dimpling girls flirted soundlessly with admiring boys—and none was more admired than Colleen O’Rourke, dressed in her Highland Dancing costume and trailing a scarf of dark blue and green from her shoulder.

  Phryne sipped her drink and considered. Colleen was careful to change partners after every dance. Nobody seemed to mind this, and Phryne commended the girl’s judgement. And the band, she realised, were seriously good at what they did. The banjo gave place betimes to the penny whistles (different ones for whichever key the rest were occupying), the violins seesawed with vigour and delicacy, the round hand drum was chastised with what looked like a porridge stirrer, and from time to time a pair of what she could swear were mutton bones clashed together. The effect ought to have been macabre enough (summoning to mind visions of dancing skeletons), but the good-humoured swing of the music somehow rendered this acceptable.

  ‘May I sit next to you, Miss Fisher?’

  Phryne looked up at a looming figure. That really was the mot juste. Some men lean, but this one was a natural-born loomer. He was well over six feet tall, somewhat portly, with a middle-aged mid-section which strained at his off-white waistcoat like a spring flood at a levee. The weak chin—inexpertly shaved—was inadequately disguised by a ridiculous pantomime villain moustache, and a tidal wave of eau de cologne failed to mask what Phryne’s sensitive palate recognised as industrial-grade gin. Dry party or not, the man was as plastered as a Giotto fresco.

  She smiled a dazzling smile. ‘Well, possibly, Mr No We Really Haven’t Been Introduced. But then you would be occupying space which I require for other purposes. At any moment, my companion will return to this chair, and I do not wish her to find it so abundantly tenanted.’

  Bleary eyes rolled around in their sockets as feeble neurons collided with each other. Try as he might, the interloper could find nothing to his liking in any of the three sentences he had just taken on board. He attempted a gallant bow, which caused something within his superstructure to go ping, followed by snap. He all but overbalanced into Phryne’s lap then retreated, muttering incoherent apologies.

  Phryne looked around and caught the eye of Reverend McPherson, whose normally severe expression so far unbent itself as to give her a radiant smile. Phryne smiled back. Doubtless the minister was grimly pleased at seeing what Phryne could only conceive was one of his Problem Flock being given public chastisement.

  Eventually the bandleader gave his banjo a mighty flourish and announced A Little Break for Refreshments, Ladies and Gentlemen. Colleen O’Rourke flounced straight towards him and gave him an enthusiastic embrace and a kiss on the cheek. Phryne’s eyes flicked around the room but caught no one giving her anything vaguely resembling a look of smouldering jealousy. Phryne was beginning to feel that the local lads regarded Colleen more in the role of a force of nature, like a thunderstorm or a flash flood, rather than an object of romance. There was coming and going hither and yon. Phryne, having sat out the dancing, had already eaten her fill of dainty sandwiches and decided to invite herself into the kitchen.

  No one stopped her. Jessie looked up at her with floury hands and grinned. �
��Hello, Miss Fisher. Having a good time, I hope?’

  Phryne nodded, watching a heavily aproned Annie as she opened the oven door. A warm gust of spicy fruit wafted through the kitchen. ‘That’s the last of the pies, Jessie.’ Annie lifted the large oven tray without apparent effort and placed it on a wooden chopping board.

  ‘That’s fine, Annie. You can take a rest—and get changed.’

  Annie looked up hopefully.

  ‘You know you want to dance and have some fun. So do it! There’s a whole second half still to come.’

  Annie moved forward, fell into Jessie’s arms and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re so kind to me, Jessie. Thank you.’

  Over her sister’s shoulder, Jessie seemed to be staring into the middle distance. Phryne motioned to Dot, and they slipped out the back door. It was late afternoon, but a broad beam of sunlight was blazing across the backyard. ‘Well, Dot? Did you see anything untoward?’

  ‘No, Miss. Nobody came into the kitchen at all. One or two of the boys opened the door looking for Annie, but Jessie scared them off and they went away.’

  ‘Thank you, Dot. Well, I’ve been watching all our other suspects. Alice is dancing with a young man who seems a cut above all the other locals. He’s danced with some other girls, but he goes straight back to her every time. What’s going on there I can’t imagine. As far the others, I can’t see anyone actually pining for Miss O’Rourke, and I haven’t seen any malicious looks directed at anyone. Dot, has all the food been put out? There isn’t anything else?’

  ‘The last of the pies are going out now, Miss Phryne.’

  Phryne lit a cigarette and watched through the open back door as Jessie womanhandled the plates of pies onto the serving area separating the kitchen from the hall. She couldn’t see any point in Jessie trying to poison the food, even if she were the culprit. The method was far too random, since there was no way of knowing which pie would finish up inside which young man. No, Jessie was looking less and less likely as a suspect; if you could trust atmosphere, Jessie and Annie were the best of friends.

  ‘Dot, there’s nothing more to be got out of kitchen-minding. Why not come and sit with me in the second half? I would welcome your company, and it might preserve me from unwelcome attention.’

  Dot nodded. ‘Miss Phryne, I think we’ll find out more now that Annie’s going to join the dancing.’

  ‘I agree, Dot. And I would like to talk to the minister. Of all the locals I can possibly confide in, he seems to be the Man Most Likely.’ Having said which, she mused in silence. In a mystery novel that would probably make him the villain. ‘Well, we shall see.’

  If the appearance of Colleen O’Rourke had enlivened proceedings in the first half, this was merely in the nature of a curtain-raiser. Annie Tremain had undergone a dazzling transformation with the aid of the ladies’ room, and now appeared resplendent in a black velvet gown. The contrast with her milk-white complexion was striking enough, but her bodice, normally so demure and tight-laced, allowed onlookers a small glimpse of hidden pleasures in her neckline, which was adorned by a small amethyst pendant suspended just, and only just, above the creamy curve of her not-quite-completely-covered bosom. Her hair was unbound, enthusiastically brushed and swung at her waist like an enchantress’s girdle. The band struck up, a new dance was announced, and Gentle Annie offered her hand to Graeme Forbes moments before she was bowled over in the rush of breathless young manhood.

  Dot watched the dancers while Phryne examined the onlookers. Some of the Obviously Married had now joined in, and so more chairs had been cleared to accommodate them. These latter appeared engrossed in one another, and if wandering eyes occasionally strayed over the beauteous girls as they passed, no one was going to take cognisance thereof. Phryne was looking for evidence of murderous intent from the onlookers but saw only the enraptured and the oblivious. One old man sat in the corner, sipping tea and reading the Daylesford Advocate. Her importuner appeared to have departed the premises, possibly with words of strenuous encouragement from The Management.

  She turned her attention to the dancing. The daylight outside was fading, and the glowing paper lanterns bathed the hall in a kaleidoscope of colour. Phryne noted that Annie, like Colleen, changed partners after every dance. Phryne awarded herself some more surreptitious refreshment from her flask and sat back to watch Annie. The girl was perfectly aware of the effect she was making. Her eyes danced, exulting in the moment. She knew how gorgeous she was and loved every moment of it. Yet where was the harm in that? Phryne looked at each of the other girls’ faces to see if any were looking daggers at her but could discern not so much as a nail file of envy. Colleen and Annie were the undisputed queens of the ball, and nobody seemed to mind.

  For the last dance, and amid overdone groans from the panting youths, Colleen O’Rourke extended her arm to Annie, who smiled, dimpled and nodded. Colleen took the male role to Annie’s left, and the two girls flung themselves into a vigorous dance in pairs, then fours, then eights. Youths and maidens twirled around each other, and the band roused itself for one final flourish. During one moment of stasis, Colleen O’Rourke leaned over to another couple and gave James Hepburn an impudent kiss on the cheek. Hepburn’s partner (a thin-faced girl with freckles) looked momentarily scandalised but appeared to accept this. As the dance quickened, she swept Hepburn into her arms for a moment. Then she stood stock-still and stared as James Hepburn slithered downwards to the floor and lay there in an untidy heap.

  Everyone except Colleen O’Rourke gasped and gaped. The music wound down slowly, as if the air had leaked out of a giant balloon. The band members stared as well. Colleen, meanwhile, kneeled and put her hand to the side of Hepburn’s neck. She shook her head, raked the gawpers with an expression of scorn and dismissal, and erupted through the crowd.

  Phryne watched, fascinated. Miss O’Rourke re-emerged from the press of bodies, dragging Dr Henderson by the arm. She led him to the recumbent figure and stood facing the mob with both hands on her defiant hips. Presently the doctor shook his head, took out his handkerchief and placed it reverently on the face of the dear departed. Colleen O’Rourke stamped off in search of … Phryne could not imagine what. The thin-faced girl stood where she was, both hands pressed to her cheeks, frozen to the spot. No one was screaming. And no one seemed to know how to react.

  ‘Miss? What are we going to do about this?’ Dot whispered.

  ‘Nothing, Dot. I’m watching to see what the locals do. Keep an eye on Annie and her admirers for me, will you? I can’t look at everything at once.’

  Shocked whispers began to break out across the room. The minister strode into the centre of the hall, stood right next to the fallen body, and raised his hand. The murmurs subsided. The minister did not even raise his voice.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, until we know what has happened, I will have to insist that nobody leaves the hall. The washrooms are out the back, for any that need it. I have sent for the polis, and they will have questions for you. I repeat: until we know more, nobody should leave.’

  All eyes turned to the exit. There stood Sergeant Offaly, in uniform. He smiled.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.

  They are concerned with matters hidden, under the earthline their altars are

  The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,

  And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city’s drouth.

  Rudyard Kipling,

  ‘The Sons of Martha’

  ‘Miss Fisher? I’m Detective Inspector Brian Kelly. But most people call me Mick, so you may as well too.’

  The manse office had been converted, with the Reverend McPherson’s consent, into an impromptu interview room. Phryne held out her gloved hand and received a manly, muscular handshake. Both subsided into sturdy, plain wooden chairs opposite each other across a plain, somewhat chipped wooden table. Phryne looked with interest at Kel
ly. He was a colossus, built to endure when towers crumbled, cities fell and civilisations came and went. His shoulders strained at the boundaries of his coat. These were the shoulders of a man who carried home strayed oxen and chastised their misdeeds. His face was crowned with a clipped furze of dark auburn hair, and an absurd ginger moustache lurked beneath a craggy nose like a small turnip. Taken as a whole, his features reminded the viewer of a cliff face of weathered rock left out in the desert sun. Both hands were clenched on the wooden table. They had unquestionably Seen Life, probably after closing time at the pub or in the apprehension of innumerable malefactors. There were lumps in the knuckles. Even the lumps had lumps of their own. Ancient scars presumably remembered the impact of departing teeth.

  But the eyes! They were greenish-blue, and blinked slowly, and took in absolutely everything with a calm impassivity which spoke of a rough-and-tumble life’s lessons well learned. Once you blocked out his vast self-assurance, you came to see him as an inquisitive crow, or possibly a magpie, with white shirt cuffs contrasting with his black waistcoat, jacket, trousers and necktie. Whatever Hibernian lilt might still lurk in Kelly’s vocal cords had been heavily overlaid with a standard Australian bush drawl.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mick,’ Phryne ventured.

  He inclined his granite jaw and gave her a small smile. ‘To save time and fuss, I may as well tell you that your fame precedes you. And while I’m not gonna play Dumb Cop to your Aristocratic Detective, I need a result here and I’d be a fool if I didn’t use whatever help you can give me.’ He blinked, and put his massive head on one side, looking now like a kookaburra eyeing off an unattended sausage at a barbecue. ‘Sergeant Offaly tells me you’re staying up at the Springs?’