Death in Daylesford Page 18

  ‘He’s the caber tosser? Yes, I saw those two. What’s your impression of him, though?’

  ‘I really don’t believe it, Mick. The only thing against him is that the needle in his neck was a highly speculative murder, if it was that. That caber could have gone anywhere. It was sheer bad luck that Donald Mackay was in the way.’

  ‘So you’re thinking he could have stabbed himself with it and then pretended to be distracted? It’s possible. It is a point against him. Trouble is—’ Inspector Kelly spread his arms in frustration ‘—I’ve known him since he was a youngster. He’s a good worker, barely drinks, keeps a ginger tomcat at home and is famous throughout the district for being kind and equable. He’s one of them blokes who’s always gettin’ more out of life than he expects. Blokes like that don’t do crime, in my experience.’

  Phryne finished her whisky sour. The lingering after-burn was a pleasant counterpoint to her squalid surroundings. ‘I have to agree with you. At the dance yesterday I took the opportunity to watch all our suspects, and I really don’t think it’s him.’

  Kelly nodded. ‘Okay, how about Forbes?’

  ‘Graeme Forbes,’ Phryne mused. ‘He is one of the surviving admirers of Miss Tremain, it’s true, but to be honest he’d have to be a superb actor. He’s awkward, clumsy on the dance floor, and as far as I can see everyone likes him. I don’t think it’s him either.’

  Again Kelly nodded. ‘Doesn’t sound like our bloke, does he?’

  ‘No. And then there is Johnnie Armstrong, reputed to have a wife back in Melbourne. Now he is a possibility. He’s very self-possessed. Opaque would be the word I’d use of him. Most of the locals hereabouts are—well, nice. And completely transparent. Armstrong gave a wonderful impression of a man who was bored out of his mind when he was waiting to talk to you. I think he at least is a man capable of deep-laid plots. And it really does call for someone capable of deep planning: we have three murders, and three entirely different murder methods. Here is someone who doesn’t want to repeat himself. Or, possibly, someone who views murder as a fine art, like de Quincey of horrible memory.’

  The inspector gave a grunt, like a steam engine knocking against a carriage. ‘Armstrong … yair, I think that young man’s got a few secrets. And he could be mad. If it is jealous love, we need someone who’s so far off his trolley he’s in the middle of next week. But I’m still not happy with this theory. And now we’ve got a missing girl at the Springs. Could that be related?’

  Kelly shook his head and signalled to the barman. ‘Another squash for me thanks, Paddy,’ he called. ‘One more thing,’ he added, turning back to Phryne and lowering his voice again. ‘Another woman has gone missing. Her husband reported it this morning.’

  Phryne looked hard at the inspector. ‘Now that really is interesting. Can you tell me her name?’

  Kelly blinked at her. ‘Don’t see why not.’ He rummaged in his pocket for his notebook and glanced at it. ‘Mrs Frances Pollock, of 169 Main Road, Sailors’ Falls. Do you think it might be relevant?’

  Phryne wrote the woman’s name and address down in her own notebook and smiled brightly. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Mick. If I find anything out, I’ll let you know as soon as possible.’

  ‘You do that, Phryne.’

  As she rose, she saw his eyes cloud over. The inspector was cogitating. As well he might.

  Phryne returned to her car and drove slowly up the hill. The cinema grand opening was still a few days away, but she noted fresh bunting stretched across the facade of the newly built edifice. If it had occurred to anybody to suggest they delay, or cancel, their municipal celebrations, then the proposal had been dismissed in favour of Full Steam Ahead and To Hell with Misfortune. Phryne applauded the local community’s determined resilience, but she was seriously concerned about it. This meant she had little time to wrap up the case of the murdered suitors. Though surely the murderer would not strike again? The prospect was sheer nonsense, she told herself. There was no reason to fear the worst just because it was another local gala. And yet … Two local celebrations had been held on the weekend, and both had resulted in deaths. If she had learned anything about criminal investigation, it was to trust her instincts when her thumbs pricked. They were pricking now as though entwined in a rosebush.

  She manoeuvred the Hispano-Suiza around the roundabout at the top of the hill and selected second gear. As she cruised gently down the hill, she stared out at the incipient lake. There was a good deal of wooden scaffolding erected around a smallish pool of fresh water. Presumably it would take time for the lake to fill, especially in late summer when there was little rain. The landscaping seemed to have been cleverly done. It would be a beautiful park when it was completed.

  On reaching the open road, Phryne slipped the car into third gear, but in contrast with her usual habits kept her speed moderate. She wanted to keep a sharp lookout, which was incompatible with her customary seventy-miles-per-hour rampages through the landscape. But nothing out of the ordinary struck her eye until she reached Sailor’s Falls and pulled up on the other side of the road from number 169. Her pointed chin made a nod of recognition. The farmhouse was the same one she and Dot had noted on their way into town.

  The house looked more desolate than ever. A tethered horse munched at a corner of grass in mournful contemplation. There was a general air of neglect, as if the whole business of keeping house had become all too much. A man in dungarees and a straw hat sat by himself on the verandah, staring at nothing. And where the multi-coloured scarf had been hanging, there was now but a few coloured threads of wool.

  Phryne turned the car around and drove slowly back towards Daylesford. In one of her accumulated mysteries, at least, light had begun to dawn.

  It took surprisingly little time to track down the mobile library. An enquiry at the town hall elicited the information that Mrs Sinclair had taken the van to the improbably named hamlet of Musk—wherein, on arrival, she found no musk to speak of, but prosperous-looking fields, a number of farms and a pleasingly well-stocked general store, outside which the library van was parked. Three locals were rummaging within, engrossed in railway editions of popular books. H.G. Wells seemed to be popular. Phryne wrapped her silk scarf around her neck and prepared to face the dragon in her lair.

  Mrs Sinclair stared coldly at this glamorous young woman in her shocking pants suit and silken fripperies. She saw the world through the stern spectacles of thrift, self-improvement and Education for Women, and was not inclined to be helpful.

  ‘You’re Miss Fisher, aren’t you? I saw you in Daylesford. What brings you to Musk?’

  Phryne smiled winningly at her. ‘Just a little jaunt of my own. I could hardly believe in a village called Musk without seeing it for myself. It looks splendid.’

  This did not go over big. ‘I see. And can I help you with a book? As you are a visitor, I will have to charge you a shilling’s membership.’

  Phryne reached into her purse and produced a ten-shilling note. ‘Please accept this as a donation. You are doing wonderful work here, I am certain.’

  The glacial atmosphere melted somewhat, to be replaced by a sort of guarded truce. ‘I’ll have to give you a receipt, Miss Fisher. Please wait.’

  A tin cashbox was disinterred from under the counter, and Mrs Sinclair took her time writing out a slip reading Received With Thanks From the Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher, the Sum of Ten Shillings. She lifted the blue carbon paper underneath the page to verify that the impression had taken and tucked the ten-shilling note in the tin’s nether recesses. Then she nodded, tore off the receipt and handed it to Phryne, who stowed it in her purse.

  ‘And what sort of book would you be wanting, then, Miss Fisher?’

  ‘I was wondering if you had any knitting patterns?’

  Mrs Sinclair moved, almost imperceptibly, so that her substantial undercarriage was blocking Phryne’s view of the Returns trolley. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss Fisher, but they’re all out on loan at the moment.’

&nbs
p; Phryne inclined her head. ‘Such a pity. Never mind. Sorry to have troubled you.’

  With a debonair wave, Phryne leaped lightly back into the car and retraced her route back to Daylesford.

  On a whim, she decided to call in at the police station. Sergeant Offaly was looming behind the counter. He did not look at all pleased to see Miss Fisher.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant! And how are you on this pleasant day?’

  It was indeed a pleasant day, with light winds, butterflies, warm temperatures and a general sense of bonhomie. Sergeant Offaly seemed disinclined to share it. A deep crimson coloured his pasty features. ‘Well? What do you want?’

  Phryne looked around the anteroom. ‘I was wondering if there were any photographs of Missing Persons, Sergeant. You have had a few of those of late, have you not?’

  The sergeant harrumphed. ‘They’re on the wall there, if you think it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Oh, but I do.’ Phryne examined the photographs. Six women and one youth. There was Janet McKenzie, who did indeed look tired and joyless. A separate photo was labelled Master Robert McKenzie. He looked pale, and haunted. The two most recent were labelled Mrs Frances Pollock, of Sailor’s Falls, and Miss Helena Ogilvie, of Hepburn Springs. Both pictures were brand-new and obviously only placed there this morning. Ignoring the obvious fidgets of the sergeant, she studied Helena’s face carefully. A headstrong girl, she decided. Not overly bright, but determined. It was a kind face, as well as an undeniably pretty one. One look at Frances Pollock was enough to confirm Phryne’s theory. This was the sunken-cheeked woman who had attended the dance wearing the brightly coloured scarf—and who had last been seen in the company of none other than Mrs Sinclair the librarian. Phryne smiled to herself. With so many mysteries piling up around her, it appeared one had been elucidated.

  Tinker had not been idle on Monday. His sudden outbreak of inquisitiveness had drawn several looks of doubt and puzzlement, but as he took the tram home to 221B The Esplanade, he felt quietly triumphant. He would find out who lived in Kew and he would set his plans in motion. Electronics was Tinker’s favourite class, and a fellow enthusiast could be drawn in by his latest project. He was building a crystal set, and an invitation to test it out might well prove an irresistible bait. The problem was that the trap could only be sprung once. So the girls would have to do their part before he could do his.

  When he got home, Ruth and Jane were sitting around the kitchen table, eating scones and jam. With them was Hugh Collins, who had shamelessly taken the rest of the day off rather than listen to the grotesque rantings of his superior officer.

  ‘How was school, Tink?’ Hugh enquired, smearing a large dollop of strawberry jam over his scone.

  ‘All right, Mr Collins.’

  Hugh took a sip of his tea and set down the mug. ‘That’s good. Tinker, I was waiting until you got here so I didn’t have to tell everything twice.’

  Ruth and Jane looked up expectantly.

  ‘Today I interviewed the gardeners. There’s nothing doing with them. They’re two dinkum Aussie blokes and one mongoloid kid. I found them all playing cards, which is how I was able to come home early.’ Hugh outlined his card session, which brought smiles from everybody. ‘So as you see, they knew about the ladder, but they didn’t think it was any of their business. And it wasn’t, either. I don’t believe for a moment they had anything to do with it.’

  ‘Is your inspector still convinced it was Uncle Gerald?’ Jane asked.

  Hugh Collins grimaced. ‘Yes. We had to let him go, though. The inspector hasn’t got anything to make an arrest warrant out of. I’m hoping we can solve the case together, the four of us, before Fraser has another crack at him. Jane, Ruth, I’d like you to go see Mrs Knight again tomorrow after school, like we discussed, and search her room for a diary.’

  ‘Maybe there’ll be a secret compartment somewhere?’ Tinker had grown up as an enthusiast for Sexton Blake and other sensationalist crime novels in which secret compartments figured strongly.

  Hugh gave Tinker an indulgent glance and refrained from mockery. ‘There may well be. Though she might have taken a more conventional approach. Under her bed? A little niche at the back of a bookcase? Inside her wardrobe?’

  ‘Behind the back of the wardrobe,’ Jane suggested.

  ‘Look everywhere. If there is a diary, it will be in her bedroom, I think we can be sure of that.’

  ‘Orright.’ Tinker looked around the table. ‘And if the diary helps us to identify her secret admirer, I think I can get him to confess.’

  Hugh looked at Tinker with eyebrows raised. ‘Go on.’

  Tinker explained his plan.

  Hugh nodded. ‘Yes, I think that will work. All right. Everyone know what you have to do?’

  Three young faces stared back at him, glowing with incandescent pride. All possessed by a single thought. They were imagining telling Miss Phryne how they had solved a real-life mystery all by themselves.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Well the river bank makes a mighty good road

  Dead trees will show you the way

  Left foot, peg foot, travelin’ on

  Follow the drinkin’ gourd

  For the old man is waiting to carry you to freedom

  Follow the drinkin’ gourd

  Well the river ends, between two hills

  Follow the drinkin’ gourd

  There’s another river on the other side

  Follow the drinkin’ gourd

  For the old man is waiting to carry you to freedom

  Follow the drinkin’ gourd.

  Song from the Underground Railroad

  Over a splendid lunch (roast beef, vegetables and apricot pie with cream) Dot expounded the details of her visit to the mercer’s shop. Phryne listened attentively and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘A Miss McKenzie, you say? Surely this can’t have been the runaway Mrs McKenzie?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Miss. She didn’t look like the sort of woman who runs away.’

  ‘You mean rather than run away she’d be saying it with rolling pins and frying pans?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. She isn’t scared of anybody, I’d guess.’

  ‘Least of all our mousy melancholic of a publican. The name must be a coincidence. Show me what you bought, Dot.’

  Phryne was prepared to smile indulgently, but her eyes widened as the purchases were displayed. ‘But like I always say, I don’t believe in coincidences. Look here, Dot.’ Phryne’s elegant finger pointed to the bottom corner of the bag’s reverse. The initials J.M. had been embroidered in purple cotton. ‘Dot, I’m beginning to see light on one of our mysteries. This may be just a wild guess, but I wouldn’t be surprised if J.M. stands for Janet McKenzie.’

  ‘Mr McKenzie’s lost wife?’

  ‘I believe so. And you were told that suffragette colours and red were popular around here?’

  ‘Yes. They were talking as though there was a plot of some sort going on, but they weren’t sure if I was part of it or not.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, this afternoon we’re going to straighten this out, and possibly learn something useful. Now, on the subject of disappearing women, I should tell you that Aubrey’s fiancée Helena has vanished. I almost ran over Aubrey earlier, and he told me all about it.’ Phryne outlined her investigations, while Dot sat quite still with her hands folded. ‘I have one or two ideas about this, but I’m not sure yet. I think Helena is alive but being held against her will. But who is responsible? Well, this afternoon we will find out whether she is one of the many disappearing women in these parts, or whether her case is quite different.’

  Phryne paused, as Jessie brought in the bill. Today she was wearing a plain light blue dress with a voluminous frilled apron. She gave Phryne a look of unaccustomed shyness. ‘Miss Fisher, on Mondays we close early and some of us like to play cards in the evening. Do you by any chance play bridge?’

  ‘Contract or auction?’ A look of mystification crossed over Jessie’s face, and Phryne realised
that the contract version—which had taken the fashionable world by storm of late—had doubtless not made it to these parts as yet. ‘It doesn’t matter, Jessie. I’d be delighted. Who’s in?’

  ‘I partner Uncle, so you can have Annie. Unless Miss Williams … ?’ Seeing Dot’s look of alarm, Jessie did not press the point. As far as Dot was concerned cards were the Devil’s Picture-Book, a view she had had dinned into her ears by her parish priest and had never quite abandoned.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Phryne broke in smoothly. ‘What time?’

  ‘A tick after seven.’ Jessie’s face split into a happy grin. ‘This is very kind of you, Miss Fisher. We all like to play, but we need a fourth person. We usually ask Dr Henderson, but he’s attending a birth and probably won’t be able to make it.’

  Jessie was about to depart, but Phryne stopped her. ‘Just one question, Jessie. It’s probably very rude of me, but I was wondering who raised you after your mother passed away.’

  Jessie’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I can’t think why you’d want to know that. It was Aunty Morag McKenzie. She doesn’t live in Daylesford, so we don’t see her much these days. Some people said …’ Jessie drew in a deep breath. ‘Some people said she was a witch in a gingerbread cottage, but the Minister told them not to be so silly. All I know is that she was very kind to us. But she doesn’t like town life and doesn’t come into town often.’

  ‘So she lives somewhere close by?’ Phryne prompted.

  ‘Yes—in Musk. We haven’t been back since we came to work here four years ago.’ Jessie seemed about to ask what in thunderation Phryne was getting at, but thought better of it—perhaps reluctant to put a potential bridge partner offside—and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  As Phryne led the way back to the car, Dot asked, ‘Are you sure you want to play cards, Miss?’