Raisins and Almonds pf-9 Read online

  Miss Lee's desk contained ranked pens, a bottle of William's Superfine Ink As Used By Royalty, a pen knife marking the place in an invoice book, an eraser and a perpetual calender, a sheaf of business cards and a list of telephone numbers. The only signs that a woman worked in the bookshop were a packet of Ladies Travelling Necessities and a small box of Bex powders.

  Open on the desk was a ledger with a half-completed sum and a pencil which had rolled into the centre of the book. Behind Miss Lee's high stool was a little curtained alcove which contained a gas ring with kettle, a tap with sink, one cup, one saucer, one teaspoon, a strainer, and one small brown teapot. Phryne opened a tin and found it half-full of hard ginger biscuits. The other tins contained sugar and tea. A small amount of milk was curdling quietly in a small jug.

  'Miss Lee did not entertain, it appears,' she said to Jack Robinson. 'Only one cup. Did you find another one?'

  'No,' he admitted, 'but she had plenty of time to get rid of it.'

  'All right, Jack dear, you must have more on her than this romantic tarradiddle about unmarried women. What happened according to Miss Lee?'

  'She says—and she's sticking to it like a good 'un— that the deceased came into the shop just after Miss Lee opened in the morning—about ten past nine. She's seen him before, he often came in and bought rare Hebrew and Greek books. She had him on her order book as Mr Simon Michaels, a scholar, but he has been identified as Shimeon Ben Mikhael, a native of Salonika. In Australia on an entry visa due to expire next week.'

  'Who identified him?' asked Phryne, listening to the carters screaming insults at each other out in the Eastern Market.

  'No one, we can't find anyone who knew him. He lived in a lodging house in Carlton, in Drummond Street. He was carrying his passport. Salonikan, but he's a Jew all right.'

  'And?' asked Phryne, wondering if her good opinion of Detective Inspector Robinson was about to be shattered.

  'So we have to be real careful. You know what's happening in Russia. I'm not going to have no pogroms in my patch, not never,' said Jack Robinson stoutly. 'I started my career in Carlton, and they're nice people, not mean whatever slang says. They look after their own in a way which ought to make us ashamed. And they're funny. Many's the laugh I've had with old Missus Goldstein, and a bit of a warm by her stove in the shop. She used to make me eat chicken soup and tell me I was too thin for a growing boy So I'm not having even the suspicion of a shadow of a doubt about this case. It's personal, not political. And there ain't no Jews in it but the coincidence of the victim's being from Salonika.'

  Phryne put down Miss Lee's tea cup onto its matching saucer. It was a sturdy piece of white china, with a blue ring. Coles, she guessed. It was spotless, as was all of the area behind the plain brown curtain.

  'I take your point, Jack, and it does you credit. Oddly enough, it is precisely that matter which has brought me into this case. My employer feels exactly as you do about the Jewish angle. But I don't think that you have a very good case against Miss Lee, and you'll feel really silly if you bring the wrong woman to trial. Now, tell me about the death—Miss Lee's version.'

  'He was standing here,' said Robinson, placing himself next to the bookcase full of unreadables at the far end of the shop. 'He was holding a book in his hands. Then he collapsed, Miss Lee ran to catch him, he jerked out of her grasp and flopped like a landed fish—strychnine does that to you—and then he died. Death was certified by Doctor Stein at ten o'clock. Miss Lee wasn't affected at all. Walked into the market and called for help as cool as a cucumber. Sat behind the desk and waited for them to take the body to hospital, then cleaned her shop as though it had been an ordinary day. That's what put the duty officer on to her. She was too calm.'

  'What was the book?' asked Phryne. Robinson stared at her.

  'What was the book?'

  'Yes, it's a reasonable question, isn't it?'

  'I don't know,' admitted the Detective Inspector.

  'And where did he fall?'

  'Just where you're standing, Miss. Leastways, that's where Dr Stein found him and he was as dead as a peck of doornails by then. Why do you want to know about the book?' asked Robinson, obscurely worried that he might have missed something.

  'Just being careful, Jack dear. Have a look, Dot, can you pick out the book that's out of place?'

  Dorothy examined the shelves with a housekeeper's eye. 'They're not in any order, Miss, but they're a little dusty—it's a very clean shop but no one can have wanted these books. See, there's a little line of dust at the edge of the shelf. It's either this blue one, Miss, or this dark one.'

  Dot pointed out a volume of Hansard for 1911 and a volume of sermons for those of riper years.

  They both look entirely deadly, Dot—sorry, Jack, I didn't precisely mean that. Hmm. Have you examined the books?'

  'No.' Robinson was biting his bottom lip.

  'Well, do you want to, or shall I?'

  'I'd better take charge of them, I suppose. Look here, Phryne, do you really think Miss Lee's innocent?'

  'Yes. Her story is coherent. Your story about the dropped cup isn't fact, Jack dear—unless she caught it in mid-air. And how else could she have got a relative stranger to eat a strychnine powder? I suppose you've noticed that there are Bex in the drawer.'

  'Yes, Miss, all the powders will be removed for testing, and the milk and the water and the leftover tea. She had rat poison in her possession, Miss Fisher. She bought a small packet of Henderson's Rat Killer. And we can't find it.'

  'What does Miss Lee say?'

  'Nothing, Miss. She won't say anything at all. We took her in and she told us her story, and since then she won't say a word more. She says she never left the shop and she was seen in the market, walking fast. She's hiding something and I reckon I know what. Homicide.'

  'And equally it could be a hundred other things. Can I talk to her?'

  'Why not?' asked the policeman rhetorically, and led the way out of the shop.

  Miss Lee was ushered into the visiting room of the Women's Prison to meet her unexpected visitor. Female homicides were rare, and the prison population of drunks, whores, thieves and child-abandoning good girls, after a certain amount of bridling, had decided that she was one of the quiet ones and should not be tormented or affronted, in case she ran amok in some spectacular way. They attributed the fact that she was taken to see her visitor in the Governor's sitting room as evidence that she was a real dangerous criminal as well as—self-evidently—a lady The escorting wardress pushed Miss Lee not ungently through the door and shut it behind her.

  'Miss Lee? I'm Phryne Fisher.' A spectacularly fashionable vision rose and gripped her hand. The woman was small, dark and fizzing with energy, and she made Miss Lee fatigued. She was drawn to sit down beside Miss Fisher on a couch and real tea was pressed upon her. She held the cup and saucer dazedly. She had adapted to being held captive by dropping into a light trance, obeying every order instantly, and trying not to think about her situation. Having retreated into this state, it was proving difficult to withdraw herself from it and the world seemed to contain too many blurry Phrynes in far too many distracting black hats with purple panaches.

  However, this appeared to be tea, and she might as well drink it. Miss Lee's sense of self, which had been absent, winged back and lodged in its accustomed place as she sipped very good Ceylon tea with just the right amount of milk and sugar. Nightmares might happen, she might be dragged from her shop into the street, exposed to shame and locked up with a lot of dissolute noisy women, but tea remained comfortingly real. Her visitor waited until she had finished the cup, gave it to a young woman in a brown cardigan to refill, and returned it to her before she spoke.

  'Miss Lee, I am tolerably certain that whatever happened in your shop the other day, it was not the film scenario which our excited Detective Inspector Robinson has told me. Have you heard it?'

  Miss Lee did not smile, but her tense mouth relaxed a little. 'Yes. I thought it was most imaginative.'
/>   'Oh, I agree, and you wouldn't have thought that a man of his staid appearance had been reading Marie Corelli, would you?'

  'Elinor Glyn,' demurred Miss Lee.

  Phryne looked at her. She was a strong-featured young woman, with washing-blue eyes, a firm mouth and chin and a carefully controlled mouth. She had been allowed to keep her own clothes, and was dressed in a sensible skirt, a warm jumper and thick stockings. Her taste in colours resembled Dot's: brown and beige and umber. Her hands were hard with work, the writer's callus on her forefinger still stained with ink. They were folded in her lap, trembling a little under geological tension.

  'It's because you behaved like a lady, you know,' said Phryne. Miss Lee looked at her visitor. 'Because you didn't shriek and tear your hair and rush out into the road screaming. That's why Jack Robinson thinks you're a murderer. Did you ever hear anything so silly?'

  'No,' murmured Miss Lee.

  'Exactly, and we can't allow this to continue. Miss Lee, I am actually being retained to investigate this matter by Mr Abrahams. Do you know him well?'

  'Yes, he's my landlord.' Phryne detected no blush, no lowering of the eyes, which should have been present in such a proper young businesswoman if her relationship with her landlord was closer than a commercial one. 'He's a very generous man, whatever they say about Jews. He let me the shop at below market rent for my first year—I tried to pay him back, but he told me I had to build up substantial capital first, and I do find rare books for him sometimes. I believe his wife is a pleasant woman.'

  'Why do you think that?'

  'Because of the books she reads.' Miss Lee studied Miss Fisher for a long moment, visibly made up her mind, and went on in her brisk, no-nonsense voice. 'It's a little game I play, Miss Fisher, guessing what people are really like by their choice of books. Mrs Abrahams isn't sentimental—no Marie Corelli or Florence Barclay for her—she likes biographies. Always of people like Elizabeth Fry, you know—Florence Nightingale—strong women who made a difference in the world. I just found her a copy of Travels In West Africa by Mary Kingsley. She likes stories with a happy ending if possible and she tries to like modern novels, but she usually sends them back for me to re-sell as second hand. Therefore I think she is a nice woman with a social conscience, who perhaps wishes that she had been given the chance to do something brave or dangerous. Mr Abrahams is a romantic. He doesn't read novels but he likes poetry, and he's self-educated, I believe. I'm chattering, Miss Fisher, because I am nervous.'

  'Miss Lee, if you were not nervous, you would be certifiable. I had my doubts about Jack's story, and now, having met you, I am certain that you are innocent.'

  'How are you certain?' asked Miss Lee.

  'Because I cannot believe that you would make so many mistakes, if you wanted to kill someone,' said Phryne.

  Dot said, 'Miss,' warningly—she was worried by Miss Lee's pallor—but Miss Lee herself nodded and said, 'Thank you. That's the argument I would use myself, Miss Fisher. I am capable of murder, I suppose— we all are, are we not? And assuming I had a reason to kill poor Mr Michaels, which I did not, I liked him, then I would not have done it in such a way that I can't imagine how he was poisoned.'

  'You didn't offer him a cup of tea, or water? To take a pill, perhaps, or a powder that he had in his pocket?'

  'No, why should I? I would not like someone else to use my cup and there's a teashop practically next door. I only make my own because I can't leave the shop without someone to mind it. And anyway you know how it is, Miss Fisher, the moment I pour my own tea someone comes in with an enquiry about the next Agatha Christie and the tea gets cold anyway.' Dot nodded. 'I can't abide cold tea. So I usually take just a little milk from home and have mine when I can borrow Gladys from the printer's to mind the shop for quarter of an hour. If someone was taken ill in my shop I would escort them into the teashop to sit down. Mrs Johnson would look after them. No, he must have taken whatever it was somewhere else, and it began to work in my shop.'

  'Possibly, but we need to consider every angle. I know you've done this before and I know you're probably bored out of your mind repeating it, but could we go through it once more in excruciating detail? Dot will take notes and I'll ask questions at the end.'

  'You believe that I didn't do this?' asked Miss Lee, with her first sign of emotion.

  'I am proceeding in a certain knowledge of your complete innocence of the charge,' said Phryne quietly.

  Miss Lee sighed and leaned back in her chair. She rubbed both hands over her face and through her short, mousy hair.

  'I live across the road in an apartment at number 56 Exhibition Street. It is an old house and I live on the second floor—I was pleased to get my flat, because it has windows onto the lanes, they're more interesting than the main street, and it's quieter. My landlady lets rooms on the ground floor, and she provides meals for her lodgers, but I prefer to take care of myself—I never really relish someone else's tea, and I've got a gas ring to boil myself an egg in the morning and a toaster, a rather superior electric one. Mr Schwartz from the hardware in the market gave me a discount because I found a copy of Riders of the Purple Sage for him—he's a Western fan. I buy my supplies for the morning when I leave the shop in the evening, and I usually have a sandwich for lunch and a little dinner in one of the food shops along Exhibition Street or the cafes in Chinatown—I haven't been to half of them yet and they spring up every day like mushrooms. Or I might have a proper lunch one day, and a sandwich for supper on the way to the theatre or the movies. And there's the stock if I lack something to read. It's a life I always wanted, Miss Fisher. No house to keep, no potatoes to peel, no floors to scrub. When my mother—and she was a tyrant, mother was, God help her—finally died three years ago and left me a little money I swore I'd never scrub a floor again, never cook a meal. Of course, I had to do a certain amount of cleaning in the shop to begin with, but now it's paying its way I can afford a charwoman, and the luxury is positively sinful. It's Mrs Price and her son dotes on mysteries . . . I'm running on, aren't I?'

  'Keep talking, Miss Lee, this is just what I want,' said Phryne, and Dot's pencil flew across the stenographer's notebook. Dot had laboured long at Pitman's, and was pleased that her skill was so far equal to the clear, low-pitched voice.

  'That morning, I rose as I usually do at seven-thirty, collared the bathroom ahead of the opposition, washed and dressed, made myself an egg and some toast, poured the rest of the milk into my little jug and went down the stairs.'

  'Were you carrying anything else?'

  'My smock. I had brought one home to launder, one gets filthy handling old books, they are surprisingly dirty. I remember Miss Ireland saying that flowers are the messiest trade, but books are close. I had Miss Veering in the market make up three smocks for me, after I got vilely dirty unpacking an auction delivery. I don't like aprons, they look matronly and they don't cover the arms and shoulders. My smocks are made of mid-brown cotton with an inwoven paisley pattern, long sleeves with an elasticated cuff and a round neck. I can just fling them on if a dusty delivery comes in and not worry about ruining my own clothes and yet not look like a housewife. It was cold so I wore my brown coat with the fox-fur collar and my brown felt hat. I was carrying the smock over my arm. I had the jug in one hand and my key in the other. I don't usually carry a handbag, they're cumbersome. I put my key in my pocket and left the building and shut the front door behind me. Then what happened? My shop is almost opposite the apartment house. There were a lot of carts and drays and I was careful crossing the road. I bought a newspaper from the boy on the corner of the lane as I came into the market, and a muffin from the muffin man. It was a cold morning and that little hot paper package warmed my hands.'

  Phryne was getting used to the crisp voice and could see Miss Lee, confident and neat in her coat and hat, the smock over her arm, the jug in one hand and the muffin warming her other palm. Phryne remembered the taste of cinnamon muffins and resolved to reacquaint herself with their hot soggy sweet
ness.

  'Then I said hello to my neighbour Mrs Johnson, unlocked my door, picked up the letters from the first post, and hung up my coat and hat on my peg, put on the smock and rolled up my sleeves. There was a big box of books due—I wonder what has happened to it?—from a Ballarat deceased estate. Then I opened the letters.'

  'What were they?'

  'I cannot exactly remember—they should still be there. An order, I think, yes, one was an order because I entered it in my order book. You can consult the order book, Miss Fisher, I can't remember the customer's name. A few people came into the shop, but it was early, the market doesn't really clear of the grocers and fruiterers until about ten, but some of them buy books and I like some time to myself. I ate my muffin before it got cold. I sold some novels—they will be in my day book—and I talked to one woman about an atlas, I didn't have one to suit her.'

  'What was she like?'

  'A stoutish woman, not very young, wearing her best go-to-town clothes, a dark blue suit a bit too small for her and a lumpy black hat with a bird on it. You know, one of those with a wide brim. I did think it was odd that she should want an atlas—she didn't seem to really know what an atlas was, could not believe me when I said that the reason the map looked oddly shaped was because Mercator's projection mapped a sphere onto a flat page, not because there were bits snipped out. But there's no accounting for people, Miss Fisher. And she was probably buying it for someone else, anyway. What next? Two young men looking for a book about the odds and horse-racing—I sent them away with a nice solid tome on statistics, which ought to keep them gainfully occupied for a few months. Then Mr Michaels, who came to ask if I had the book he ordered—a rare one in Latin which I had actually found in a French auction. He was so anxious about it that he came in almost every day to ask if it had arrived. I carry books in most languages, of course, if the customers require them, and I supply the University with all the classics and textbooks in Latin, Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek. Professor Gregg was good enough to say that the University is very pleased with my services.'