Death in Daylesford Read online

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;

  Lo, it is black already with the blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!

  Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,

  But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.

  Rudyard Kipling,

  ‘The Sons of Martha’

  Inspector Kelly was not having a good afternoon, though his day had begun with infinite promise and had continued through a pleasant lunchtime. He had sent Offaly out to Be Visible and do good, and promptly annexed his desk. Leaning back in the comfortable wooden chair, he had amused himself listening to Mr Pollock his prisoner carrying on like a pork chop. To all his complaints and entreaties Kelly had turned a deaf ear, save only to supply him with a plate of sandwiches. When the dreary litany of complaints and general whining had wound its way to a stop, Kelly confided that he would be happy to turn Pollock adrift at some not-too-distant time in the future. Phryne had asked for two hours, but why stop at that? He decided, as a matter of public policy, to extend Pollock’s hours of incarceration to four. Nothing like prison bars to bring a new sense of social responsibility to domestic abusers.

  All that had been rather fun in its own way, but he had decided to get some compass bearings on this Armstrong bloke. If they really were looking for a jealous suitor, he seemed to be the only possible. Finding the date of the ill-fated train trip of Patrick Sullivan had been simple enough because it was in the coroner’s report, which was only one phone call away. And here he was, at the man’s house, and having anything but a good time. Yes, the suspect had been at both the Highland Gathering and the dance. His motive was anybody’s guess, but a man so sure of himself might well imagine himself a suitable husband for Annie Tremain, if one ignored the fact that he was allegedly wedded already. But what of the train journey? Where had he been on the second of February?

  The man had both hands in his insolent pockets, and lounged against the post of his front verandah. The house was a modest weatherboard bungalow, neither well-kept nor the reverse, on the edge of town. He was dressed for manual labour of some sort in dungarees, a singlet and heavy boots, but he had flatly declined to discuss the nature of his work. Now Johnnie Armstrong stared down his long nose at the inspector and smirked.

  ‘I was in Melbourne that day,’ he volunteered, and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette.

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘Yair, prob’ly.’

  Now the smugness was unmistakable. Kelly could feel the conceit rising in the insolent young man like yeast in a bowl of dough. He bit down on his annoyance and dropped his voice. ‘Well, would you care to tell me where you were, and who you were with?’

  ‘Yair, the missus.’

  ‘And what is her name?’

  ‘Susan Armstrong.’

  ‘And can you give me an address at which she might be found?’ Mick Kelly had fallen into his customary habit, when faced with dumb insolence, of treating his witness as one of the Hard of Thinking brigade. Spell everything out as though they had the intelligence of a concussed beetle. That way they might lose their rag, but he wouldn’t. Ever.

  ‘Waterford Street, East Richmond. Number fourteen.’

  ‘And did anybody else happen to see you on that day, apart from the missus?’

  Armstrong folded his arms and smiled. The smile had all the warmth of a polar midnight. ‘Yair, they did.’

  Kelly waited, and made a silent mime of encouragement.

  ‘Reverend McThomais. He’s her brother.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for your time, Mr Armstrong.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  As Inspector Kelly stumped back to his battered old Ford, he decided that Armstrong’s alibi could wait for the present. And Miss Fisher still owed him one, if not more.

  On the way back to the Mooltan, having deposited Frances Pollock and possessions into the care of Morag McKenzie, Dot was still curious. ‘Miss Phryne, what’s the connection with the mercer’s shop? I don’t understand that bit.’

  Phryne swerved suddenly to avoid a large dog intent on sinking its teeth into the Hispano-Suiza’s front bumper bar. ‘Simple. The runaway women supply craft objects for the shop and help earn their keep that way. You said that Aunty Morag brought in a big brown-paper bag with her—that will be the latest consignment of knitted and embroidered stuff. What she took away was raw materials for more. Your new calico bag was embroidered by Janet McKenzie, whom we did not see. I’m guessing she and the other runaways are on the premises, but Miss McKenzie is not letting us into any more secrets than she can help.’

  ‘And you’re sure you believe her about Helena?’

  ‘Yes, Dot, I do. She has no reason to lie, and every reason to speed me on my way. The last thing she wants is a visit from the cops.’

  Dot subsided, feeling that a little more gratitude from Aunty Morag would have been only proper. As it was, the latter had accepted Phryne’s proffered two five-pound notes in her ancient claw and grunted the briefest of thankyous.

  The comforting bluestone solidity of the Mooltan hove into view, and Phryne stopped the car outside. ‘I’m resting up until dinner,’ she declared. ‘We might as well dine at the Temperance again, if we’re playing cards there. If I fall asleep, come and get me at a quarter to six, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  Dot found it hard to sleep during the day, preferring healthful early nights to obtain her necessary recuperation. Phryne had heard of early nights but considered them hideously overrated. She strode upstairs and stripped off her street clothes. As she lay on her bed in her blue silk pyjamas, she found it hard to relax. Only one of her mysteries was solved. Who was Alice’s Young Man of Mystery? While decidedly less urgent a question than the others, it nonetheless niggled at Phryne. And, more significantly, where was Helena? It was still possible that Captain Spencer was holding her hostage somewhere. She found the Captain very attractive, but he might still be capable of drastic measures to protect his beloved spa. Dot’s theory was a very attractive one. Good old Dot! She had learned much about detective work during her time with Phryne. Tomorrow Phryne would return to the spa and renew her acquaintance with the worthy Captain.

  As for the murders, she was still in the dark. Mick Kelly was right to doubt the theory of murder to eliminate rivals in love. It was scarcely credible. Most of the young men about town were guileless youths, and the worthy caber tosser the most guileless of the lot. Only Johnnie Armstrong looked even possible as a candidate. She had disliked the man on sight, finding him arrogant, over-sure of himself and disdainful of his fellow creatures. She must have another talk with the inspector. She owed him a substantial favour now—but if she were able to nab his murderer for him, that splendid copper would count himself in her debt. She smiled to herself. Phryne wondered why she was so certain that the murderer would strike again at the cinema opening. Surely not? And yet the murderer had struck three times already. The two murders Phryne had been witness to were both done in the open. Lots of witnesses, but also innumerable suspects. This argued a cool, calculating brain and immense self-control. She supposed Mick Kelly was patiently sifting through what evidence was available at this late date in order to work out the possibilities. One thing was certain. The suspect must have been present at the Highland Gathering, the dance and the train ride. Good luck with that, she mused, and promptly fell asleep.

  When Dot’s nervous knock sounded on her door Phryne was already dressed in a dark green trouser suit and substantial boots. Phryne had concluded that Daylesford’s cobbled bluestone walkways were too pointy for more delicate footwear. Dot was dressed in beige and brown, with beige overtones. One day, Phryne swore, she would persuade Dot to try on some brighter colours. They were waved on their way by Dulcie, who was carrying a substantial laundry basket on her hip with no apparent effort.

  As they made their sedate wa
y towards Daylesford, Phryne half turned to Dot. ‘I need you to keep an eye on our three hosts, Dot. Since you’re not playing, you’ll notice more than me.’

  ‘Are you still thinking Jessie might be our murderer?’

  ‘I don’t think that anymore, Dot. These murders are a complete mystery, I’m sorry to say, though I intend to solve them. No, there’s something else niggling away at me. My subconscious is tapping me on the shoulder and saying, Excuse me? So keep an eye out.’

  ‘I will, Miss. What’s wrong?’ For Phryne had clasped both hands on the steering wheel and groaned.

  ‘Dot, I am an idiot! Actually, what I want you to do is this. Apparently, they’re closing at seven tonight, but serving an early dinner. And that means washing-up for someone. I want you to help out.’

  ‘All right, Miss. May I ask why?’

  Phryne turned to face her companion, her face set and hard. ‘Dot, if there is a Cinderella in this pub, it isn’t Jessie—it’s the mysterious cousin Peggy. The girl who slaves over a hot stove and never gets to see anyone. She’ll be doing the cleaning up while the two barmaids get to play cards. While I’m finding out if they enjoy bridge or just play it to keep Uncle Drunkard happy, I want you to determine if she’s a possible suspect.’

  Dot thought about this. What if she really were the eternal outcast, and had gone mad and started killing boys out of sheer resentment? It wasn’t likely, but neither were any of the other possible explanations. ‘That’s a good idea, Miss. I’ll let you know.’

  They were met in the main bar by Annie, dressed in a simple long skirt, blouse and apron in light blue and white. There were no other patrons. ‘Hello, Miss Fisher,’ she said, her face opening up like a summer rose. ‘If you’re here for dinner, there’s only lamb chops, I’m afraid. It looks like everyone else is staying home tonight.’

  ‘Lamb chops for two would be lovely, Annie. And I believe you’re to be my partner tonight?’

  Annie’s smile could have kick-started a tractor. ‘Really? Jessie said you were playing tonight and I thought she was joking. I’ll look forward to that. We play in the dining room, so you won’t have to move.’ With that, Annie wafted back behind the bar, in case of late patrons wishing to drink in her extraordinary beauty.

  Phryne and Dot ate a pleasant meal with steamed vegetables and gooseberry pie, served by Jessie wearing dark blue trousers and a check shirt. When it was all cleared away, Phryne said casually, ‘Jessie, Dot doesn’t play cards, so she’d like to help with the washing-up, if that’s all right.’

  Jessie looked at Phryne quizzically. ‘If you’re sure, Miss Fisher. Peggy could do with the company. She doesn’t play either.’ She gestured to Dot, who rose and followed, taking the salt and pepper shakers with her.

  Jessie led the way through some narrow corridors into a cream-painted kitchen. A pleasant-looking young woman in a huge apron and a mob cap was bent over a kitchen sink filled with suds and saucepans. ‘Peggy, this is Dot. She’s going to help you out tonight.’

  A freckled, pointed face turned towards them. ‘Sweet! Hello, Dot. There’s a spare apron over there on the hook. Can you scrub down the table for me?’

  Mr McKenzie opened a side door and sat himself at the table after removing his hat with a courtly bow. ‘It is very kind of you to indulge the girls in this way, Miss Fisher,’ he said in his throaty voice. ‘Annie and Jessie love their cards, and the doctor is indisposed the nicht. You are to partner Annie, I believe?’

  Phryne had stood up, thus allowing her host to seat himself. She looked him over. The man had scrubbed up rather well this evening. He wore a dark suit with waistcoat, and there was even a necktie around his shiny, scrubbed neck. A fob-watch chain disappeared into the left-hand pocket of the jacket. All that was missing was a black hat and moustache for him to have looked the complete riverboat gambler. There was one nick on his cheek, showing where he and his razor had been renewing their acquaintance, though the horrible beard was still very much in evidence. Annie wafted in and sat herself opposite Phryne with a look of innocent excitement. McKenzie drew out a newish pack of cards from his other pocket. Then Jessie returned from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of dark beer and four glasses. These she placed on the white linen tablecloth before she disappeared through another door, emerging a moment later with a blank sheet of paper and a large pencil. ‘Who wants to score?’ she enquired, with a look around the table.

  ‘May I?’

  Jessie gave Annie a look of sisterly affection and handed over the page and pencil.

  Annie wrote, in large capitals, the words Annie/Phryne and Uncle/ Jessie next to each other. A thick vertical line was drawn down the middle of the paper, and two horizontal lines.

  ‘High card for dealer,’ Jessie announced and cut the pack. Jessie won with the king of diamonds and dealt the cards swiftly. She fiddled with her hand for a short moment, then folded it up and laid it down on the tablecloth. ‘Pass,’ she announced, and stared at the ceiling.

  Annie gave her cards a solid workout and announced One Club.

  McKenzie passed, and Phryne, looking at the dismal collection in front of her, announced, ‘One diamond.’

  ‘Two clubs,’ Annie responded, a crease of puzzlement adorning her lovely brow.

  There were no more bids. Jessie gave Phryne a sidelong look and laid the four of spades on the table. Since Phryne’s only high card was the ace of spades, she laid that over the four. She collected the cards and led her solitary diamond, which Annie took with the ace and returned a small diamond, which Phryne was able to ruff with the three of clubs. Annie took the rest of the tricks except for the king of trumps, which McKenzie claimed.

  ‘Six clubs made,’ Annie announced, and wrote thirty-six above the line, and fifty below it. Her brow clouded again. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Miss Fisher, but what made you bid diamonds when you only had the one?’

  Phryne lightly slapped her forehead. ‘I’m so sorry. I forgot we were playing auction, not contract. In contract bridge one club is a bid announcing a very strong hand. As your partner, I’d need to tell you something about my own hand. So one diamond just means that my hand was very weak.’

  ‘So it turned out all right then. I did have a strong hand anyway. And you led the singleton because you wanted a return ruff?’

  ‘Indeed yes, Annie. And you gave it to me. Well done.’

  They played many more hands. There could be no doubt about the fact that her three companions were enjoying themselves immensely. The battle swayed to and fro, with Phryne and Annie ahead with a comfortable margin, until a crisis was reached. McKenzie was playing in six diamonds, having beaten off a spirited auction from Annie, who clearly had a whale of a spade suit and intended to bid it until the cows came home and tucked themselves into bed. McKenzie had the spade ace, which he was obliged to play at trick one, since Annie had opened with the king. He then ran the rest of his tricks from his hand until he ruffed a club in dummy, which was holding three small hearts and the three of trumps. Phryne had discarded everything else and was grimly hanging on to the heart king, jack and four, plus an unimportant club. This time, Phryne vowed to herself, you are going down, Mr McKenzie. Yes, you have, I believe, the ace and the queen, and probably also the five, plus a trump. But you have two heart losers. No slam for you, my inebriate friend.

  McKenzie stared at dummy, and then at Annie, and closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he selected the five of hearts and laid it on the table. Annie stared at it as though it were a red-back spider, and with a small sigh laid the nine on it. And McKenzie reached into his own hand and played not the ace or queen, but the eight. He then closed his eyes again, leaned back in his chair, and gave Phryne a sidelong grin.

  Phryne’s frown deepened. Let’s see. If I play the king or the jack, he wins the last two hearts. But if I duck as well, Annie’s probably only got spades, which gives him a ruff and discard. Well, the endplay is certain. Annie might have something other than spades, but I doubt it. Phryne playe
d the four of hearts and looked expectantly at her partner, who shook her head, collected the trick, and laid down the queen of spades. McKenzie tossed the queen of hearts onto the table, took the trick with dummy’s last trump, and laid down the ace of hearts and the final trump from his own hand.

  Jessie clapped her hands. ‘Oh, well played, Uncle! That was brilliantly done!’

  McKenzie beamed at her. ‘Well, well, that was unfortunate, Miss Fisher,’ he commiserated with maximum magnanimity. ‘It just came to me in a moment. Jessie? Another bottle, please?’

  They played for another half-hour, but Mr McKenzie’s bolt was clearly shot, and he began to play erratically, and drink freely. Twice he failed to follow suit, but was immediately corrected by Jessie, who replaced the cards in his hand and called for a more proper response. He then opened a third bottle, but Annie laid her hand on his arm. ‘Uncle? We shouldn’t take up any more of Miss Fisher’s time. The score’s pretty much even, so that’s a good place to leave it.’

  McKenzie was instantly contrite, and rose unsteadily to his feet, like a schooner tacking in a high wind. ‘My thanks to you, Miss Fisher. You played splendidly. I and my nieces thank you for your indulgence.’

  Jessie, meanwhile, disappeared down the corridor, returning with Dot, who appeared to have spent a more convivial evening than might have been expected.

  ‘Thank you all for your hospitality,’ Phryne said, nodding to each in turn. ‘Dot? It’s time we were on our way.’

  The street was dark, save for a single streetlight. Bright stars blazed down out of a cloudless sky, and in the west Orion was leaning towards Ballarat. They drove home in silence and parked the car outside the Mooltan. Night creatures fussed in the treetops and whickered to themselves. ‘Dot, before we go inside, tell all. Is the mystery Cinderella a likely suspect?’