Death in Daylesford Read online

  They scoured the room, looking under the bed, in the cupboard, in, under and on top of the wardrobe. They opened her school diary and looked right through it. On the back page, Ruth pointed in mounting excitement. ‘Jane, this has to be a clue! Look.’

  ‘I love my love with an e, for my heart is reciprocal,’ Jane read, and frowned. ‘Does this mean that the boy’s name begins with an E? Edward? Ernest? And what does reciprocal mean?’

  ‘It means her love was returned. But … I wonder.’

  However, they searched for another twenty minutes or so and found nothing of substance. Claire’s books were all in Dewey Decimal order: a poignant reminder of how methodical she had been. In the fiction section, there were a few historical romances. She seemed to have liked, of all people, Sir Walter Scott, since her copy of Ivanhoe was well-thumbed and briskly annotated. Closer inspection revealed some very tart comments in pencil. It appeared Scott’s romantic imagination had disappointed her. A very ordinary depiction of love at bottom, she had inscribed in her neat handwriting. All he does is put Rebecca in mortal danger. No wonder her father takes them away to Spain and safety. England was a bad place to be a Jew!

  ‘She was hard to please,’ Ruth commented. She had loved Ivanhoe herself when younger, though she had not read it since.

  They exchanged a look of helplessness. ‘Do we give up?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Miss Phryne wouldn’t,’ Jane objected. ‘I still think there’s a diary here. We have to find it.’

  ‘It’s very well hidden.’

  ‘It is. But we’ll find it.’

  In the end, they did find it. Between the wardrobe and the wall, one of the floorboards seemed slightly out of whack with the others. Since the entire house was otherwise as close to perfection as possible, this seemed significant. With difficulty, Jane prised the loose board out. Inside was a small, flat box with a combination lock on it.

  ‘Jane, can you pick locks?’

  ‘No. But we may not need to.’ Jane tried a few combinations, but the four wheels refused to click open. She laid the box on the bed. ‘Ruth, can you give me her diary again?’

  Ruth handed over the school diary and Jane flipped the pages until she found what she wanted. ‘Claire wrote here I love my love with an e …’ Jane flicked the wheels to the numbers 2718. But the box resolutely refused to yield up its secrets. ‘Blast. I thought I’d solved it. Two-seven-one-eight are the first four digits of the number e. It’s an irrational number, like pi.’

  ‘Oh.’ Higher mathematics were a matter of complete bewilderment to Ruth. ‘Did she ever talk about this e thing to you?’

  ‘Oh yes. We had some good conversations about it. The number e is the foundation of calculus. And logarithms. Oh, wait. She did say her love was reciprocal …’

  Her fingers moved quickly, and the lock sprang open. ‘I thought so! The first four digits of one over e are three-six-seven-eight. And now we have the diary.’

  With Ruth looking assiduously over her shoulder, Jane flicked through the pages. ‘Oh.’

  After five minutes or so of breathless reading, Jane handed it to Ruth. ‘Keep reading if you want to. I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘So her lover’s name begins with T. Unless it’s another misdirection.’

  ‘I doubt it. We need to tell Mr Hugh. And Tinker.’

  ‘Are we going to give this to Mrs Knight?’ It was Ruth’s first encounter with erotic prose, and she was very reluctant to hand it over.

  Jane gave her a severe look. ‘I’ll give you five more minutes with it, and then we give it to her.’

  ‘Won’t she be horrified?’

  Jane thought about this. ‘Not as much as you might think. I guess she will be pleased that her daughter was greatly loved and appreciated. It’s something to put against her untimely death.’

  ‘Poor Claire. It really was a bit Romeo and Juliet, wasn’t it?’ Ruth was still flicking through the pages as slowly as she dared.

  Jane bit her lip in frustration. ‘It shouldn’t have been like that!’ she protested. ‘Lots of young girls get pregnant. It didn’t have to end like this. I have no patience with pointless tragedy.’ There was a tense silence while Ruth read to the last page. ‘All right, what’s the last entry?’

  Ruth handed it over in silence, tears furrowing down her cheeks. Jane read as follows:

  Today I am going to break the news to T. He promised we’d be together, and we will be. Mum will be mad at us, but I think she’ll let us marry. And Father does what Mum tells him to. I’m sixteen and T is seventeen. That’s old enough. And while I’m nursing the baby, I’ll finish school. I’m going to be a doctor no matter what. Nothing is going to stop me. And we’ll be together. It won’t be easy. We can’t start a family living at home. Maybe we’ll have to live apart for a while. But T will finish school this year. He’s clever. And when he’s working next year we can be a proper family. I love him so much. Does he love me enough? I hope so. When he holds me in his strong arms I can see the love in his eyes. Marry me! Love me. Kiss me. Hold me!!!

  ‘Oh, Jane!’ Ruth put her hand to her chest. ‘So what happened, do you think?’

  ‘I expect she broke the news and he ran a mile.’

  ‘Did he kill her, though? Surely not!’

  ‘We don’t know, Ruth. It might have been an accident. Come on. We need to talk to Mrs Knight.’

  Downstairs, the bereaved mother leafed through the pages in frozen silence then handed the book back to Jane. ‘It’s as I expected,’ she said. ‘You are clever girls. How did you find it?’

  Jane described the missing board and the combination lock.

  ‘You must give this to the police. Give it to the sergeant, please. I suppose that inspector will have to see it in due course—’ for a moment, Mrs Knight looked daggers at the relentlessly polished floorboards ‘—but I would much rather he didn’t.’

  ‘He needn’t,’ Jane interposed. ‘If we can find this boy and persuade him to confess, I don’t think we need tell the inspector anything. If he’s stupid enough to think that your brother is … what he thinks he is … then he isn’t entitled to any consideration. And I don’t think he should be allowed to gawp at your daughter’s private diary. Let him eat cake!’

  This time Mrs Knight allowed herself a proper smile. ‘You are good girls, both of you. All right. I’ll keep this for a few days. But you must tell your sergeant about it. And—good luck. Would you like some tea before you go?’

  The girls exchanged a lightning glance; both had noted the imminent arrival of tears on that stern visage.

  ‘No thanks, Mrs Knight,’ said Ruth. ‘We need to go home now. Don’t worry—we’ll find him!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears

  Today of past Regrets and future Fears:

  Tomorrow!—Why, Tomorrow I may be

  Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.

  Edward Fitzgerald,

  The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr

  Phryne returned to the Mooltan for an afternoon rest, which she spent lying on her bed with a gin and tonic, reading a light detective story. It was Dorothy L. Sayers’ Whose Body? and it was a splendid read. How simple life was in that fictional world! She read through to the end, having picked the wrong villain on page five and the correct villain on page sixty-nine. She laid down the book and smiled. Miss Sayers had done splendidly, and Phryne would read anything further she chose to release to the world; but real life was so much more complex. She wondered whether or not she should see the inspector again, but decided against it. Mick Kelly was a good copper, no question about it, but he didn’t want theories; he wanted results. Phryne was reasonably certain that she would be able to give him what he had asked for. Her guess at the intended target was probably right, but if she stayed unobtrusively close to the villain it would not greatly matter if she had picked the wrong victim. She finished her drink and shook her head in utter loathing and revulsion. Which wou
ld not do. She needed to treat the murderer as a worthy foe, which he undoubtedly was. Aside from one single oversight, he had committed three all-but-perfect murders. Save the loathing for afterwards.

  Meanwhile, there was tonight to think about. She ran through her plan in her head and could find no fault with it. She was all but certain that Helena was alive and being tolerably well-treated, apart from being held in durance reasonably vile. Should she have investigated earlier? This was always a thorny issue. But she would only get one chance at this or the kidnapper might take fright, with incalculable consequences. She decided to take Dulcie and Dot with her. They would need three pursuers, preferably spread out around a tight perimeter so as to preclude all possibility of escape. She decided against taking Aubrey. Dulcie had told Aubrey to stay put at the Mooltan until called for. Feeling as ready as she ever would be, Phryne drifted into a light and dreamless sleep.

  At six o’clock there was a knock on her door. ‘Miss Phryne? It’s dinnertime.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a few minutes, Dot.’ When she arrived in the dining room, Alice was laying out a simple dinner of ham and cheese sandwiches, along with slices from a fresh apricot-and-pear pie and Italian coffee. Dulcie emerged from the kitchen, and the four of them sat down to eat, at Phryne’s invitation. No one asked any questions, which pleased Phryne greatly. Only when the meal was over did Dulcie look up expectantly.

  ‘Dulcie,’ Phryne announced, ‘you, Dot and I are going on an expedition tonight.’

  Dulcie put down her coffee cup. ‘Where are we going?’

  Phryne outlined her plan. ‘Comfortable clothes and boots, black if you have them. We will require secrecy. And I will bring my flashlight. Country nights are so surprisingly dark.’

  ‘Is Aubrey going with you?’ Alice asked.

  Phryne shook her head. ‘Men get overexcited in rescues—and other delicate moments. We will manage.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Alice in a melting voice, gazing at Dulcie, who clasped her hand for a moment and stroked her hair.

  ‘Alice,’ Phryne continued, ‘I need you to ring Helena’s mother around eight and ask her to meet us here. I hope to be able to return her daughter to her, but you never know. If it’s a washout, I’ll come back and tell you it’s off. But I really don’t think I’ll need to do so.’

  Alice glowed, happy to be given some responsibility without actual danger.

  ‘All right, everybody know what we’re doing? Good. Now, let’s get changed.’

  When they met downstairs a short while later, Dot had attired herself in a long, dark brown woollen dress with matching jumper. Phryne wore black trousers, shirt and jacket, with her best walking boots. Boots were good in a scuffle, and the road, she remembered, was broken and stony.

  The light had drained out of the sky as they set off up the road. It smelled eerily of mineral springs and wattle, and the nocturnal creatures were out and about their customary errands, and making a decent racket over them. A koala grunted, and an offended night-bird swooped off through the trees. Looking at her companions, Phryne belatedly realised that Dot’s disguise was, if anything, better than her own. Surprisingly, Dulcie was dressed in emerald green trousers and jacket, which, as soon as they moved out of range of the outside light, simply vanished into the Stygian darkness.

  When they neared the bottling plant, Phryne beckoned to Dot to close up behind her. Her companion slipped on a stone and would have fallen over had Phryne not gripped her arm tightly. Dulcie’s measured footsteps paced the road without a slip. She was doubtless more accustomed to unmade roads. By unspoken consent they stopped in a huddle. Ahead of them, buildings loomed up in the dusk. A little light was spilling out of one of them.

  ‘All right.’ Phryne grinned at them. ‘Over the top!’

  Dulcie smiled. Dot gritted her teeth and looked stoic. Phryne switched off the torch. Her jacket pocket contained her gun, and a spare box of ammunition in case Vern needed more suppression than six bullets could provide.

  The plant was nothing more than three large galvanised-iron sheds. Phryne waved the others back and crept up to a lighted window in one of them. She peered in to look. Vern was filling bottles from a keg by the light of a kerosene lamp, quietly and slowly, with concentrated efficiency. Sid sat lounging in a wicker chair, watching him. There was no one else there. Phryne tiptoed back to Dot and Dulcie. ‘Try the other two.’ They slipped away and Phryne went back to the window to keep watch there.

  Dulcie approached the second shed and pulled the door open with agonising slowness, wary of creaking hinges. ‘Hello?’ she said in a low voice. ‘Anyone there?’

  There was no answer. She did not dare step inside in case she tripped over something.

  ‘Dulcie,’ said Dot next to her ear, ‘the other one’s locked from the inside.’

  Dulcie followed Dot back to the third shed, which stood a little apart from the others. She knocked gently. ‘Helena? It’s me, Dulcie. We’re going home now. Come on.’

  There was a sound of a rusty bar being pulled back. The door opened. In the faint light, there was Helena, still in her white nurse’s dress. Her feet were bare. ‘Dulcie?’ said the girl. ‘Thank God for that! But he took my shoes. I’ll have to walk barefoot. Not that I care!’

  The three women hastened soundlessly into the night.

  Back at Shed One, Phryne heard Sid speak, but she could not catch the words. Vern’s reply, however, was loud and emphatic.

  ‘No! Mum said not to play with girls! And I won’t!’

  A vast realisation flooded Phryne’s brain. She’d been right about the place, but all wrong about the villain.

  Now Sid raised his voice. ‘Vern, I got ya the girl so youse could stay here with me! Mum told me to look after ya. Youse don’t need to go live at the pub!’

  At that moment, bright moonlight appeared above the hill. Sid chanced to look out another window, and what he saw there caused him to leap up from his chair. He ran out the door and yelled, ‘You come back, ya little slut! You live here now!’

  ‘No!’ said Vern. ‘Don’t hurt her, Sid!’

  Phryne moved quickly around the shed, drew out her pistol, and pointed it directly at Sid’s head. ‘Stop right where you are, Sid. Hands in the air!’

  Sid gaped at her, froze, and put up his hands.

  Phryne turned to Vern, who had followed his brother through the door. ‘Hello, Vern,’ she said. ‘I’m Phryne Fisher. Why don’t you drive the girls home while I deal with Sid?’

  Vern blinked at her. The yellow light spilling out of the open door showed a slim, black-coated figure holding a gun to his brother. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss. I’ll do that.’

  Dulcie, Dot and Helena climbed onto the tray of the ancient truck. Vern got into the cabin and opened the window to address the girls. ‘Got to wait here for the lady,’ he explained, and sat immobile. His three passengers watched in admiration as Phryne advanced on Sid.

  ‘I’m not going to shoot you right now—’ Phryne steadied her hand so the gun was pointing between Sid’s eyes ‘—because we don’t want any trouble for the Captain. But you’re going into the shed where you locked up Helena, and I’m going to lock you in. Or you can receive, at no extra charge, several more holes in your worthless body. Of course, if you have violated Helena, then I’m going to shoot you anyway. I’ve nothing else to do with my evening, you horrible creature.’

  ‘Nah, I haven’t touched her. I got her for Vern. He likes lookin’ at girls.’

  ‘And you don’t, of course. Well then, in you go.’

  Sid marched obediently into the third shed. There was no light inside, and Phryne did not offer him any. There was a separate lock on the outside, and she shot the bolt home with a loud snick. ‘Have fun!’ she exclaimed, and joined Vern in the cabin. He started the engine, and the truck galumphed its way down the hill towards Hepburn Springs.

  ‘Where are we going, Miss?’

  ‘The Mooltan. We want our supper. Would you like some too?’

/>   ‘Yes, Miss. But Sid says I eat too much.’

  ‘Never mind Sid. But your mum would be proud of you, Vern.’

  He thought about this. ‘Can I have apple pie, Miss?’

  ‘As it happens, Vern, you may. There’s half a pie left. And you can have it all.’

  The truck groaned to a halt out the front of the Mooltan. The front door was open, and Alice stood beside a frazzled-looking woman in a brown overcoat. The newcomer gazed at the truck, and her face glowed with relief. Helena leaped down and embraced her. ‘I’m back, Mum!’ Tears ran down her mother’s cheeks, and she wrapped both arms around her daughter, and did not let go for a long moment.

  Alice stared at Phryne and Dulcie in unabashed hero-worship. And behind her, Phryne saw Aubrey standing in the doorway. Phryne gave Aubrey full marks for allowing Mum to have first go at the Welcome Home.

  Soon after, Phryne surveyed the dining room with satisfaction. Everyone was talking excitedly except for Vern, who sat at the table with a napkin tucked into his grimy shirt front, methodically working his way through three-fifths of an apple pie, with extra cream. She let them talk themselves into a lull, then tapped a teaspoon on the side of her coffee cup.

  ‘I think we need to take note of local sensibilities tomorrow, Helena. You, your mother and Dulcie should go and visit Sergeant Offaly and explain that you and Aubrey had experienced a bridal argument, and as a result you came to stay here at the Mooltan, giving strict instructions that no one was to know where you were. Does that suit?’

  Phryne looked the girl over. Helena was very pretty, with short hair cut in a bob. The nurse’s uniform suited her well. There was a sweetness in her manner, but Phryne detected a whim of iron beneath it.

  The girl took Aubrey’s hand in hers and held it tight. Then she fixed a penetrating blue gaze on her mother’s face and nodded.