Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher Page 5

  ‘I trust, sir, that he remembered to repay you?’ asked Phryne frigidly. Mr Sanderson patted her arm.

  ‘Of course. I regret mentioning the matter. May I escort you, Miss Fisher?’

  ‘No, sir, I am going to the Queen Victoria Hospital. But perhaps you could remind me of the way?’

  ‘Straight up the street, Miss Fisher, and turn into Little Lonsdale Street and thus into Mint Place, just past the Town Hall. A matter of half a mile, perhaps.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ smiled Phryne. Then she released herself, and walked away, a little offended and saddened. If her father had left debts of honour all over Melbourne, then establishing herself in society was going to be difficult. However, she was inclined to like Mr Sanderson, MP. He had a hearty voice and an open and unaffected manner, which must be an asset to any politician. And perhaps he could give her lunch at the Melbourne Club, the bastions of which Phryne had a mind to storm.

  She climbed the hill to the museum, located Mint Place with a certain difficulty, and announced herself at the desk in a ramshackle building, smelling rather agreeably of carbolic and milk.

  It was partly wood and partly brick, and seemed to have been built rather on the spur of the moment than to any pre-arranged plan. It was painted buttercup-yellow and white inside.

  Dr MacMillan appeared, dressed in a white overall which became her well, and gentleman’s trousers with a formal collar and tie showing above a tweed waistcoat.

  ‘This way, dear girl, and I’ll show you a consulting-room, a ward and the nursery, and then we’ll go to luncheon,’ said Dr MacMillan over her shoulder as she took a set of oilcloth-covered stairs like a steeplechaser.

  For all her age and bulk, Dr MacMillan was as fit as a bull. They reached the top in good order, and Dr MacMillan opened a painted door and disclosed a small white room, windowless, equipped with couch and chair and desk and medicine cabinet.

  ‘Small, but adequate,’ commented the doctor. ‘Now to the nursery.’

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Phryne, ‘how did this hospital for women come about? Was it a charitable endowment by the old Queen?’

  ‘It was a surprising thing, Phryne — could only have happened in a new country. Two women physicians began a practice here in Melbourne, and the medical establishment, being what they still are — blighted and hide-bound conservatives — would not allow their femininity to sully the pure air of their hospitals. Nurses, yes. Doctors, no. So they set up in the hall of the Welsh Church — the only hall that they could get; I’ve felt kinder toward the Welsh ever since — and they had one tap and one steriliser and, pretty soon, more patients than they could cram in. They were sleeping on the floor, and there were deliveries on the hour. But they didn’t want only a lying-in hospital, and they petitioned for a general hospital. Parliament refused them any funds, of course. So they petitioned the Queen, and every woman in Victoria gave her shilling, and the old Queen (God bless her) gave them their charter and the right to call it the Queen Victoria Hospital. Unfortunately the fabric of this building is none too good. We shall be moving in a few years to a new home, and then we can raze this tenement to the ground. It used to be a governesses’ school. In here, Phryne, is the nursery. Do you like babies?’

  Phryne laughed. ‘No, not at all. They are not aesthetic like a puppy or a kitten. In fact, they always look drunk to me. Look at that one — you’d swear he had been hitting the gin.’

  She pointed out an unsteady infant with a wide and vacant smile, repeatedly reaching for and failing to seize a large woollen ball. Phryne picked up the ball and handed it to the child, who waved his hand and gurgled. Elizabeth lifted the baby and tickled him while he cooed. Not the faintest spurt of maternity?’ she asked slyly.

  ‘Not the faintest,’ Phryne grinned, and shook the baby by its small, plump hand. ‘Bye, baby. I hope your mother loves you better.’

  ‘She may,’ replied the doctor dryly, ‘but she abandoned him all the same. At least she gave him to us, and not some baby farmer who’d starve him to death.’

  ‘How many are there?’ asked Phryne, covering her ears as one baby began to cry, which set all the rest of them off so that the nursery resounded with little roars of fury.

  ‘About thirty; it’s a quiet night,’ replied the doctor. She replaced the child in his cot and led the deafened Phryne out of the nursery and down a flight of stairs to a ward.

  Rows of white draped beds stretched to infinity. There were moveable screens in yellow around some of the beds, and on most of the white painted lockers were small traces of individuality; pictures or books or flowers. The floor was polished and dustless, and down the length of the room was a long trestle table loaded with linen, and trays and equipment.

  ‘Here’s a remarkable man, you know,’ she added, stopping at the seventh bed from the door. ‘He brought this poor lass in — she collapsed in his cab.’

  Cec stood up, laying Alice’s hand gently down, and ducked his head. Waking up, Alice saw an elegant lady standing before her, and smiled.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ Phryne asked, feeling a wave of affection for the girl.

  ‘Better,’ whispered Alice, ‘I’m going to get better.’ And Cec said slowly, ‘Too right.’

  ‘Sleepy,’ murmured Alice, and floated off again. Cec sat down and took up her hand.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Phryne asked as they moved on.

  ‘Criminal abortion — the monster nearly killed her with his unskilful butchery — and, from what she says, raped her as well.’

  ‘Police?’ asked Phryne, wincing.

  ‘Say they can do nothing until someone locates the bastard. I believe that yon cabbie and his mate are looking for him. They were much concerned. You recognise him, Phryne?’

  ‘Of course, he’s Bert’s mate, Cec. You don’t think that he’s responsible for her condition?’

  ‘I thought that, naturally. But I don’t believe so. His mate says that he’s never seen her before until the man put her into their taxi in Lonsdale Street.’

  ‘Will she live?’ asked Phryne.

  ‘I believe so,’ said Dr MacMillan.

  ‘Now, I’ve found a pleasant place for lunch, so let us go, otherwise I’ll get distracted again, and won’t have lunch until next week.’

  She led the way at a fast trot to a small but clean dairy with scrubbed pine tables and stone walls, and pulled out a chair.

  ‘Ah, what a place,’ sighed Dr MacMillan. ‘The missus makes excellent pies and the coffee is all that the heart can desire. Mrs Jones,’ she bellowed through a serving hatch, ‘Lunch! Coffee! And that right speedily!’ An answering ‘All right, Doctor, hold your horses!’ from the room behind indicated that Dr MacMillan had made her presence felt before. Phryne put down her purse and lit a gasper.

  ‘I see that they have accepted your trousers, Elizabeth,’ she commented.

  ‘Aye, they have, and without a murmur,’ Dr MacMillan ran a broad hand through her short pepper-and-salt crop. ‘And they’ve a fascinating collection of patients. Ah, coffee.’

  The coffee arrived in a tall jug, accompanied by hot milk and granulated sugar. Phryne poured herself a cup and sipped. It was indeed excellent. Dark and pure.

  ‘And what have you been doing, m’dear?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Establishing myself. I’ve hired a maid,’ answered Phryne, and told Dr MacMillan all about Dorothy. ‘And I think I shall buy a plane. A new Avro perhaps.’

  ‘I always meant to ask you, Phryne, how did you come to be answering my call for help in the ’flu epidemic? You could have knocked me over with a feather when I sighted you climbing down out of that plane.’

  ‘Simple,’ said Phryne, sipping coffee. ‘I was at the airbase when your call came in, and there was only me and a mechanic there. And a choice of two planes, both of ’em rather war-weary. There was a dance in the village and all the men had gone to it. So I persuaded Irish Michael to swing on the propeller of the old Bristol, and off I went. It seemed like the right thing
to do. And I got you there, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, aye, you got us there all right. I was never so frightened in all my life; the wind and the storm, and the sight of the waves leaping up to drag us into the water. What a journey! I swear that my hair turned white. And you as cool as a cucumber, even when the compass started to spin.’

  ‘No point in getting upset in the air,’ said Phryne. ‘Very unforgiving element. No use changing your mind about it, either. Once you’re up, you’re up, so to speak.’

  ‘Aye, and once ye’re down, ye’re down. I can’t imagine how we found the island, much less how we landed on it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that was a little tricky, because I couldn’t see very well, what with the spray and the wind, and there’s only one long beach to land upon, and I was afraid that our approach was too fast, but I couldn’t count on finding the beach again, the wind was so strong, so I just put her down; that’s why we ran along the shore for such a long way. But it was a good landing; we had at least ten feet to spare when we ground to a halt.’

  ‘Ten feet,’ said Dr MacMillan faintly. ‘Pour me some coffee, there’s a dear.’

  ‘The real courage in that jaunt,’ observed Phryne, ‘was yours. I couldn’t have gone into those cottages, with all that filth and stench and corpses, not for anything, except that you swept me along in your wake. I still have nightmares about the cottages.’

  ‘Crofts,’ corrected Dr MacMillan. ‘And they need not cause you grief. As my Highland grandmother said — and she had the Sight—“Tis not the dead ye have to be concerned about! Beware of the Living!” And she was a wise woman. The dead are beyond your help or mine, poor things. But the living need us. Thirty souls at the least, Phryne, are still on that island to praise God who might now be angels — or devils. And speaking of courage, m’girl, who crept up the hill onto that lord’s land and led away and slaughtered one of his beasts to make broth?’

  Phryne, recalling the thrill of stalking highland cattle through mist and over bog in company with a handsome young gillie, laughed, and disclaimed any virtue in the feat.

  They lunched amiably on egg-and-bacon pie, then Phryne strolled back to the Windsor in an excellent mood.

  She inspected the hotel’s lounge, found a copy of Herodotus, and took it with her to her suite.

  The rooms were transformed. Dorothy had returned, and had evidently put in a good two hours’ work, fold- ing and hanging and sorting clothes, pairing shoes and repairing ripped hems. A small pile of neatly mended stockings lay over the arm of the sitting-room chair, and a petticoat decorated the other; the long rip in the hem, made by some partner’s heavy foot, was put together like a suture, so the rent could hardly be seen. Phryne dropped into the only unoccupied chair, a little dazed. Dorothy came in from her bedroom, where she had been combing out her hair.

  ‘Did you have a nice lunch, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, and you have evidently been busier than a beaver! How did you manage with the cards?’

  ‘Very well, Miss. And I got my bundle, and all. Here’s the change from the taxi.’

  ‘Keep it, Dorothy, a woman should have a little extra money. Did you remember to have lunch?’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss. And there’s a note for you, brought by hand about an hour ago,’ she said, handing Phryne a folded letter.

  ‘Thank you, Dorothy. I don’t want anything for the moment, so why don’t you finish your hair. You mend beautifully,’ she added. ‘Why did you become a house-maid?’

  ‘Mum thought it best,’ replied Dorothy. ‘It ain’t nice to work in factories or shops.’

  ‘I see,’ said Phryne. Factory work was still considered low.

  Phryne unfolded the note. It was headed in gold with the name ‘Cryer’ in a tasteless and flamboyant script, and the address underneath; Toorak, of course. The handwriting was also lacking style, being scrawled across the page in purple ink.

  ‘Please honour a little dinner party tomorrow night. Melanie Cryer’. It boded ill; purple ink and no directions about time or dress. There was a telephone number below the gold heading. Phryne picked up the instrument and spoke to the operator.

  ‘Toorak 325,’ she said, and there was a buzzing and a few odd clunking noises. Then a woman’s voice said, with an accent which was pure Donegal, ‘Cryer’s. Who did ye want?’

  ‘This is Phryne Fisher. Is Mrs Cryer at home?’

  There was a muffled squeak as the maid transferred the message to someone obviously standing next to her, and Phryne heard the experience violently displaced. A shrill voice exclaimed, ‘Why, Miss Fisher, how kind of you to call!’

  Phryne hated the voice instantly, but replied cordially, accepting the invitation and asking at what time and in what habiliments she should present herself at the mansion Cryer. The hour was eight and the clothing formal, ‘Though you will find us very rustic, Miss Fisher!’ Phryne politely disagreed, which took a certain resolution, and rang off. If this was the social pinnacle of Melbourne, she reflected, this was going to be a grim investigation indeed. She sat back in the chair and addressed her maid.

  Dot, I’ve got a question to ask, and I want you to consider it carefully.’ Phryne paused before going on. ‘Do you know an address?’

  Dot dropped the jewellery box she was holding, and earrings spilled out all over the carpet.

  ‘Oh, Miss!’ she breathed. ‘You haven’t been. . caught?’

  ‘No, I’m not pregnant, but I’m looking for an abortionist. Do you know an address?’

  ‘No, Miss, I don’t,’ said Dot stiffly. ‘I don’t approve of such goings-on. She ought to marry him and have it proper. It’s dangerous. . that operation.’

  ‘I know it’s dangerous. The man nearly murdered a friend of my cab-driver’s, and I want to put him out of business. He’s in the city somewhere near Lonsdale Street. Is there anyone you can ask?’

  ‘Well, Miss, if that’s what you’re doing, I’m all for it. There’s my friend, Muriel Miller. She works in the Pickle Factory in Fitzroy. She might know. They’re not all good girls in the factories, that’s why Mum didn’t want me to work there. .’

  ‘Good. Is your friend Muriel married? Is she on the phone?’

  ‘No, Miss, she lives at home; her dad’s got a lolly shop. There will be a phone there. I don’t know the number,’ said Dot dubiously, crawling in search of earrings. She secured and paired the last one as Phryne searched the telephone directory and found the number.

  ‘Will she be at home now?’

  ‘Probably. She helps in the shop in the afternoon.’ Phryne dialled, then held out the phone to Dot.

  ‘Mr Miller? It’s me, Dot Bryant. Can I speak to Muriel? Thank you.’ There was a pause, and she said breathlessly, ‘Hello, Muriel? It’s Dot. . I got a new job and I’m staying at the Windsor!. . Yes, it was a stroke of luck! I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, I’m going home to see Mum, can you come over then?. . Good. M-m-muriel, have you got an address?. . No, it isn’t for me, I promise. It’s for a friend. . No. I can prove it, well, can you find out? All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Muriel. Bye.’

  ‘She says that she’ll find out, Miss. I’ll see her tomorrow. But how do we know that it’s him?’

  ‘There can’t be that many abortionists in Melbourne,’ said Phryne grimly. ‘But, if necessary, I’ll call them all. Now I’m going to dinner.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Made one with Death

  Filled full of the Night

  Algernon Swinburne ‘The Triumph of Time’

  The following morning, Phryne took Dorothy on a shopping tour of Melbourne. She found that the young woman had excellent taste, though inclining to the flamboyant. Dorothy was also most anxious to save Phryne’s money, which was a pleasant change from the bulk of Phryne’s acquaintances, who were over-eager to spend it.

  By luncheon time, they had acquired two uniform-like dresses in dark-blue linen, stockings, shoes, and foundation-garments in an attractive shade of champagne. As well as an overcoat o
f bright azure guaranteed to cheer the winter days, and a richly embroidered afternoon dress, bought over Dorothy’s protests by Phryne, who was adamant that the possession of pretty clothes was the second-best sustainer of a young woman’s morale in the world.

  Phryne had presented her credentials at her bank, and had opened an account at Madame Olga’s in Collins Street, in case some trifle might attract her. This she rather doubted, considering Melbourne fashion, until she was trying on evening gowns in Madame’s sumptuous parlour. Madame, a gaunt, spiritual woman who looked upon the mode as a remote and harsh deity requiring great sacrifices, observed Phryne’s lack of interest in the available gowns, and snapped an order to a scurrying attendant.

  ‘Fetch cinq a Sept,’ she ordered.

  The acolyte returned carrying with nervous tenderness a garment bundled in thin white silk. This was unrolled in reverent silence. Phryne, clad lightly in camiknickers and stockings, waited impatiently for the rite to be completed; she was sure that ice was forming on her upper slopes.

  Madame shook the dress out and flung it over a stand, and stood back to watch Phryne’s reaction with restrained pleasure. Dorothy gasped, and even Phryne’s eyes widened.

  It was deep claret, edged with dark mink; evidently a design by Erté, with few seams, the weight of the garment depending entirely from the shoulder. The deep décolleté was artfully concealed with strings of jet beads, which served the function of preventing the dress from sliding off the wearer’s shoulders, but leaving a gratifying impression that this was, indeed, what it might at any moment do.

  ‘Would mademoiselle wish to try?’ asked Madame, and Phryne allowed the dress to be lowered over her head. It had a train, but not so long as to be inconvenient, and the huge sleeves, inspired by an Imperial Chinese robe, slid gracefully together at the front to make a muff for her hands. The deep colour contrasted effectively with Phryne’s pale skin and black hair, and as she moved, the liquefaction of the satin flowed over her limbs, moulding her as if in gelatine. It was a perfectly decent but utterly erotic dress and Phryne knew that she must have it.