Death in Daylesford Page 5

  Hugh put down his fork and looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs B. It was a really quiet day until about four, and I was looking forward to knocking off on time. But then … well, we got called out to something bad. I don’t want to talk about it at the dinner table, though, if that’s all right.’

  He motored through both courses like a famished labrador, then finally laid down his spoon and grinned. ‘That was amazing!’

  Ruth gathered the dessert bowls and began to carry them out to the kitchen. As soon as she had left the room, Hugh gave Mrs Butler a stricken look. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs B. But yair, disturbed is putting it mildly. We’ve just fished a dead girl out of the bay.’

  From the kitchen came a deafening crash. Ruth appeared at the open door, her eyes wide and her face stricken with grief.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  And look—a thousand Blossoms with the Day

  Woke—and a thousand scatter’d into Clay

  And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose

  Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.

  Edward Fitzgerald,

  The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr

  Dot gasped as the car roared off down the main street, considerably in excess of the speed limit. The road presently bent to the left, and Phryne slowed down. Rows of cottages lined both sides of the road. To the left was a narrow river valley, with dense forest beyond it. The scent of lavender filled the air. Dot was no admirer of the countryside as a rule, but she had to admit that this appeared to be tolerable. Her fears of Discomfort in Foreign Parts were abating considerably.

  The Hispano-Suiza purred gently down a hill into a village which announced itself as Hepburn Springs. Suddenly, Phryne turned off the road and puttered around a curving gravel pathway flanked by rose bushes (partly in flower) and lavender bushes. As they drew near the house, Dot looked at what was evidently the Mooltan guesthouse. It was a snug two-storey bluestone house with an iron-laced slate roof and two windows each side of the front door, and five on the second storey. Balconies with pot plants lined the upper storey.

  Phryne engaged the handbrake and stepped out of the car. ‘Smell that country air, Dot!’ she urged.

  Dot did so, and unobtrusively kissed her St Christopher medallion, giving devout thanks that she would not have to be driven anywhere far for many days.

  A square, youthful figure emerged from the house and walked towards them.

  Phryne smiled and greeted the young man. ‘Hello, you must be Dulcie. I’m Phryne Fisher, and this is Dot. Dr MacMillan sends you her best.’

  Dot realised that she had been deceived by the woman’s male attire and close-cropped hair.

  Dulcie grinned. ‘Yes, we were expecting you,’ she said, adding, ‘This is Alice,’ as another young woman appeared (easily identifiable as such in a long, grey skirt and light woollen jumper).

  ‘Afternoon tea’s ready,’ said Alice. ‘I hope you like scones, cream and jam?’

  ‘Yes, we really do,’ Phryne assured her. ‘And we could do with some tea to wash away the grime of roads—and policemen.’

  Alice coloured. ‘You’ve met our sergeant then? He’s … abrupt.’

  Dulcie patted Alice’s hand. ‘Stupid and offensive is what you mean. His name is Sergeant Offaly.’

  ‘Never mind him,’ said Alice dismissively. ‘Come inside and have tea. Dulcie will get your luggage. Tea is in the parlour.’

  As they sat down to feather-light scones, mulberry jam and thick, fresh cream, Alice poured the tea and Dulcie hustled their bags up the wooden staircase.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ Phryne approved. ‘Who made the scones?’

  Dulcie reappeared and leaned on the back of a chair. ‘Alice did. And the jam. We’re not usually open this late in summer, but any friend of Dr MacMillan is welcome. She stays here a fair bit. It’s comfy.’ Dulcie’s light blue eyes flickered. ‘Business or pleasure, Phryne? And will you be dining in?’

  ‘Just pleasure, I hope. I’m here to see Captain Spencer, and I’ll dine with him. Dot will be delighted to have dinner here, though.’

  ‘So what did our cop want with you?’

  ‘He stopped me in the middle of the road in Daylesford, and when he found out I was staying here, he warned me off.’

  ‘He wouldn’t know if a tram was up his backside till the conductor rang the bell. You’ll want a rest, I’m sure.’ Dulcie sniffed then disappeared again. Phryne made small talk with Alice, while Dot had a second cup of strong tea. When she’d drained the cup, she stood up. ‘Miss? I’ll put away our things in our rooms, shall I?’

  Phryne nodded, and Dot hurried off to unpack.

  ‘So, tell me about Daylesford, Alice,’ Phryne suggested.

  Alice put down her teacup. ‘To be honest, we don’t have that much to do with them over there.’

  ‘But you must hear things?’

  Alice shrugged. ‘Yes, we do hear a few things. It’s just—it’s hard to explain, really. I’ve lived in other country towns, and everybody knows everybody. But here? Daylesford is like—well, a big, brawling, elder brother. Hepburn is the quiet little sister who just wants to get on with her sewing. Don’t get me wrong: I’m sure they’re good people. But once you get over that hill—’ Alice waved her small, olive hand in a southerly direction ‘—the place has a completely different feel. We keep mostly to ourselves here.’

  ‘Yes, I did notice a change in the atmosphere,’ Phryne observed, looking carefully at Alice. The girl was clearly Dulcie’s lover: quiet, refined and gentle in contrast with Dulcie’s good-humoured brusqueness. Alice’s eyes were startlingly blue, yet her face was oval and tanned. Or possibly not tanned, for there was no sign of the ravages of the harsh Australian sun. Phryne diagnosed a touch of Mediterranean in her ancestry, even though her accent was pure Australian of the more genteel variety. She radiated comfort and contentment. Not for the first time, Phryne made a mental note to the effect that medical opinions stating that women who were same-sex attracted must be neurotic were so much ill-informed drivel. ‘To what would you attribute the difference?’

  ‘Oh, the water. Definitely. We have the springs.’

  ‘And Daylesford doesn’t? I see. What about this lake they’re going to make?’

  Alice sat up a little straighter. ‘I think it will do them the world of good.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Phryne murmured, noting that—as Lin had remarked—the locals seemed to be hardly aware of the effect of the development on the Chinese market gardeners. ‘Now, I’m still trying to orient myself. Have you heard of the Temperance Hotel?’

  Alice laughed. ‘Who has not? Even we’ve heard of Gentle Annie.’

  ‘I thought that was a song by Stephen Foster. You have a local version?’

  ‘Annie Tremain—she’s the barmaid there. Every boy for miles around wants to marry her.’

  ‘So what is this paragon of womanhood like? And does she favour any of her suitors above others? I would have thought this might create unrest.’

  Alice smiled. ‘Miss Fisher, she’s beautiful. Really she is. And you can’t help liking her. Trouble seems to melt away whenever she looks at the boys. They can be on the brink of throwing punches at each other, but one word from her and all the aggression leaks out through their boots.’

  ‘So you’ve been to the Temperance yourself?’

  Alice blushed, and her long, dark eyelashes blinked and covered her eyes. ‘Once or twice, yes. But she’s very young. I don’t think she’s in any hurry to marry anyone.’ Alice fell silent, and Phryne was just making up her mind to change the subject when Alice spoke again. ‘The thing with Annie is, the boys’ attention doesn’t go to her head. She’s not vain and silly, like so many pretty girls. She makes everyone relax. It’s a gift. I think …’ Alice paused again, as if searching for the right words. ‘I think her special talent might be that she makes everyone believe they are better than they are.’

  Phryne patted Alice’s slender arm. ‘I must see this paragon for myse
lf, then.’ Phryne leaned back in her chair, aware that Alice was looking at her with what seemed to be frank admiration. Phryne raised an eyebrow in query.

  ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’ Again the glorious eyelashes fluttered.

  ‘Nothing good, I hope?’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Fisher!’

  The girl was looking at her in an odd way. Phryne wondered for a moment if she was to be the subject of Alice’s unwanted affections, but she suspected not. What she read in those sapphire eyes was hero-worship.

  ‘You chastise the wicked and assist the good. So many people with your advantages in life think only of themselves and their own comforts.’

  ‘Phryne?’ Dulcie called from the doorway. ‘Your rooms are ready. Dot’s already having a nap. Do you want a rest before you go out?’

  Phryne rose. ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’ She turned to Alice and smiled. ‘Thanks for keeping me company.’

  Ten minutes later, Phryne sat on the balcony, smoking a cigarette and admiring the quiet, elegant village below her. Her room was tasteful, well-furnished and unobtrusive in the right way, and the whole house smelled deliciously of lemon floor wax and lavender. She could hear the small river in the distance. She stubbed out her cigarette, rose and went inside. The bed was magnificent, and she was asleep in a moment.

  Dot and Phryne came downstairs shortly before dinner. Dot was dressed as before, but Phryne had attired herself in cream-coloured trousers, a white Russian blouson with pearl buttons on the left, and a French biretta stuck at a rakish angle. She considered that she looked not only beautiful, but also visible. Noting the dearth of street lighting when they had driven through the village, she thought this might be advisable in Hepburn Springs by night.

  In the parlour she found a distrait young man talking quietly to Dulcie. His face was pale, and his dark eyes darted back and forth without rest. Dulcie urged him to sit down, then addressed her guests. ‘A drink, Phryne? Dot?’

  ‘A gin and tonic, please.’ Phryne looked at Dot, who shook her head.

  ‘This is my brother Aubrey, Phryne,’ announced Dulcie, shaking gin, ice and tonic into a glass. ‘He’s one of Captain Spencer’s patients.’

  Aubrey nodded. ‘He’s such a good man. I have shell shock, you know. I managed Gallipoli, but the Western Front … We’re not cowards, no matter what they say. It’s just—’

  ‘It’s all right, Aubrey,’ Phryne broke in. ‘You don’t have to explain. I was there, driving an ambulance. I remember. It was the guns pounding for days on end. And one day you can’t bear it any longer.’

  Dulcie was at Aubrey’s side in an instant. ‘Take your valerian drops, Aubrey. Come on.’

  Aubrey rummaged in his pocket and brought out a small bottle. Dulcie put a glass of water on the wooden table in front of him, and he shook several drops into it. He sipped carefully at it, and when it was finished he replaced the glass on the table. Then he leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  At that moment, a silver tabby cat entered the room, sniffing. ‘Hello, Tamsin,’ said Dulcie. ‘Come for your fix?’

  Tamsin flowed upwards and landed on the table without a sound. Her red-brick nose sniffed at the glass. Soon she was rubbing her head around the rim of the glass, purring in ecstasy. Finally the little cat put her head right inside the glass and began to roll around the table on her side. The glass rolled off the table, but Dulcie caught it dextrously in mid-air. Dot giggled, and Dulcie placed the glass on the floor. ‘Come on down, Tamsin.’

  The cat thought about this, then leaped down, resuming her love affair with the empty glass.

  ‘Not all cats like valerian,’ Phryne observed. ‘But she certainly does.’

  Aubrey’s hunched shoulders began to relax, and he managed a smile.

  Phryne began to sing: ‘Take a sniff, take a sniff, take a sniff on me; I’ve got the valerian Blues.’

  Aubrey laughed, and Phryne stood up. ‘I’m off to see Captain Spencer,’ she announced.

  ‘You know the way?’ Dulcie asked. ‘You can’t miss it. Straight down the road to the bend. It’s on your right.’

  ‘Take care, Miss Phryne,’ Dot called after her.

  ‘I will.’

  It was a cool twilight, but the walk to the spa was barely two hundred yards. Yellow lights shone from several houses, and there were small, cosy movements in the trees; nocturnal possums were probably foraging already. She knocked at the freshly painted door and waited.

  Almost immediately the door opened, and soft light welled out into the valley. Phryne drew in her breath. Captain Spencer (for she assumed it was he) stood before her and offered his hand. ‘So good of you to come.’

  Captain Herbert Spencer was everything Phryne could have wished for in a dining companion: taller than some but slender-hipped, with firm shoulders, impeccable evening dress, hazel eyes, a clear, slightly tanned complexion and a friendly smile. Taking her hand, he led her inside and conducted her into a small, carpeted alcove at the edge of a larger dining room. A silver candelabra with three beeswax candles stood in the centre of a spotless tablecloth. The table was set for two, with three wineglasses on each side.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he said.

  Phryne was anticipating a most enjoyable meal—until Herbert fixed her with a steady eye. ‘I am afraid I have a confession to make: we are vegetarians here. We have all seen too much blood, and we cannot abide it. Besides, humans do not require it; legumes are a perfectly adequate source of sustenance. And, of course, Australia has magnificent vegetables and fruit.’

  Phryne smiled brightly, but her heart sank. This promised to be a dreary repast, with everything boiled to extinction. Every ounce of taste and nourishment would be expelled from the sad remnants of whimpering vegetation, and the cadavers would be reanimated with bicarbonate of soda.

  As soon as they were both seated, a youngish woman in a plain black dress with a white apron appeared with a bottle. She filled two of the glasses, nodded to Phryne, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Herbert grinned shyly. ‘I hope you like this. It is herbal wine, such as I give my patients.’ He must have seen her eyes flicker with momentary dismay, as he added hastily: ‘I have a Barossa Valley red and a dessert wine to follow.’

  Mollified, Phryne drank. The wine was unexpectedly sweet, and strongly flavoured with mint, thyme, sage, marjoram, basil and other herbs that she could not identify.

  ‘There is a romantic story attached to this wine,’ Herbert explained. ‘A monastery was in desperate straits, and a monk dreamed that a stranger would come and save them. Next day, a shipwrecked sailor was cast ashore and the monks took him in. They shared what little they had with him and told him of their direst poverty. When they showed him their herb garden, the mariner laughed and showed them how to make this wine. They kept his secret and sold most of what they made at a high enough price to pay off their debts and prosper ever afterwards.’

  Phryne drank a little more. ‘It is more subtle than I expected. Well done! I take it the recipe is a secret no more?’

  He smiled. ‘I found it in The Gentle Art of Cookery. So I did not break any confidences. But my poor guests find it most restorative.’

  ‘Tell me about them,’ said Phryne, as the silent woman reappeared with two bowls of potage Lorraine. It smelled delicious, and was.

  ‘Merci, Violette,’ said Herbert.

  As she disappeared again, Phryne lifted one eyebrow.

  ‘I found her in France and brought her here. Her fiancé and all her family were killed in the war, and she wanted nothing more to do with Europe—or men,’ he added.

  ‘But she likes you.’

  ‘Oh yes. But not in that way.’ He dropped his eyes for a moment before resuming. ‘You know that shell shock is a disease, and not malingering?’

  ‘Indeed I do. I have seen brave men lying in their beds inert and unable to respond.’

  ‘The term is dissociation. They see without seeing and hear without hearing. Sometimes they even
lose the power of speech. It took a long while for anyone to understand. They are beaten down by blood, gunfire and accumulating horror, and the condition can only be cured by prolonged rest and recuperation.’

  ‘Which you provide.’

  ‘Indeed yes. I am also learning …’ The Captain looked embarrassed for a moment.

  Phryne inclined her chin encouragingly.

  ‘Miss Fisher, have you heard of chiropractic?’

  ‘I am given to understand that it is a controversial topic among the medical profession.’

  ‘It is.’ Colour rose in the man’s cheeks. He looked at her defiantly, as if daring her to proclaim him a charlatan. ‘At least in part, the medical profession is right to be cautious: all manner of quacks claim mystical powers for it, and doubtless there will always be those who do great harm. And yet …’

  ‘And yet you have seen it work?’

  ‘I have!’ He leaned back in his chair in relief. ‘Miss Fisher—’

  ‘Phryne, please.’

  ‘Phryne, I have seen a man—one of my own patients—all but crippled. Yet within a month of chiropractic treatment he was cured.’

  ‘I am very suspicious of miracle cures.’

  To her delight, the man laughed heartily. ‘Oh, so am I! The war taught me not to believe in them. Seeing really is believing, however. We had a visit from a chiropractor, an accredited physician who had become disenchanted with conventional medicine. He expounded to me the mysteries of the spine. Have you ever wondered about the human spine, Phryne? It is a miraculous thing in itself: filled with nerves and blood vessels entwined around the vertebrae.’

  Phryne raised her glass and stared at the herbal wine. The candlelight illuminated the sweet drink with highlights of emerald and amethyst.