Death in Daylesford Read online

  Mrs Knight’s mouth opened and then closed, as if she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard correctly. ‘Second door on the right,’ she managed, in an even voice. ‘Please do knock, Inspector.’

  ‘I will.’ And with a clattering of shoes Fraser was off up the polished stairs.

  ‘Well, really!’ Mrs Knight pronounced in a barely audible voice. She looked at Collins, who was practising his Sympathetic Policeman expression.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Knight,’ he managed. ‘Inspector Fraser can be a little abrupt.’

  ‘Never mind, I’m sure he’s a Fine Officer.’ The last two words were said as though they rhymed with Scum and Vermin. She sat up straight in her chair. ‘Well, Sergeant, you’ll be wanting those names and addresses, won’t you?’

  Collins leaned forward. ‘Just before you do that, Mrs Knight, I was wondering … Those pictures in the hall are very good. Are they yours?’

  She relaxed visibly. ‘My little hobby. They’re nothing special, of course. But I did study at the Slade, and it seems wrong not to use all the gifts God gave me.’

  ‘I think you’re being unduly modest, Mrs Knight. They look very fine to me. But what I wanted to know was if you have done any recent paintings of Claire?’ Hugh was trying not to look at a bare patch on the wall above her chair, where a picture hook was sitting forlornly, surrounded by yet more landscapes.

  Mrs Knight blushed. ‘That is very observant of you, Sergeant. I took it down last night. I can’t bear to look at it yet. I will, in time. When my heart heals over. If it ever does.’ A tear meandered down her right cheek. She produced a lace handkerchief and wiped it away. ‘Do you want to see it?’

  ‘Yes, please. It may be important.’

  Mrs Knight went upstairs and presently returned, cradling a picture in her arms as if it were a baby. Collins stood up and accepted the picture with appropriate reverence.

  ‘I painted this only last month. It’s rather good, isn’t it?’ Another tear escaped and was as efficiently wiped away.

  ‘Mrs Knight, it’s a brilliant picture. And if I may make so bold, I think you should do more portraits. May I borrow this?’

  ‘Please do! I will want it back eventually, but if—if it can help solve this mystery—then yes, you can have it.’ She went to a drawer in a massive, polished wood escritoire in the corner of the room and returned with a roll of brown paper. She deftly wrapped the painting in three layers of brown paper and tied it with string in a neat double bow. ‘Do look after it, please. But I’m sure you will, Sergeant.’ Her eyes lifted to the top of the stairs, where voices could be perceived on the edge of hearing. She tutted. ‘I really don’t know what’s keeping your colleague up there. It isn’t as if Gerald knows anything about this. And his constitution is very weak. He shouldn’t be bothered more than is necessary.’

  ‘I’m sure the inspector won’t be much longer, Mrs Knight. And I do apologise for disturbing you at such a sorrowful time.’

  This drew a brisk nod, and Mrs Knight subsided into a chair. Hugh seated himself, clutching his precious parcel in one hand and his hat in the other. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry. The names and addresses.’ She strode back to the escritoire, took a sheet of paper and began to write. As she approached him with the list, the clattering on the stairs announced the second coming of Acting Detective Inspector Fraser, who swept into the drawing room.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Knight,’ he announced regally. ‘I think I’ve got everything I need here. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Oh, please do.’

  It was astonishing how much concentrated loathing you could pack into three syllables, Hugh observed. If Fraser heard the implied reproach, he ignored it.

  ‘Come on, Collins. We’ve got work to do.’ Fraser resumed his hat, lifted it towards their hostess, and they trooped out to the car. ‘What’ve you got there, Collins?’

  ‘It’s a painting of the deceased, sir. I thought it might be useful.’

  Fraser shook his head. ‘Have it your own way, Collins. Just don’t waste time on it. I think we’ve got our man. I haven’t got enough to arrest him yet, but I’ll get it, never fear.’

  ‘Um, arrest whom, sir?’

  ‘Gerald, you idiot. Of course it’s him! Who else could it be? If the coroner finds out she was pregnant, I’ll make him confess.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  As they motored back to the station, Hugh rolled his eyes. From what he had seen in Mrs Knight’s portrait of her daughter, the girl might indeed have had a romantic interest in her life. He couldn’t be sure yet. It was an unlikely idea, but not nearly as improbable as the idea that a girl might conceive a romantic attachment to her stay-at-home uncle. Gerald might conceivably have taken advantage of the girl, but since Mrs Knight did not appear to have the word idiot tattooed on her face, that was beyond the limits of normal possibilities. Until he had some facts to work with, there was no point theorising any further. Fraser would instruct him to interview the casual staff, and he would do so. You never knew what might turn up from there.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They say to mountains, ‘Be ye remov’d.’ They say to the lesser floods, ‘Be dry.’

  Under their rods are the rocks reprov’d; they are not afraid of that which is high.

  Then do the hilltops shake to the summit, then is the bed of the deep laid bare,

  That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

  Rudyard Kipling,

  ‘The Sons of Martha’

  ‘Miss Phryne, the Highland Gathering doesn’t start till two. Where are we heading first?’

  Phryne looked carefully at Dot, who was once again dressed almost entirely in shades of brown. It was cool for late summer, and Dot was taking no chances with the weather; she was adorned in woollen jumper, woollen dress, woollen scarf and felt hat. Phryne, on the other hand, was a picture in shades of Picasso blues. Her cloche hat (aquamarine) was perched at a rakish angle; her slate blue jacket wrapped closely around her elegant figure; and she was well prepared to outrage local sensibilities in cobalt blue trousers. Her boots were flat-heeled, thick-soled and suitable for walking across ploughed fields were this to prove necessary. She grinned. ‘Pub first, Dot. Let’s take a look at this Temperance Hotel, shall we?’

  ‘If you say so, Miss.’

  Dot climbed into the passenger seat and Phryne engaged the clutch. Dot had eaten a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and marmalade, fruit compote and several cups of thick, sweet tea. Even Phryne had partaken somewhat, against her usual practice. She decided it must be the mountain air giving her such an appetite.

  Phryne drove sedately through Hepburn and up the long hill towards Daylesford. In the light of the late morning, it looked every bit as splendid as it had the day before. Lovingly tended gardens were adorned with autumn flowers. Roses and lavender were currently predominant, though many other blooms sat in ordered beds looking eminently pleased with themselves. Standing in the centre of the road, officiously directing traffic, was Sergeant Offaly. Phryne gave him a grin and a wave and was rewarded with a scowl that might have stripped the paint off a letterbox.

  ‘It’s just off the main road, Dulcie tells me,’ Phryne remarked, and peeled off a punctilious left-turn hand signal. Normally she did not bother with such matters, but this was for the sergeant’s benefit. She pulled up next to the kerb and put the handbrake on. The Temperance Hotel was a two-storeyed oblong erection with a white wooden veranda running the length of both levels. Wrought-iron lacework was strongly in evidence. An impressive horse trough (three-quarters full) stood out the front next to a painted hitching-post. A painted signboard above the entrance announced that Frederick McKenzie, Esq. was licensed to sell alcoholic beverages. From within, the scent of fresh wood polish jostled with that of unwashed workman. The hotel was plainly of some antiquity: its sandstone building bespoke Gold Rush from every mortice.

  With Dot following in her wake, Phryne breezed into the main bar. Polished floorb
oards shone in sombre splendour. There were roses in vases on mantelpieces in front of mirrors and shapely lamps. Gleaming glasses of varying size and design stood in serried ranks behind the mahogany bar, which looked strong enough to repel tanks and Visigoths. It was far lighter within than in the pubs of Melbourne, Phryne observed. Large windows let in the daylight and rendered the glowing lamps all but redundant. All that was missing were the rows of spirits behind the bar, although there were many bottles of wine. She would ask to try some at lunch.

  Phryne had entered public bars before. Most were rudimentary places wherein the urban proletariat were wont to unwind after a hard day at the factory. Primeval squalor was the rule rather than the exception. The Temperance Hotel might have passed in poor light for the interior of the Windsor Hotel. She took a quick look around the bar. Three or four young men sat quietly, nursing surprisingly small glasses of beer. They were unusually quiet and restrained, and spoke only in undertones. Her eyes rested on a table, where an ancient, be-whiskered son of toil jerked a grimy thumb to his left.

  ‘Ladies’ lounge is that way, Miss.’

  Phryne patted his unsavoury paw encouragingly with her gloved hand. ‘Yes, dear, I’m sure it is.’

  Bleared hazel eyes looked to the bar for support, but found none.

  ‘She’s a guest in town, Mr Trescowan. Can’t you tell?’ The voice was pitched lower than usual for a female but seemed to ooze attar of roses. The horny ancient avoided the barmaid’s gaze and subsided back into the contemplation of his half-empty beer glass.

  Phryne waved Dot to a table against the wall and strode up to the bar. She looked, and gaped. Surely this must be the paragon herself. The girl wore a long, dark green dress straight out of the nineteenth century, with a bodice and under-chemise that altogether failed to disguise her magnificent bosom, though it was laced up with becoming modesty. There was, needless to add, a frilly apron so resplendently white it might have glowed in the dark. Her hair was equally retrospective: unfashionably long and wrapped in two French plaits. Unbound, the girl’s hair would be a golden waterfall. Her complexion was milky white; her features even, oval and consonant; her eyes a startling dark agate; and her expression … Phryne felt, for the first time in a long while, utterly unsure. Was there anything behind the girl’s eyes at all beyond a bovine complacency?

  Phryne smiled at her. ‘Hello, I’m Phryne Fisher. And you must be Annie?’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. Staying here long?’ There was something in the voice that made you want to listen to her all day. A little bit West Country, and a little bit Scots.

  ‘A few days. This is a beautiful town. And I’ve heard so much about you—and this hotel,’ Phryne added hastily.

  The girl’s laugh was like a peal of small silver bells. ‘I’m sure you have.’

  Phryne looked more closely at her. The girl was laughing at herself, it seemed.

  ‘Well, Annie, I’d like a glass of your best cider, and my companion Dot would like a lemon squash.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  The cider was on tap, Phryne noticed, nestling equably between a row of beers of varying denominations. The girl drew a long glass of foaming cider, then produced a glass bottle of lemon cordial and began to assemble a squash with practised hands. Even the girl’s hands and arms were perfectly shaped and pristine. Phryne was accustomed to being the centre of male attention, but she would never be that in the Temperance Hotel so long as Annie were on the premises.

  The paragon looked up at Phryne. ‘That will be sixpence halfpenny, please.’

  Phryne handed her a shilling. ‘Do keep the change, Annie. And can we get lunch here?’

  The girl looked at the shilling and smiled. The smile of Gentle Annie could have illuminated a forty-acre field. And Phryne realised, with a jolt of surprise, that it was perfectly genuine. This extraordinary girl would have the world falling over itself to offer her apes, ivory and peacocks, yet every time it happened her reaction would be that of a small girl with an unexpected birthday cake.

  ‘Oh, yes, lunch starts at noon. Would the ladies’ lounge be more convenient for you and your … companion?’ Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment. They were much darker than her hair: almost Spanish-looking.

  ‘By all means. But until then—’ Phryne looked at the ancient grandfather clock in the corner of the bar, which promptly announced the hour of eleven with a series of bass tympani gongs ‘—we shall sit here and admire the view. I love your dress.’

  Annie dimpled. ‘It was my mother’s. She used to wear it on duty here. I like it.’

  ‘I expect it gets rough here at times?’

  Annie shook her head. Phryne could almost feel the spines of the admiring lads vibrating in sympathy. ‘No, Miss Fisher, everyone is very well-behaved here. It’s only me, my sister Jessie and my cousin Peggy. Uncle is—’ there was the slightest hesitation ‘—unwell. The war, you know. But Mr McAlpine comes in later on to keep an eye on things, just in case. But like I said, we rarely have any trouble.’ Again the unearthly smile. ‘If you’re going to the Gathering later, you can see Kenneth tossing the caber. It’s not really a competition, because, well, nobody else can even lift it. But it’s quite a sight. And if anybody did think of causing trouble, they’ll remember the caber.’

  ‘I’ll be sure not to miss that. Thank you, Annie.’ Phryne turned on her heel, gave Mr Trescowan a dazzling smile, and brought the drinks to Dot’s table. ‘Well, Dot. We have an hour until lunch. What do you think?’

  Dot looked nervously at the hunched, brooding slopes of Mount Trescowan. ‘I think I’d like to have a look around before lunch, Miss.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘My, this is really good! I’ve never tasted a lemon squash like it.’

  Annie sailed past their table in a rustle of skirts. ‘That’s because we add the local mineral water to it, Miss. It’s supposed to be very good for you.’

  Dot’s eyes followed Annie as she collected an armful of empty glasses. There were three or four young men in the bar, and they had spoken not a word. Their eyes followed Annie as though they were on stalks. One youth in particular was staring at her with an expression of such longing in his angular, blotched face that Phryne wondered who he was. Annie smiled at them all in turn and returned to her place behind the bar.

  Phryne tasted the cider. It was a little tart, but filled with apple flavour, and something else. Maybe a touch of pear? They sipped their drinks and watched. A faint smell of wood smoke wafted through the room. Presumably the kitchen was preparing for lunch.

  Two more young men strolled in and joined the others in quiet contemplation. Annie greeted them by name, and their faces lit up like storm lanterns. As they watched her go about her work with quiet efficiency, Phryne was reminded of dogs watching a tennis match.

  ‘Miss, perhaps we could have a little walk? I’d like to buy something for Hugh.’

  Phryne finished her drink and followed Dot out the door. ‘We’ll be back at noon,’ she said over her shoulder.

  Outside the morning was bright, though cloudy, and filled with purpose. Housewives walked past them carrying string bags filled with groceries. Children scampered along the footpaths and were herded fitfully by their mothers. And sturdy men strode the pavement as though heading for a public meeting to complain about the drains. Phryne paused on the verge of the surprisingly steep stone gutters and admired the town hall. Like much else of the local architecture, it was built of sandstone, yet instead of the customary ochre the building was—like many others in the street—a becoming shade of light grey verging towards ecru. Most Victorian towns boasted preposterously grandiose municipal buildings, but there was something exceedingly dapper about this one. Two storeys, each with seven Romanesque arches. The only criticism she could make of the imposing edifice was that its six plain oblong pillars were capped with Corinthian capitals. However, the entire colony of Victoria had fallen head over ears in love with acanthus leaves, so the extravagance seemed allowable. And beneath the triangular
pediment above the main entrance, the words town hall were inscribed in sensible sans-serif letters. This building had been commissioned, constructed and cherished by locals with considerable artistic sensibility. Doubtless something Greek and mathematical lurked behind its pleasing proportions.

  Opposite was a building which was still under construction but bid fair to be a worthy adversary to the monolithic town hall. It was built of the same pleasing grey stone, with miniscule towers at either end and no less than eight Romanesque arches above a triple window. Two more oblong windows flanked the centrepiece. It was a brand-new cinema, constructed in a style which matched the town hall. A substantial wooden sign outside proclaimed: GRAND OPENING FRIDAY NIGHT. In smaller letters the legend March 1st could be discerned, in case there was any doubt about which Friday was intended. The film would be called Benito’s Treasure. Phryne’s mouth opened in surprise. No Hollywood offcuts here: the film had been made in Queenscliff. She remembered well the excitement attached thereto during her own visit to the seaside town in search of the Dead Man’s Chest. It was during that adventure she had acquired Tinker, who had well repaid Phryne’s trust in him and made himself useful about the house and elsewhere.

  Clustered around the soon-to-be-open cinema were more shops: a most sophisticated-looking tailor offering off-the-peg and bespoke, and a couturier whose window would not have disgraced the most fashionable parts of Melbourne. To the downhill side of the cinema was a newsagent, and uphill an ice-cream parlour. It was three-quarters filled, even at this time of day and with many rival attractions.

  Phryne considered the couturier again. Her only reservation about shopping there was that the favoured shade this year seemed to be variations of gold, which she eschewed in favour of silver. The milliner next door to it, on the other hand, might well repay a visit. She opened the door, which produced a tintinnabulation at the back of the shop. ‘Hello, Miss,’ said a young woman. ‘I’m Sophie.’ She waved a plump, be-ringed hand at her stock. ‘What sort of hat takes your fancy?’