Death in Daylesford Page 9

  ‘Just a holiday, Mr McKenzie. I am sorry to have disappointed you.’ Phryne rose. ‘Pleased to have met you,’ she announced, sounding anything but. She did not offer her gloved hand, finding of a sudden that she had better uses for it. She swept out of the tent with Dot at her side. ‘Well, that was intriguing, Dot, but unedifying,’ she remarked when safely out of earshot.

  ‘That Miss Jessie was right,’ Dot concurred. ‘I didn’t like the way he looked at me.’

  ‘Nor me. And I wonder what he meant about disappearing women? Is that what Jessie meant about disappearances? But in that case, why did Jessie want to talk, and then thought better of it? These are mysteries, Dot. Doubtless we shall discover for ourselves in due course. Ah! It appears we are to have Highland dancing. Just what we need after that depressing little colloquy.’

  A detachment of pipers and drummers were ranged about the greensward, and the pipe-major flashed a commanding look at his troops. The skirling music broke out once more, and Dot rocked back on her heels. Phryne held firm, interested at once by the youthful dancers footing it featly in their black dancing shoes. They were filled with youthful exuberance, with many a flashing eye cast in the direction of the platoon of admirers of both sexes ranged around them. Tartan kilts appeared to be de rigueur, with numerous patterns doubtless related to the various clans in the vicinity.

  One boy in particular caught Phryne’s eye: a pleasant-looking lad in his late teens with a suggestion of down upon his brown chin. He was concentrating on his feet and hands, but exchanged a number of excitable glances with a vivacious girl in a green velvet jacket, a dazzling white lace shirt and what Phryne was tolerably certain was a Black Watch kilt. The girl was a superb dancer, and her white, muscular legs kicked with more brio than the rest. Every twirl of her arms and legs exuded a primitive joyousness. And her eyes were as green as emeralds. Was this a courting couple? Watching them carefully, Phryne decided not. But they would be close friends, comrades and (in all probability) co-conspirators in any local high jinks.

  Phryne looked sideways at Dot, who was wilting somewhat, and led her silently to a park bench. ‘Dot, are you all right?’ she enquired.

  Dot fanned herself with her hat. ‘Yes, Miss, I think so. Bagpipes are somewhat overpowering, though. And I can feel the drums through my shoes.’

  They watched several vigorous dances, and the pipes wound down at last. However, the green-eyed girl then stepped forward and kicked off her shoes. She was accompanied by a single piper. She grinned at Phryne while two fearsome-looking swords were laid crossways on the grass. Dot grasped at Phryne’s sleeve. ‘She’s not going to dance over those swords, is she, Miss Phryne?’ she gasped in alarm. ‘They look very sharp!’

  ‘I believe so, Dot. But she has probably practised this so many times I expect she could manage it with her eyes closed.’

  Clearly the girl thought so too. As the pipe played a slow reel, she placed her feet, one after the other, around and between the swords in a counterclockwise motion. Phryne noticed she never once looked at her feet. Dot relaxed somewhat, thinking for a long moment this was not as perilous as it might have been, but her pulse went overspeed as the tune quickened. The girl capered around the swords, placing her stockinged feet precisely. She winked twice at the beautiful boy, and her sleeves fluttered in the breeze like a challenge to combat.

  When the dance finished, the girl bowed, waved to the boy, picked up her dancing shoes and walked over to Phryne. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You two look new in town.’

  Phryne rose, leaving Dot to catch her breath on the seat, and extended a gloved hand. ‘Phryne Fisher, and this is Miss Williams. Your sword dance was tremendously impressive.’

  The girl shook Phryne’s hand. ‘Colleen O’Rourke.’ Seeing Phryne’s eyes widen somewhat, the girl proceeded to explain. ‘Yes, I’m Irish. But they let me do Scottish dancing because I’m good at it.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘We moved here from Ballarat last year. They kicked me out of Irish dancing up there.’

  ‘Why was that, Colleen?’

  The girl smirked, with a flash of her round, emerald eyes. ‘For using my arms.’

  Phryne laughed. ‘You know, I’ve always wondered about that. Maybe the Ancient Scrolls were missing the page telling you what to do with your arms.’

  Colleen laughed, like a beakerful of Irish cream being imbibed. ‘I would not be surprised. But I like Daylesford better. People in Ballarat are stuck-up.’

  ‘There don’t seem to be many Irish here,’ Phryne ventured.

  ‘No, there aren’t. But I don’t care. I like the Scots boys. They’re good fun.’ The faintest suspicion of a blush tinged Colleen’s angular features, and was as speedily banished.

  ‘I can hear a hint of Ireland in your voice, but I’m guessing your family has been in Australia a while.’

  The girl nodded, as if listening to faraway laments. ‘My great-grandparents came out during the Great Hunger.’

  ‘That must have been a terrible time. I am so sorry.’

  Miss O’Rourke grinned at her. ‘No need to be sorry. It’s much better here. We Irish can do what we like and nobody stops us.’ The girl turned her head, with a flick of her tightly bound black plait. ‘There’s my dad. He’ll be wondering where I’ve got meself to. Lovely to meet you, Miss Fisher.’ Her narrow, charcoal eyebrows crinkled. ‘Are you the detective?’

  ‘My infamy seems to precede me everywhere.’

  ‘You’ll have plenty to keep you busy then. Loads of secrets here.’ She bowed very slightly and nodded to Dot. ‘Miss Williams.’ And the girl was gone again in a billow of lace.

  ‘I wonder what she meant, Dot?’ Phryne mused. ‘Is everybody here harbouring secrets? First Jessie, then her uncle, and now Colleen. What is going on here?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss. Perhaps you need to talk to Jessie again?’

  ‘I think so too, Dot.’ Phryne noticed that Dot’s attention had wandered.

  ‘Miss Phryne? That looks like a travelling library over there. I wonder if I could borrow a book or two?’

  Phryne smiled. ‘Let’s find out, Dot.’

  The library consisted of a substantial van, with a small cabin at the front. It was parked on the edge of the oval near the entrance road, and the back was open, with a set of three folding stairs leading down to the grassy verge. Business seemed to be brisk. By the expenditure of a shilling Dot became a temporary member, and borrowed a history of the Shire of Hepburn and a detective novel. The library ladies numbered two: a sturdy young girl and a tall, formidable woman of middle years who was clearly In Charge. Her eyes surveyed the patrons constantly, seeking out malefactors and book thieves. She reproved one gormless youth who had contrived to break the binding of his returned volume. ‘I’m charging you sixpence for that, Mr Forbes!’ she pronounced with undertones of righteous wrath.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Sinclair!’ he squeaked. ‘I just left it open on the table and I—’

  ‘And what do you think bookmarks are for, Mr Forbes?’ she boomed, sounding like a cow with its horn caught in a five-barred gate. ‘Here! Take these!’ She thrust a small sheaf of cardboard bookmarks into his hand and received the penitential sixpence.

  Suddenly, Mrs Sinclair’s eye lit upon a pale, frightened woman loitering with intent outside the ring of browsers. The library’s avenging angel seemed to shrink to normal size and stepped silently across to the newcomer. They spoke in voices so soft Phryne could not pick up any of their speech. Mrs Sinclair returned to the cavernous depths of the van and brought out what appeared to be a small volume of knitting patterns. The other took it, bowed her head quickly, and fled, first tucking the book under her woollen shawl.

  There was a susurrus of excitement happening out on the oval again. Phryne strode off towards it, leaving Dot to catch up in her wake. Another ring of spectators had gathered, and what looked to be a medium-sized telephone pole was being unloaded from a bullock dray. Facing up to it was a man-mountain in a loudish kilt of red
and green. This must be Kenneth McAlpine, the hotel bouncer, Phryne deduced. He was young, the red beard not as full as it would clearly become in later years. He extended two fists the size of legs of pork and grasped the base of the caber. Phryne admired the movement of his muscles beneath the grimy skin. There was a collective sigh as he raised the pole and balanced it. Sweat began to pour from his face, but his bearded lips grinned. A long lane had been cleared directly in front of him, and a transverse rope had been extended across the grass. Presumably this was McAlpine’s previous best. Or possibly a world record. Phryne would not have been surprised; she had seen the caber tossed before by brawny men, but never one of this magnitude.

  McAlpine tottered for a moment, and his enormous bare feet pawed at the earth like a bullock about to address a red flag. And with no warning whatsoever the caber slipped sideways and fell to earth with a leaden thunk. Phryne stared in horror as one end wheeled in the air and struck one of the bystanders, who went down without a sound, and with a splash of bright vermilion blood.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I sometimes think that never blows so red

  The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;

  That every Hyacinth the Garden wears

  Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

  Edward Fitzgerald,

  The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr

  The interrogation was going nowhere. Gerald Thorne had been summoned, cautioned, and sat in shapeless misery in a straight-backed deal chair. Across the table, Acting Detective Inspector Fraser was in his element. ‘Come off it, Gerald—you may as well admit it. The police surgeon has confirmed that the deceased, Claire Knight, was ten weeks pregnant. There is no evidence of a paramour in her life. Who else but you could be the father of her unborn child?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Gerald wailed. ‘Claire was a good girl! I never touched her!’

  ‘Someone did!’ Fraser leaned back in his comfortable armchair, exquisitely content with his own syllogism of guilt.

  Gerald writhed, then sat up straight. His rabbity features certainly did not improve his appearance, but under Fraser’s acetylene glare, something seemed to be happening. Gerald’s watery eyes stared back with sudden resolution. ‘Officer, I am innocent of this terrible crime. Notwithstanding that, I refuse to say another word until my lawyer is present.’

  ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it? You’ve already admitted to being a stay-at-home layabout who sponges off his own sister. Still, please yourself.’ Fraser pushed the telephone towards him. ‘You get one call and that’s it.’

  With the air of a drowning man clutching at a thrown lifebelt, Gerald’s shaking fingers scrabbled at the spring-loaded dial. And Sergeant Hugh Collins was quietly making up his own mind that, much though it grieved him to go behind the back of his superior officer, he had better seek alternative sources of evidence. Would Detective Inspector Robinson approve? Then again, Jack had warned him that his new boss could lose a three-round bout with a revolving door, so perhaps this was all right. While listening to Gerald Thorne begging his sister to summon Mr Thackeray and that right speedily, Hugh came to the firm conclusion that Robinson would. The girls knew Claire. If Inspector Fraser chose to disdain such an evident source of information, it fell to his deputy to fill the void. The time was clearly ripe to open up a new field of enquiry, with all the special resources at his disposal. He sighed, regretting the absence of Jack Robinson more with each passing moment. Perhaps you only came to a full appreciation of the virtues of your superiors when they were replaced by machine-made numbskulls. This is only temporary, he told himself. Please God it was.

  The Council of War around the kitchen table was being liberally supported with honey cake, a large pot of tea and some Anzac biscuits. Hugh had already eaten some of both and was well into his third cup. Tinker sat up straight, watching Hugh intently. Ruth (who had provided the refreshments) took off her apron, draped it over a kitchen chair and joined the symposium with resolute calm.

  ‘All right,’ Hugh began, folding his hands on the table and staring with intense solemnity at each of them in turn. ‘I shouldn’t really be doing this, but there it is. I think I need your help, and I’m asking for it now. Anything I tell you at this table goes nowhere else. You will keep your mouths firmly buttoned and you will only do what I agree you can do. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ they chorused. Despite their collective shock at Claire’s death, they tingled with excitement at the chance to solve a real-life mystery themselves.

  ‘All right. Now, my, er, superior officer thinks that it was Uncle Gerald who was responsible for Claire’s pregnancy and death. I can’t say Gerald impressed me as anything like a decent bloke, but I don’t believe a word of it. I think Claire’s mum would belt him with a steam-iron if he interfered with her daughter. And he is entirely dependent on her for board and lodging, so I think we can rule that out—unless …’

  ‘Unless?’ Jane prompted.

  ‘Unless either of you can remember anything Claire said about Uncle Gerald. Did she ever mention him at all?’

  ‘I thought I knew her well, but it seems I had no idea what was really happening. Ruth, can you remember anything? This could be really important.’

  Ruth rubbed a floury hand through her hair and shook her head. ‘I gathered she thought of him as part of the furniture. She didn’t have any time for him, I do remember that. I asked her once who lived in her house, and she said something like, “Just Mum and Dad—and Uncle Gerald, of course, only he doesn’t count really.”’

  ‘That sounds like offhand contempt, doesn’t it? No suggestion of hidden secrets there?’

  Jane returned his look. ‘No, I really don’t think so.’

  ‘All right. And you didn’t think there was anything wrong in her relations with her father?’

  Ruth considered. ‘She talked about her father quite normally. I don’t think she felt great affection for him. He’s not at home very much, she said.’ Ruth’s lip trembled. ‘Claire thought that in his eyes she was a bit of a nuisance and nothing more.’

  ‘Poor girl!’ Hugh mused on this for a moment. ‘So, a girl who’s short of affection in her own home and is a loner at school. The kind of girl who might easily fall in love with some boy just because he noticed her and treated her kindly.’

  ‘Well, yes, I think that might be possible,’ Ruth agreed. ‘Now you mention it, she must have been lonely. I don’t think she was all that close to her mum; she was always busy with her painting, Claire said.’

  ‘Yes. And speaking of that …’ Hugh reached under the table for Claire’s portrait and unwrapped the brown paper. ‘Careful with this, I’ll need to give it back. What do you think?’

  Jane was the first to speak. ‘Oh my. She has a secret admirer for certain. I never saw her look like that at school. Did you, Ruth?’

  ‘No, never.’ Ruth stared at the painting, which was modest enough at first glance. It was a garden scene, with roses in pots and lavender blooming around the seated figure. Claire was wearing a simple white tunic, and her legs were placed decorously together on the stone garden seat. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she looked straight out from the painting. The painting was executed in oils, and viewed close up the brush strokes were a jungle of swirls and daubs. Seen from a few feet back, though, the figure leaped into focus. Claire was smiling, and her features seemed to hold promise of satisfied joy. This was a girl trying not to smirk and not entirely succeeding.

  ‘You borrowed this from Claire’s mum, Mr Collins?’ Jane looked at Hugh with a new respect. ‘That was very clever of you. Her pupils are dilated and, inside, she is grinning her face off. I think her mum must have suspected something.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. And Mrs Knight gave me the impression that she wouldn’t even have minded much. Mothers usually know if their daughter is expecting. And even though she didn’t say anything about it, she must have known while she was painting the portrait. Not about the pregna
ncy, maybe. But certainly that she had a new interest in life. And families often cover these things up so nosy neighbours need never know.’

  ‘I know about that,’ Jane interposed. ‘What happens is that the girl gets sent away to have the baby, and Mum starts wearing maternity dresses with bigger and bigger pillows inside them. The girl has the baby somewhere away out of sight and Mum brings up her grandchild as though it’s her own daughter. Or son, of course.’ She smiled. ‘And nobody tells anybody. Not even the baby knows that their real mum is their "sister".’

  ‘It seems a bit wrong to me.’ Ruth looked a little shocked.

  ‘I think it’s got something going for it,’ Hugh said. ‘The important thing is that the girl isn’t punished for a silly mistake. And you’re quite right, Jane. It happens. The doctors know what’s happening, but they don’t want any kid going through life with the word Illegitimate stamped on their birth certificate.’

  ‘So the doctors enter Mr Knight’s name on the certificate as the father?’

  ‘Well, yes, Ruth. It’s an act of kindness.’

  Ruth burst into tears. ‘Nobody did that for me!’ She stopped crying almost immediately in a somewhat appalled silence and blew her nose on a cambric handkerchief.

  ‘Or me.’ Jane took Ruth’s right hand and held it tight. ‘But it doesn’t matter now, thanks to Miss Phryne.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m fine now.’ Ruth blew her nose again. ‘So what should we do, Mr Collins? I want to find out what happened to Claire, and why.’

  ‘Well, I have to interview the gardeners. What you girls should do is keep your ears open at school. You might hear something. Make friends with the snobby girls if you have to.’

  ‘We can do better than that.’ Jane sat up straight, and Ruth looked at her in silent, red-cheeked encouragement. ‘Ruth and I can go to the house and say Claire lent us a book and may we have it back, please? And while we’re there, we can look for clues.’