‘He was. It is his duty and pleasure to serve.’
‘I trust no one was seriously injured?’
‘He inserted three of them into an ornamental fountain. They suffered nothing worse than bruises, both to the person and personality.’
‘Youthful high spirits?’
‘That was indeed the official verdict.’
‘I see. Lin?’ Phryne leaned back seductively. ‘How soon must you depart?’
He gazed with appreciation at a glimpse of perfect ivory breast beginning to escape from her robe. ‘I have a meeting at noon.’
Phryne glanced at her bedroom clock: a modest walnut arrangement standing on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s only nine thirty. Plenty of time.’ She leaned closer to Lin. ‘Tomorrow I am departing for the countryside.’
‘And which district will be favoured by your august presence?’
‘Daylesford. I have received an unusual request, and I am minded to investigate. Do you know of the place?’
‘A little. They are building a new lake there. And, unfortunately, the market gardens of the local Chinese will be submerged by it. There has been a great deal of talk about it in the Daylesford Advocate. Everybody wants the lake, but nobody wants a rather expensive road diversion. But no one has spared a thought for the market gardeners.’
‘That is very careless of them. Perhaps I should intervene on their behalf. Or perhaps the Lin family … ?’ She allowed the sentence to hang delicately in the air. Lin leaned back in his chair and retied his crimson dressing gown around his delectable body.
‘There is no need, Phryne. Measures have already been taken. The gardeners are being moved to Maldon and elsewhere. The land did not actually belong to our people; it was theirs by grace and favour, and now it is being resumed by the local community. I will send someone around with copies of the newspaper from my files, if you like?’
‘That would be most helpful. Lin, do you happen to have files on every town in Victoria?’
He laughed aloud. ‘Only those where my people are involved, directly or indirectly—which is perhaps more than you would think. Only thus can we maintain our honoured position here.’
Honoured position! But at least there had been no massacres of the Chinese in Victoria, thanks to Constable Thomas Cooke of the Castlemaine police station, representing in his lonely self the awesome majesty of Queen Victoria and her laws. But fear, loathing, ill-will and general xenophobia there had most certainly been, and it had not yet abated. Still, divining that Lin would like the subject changed, and quickly, she returned to the subject of her own forthcoming visit to the region.
She stood up, reached into her purse and unfolded a letter, handing it to him. Lin perused the following with raised eyebrows.
The Spa
Hepburn Springs
23 February 1929
Dear Miss Fisher,
I write to you at the recommendation of Dr Elizabeth McMillan, who has visited here on occasion. I know that you served with distinction in the war, and you will be aware that all too many of our brave survivors suffer from shell shock. The Army and the Ministry offer them little sympathy, and even less help. They are not shirkers or cowards, but men who have endured more than flesh and blood can manage. At my spa, I am attempting to provide my patients with the rest, recuperation and care they so badly need. I would like to invite you to see my establishment for yourself, after which I hope you may see your way clear to supporting my endeavours. Would you care to join me for dinner this coming Friday?
Yours sincerely,
Herbert Spencer (Capt., ret’d)
‘What do you make of that?’
Lin slipped one hand inside his dressing-gown and ran his hand over his chest. Phryne suppressed the erotic thrill that surged through her body. Any information this admirably well-informed man could supply beforehand might be vital. ‘The first thing I should mention is that Hepburn Springs is not Daylesford. While the two communities are contiguous, they have quite different characters. Hepburn Springs is further into the mountain forest.’
‘How far away from Daylesford?’
‘They are about three miles apart, town centre to town centre. Though there are houses all along the road connecting them.’
‘And the spa?’
‘It was once a place of secret women’s rituals among the local Aboriginal tribes, who were, naturally, comprehensively dispossessed last century. The spa is said to have extraordinary healing properties. And now this Captain Spencer is using it for shell-shock victims? Intriguing. Your Captain sounds like a kind and generous man.’
‘Indeed. And how is Daylesford so different?’
‘Hepburn Springs is a place of quiet refinement. Daylesford, which is far larger and more spacious, is rather more boisterous. And it possesses a remarkable curiosity.’ Phryne raised an eyebrow. Lin matched her by raising both of his own, with matching grin. ‘There is a licensed premises called the Temperance Hotel.’
‘That does appear to be one of the less successful advertising decisions in history,’ Phryne remarked.
‘So one would think, at first glance. However, the pub does serve wine, beer and cider; only spirits are forbidden. This appears to be a compromise widely acceptable in the local community.’
How very Australian! Vociferous arguments in favour of temperance would be made so long as drunken husbands staggered home from the local pub ready to take out their incoherent frustration with the world on their long-suffering wives and children. But while it was possible to get rolling drunk on beer alone, it required a good deal more focus to attain the condition of violent drunkenness; thus, while many Australians had agitated for total prohibition (which had worked so well in America), a substantial body of opinion held that such a compromise was both achievable and prudent.
Phryne smiled at her lover. ‘I would be intrigued to visit this place. Perhaps, when I have seen Captain Spencer, I should pay a visit to Daylesford as well. Do any of the other pubs serve spirits?’
Lin chuckled. ‘They do. But married patrons are severely discouraged—by their wives—from visiting such places, whereas a few drinks at the Temperance Hotel is something the women of Daylesford can accommodate for their hard-working husbands. Also—’ Lin paused, and smiled the smile of a fallen angel ‘—apparently one of the barmaids is a famous beauty. Her hand in marriage is comprehensively sought.’
‘But not yet attained?’
‘Not thus far. And I imagine that the rivalry between her suitors sells many a drink on the premises.’
‘No doubt. You mentioned wine and cider as well as beer. The wine is because of the Swiss Italians, I expect. Do they make it locally?’
Lin nodded.
‘But cider? It is hardly a common drink.’
‘This would be the local Cornish influence.’
‘Lin, you are a minefield of information.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It is now almost ten. You said that you have a meeting at noon?’
‘I do, Silver Lady, and I must depart a half-hour before.’
‘But until then?’ She leaned forward, allowing the front of her gown to fall open.
Lin’s almond eyes flickered over Phryne’s breasts for a moment. ‘Until then, I would be pleased to accompany you once more among the chrysanthemums. If it be your will?’
Phryne reached out and took his face between her hands. Her mouth opened, and she traced the tip of her tongue around his lips. ‘It is indeed my will.’
Lin’s hand closed around her left breast, and Phryne stood up, reaching for the cord of his dressing-gown. She began to chant a poem she had recently discovered. It was called ‘Butterflies in Love with Flowers’, and she hoped that Lin might know it, even though it was originally written in Mandarin, and his family spoke Cantonese.
‘I would rather drink to intoxication.
One should sing when one has wine in hand,
But drinking to escape offers no reprieve.
I do not mind that my clothes are getting
looser.
My lover is worthy of desire.’
Lin’s strong arms pulled her body close as their garments fell unregarded onto the carpet. ‘Come, little flower, the butterfly is impatient,’ he whispered, and he carried her, without effort, back to bed.
CHAPTER TWO
Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! The Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.
Edward Fitzgerald,
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr
The next day dawned hotter, with a north wind which blew rasping, unpleasant odours from the Unwashed Suburbs of the inner east. Phryne awoke fashionably late to receive Dot, already clothed in a light summer dress (beige), a thin woollen jumper (cocoa), sensible walking shoes (henna) with lisle stockings (cinnamon) and a light silk shawl (fawn). Phryne had never realised quite how many flavours of brown one wardrobe could accommodate, but Dot was, it appeared, determined to encompass them all. One day, Phryne considered, she would attempt to discover, as discreetly as possible, if her devoted companion were subject to a particular form of colour-blindness. She desperately wanted to introduce Dot to the possibilities of blues and reds. Perhaps she could begin with the milder shades of maroon.
Since Phryne was unaccompanied this morning, Dot had brought up her employer’s more customary morning repast: a pot of fragrant Italian coffee and a French roll.
‘This is very kind of you, Dot. Are we packed?’
Dot stood with her hands clasped together, rather as if waiting for her first communion. ‘Yes, Miss. I’ve packed enough for a week’s stay. Will that be enough, do you think?’
Phryne poured herself a cup of steaming Arabica and sipped it gratefully. ‘I think so, Dot. I hope this will be a pleasant holiday, but a week away from civilisation will be quite long enough. I don’t want to leave the girls and Tinker for any longer than that.’
‘It was very kind of you to invite Hugh to come and stay here while his bachelor quarters are being rebuilt.’
‘The timing was propitious. Hugh can keep half an eye on the girls and Tinker.’
‘Yes, Miss Phryne. Oh, and Mr Lin sent some newspapers around this morning.’ Dot’s normally pale features coloured somewhat, as they generally did whenever Lin Chung was under discussion. ‘The Daylesford Advocate. I’ve been reading a recent issue this morning. It says there’ll be a Highland Gathering tomorrow. Should I have packed something Scotch?’
‘Unless you mean whisky, Dot, no. I would love to attend a Highland Gathering, but I am not dressing up in a MacSporran tartan. I think Sir Walter Scott has a good deal to answer for. The Highlanders of my acquaintance are not over-fond of tartan culture, such as it is.’ Phryne thought for a moment. ‘Dot, I know it’s still summer, but did you pack any warm clothes?’
‘Yes, Miss. I looked up Daylesford and Hepburn Springs before I packed. It is two thousand feet above sea level and it’s in the middle of something called the Wombat Forest. Do you think we’ll meet any wombats?’
‘I hope so, Dot; there is something gloriously single-minded about wombats. All right, I’ll meet you downstairs in an hour. Ask Mr B to get the car ready.’
Dot hovered for a moment. ‘We could go by train, Miss?’ she suggested hopefully.
‘Yes, we could, Dot—but I don’t want to. We’d have to go via Ballarat, and I’ve had quite enough of that train line. In any case, Hepburn Springs is three miles from the nearest train station, and the hills are a little too vertiginous for comfort. The car it is, Dot.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
With that, Dot withdrew, and Phryne began upon her breakfast in earnest.
An hour later, Phryne emerged from the house dressed in a long leather coat, leather boots, a flying helmet, goggles and a white silk scarf. Mr Butler had left the motor purring to itself, and stood to attention at the front door, waving a handkerchief and smiling. Phryne was perfectly able to crank the six-cylinder monster into action herself, but it was Mr Butler’s pleasure to do the honours himself. She opened the boot and observed her own enormous valises, which occupied most of the available room. Dot’s own valise was nestling under a wicker picnic basket. She closed the boot and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Dot?’ she called. ‘Time to go!’
A moment later the front door opened and Dot emerged, dressed as she had been earlier but with the addition of a cable-stitch cream cricket jumper, a chocolate brown overcoat and an extraordinary contraption covering her head which suggested that she expected imminent attack by squadrons of bees. Dot hurried past Mr B and slipped into the passenger seat, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
‘Whatever are you wearing, Dot?’ Phryne enquired.
Dot shot her mistress a quick, fiercely embarrassed look. ‘It’s a Freda Storm Veil, Miss. For when you’re driving fast.’
Phryne nodded, and forbore to question any further. She had heard of Freda Storm Veils for Frightened Passengers and accepted the implied reproach on her reckless driving. She engaged the clutch, selected first gear, and chugged out into The Esplanade. Here along the beach, the air smelled of old seaweed and salty sand—a considerable improvement on the odours of Richmond and Collingwood, which Phryne remembered only too well from her impoverished childhood. Once into second gear, the car began to purr. ‘Not long now, my tigress,’ she murmured under her breath, ‘and you shall have your chance to fly.’ The four hundred and three cubic inches of her motor could achieve speeds greatly in excess of either speed limits or Dot’s comfort. Marc Birkigt, who had designed the motor, was better known as a maker of engines for aeroplanes, and the Hispano-Suiza’s block was exactly half of one of his aviation V12s.
As Phryne surged through the inner north-western suburbs, Dot considered her headgear. It was grey, like Dot’s mood, with double elastic, and further anchored by two vicious-looking hatpins stuck into her brown plaits, one from each side. It did obscure her vision if she chanced to open her eyes, and that was all to the good, but it was not helping as much as she had hoped.
As a result, her eyes remained resolutely shut for the most part, and Phryne was able to pursue her imperious path through Melbourne’s traffic unobserved by her prayerful companion. (Dot was now invoking the succour of St Christopher, patron and guardian of travellers; a small silver medallion hung from her neck, and both her neat hands were clasped around it.) While her eyes were closed, however, her ears were receiving a good deal. Curses, shouts, car horns, police whistles and the rebuking clangour of a passing tram. Better not to know, she decided, and continued her novena.
When she had finished, Dot inhaled deeply. The passing air was astringent, but clean, and there was no sound but the roar of the six-cylinder engine and the wind. She opened her eyes to find Phryne slowing down. They were approaching the top of a substantial hill, and beside the road another car had paused on the gravel verge. A red-faced man was standing beside the open bonnet of a two-seater sports car. Occupying the passenger seat was a young woman in a tight bonnet. Her eyes appeared to be rolled upwards in resignation. The man’s gloved hand was fiddling with the radiator cap, which was steaming ominously. As they drew to a stop, the radiator erupted, drenching the man’s coat in grubby brown water.
‘Need some help?’ Phryne called out.
The man flourished a tin jerry-can. ‘No worries, Miss, I’ve got a refill. But thanks anyway!’
Phryne waved her gloved hand and accelerated away. Cars and steep ascents did not play well together as a rule, but apparently the Hispano-Suiza laughed at mere hillocks such as these.
After a few more undulations, they careered down a steep hill into what appeared to be a valley of apple orchards.
‘Where are we, Miss?’ Dot ventured in a timid voice.
‘Heading into the Avenue of Honour in Bacchus Marsh, Dot,’ Phryne informed her. ‘Where the speed limit is thirty miles per hour, a restriction which I intend to obey
.’ She eased the motor back to a gentle purr, and Dot looked at the road with interest. Flourishing elm saplings lined both sides.
‘There are plaques there, Miss,’ Dot observed. ‘Were these trees planted in memory of those fallen in battle?’
‘Yes, Dot. Most of them brutally murdered by incompetent generals.’
Dot, who knew well that Miss Phryne had played a considerable role herself in the Great War, decided to let this pass. ‘You don’t mean Sir John Monash, surely, Miss?’
‘Indeed not. He and Allenby were the only generals commanding who seemed to have any idea how to win a war without getting half their own men killed.’
So many dead, from one small town. Dot crossed herself. ‘Miss, I hope you can help Captain Spencer,’ she ventured. ‘From his letter he seems to be a good man.’
‘So he does, Dot,’ said Phryne, as they passed by a most impressive town hall and began to climb out of the snug valley again. ‘The Captain intrigues me. I feared the war had killed off every Herbert, Albert and Clarence in the nation; I am delighted to discover that one Herbert at least remains alive and helpful. And with any luck he may prove to be a most attractive young man. The girls and Tinker are back at school, Mr and Mrs B can mind the house and the domestic animals, and I can feel a small adventure coming on. Besides, I have never been to Hepburn and Doctor MacMillan recommends it highly. The roses should be out, and I hear that it is a most beautiful village.’
Since they were travelling at a modest, refined speed up the long hill, Dot took out the Victorian Government Tourist Bureau guidebook and perused the page on Hepburn Springs. The curative properties of the mineral springs were extolled at length, although sinusoidal electric baths sounded a trifle extreme, even for her headstrong and fearless employer. Dot made a firm vow to herself that having electricity applied to her bath would happen over her lifeless body. And a shilling a time? A mere sixpence would purchase a hot or cold mineral bath without high-voltage shocks being applied to her person. A hot bath sounded like a splendid idea.
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