Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘Miss, it says here that one of the springs is sulphur—that can’t be right, surely?’

  ‘Indeed it can, Dot. The idea of a brimstone bath is appealing, in a strange way. And the others sound wonderful.’

  They reached the top of the hill. Away in the distance a line of hills loomed. Phryne pointed. ‘That is where we are going, Dot: into the hills and the Wombat Forest.’ She pressed her foot on the accelerator; the Hispano-Suiza emitted an excitable roar, and the car leaped forward once more. Dot closed her eyes and resumed praying.

  When she opened her eyes again, they were turning right into a broad stretch of nondescript farmland. ‘Here we leave the highway.’ Phryne reached over and patted Dot’s arm in sympathy. ‘Only about twenty miles to go, Dot. Bear up. We’ll be there in half an hour.’

  ‘Yes, Miss. I’m sure we will.’

  As they entered the forest, Phryne slowed down. ‘Smell the eucalypts, Dot!’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ Even through her veil, Dot found the scent overwhelming, but it was undeniably refreshing. ‘I can also smell water, Miss.’

  ‘Yes. We’re now entering spa country, and even in summer it’s wet.’

  As they motored through the canopy of trees, Dot saw many farms, with houses of wood and stone. Occasional horses nibbled the verdant grass. Contented cows grazed, and sheep munched in asinine oblivion. Occasional villages lined the roadside. One was called Sailor’s Falls, which seemed extremely odd. Was this a place where maritime workers fell off furniture? Or was it the place of a waterfall, discovered by a sailor, or a man called Sailor? What would it be like to live on one of these isolated farms? Dot wondered. In the city, there were lawless pockets in the slums where terrible things could happen, but at least there were neighbours to whom you could turn for help. In the countryside, anything could happen and who would even know?

  She was distracted from her morose reflections by a flash of colour. ‘Miss, what’s that?’ Dot pointed to a post on the edge of an ill-kept paddock by the roadside.

  Phryne stopped the car and looked hard at it. It was a brightly coloured woollen scarf, knotted loosely around the top of the post and held in place with twine about ten feet above the ground. It flapped occasionally as a stray breeze caught it.

  ‘Well spotted, Dot. Perhaps it’s what they use for a scarecrow here. Maybe the original scarecrow ran away from home because it was all too depressing.’ Phryne indicated a dilapidated farmhouse set back from the road. A door hung drunkenly by one hinge. Two of the windows were broken. There were no humans in sight anywhere, but a depressed horse stared at its paddock in a brown study, and scrawny chickens pecked aimlessly at nothing in particular. A generalised sense of doom hung in the atmosphere, summarised by a single washing line strung forlornly between two worm-eaten wooden posts. Sadly pegged together were a pair of overalls, a shabby print dress, two indescribably awful towels, a stained woollen jumper and an assortment of grey underwear that looked like it had died without mourners. Beneath the laundry, a shaggy black-and-white cat glared at them as if it held a personal grudge, then stalked off in medium-to-low dudgeon.

  ‘I don’t know how this farm strikes you, Dot, but it’s a little bit too Thomas Hardy for my liking.’

  ‘It gives me the shivers, Miss.’

  ‘Quite. Let’s get out of here.’

  Phryne engaged the clutch and they sped off around the corner. Suddenly the sun came out from behind a cloud and bathed the open road in radiant sunshine. The forest gave way to more farms. Phryne wound around a corner and cruised over a bridge. On the other side, a solid-looking red-brick pub announced its availability for luncheon and refreshments. Three horny-handed sons of toil raised glasses of beer, and Phryne waved happily to them.

  The road wound still further and began a long climb to the top of a hill, crowned by some imposing architecture. At the summit was a crossroads. This, it appeared, was the centre of Daylesford, and quietly impressive it was. Deep bluestone guttering lined both sides of the road, which widened into the sort of thoroughfare in which a coach and four could easily be turned about. Shoppers shopped in prosperous-looking establishments, children chased each other along the footpaths, and the entire scene was charming to the eye.

  Phryne was about to advance down the hill when a raucous whistle sounded. She observed a very large uniformed policeman standing in the middle of the road. His puffy right hand was held palm outwards, right in their path. Phryne stopped in the middle of the road and leaned over to address the obstacle. ‘Good afternoon, officer,’ she said brightly. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

  An unfortunate conglomeration of flabby, porcine features frowned horribly at her. ‘Hold it there! May I see your driver’s licence, ma’am?’

  The Irish brogue was unmistakable. So was the exasperating air of self-righteous stupidity which accompanied his shiny sergeant’s stripes. He sweated profusely. He had shaved inexpertly, and jet-black stubble mingled with cuts and abrasions, as if he had just gone three rounds with a cheese-grater and been defeated on a technical knock-out.

  Phryne handed over her licence, wondering if he would need any help with the longer words.

  He frowned again. ‘Miss Frinny Fisher, is it?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘And where would you be off to, then, Miss Fisher?’

  ‘Hepburn Springs. And if you would be so kind as to give me my licence back, I would like some afternoon tea. I am staying at the Mooltan, if you think that is any of your business.’

  The sergeant started as if he had been bitten by a snake. ‘You don’t want to do that, Miss! Some very dubious characters there.’

  Phryne held out her gloved hand, and with reluctance the sergeant returned her licence and stood aside.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. And I hope you have a really annoying day.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the sky

  I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,

  ‘Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup

  Before Life’s Liquor in its cup be dry.’

  Edward Fitzgerald,

  The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr

  Detective Inspector Jack Robinson made his thoughtful way back to City South police station. The commissioner was not happy, and had said so at length. He had concluded his remarks by suggesting that perhaps Detective Inspector Robinson should Consider His Position. Detective Inspector Robinson made it clear that he had already considered his position. The commissioner went on to suggest that, in view of his considerable services to the Victoria Police, it was even possible that another promotion might be in order, provided always that there was a satisfactory conclusion to his next assignment.

  Detective Inspector Robinson had silently called upon his Maker to give him strength and opened his mouth to tell the commissioner to go and take a long walk off a short pier. He had closed his mouth again while the ancient grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked its erratic journey around the roman numerals. The assignment was about as welcome as the delivery of a consignment of dead rats onto the front verandah. Nobody else had made any headway on this case, for the very simple reason that the offender in question had most of the senior management of the Victoria Police (and a fair portion of the government) in his capacious and unsavoury raincoat pocket. But—and it was a highly significant but—the current incumbent was rumoured to be entirely honest.

  Robinson had stared long and thoughtfully at James Gordon, His Majesty’s Commissioner of Police in the Sovereign State of Victoria. It was not a pleasing face. The pallid, sweat-beaded complexion looked like uncooked damper. The watery eyes resembled those of a goldfish who has forgotten the whereabouts of the treasure chest. The overweight torso bulged in unsavoury places. And yet the magic words ‘chief inspector’ had been uttered. In consequence, Detective Inspector Robinson had agreed that the posting would receive his assent. And so the meeting broke up, with a remarkable absence of co
rdiality on either side.

  Jack reached the station in no good temper and summoned his faithful offsider with a peremptory wave of his right hand. Detective Sergeant Collins was only too glad to be diverted from his morning’s dusty paperwork—which contained little of interest—and followed his superior officer into his private office.

  ‘Close the door, will you, Collins?’

  Hugh Collins did so, making as little noise as possible, and looked at Robinson with the air of a favourite dog being invited for a walk.

  ‘How did your meeting with the commissioner go, sir?’

  Jack Robinson shook his head in sorrow. ‘Collins, I have good news and bad news. I am being seconded to a special project.’

  ‘Is that the good news or the bad news?’

  Jack laughed. ‘I don’t really know. The good bit is the opportunity to put behind bars one of our most prominent citizens. The bad news is that three blokes I know have already tried. One’s dead and the other two were dismissed from the force.’

  ‘So who are you going after?’ Hugh wanted to know.

  Robinson gave him a Look. ‘The business conglomerate controlled by a certain Barry Mortimore.’

  Collins yelped. ‘Not Barry the Shark!’

  ‘The same. However, I have grounds for optimism.’

  ‘But, sir—’ Collins began to march up and down the shabby carpet, registering alarm ‘—the Shark has all the government bigwigs in his pocket. You can’t go after him!’

  ‘Nevertheless, I am going to try. And that’s as much as I am going to tell you, Collins, because you won’t be part of this particular operation. The squad has been hand-picked by the commissioner, and whatever we may think of him, I have reason to believe that he at least is straight and not in anybody’s pocket—except possibly that of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church.’ Jack waved a hand. ‘Sit down, Collins, you’re giving me a headache.’

  Hugh Collins subsided, steaming with equal parts concern and relief. Serving officers who found themselves on the wrong side of the Shark tended to have the life expectancy of a tulip in a blast furnace. If you were lucky, you were accused of police corruption and dismissed. If you were unlucky, you might well find yourself investigating the Yarra River, or the clammy depths of Victoria Dock, in concrete overshoes. But he had faith in his boss. If anyone could pull this off, then surely Robinson could. Since his engagement to Dot, though, Hugh had become a little more careful of his own person.

  ‘Good luck, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Unfortunately, Collins, this means that you will be working for Acting Detective Inspector Fraser. You will call him “sir”; you will obey his instructions; and you will only investigate behind his back if it becomes clear that a miscarriage of justice is imminent. In that event, you will present him with the results of your own investigations. And when he takes all the credit for your work, you will keep your mouth shut, salute enthusiastically, and reflect that in the Victoria Police credit is eventually given where it is merited. I hope to be back in due course. Good luck.’

  Jack stood up, as did Hugh. They shook hands with the solemnity normally afforded to the laying of foundation stones or the opening of bridges. Then Jack clapped his hat on his head and took his leave.

  The wrought-iron front gate of Lonsdale Technical School was invitingly open, and Tinker strolled through it into the street. He was happy—as he always was, even in the temporary absence of his rescuer and patron Miss Fisher. ‘I’m happy!’ he said aloud, careless of whoever might overhear him. I’ve got a house, he went on in an interior monologue. I’ve got no screaming babies and hungry young kids to look after and be tormented by. Instead, he had Jane and Ruth, who were quiet and easy to get on with. He had Mr Hugh, who openly encouraged Tinker in his career aspirations. Hugh was already a policeman and worked for Detective Inspector Robinson; Tinker hoped to one day do the same. And there was Dot. Tinker was puzzled by Dot; he had never met anyone who had Religion before, and he found it a bit strange. But Dot was so kind and loving you soon forgot about it. There were Mr and Mrs Butler, who were always ready to feed him from their seemingly inexhaustible pantry. I really am happy, he concluded. I reckon I’m walking on easy street.

  Today had been a good day. He had put up with his mathematics classes and had managed to get most of his sums right. Fractions made more sense when you could see them in front of you. Obviously seven and three eighths of an inch was smaller than seven and a half inches. It was right there in front of you, on your ruler. He had received a mark of approval from Mr Bradbury for his technical drawing of a workshop. ‘Is that something you’d like to make, Tinker?’ Mr Bradbury had enquired. Tinker had explained that it was where he lived. He had borrowed the household tape measure (a proper spring-loaded tin one) and taken all the measurements. His shed was nine feet four and a half inches by six feet two inches, and seven feet six and three eighths of an inch high. Everything in it was his, and it felt good.

  He walked quickly to Swanston Street, arriving just in time to catch a southbound tram. He was in no hurry to return home, and he felt the need for some adult male company. As the tram sauntered down the hill towards Bourke Street, Tinker stared out the window in open admiration of the huge buildings. In one he counted no fewer than eight storeys. There had been nothing like this in Queenscliff, where he had grown up. The click-click of the conductor marking tickets mingled with excitable conversation and the whine of the tram’s wheels on the shining metal tracks. Passengers alighted, others climbed on board, mostly women with brown paper parcels under their arms or stowed inside bulging string bags. One heavily laden woman was struggling with a screaming child.

  Tinker leaned forward and looked the tow-haired toddler straight in the eye. ‘No need for that, mate. Mum’s doin’ her best.’

  The child stared at him and opened its mouth wide.

  ‘Yair, mate, that’s the way. Take it easy.’

  This was rewarded with a dazzling smile. Mum shot Tinker a grateful look then drew a lolly out of her coat pocket with her black-gloved hand and shoved it into the child’s gaping mouth. Tinker looked her over without particular interest, but noted that she was very pretty. Remembering his life’s ambition to become a detective, he composed a detailed description of the woman, in the event she had been a material witness to a crime. He closed his eyes and ran through his list. Age: early twenties. Height: five feet one. Weight: seven stone. Complexion: fair, with faint lines beneath her brown eyes. Hair: auburn, curly, just above the collar. Coat: summer, light brown with a fur trim. Hat: expensive, cloche, deep brown. He opened his eyes again, nodded briefly to her and smiled.

  Tinker got off the tram at Flinders Street. A rich peal of bells rang out from St Paul’s Cathedral as he stood and admired the great arches of Flinders Street station, with its row of clocks proclaiming the next departure time for each line. Some of the boys at school spoke in whispers about Meeting a Girl Under the Clocks; Tinker wasn’t interested in girls, but the information had been filed away as General Background Detail. The St Kilda line, he noted, had a train leaving in four minutes, but that was not what he wanted. Instead, he set off west down Flinders Street, heading towards the docks.

  Bert and Cec would probably be there, fishing. They had explained the intricacies of the Great Strike of 1923 to Tinker, who was, to tell the truth, less surprised and outraged than they had expected. Of course the bosses would oppress the workers if they could! And they had got away with it. The strike had collapsed, and now the wharfies had to beg for work, resulting in the local version of what Sydney’s harbourside workers called the Hungry Mile. If you wanted work in the morning, you had to present yourself at two different docks, with a long trek between them. Because Bert and Cec had their own taxi, which they drove in the evenings, they no longer bothered to turn up at seven am, but they still presented themselves at both docks for the three pm shift. They were rarely picked, however, as the shipping companies’ representatives invariably recognised the t
wo notorious communists and would only hire them if there was no alternative. As a result, they had plenty of time to fish.

  Tinker’s eyes were fixed on the river as he walked. It was a bright, sunny day with little wind, and the seagulls gathered by the oily waters of the Yarra, picking through piles of weeds and discarded rubbish. Tinker recognised the gulls as fellows, having grown up very like them, gleaning a precarious living on the waterfront from whatever was unattended or unwanted. The elegant grey stone of the Seamen’s Mission loomed up amid the grubby sheds and wharfside clutter. This was Bert and Cec’s favourite spot.

  And there they were. Cec: tall and Viking-like, with clipped flaxen hair; and Bert: short, rotund and dark-haired. They had been mates all through the war, and they were still mates now. Having a mate was important. But Tinker was in no hurry to acquire one. His ideal mate would be a fellow cop. An honest cop, naturally. Bert had already told him about Crook Cops and how to identify them. Crook Cops could not be trusted. To begin with, they would be your best friend. Then they’d start showing you easy ways of picking up extra cash on the side. Until one day your so-called mate had dropped you right in it.

  Tinker approached slowly, waiting for his cue. He looked at the wickerwork fishing creel, their rough-hewn dark trousers and checked shirts, their elderly hats.

  Eventually Bert turned to face him and nodded. ‘G’day, Tink.’

  Tinker paused for the requisite dragging second and responded. ‘G’day, Bert, Cec.’

  Bert made a small, almost indiscernible gesture with his jaw, indicating that Tinker’s company was acceptable, and he joined them, watching as Cec dangled a single line down into the fetid waters. No rods today. He looked questioningly at Bert but did not speak.

  Bert gave another infinitesimal nod of approval and deigned to expound. ‘This is niggling, Tink. River’s too dirty right now for anything but eels.’ Bert indicated a galvo bucket of water next to the creel. ‘When we catch ’em, we put ’em in fresh water and carry them home like that.’