Tinker was impressed. Bert and Cec did not need to go fishing any more than they needed to walk the Hungry Mile. But they were wharfies by preference and fished because it was part of being a Man Among Men. Tinker really wanted to be like them, even though he was going to be a copper, and hence technically a class enemy to the comrades. But they respected his ambition nevertheless. As Cec had explained, it was better to have decent blokes in the police force than crooks and outright criminals.
Cec niggled the line some more, but drew it out again in silent disgust.
‘Bastard get away?’ Bert enquired out of the corner of his mouth.
Cec nodded.
‘Let me ’ave a go.’
Bert took the fishing line, rebaited the now bare hook with a small piece of unidentifiable fish-like substance and cast the line back into the turbid water.
Cec regarded Tinker with a friendly eye. ‘School all right, mate?’
‘Yair.’ Tinker paused, wondering if he should elaborate. The silence seemed inviting enough. ‘Fractions, English and technical drawing.’
Bert drew a wriggling eel from the river and cast it into the bucket. ‘English?’ he repeated. ‘What do they teach yer in that, Tink? Poetry?’
‘I have to write essays. I’m not very good at it.’
‘Worth doin’ though, I reckon. Stands to reason you should be able to write.’
‘And read,’ Cec put in. ‘Otherwise the bastards’ll rob yer blind out there.’
‘I suppose I’ll need to be able to write reports when I become a detective,’ Tink mused.
This produced, if not enthusiasm, at least silent assent. At length Bert extracted another eel from the river and sent it to join its fellows. ‘Youse want a go, Tink?’
‘No thanks.’
Cec resumed command of the niggling and Bert rolled himself a smoke from his rusty tobacco tin. ‘Youse are in Leaving, yair?’
Tinker admitted that he was, which meant that the police academy beckoned.
Bert nodded. ‘Mate, the cops’ll want to see a young bloke who works hard, so get your certificate with as good marks as yer can. Anyone who wants to give you a job, they’ll want to see a nice shiny report.’
Tinker digested this. The unspoken message was clear. Forget being wharfies like us. It’s a mug’s game now. Without the taxi, and Miss Fisher, he knew, Bert and Cec would be seriously up against it. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘And I’ll join the union.’
Bert gave him a baleful glare. ‘Too bloody right you’ll join the union. And when the comrades go out, you go out too. One in, all in.’
‘It’s all right, Bert. I’ll never be a scab.’ Tinker shut his eyes for a moment, trying to remember something he’d heard once. ‘You scabbed, old son, in ninety-one. And then once more in ninety-four.’
‘Yair.’ Bert stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and rolled another one. ‘Blokes wouldn’t work with scabs twenty years afterwards. Blokes remember. Once a scab, always a scab.’
At that moment, Cec drew another eel out of the river and deposited it in the bucket. It complained vigorously, at first, but subsided eventually into acquiescence with its comrades.
‘Right, Cec, let’s get this down to Port,’ said Bert. ‘You coming, Tink?’
‘Where to?’
‘We’re just gonna drop this lot off at Comrade London’s place for his missus, and then we can take yer home.’
‘Oh. Yair, sure. Thanks.’ Tinker pondered for a moment. ‘London? That’s an unusual name.’
Cec grinned. ‘London fog—never lifts. Actually, he’s not that bad, but he was bludgin’ one long night shift and the name stuck.’
‘Yair, and one night he met the Hook comin’ the other way and didn’t make it home at all.’ Bert held Tinker’s eyes. ‘Yair, I know what yer thinkin’: we could just give her money. But she wouldn’t take it. When the union had money, we’d distribute to everyone accordin’ to their needs, but the union’s bust these days. And while London’s missus would take money from the union, she won’t accept it from us. Instead, we give her whatever we can catch. She can make a decent eel pie out of this.’ He gestured to the bucket.
‘All right.’ That sounded sensible. Tinker looked around. ‘Where’s the cab?’
‘Over near the dock.’
Cec picked up the bucket in one hand and slung the creel over his shoulder. Bert led the way along the wooden jetty. A great iron ship was standing by the pier.
‘The comrades look after us, Tink,’ Bert confided. ‘We do the odd favour for them, and they keep an eye on our taxi. No bludger comes near our cab. And there she is.’ He stopped to admire his battered black taxi then turned to his mate, who had stopped a few paces back and was frowning at the river in consternation. ‘Cec, what’s wrong, mate?’
‘Nothin’ good. Have a look.’
Tinker followed Cec’s gaze. A girl’s body was bobbing gently on the water’s surface. She was face down, and she was not moving.
‘Jeez.’ Bert had a short think and came to a decision. ‘Cec, you drop off the eels then take Tinker home. I’ll stay here for now. You can come pick me up later.’
‘What’re we gonna do?’ Tinker wanted to know.
Bert looked at Tinker with a stricken face. ‘Call the cops, mate. Just get the taxi out of here, all right?’
Cec nodded, loaded the bucket into the cab and drove off with Tinker.
‘It’s bad when it happens, mate,’ said Cec, driving around the bay. ‘Bodies floatin’ by the wharf. Sometimes blokes have a disagreement and one of them finishes up in the water. We don’t get involved, ’cos it’s none of our business. But girls is different.’ Cec changed gears and slowed the car to a stop. ‘Won’t be a mo’. Stay put, mate.’
Tinker did so, his mind still filled with the horrific image of the bobbing corpse. The details were burned into his mind. The blouse that must once have been white was grey, and a long black skirt enveloped her pale, stockinged legs like an obscene jellyfish. His skin crawled at the memory. Her single plait drifted about her head helplessly, already gathering weed and refuse. Abruptly, he flung open the car door and got out. Crumpling to his knees, he was sick in the gutter.
When he was done, he wiped his mouth and slowly stood up. One day, when he was a detective, he would have to face dead bodies, he reminded himself. And they wouldn’t all be blokes who’d had it coming; it might even be girls like this one, who looked to be no older than Jane or Ruth. But how could a girl like this have ended up in the river? He clenched his teeth and stood up straighter. A sudden flame burned inside him. He, Tinker, was going to solve this case. By himself, if needs be.
CHAPTER FOUR
And, as the cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted—‘Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.’
Edward Fitzgerald,
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr
First it was the hats. Through long practice, they sailed in curving trajectories across the bedroom and landed on the brown, furry heads of Henry and Pootel, a matched pair of teddy bears whose quiet, impassive sympathy had been of great assistance during the last year. Next came the gloves, which sailed into a wicker basket on the floor, from which emerged Ember the black kitten. She glared at the humans who had dared intrude upon her royal slumbers and tiptoed out of the room.
‘It is offended!’ cried Jane.
‘See! It stalks away,’ finished Ruth, who had been reading Hamlet and was greatly impressed by the opening ghost scene upon the ramparts of Elsinore.
Phryne’s adoptive daughters had arrived home together and continued their diurnal post-school ritual. Ruth hung up their jackets on coathangers in the tall blackwood wardrobe while Jane tossed their softened leather satchels, which spun across the room in epicyclic parabolas and landed on the floor next to their matching desks. Next came their pleated school tunics—heavy with p
erspiration and the worse for wear—which sailed majestically into the washing basket. The two girls hastily donned their straight, sleeveless linen housecoats (slate blue for Jane; pink for Ruth). They kicked off their shoes, which landed on the carpet directly outside for Tinker to take them away and apply boot polish thereto. (This part of Tinker’s going-to-sleep ritual gave him a deep and utterly improbable satisfaction.)
‘I cannot believe we don’t have summer uniforms, Jane.’
‘I can. It’s ridiculous, of course. But everyone wants their children to look like English scholars, and that includes school uniforms more suitable for the retreat from Moscow.’
‘I will never feel comfortable in these,’ Ruth commented as she sat on the edge of her bed and extricated her toes from her silk stockings. ‘Oh, dash it! I’ve laddered them!’
‘We’ve got plenty.’
They exchanged a look. Both girls had grown up (if that was the term) in direst poverty in a boarding house run by a villainous woman who could have been Wackford Squeers’ grandmother. Stockings, silk or otherwise, were utterly unknown in the slums of Seddon. Thanks to Miss Phryne, they now had more pairs of stockings than they would ever need. Ruth blushed. Here she was complaining about being forced to wear expensive clothes on a hot day. By tacit consent, they dropped the subject and wandered into the kitchen.
There, the impressively starched and aproned Mrs Butler looked at them with the air of a mother duck regarding her two most adventurous ducklings and handed them two long glasses filled with chilled lemonade. The girls sat on chairs in the kitchen and sipped, savouring the homemade refreshment. The plate of biscuits on the kitchen table was lessened by two, and quiet crunching sounds indicated entire satisfaction.
‘Well, girls, how was school today?’
Ruth put down her glass. ‘We’ve got a mystery, Mrs B!’ The exclamation mark was perfectly audible.
‘What are you talking about?’
Jane sipped again then set down her glass. ‘It’s Claire, who’s in my class. She’s gone missing.’
‘It’s true, Mrs B,’ Ruth added excitedly. ‘She wasn’t at school yesterday, and we thought that was a bit strange, because Claire studies really hard and never misses school. Then she missed today as well, and we saw her mum drive into the school grounds; we noticed the car because it was so big and expensive. She had a long talk with the headmistress.’
Mrs Butler sighed and shook her head. ‘And from that you’ve decided that she’s missing? You’re jumping to conclusions, both of you. How do you know she isn’t just changing schools?’
The girls exchanged glances in which both guilt and mischief featured prominently.
‘Unless one of you was listening?’ Mrs B suggested.
Jane blushed. ‘Well, yes, I was. It was lunchtime, and I know that Miss Barclay keeps her front window open all the time.’
‘So you eavesdropped?’
Jane squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’
‘And that’s where you found out that the girl’s mother doesn’t know where she is and neither does the school?’
Jane nodded. ‘But Ruth and I thought we might be able to find her.’
‘You are not going to risk your necks poking your noses where they aren’t wanted. I forbid it! What would Miss Phryne say?’
Jane looked downcast, but Ruth unexpectedly protested. ‘Why shouldn’t we, Mrs B? I like Claire. She’s a good girl. No one takes much notice of her, but just because she’s quiet and not pretty doesn’t mean we shouldn’t look out for her.’
Mrs Butler thought about this. Jane was very intelligent, and probably street aware enough to take care of herself, but Ruth, bless her, was liable to get in over her head. Still, if they were determined, they might make plans between themselves. Better they did it openly, and in her presence, so she could intervene if necessary. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Tell me about her.’
Jane shot Ruth a quick look of gratitude and began. ‘She lives in Kew, in a really big house. We’ve never seen it, but girls who have say the family must be seriously rich. She’s an only child. Her dad is a doctor, and her mum paints watercolours. Claire is in all my classes; she wants to be a doctor too. So we do science and maths together and she’s quiet. And nice.’ She paused, remembering the chastisement of Miss Brown, who had handed her back an essay with a big cross on it and the written comment in red fountain pen: Nice is NOT a descriptive word, Jane! ‘She’s pleasant, I mean. She doesn’t talk much, but she’s friendly.’
‘Are we looking at boyfriend troubles?’ Mrs B wanted to know.
‘I really don’t think so. She’s never talked about boys, not once. I think that’s why I like her so much.’
‘All right. Not boys. Does she have any enemies?’
Jane shook her head, but Ruth nodded. ‘Oh yes. Some of the fashionable girls are very cruel to her. She wears glasses, and they call her Four-Eyes. One of them—Isobel— pretended to be her friend and she was really happy about that, until the day when in front of all the other smart set Isobel called her an ugly, four-eyed frump.’
Jane looked at Ruth in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that. When was this?’
‘About three months ago. And she never told you?’
‘No. You’re sure?’
Ruth folded her hands in her lap and nodded with emphasis. ‘Yes. But Claire didn’t cry; Isobel was very disappointed by that. She just shut her mouth in a tight line, walked away, and never spoke to them again. I’ve been watching her.’
Of course you have, Mrs Butler ruminated. Ruth the kind-hearted, keeping a watchful eye on the unpopular girls. Was Ruth unpopular at school? Probably not. And if they tried to bully Jane she wouldn’t even notice. ‘All right. Investigate by all means, but be careful!’
‘It’s what Miss Phryne would want us to do,’ said Jane. Ruth nodded in silence.
By the time Tinker arrived home, Jane had adjourned to her room to study and Ruth was in the kitchen helping Mrs Butler with dinner.
Not long after, Ruth rang the dinner gong—an extravagance purchased last year—and the family (minus Hugh Collins, who was working late) assembled around the dining table. When Dot was present, a proper Catholic grace was spoken before meals, but what would happen now Dot was away?
Mrs Butler looked at the girls and smiled.
‘You can say grace any way you like, girls.’
‘Grace!’ Jane announced, trying to keep a straight face.
‘Grace,’ echoed Ruth, and giggled.
Mrs Butler’s mouth opened and shut again. ‘Very well,’ she said finally. ‘While Miss Dorothy is away, we’ll say no more about it.’ With that Mrs Butler retired to her kitchen.
Since the prayers, such as they had been, were now concluded, Tinker carved the pies with a large knife supplied by the beaming Mr Butler. With Hugh absent, Mr Butler had anointed Tinker man of the house. To Tinker, this meant carving. Carving pies was probably overkill, Mr Butler considered as he hovered beside the boy’s left arm, but he didn’t want to discourage him.
Mr Butler carried the pies around the table and the company helped themselves to generous portions. ‘What’s in these pies, Mr B?’ asked Jane.
‘Fish, beef and chicken, Miss,’ he answered with an indulgent smile.
‘And the vegetables smell wonderful,’ Jane continued. ‘I don’t recognise these sauces.’
Mr Butler turned to Ruth, who was beaming, and nodded.
‘I’m trying new ways to cook vegetables,’ Ruth said. ‘Mrs B let me try. So the mashed potato has cream cheese and chives in it, with black pepper, salt and butter.’
Jane shovelled some onto her plate then lifted her fork to her lips. ‘Oh my! That’s wonderful, Ruth.’ She spooned some carrots and broccoli onto her plate. ‘And what’s in these?’
‘The broccoli has a sauce made of lemon juice, garlic and butter, and the carrots have fresh ginger, sesame seeds and honey. Oh, and butter.’
Tinker tried some of everything and found them
all delicious. The pies were superb, too, with crumbly crusts that melted in your mouth and dissolved into liquid ecstasy. While Mrs B had managed the other two, Ruth had made the fish pie. She wasn’t entirely happy with how it had come out. She had overdone the lemon and lime, she realised. It seemed that a little lime went a very long way.
When at last the trio had put down their knives and forks, arranged decorously together to signify repletion, Mr Butler reappeared with Mrs Butler in his wake. ‘I shall leave main course dishes on the table for Mr Hugh, I think.’
Mrs Butler nodded. ‘That would be best. He’ll be here soon. And dessert can wait for a while, after a splendid main course like that.’
She turned to Tinker, who had thus far contributed only monosyllables to the feast of reason. ‘Well, Tinker, I’ve heard about the girls’ day. How was yours?’
‘It was all right, Mrs B, except …’ Tinker paused. Nothing would induce him to let on about the dead girl, nor the presence of Bert and Cec at the crime scene. Aware that everyone was looking at him, he improvised. ‘We did a lot of maths. I think I’m gettin’ the hang of it.’
And that seemed to be that for the moment. Soon dessert was laid on the table: more pies, but this time with tinned fruit. And (of course) apples. With cream. The company picked up their silver spoons, but at that moment came the sound of the front door opening and shutting, and an inrush of size twelve police-issue beetle-crushers, followed by the sound of Hugh’s helmet being thrown onto the sofa, missing, and rolling onto the floor with a dismal clang. And presently Hugh was with them, breathing heavily, with his face flushed like a bad-tempered beetroot.
‘Hello, Mr Hugh,’ Ruth called out. ‘As you can see, we left dinner on the table for you.’
‘Thanks.’ Hugh wiped his brow and sat down opposite Tinker. Normally he would have changed out of his dark blue police uniform before dinner, but tonight he disdained such niceties. He loaded up his plate with pie and vegetables and began to eat with more enthusiasm than decorum. Mrs Butler watched him, suspicion beginning to steal over her. It would never have done to cross-examine Miss Phryne or her guests, but since Hugh was now temporarily on the premises, he was for the time being Family. And as such … ‘Mr Collins, are you quite well? You seem somewhat disturbed.’
Death in Daylesford Page 4