Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘I believe that the spine is a most delicate piece of machinery,’ she suggested. ‘And I think healers should be very careful with it.’

  ‘Indeed yes.’ The Captain drained his glass and set it down on the damask tablecloth. ‘I offered Dr Hansen a permanent position here, but he prefers to be itinerant. But he gave me his textbook on physiology and told me to study it carefully. He also left me three examination papers, with the correct answers in a sealed envelope, and bade me refrain from adjusting spines until I had passed them all. And I shall.’

  ‘Very wise. I understand you also use baths, massage and quiet? Have you tried music?’

  Captain Spencer looked pleased. ‘Yes. We encourage our patients to sing, both individually and together. You are staying at the Mooltan, I hear? Then perhaps you have met Aubrey. He has a fine tenor voice. Violette accompanies him on the piano.’

  At that point the woman in question appeared to clear away the soup plates, and brought out a bottle of rich, red wine. Herbert drew the cork, poured a little into his glass and sniffed it, nodded, then filled two glasses. As he did this, the main course was brought out.

  ‘And what do we have here?’ Phryne enquired.

  ‘Vegetarian loaf, pommes Lyonnaise, glazed onions, épinards au sucre and navets glacés,’ Herbert announced.

  ‘It looks wonderful,’ Phryne enthused. If Violette could make spinach and turnips fit for a civilised dinner table, then she really was a cook in a thousand.

  Soon Phryne was staring at her miraculously empty platter. As she laid down her fork a slow smile crossed Herbert’s manly features. ‘You are surprised?’

  ‘I am,’ Phryne confessed.

  Violette appeared again as if by sorcery. Phryne smiled at her. ‘Mille remerciements, Madame. C’etait magnifique.’ Violette smiled briefly and exited.

  Phryne turned to the Captain. ‘What was in that vegetable loaf? It was delicious.’

  ‘Eggplant, celery, cottage cheese, breadcrumbs and … sundry other things.’ He gestured vaguely in the direction of the kitchen.

  In due course, Violette brought out the dessert wine, crème chocolat and surprisingly excellent coffee. Phryne and the Captain chatted easily of the sights of Paris. It seemed that he had met Violette there. The sweet, fruity wine was excellent. Herbert’s eyes began to shine, and Phryne noticed his eyes constantly upon her. This did not displease her at all. As Violette came to clear away the plates, Phryne addressed her in a low voice, certain that, as the conversation was in the patois of Montparnasse, Captain Spencer would not catch a word.

  When their exchange was concluded, Herbert rose to his feet. ‘Phryne, that was wonderful. Thank you for your charming company.’

  Phryne nodded, embraced Violette and kissed her in the French fashion. To Herbert she extended her gloveless hand for him to kiss, which he did with enthusiasm. At the same time Phryne leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Herbert. I would love to see more of the spa soon.’ Phryne considered for a moment. The Daylesford Highland Gathering was tomorrow, and she wanted a good look at the town. On Sunday morning, she would drive Dot to mass at the local church. Phryne had no intention of accompanying her. ‘Herbert, are you open on Sundays?’

  The Captain raised an eyebrow. ‘Observance of the Sabbath is a little more relaxed in these parts,’ he commented with a slow smile, ‘so yes, we are open on Sunday morning. We find that organised religion does not sit well with our patients. I think perhaps they are surfeited with metaphysical comforts which, alas …’

  ‘Have failed to comfort sufficiently,’ Phryne suggested. ‘I would be delighted to see you on Sunday morning then, if that is convenient. Shall we say nine o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect. Shall I walk you home?’ he asked.

  Phryne shook her head. ‘It’s not far, but I’d like to listen to the forest for a little.’ By myself, she added silently. Not that you aren’t extremely pleasant company.

  She walked back to the Mooltan, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. The road was rutted and uncertain, and darkness had fallen. There were no streetlights, but the stars were bright enough to cast a faerie shimmer over the forest. She heard night-birds fluttering, and the grunt of a koala. She smiled, thinking how very much at odds with the creature’s cuddly body was its throaty voice. Phryne had been offered a koala to hold once, and the creature had dug in all its claws and widdled down her dress. Never again. Beneath all the other sounds was the whisper of the creek. Even in late summer there was water here. In Australia, this was almost unheard of. She now understood why people who moved here could not be shifted. If she ever got tired of city life, she might well consider it. But that would be in a far distant future.

  Phryne wondered about her host. If he truly were what he seemed, he was a very good man—one whose enterprise she was inclined to support. And Violette? She smiled. There was a good deal going on at Hepburn Springs of which Captain Spencer was blissfully unaware.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.

  It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.

  It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,

  Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

  Rudyard Kipling,

  ‘The Sons of Martha’

  ‘Ruthie? What’s happened?’ Hugh Collins was on his feet in a moment. His chair clattered to the floor, where it lay unregarded until Mrs Butler quietly restored it to a sense of decorum. Ruth ran straight to Jane and hugged her tightly. Jane, somewhat at a loss, rummaged in her memory for appropriate responses. She decided upon a main course of There There It’s All Right, with added sweet nothings.

  This did not go as well as she had hoped. Ruth turned a teary face to Hugh. ‘What sort of girl?’ she demanded.

  Hugh Collins stared at her, somewhat horror-stricken, put down his fork and looked towards Mrs Butler for elucidation.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Hugh. One of their school friends has gone missing, that’s all. What is it, Tinker?’ she added.

  Tinker had dropped his dessert spoon on the floor and was looking suddenly unwell.

  ‘Nothing, Mrs B. Just—well, I can see why Ruth was so upset.’

  Hugh Collins gave Tinker a searching look. Having signally failed to provide comfort by word, Jane put her right arm around Ruth’s shoulders and hugged her. Ruth sobbed into Jane’s neck, now weeping uncontrollably. Jane looked over Ruth’s head. ‘Please describe the deceased, Detective Sergeant,’ she requested.

  Hugh blinked. ‘Really, Jane, I’m sure you don’t need to hear the details.’

  ‘I’m perfectly sure I do,’ Jane retorted. ‘It’s ten to one your corpse looks nothing like Claire, and so we can rest easy about her. Please, tell us what the dead girl looked like.’

  ‘Well, if you insist. She was, let’s see, about five feet two, broadish shoulders for a girl, pale skin, with a few spots on her face and nose, dark hair in a long plait, and there was a pair of horn-rimmed glasses around her neck. They’d fallen off, but were attached by a cord—’ But Hugh Collins got no further, for a renewed wail arose from Ruth, and he desisted.

  Thereafter, events moved quickly. Claire’s parents were contacted, and agreed to meet Hugh at the city morgue at eight o’clock. Ruth and Jane went to bed, and Tinker disappeared to his shed out the back. It was nearly ten o’clock when Hugh returned, grumpy, tired and in the lowest of spirits.

  Jane met him in the kitchen. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What news?’

  Hugh Collins looked at her sadly. ‘I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could say to make it better, but there isn’t anything in the world I can think of.’

  ‘No, there really isn’t. I’m sorry you had to tell us about it, but we needed to know.’

  In Hugh’s eyes, Jane suddenly looked terribly grown-up. ‘Will you del
iver the news to Ruth?’ he asked.

  ‘I have to. She’s pretending to be asleep, but I know she isn’t. I can’t keep her waiting.’ And with a curt nod, Jane departed.

  The back door opened silently, and Hugh nodded to himself. He was reluctant to knock on the door of Tinker’s shed, but they needed to talk. That Tinker was perfectly well aware of this and had volunteered his presence was, Hugh thought, a positive sign. He beckoned Tinker into a chair and sat down opposite him.

  ‘Tinker, what was all that about?’

  Tinker, feeling that this would be a good career move, decided to give Hugh the honest, manly stare of the born liar.

  Hugh, who had seen it before, raised him with a lifted eyebrow. ‘Maybe I’m imagining things,’ he continued, ‘but you had an awfully guilty look when I told the girls about the body. And you dropped your spoon. You’re not clumsy, Tinker. Not ever, so far as I know. What’s going on?’

  Tinker moved smoothly into avoidance of eye contact, which also failed to impress. Seeing this, he decided on a partial confession. ‘I was down on the docks, and I saw the body.’

  There was a thunderous silence, broken only by the arrival of Molly the dog looking for uneaten fragments of dinner on the floor. Presently there was the sound of satisfied crunching beneath the table.

  ‘I see. And what did you do then, Tinker?’

  ‘There were men there and they told me to go home. They said they’d call the cops.’

  ‘So you went home?’

  ‘Yair.’

  Hugh rolled his eyes and thumped the table. A teacup clattered in its saucer. Hugh reached out to stop it from falling but it tumbled off the table and smashed on the floor. Molly retreated, carrying her unofficial supper with her.

  ‘Never mind, I’ll clean it up later. Tinker, when you give anyone in authority that look straight in the eye, it only means one thing: you’re about to let rip with a total whopper. Now, nobody thinks you drowned the girl—not that we know how she came to be dead yet. That comes after the autopsy. I want to know what you were doing down on the bloody wharves, Tinker. Don’t mess me around. Out with it!’

  Tinker stared at the table in front of him for a moment. ‘I was there with some men,’ he ventured. ‘We were talking about the waterfront strike.’

  ‘I see. And would these men have names?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ, Tinker. I’ve had a really rotten day and you’re not helping. If you were on the wharves with Bert and Cec, you don’t have to deny it. I don’t mind what they were doing. They could be smuggling in diamond tiaras for distressed orphans for all I care. This is a murder investigation; I don’t care about dodgy wristwatches, I am completely indifferent to sly grog and have a total lack of interest in stuff which fell off the back of a ship. Now for the last time, were you there on the wharf with Bert and Cec when the body was discovered?’

  There was an infinitesimal pause while Tinker thought about this. ‘Yes.’

  Collins breathed an animated sigh of relief. ‘Finally! And were the three of you together, in company, all the time leading up to this moment?’

  Tinker agreed that this was indeed the case.

  For approximately how long?

  About an hour.

  And they had only gone to that particular wharf because, as it might be, a certain vehicular conveyance which might possibly belong to them was parked there? And had Bert and Cec done a runner because they were reluctant to have their taxi inspected by inquisitive police officers?

  These were not inconceivable theories as to what might have occurred. With increasing confidence, Tinker gave an affirmative to each of these, and Hugh leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  ‘Because you see, Tinker, not that any of you actually need alibis, but in case you did …’ Hugh Collins hesitated, thinking over his first day on the job with Acting Detective Inspector Fraser. ‘Just in case you did, all three of you are your own alibis. Unless someone got it into their heads that you were all in it together, of course, but I don’t think that’s going to be anybody’s theory. So you met them straight after school?’

  Tinker nodded. ‘We were all together from about three forty.’

  ‘And you found the body floating in the water at four thirty-five quite unexpectedly, because whatever you were doing on the wharf, it wasn’t looking for deceased girls. All right, Tinker, you can go to bed, and so will I. This has not been one of the better days of my life, but with any luck tomorrow will be a brand-new, shiny, upstanding sort of a day which we may salute with enthusiasm and eagerness for the fray.’

  Tinker nodded his head and rose. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Night, Tinker.’

  Hugh Collins bent down to the floor and fossicked around on the American oilcloth for all the pieces of broken china. The smaller shards cut his fingers twice, but he was past caring. The tin dustpan he ceremonially emptied into the rubbish bin, thinking all the while of spending another bright new day in the company of Acting Detective Inspector Fraser, to whom tonight’s inquisition of Tinker would not be broached, save in the unlikely event that it would be necessary. He hoped Dot had enjoyed a better day than he.

  Having to go to work on Saturday was not something to which Hugh Collins wished to become accustomed. Having to accompany Acting Detective Inspector Fraser was not improving his day. Fraser was a tall, lanky, lantern-jawed individual who wore an expensive brown tailored suit with a thin, navy blue silk necktie. His shoes were of expensive black leather, for he eschewed the commonplace police issue boots. He had been to Scotch College and never allowed anyone to forget it. He had Opinions, which he aired liberally. And he drove a sports car—a 1920 Kissel Gold Bug in tasteful chrome yellow—which was on permanent loan from Daddy. In short, Hugh came reluctantly to the conclusion that even the hints vouchsafed him by Jack Robinson fell altogether short of the direful reality. His new boss was a lathe-turned moron without enough sense to come in out of the rain.

  Fraser drove with pedantry, ostentatiously obeying all traffic laws and proceeding at a steady twenty miles an hour up the long hill of Barkers Road. Hugh sat miserably in the passenger seat and stared out the window. The foul aroma of North Richmond gradually faded, to be replaced by the fragrant breezes of the Privileged Classes. They passed the wrought-iron gates of Methodist Ladies’ College, and Hugh listened while his superior officer vented his opinion that this vast arena of prime real estate was utterly wasted on educating girls and ought to be given over to property developers who could make some serious money out of it. Hugh had yesterday realised that his best strategy was to make encouraging noises at fifteen-second intervals and allow the dreary rodomontade to wash over his head. In one ear, and out the other.

  ‘Collins? Wake up, you dozy beggar! We’re here!’

  The car jerked to a halt. Collins adjusted his police helmet, opened the passenger side door, closed it carefully, and looked at his superior officer. ‘Ready when you are, sir.’

  The house was indeed a mansion. It had bay windows, picture windows, conical turrets and everything short of battlements. The front verandah could have housed a boutique garden party, and the lush and well-manicured lawn a full-sized one with marquee and bandstand. Exotic blooms teemed in tropical splendour. Both men removed their hats. As Fraser rapped sharply on the knocker, Hugh Collins expected to be received by a butler in full evening dress. However, the massive door was opened by the bereaved mother in person.

  ‘Mrs Knight?’ Fraser enquired. ‘I’m very sorry to bother you again, but I’d like to interview everybody here.’

  Mrs Knight went pale. She was an attractive woman in a plain black dress. Signs of prolonged weeping were evident. She would be around forty, but looked younger save for a few touches of grey in her bobbed black hair.

  ‘Please, do come in,’ she murmured, turning back into the house.

  Hugh Collins considered the brief frontal view he’d had of the bereaved mother. For a moment there had been
a wild burst of irrational hope, immediately replaced by a curtain of self-control. The poor woman!

  She led the way down a long hallway, lined on both sides with watercolours. Hugh was no judge of art, but they looked like competent and uninspired landscapes. All My Own Work, no doubt. Hugh made a mental note to ask Mrs Knight some questions about her art. Sometimes witnesses gave away more than they realised when talking about their obsessions. He paused to look at a large panorama of Melbourne From Studley Park, which happened to be hung at eye level, and noted the initials H.K. in the bottom right-hand corner.

  Mrs Knight led them into a drawing room (there really was no other word for it) and gestured to a pair of deep leather armchairs. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  Collins was about to say yes, but his superior cut him off. ‘No need for that, Mrs Knight. We’d like to know a little more about this sad event, and the days leading up to it.’

  Mrs Knight put her hand on her breast. ‘Yes, of course. Anything I can do to help, obviously.’

  Hugh Collins’s mind began to wander as Fraser went through his checklist of Interrogation And How Not To Do It. The only useful facts that Fraser managed to elicit were that the house had had only four permanent inhabitants: Mr and Mrs Knight, Claire and Gerald, who appeared to be Mrs Knight’s ne’er-do-well brother. There were a number of gardeners and servants who came and went, but none who were employed full time. The gardeners were two men in their fifties and a half-witted boy who helped out. Yes, the halfwit was under constant supervision, and no, none of the gardeners had any access to the house.

  Finally Fraser held up his right hand as if on traffic duty and nodded his head. ‘Thank you, Mrs Knight. That’s all I need, I think. If you can give Collins here the names and addresses of the gardeners and other hired help, I’ll get him to interview them. Now, this Gerald … your brother, you said? Is he home at the moment?’

  Mrs Knight nodded. ‘He’ll be upstairs in his study. Shall I take you there?’

  ‘No need. I’ll go and surprise him.’