Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

  Phryne looked into the distance. ‘I think I know where the station is. I want to look at this train. All right, Jessie. Is there anything else you can think of? Nobody else who liked your sister had a fatal accident?’

  This produced a weak smile. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Jessie raised her hand. ‘Miss Fisher, about this dance tomorrow … You don’t think something bad might happen, do you?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not, Jessie. You’ll be there, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh yes. Reverend McPherson always asks us to come. He likes a dram himself, but he says young men shouldn’t drink whisky. Beer and cider is good enough for them, he says. So we provide the drinks whenever there are dances in his parish hall. But tomorrow being a Sunday, we’ll just have tea, coffee and cordial, I expect.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I’ll keep an eye out, then?’

  ‘Please do, Jessie. And so will we. I don’t think this dance is a good idea, but I can hardly say so.’ Phryne paused. ‘I almost forgot. What is all this about women disappearing? Your uncle mentioned it before, and you said something about strange things happening around here yourself. Please. Tell me more.’

  Jessie shook her head. ‘His wife and child—our auntie and cousin—disappeared some years ago. I don’t remember them all that well. He never talks about them, which seems a bit strange to me, but more recently there have been three other women who’ve vanished without any warning. The police have organised search parties, and we’ve sent men down to look in the abandoned mineshafts, but …’ She shrugged.

  ‘No bodies have been found?’

  ‘None. It’s a mystery.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Jessie. Take care of yourself, as well as Annie, won’t you?’

  Jessie rose and departed without another word. Phryne watched her go. ‘Dot, that is a seriously talented girl. And she’s beautiful. Have you noticed?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. I like her. She’s a good girl.’

  ‘Well, no, Dot. Annie is the good girl everyone loves. Jessie is the Cinderella who cleans up after everybody. And she’s getting well and truly exploited by that lazy melancholic of an uncle. Come on. There’s nothing more we can do for the moment. I’d like to question our suspects, but the sergeant will have a fit if I do. Let’s go.’

  Phryne strode off in high dudgeon, with Dot following behind her as best she could.

  Back at the main road, Phryne waited. ‘I’m so sorry, Dot. Those shoes of yours aren’t built for speed. Why not stay here and I’ll bring the car?’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Miss Phryne. I’m just shocked.’

  ‘And so am I. I don’t know what we’ve got ourselves into here, but I intend to find out.’

  More slowly now, they strode up the hill and found the Hispano-Suiza. Phryne opened the passenger-side door and Dot climbed in. They drove back to Hepburn Springs in thoughtful silence.

  Entering the Mooltan, they encountered Dulcie near the front door.

  ‘Did you have a pleasant day?’ she enquired.

  ‘It certainly was an exciting day,’ Phryne responded. ‘Pleasant? Not so much. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘There was a bad accident. Donald Mackay has been killed by a falling caber.’

  Phryne watched all the blood drain out of Dulcie’s face. ‘Oh no! That’s awful! I didn’t know him, but I had heard of him. He was Gentle Annie’s sweetheart, if anyone was. And Alice! She’ll still be there. I must go to her.’

  ‘I didn’t know she’d gone to the Gathering. Oh dear. Dot, you stay here and rest; I’ll take Dulcie and find Alice.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Phryne. She went there in Dr Henderson’s car, but—oh, never mind. Here he is.’

  A large black car pulled up outside the guesthouse. Phryne recognised Dr Henderson as the man who had attended the body. He scrambled out of the car and held the door open for Alice. Dulcie rushed forward and helped her still-weeping lover out of the passenger seat and took her inside, oblivious to all else. The doctor mopped his brow with a large handkerchief, nodded to Phryne and Dot in brief acknowledgement, then motored off back towards Daylesford.

  Phryne smiled at her companion: one of those wan, rueful smiles which emerge when all other emotions have already been spoken for. ‘Dot, I think our hosts have enough on their plate without bothering about us. Let’s go inside, shut the door, and read a book or something.’

  ‘Miss, don’t you want—?’

  ‘To discuss the day’s events? Well, yes, I really do, Dot. But later. When we know more. Right now, I don’t feel I know nearly enough about anything to theorise. I have a splitting headache and I want to lie down.’

  ‘So do I, Miss.’

  Phryne lay on her comfortable bed, deep in thought. Tragedy had already come to Daylesford’s picturesque streets. And yet they were going to have a country dance tomorrow afternoon. This, while a brave and positive step, struck Phryne as foolhardy with a probable killer on the loose. But what could she do about it? As a guest in the area she could hardly tell them to refrain. But she would go herself, with Dot, and keep a close eye on things.

  Meanwhile, tomorrow being Sunday, she would drop Dot at church and do some investigation of her own. These country folks really do see life, she reflected. And death as well.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They finger Death at their gloves’ end where they piece and repiece the living wires.

  He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.

  Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,

  And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

  Rudyard Kipling,

  ‘The Sons of Martha’

  ‘Dot, are you sure you don’t want a lift all the way?’

  ‘No, Miss Phryne. It’s early yet, and I’d like to look around.’

  Dot watched the Hispano-Suiza putter slowly back down the hill and looked again at the great clock atop the post office. Twenty to ten. Mass was at ten o’clock, and she had plenty of time. It was a still, mild, perfect day, with birds tweeting on branch and thorn, and giant elm trees presiding over the mid-morning. Over dinner last night Dulcie had spoken of the local churches. ‘They’re all close to the crossroads just off the main street, Dot. We have Anglican, Catholic, Methodist and Presbyterian, as well as one or two others. They all agreed that nobody should get the very top of the hill, though.’

  Dot, who knew well that every church always wanted to get the highest ground anywhere (because of being closest to heaven), had smiled and suggested that this was a very friendly arrangement.

  Dulcie had grinned and folded her arms. ‘Partly—but also because the very top of the hill is a steep climb. You’ll see it for yourself. So it was decided it should be a public park. It’s got a tower and everything. A lot of the locals still walk to church, and you don’t want your flock arriving so tired they can’t sing the Lord’s praises properly.’

  Dot had given Dulcie a puzzled look, uncertain whether she was being gently teased. Dulcie and Alice were not, apparently, favouring any church with their Sabbath devotions, any more than Phryne was.

  Now, Dot saw a few of the locals in their Sunday best, heading churchwards with pious purpose. And to her delight she saw a face she recognised. Dot quickened her pace and caught up with a demure figure in a long black skirt.

  Colleen O’Rourke turned to face her. She wore a full-sleeved white blouse and black jacket, woollen stockings, laced black boots, a small golden cross on a golden chain and a straw hat with a black band. And she was entirely beautiful. ‘Miss Williams, isn’t it? Look, we match!’

  Dot’s Sabbath attire was indeed similar, except that the band of her own hat was crimson. ‘We do,’ she concurred. ‘There are so many churches here I was afraid I’d get lost.’

  Colleen grinned at her. ‘Well, if you’re going my way, I can take you there.’

  Colleen left the main street and cut across a leafy
block towards an intimidating church. Dot stared up the frowning sides of an orange-brick church of considerable magnificence. There was a hexagonal tower on the left, and three elongated leadlight windows, the middle one uppermost—as was only proper for the Holy Trinity. Dot was a little disappointed by the lack of stained glass in the diamond-shaped leads but was willing to overlook it. This church was designed to overawe, no question about that.

  As they began to climb the flight of stone stairs, all around them deep bells began to chime. All the local churches seemed to be in competition with each other, and the sound was deafening. At the top of the stairs Colleen took Dot’s arm and smiled at her. ‘It’s all right. It’s quieter inside.’

  From a soberly attired verger Colleen took a pair each of hymnbooks and prayer books, and a single elongated slim volume. ‘For the psalms,’ Colleen whispered. ‘Sing along with me and you’ll be fine.’

  Dot entered the church and curtseyed towards the distressingly plain altar. No one said anything, but Dot became aware that people were frowning at her. The atmosphere was not exactly hostile, but general disapproval seemed to be in the air. Perhaps, Dot considered, they were merely suspicious of strangers. Colleen took Dot’s arm and herded her into a hard wooden pew. Colour was rising like yeast in Dot’s cheeks, and there was a sibilant whisper in the pew behind them. Colleen turned to glare at the whisperers, who subsided at once. Dot bowed her head in silent, agonised prayer and wished the floor would open beneath her. She raised her head and, standing in the pulpit, she saw not the familiar cassock and surplice of a Catholic priest about to celebrate mass, but none other than the Reverend McPherson himself, in a plain black robe and entirely innocent of dog collar.

  Dot stared at Colleen, crimson with mortification. She looked at the minister then again at Colleen, an accusing eye fixed firmly on the cross at Miss O’Rourke’s neck. The girl’s expression was composed of equal parts mischief and defiance as her mouth shaped the words, I thought you knew! Dot shook her head and briefly considered the possibility of crawling on her hands and knees to the end of the pew and out of this heathen chapel. She tapped the stone floor with her foot, realising that tunnelling her way out was also a stark impossibility. Colleen reached out a slender white arm and patted Dot’s hand. Her mouth now formed the words, I’m sorry! Dot looked at her, sighed, and resolved to brazen it out.

  As the service proceeded, Dot found herself relaxing somewhat. The minister welcomed them all, deplored the recent tragedy, exhorted the faithful to be Strong In the Fear of the Lord, and to welcome the newcomer among them. This with a stern look straight at Colleen O’Rourke, who had the grace to blush and bow her head. The liturgy was oddly familiar, even though it struck Dot as vaguely blasphemous, not being in proper Latin. Dot was able to join in one of the hymns, which she recognised as the Anglican ‘Old Hundredth’, and was startled to hear a glorious, soaring soprano voice beside her. Clearly Colleen’s talents did not end with ethnic dancing. Singing in Dot’s home church of St Ignatius was a delicate affair, with a choir of boys and a few adults in the stalls carrying tune and harmony, and the congregation decorously following. Here, the congregation bawled out the hymns and psalms as if they were carrying bullocks under each arm and calling the stragglers home across the Sands of Dee. One of the psalms was in a strange tongue which Dot supposed had to be Gaelic, and Colleen sang her way through the impossible words, pointing with her forefinger at each marked syllable.

  When it came time for the sacrament, Dot sat frozen on her seat, lips closed like a bank vault and an expression of silent mutiny on her face. Nothing on earth or above it was going to persuade her to partake in a Protestant communion, or whatever they called it.

  Colleen leaned over and whispered in her ear, ‘It’s all right, I won’t go up either. I’m just visiting. The minister doesn’t mind. I told him I’m still making up my mind.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘Not really. But the boys here are very sweet. And I love the metrical psalms.’

  Dot pursed her lips and fumed in silent patience.

  When the service had wound to its conclusion, Dot staggered out into the brilliant sunshine of the porch. The minister shook the hand of all the men, and sketched a perfunctory bow to all the ladies. When it was Dot’s turn, the Reverend McPherson gave her a deeper nod. ‘Miss Williams? I fear that Miss O’Rourke has been leading you astray.’ His eye fastened upon the cross at Dot’s neck. Beside her, Colleen flushed scarlet and looked at the floor. ‘She is high-spirited, but a good girl nonetheless and a fine one for the singing.’

  He turned back to Dot, who looked at him in sudden curiosity. He was under forty, with round spectacles and thinning, sandy hair. ‘Miss Williams, we are many, but we are one in Christ hereabouts. I am sorry that you have missed Father O’Reilly’s mass. Will you accept instead the hand of friendship from a Protestant?’

  Dot extended her gloved hand. Even through the fabric it was as if she had been slapped with a sea wind from the Hebrides, yet a warm glow spread through her body. ‘Thank you, Father—Reverend,’ she managed. ‘I will indeed.’

  Colleen led her back down the hill. ‘Miss Williams, I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘Please forgive me.’

  Dot stopped and put both hands on her hips. ‘I thought you were a Catholic!’

  ‘I am! But I like the minister. He’s such a kind man.’ Colleen walked around to stand in front of Dot. ‘It isn’t just the boys! Miss Williams—’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Colleen, call me Dot, please!’

  Colleen opened her palms outwards and lowered her voice. Her customary expression of gleeful mischief had evaporated, and she gave Dot a searching glance from under her long, curling eyelashes. ‘Dot, we remember a lot of things in my house. We remember the Gorta Mór—the Great Hunger. We remember the Protestant Ascendancy; the Penal Laws; the murders; the gentry with no pity; and all the endless, stupid bloodshed and cruelty. And here it’s all so different. This is how we should live. I’m a good Catholic and I go to a Presbyterian church and nobody wants to kill me for it, least of all Father O’Reilly. I think he knows what I’m doing. And he knows I’ll be back. We must love each other! And we’re doing it here.’

  To Dot’s surprise Colleen was weeping now. Dot took the girl in her arms and felt the wiry strength in her shoulders. Colleen hugged her and gasped. ‘All right. I won’t say any more.’ She disentangled herself and looked at Dot sidelong. ‘Are we friends?’

  Dot smiled. ‘Colleen, we are. And I’m sorry. I’ve been proud and lacking in charity. The minister is right. You really are a good girl.’

  ‘Would you care to come to my house? Mum will have tea and scones ready.’

  ‘I’d like that, but Miss Fisher is going to pick me up at noon.’

  Colleen craned her eyes towards the clock tower. ‘It’s a quarter to now. All right. Some other time.’

  Dot reached out her hand and touched Colleen’s wrist. ‘Before you go home, there’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  Colleen leaned against a garden fence and inhaled the scent of a late summer rose. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas about what happened yesterday?’

  Colleen O’Rourke folded her arms and glared. ‘That was no accident! Kenneth McAlpine would not drop the caber. Someone distracted him and on purpose—wasn’t there a needle or something?—but I don’t know who it was. Is your Miss Fisher going to find out?’

  Dot nodded. ‘She will.’

  ‘Good. Anything more?’

  ‘I’m wondering if it’s a jealous lover.’

  ‘Maybe. But if you and Miss Fisher think it’s one of Annie’s admirers that won’t help you much. Half the Shire wants to marry her. Good luck!’

  Colleen turned off to the right, and Dot watched the girl marching along as if she owned the place. If half the Shire’s men wanted to marry Gentle Annie, it was equally likely that the other half wanted Colleen O’Rourke. Dot could see why, and for a fleeting moment
wished that she herself were as glamorous as Colleen, before dismissing the thought at once as being utterly unworthy, especially for a Sunday.

  The Captain met Phryne in the vestibule of the spa. It was red-brick, long, low, and exuding comfort from every cornice. Herbal scents filled the atmosphere, and Phryne inhaled deeply. ‘We use many different scents,’ he expounded. ‘We discovered that lavender is very good for asthma and others are sovereign for different ailments.’ Phryne looked steadily at him. He wore the same navy blue suit as he had worn during their dinner two nights ago. His face was steady, grave, but good-humoured. He showed her everything: the massage cubicles; the little bathrooms with their bathtubs; the big, heated pool in the centre.

  ‘Would you care for a bath and massage yourself?’ he concluded.

  She undressed in one of the cubicles and had a sumptuous bath, scented with lavender. The water was unlike anything she had ever encountered: warm and spritzig to the touch. She could feel the mineral salts gently scouring her skin and smoothing away the tension in her limbs. She arose, threw her wrap around herself and was conducted by one of the masseuses into another alcove.

  ‘Hello,’ said a pretty girl in a white dressing-gown. ‘I’m Sheila. Just lie down on the bed, Miss, and I’ll do the rest.’

  Phryne lay on her front in silence while strong hands kneaded her back, shoulders, arms and legs. This would be the standard massage for the soldiers, she assumed: personal without being indecorous. Both Sheila’s hands began to drum on her back in a jazzy rhythm. Phryne considered that being treated as a percussion instrument was a little over the odds, but Sheila should be encouraged to talk.

  ‘Tell me about the Captain,’ Phryne urged.

  The drum solo ceased for a moment. ‘He’s very kind, Miss. Self-contained. But he means well.’