Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

And that appeared to be it from Sheila, who finished the massage in silence. Phryne stood up.

  ‘Thank you. And now I think I would like a swim.’ Sounds of splashing could be discerned, and somebody began to sing ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’. One or two other voices joined in. Phryne doffed her wrap in one movement and walked out of the cubicle.

  ‘Miss, the pool’s full of soldiers! You can’t go in there …’

  But it was too late. The singing stopped dead as eight young men, entirely without clothing, stared at the naked goddess who entered the water and began to swim towards them. Then one of the men began to sing ‘My Blue Heaven’. Some averted their gaze. Others did not and goggled at her. She waved and swam in a curve around them. Nobody so much as moved. Phryne nodded to herself. She swam for around three minutes, then stood up in the pool, her porcelain breasts bobbing in the water in front of them.

  ‘So where does a girl go for a smoke around here?’ she enquired.

  One of the men pointed. ‘There’s a courtyard next to the tea house, Miss.’

  Phryne inclined her head, swam back towards the cubicles, and dressed carefully. She found the courtyard and lit a gasper. There were several men there smoking at their ease. They nodded politely. One by one, they introduced themselves. There was a Jonno, a Bert, two Daves (Big Dave and Tiny Dave—who was, inevitably, the taller of the pair), a Stevo, a Billy and a Kevvy. Some worked the still for the Captain’s tonic—at which Phryne raised her eyebrows, for the Captain had said nothing of his tonic during dinner—some were masseurs, and one, a slim, elegant man called Gareth, appeared to be the dance instructor. All appeared well-content with their lot and praised the Captain highly. In Australian, this was expressed as ‘a good bastard’.

  Suddenly there was a tremendous sound of an engine. It seemed to be in pain and roared like a hippopotamus with toothache. An ancient, dirty white truck had pulled up, and Phryne watched, fascinated, as an enormous man climbed out of the cabin. Wooden barrels, presumably filled with mineral water, were stacked in a tidy row along the back of the tea house. The giant leaned over, picked up one under each arm, and carried them to the truck’s tray. They must have weighed a hundred pounds each, but he seemed not even to notice the weight. Sitting in the cabin, and glaring through the window, was a thin-faced, cold-eyed man. He did not deign to assist but wound down the window. ‘Come on! Get on with it, ya big idiot!’ Then he wound the window up again and stared forward at nothing.

  As the huge man returned for the next pair, Phryne looked him over. Six and a half feet tall, and several axe handles across his shoulders. He was not so much fat as exceedingly well-armoured. In the Middle Ages, he might have been used as a battering ram. But his strangely unlined face was mild and gentle, and his brown eyes were kind and filled with simple wonderment, as if looking at everything for the first time. Sheila came out to stand beside Phryne and lit a cigarette herself. The man looked adoringly at both women for a long moment, smiled, and hoisted two more barrels.

  ‘That’s Vern,’ said Gareth. ‘Quite a specimen, isn’t he?’

  Soon the tray was full. The man secured his load with thick rope to the back of the cabin and climbed aboard. The protesting motor roared back into life, and the truck slowly chugged back up the hill.

  ‘What do those men want with the barrels?’ Phryne asked.

  Gareth blew a smoke ring. ‘They’re taking them to the bottling plant. Vern’s brother Sid—he’s the moody one in the truck—is in charge. You have to feel sorry for Vern, being cooped up out there with only his brother for company. He’s a lovely fellow; simple but harmless. I did hear something about them offering him a room at the pub. He’ll be happier there. He likes looking at girls, you know, though he never does anything untoward.’

  ‘I see.’ Phryne put out her cigarette. ‘Well, thank you.’

  It was all very interesting at the spa, but it was time for Phryne to return to Daylesford and pick up Dot.

  She found her companion standing forlornly in the middle of the roundabout at the very top of the hill, looking like the Little Mermaid on her rock in Copenhagen harbour. As a girl, Phryne had pronounced that fairy tale the rottenest she had ever read and had in consequence never visited the place. But she had once met the Danish ambassador in London—a genial fellow with the sort of white moustache that made you think of baleen whales and plankton—and registered her strong disapproval of Hans Christian Andersen. His Excellency had made Promethean gestures and confided: ‘Yes, Hans was a serious worry, you know. That morbid interest in young girls—it would never be allowed now. But what would you? My people like to think of ourselves as Vikings, but we have a sentimental streak a mile wide. And so …’

  And so, indeed. That awful statue certainly brought the tourists in. But not Phryne. She waved at her companion, and Dot’s anxious face blossomed into a floral tribute of gratitude and relief. Phryne leaned over and opened the passenger door. Dot clambered in, adjusted her hat, and assumed her standard Driving with Miss Phryne pose: hands clasped together in her lap, knees pressed together, inner voice reciting Latin prayers for Those in Peril on the Sea.

  ‘Dot, lunch at the Mooltan isn’t till one, but I’ve been to the spa, and there’s a pleasant-looking tea house on the premises. Shall we try it out?’

  Dot nodded, and Phryne put the car into gear and went forth, parking on the side of the road next to the spa building. The tea house was of the same brick, single-storeyed, and with a cosy, welcoming feel to it. Phryne ordered a pot of tea for Dot, coffee for herself and a brace of biscuits just for the look of the thing. She noted that Sabbatarianism appeared to be extinct in Hepburn Springs, though it was undoubtedly alive and well in Daylesford, since every shop and pub she had passed was shut fast according to the ordinances of the State of Victoria. There were only two or three other patrons present, and their drinks arrived with commendable promptitude.

  ‘Well, Dot, I have had an intriguing morning, but tell me about yours first.’

  Dot paused in delivery of cup to lip and exclaimed, ‘That Colleen O’Rourke took me to the wrong church!’

  Phryne put down her coffee cup. ‘Really? Tell me all.’

  Dot poured out her morning’s embarrassments, and Phryne patted her hand encouragingly. ‘Never mind, Dot. You have done very well, and probably better than if you’d gone to Father O’Reilly’s church. It is confusing with the four of them, one on each corner of the same crossroads. So, it seems that the Reverend McPherson is a kind and good man, and far more tolerant than you would expect of a Presbyterian. I may have to revise my Views on the Church of Scotland. And Colleen O’Rourke interests me more and more.’

  ‘Miss Phryne, all along we’ve been wondering about Annie’s suitors, and you think that Donald Mackay might have been killed by a jealous lover—but what if it’s Colleen rather than Annie?’

  ‘I’m wondering that too, Dot. And yet … Colleen likes boys, obviously. But there is something very hearty and clean-living about the girl that makes me think it unlikely. She seems more like the kind of girl that a boy would want to go off on expeditions of mischief with. I can readily imagine all the boys wanting her company, but as an object of romantic affection? I doubt it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Miss.’ Dot nibbled at a Scotch Finger in thoughtful reverie. ‘I think the noisy, self-confident boys would think of her like that. But what if it’s a shy boy? For a really shy young man, Colleen might be his dream come true.’

  Phryne inclined her chin approvingly. ‘Dot, that really is a good point. Well done!’ She leaned forward in her chair, and her eyes flicked restlessly around the room. The other patrons got up and left with a rustle of newsprint. The black-and-white clad waitress accepted payment, dispensed coins in change and disappeared into the kitchen, and they had, for the moment, the tearooms to themselves. ‘I really didn’t take to Mr McKenzie, Dot. Did you?’

  Dot poured herself another cup of strong tea and loaded it with milk and sugar. ‘No, Miss. He’s a bit g
loomy, and it isn’t fair on those girls having to do so much when he just sits around all day.’

  ‘I wonder about his missing wife and child,’ Phryne mused. ‘I’d like to find out more about this.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why Mr McKenzie is a drunk. He drinks to forget his missing wife?’

  ‘We don’t know how she went missing, Dot. He might have pushed her down a mineshaft; there are plenty of them around here. But Jessie says they’ve been searched. And of course there was another death: Patrick Sullivan. Jessie told me he used to take her and Annie for picnics. And Jessie confessed that she loved him.’

  ‘I remember.’ Dot dropped her silver teaspoon and gaped at Phryne. ‘Miss? I’ve just had a dreadful thought.’

  ‘Do tell, Dot.’

  ‘Miss, there’s a horrible song called “Cruel Sister”.’ Phryne looked enquiringly at her. ‘It’s awful, Miss. The young man courts both sisters, but he loves the younger one best. And the older girl kills her sister, and she becomes a harp and—well, it’s complicated, Miss.’

  ‘Let me guess: the harp plays all by itself at the wedding, and tells the story of how she was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. I heard it once at a church social. Only here—if you’re right—instead of killing her sister, she kills off the lovers. Did Jessie say how Mr Sullivan died?’

  ‘He fell out of a train window, apparently. I’m going to see that train tomorrow and check the carriages. We may have two murders now.’ Phryne took in the general air of comfort, ease and friendliness of the tea house and wondered how to reconcile these admirable communities with the mysteries that were infesting the locale. ‘We have a possible murder on a railway which managed not to be noticed. We have a deliberate murder right in front of our eyes, and an unknown number of suspects. We don’t know why it was done, but we think it might be a jealous lover, though we don’t know for sure who is the adored object. It might be Annie, or it could be Colleen—or maybe it’s nothing to do with either of them and it was a sordid murder for gain. Meanwhile, we can’t go around asking questions too openly because we’ve got a half-witted local copper who resents my intrusion into the local community. Short of being chained by the wrist in an abandoned mineshaft with water rising about my knees, I can’t see how this could be any harder. And let’s not forget that we also have an unknown number of women quietly disappearing.’

  ‘Miss Phryne, you don’t have to solve all the world’s problems.’

  Phryne’s eyes flashed lightning for a moment. ‘Dot, they killed that poor man right in front of us!’ Seeing her beloved companion’s face pale, she relented. ‘I’m sorry, Dot,’ she went on, lowering her voice again, ‘but that was too much. I’m not going to let him—or her—get away with it.’

  She took out her notebook and began to write in silence. The waitress returned and began to issue heavy hints about Closing Time: sweeping floors, putting tables on chairs, removing salt and pepper shakers, and so on. Phryne ignored both the heavy hints and Dot’s embarrassment. Only when she had finished writing did Phryne rise to her feet and sweep out with Dot in her wake.

  When they were both seated in the car, Phryne handed the book, open, to Dot. ‘Have a read of this after lunch, Dot. Tell me if you think I’ve missed anything, and don’t let this book out of your sight. Meanwhile, I have a book of my own to read.’ She held aloft a thick, blackavised hardback. ‘I’m hoping it might dispel the fogs hereabouts somewhat.’ Dot noted the title Bleak House in goldish lettering on the cover.

  Dot stowed the notebook in her reticule. It was but a momentary journey back to the Mooltan, and the hallway clock was striking one as they entered. Alice seemed quite recovered from yesterday’s trauma, and Dulcie was her usual imperturbable self. Her brother was elsewhere, it seemed.

  Lunch was a splendid roast lamb with vegetables: local potatoes, pumpkin, sweet potato and sweet peas, with apple pie and fresh cream to follow.

  At the meal’s conclusion, Phryne laid down her spoon in her bowl as Dulcie arrived to clear the dishes. ‘That was wonderful, Dulcie. Well done to you and Alice!’

  ‘Do you have plans for the afternoon, Phryne?’ Dulcie asked. ‘I’m not sure if you heard, but there’s to be a dance this afternoon at the Presbyterian church hall to celebrate the life of poor Donald Mackay.’

  Phryne nodded. ‘We did hear, and we intend to go.’

  ‘Then would you take Alice along? She loves dancing, and I don’t care for it.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Alice, loitering by the kitchen door, glowed and coloured.

  ‘Can you be ready at four?’ Phryne asked. ‘I’m going to retire to my room and see if Mr Dickens can help me out.’

  It was not long, however, before Phryne laid down the chronicles of Jarndyce vs Jarndyce and slipped into a daydream in which beautiful girls appeared and disappeared in London fog. Someone was laughing maniacally, but could not be seen. Phryne woke herself up, drank from a glass of water, and slipped into a dreamless doze.

  Dot, meanwhile, closed her own bedroom door and sat down at the room’s small desk. She opened Phryne’s notebook, flipped past a number of prior entries and began to read at the page headed Mysteries of Daylesford.

  Mysterious disappearances of women, including Mrs McKenzie.

  Possible murder of Patrick Sullivan, falling out of a train window. Check train to see if this is credible. Was he pushed? Too late to check passenger lists now, and too dangerous to make enquiries in case we put murderer on guard.

  Almost certain murder of Donald Mackay.

  Theories:

  Murder for gain? Find out if Sullivan and Mackay owned significant property. Who stands to gain by their deaths?

  Crime of passion? Mysterious deaths of two of Annie’s admirers. Did they also pay court to Colleen? Find someone safe to ask! And did either girl ever Take Matters Further than mere flirtation? How on earth can we find out???

  If crime of passion, the suspects are:

  James Hepburn. Known to be very fond of Annie. Colleen also?

  Graeme Forbes. Ditto

  Johnnie Armstrong. Less likely because married, but not impossible.

  The Gilded Youths. Probably not.

  Jessie. Either over-protecting her sister from undue admiration, or else brooding resentment of Annie getting all the attention. Possible!

  Opportunity? Jessie definitely at scene of crime. Others? Who even knows? Sgt Offaly does, but not letting on. Must find answers!

  Dot put down the notebook and sighed. Who could be trusted to provide information without risk? At the present moment, probably only Reverend McPherson. Perhaps there would be opportunity at the dance to talk to him. With that thought, Dot laid herself on her bed and passed into an uneasy slumber.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘It is competent,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘to any member of the—Public,’ mentioning that obscure body with reluctance, as his natural enemy, ‘to memorialise the Circumlocution Department. Such formalities as are required to be observed in so doing, may be known on application to the proper branch of that department.’

  Charles Dickens,

  Bleak House

  ‘Where to, ladies?’ As the tram rattled along Balaclava Road, the moustachioed conductor hefted his leather bag and opened it in front of Ruth and Jane like the gaping maw of a dubious sea monster.

  ‘Two to Cotham Road, please.’ Ruth handed over a shilling, and two crisp tickets appeared in the man’s grimy hand and were duly clipped.

  The tram rattled onwards. Presently they reached Hawthorn Road, and the driver opened the door, armed with a long crowbar. He thrust the end of it into a gap in the tramlines with a practiced twist, then removed it and climbed back into his cabin. As the tram responded and groaned around the corner, the lights flickered; there was a metallic cracking noise and an acrid tang in the air.

  ‘Smell that ozone. Isn’t it awful?’ Ruth patted her throat and took out her handkerchief.

  ‘I suspect it’s ionised ni
trogen and oxygen.’ Jane could not help herself. ‘But—’ she added hastily ‘—I expect there’s ozone there as well. After all, a lone oxygen atom is bound to team up with a molecule every now and again when subjected to strong electrical discharge.’

  Ruth nodded and smiled, as she generally did when Jane was attempting to explain science to her. The important point—that Jane was correcting herself in order to spare Ruth’s feelings—did not escape her. ‘You’re so clever, Jane.’

  They watched the stately elegance of Caulfield Park go by. Picnics were happening there, with spread tablecloths, wicker baskets and cooked meats. Children ran about chasing dogs, and were chased by them in turn while adults looked on with amused indulgence.

  Jane stood up and stretched, braving the reproving eye of the conductor. ‘I wish they could do something about these blasted wooden seats!’ she complained.

  Ruth, who was somewhat more padded than Jane, merely nodded.

  The tram groaned arthritically up the long hill to Dandenong Road. The tram driver once more wielded his crowbar, and they lurched around into Glenferrie Road. At the terminus, they clambered down onto the road.

  ‘Wait,’ Jane suggested. ‘I want to check the timetable.’ She peered at the glass-covered cardboard oblong screwed into a lamppost. ‘The next tram home is at one o’clock. Including our walk to and from, we’ve got forty minutes or so. That should be enough.’

  They turned right into Barkers Road and found the house without difficulty.

  ‘It does look very grand,’ Ruth remarked, gazing at the high hedges and elaborately manicured front garden. ‘But it doesn’t seem as though anyone’s at home. Should we look around first?’

  Jane considered the suggestion then said, ‘I think we’d better knock first. We can always look at the exterior later. And if there’s nobody home, I think we can look around the grounds. But we need to know which window was Claire’s.’

  They knocked, not without the odd tremor. The house felt oppressive and brooding, and it was a considerable relief when Mrs Knight opened the door. ‘Hello, young ladies. How may I help you?’