Claire’s mother was dressed in Sunday Best: a severe long black dress with full sleeves and a buttoned jacket, despite the warm weather. Clearly she had been to church. Claire had told Ruth that her family were Baptists, and her parents had moved to the neighbourhood so that their future sons could attend Carey Grammar School. Alas, of sons they had none, nor any children now that Claire had gone.
Jane was ready with her story. ‘Hello, Mrs Knight. We’re very sorry to trouble you at this terrible time, but we’re Jane and Ruth, friends of Claire’s from school. I lent her my maths book and I really need it back, if that’s all right. It will be in her room.’
Mrs Knight gave them a long, inquisitorial look. ‘All right. I’ll take you to her room.’
She led the way up the gloomy mahogany staircase and opened the last door at the end of the passage. ‘Take all the time you need,’ she offered, while contriving to suggest that a short stay would be altogether more agreeable than a long one. She closed the door on them. The girls exchanged an embarrassed glance and divided the room between them.
Alas: Claire was either the tidiest schoolgirl in the history of the world, or else the room had already been tidied by the bereaved mother. Neither wardrobe, desk drawer nor under the bed produced the slightest clue.
Jane opened the window and stared out over the garden. Claire’s room faced onto the front of the house at the left-hand end of the building. She looked down to the garden bed and uttered a tiny gasp. ‘Ruth,’ she whispered. ‘Look straight down.’
Ruth joined her at the window and did so. ‘I can see two square indentations in the dirt about a foot from the outer wall. Is that what you wanted me to see?’
Jane nodded. ‘The indentations wouldn’t be visible from the garden because of the azaleas and the hedge border, but there’s been a ladder there. Several times, I think. And it’s right under Claire’s window.’
‘Could anyone climb in through the window?’
‘An adult couldn’t. But a boy might, if he was slim and agile.’
Ruth’s lips formed an O of conspiratorial secrecy. ‘You’re right. So that’s how she met her lover. And there’s something else there too.’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. But it’s metal, with two holes in it. Should we fetch it?’
Jane nodded. ‘We really should. I can’t see it properly, but it might be a clue.’
‘That’s good. Now we know how it was done, all we need to discover is who.’
‘Who indeed?’
There was nothing more they could do for the present. They trooped back downstairs, thanked the wraith-like Mrs Knight—who did not even ask about the mythical textbook and barely acknowledged them—and made a quick detour among the azaleas, where Jane picked up the object they had seen from above. They both stared at it: two small, flat pieces of metal bound together with what looked like strips of mica pinned between them, and two holes bored into it. They looked at each other and shrugged, and Jane stowed it away in her tunic pocket. They took the tram home in thoughtful silence.
Back in St Kilda, Ruth and Jane sat down to a late lunch: a cold collation of roast lamb and salad. Tinker and Hugh browsed meanwhile on a selection of fruit, nuts and mince pies provided by Mrs Butler. While they ate, the girls provided a bulletin on their discoveries, and Jane produced the mysterious object. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ she enquired, looking at Hugh Collins.
He frowned. ‘Dunno. Something electrical, maybe? Tinker, what’s up?’
Tinker was staring at the object. ‘Yair, it’s a capacitor. For a crystal set.’
‘And this means something to you?’
‘Yair.’ Tinker nodded. ‘I’m making one at school.’ He did not mention that he was also making one at home.
‘So it might have belonged to one of your school friends?’ Hugh suggested.
‘Could be, though I dunno how many other schools are usin’ capacitors. But it looks exactly like the one our electronics teacher showed us.’
There was a long pause while the company took this in. Finally Hugh spoke. ‘Improbable as it might seem, our mysterious boyfriend might well be in your class, Tinker.’
‘Yair. Could be. ’Course, it might be an electrician who dropped it.’
Hugh nodded. ‘Yes, it could. But I doubt it. We seem to have a lover who visited by ladder, and somehow I don’t think it’s the electrician.’ Hugh reached for a small and extremely red apple. ‘As I recall, the upper storey is a long way up. And you say the ladder marks were very close to the wall?’
Jane took a mince pie and inhaled the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed, taking a bite out of the pie. It was exquisite, and she directed a grateful smile at Ruth, who had baked them the previous night. ‘Which tells us two things. The first is that it’s unlikely to have been anyone old. It’s a good twenty feet almost straight up. And you’d need a good head for heights.’
Tinker felt it was time to make a contribution. He laid down the orange he had been excavating. ‘And second, it was someone who knew where to find a ladder. I s’pose they’d use a ladder belonging to the house?’
Jane nodded with emphasis and finished the mince pie.
‘I reckon so, Tinker.’ Hugh leaned back in his chair, finally replete. ‘You wouldn’t want to be walking along Barkers Road with a ladder under your arm.’
‘Could it have been one of the gardeners?’ Ruth interposed. ‘They’d know where the ladders were kept.’
‘It could, Ruth,’ Hugh conceded. ‘I’m supposed to interview the gardeners tomorrow. If one of them looks young and fit, and a likely sort, then maybe. I was told otherwise, but I’m not taking anybody’s word for that. I’ll find out tomorrow if we have a suspect.’ He looked at the girls. ‘I think you should go back to Kew after school on Tuesday and talk to Mrs Knight again. Tell her everything; she’s aware that Acting Detective Inspector Fraser is focused on her brother and I’m sure she’d be eager to see other avenues explored. Ask for permission to search Claire’s room properly for a clue to the identity of her boyfriend. Letters, perhaps. Would Claire be the sort of girl to keep a diary?’
Jane snorted. ‘Hardly! She wanted to be a doctor, or a scientist.’
Hugh’s glance passed to Ruth, who was looking sheepish. He raised an eyebrow and Ruth hung her head. ‘I kept a diary until recently. We all kept diaries. Even you had one.’
Jane blushed. ‘Yes, I did. You’re right. But I stopped because it was silly.’
‘And I stopped when I realised my life was boring. Now I just write recipes in mine.’
‘All right.’ Hugh surveyed the girls’ discomfiture, aware of the transitory nature of youthful crazes. ‘So she might have kept one. She did have a secret admirer, and she doesn’t seem to have confided in anyone at school. I think she’d have to tell somebody, and a diary seems probable, doesn’t it?’
‘It might be in code,’ Jane suggested.
‘If it is, then we can probably break it. As for you, Tinker … Boys who’ve managed to, er, get their way with girls tend to boast about it. He won’t be boasting now, but there might be a flicker of gossip somewhere. Find out if any of your school friends live in Kew. It’s highly likely that our missing boy lives near her. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
And with that, the meeting broke up. The girls returned to their room and read books (Ruth: Cooking the Australian Way; Jane: An Approach to Physiology). Hugh returned to his guest room and imagined himself telling Jack Robinson how he had cracked a case despite the best endeavours of Acting Detective Inspector Fraser. Tinker went out to his shed and locked the door behind him. A plan was forming …
Later that afternoon, Tinker returned to the house proper and knocked on the door to Mr Butler’s room.
The door opened a little way and a balding, friendly, wrinkled face appeared. ‘Yes, Tinker? May I be of assistance?’
Tinker looked at him nervously. ‘Mr B, have you got a soldering
iron?’
Mr Butler’s greying eyebrows raised themselves by half an inch. ‘Yes, of course. But tell me: what do you need it for?’
‘Makin’ something.’ Tinker avoided Mr Butler’s intelligent, questioning eyes.
‘I’m sure you are. But what, exactly?’
Tinker reached into his pocket, produced a grubby sheet of paper, and handed it over. Mr Butler examined it carefully. ‘Ah, I see. A circuit diagram for, let me see—a crystal set?’
Tinker looked up expectantly, suddenly enlivened. ‘Do you know about this stuff?’
‘Indeed I do, Tinker. When I had the honour to serve in the war, I was for a time a radio operator and I am very familiar with electronic circuits. Would you like a hand?’
Tinker thought about this. ‘I want to do it meself, if that’s all right. I’ve got all the parts from school, ’cos the teacher let me have ’em, but I’m not sure about soldering irons. I’ve never used one before. It sounds dangerous.’
Mr Butler inclined his substantial chin in affirmation. ‘Soldering irons are indeed a source of considerable peril. I would be happy to instruct you in the use of the instrument. Oh, and Tinker?’ He looked again at the somewhat smeared circuit diagram. ‘You’ve got three resistors here. I think you might find that two will be sufficient for your purposes.’
‘Thanks, Mr B.’ Tinker’s mouth split in a broad grin. ‘After dinner?’
‘After dinner it is. As soon as I have helped Mrs B with the dishes.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not preach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren’s ways may be long in the land.
Rudyard Kipling,
‘The Sons of Martha’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to dance, Dot?’
Phryne had parked the Hispano-Suiza outside the formidable fortress that was the Presbyterian church. She had not seen it before, but now understood Dot’s discomfiture earlier in the day. While none of the churches had bagged the summit of the hill, this one was well-placed to repel schism and Border raiding parties alike. The sound of violins tuning up could be heard, apparently from around the back of the orange-brick edifice. A narrow stairway had been lined with coloured balloons. Alice had already ascended the stairs, looking, Phryne considered, like a church mouse fleeing the attentions of the vestry cat. Dot turned to her employer and shook her head with finality. She had had her toes trodden on too often by clumsy boys. ‘No, thank you, Miss Phryne. I’ll help in the kitchen and keep an eye out.’
Phryne nodded. ‘A good idea, Dot. I’ll watch the hall.’
‘Do you think anything bad is likely to happen?’
‘A sensible criminal wouldn’t risk it. But …’
‘You don’t think they’re sensible?’
‘No, Dot. I don’t think so. Never mind.’ She grinned. ‘Let’s have some fun, anyway.’
They mounted the steps and entered the church hall. It was spotlessly clean, with dazzling white paint and plaster throughout, and clean, polished stone underfoot. At one end, the kitchen opened onto a broad serving table. Trays of sandwiches were already in evidence, as well as a punchbowl substantial enough to bath a medium-sized dog or Miniature horse. Clean glasses awaited to be filled with what looked like fruit cup. On the Sabbath it would be non-alcoholic, but Phryne’s cognac-laden hip flask would be available to remedy this oversight. At the other end of the room was a picture of a heavily bearded King George V doing a commendable impression of the Wrath of the Lord, flanked by the Australian flag and the cross of St Andrew.
On either side of the hall a great many chairs had been arrayed, and guests were already seated. While you could not say that there was a firm policy of separation between the sexes, there did appear to be an informal rule thereto. The boys were on the right-hand side, the girls upon the left, and at the back of the hall several rows of tables and chairs had been set out for the elders and the terpsichorean-challenged. There was desultory traffic to and from the drinks table, but without haste or conviction. In one corner was a low platform, on which the band members were tuning their instruments. The oldest—a slight, aggressively bearded character in a checked shirt, bush hat, black boots and faded blue gorblimey trousers—carried, of all things, a large banjo with every apparent intention of playing it. Peeking unobtrusively from his trouser pocket was a small flourish of penny whistles of differing sizes. He gave Phryne a flirtatious wink, and proceeded to strum the opening bars of ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes’ from Handel’s Judas Maccabaeus. Phryne grinned at his visage and promised herself that this man might well repay closer inspection—if she got the chance, which on current trends seemed unlikely in the extreme.
Phryne dismissed the remainder of the band after the most cursory of glances. These might be labelled Nervous Girl on Fiddle (in the height of Connemara fashion circa 1860), Shy Boy on Double Bass and Gormless Uncle on Percussion and Auxiliary Fiddle. Phryne looked with more intent through the kitchen hatch and was unsurprised to see the Tremain sisters moving laden trays about and tending the stove. ‘All right, Dot. Go and say hello to Annie and Jessie and keep a weather eye out.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
Dot hied herself kitchenwards and Phryne surveyed the room. Someone, or more likely many people, had gone to considerable trouble to hang paper lanterns in all the colours of the rainbow around the room. Small electric lights were hidden inside them and the effect was festive. By night it would approach the description magical, with a little extra faith and goodwill. She wondered if the dance would get that far. Tomorrow was Monday morning, and cows would need milking before dawn.
More locals of all ages were arriving, some still in their Sunday best and others in appropriate dancing gear: swirly dresses and white blouses for the girls, and loose shirts and trousers for the boys, and waistcoats for pretty much everyone. Most of the menfolk had taken the safe option of black and white, although Kenneth McAlpine had come in his dress kilt of red and dark green, with a frilly shirt which matched his vast and intimidating muscles in the way that Corinthian capitals look good on a box-girder bridge. But many of the women had gone all out for colour. Crimson skirts and waistcoats seemed popular, as did emerald. A rule of thumb seemed to be that the young were there to dress up and impress each other, and the older guests were there to be the humble backdrop. Phryne recollected that in most places the formal dance was the socially approved venue for matchmaking. She smiled inwardly; she had never had much time for this theory.
Before the dancing began in earnest, Phryne decided to use the opportunity to cross-examine the male youth of Daylesford and surrounding districts. She made her way across the room, blithely ignoring the standing waves of disapproval emanating from pretty much every female over the age of thirty.
As she established herself in their midst, a good quarter of the young men were frankly terrified of this paragon of fashionable womanhood in patterned silk, another quarter were optimistically lascivious, but not notably downcast when their advances were politely rebuffed, and the rest were frankly flattered by her glamorous attentions.
‘Hello,’ she said to one frank admirer. ‘I’m Phryne Fisher.’ She gave him her gloved hand, and the youth bent over it and allowed his lips to brush the fabric. He was medium-sized, freckled and of a decidedly sunny demeanour. His trousers, white shirt and waistcoat were well-mended, but definitely second-hand. ‘I’m James Hepburn.’ The voice was deep, but uncertain of itself, as if it were a bass trombone not all of whose lower notes had as yet been thoroughly explored. His hair was dark and curly, and his eyes soft agates.
‘And what do you do, James?’
‘Me? I work on Dad’s farm. But what I love best is cricket. Do you like cricket, Miss Fi
sher?’
Like all women, Phryne was fully prepared to be bored senseless by Men Explaining Things if there happened to be a good reason for it. As it happened, Phryne loved cricket, and probably knew more about it than Mr Hepburn. But she would probably learn more about her interlocutor if she pretended wide-eyed ignorance.
‘I’m not sure,’ she temporised. ‘What do you like about it?’
The boy’s face glowed like a lighthouse. ‘I love that it’s never over, even if all seems lost. And it’s a battle of wits between bat and ball, so utterly unlike football. We play that here, of course, but I—’ his hands briefly indicated his limbs ‘—I’m not very coordinated. But I bowl leg spin. And googlies.’
This boy might indeed be a suitor for Annie’s hand, and indeed other parts of her, but she would for the present have to take second place to the mysteries of bat and ball. ‘I’ve only just learned how to bowl it.’
Phryne turned, for a blond young man handed James an orange from the fruit bowl with an air of faint mockery. It was received with, ‘Thanks, Graeme. Now, this is the leg break.’ He flipped the orange so it spun viciously. ‘Here’s the topspinner.’ Another whirl of orange peel. ‘And this is the googly.’ Phryne noted that he spun the googly mostly with his little finger. There were other ways of making the ball spin in the opposite direction, but this was one acceptable method.
‘I see,’ Phryne murmured, resting her hand on his arm. ‘That looks very clever.’
The honest, sunburned face looked up at her. ‘Thanks, Miss Fisher. There’s another thing called the flipper, which Clarrie Grimmett bowls. I think it goes like this.’ The orange began its trajectory between thumb and forefinger, but swerved wildly out of his reach, heading straight towards the abundant cleavage of a young girl, whose mouth opened wide enough to swallow the orange, flipper and all. Out of nowhere, a hand plucked the ball out of mid-air and restored it to the fruit bowl. The tall, saturnine man attached to the hand gave the girl a formal bow, made a gesture of head-slapping towards Mr Hepburn, and stalked off.
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