Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

  The mystery deepened when the inspector’s door opened again and Mrs Sinclair the librarian emerged. Rather than heading for freedom, she walked straight up to the woman with the scarf and sat next to her. They spoke in low voices well beyond hearing, but Phryne watched their hands and faces. She detected enquiry, cross-examination, questions, answers and a general air of resolution. The two women left together. The sergeant opened his mouth to protest when the formidable librarian impaled him with a look of scorn and disgust. The two women passed unhindered into the great outdoors.

  The procession in and out of the office became more abbreviated and cursory. Men and women came and went, and gave away nothing but shock, bewilderment and a general sense of quiet despair—excepting, again, the magnificently bored Armstrong, who flicked his fingers down his jacket front and stalked away.

  Phryne turned to Dot, who was by now well advanced in weariness. ‘All right, Dot, we’ve seen enough, I think. Time to go.’

  As they passed by the massive figure of Kenneth McAlpine, still with his voluptuous cargo of Gentle Annie, his eyes met Phryne’s. She smiled at him, then sailed past the sergeant into the cool night.

  Dot fell fast asleep in the passenger seat of the Hispano-Suiza, and Phryne drove slowly. The night was deep around them, and the streetlights few. She drove sedately along the high road with the motor barely turning over. By contrast, her mind was racing. Was her theory of jealous love even tenable? Who could possibly be stupid enough to imagine they could murder their way to a girl’s heart? There had to be more to this. Who had a motive? If the series of tragedies had really been designed to drive Annie into somebody’s arms, then the clear winner was McAlpine. Could he have spiked himself with the needle and faked the mishap?

  He could have. It was absolutely possible. It was in sober fact the most likely explanation of the death of Donald Mackay. The blowpipe idea was a lot less easy to believe in. Who better would know how to throw a caber directly at his rival? Against this she had only the gentle giant’s reputation for placid calm, plus her observation of his face when holding Annie’s head to his herculean chest. Yet that look was a serious point against the theory. Phryne had been manhandled herself by a great many ardent suitors. She knew what men were like with a beautiful woman in their arms. If McAlpine were truly a murderer, then surely his demeanour would have betrayed something. Barely concealed lust would have been evident. Even a hint of possessiveness would be enough to harden Phryne’s suspicions. But Phryne had seen nothing beyond good-natured resignation at being used as a shoulder to cry on.

  She shook her head in frustration, parked the car, and conducted her somnolent companion up the stairs. Dot stumbled into her room and shut the door. Phryne stormed silently into her own room and fluing herself onto her bed. After five minutes’ quiet fuming, she opened the door to the balcony, lit a gasper and stared out into the darkness, willing it to yield up its secrets.

  What on earth was going on with Alice and her unexpected boyfriend? The unwelcome excitements of the evening had driven this strange development into the background. Now, in the stilly night, she saw them again. Preoccupied as she had been, she had barely noticed Alice’s dress when she had climbed into the car that afternoon. She had worn a dark blue waistcoat, a matching long skirt and a frilly white blouse. Her hair had been brushed with extra care. She had wanted to make a serious impression, and had done so. And what of the beautiful young man, dressed far more expensively than anyone else? Alice had clung to him for at least four dances. Had she danced with anyone else? Phryne could not remember her doing so. Had he? Yes, he had. Several girls offered him their arms, and he had accepted all of them. Once. There was something about this young man which quietly screamed incomer. No one hailed him as a friend nor even an acquaintance. Indeed, several of the young men had looked daggers at him, if not scimitars.

  Who was he? Had he and Alice been dancing the last dance? Yes, they had. And had they slipped away afterwards? Phryne supposed so. Dr Henderson had driven Alice to and from the Highland Gathering the day before, but he would not have been in any position to drive Alice anywhere tonight—not with a dead body on his hands. The mysterious young man had doubtless spirited her away. Phryne grimaced. Girls like Alice and Annie never seemed short of helpful hands to hold them above the storm-tossed waves, did they? Annie had Jessie. Alice had Dulcie, Dr Henderson and now this youth as well. Phryne had never seen the attraction of leaning on someone else’s shoulder—after all, she had two of her own—and she found it trying in others. Whatever would these women do if they found themselves alone, tied up in a cellar and threatened with macabre mayhem? As a woman to whom this sort of thing had happened frequently, Phryne wondered what it would be like to look to somebody else for rescue.

  After due consideration, she concluded that it would not do. She had almost invariably rescued herself from her own predicaments. Jack Robinson had occasionally assisted, and this had been most welcome. But setting out with a firm intention of self-reliance was always best. She pondered anew the problem of Jessie. On her note of aide-mémoire she had set out a possible case against Jessie Tremain. If she really were jealous of the attention Annie attracted, she would not have sent her sister out to dance while she cleaned up the kitchen. This was a possible martyr complex in action, but it seemed less and less likely now. Jessie had asked for Phryne’s help. Yes, sometimes criminals did that, but only in detective novels. Sometimes a good girl was just a good girl.

  Phryne lit another cigarette and thought about Colleen O’Rourke instead. Now there was a girl with the right stuff in her. Phryne could not quite let go of the idea that the putative jealous lovers might be pinning their hopes on Colleen, but she was obliged to consider it unlikely. Nevertheless, Phryne had warmed to the girl more than she had expected, recognising a kindred spirit. Had she herself been born into a prosperous rural Irish family, she might well have turned into Colleen O’Rourke. The girl took charge. Wilful, headstrong, decisive, very sure of herself, and (according to Dot’s account of her ecclesiastical prank) able to admit herself in the wrong on occasion. Phryne could find plenty to like, and nothing to dislike, about this girl. She was fortunate indeed to find herself in a community which tolerated her exuberance. All too often high-spirited girls got the life crushed out of them by their elders. With that reflection, Phryne put out her cigarette and retired to her bed.

  The next morning, Dot was still worn out from the excitements of the weekend, so Phryne let her return to bed after breakfast. Phryne herself dressed in a dark blue skirt, with a loose white blouse and an open jacket of dark green, then drove the car to Daylesford station. There she discovered that the train to Bullarto was not departing until eight thirty, so she admired the view for a while. The railway station was just off the main street at the top of a gentle rise and presented a most attractive prospect. The station was the usual single-storey red-brick arrangement, nestling beneath a fine stand of elms. A black-painted steam engine coughed asthmatically to itself, emitting clouds of steam and impatience. Three wooden carriages were yoked behind it, and several passengers had already embarked. Phryne went to the ticket office and bought a platform ticket (one penny) from the taciturn station guard. Stepping into one of the carriages, she placed both hands against the window and jerked it open. Then she stared out the window, before exiting the carriage again, conscious of admiring glances as she did so. It was pleasing, in a way, to know she could still turn heads.

  She turned back to the ticket office and smiled her most winning smile. ‘Excuse me, but can you tell me if all the carriages on this line are just like those ones?’ She pointed her gloved hand at the Bullarto train, which was gathering itself for noisy action.

  The station guard stared at her as if she had asked him about the nocturnal habits of beetroot. He was aged, weather-beaten and balding, and reckoned he’d heard it all until today. ‘Yair, missus. The carriages are all the same. What sort were youse after?’

  ‘I was wondering abou
t the windows. Are they all the same size?’ She received another long, slow stare. The beetroot had perhaps now grown beards and whiskers. ‘Yair, they are. What size would youse like ’em to be?’

  ‘Just as they are. Thank you.’

  She left the thoroughly bewildered station guard and returned to her car. It was time for another talk with Inspector Mick Kelly. But first, back to the Mooltan guesthouse, where she found Alice sitting companionably with Dulcie in the sitting room. Whatever secrets Alice might be incubating on her own part, there was no doubt about the love between the two women. Dulcie’s broad, callused paw enclosed Alice’s pale, slender, unmarked hand. They were reading from the same book, while Dulcie’s left hand turned the pages. Both were dressed simply in white cotton housedresses, and Alice’s free arm was wrapped around Dulcie’s substantial waist.

  Phryne waved to them both. Dulcie looked up and grinned. ‘Dot’s in her room, Phryne. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, thanks. We’re going into town. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘We’re pretty right, thanks.’

  Alice looked up from the book and gave Phryne a look of utter peace, tranquillity and adoration. Yes, she was harbouring a secret, and Phryne meant to discover it. But there was nothing there to plant any suspicion that Alice might be a suspect in the murders.

  Dot appeared on the stairway dressed in her beige ensemble, with her straw hat tied around her chin. ‘Miss Phryne, are you going back to Daylesford? I need some more wool.’

  Dulcie grinned at her. ‘There’s a good mercer’s shop near the town hall, Dot.’

  ‘Thanks, Dulcie.’

  Phryne fired up the massive engine, while Dot climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door. ‘They do look very happy together, don’t they, Miss?’

  Phryne engaged the clutch. ‘Yes, they do.’

  The massive car climbed the hill out of Hepburn Springs, while Phryne admired the scented morning air. It was a warmish day. In Melbourne it would be hot and stifling, but the mountain air, scented with lavender and roses, was intoxicating.

  ‘Miss Phryne, I’d like to look around Daylesford for a while. Can you meet me for lunch somewhere?’

  ‘Let’s have lunch at the Temperance Hotel, Dot. I’d like another look around there. I’m still groping for answers, and maybe something there will ring a bell. Shall we say twelve thirty?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  Phryne deposited Dot outside the town hall then sat in the driver’s seat of the Hispano-Suiza and lit a gasper, considering her position. Things had been happening with such terrible speed that she had been much more of a passive bystander than was her wont. Now for some detecting on her own part, she decided. But where to begin? Phryne considered her options. Too many places to go; too many people to see. Why not begin at Hepburn Springs and proceed towards Daylesford? Drop in to shops and make conversation. One thing the people of the spa country did not exhibit to any great extent was taciturnity. Walk around, talk to people and hope for some cross-bearings.

  She drove back to Hepburn Springs and walked into a baker’s shop. Mrs Jenkins’ Pies were advertised prominently there, and Mrs Jenkins herself, if this was the woman behind the counter, seemed an amiable and, most importantly, chatty person. Another housewifely woman bought three loaves of bread and they exchanged a good deal of news.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Jones, but I’m all out of pies this morning. I’ve just sold them all to Paddy the publican!’

  This seemed to be cause for significant glances betwixt them, and Phryne’s ears pricked up. She examined instead a tray of loaves on a high table, intending not to miss a word. She noted also a box of shortbread biscuits and resolved to buy some.

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, Mrs Jenkins,’ Mrs Jones responded. ‘That Captain Spencer’s a good man, but it’s cruel hard on those poor soldiers. Some of them live at the pub, of course, and the Captain doesn’t think they should eat meat. And so …’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t ask Paddy why he wanted them, but I think we can guess. Nobody will tell the Captain. We don’t want to hurt his feelings, but those poor men will be all the better for my pies, I’m sure.’ The baker leaned closer and added in a low voice. ‘And there’s other news there too, I hear. Vern’s going to live at the pub as well!’

  ‘He’ll be better off there.’ Mrs Jones was now nodding emphatically. ‘We all know he likes looking at the young women, but there’s no harm in him. Gentle as they come, he is. And there’s no reason he should have to live at the bottling plant, is there?’

  ‘I really don’t like that Sid. He’s awful. Anything else today, Mrs Jones?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ And out walked Mrs Jones with her string bag filled with aromatic bread.

  Phryne looked up to see Mrs Jenkins looking her over. Her bright blue eyes flickered over Phryne’s hands—looking for wedding bands, doubtless—and she leaned forward on her spotless counter.

  ‘Can I help you this morning, Miss?’

  ‘I believe I’d like some of this shortbread, please. It smells wonderful. Maybe a pound?’

  Mrs Jenkins wrapped them up in a brown-paper bag which she perched in the gleaming bowl of her scales. The black needle hovered directly over the mark reading 1 lb, and she nodded. To Phryne’s enquiring glance she smiled. ‘Long practice, Miss. That will be ninepence. I believe you’re staying at the Mooltan?’

  ‘Yes. It’s very pleasant there.’ Phryne handed over a shilling and received a shiny threepence from a work-callused and capable hand.

  ‘I’m sure of it. And I don’t care what anyone says about Dulcie and Alice. They’re fine women, and so happy with each other.’

  ‘Indeed they are. I’m sorry to have missed your pies, Mrs Jenkins. They’re quite famous.’

  Mrs Jenkins preened a little. ‘Well, I take a lot of trouble over them. But—well, you probably overheard us talking. Have you met the Captain? He runs the spa, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve met him. He’s a good man. Perhaps I might find some of your pies at this hotel of Paddy the Publican?’

  ‘The Station.’ Mrs Jenkins put her head on one side and gave Phryne a curious look. ‘Miss, you might find it a bit rough. If you’re after a hotel for lunch, the Temperance might suit you?’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, Mrs Jenkins.’ Phryne left the shop, clutching her bag of biscuits, and walked back to the car. She wondered why she had asked about the hotelier. But then, anything of absorbing interest to the locals would be worth looking into. As she was pulling out into the main street of Hepburn Springs she all but ran over Dulcie’s brother Aubrey. He was obviously distrait and gaped at Phryne as she applied the brake and ground the car to a halt.

  ‘Miss Fisher? Please! A terrible thing has happened. Helena’s gone missing!’

  Phryne opened the passenger door. ‘Come with me, Aubrey. I’ll take you to the Mooltan and you can tell me all about it.’

  The house was a ramshackle weatherboard affair in the back streets of Abbotsford. It was early in the afternoon, and Hugh Collins knocked on the door, noting that the plywood had been kicked in on some previous occasion. As it creaked open, Hugh noted that the lock was now only there for the look of the thing. He was met by a round-faced youth with an enormous grin plastered over his clean-shaven features.

  ‘Hello!’ The high-pitched voice emerged from the most astonishingly misshapen teeth Hugh had ever seen.

  Hugh consulted his notes. ‘Are you Alfred Greenwood, sir?’

  The boy snickered. ‘No. I’m Bill.’ He stood in the doorway, radiating innocent helpfulness and a complete disinclination to let the police into the house.

  After another quick look at his notebook, Hugh made a suggestion. ‘You wouldn’t be William Squire, would you, sir?’

  The boy snickered again, like a horse who has just brushed off its jockey against a passing tree branch. A decisive thumb jabbed against the boy’s chest. ‘That’s me!’

  Hugh Collins had had mongolism described to him,
but had never been confronted by it in the course of his duties before. He tried to remember what he had been told about these folk. Sunny disposition, eagerness to please and studied literal-mindedness came into it, he recalled. ‘May I come in, Bill?’

  ‘Sure!’ Bill turned his back and ambled down the long corridor. It was the standard inner-city single-storey affair, with several bedrooms to the left, and the corridor culminating in a communal living room, opening onto what was clearly a kitchen. Presumably there was a bathroom and toilet somewhere further in the hinterland. Seated around a table in the living room were two other men, playing cards. Next to the deck was a small pile of pennies. Three mounds of pennies occupied the space in front of the chairs. A large golden labrador was seated on the grubby linoleum, looking optimistically at the table. Bill Squire sat down at the table, picked up his cards, and placed them face down again on the table.

  ‘Al? We got a visitor. He’s a cop!’

  The other card players surveyed Hugh without enthusiasm. They were clearly Blokes with a capital B. They wore eau-de-Nil trousers with braces, checked shirts and horrible old boots. They smoked. In the very centre of the table, a large, slightly broken glass ashtray was filled with the remnants of several hundred roll-your-own smokes and enough fallen ash for a medium-sized bushfire. Two pairs of eyes raked over Hugh then returned to their cards. The elder of the Blokes put a card on the table, face down. Bill dealt him another card and replaced the pack on the tabletop. ‘Whaddaya want, Steve?’

  The younger man folded his cards. ‘I’m sittin’.’

  ‘Me too,’ put in Bill.

  Hugh turned to the elder. ‘Sorry to butt in on your game, sir, but are you Alfred Greenwood?’

  The man put down his cards again. ‘I might be. Who’re you when yer at home?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Collins, sir. I’m just making some routine enquiries about—’