Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

  The grizzled gardener cut him off. ‘Bill, get ’im a chair, will ya? D’you play poker? Youse can take over from Bluey, if ya like.’

  ‘And Bluey would be?’

  ‘The dog.’

  Bluey looked up with a sudden hope that food might be forthcoming. Even though it wasn’t, he waddled over to Hugh Collins and rubbed his ample flanks against Hugh’s trouser leg.

  ‘Sir, are you telling me that the dog plays cards?’

  The unshaven mouth split into a grin. ‘Yair but ’e’s no good at it. ’E keeps drawing to inside straights.’

  Hugh scratched the dog’s cheeks and neck and allowed his trousers to be massaged and assailed by an enthusiastic tail. Bill, meanwhile, had reappeared with a kitchen chair and placed it at the table. Mr Greenwood looked Hugh over once more and gestured to the chair. ‘Siddown, sport.’

  Hugh did so.

  Greenwood turned over his cards. ‘I got two pair, kings and tens. What’ve youse blokes got?’

  The younger bloke, Steve (presumably Stephen Horner), threw his cards in. ‘Pair o’ nines.’

  Bill was cradling his cards with an air of exuberant triumph. He turned them face up. ‘I got three queens!’ Bill reached out a chubby hand and swept the pennies into his pile.

  ‘Well done, mate.’ Al Greenwood watched Hugh gaping at Bill’s hand. Queen of clubs, eight of spades, two of spades, four of clubs and two of diamonds. ‘It’s all right, son. That hand’s on a ryebuck and a straight wire. We play twos wild.’ His deep brown eyes narrowed. ‘Well, copper? You in or not?’

  Hugh’s brain went into overdrive for a moment. As long as he didn’t drink on duty, there was no actual directive about playing cards. It was all part of his investigation, and he may as well do it in comfort. He reached into his pocket and disinterred seven pennies, three halfpennies and a threepenny bit. These blokes would probably clean him out in half an hour, but he’d be saving on tram fares. And he would get a better impression of his witnesses playing cards than interrogating them according to the manual.

  ‘Yep. I’m in.’

  It took only twenty-five minutes for Hugh’s stake to be engulfed into the other piles of coins, including the time it took Bill to boil the kettle and make a pot of foul-smelling tea which might have been used to tan hiking boots. Hugh would normally have accepted tea from householders, but this looked to be best left alone. His fellows took it with milk and a great deal of sugar, and drank it with what appeared to be pleasure. Hugh wondered if Al and Steve were letting Bill win, but this did not appear to be the case. Hugh’s Waterloo moment was when he had managed to acquire a full house, which was unsympathetically swept aside by Al’s diamond flush. As he watched his stake engulfed by a mud-stained fist, Hugh reflected that losing to the witnesses was far better than winning.

  Al fixed him with a glittering eye. ‘All right, sport. What can we do fer ya?’

  Hugh cleared his throat. ‘You three gentlemen are gardeners, I believe?’

  This produced an inclination of an unshaven jaw, which might have passed as a nod.

  ‘And you are regularly employed by Mrs Knight in Barkers Road?’

  Two nods and a grin.

  ‘And are you aware that there has been a recent death in the family?’

  Two nods and a heart-rending look of pain from Bill.

  ‘Yair, mate, we are. ’Cos it was in the paper.’ Hugh had not known this and wondered who had spilled the beans. Not Mrs Knight. Probably his over-eager superior. ‘And it said that the Police Were Confident of an Early Arrest.’ Al was watching Hugh’s face with considerable care, and he wondered how much of his bewilderment was showing.

  ‘Well, Mr Greenwood, we’re always confident. But we’d like to know if you noticed anything unusual of late at the house?’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ Al conceded. ‘Not that we were ever in the house. Mrs Knight brought us a tea trolley once when we were putting in a long shift, but we weren’t invited in. ’Cos why would we be?’

  ‘But you may have seen the deceased in the garden?’ Hugh prompted.

  ‘Yair, we did. Cat that got the cream, that one.’

  ‘I see. Did this newspaper report say anything about the deceased’s condition?’

  There was a grin this time. ‘You mean was she up the spout? Yair.’

  ‘Had you formed any impressions as to who might have been responsible?’ This was on the face of it an absurd question, but you never knew your luck.

  ‘It wasn’t any of us.’ A gap-toothed smile invited Hugh to consider the possibility that any of them might have been a teenage girl’s sweetheart. ‘Did youse blokes find the prints of the ladder under her window?’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ Hugh responded. ‘And you never mentioned this to anyone?’

  ‘No, we didn’t, on account of it bein’ none of our bloody business. We do the garden. That’s what we’re paid for, and that’s what we do. Tell ya what, though, it’d have to be a fit young bloke. It’s a decent climb up to ’er room, and the prints were close to the wall.’

  ‘That’s what we thought, too.’ Hugh looked at Bill, whose moon face was clouded with anxiety.

  He gave vent to an agonised yelp, and Bluey obediently raised himself off the lino and put his head in Bill’s lap. ‘What’s happened? Is something wrong with the pretty girl?’

  Al leaned forward over the table, with both gnarled fists closed together. ‘Bill, that pretty girl at the house has gone away. That’s all it is. She’s gone away, mate; but she’s happy.’

  Bill considered this. ‘Has she gone somewhere nice?’

  ‘Yair, mate. She gets to play with dogs and cats and unicorns all day. Play yer cards right an’ you’ll get to go there too.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bill’s hands were out of sight under the table, but going by the thwacking of Bluey’s tail it appeared that Aid and Comfort was being administered.

  Al eyeballed Hugh anew. ‘That’s pretty much all we can tell ya, sport,’ he concluded.

  ‘I see.’ Hugh was on his feet in an instant. ‘Thank you for your time, gentlemen.’

  Hugh saw himself out, escorted at a distance by Al. He turned at the door. ‘You do realise that the front door doesn’t lock, don’t you?’

  Al grunted. ‘’S’orright, though. We got a dog. Burglars are scared of Bluey.’

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  ‘On account of gettin’ slobbered on a lot. Nuthin’ worse than an overenthusiastic dog when yer tryin’ to rob a house.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  As Hugh walked through the mean streets of Abbotsford towards Victoria Park station, he realized that the best thing about his morning’s work was that he had found all three gardeners in Al’s house. He had informed his superior officer that he would interview all three suspects, and that it would take all afternoon. He would not have considered taking the rest of the day off had Jack Robinson been on the case, but the temptation to go straight home and put up his substantial feet was too much for him. He considered that while he had learned nothing of consequence, the gardeners could be safely scratched from the list of suspects. Which was, at the present moment, a very short list. Hugh could not imagine what had possessed his superior to blurt out everything to the daily press. Surely Claire’s pregnancy was something to be sprung on a suspect without warning in mid-interrogation? But there it was. The acting detective inspector was already convinced that the culprit was Uncle Gerald and saw no need to hedge his bets. Not for the first time, Hugh found himself longing for the calm and reassuring presence of Jack Robinson. And it was time to tell the girls to go and see Mrs Knight and confess all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Myself when young did eagerly frequent

  Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument

  About it and about: but evermore

  Came out by the same Door as I went in.

  Edward Fitzgerald,

  The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr

  Having been let out next to t
he town hall, Dot alighted with difficulty onto the steep cobblestone gutter. Stepping carefully in her sensible flat shoes, she mounted the footpath and made her way into the mercer’s shop. Bolts of cotton and linen towered over her. Boxes and cases of costume jewellery adorned the path towards the counter, behind which a series of wooden trays held a bewildering array of coloured wools. Perched upon great wicker cabinets were lampshades of every shape and colour. Stacked in trays were coloured beads of amber, coral, amethyst and beryl. There were needles and cotton thread, silks and satins, leaded glass, dried flower pictures and arrangements, tatting, crochet hooks, tassels, ribbons and laces. A pleasant middle-aged woman in a long, green cotton dress and long, unbound greying hair presently appeared, and smiled at Dot.

  ‘Good morning, Miss. How may I help you?’

  ‘I want some wool, please.’

  A beatific smile illumined the rounded face. ‘What are you making, dear?’

  ‘I was thinking of knitting a scarf for the winter.’

  ‘Do you have a pattern in mind?’

  ‘Just thin stripes, I think.’

  ‘All right. Suffragette colours are popular hereabouts?’

  There was a definite frisson in the atmosphere now. Dot stared at the saleslady, trying to remember what these were.

  ‘Green for creativity, purple for passion and white for purity,’ the woman prompted.

  ‘They do a very good red here, if you want it?’

  The voice—deep and rough-edged, as though it emerged from an internal combustion engine—came from behind her. Dot turned to see another woman, though Dot could have sworn she and the saleslady had been alone in the shop. She was tall and angular, with her iron-grey hair cut short as though by a combine harvester. It was the haircut of a woman who had heard about hairstyling and didn’t want anything to do with it. She was dressed in grey dungarees and a blue checked shirt, and from under an old straw hat a pair of grey-blue eyes raked critically over Dot.

  ‘Oh, right. Thank you.’ For a long moment Dot felt as though she was acting a part in a play where she had forgotten to bring her script. She looked again at the woman behind the counter. ‘I think I’d like autumn colours, actually. Brown and yellow, with some light orange?’

  Six large balls of wool were duly laid on the counter by a plump, unlined hand. Dot admired the orange, which was a perilous colour to match with anything else. This was light, and held a tinge of ochre which would blend beautifully with the yellows and browns. Meanwhile a large brown-paper bag was laid on the counter with a significant look, and the newcomer hefted it onto her shoulder and headed for the door.

  ‘Anything else I can help you with, Miss?’

  Dot had only intended to buy wool, but found herself fifteen minutes later with a quantity of costume jewellery and a beautiful calico bag embroidered with a black cat couchant on the front. As she was opening the shop door, she turned to the saleslady. ‘Um, may I ask who was that other lady in the shop just now?’

  A guarded look filmed over the woman’s pleasant features. ‘That’s Miss McKenzie. She lives over in Musk.’

  Since that was plainly all the information on offer, Dot nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Back at the Mooltan, Aubrey poured out his tale. He had woken as usual at the Station Hotel and had walked to the spa for his day’s therapy. Some of the blokes got a lift in a truck, but he preferred to walk, for the exercise, and the Captain agreed that this was good for him. At the spa he had found the staff all in a dither, and Helena nowhere to be seen. She had, as far as anyone knew, slept in her quarters at the spa last night as usual, but when she had not showed up for work a search had been made. There was no sign of her anywhere.

  Dulcie gave her brother some valerian in a glass, and he sipped it carefully, eyes darting to and fro all the while. Dulcie and Alice sat on either side of him on the sofa in a protective phalanx. All three pairs of eyes were fixed on Phryne in patently optimistic hope.

  ‘Please tell me about Helena,’ Phryne began. ‘Who is she?’

  Aubrey’s face blushed scarlet. ‘She’s my fiancée. She works at the spa as a masseuse. Her mother lives in Daylesford and she’s been ringing every few hours.’

  ‘And how old is Helena?’

  ‘Seventeen. But she’s very grown-up.’

  Phryne nodded, and rose. ‘You two look after Aubrey and see no harm comes to him. I’ll go to the spa to talk to the Captain.’

  ‘Please do, Phryne.’ Dulcie took her brother’s hand and stroked it. ‘I know you’re only here on holiday, but if you could help, we’d really appreciate it.’

  In no good temper, Phryne strode along the road to the spa. Another mystery! Just what she needed. Captain Spencer was standing outside. ‘Phryne? To what do we owe the pleasure this time?’ He was beautifully dressed for a Monday morning, but his face looked haggard.

  ‘Herbert, this is probably none of my business, but I’d like to see Helena’s room at once, if that is at all convenient.’

  The tension in his face eased a little. ‘So you’ve heard? I rather hoped you would. In fact, I was waiting out here hoping you might pass by. This unexplained absence is so unlike Helena, I fear … mischief.’

  ‘All right. Let’s have a look.’

  Helena’s room was small, neat and relatively spartan. There was little to indicate human habitation other than the single wardrobe, a rough wooden desk and chair, and an unmade bed. Captain Spencer stood next to Phryne, as if willing the room to yield up its secrets.

  ‘We’re on the upper floor here. Could she have got out the window?’ Phryne asked.

  ‘I doubt it.’ The Captain tested the window. It was locked from the inside. ‘No. But she might have got up early.’

  ‘Do you know if any of her clothes are missing?’

  The Captain looked nonplussed. ‘Well, I don’t take much notice of the girls’ wardrobes—’ he began.

  Phryne cut him short. ‘Then please go and get one of the other girls who would know!’

  He hurried off obediently, and Phryne examined the room. There were no signs of a struggle. The disordered bed looked as though the occupant had flung back the covers, got out of bed and vanished into thin air.

  Spencer returned with a slight young woman, who introduced herself as Mary. She rummaged through the wardrobe, looked under the bed, then looked at Phryne in quiet alarm.

  ‘I can’t be sure, Miss Fisher, but as far as I can see, nothing is missing—except the nightgown she was wearing last night. She keeps her handbag in the bottom of the wardrobe, and it’s still there. She’s not the sort to run off, and she would never have left it behind.’

  ‘Have you seen her this morning?’

  ‘No, Miss Fisher. But she’s normally first up, so I wouldn’t expect to.’

  ‘I see.’ Phryne turned to the Captain. ‘All right. I’ll look for her. You’d better put her handbag in the safe. No, wait. Let me see it before you do.’

  With a dubious glance at Phryne, Mary retrieved it and handed it over. The contents were singularly lacking in clues. Three handkerchiefs, a plain leather purse containing nine shillings and fourpence, some basic toiletries and that was all. Of incriminating letters or summonses to meet a mysterious stranger at midnight by the old oak tree wearing only her nightgown, there were none.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Phryne declared, handing the bag back to the girl. ‘I’m a little pushed for time today, but I’ll do my best for her.’

  Phryne returned to the Hispano-Suiza and drove to Daylesford in a silently flaming temper. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate already! She went straight into the Station Hotel and ordered a whisky sour. The Station was somewhat less decorous than the Temperance. The main bar was more like main bars elsewhere: dirty carpet, half-filled ashtrays and a smell of cheap beer. Mick Kelly had ensconced his formidable frame in a corner snug, a large beaker of what appeared to be lemon squash parked on the table next to his right hand. As she approached, he gave her a nod of greeting and ge
stured to her to take a seat. Phryne received Looks of Disapproval from one or two customers and ignored them.

  ‘Well, Mick,’ she said without preamble, ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. One of the girls at the spa has gone missing.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard. Captain Spencer came to the station first thing this morning. Any other damage at your end, apart from the missing girl?’

  ‘I’ve uncovered another murder, I fear—and all of them known to be admirers of Annie Tremain.’

  A massive forefinger rubbed across the ginger moustache. ‘A third? When? Who was it?’

  ‘A month ago, a Patrick Sullivan is alleged to have fallen out of a train window while leaning out to admire the scenery. The trouble is, Mick, I have inspected the train and its carriages and it isn’t possible. The windows aren’t low enough, or wide enough.’

  ‘So yer telling me he was pushed?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, though I have no evidence. The story really was a bit thin. Perhaps the coroner sat on him?’

  ‘I expect so. But, then, it wouldn’t have seemed suspicious in itself, because it was the first of our murders and no one was looking for trouble.’ The inspector shook his massive head and made a noise like a bear with its foot in a trap. ‘It really is suspicious that all three of our corpses seem to have been suitors for the same girl, and I agree with you that this can’t be a coincidence. But all the same … killing off rivals in love? I can’t see it, Phryne. You gotta admit it’s improbable.’

  Phryne tasted her whisky sour. It wasn’t bad at all, despite the pub’s unpromising decor. ‘Mick, I have to agree with you. But I had a long talk with the Reverend McPherson last night, and he tells me that this couldn’t have been done for financial gain. None of the deceased had anything worth inheriting. So rivals in love it must be. Though presumably our villain is round the twist—only a madman would think this would work. But what if he really is mad?’

  ‘He’d have to be.’ The inspector took a big slurp out of his lemon squash. ‘So, who are our suspects?’

  ‘We’re running out of them. Of the people who might have some sort of realistic romantic motive, we only have three left alive: Kenneth McAlpine, Graeme Forbes and Johnnie Armstrong. McAlpine seems to have been the big winner so far, at least in terms of getting Annie into his arms.’