Dot grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, Miss, but she has no motive at all. I liked Peggy a lot, and she’s perfectly happy. The only thing is that she doesn’t feel she belongs here.’
Phryne considered this. ‘We’re really looking for someone with a considerable stake in the local community, aren’t we? But are you really telling me she’s happy just to cook and wash up?’
‘For the moment, Miss. But I heard all about her young man. He’s finishing his apprenticeship as a motor mechanic in Melbourne, and his boss says he’ll take him on full-time soon.’
‘And when that happens, Cousin Peggy goes off to Melbourne to get married and live happily ever after?’
‘I’m afraid so, Miss Phryne. She talked a lot about it.’
‘Drat! Another dead end. So, what’s she like, anyway?’
Dot considered this. Fragments of Peggy’s conversation drifted back to her. ‘Another good girl, Miss—but she’s got a sharp tongue on her. The things she said about Mr McKenzie! She’s only working at the Temperance to earn some money towards their house in Melbourne. And she said—what did she say? Oh yes. “Dot, I’m only here to help out Jessie and Annie. We’ve known each other since we were little kids, and they’re both saints. If they want to keep on working for that drunken Gawd-help-us that’s their affair. If it were up to me, I’d throw the old man into Jubilee Lake.” And she said a few other things about him, too.’
In the pallid light of the front door lamp, Phryne saw Dot colour.
‘Do go on, Dot. This is fascinating.’
‘She said that McKenzie was exploiting the girls rotten, and something oughta be done about it.’
‘Oh.’ Phryne had hoped for something more lurid than that, but there was nothing to be made of any possible Wrongness in the relationship between uncle and nieces. Having spent two hours in their company, she felt certain she was in a position to rule that out. The girls were totally at ease in the company of their Gawd-help-us and treated him with far more kindness and sympathy than he merited.
‘So how did you get on with the card game, Miss? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play bridge before.’
‘It was surprisingly pleasant. I learned how to play the game in Fashionable London before I got completely fed up with it all.’
‘London, or bridge?’
Phryne grinned. ‘Both. But it was the perfect opportunity to see the Tremain girls and their uncle out of uniform, as it were. And there’s nothing peculiar about their relationship, Dot. It was a man and his two nieces, playing cards. Everyone at their ease and nothing weird underneath it. I think they genuinely like the man. I can’t see it myself, but there it is.’ She smiled. ‘One thing I can tell you: they play an excellent game, all three of them. They’d give the London ladies who bored me stiff a good run for their money. Oh, and speaking of money, absolutely none changed hands. They were just playing for points, and pencil-marks on a piece of paper. So if we were thinking about gambling habits, that’s out, too. Golly, but this is a tough case, Dot.’
‘What’s on tomorrow, Miss?’
‘Back to the spa for me, to look for Helena Ogilvie; you can have the morning off. If I don’t see my way clear by tomorrow night, I may go ahead with my plan.’
Accustomed as she was to her employer, Dot’s ears pricked up. ‘A plan? Is it going to be dangerous, Miss?’
‘A little bit, Dot. And that’s why I want to be sure I can trust the Captain first.’
‘Does this mean you think you know where Helena is?’
‘Well, yes, Dot—I have an idea, nothing more. And a plan to go with the idea, yes: I have one of those, too. Look, I know you haven’t met him, but the Captain really is a fine man. The work he’s doing with the shell-shock patients is wonderful. I like him a lot. But he’s exactly the sort of man who could make some serious trouble for anyone who got in his way, and I want to be able to clear him before I go any further.’ Phryne patted Dot’s arm. ‘Dot, that idea of yours was a really good one, and it may even be the key to Helena’s disappearance. I just hope not.’
‘How are you going to find out if it’s true?’
‘By looking. Dot, for the moment I’m washing my hands of Daylesford. It’s a wonderful place filled with charming people, but I don’t know enough about them. The real villain is probably laughing himself sick at my expense, and I intend to get my own back on him. Assuming it is a him, which I think it must be now. But Hepburn Springs? It’s such a small community that I should be able to crack the case quickly. Tomorrow I’ll find Helena, one way or another.’
‘Bravo, Miss.’ Dot froze. ‘Miss—look!’
Away on the very edge of the lamplight, a large chocolate-brown wombat was striding purposefully through the undergrowth. Phryne admired the sturdy muscles beneath the dark fur, short stubby legs bowling happily through any and every obstacle. Then there was a rustle in the grass, and it had gone.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Dot exclaimed.
‘I agree, Dot. Tomorrow, I shall emulate that wombat’s excellent example. When all else fails, stomp through everything until you get what you want. Come on, let’s go to bed. We’ve had a big day.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
And the Sons of Mary smile and are bless’d, they know the Angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confess’d, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the feet, they hear the Word, they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and the Lord He lays it on Martha’s Sons!
Rudyard Kipling,
‘The Sons of Martha’
Dot rose early on Tuesday morning and went for a soothing walk. It was set fair to be a warm day, and there was no wind to speak of. She listened to a vociferous kookaburra exulting about something, presumably related to the morning bill of fare. She stared at the turning in the road which led to the spa and wondered if they were ready for Miss Fisher’s full state visit. She wandered through the forest pathways for a while, admiring the sunlight glinting through the verdant tree branches, and marvelling at how different things were hereabouts. Back in Melbourne, she knew, summer’s end was a time for vegetation’s panting survivors to keep a low profile until the coming of the autumn rains. It was as if there were veins of water running all through these hills. In fact, she realised, this was precisely the case.
Well before eight am, she set her course for home; her stomach was rumbling. Dulcie and Alice’s breakfasts were of the traditional English variety: eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, jam and pots of fragrant tea. She wished Miss Phryne would share the breakfast table with her, but her employer either partook of a French roll with coffee, or else eschewed the meal entirely. Until lunchtime she subsisted mostly upon coffee and cigarettes. As Dot walked up the brick pathway to the front door she could smell both, but especially the strong black espresso favoured by Miss Phryne. Dot was still regarding this foreign intrusion into the traditional breakfast table with suspicion.
Dulcie had just finished laying a small table for one. The intoxicating scent of viands fried, steamed, boiled and toasted went to her head like wine. ‘Hello, Dulcie. Is that for Miss Fisher or for me?’
Dulcie wrapper her morning robe tighter around her bosom and smiled. ‘It’s for you, Dot. Phryne’s already left on her travels. She said she’d be back later on and that you should have a relaxing morning.’
‘Oh. Thanks, Dulcie.’ There being nothing else for it, Dot sat down at her spotless white tablecloth and prepared, however reluctantly, to sit back, relax, and enjoy a hearty breakfast.
Presently a thought occurred to her. As Dulcie returned to clear away Dot’s empty plate—which had been occupied by two poached eggs, three Cumberland sausages, three strips of bacon, a dollop of steamed mushrooms and something which after some doubtful reconnaissance Dot identified as spinach leaves—Dot looked questioningly at her. ‘Dulcie? Is Aubrey still here?’ Dulcie gave Dot an odd look but smiled easily.
&n
bsp; ‘Yes, he’s here in one of the spare rooms. I’m keeping a close eye on him. Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered.’ Dot stared fixedly at the teapot. ‘We might find Helena soon, and I thought he’d want to be here when it happens.’
‘If it happens.’ Dulcie’s mouth set in a line. ‘Does Phryne see light in our quest, do you know?’
Dot looked her straight in the eye. ‘I’m hoping so, Dulcie.’
‘So do I, Dot. Anything else you’d like?’
Dot shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m full up. It was wonderful, though.’
Dulcie inclined a gracious head and Dot nibbled moodily at a piece of toast and strawberry jam. Miss Phryne had solved the mystery of the other disappearing women, at least. Perhaps this was a good omen for the immediate future.
Dot rose, walked into the parlour, and found Tamsin the cat playing with a ball of wool. Dot was about to confiscate it, but instead she paused to watch as the little paws reduced a skein of blue wool into a confused jumble. Only when Tamsin had finished playing did Dot bend down, gather up the wool and begin to restore it to its former state.
Phryne had, unbeknownst to Dot, also gone for a fast thinking walk not long after first light. These murder cases were driving her to the edge of distraction. She stopped in the middle of a pleasant glade above a gently murmuring pool and listened to the morning chorus. She breathed easier. There was something magical about this part of the world. A rough bench was set in a tiny lookout so passers-by could enjoy the view in comfort. Phryne sat, emptied her mind of everything but the gentle tinkle of running water, and enjoyed a long moment of perfect peace. She felt her pulse slow down. A tiny wagtail hopped onto the ground in front of her and shifted its miniature head this way and that. Even the birds here were unafraid of humans. ‘Hello, little friend,’ she murmured. ‘Can you help me out?’
The bird hopped away and spread its wings, having suddenly recalled a previous appointment. Phryne watched the sunlight flash on its blue tail with pure delight. All right, she admonished herself. Here you are, by yourself, with nothing to distract you. We have a bold, cunning, highly intelligent and utterly ruthless murderer in our midst. He kills in the middle of crowds where there are suspects galore and betrays nothing to mark him out. None of this points to a jealous lover, does it? What on earth is his motive? Come on. You can do this. You have an unbroken record of criminal detection. No rural Tiberius is going to outwit you. Don’t think. Clear your mind, recall everything you have seen in Daylesford, and make no assumptions. There has been far too much furious action, and too many distractions. Motive, method, opportunity. Find someone who fits all three, and you have him.
Phryne lit a cigarette and inhaled once. Then she sat quite still, with eyes closed. Her cigarette slowly went out. She didn’t notice it. Because it had all come to her in a blinding flash of insight. She knew now beyond doubt who it was, and why. The criminal genius had left nothing to incriminate him. And he would try again, on Friday night, at the cinema opening. There was nothing for it but to catch him in the act. And she intended to do just that.
Twenty minutes later she was bathing in the spa again, striking out across the narrow pool, naked and self-assured. She had no visible audience until Sheila made an appearance and waved at her. ‘You’re all right, Miss Fisher,’ Sheila called. ‘The Captain says you’re to have the run of the place.’ She laid two large white fluffy towels on a deckchair within easy reach.
Phryne admired Sheila’s nurse’s uniform (plain white, comfortable, and minus all the annoying extras hospital nurses have to endure) and grinned. I bet he has. He’s hoping for a substantial cheque from me. But we will see. She dived under the surface of the gloriously effervescent pool and luxuriated in her freedom from clothes of any sort. She had bathed naked many times before, and in more romantic circumstances. A complacent smile settled on her mouth. After another few laps of the pool she emerged, dried herself off and wrapped the second towel around herself. She heard low male voices outside and retreated into the ladies’ dressing room, wherein her clothes were bestowed. As she got dressed, she heard the gentle splosh of bodies entering the water. Fully clad (another trouser suit: cream, with blue trimmings) she walked alongside the pool and waved at the patients, who greeted her with a combination of admiration and shyness.
She opened the door that led out the back to Smokers’ Corner. It was already well-tenanted. Four of the blokes from her previous visit were gathered. She thought she recalled the names of some of them. The Daves seemed very much in evidence; anyone as tall as Tiny Dave (six feet five or so) was not hard to remember. ‘Hello, Dave,’ Phryne addressed the tallest of them. ‘Got a light for a girl?’
Tiny Dave produced a brass lighter, leaned down, and ignited the end of Phryne’s cocktail Sobranie. ‘Did yer have a good swim this morning, Miss?’
‘Indeed I did.’ Phryne inhaled, wondering how many faces had been pressed to the big glass windows while she had been doing her Nereid impersonation. Well, they were welcome to look if they wanted to. ‘Dave, I was wondering about the Captain’s special tonic. Can you tell me more about it?’
Looking around the ring of faces, there appeared to be some concentrated ratiocination happening. Finally, a collective decision was reached. ‘There’s a placard over there if yer interested, Miss.’
Phryne strolled towards the back of the teahouse and noticed a large tin placard nailed to the brick wall. She read the following: Pharmaceutical tonic, Hepburn Spa. This product carries the approval of the Chief Medical Officer of the State of Victoria. Big Dave watched her and spoke out of the corner of his thin mouth.
‘Yair, Miss. It’s all above board. I run the still. It’s a beauty. Want to try some?’
He was a wiry, middle-aged man with a face scored with lines and cheerful brown eyes. He held out a small medicine bottle and poured out a measure into a teaspoon. Phryne accepted the spoon and tasted. Very like green chartreuse, she thought, and far stronger than the herbal wine the Captain had given her the other night. Clearly Big Dave was not above keeping a sample with him at all times, for medicinal purposes, obviously.
The man looked conspiratorial. ‘Jeez, the old biddies love this stuff. ’Specially the Methodists. They’re s’posed to be dry, but nerve tonic doesn’t count.’ He held out the bottle for her to read. Spencer’s Nerve Tonic. Take one teaspoon as required.
Phryne smiled. ‘Yes, I can see that they would. Thank you.’ She surveyed the company. ‘Well, gentlemen, have a splendid day.’
She waved her hand in dismissal and walked back to the Mooltan, where she found Dot engrossed in the Daylesford Advocate in the yard, surrounded by wildflowers, lavender and a murmuration of bees. Phryne filled in the details of what she had seen this morning, and explained. ‘Dot, it looks like it can’t be the Captain, because he has no motive. So we’re not going to waste any time rescuing Helena. I’m pretty sure I know where she is, and we’re going to spring her tonight.’
As Phryne expounded her plan, she wondered briefly whether or not to share with Dot her illumination about the murder suspect. She decided against it. Dot had learned a lot about keeping her thoughts to herself, but Phryne felt she could not risk any premature disclosure. But she did write a brief account of her reasoning and the name of the murderer in her notebook, which she stowed away in her handbag. Just in case.
It was Tuesday afternoon after school, and the two girls looked at each other in pent-up excitement. ‘Well, here we are again, Jane.’
Ruth admired her adoptive sister’s neat appearance. School uniforms did nothing much for female beauty. They were not supposed to. Show me the most beautiful girl, the designers might have said, and I will transform her into a nondescript sack of wet spaghetti. But Jane looked like she meant business. Her cropped hair—after its mauling from the phantom pigtail-snipper of Queenscliff—was beginning to grow out again. What Jane looked like was a private investigator, just like Miss Phryne. Ruth was nervous and wondered if Jane
was as well. If so, she gave no sign of it.
The great front door opened slowly, and Mrs Knight, pale as a ghost, eyed the two girls on her front door step. ‘Yes?’ she enquired, frowning slightly.
They had rehearsed this many times on the tram to Kew, having been counselled by Hugh Collins that full disclosure was the only way. The one thing they hadn’t decided upon was who was going to tell it. Ruth had assumed that Jane was going to, but Jane was showing signs of irresolution, so Ruth wasted no more time.
‘Mrs Knight, I fear we were less than frank with you last time we were here. We said that we had just come to retrieve a textbook, but what we were really looking for was a clue to Claire’s death. The policeman in charge, he thinks Claire’s uncle did it, but we think he’s got the wrong end of the stick—and so does Sergeant Collins, who is staying in our house. He asked us to investigate, because he thought we’d have more chance of finding things out. And we don’t want to bother you, but we think the solution to this mystery is in Claire’s room. Will you allow us to have a proper search? I think she probably kept a diary, hidden away somewhere. And if we can find it, we can either bring the culprit to justice, or else—well, maybe it was just an accident after all. We’re so sorry to intrude, but surely it’s better to know the truth.’ Ruth ground to a halt.
Mrs Knight looked down at the pair of them. The merest flicker of a smile lit her features. ‘Girls, I guessed what you were up to. I’ve searched her room already, but by all means have another try. Take all the time you need. I’ll be in the parlour. Let me know if you find anything.’
The bereaved mother led them to the foot of the staircase, and they ran up the stairs two at a time. At the top, they exchanged a look. ‘Which room was it?’ Ruth whispered.
‘This one.’ Jane opened the door, the girls slipped through it, and Jane shut it again behind her. ‘All right, Ruth, let’s use the Pinkerton method, dividing the room into small squares. And don’t forget to look outside the window. It might be hidden under the eaves.’
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