Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

  There was a certain amount of percussion thereafter, and what was presumably the cell door slamming shut. Then a jingle of keys, and Phryne hid around the back of the wooden building as Sergeant Offaly erupted out the front door. Low voices resumed a discussion of something or other. Moving with infinite stealth, Phryne resumed her position under the open window. A new voice entered the fray, rasping something, though the actual text was unclear. The inspector interrupted.

  ‘Look, Miss McKenzie, I’m not makin’ meself clear, am I? Let’s just rewind the clock a bit. You were sittin’ out on the verandah with your dogs having a quiet, pleasant morning, and you just happened to have your gun with you ’cos you were gonna shoot some cockies who’d bin strippin’ yer fruit trees. Suddenly, this man you’ve never seen before comes barrelling up your drive with a look of murderous intent. So you, a poor frightened woman all alone in the world, asked ’im his business and ’e kept on comin’ at yer. And you dropped the gun—quite accidentally—and as it fell it discharged one barrel and hit the man in the shins and feet.’ There was a significant pause. ‘Is that what happened, Miss McKenzie?’

  ‘Yeah,’ came the low, belligerent rasp Phryne recollected. ‘Yeah. I was very frightened and I dropped the gun an’ it went off. By accident.’

  Phryne stifled a giggle.

  ‘All right, youse can go home as soon as you’ve written that up in the spare room over there and signed it in my presence. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  A door closed, and silence resumed. Phryne counted to a silent sixty seconds and entered the room with her most winning smile. Mick Kelly offered a grin of his own, with interest.

  ‘Well, Phryne, I trust you found that very educational?’

  Phryne tried to effect a look of innocence.

  ‘You were very quiet, but a couple of twigs cracked under yer feet and at one point you giggled.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mick. Yes, it was very educational indeed. I came to let you know about the missing girl from Hepburn. I found her last night.’

  He nodded, massive and self-assured, behind his desk. ‘Yair, I heard all about it from Offaly. A very neat job. Congratulations are definitely in order. If yer gonna tell a pack of lies, make it a good story that’s got a fair chance of bein’ believed. Oh, and by the way, I went to get Sid meself early this mornin’. Know what ’e told me?’

  Phryne sat in the chair opposite and made herself comfortable. ‘Mick, I’m agog to hear.’

  ‘Apparently ’e locked ’imself in that shed by mistake. Would ya believe it?’

  Phryne considered this. ‘Possibly.’

  Mick regarded the slim woman before him with paternal benevolence. ‘News travels fast in the country, Phryne. I’ve interviewed the girl, her mother and that Aubrey bloke. I’m told it was all a Bridal Misunderstanding and she’s been at the Mooltan with you all along? And you’ll be pleased to know we’ve also nicked Sid for receivin’ stolen goods. We found a nice little collection at the bottlin’ plant. Offaly’s gonna throw the book at the little bastard fer that, and ’e’s welcome. So, you got a good result there, Phryne. Any progress on our murders?’

  Phryne leaned back in her chair and sighed. ‘Mick, I’m not entirely sure, but I do have a suspect and a theory. I’m planning to test it on Friday night. You’d do well to be there.’

  ‘At the cinema opening? Look, I’m under pressure to go back to Ballarat. I’ve only got till the weekend. You reckon you’re onto someone? Mind tellin’ me who?’

  Phryne considered in silence for some time. ‘Mick, I’d rather not. I think you’ve got an excellent deadpan and I don’t think you’d give yourself away, but my intended method of capture is … a bit unorthodox, and I think it’s better if you don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve got some other news for you. The suspect Armstrong? I went to see ’im and it gave me no pleasure. He’s a wide boy all right. I don’t trust ’im at all. But ’e’s got an alibi. I haven’t checked it out, but apparently he’s vouched for not only by his wife, but her brother, who is a minister. Besides, I doubt he loves anybody but his own good self.’

  Phryne nodded. ‘All right, Mick. Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘By the way, Sergeant Offaly did some very handy spadework and came up with a passenger list for that train you were askin’ about.’ He passed over a sheet of foolscap paper. ‘Is your suspect on it?’

  Phryne scanned the page quickly. ‘Yes. And that’s good, because the same person did all three murders and absolutely had to be on that train. Thanks, Mick.’

  ‘You reckon ’e’ll try again?’

  ‘Yes, I do. This murderer specialises in killing in the middle of a crowd, and it’s a different method every time. I may add that this is a criminal of extraordinary cunning, and is moreover quite, quite mad and horribly dangerous.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll play it your way, Phryne.’

  She rose and shook hands with him, feeling through her glove the grip of a man of immense strength trying desperately not to crush her bones. She left the station in high spirits and drove back to the Mooltan much pleased.

  Inducing the gallant Captain Spencer to produce a dinner invitation had been simplicity itself. She had merely presented herself at the spa, admired the view and the limpid water of the pool, and showed no inclination to disappear. The Captain—who was too well-bred to ask if he had been a suspect in Helena’s disappearance, but also too intelligent not to realise that this had been a possibility floating, inevitably, in the middle distance—asked if Miss Fisher would care to join him at dinner tonight? Miss Fisher would indeed, and had dressed herself in a glittering blue dress, pearl necklace and matching cloche hat. Dot had assisted her into this costume with her lips pursed, and forbore any comment beyond the standard compliments.

  Phryne looked across the immaculate table and sighed. The Captain was immaculate in white tie and waistcoat, black jacket and trousers. His starched shirt front crackled with what she hoped was barely suppressed passion. The table itself was dressed in a spotless cloth, adorned with a superabundance of red roses in a dark blue glazed pottery vase. The dishes (still, alas, militantly vegetarian) were, if possible, even more splendid than last time. There was a French tart—a quiche, no less—with cheese, tomato, some unobtrusive vegetables, a dash of red onion, fennel and mushroom, encased in golden pastry which melted into buttery oblivion on the tongue. There were peppers stuffed with wild rice, garlic and pickled walnuts. The wines were superb. On the surface, dinner appeared to be going splendidly.

  Beneath the glamour of the golden candlelight, however, things were not going so well. The Captain was talking too much. He repeated himself and expounded once more the verities of his regimen for his patients, with subordinate clauses and adverbial fortifications. As Violette came and went, Phryne saw eyeballs being expressively rolled, with Gallic overtones. As one of Phryne’s plates was deftly slipped from under her gaze, Madame whispered out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Madame, je regrete, mais M’sieur est sans vie.’

  ‘On verra,’ Phryne had responded. The Captain, preoccupied with his own expositions, had not noticed the exchange.

  Ices, meringues and liqueurs came and went, and still Captain Spencer expounded. A momentary apprehension assailed her that she must be losing her touch, but she batted the thought aside. If Violette—who clearly adored him—had not succeeded, then this was a seduction comparable with attempting the ascent of Mont Blanc in your underwear with a slow-combustion stove attached to each ankle. What the occasion demanded was a distraction.

  With dinner all but over, Phryne heard the tinkling of a piano beneath them. The Captain’s face lit up. ‘Ah! That will be the evening singalong. Have I mentioned our music therapy for the patients?’

  Phryne rose. ‘Indeed you have, Captain. And I fancy some music therapy of my own. Shall we dance?’

  ‘Oh my.’ Confusion spread like spilt soup across his honest, manly features. ‘Why, I cannot remember when last I danced.’

>   ‘Do not, in that case, leave it any longer.’ She held out her white arms to him across the table, and he rose with her and took her hand.

  Ragged singing broke out below them. Since the Captain seemed disposed to remain at arm’s length, Phryne took no more than four bars (in 4/4 time) to enfold his body in hers. She manoeuvred him around the room, and by some deft footwork managed not to be trodden on. Then, blessedly, the piano changed to triple time.

  ‘Just follow me, and do what I do,’ she breathed into his ear. It was somewhat like waltzing with a shop mannequin, but the Captain did his best. It seemed that in some long-forgotten past age the Captain had been introduced to the waltz and managed a passable one-two-three around the room. Clasped around him, Phryne steered him away from the table and inhaled the scent of his neck. She detected brisk aftershave, frequent washing, rose-scented soap and an undercurrent of erotic hunger. There was more singing beneath them, and the Captain sighed in what might have been content.

  The next chorus was in 4/4 time again, and Phryne felt it was time to pause. The Captain was all but sleepwalking now, with his head resting on her shoulder. With aching slowness, she pulled back just enough so that the somnolent head rested against her left breast. She felt his lips enclose her nipple through the fabric and arched her back with a swooning murmuration. His right hand curled around her back, and with gentle strength he pressed his body against hers. The Captain was lifeless no longer.

  With his left hand, he lifted her head towards his, and kissed her lips with infinite gentleness. Feeling that this was indeed the proverbial tide in the affairs of men, she returned his kiss with interest. ‘My dear! My darling girl!’ he breathed.

  She stood upright. Her tongue explored his mouth and found it eminently palatable.

  ‘Beautiful man, be mine this night,’ she whispered.

  Herbert Spencer took a pace back, lifted her left hand to his mouth and kissed it. ‘Oh yes!’ His voice was all but soundless. ‘I am yours!’

  As he led her towards his bedroom, they passed Violette in the passage. She was smirking, and raised her right hand to her lips, kissed it, and inclined her head in satisfaction. Herbert Spencer might indeed be Phryne’s tonight, but he would be Violette’s before long.

  Phryne’s lips shaped the words, ‘Bon appetit, Madame!’ and followed Captain Spencer to the end of his self-imposed celibacy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ah! Fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat

  How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:

  Unborn Tomorrow and dead Yesterday,

  Why fret about them if Today be sweet!

  Edward Fitzgerald,

  The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr

  Phryne awoke in the grey light of dawn, gently drew back the covers, and examined herself. All ten of her toes were curling upwards uncontrollably, and she smiled with infinite complacency. The Captain had indeed given of his best the previous evening. Who would have guessed it? She thought it unlikely he had enjoyed a woman’s embraces for a very long time. A girl always knows. Yet such ardent attention to detail! Her body had been caressed, nibbled, ravished, fulfilled and enchanted. She stretched like a cat, and stroked his naked flank. She would have liked to arise, but her right arm was still held captive over her lover’s shoulder. He cradled her hand like a holy relic. Had he been a cat, he would be purring. Phryne took a deep breath, inhaled the intoxicating scent of satisfied passion and gently eased her hand out of his grip. Instead of rising, however, she settled her back and buttocks against his, and luxuriated in the warmth of his body. Without in any way meaning to, she fell asleep again, while the tree branches outside the window whispered lullabies and endearments.

  Some time later she awoke again to find Herbert Spencer, discreetly attired in a crimson dressing-gown, leaning over her with evident solicitude. In one hand he held a cup of espresso, which he placed on the bedside table.

  She smiled at him. ‘Why, thank you. That is most thoughtful of you.’

  ‘Dear Phryne, the gratitude is all mine.’ He sat on the bed and caressed her cheek. ‘I do not know how to thank you.’

  Phryne reached for the cup and sipped. ‘You have made a splendid start, dear man. What time is it?’

  He consulted his wristwatch, during which process the front of his gown gaped a little, revealing an all but hairless chest. ‘It’s past nine.’

  ‘Time I was up and doing, then.’ She sipped the coffee, put down the cup, and kissed his hand.

  He kissed hers back. ‘Must you go?’ he pleaded, and immediately a shadow crossed his face. ‘No, I do apologise. Please, forget I said that. I must not be greedy.’

  ‘Come here!’ Phryne reached out, grabbed him around the neck with both hands and hauled him down onto the bed beside her. They shared a lingering kiss, following which Phryne put one finger on his lips. ‘My dear man, I have many things to say to you. First and foremost, thank you very much for your hospitality. That was indeed a night to remember.’

  Another cloud seemed to pass across his honest face. ‘I’m so sorry. I talked far too much, and I—’

  Once more, Phryne’s finger closed his lips. ‘And you’re going to do it again, unless I stop you. It was sheer nerves. You are a very nervous man. Did you not know that? Some of the treatments you give your patients might be better applied to your good self. Herbert, you don’t have to be a brave little soldier anymore. Yes, I am going home to Melbourne soon, but you need not be alone. There is someone here who loves you devotedly. Are you seriously telling me you haven’t noticed?’

  He kissed her again, impulsively and with considerable passion. ‘What are you saying? Surely you don’t mean Violette?’

  ‘Yes, I do mean Violette. How much longer are you going to torment her?’

  He sat up straight and clapped both hands to his head. ‘Phryne, I cannot possibly take advantage of Violette. She is a sacred trust! I cannot even consider such a thing. It would be a violation!’ He blinked, as though lightly struck in the face with a rubber mallet. ‘Am I talking too much again?’

  She kissed him again. ‘Of course you are. Don’t you think that such a violation is what she most fervently wishes? Not that it would be anything of the sort. Treat her as you treated me last night and she will be thrilled beyond words.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Now his hands were theatrically clenching and grasping, as if looking for missing house keys.

  ‘Yes. Perfectly sure. We have an understanding, Violette and I. She needed me to overcome your many-scrupled chastity. In return, I am handing you over to her. And if that seems unfair to you, all I can say is that this is an imperfect world, and we make the best justice we can with what we have. Deal?’

  He shook violently, like a ship which has struck a passing lighthouse, and blinked a number of times. ‘Deal. Yes, of course. She is a wonderful woman, and I am not—’

  ‘Don’t you dare, Captain. I know what you were about to say and it doesn’t become you. Of course you’re worthy of her, you addle-brained nincompoop. Stop maundering and accept your fate. You won’t regret this. Oh, and another thing …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘In my handbag is a cheque for a hundred pounds for your sanatorium, for the wounded soldiers you are tending. If that makes you feel like a gigolo, then—’

  ‘À la bonheure?’ Now he was grinning.

  ‘À la bonheure. Now you’re getting the idea.’ She rose, and stretched, allowing his hands to caress her body. ‘Sorry, Captain. I really must dash.’

  He bowed. ‘But of course. There is a bathroom next door, on your right.’

  ‘And I believe my clothes are on the floor. Thank you. I will attempt to say goodbye before I leave the area, but you never know in my line of work. It has been wonderful. Thank you!’

  The Captain withdrew, and Phryne grinned to herself. She laid the signed cheque on the bedside table and put her coffee cup on top of it. One more snarled thread unscrambled, and two more healed hearts i
n prospect. Things were looking up.

  Phryne’s arrival back at the Mooltan was greeted in contrasting fashion. Dulcie was her customary offhand self. It seemed that nothing surprised her, and if her paying guest wished to spend the night out on the tiles with the neighbours that was no concern of hers. Dot was, as ever on such occasions, resigned, long-suffering and necessarily mute. Alice, resplendent in a flowing dress of dark green, was radiant, solicitous and happy. ‘I do worry about the Captain,’ she said, effusively fluttering around Phryne at the coffee table like a mother duck with a refractory duckling. ‘He always seems to be harbouring a secret sorrow.’

  Since there was no polite alternative, Phryne decided upon frankness. ‘Alice, I think that Captain Spencer will be experiencing a new lease of life in the near future.’

  Alice glowed like a hurricane lamp. ‘I am so pleased! Do you think that Violette …’ She left the sentence hanging in the air, like a house brick under the influence of anti-gravity.

  ‘I think that Violette will also be far happier than she has been until now.’

  Alice inclined her head. For a moment it looked as though Phryne was about to receive a rain of enthusiastic kisses, but she was reprieved at the last minute. From the kitchen, Dulcie’s voice called out in warning. ‘Alice? The toast’s burning, and I’m all over flour.’

  With a rustle of skirts Alice vanished, and Phryne devoted herself to another cup of espresso.

  The remainder of Wednesday, all of Thursday, and most of Friday passed with delectable calm and recuperative comfort. After the tumults of the past five days it was wonderful to be able to sit back and relax. Dot finished her knitted scarf, and displayed it proudly. Phryne admired it, and Dot stowed it away in her valise against the oncoming of winter. The first signs of autumn were upon them now. The mornings were fresh and cool, and the deciduous trees had begun to turn yellow and ochre. There was nothing to do, and Phryne enjoyed it all immensely. She heard nothing from the spa, but convinced herself that she could feel a wave of gratified pleasure wafting around the corner from the red-brick building. She felt she could rely on Violette to take advantage of the situation. Alice reported that Vern had settled in at the Station Hotel and was exhibiting every sign of being happy. The barmaids at the Station had reported that Vern did indeed visibly admire them, but his little halo of I’m Being a Good Dog had showed no signs of slipping. Sid was apparently lurking in solitary at the bottling plant, and not a word had escaped his lips that anyone was able to discern. And Aubrey and Helena had visited the Mooltan twice, so closely entwined that it seemed they had already become twin souls in a single body. Phryne did not speculate. Such thoughts were better left uncanvassed.