Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘’E bloody might, Phryne. Did this bloke strike you as having any sense of discrimination?’

  ‘No, there is that. So, do we try the front door?’

  ‘Yep. But first …’ Mick Kelly had seen something leaning against the side of a wooden shed. Waving Phryne into immobility, he returned with a large sheet of well-polished sheet iron. ‘Dunno what this was, but I’m goin’ in behind it. Youse comin’?’

  The iron sheet did not offer much in the way of hand-holds, but there were some dints in it which might accommodate hands sufficiently desperate. Crouched behind their makeshift shield, they climbed onto the wooden verandah and pushed against the front door. Nothing happened. Mick grinned at her.

  ‘I think it’s locked, Mick,’ she suggested. ‘I like this as a battering ram, but I think we’ve missed the point somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah. What did that useless bludger say? Something about a shower of shit?’

  Phryne considered. ‘The letter is in my handbag. But he definitely said something about humiliation. And a shower of ordure.’

  ‘Bastard wouldn’t booby-trap the horse, would ’e?’

  ‘I don’t think any horse I’ve ever met would appreciate that. All McKenzie would’ve got from any such attempt was a serious kicking.’ Phryne closed her eyes for a moment then opened them with sudden apprehension. ‘Oh no! Maybe he meant it literally?’

  ‘The outhouse?’

  They exchanged a glance of wild surmise. ‘All right, Mick. What’s the betting it’s that? All right, let’s consider the possibilities. First: the door. When you open the door, take the battering ram. You may need it. Second: the toilet roll might be attached to something unpleasant. Third (and I think this most likely): the seat.’

  Kelly thought about this. ‘A bastard like that’s probably had women telling him to put the toilet seat down all ’is life. Yep. That’s suspect number one. I think it might be a grenade. There’s still all sorts of ordnance left behind from the war.’ He grinned at her. ‘I hope it’s not a nine-inch shell.’

  ‘So do I, Mick. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘If it’s a grenade, I’ll need to throw it out across the paddock. You any good with horses?’

  ‘All right. I’ll get Dobbin out of harm’s way.’

  Phryne went and introduced herself to the horse. It was a good seventeen hands at the shoulder and glared at her, tossing its head up and down. I do not know you, puny human! seemed to be the rejoinder of the day. Phryne spotted a clump of toothsome clover, still green despite the lateness of the season, and offered it in her outstretched left hand. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the inspector crouched behind his makeshift bomb shelter and fought down a sense of panic. This admirable man was too good to be wasted. Equally, it wasn’t easy to see what else either of them could have done. The overwhelming probability was that something here was a death-trap, and Kenneth McAlpine had done nothing whatever to merit being blown up in his own home.

  The horse accepted the offering with sombre gravitas while Phryne’s other hand caressed the mighty neck. Phryne reached up and grasped a handful of mane behind the horse’s ear. The horse shook its head.

  ‘Please, Dobbin. We need to get away from here. It’s for your own good.’

  The horse swished its tail, clearly thinking this over. All right, human. If you say so.

  Phryne led the horse slowly and carefully across the field, wishing it was wearing a halter. Horses were a lot more tractable when led by the cheekstrap. She began to sing to him.

  ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little horse

  Do we love you? Yes, of course.

  High above your field you stand

  Never lived a horse so grand.’

  The horse seemingly approved of this and nuzzled her impatiently. More music, human!

  Obediently, she sang ‘Baa Baa, Black Sheep’ in French.

  ‘Phryne!’ came a bellowing voice from the outhouse. ‘Comin’, ready or not!’

  Phryne dragged the horse around behind the back of the house. A shattering explosion rent the summer evening. Dobbin kicked out and narrowly missed Phryne’s leg. And she heard a loud thump as something, presumably the ginger cat, ran under the house. ‘Hush, now, my dear!’ she cooed. ‘Soyez tranquille, mon enfant! It’s all right!’

  The horse was trembling all over now. She caressed the head and neck, murmuring endearments. In due course, she became aware that Mick had joined her.

  ‘I see you coped, Mick. Well done you.’

  ‘You all right, Phryne?’

  ‘Well, I nearly got the kicking of a lifetime, but otherwise I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s getting dark, and we’d better be heading back to town to tell our caber-tossing giant that it’s all clear.’

  ‘You sure about that? There might be more surprises in store in the house.’

  ‘Oh, that is a point, of course. Wait here.’ Kelly took the horse and led it away. Presently, he returned. ‘I think it’s all right, but I’ll have a better look tomorrow. Are you sure you’re all right, Phryne?’

  ‘I think so.’ This appeared to be the case, but a strong arm like a bridge support held out was very pleasing to lean upon. Just for once. The adrenalin backwash was leaving her feeling unaccustomedly drained.

  It was all but dark when they reached the car on the roadside. ‘You’re not gonna let me drive, are ya?’

  ‘What do you think, Mick?’

  ‘Fine. Just bloody well take it easy this time.’

  Phryne drove with unaccustomed sobriety back to the cinema, where she sat inertly in the driver’s seat, vaguely aware of Mick Kelly barking orders at everyone. She dimly registered that McAlpine had been instructed to stay at the Temperance Hotel and saw Annie’s face bloom in the lamplight like a child being offered an ice-cream. Her hand reached out and took his arm.

  Dot joined her in the passenger seat and leaned over with maximum solicitude. ‘Miss Phryne, the inspector thinks you should go home now, and I agree with him.’

  Phryne grinned weakly. ‘Do you know, Dot? I think I agree with him, too.’

  Saturday dawned cool and cloudy. Phryne could hear sounds of breakfast downstairs. Memories of yesterday’s tumultuous evening drifted across her memory. She must have slept almost around the clock. She wondered why this should be. Admittedly, being almost blown up by a grenade was a shock even by her own exacting standards. But lying in bed at her relative ease, there was something still nagging away at her. The murders were now solved, and another two had been narrowly averted. Mick Kelly had quietly confiscated the syringe she had taken from the deceased. No doubt it would turn out to have been strychnine, or similar. But while the mystery was solved, she could not escape the feeling that there was yet more to be discovered.

  The charming scene of domestic harmony over the bridge table was now overlaid with a patina of horror she could not shake. Did uncles really lust after blood relatives? And how well he had covered it up! The girls suspected that he was a lazy malingerer, but their enjoyment of their card evenings had been perfectly genuine. But what a maelstrom that horrible man had been holding in! Phryne resolved, then and there, that she would keep this secret from Annie. And Jessie, too. Why on earth should their few pleasant recollections of the man be thus polluted? To what end? Nevertheless, she resolved to revisit the Temperance Hotel. Now that the licensee was dead, what would happen to the place? Was there a will? Jessie would be searching for it, she was certain. She would go there this very day and see whatever there was to be seen.

  Dot took very little persuasion to have lunch at the Temperance. It was roast lamb with mint sauce and vegetables, washed down with a fine local red wine, followed by apricot pie with fresh cream. They were served by Gentle Annie. If Annie had looked any happier, she would have been glowing like a radium clock. And Phryne noticed McAlpine’s giant frame serving behind the bar. Any encouragement for this Caledonian caber tosser to replace the utterly unworthy previous incumbent was clearly going to be re
dundant. She grinned across the table to Dot, and raised her glass.

  ‘Miss Fisher?’

  Phryne looked up to see Jessie standing in front of her wearing an expression of open puzzlement.

  ‘Yes, Jessie, what is it?’

  The girl stood on one foot, and then the other, as if unable to make an appropriate choice. ‘I was going through the office desk, looking at all the paperwork … I found the will, by the way. He’s left the place to us, which is such a relief.’

  ‘Congratulations! But it’s no more than you deserve.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. I’ve seen the accounts and we’re not doing too badly. But right at the bottom of the desk I found this.’ She handed over a reddish-brown disc with a hole in it, and a loop of grubby string tied through the hole. ‘It’s probably nothing important, but I wondered why it was there.’

  Phryne read the following: Strangeways N 101467, and a deep frown settled over her features. ‘Jessie, I’d like to keep this, if I may. Suddenly, I have a call to make.’

  Outside, Phryne cranked the Hispano-Suiza into raucous life and set off down the road to Musk. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. And yes, the late criminal had indeed been a thoroughly vile piece of work.

  Aunty Morag McKenzie was not happy to see her and did not scruple to say so. ‘Whaddaya want now, Miss?’

  Phryne looked at the dogs. They looked at her and made vaguely threatening noises in their throats. At least the shotgun did not appear to be among those present.

  ‘Just a quick word with Janet McKenzie.’

  ‘And what if she don’t want to talk to youse?’

  Phryne smiled, and adjusted her cloche cap at a jaunty angle. ‘I think she will. Miss McKenzie, believe it or not, I am actually trying to help. An unfortunate situation has arisen, and in order that it does not get out of control, I think a certain amount of confabulation would be in order.’ She gave her most seraphic smile. ‘Ever since I arrived here in the spa country I have been surrounded by secrets, Miss McKenzie! Great secrets, small secrets, middle-sized secrets, secrets with carnival masks and false moustaches, and secrets with long, trailing tree roots leading back into the past—some of them heading right back to the war.’

  Watching intently, Phryne saw that this had finally produced a reaction. Aunty Morag’s black eyes blazed for a moment then narrowed. ‘And what if some o’ these secrets want to stay hidden? Eh?’

  Phryne smiled, and rested her right hand on the verandah rail. ‘I’m thinking about one secret in particular that is longing to stay hidden. It is a secret clamouring as no other secret has ever clamoured to be buried at a crossroads on a stormy midnight with not even owls to bear witness to its sepulture. Miss McKenzie, have you always known that the recently deceased was not who he purported to be?’

  There was a long, dragging silence while Aunty Morag caressed the heads of the dogs. ‘It’s best ya don’t talk to ’er. I’ll do the talkin’, Miss Detective Fisher. ’Course I knew. Ya think I’m daft? I’d know me own nephew even after five years of war. He looked similar, granted. Same height, same weight, more or less, and same long face. Only not really, and I reckon that’s why ’e grew that bloody awful beard—so’s no one’d notice the little differences. ’E was a lazy drongo with nowhere to go, and ’e found out our Fred stood to inherit the pub because Tremain ’ad already died. I expect after the real Fred was killed in action somewhere the bastard covered it up, stole Fred’s dog tag and persuaded the authorities that ’e was Frederick McKenzie. That’s if ’e didn’t kill the poor bastard. But I don’t think so. An’ ’e looks me in the eye and says ’e’s Frederick McKenzie, home from the war. And if I’d called ’im a liar, the pub woulda gone to some other drongo. So I looked ’im in the eye back and said ’e’d hafta take it up with his missus.’

  ‘And Janet accepted him in good faith?’

  Aunty Morag gave a harsh bark. Both dogs barked back, and she stroked their flanks and watched them wag their tails and relax. ‘She wanted to believe it. The alternative was losin’ the pub to a comparative stranger. And at first the drongo put ’is back into the business and it all worked out.’

  ‘Until the question of conjugal rights came up?’

  Aunty Morag rubbed a grimy finger on her cheek and grimaced. ‘Yeah. Conjugals. They’re an absolute bugger, conjugals. There’s bloody nowhere to hide when it’s a question o’ conjugals. So after that she knew all right. While she’s wonderin’ what to do about it, she finds out she’s bin knocked up. And once she’d given birth to young Robert she was committed, totally.’ Aunty Morag rose menacingly from her chair and glared at Phryne, hands on hips in the full Sugar Bowl. ‘There’s still time to get me gun, y’know. What are ya gonna do about all this?’

  Phryne folded her arms and glared back. ‘What I am going to do is persuade Janet McKenzie to go back to the pub, as soon as possible, and search the joint from top to bottom, removing every last scrap of evidence that the person everyone knew as Frederick McKenzie was actually called Strangeways.’ Phryne handed over the dog tag. ‘Here. My little gesture of good faith. I can’t do it, Miss McKenzie. I have no locus standi in this matter, and neither have you. But Janet McKenzie does. She is the relict of the licensee and she has every right to strip the place of incriminating evidence. I urge her to do so.’

  Aunty Morag considered this and rubbed the beak of her nose with the back of her hand. She stared at the disc in settled gloom. ‘Yair, yer right. Where’d ya get this?’

  ‘Jessie gave it to me. That was a big clue, of course. It might have belonged to a deceased friend of his, but I thought not. There was something bothering me about him all along. His Highland accent came and went, you know. And since I already knew he was a murderer, I wondered if his whole life had been one vast fraud.’

  ‘Well, ya got that right. I knew the bastard was a bastard. I ’ad no idea about the murders. Jeez.’ She shook her head in vexation.

  ‘Miss McKenzie, he was a criminal genius the like of which you have probably never encountered before. Neither have I, so don’t blame yourself. Please, there’s no time to waste. If I’ve worked this out, there’s always the chance someone else might have too.’

  ‘Yair, you wanna watch that Mick Kelly. There’s no flies on ’im. All right, I’m on it. And I want youse to stay away from the pub until tomorrer. Janet’s gonna be a busy woman today.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘D’ya know if she’ll be allowed to be the new licensee, bein’ a woman and all?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I suspect there might soon be a newcomer to the family who will be allowed. Keep an eye out for wedding bells, Miss McKenzie.’

  The old woman glared up at her, her features dark with suspicion and alarm. ‘Who’s getting’ married?’

  ‘I think Annie might be going to marry Kenneth McAlpine. If they do want a man to be the licensee, I expect he’ll be acceptable to the authorities.’

  An angry snort escaped from Aunty Morag’s nostrils. ‘Kenneth who? Ya don’t mean the caber-tossing giant, do ya?’

  ‘Indeed I do. Know him at all?’

  ‘Yair, we’ve met. I s’pose if the girl really must marry, she could do a lot worse. All right. You better scarper, Miss Fisher. I’ll explain matters and we’ll deal with it.’ She glared once more at Phryne, like a bull about to charge a red flag. ‘Yer a very clever sheila, y’know that?’

  On Sunday morning, Phryne awoke from a restful sleep. She threw open the doors to the balcony and looked out over the peaceable valley. It was a golden morning. Birds sang and twittered in the sweet-smelling wattles. She yawned, stretched and pondered the bizarre adventures of the last eight days. She sighed with pure pleasure and watched two kookaburras in a nearby gum tree disputing ownership of some tasty morsel they had unearthed. It appeared that a truce was eventually attained involving Division of the Spoils, and each retired to a different branch to be alone with whatever it was.

  There was a tentative knock at the door. ‘Miss Phryne? We�
��ve got visitors.’

  ‘Dot, it’s only eight-thirty. Who comes calling at this unearthly hour?’

  ‘It’s Miss McKenzie, and Annie and Jessie, and—I think you’d better come down.’

  ‘All right, Dot. Give me ten minutes.’

  Phryne rummaged in her wardrobe, looking for clean clothes. She had been intending to stay only a week and her supply of fresh clothes had run dry. She found a black trouser suit which did not appear notably second-hand and struggled into it. Blast country people and their early rising! She assumed her new crimson cloche hat and went downstairs.

  Seated around the breakfast table were Dot, Annie, Jessie, the threatening figure of Miss McKenzie and a thin, faded woman Phryne did not recognise. A full English breakfast had been laid out on the buffet. It smelled so appetising Phryne decided to break with custom and partake of a light breakfast; she helped herself to bacon, eggs, a piece of toast and marmalade and a cup of espresso from the steaming pot. She then assumed an empty chair at the head of table and smiled at the assembled women, noting that both Annie and Jessie seemed to be glowing with health and a general sense of vitamin-enhanced optimism.

  ‘I was going to ask to what do I owe the pleasure, but I suspect I already know most of it,’ she began. ‘Annie, you look notably radiant this morning?’

  Annie dimpled. She was wearing a white dress with a blue shirt, decorously buttoned, and her relentlessly brushed golden hair flowed over it like the plains of heaven. ‘Mr McAlpine has proposed,’ she admitted, with what she imagined was becoming coyness.

  ‘And have you accepted?’ Phryne nibbled at her toast.