Death in Daylesford

by Kerry Greenwood

  As they passed through Daylesford, Phryne looked at her companion with fondness and concern in equal proportions. ‘Dot, what’s wrong?’

  Dot did look a bit stricken, and Phryne slowed down.

  ‘I didn’t say goodbye to Colleen.’

  ‘Neither we did. But, then, it’s been an eventful week, hasn’t it? Oh!’

  Phryne pulled over just below the brow of the hill. Standing by herself on the roadside was a slender girl in her plain black Sunday best. Her hand was out, thumb upright, as if hitching a lift.

  Phryne called out to her. ‘Where to, Colleen?’

  ‘To the end of the rainbow? No, I’m just fine where I am. But I heard you were leaving, so I thought I’d wait for you. Dot, here’s my address.’

  Dot received a folded piece of paper, and sat, a trifle bewildered. Colleen O’Rourke climbed onto the running board and leaned her head forward. Dot kissed the girl’s perfect cheek with what she hoped was maximum decorum.

  ‘Please write, Dot, and tell me all your news.’ Colleen looked across at Phryne. ‘Miss Fisher? I just wanted to say you are the most astonishing person I have ever met. Thank you for sorting everything out.’

  ‘My pleasure, Colleen.’ Phryne admired the girl anew. ‘Please tell me you’re not getting married any time soon?’

  The girl grinned, showing her immaculate white teeth. ‘Not a chance! Safe trip!’

  As they drove off, Dot turned her head back to see Colleen O’Rourke still waving, until the Hispano-Suiza rounded the bend and she was lost to sight.

  Acting Detective Inspector Fraser sat in the commissioner’s anteroom with his legs stretched out in front of him, admiring his faultless grey suit and handmade black shoes. He had put in his report on the accidental death of Claire Knight, and it seemed to have wound its way up to the Big Boss. Admittedly he had had to rewrite his report from the beginning, after that whipper-snapper Collins had produced the Guilty Party, but it had all come out all right. After his barely subordinate assistant had made forceful representations, he had agreed that there was, in truth, No Further Action to be taken. The boy had behaved reprehensibly, but there really was no evidence to suggest that his account of the deceased girl’s demise was anything other than the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It was unfortunate also that there was nothing to suggest that the layabout uncle was guilty of anything. That was, however, just a misunderstanding and had been cleared up. Perhaps he would have the word ‘acting’ removed from his title now. Plain old ‘detective inspector’ would be far more suitable. Doubtless that was why he had been summoned to the August Presence.

  ‘The commissioner will see you now, Mr Fraser.’

  He looked up. Bending over him was the boss’s private secretary: a severe woman with iron-grey hair pulled back into a ferocious bun. The woman was smirking at him, and he vaguely wondered why. He rose, gave her a condescending nod, and opened the door.

  ‘Take a seat, Fraser.’

  He did so, crossing his legs. Upon receipt of an Antarctic stare, he uncrossed them again.

  ‘Well, I have some news for you. After your egregious performance in solving the Knight case, I’m giving you a new job.’

  Fraser brightened. He had no idea what the word ‘egregious’ meant, but it certainly sounded impressive.

  The commissioner gazed at him and smiled. There was not the slightest vestige of warmth in his smile, nor in anything else about him. His balding head gleamed with perspiration, and he mopped his brow.

  ‘As of tomorrow morning, you will report to the Racing Task Force. You’ll be replacing Detective Inspector Robinson, who will be returning to his previous duties.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Fraser hesitated, drew in a couple of deep breaths, and stuttered.

  The commissioner glared at him. ‘What’s the matter, man? You look like you’ve swallowed a bucket of week-old prawns! What’s on your mind?’

  Taking his courage in both hands, Fraser swallowed. ‘And my promotion, sir?’

  For an instant, it seemed that the commissioner was about to undergo spontaneous combustion. His face turned pillar-box scarlet. Veins throbbed on his temples, and both shoulders hunched forward, like a beast of prey coiling itself to strike.

  ‘Sir, are you feeling quite well?’

  ‘God give me strength!’ As abruptly as the volcano had threatened to erupt, the crisis passed. The commissioner produced a white handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘I’m quite well, thank you. Better than you, anyway.’ He pressed the telephone button before him. ‘Margot? Show Detective Sergeant Fraser out, will you?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass

  Among the Guests star-scatter’d on the Grass,

  And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot

  Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass.

  Edward Fitzgerald,

  The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr

  ‘Good to be home, Dot?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Phryne.’ Dot looked at the familiar walls of 221B The Esplanade and sighed with relief. It would take her some time to recover fully from the revelation that her mistress had come far too close to being blown up by a hand grenade; and the winding road home at seventy miles an hour had not improved her nerves, even with the assistance of the Freda Storm Veil for Frightened Passengers. Dot considered that the eponymous Freda had not imagined Miss Fisher’s driving when devising it.

  While Dot unpacked the car, Ruth and Jane came running out to meet them.

  ‘Miss Phryne!’ they chorused.

  Phryne admired them both in their house smocks: Ruth with her long, brown plaits, and Jane with her bob now beginning to grow out. Soon Jane would have to make up her mind whether to abbreviate further, or else attempt the long, slow journey back to long-haired splendour. Phryne suspected that the former course would prevail. They embraced her, and she felt a degree of pent-up excitement in their youthful bodies.

  ‘Hello, girls. Have you had a good week?’

  ‘We’ve had an exciting week!’ The girls exchanged glances and nudged each other. ‘Tinker helped, too. We solved a mystery!’

  ‘Really? What sort of mystery?’

  ‘We’ll tell you when we’re inside,’ answered Ruth. She took Phryne’s arm and led her towards the front door. ‘It was actually terrible. It was a case Mr Hugh was investigating, only it was a girl at our school and—’

  Phryne placed her gloved forefinger in the air next to Ruth’s eager face. ‘Not another word until I’ve got inside, changed my clothes and settled in, Ruth. Then you can tell me everything. But, please, start at the beginning.’

  ‘Then go through to the end, and then stop,’ Ruth quoted. The Alice books were part of her favourite bedtime reading. She liked Alice because she was the sort of girl who did not allow adults to push her around and tell her what to think. Ruth imagined that Phryne had been somewhat like Alice Liddell as a child, and she would not have been far wrong.

  Phryne and Dot got changed into comfortable house clothes and were served refreshments by Mr Butler (lemonade for Dot and the girls, gin and tonic for Phryne) and seated comfortably around the kitchen table. Phryne looked around her adoptive family and raised her glass. ‘All right, girls. Now for your tale, and don’t rush it.’

  The story took a good deal of telling, and Phryne made them go back over a couple of points. When all was expounded, Phryne looked at them with a swelling sense of pride.

  ‘You have done remarkably well, girls. I am sorry for poor Claire. That really is awful. But it’s all happened so many times before.’

  Ruth’s eyes glistened, while Jane was ruminating in her head on the mysteries of birth control, and what a boon it would be for the young and foolish. She guessed it was not a topic for public canvassing, even in front of Miss Fisher, who presumably knew all about it, and kept her peace.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, where is Tinker?’

  ‘Mr Hugh took hi
m out fishing,’ Ruth volunteered. ‘But they’ll be home for dinner.’

  ‘I see. Poor Hugh! And whatever happened to Jack, I wonder? Hugh’s new boss sounds like a prize idiot.’

  Jane considered this. ‘We don’t really know, because we haven’t met him. But Mr Hugh got very frustrated by him, which was why he asked us to help out. You aren’t cross?’

  Phryne shook her head. ‘No, not at all. He didn’t put you in harm’s way, from the sound of it. And it was very clever of you to work it out. What was that key for the lock?’

  Only too delighted to explain all over again about reciprocals and the number e, Jane proceeded to do so. Ruth watched her sister carefully, and when she was certain that she could not be seen doing so, rolled her eyes theatrically. As she did, she became aware that Mr Butler was standing beside Miss Phryne holding out a silver salver, on which rested a scented envelope. Phryne looked at the address on the back, smiled, and tucked it into her purse.

  ‘Who’s it from, Miss? An admirer?’ Ruth suddenly put her hand over her mouth and looked at her in horror, unable to believe what she had just said.

  ‘In a way, Ruth. I’ll read it later.’

  Jane nudged her sister, who had gone from magenta to mid-beetroot.

  ‘And did you have a pleasant week in the country, Miss Phryne?’ Jane enquired.

  Phryne and Dot exchanged glances. Dot stared at the ceiling, wondering how much, if anything, ought to be shared with the younger persons. Phryne thought about it for a moment and decided to wait. ‘Well, I think you could say it was eventful, Jane, to say the least. But I think that when Hugh and Tinker return, we should have a welcome home party, and over dinner we will tell you all about our adventures. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes, please. That would be lovely.’

  Ruth spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen with Mrs Butler, preparing a suitable summer feast. Jane retired to her room to read Glaister on poisons. Dot retired to her room to knit, and Phryne ran herself a luxuriant bath in her green malachite bathtub. She was already finding Melbourne considerably hotter and more sultry than usual, having accustomed herself to Daylesford’s more alpine climate. And she realised that she had not got to see Benito’s Treasure. Another time, perhaps. Having undressed, she paused for a minute, inhaling the scent of Floris and bath salts. She reached into her purse, removed the letter from its envelope and smiled. Enclosed was a single sheet of perfumed notepaper, on which was written: Mme: Mille remerciements! Violette. Enclosed in the envelope were twelve crimson rose petals. She stepped into the bath, felt the luxurious water embrace her body, and wished Violette every happiness and more.

  Six o’clock brought Tinker and Hugh, with a small string of flatheads harvested from the bay. Phryne looked carefully at the boy. She had only been a short time away, but Tinker seemed to have grown. He no longer avoided Phryne’s glance. ‘Well, Tinker. The girls have been telling me about your detective work,’ she said.

  Tinker looked her straight in the eye. ‘It was really tough,’ he admitted. ‘I like Tom. I still do, even though he messed it all up with that poor girl. I’m glad I brought the truth to light, though.’

  ‘Why is that, Tinker?’ Phryne was finding this new, reflective Tinker something of a revelation.

  The boy leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together. He was dressed in shorts and a plain grey shirt, both of which had seen better days, probably a very long time ago. Though he had discarded most of his Queenscliff past, these were his fishing clothes and he would wear them until they no longer fit or fell off him where he stood. They were in some peril of dissolution already. ‘Is it hard to solve cases when you know the person, and care about them?’

  ‘All the time, Tink.’

  He nodded. ‘But if I hadn’t found out what happened, he’d never be happy again.’

  ‘And will he be happy now?’

  Tinker looked enquiringly at Hugh, who was also in the plainest of plain clothes.

  Hugh nodded. ‘Pretty much. There’s not going to be any charges laid, I think. The problem is my new boss. He’d love to charge somebody with something. I think I convinced him there was no point, but I really don’t know.’

  ‘What has happened to Jack? Do you know anything?’

  Hugh gave her a cautious look. ‘Miss Phryne, I didn’t know you’d be home today, so I asked him to dinner. Better he tells you himself.’

  ‘Hugh, that’s wonderful! And—’

  Hugh shook his head, showing moderate levels of embarrassment. ‘Oh, no, Miss. I’m going home later tonight. It wouldn’t be right now that Dot is back home. And the renovations at my place are all done.’

  ‘I was wondering. All right, Hugh. If you feel that way.’

  ‘I’m not in a hurry, but I think Dot might feel—’

  ‘I think you can count on that, Hugh.’

  Tinker made to slip out of the room, clearly catching something in the atmosphere of Discretion Now Required, but Phryne waved him back. ‘Tinker, you’re an adult now. You’ve proven yourself. But I was wondering, Hugh. Have you and Dot …’

  ‘Chosen a date? We think so. I can afford to support her now I’m a sergeant. But she wants to go on working for you, at least for a while. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Well, yes, Hugh, it is. And I don’t feel like looking too far ahead. Let’s leave it there, shall we?’

  The doorbell rang, and the stately, measured tread of Mr Butler could be heard proceeding down the passage like Black Rod at the opening of the House of Lords. A murmur of voices ensued, followed by the entry of Inspector Robinson in person. He looked jaunty. He swept off his hat, handed it to Mr Butler, and entered the parlour with a spring in his step.

  ‘Jack! How splendid to see you. We’ve all missed you. Please, sit down. Mr B, a glass of beer for the inspector.’

  ‘Miss Fisher. Collins. Tinker.’ Jack Robinson seated himself and beamed.

  ‘I gather you have news, Jack. You certainly look like the cat who not only got the cream, but an entire salmon from the sideboard.’

  Mr Butler rematerialised with a glass of the foaming restorative, and Robinson sipped at it with satisfaction. ‘I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you, but I was seconded to a special task force to look into … a certain industry.’

  Phryne laughed. ‘Oh, Jack, you don’t have to be so secretive. Is this about Barry the Shark?’

  ‘Well.’ He looked at her with his head on one side. ‘Let’s assume that a certain notorious SP bookmaker had become A Matter of Concern to both the public and the Commissioner of Police. And let us also assume, purely for the sake of argument, that investigations of breaches of the law had a habit of being frustrated by special interests acting not altogether in the public interest. And it is possible that Exceptional Measures might have been deemed necessary to get to grips with the matter.’ He gave her another sidelong look. ‘I’m not sure if even that is sufficiently discreet, but—’

  ‘But Barry the Shark is a notorious crook with half the government in his pocket; and your boss is one honest man trying, and failing, to get the little swine put away.’

  ‘Well, that is certainly—’

  ‘A good deal less discreet.’ Phryne leaned forward in her chair. ‘Jack, that isn’t good. Bad things happen to people who tread on Barry’s feet. They get trodden on right back. Surely you’re not telling me you’ve nailed him?’

  Robinson shook his head with regret. ‘I wish I had. Look, we know what he does, we know where he hangs out and conducts his business, but we can’t touch him. My boss is a good man. He feels he can’t just let all this carry on unchecked. I’ve interviewed the people I needed to, and not one of them is saying a word.’ He grimaced. ‘Because none of them wants to finish up face down in the Yarra any more than I do. But I gave it a decent go. I’ve got a few things on him, which I gave to my boss and nobody else.’

  ‘So you did the best you could, yes? What’s new?’

  Jack turned to Collins
and grinned. ‘Meanwhile, Collins here has had to put up with …’ He paused. ‘With a man who has considerably more faith in his own abilities than I or anyone else does.’

  ‘You mean he couldn’t find his own backside with an atlas?’

  ‘Well, Miss Fisher, that’s one way of putting it. But as a result of this individual’s stellar skills in policing, the commissioner has decided to give him my place on the task force, and I’m back at City South. So, Collins, I’m sorry to say that you’ve got me as your boss again.’

  ‘Believe me, sir, I couldn’t be happier,’ Hugh interposed.

  ‘And the idiot boy who’s been giving Hugh a hard time is now on the task force and sets fair to finish up face down in the Yarra?’

  Jack Robinson’s shoulders trembled in what might have been suppressed mirth. ‘Actually, I don’t think he’s in much danger. If any of the Shark’s hard men come up against him, they’ll laugh their socks off and ignore him. He’s safe enough.’

  ‘Forgive me, Jack, but how does someone that thick ever get promoted even to sergeant?’

  Hugh Collins, who was wondering the same thing, looked at his superior with anticipation.

  Tinker was watching and listening, glowing inside at being regarded as one of the grown-ups. It was an odd feeling, but one he liked.

  Jack Robinson frowned, drank another instalment of his beer, and put the glass on the table. ‘He’s very well connected. He has, shall we say, influential relatives.’ He pondered this. ‘But so has a certain lady who was seriously offended by his unique approach to policing.’

  ‘This wouldn’t be Mrs Knight, by any chance, would it, sir?’ Hugh enquired.

  Robinson allowed himself a smirk. ‘Yes it would. She and the commissioner play bridge together at the same club. I am given to understand that information changed hands.’