‘Hang on,’ said Jane. ‘What objects? He was found on the sands.’
‘Nice point, keep reading,’ said Phryne. The sketch of the male body showed that the abrasions had been mostly on the knuckles and the shoulders. Had Augustine Manifold been forced into the water and hit by his attacker? Still, there was no telling about water damage and at least he had beached before the crabs and crayfish had nibbled at him and thereby put Phryne off seafood for weeks.
‘“Opened, the abdomen smelt strongly of alcohol. Six ounces of whisky were recovered from the stomach, along with starch, fruit pulp, and a sugary liquid. Liver, spleen, heart, kidneys and intestines: normal. Brain showed signs of asphyxiation. Eyes had petechial haemorrhages. Lungs contained froth and water. Froth in mouth. Cause of death: drowning.”’
‘I don’t call that a proper examination,’ said Jane indignantly. She felt that poor Augustine Manifold had been short-changed.
‘No,’ said Phryne. ‘One thing leaps out, doesn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Jane.
‘They didn’t test the water in his lungs,’ said Phryne. ‘So…’
‘So they don’t know if he drowned in salt water or in fresh!’ Jane exclaimed. ‘You mean, someone might have drowned him in a bucket, or the bath, and then dressed the body and thrown it into the sea?’
‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it? His liver was normal but he had a killing load of whisky inside him. The murderer would just have to wait until he passed out.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘But how can we test it now?’
‘Ah,’ said Phryne. ‘If the body is still in the undertaker’s fridge, then we can do a little light burglary. We shall see. The examiner may have kept his samples. We shall consider this further. Now, can you open that box for me and lay the contents out on the table?’
‘What are these things?’ asked Jane, doing as she was bidden. She wrinkled her nose at the odour of fermenting seawater which billowed out as she prised off the cardboard lid.
‘What was in Augustine’s pockets,’ said Phryne. ‘What do we have here? One handkerchief, mouldy. One wallet. Opened, it contains—here, Jane, you tease out that paper and lay it flat on a napkin. Then we might be able to read it. One pocket watch, soaked. Would probably go again if cleaned and dried. One pencil, propelling, and a little case of replacement leads for same. One notebook, also mouldy. Sevenpence in change. One gold coin—very old. One pocket-knife, rusted shut. Nothing unusual. I’ll just go and get some blotting paper for the notebook.’
When Phryne returned Jane had managed to roll the papers out of the wallet around a pencil and was laying them out on her handkerchief.
‘This is a banknote, one pound,’ she told Phryne. ‘This is another—ten shillings. This is a page out of a sewn book. Maybe that one, it’s the same size.’
‘Anything written on it?’
‘Yes, Miss Phryne, but it doesn’t mean anything.’
Phryne looked. In the middle of the sheet a firm hand had drawn an equilateral triangle and next to it a vertical line.
‘I know what it could be,’ she told Jane. ‘But you need a classical education—which, of course, Augustine had.’
‘What?’
‘A Greek letter,’ Phryne told her. ‘Delta. Or it might just be a triangle. A design for some piece of furniture? The start of a map?’
‘It looks finished,’ objected Jane. ‘It was in his wallet. I think you’re right, Miss Phryne. I think it’s a delta. We use them in astronomy, you know. For stars. Alpha is the brightest star in a constellation, beta the next brightest, gamma the next after that and so on through delta and epsilon.’
‘Somehow,’ said Phryne, ‘I don’t think this is about stars.’
***
The man with the keys jingled them. It was half dark and no one was about in the hot, windy street. He opened the postbox and groped inside. He detected an envelope and drew it out. There was nothing else in the box.
He tore the letter open. His ten pounds had gone from the envelope. In its place was another of the dreaded letters.
The Child Is Among You it said.Twenty pounds, next week. Or else.
There was no signature. He closed and locked the box.
Where was he going to get twenty pounds?
Chapter Five
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells.
William Wordsworth
‘Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent’s Narrow Room’
Phryne found it hard to sleep. This was probably because of the weight of Ember, who had decided to grace the Mistress’ bed with his dark (hot, heavy, furry) presence. And the rising whine of the north wind, which promised scorching temperatures on the morrow. Phryne had always hated being cold; in her first summer in Australia, she was beginning to wonder what was so bad about putting on a lot of clothes and walking in snow. It had been fresh, certainly, and the fingers and toes had tingled…
Phryne sat up and put on her bedside light. There was never any point being cross about weather, it was like politicians: to be borne patiently, because it was compulsory. The wind began to howl, causing the vine outside her attic window to rake agonised fingers across the glass. Unsettling. Phryne decided on a trip downstairs for that jug of lemonade and her detective story, which she had left in the parlour.
She did not put on any lights but drifted down the stair in her dark green silk nightgown like the ghost of a cinema star. She had gained the parlour and was feeling for the light switch when she heard a scratching noise which wasn’t caused by the wind.
Mice? Phryne cast a reproving glance at Ember, who had followed her on the off-chance that there might be milk. He was listening intently to the same sound, but he had not sunk into a stalking crouch. Therefore, not mice. Or rats. In fact few rats swore softly when they dropped something, which was what this rat had just done. He was outside the parlour window, fiddling with the catch. Phryne was not in the mood for burglars. This one was booked for an uncomfortable half an hour before the constabulary came to his rescue.
But it would be nice to know what he was looking for. If he was a local bad boy rummaging for jewellery, she could just bean him with the poker and call the police. No burglar could complain of such treatment; after all, like foxes, as Phryne was always being informed, they probably enjoyed the chase. Or not, as it happened; she did not care, at least in the matter of burglars. Trespassers Will Be Hit Over The Head With Something Conclusive was her watchword.
Phryne drew back into the shadow of the door as the swearing man finally managed to get the window open and climbed in.
He had a shaded torch. He had a paper in his hand. A shopping list, perhaps. Phryne sank into her cat’s resting trance, which kittens learned at their mother’s paw but Phryne had had to acquire by hours of Lin Chung’s mind exercises. In this state one could not be bored, one did not notice a mosquito bite or a cramp. One just existed in the night, part of it. In this case, Phryne allowed herself to melt into the shadows of the parlour wall and watched as the burglar swore again, dropped his jemmy, froze and listened for movement, moved again, tripped and almost fell over a chair…Then he began rummaging through the books, dropping one in three.
At this rate he would make an unwise noise and rouse the household and the wrath of an outraged Mr. Butler if he didn’t get a wriggle on. Ember, slightly interested and wondering if this nocturnal visitor might be persuaded to open that obdurate Refrigerating Machine which guarded the milk can from its proper warden, strolled across and uttered a cordial meow of greeting.
The burglar gave a screech, dropped his jemmy again (missing Ember by inches) and dived for the window, which was still open. By the time Phryne had followed him he was a running shape, fleeing wildly down the Esplanade. All she had seen of him were his hands, manipulating the torch. They were handlike,
with five fingers each. Neither huge and calloused nor small and delicate; just hands. He was of medium stature, though he was wearing a jacket so it was hard to tell. And from the turn of speed he exhibited in his retreat he was probably quite young. And really not cut out for a life of crime, to judge from his evident nervousness and his tendency to drop things. Somewhere a motorbike hammered nails into the night.
Phryne swore softly in her turn, climbed back through the window and closed it carefully, noting that the lock had not been broken but the bars had been taken down neatly and disposed against the fence. That would have to be remedied. In the morning. She built a nice pile of expendable objects on a small table and placed them where they would be knocked over if the burglar came back, put on the light, and surveyed the room.
He had been looking at the books. Several thick tomes had been taken down and shaken, if the litter of chocolate wrappers, tram tickets, bits of ribbon and other impromptu bookmarks were evidence. Phryne looked at the titles. All in Latin: Plautus, Terence, Julius Caesar, Epictetus, and the maunderings of Marcus Aurelius. No common factor there. The burglar had left his jemmy, which Phryne carefully picked up with the tongs and placed on the big table. Marks were visible on its slightly greasy surface. Tomorrow she would ask her old friend Jack Robinson to have someone comb through the fingerprint archives for her intruder. Phryne gathered up all the bits of paper and found one which did not seem to belong. It was a torn-off piece of cream-laid notepaper, as sold to ladies for their social correspondence. It smelt faintly of lilies. But it was not informative. On it was drawn that tiresome triangle or delta, the word one and Brothers.
‘Hmm,’ said Phryne. She found her novel, put a ‘do not touch’ note on the jemmy, and wafted into the kitchen for her lemonade, preceded by Ember, who radiated the smug satisfaction of a cat who deserved the milk which was about to be dispensed to him, considering that he had nearly lost another life to falling implements in order to obtain it.
‘Though actually, it would have been nice if you had waited just a little bit longer before scaring him away,’ Phryne told him, pouring milk into his special dish, a chipped piece of famille rose which he considered his due as an aristocrat. Common cats drank out of Woolworths china. He drank out of porcelain. As long as it contained the creamy milk which Mrs. Butler bought from her favourite hygienic dairy, which was staffed by Jersey cows who were shampooed daily by attentive milkmaids. It did, and he lapped delicately.
Phryne watched him as she gulped down her first glass of lemonade and listened to the wind howl and claw at the house. A few days of this, she thought, and I shall be storing myself in the American Refrigerating Machine along with the milk.
Now that the excitement was over for the night, Phryne yawned, took another glass of lemonade and ice and wandered back to bed. Ember bestowed a parting lick on the bowl on which the design was now clearly visible and followed her up the stairs. Finis. Curtain.
Morning announced itself with Dot and coffee. Dot had now known Phryne long enough not to bother her with questions like ‘By all the saints what has been happening in the parlour God protect us did we have a burglar?’ before the lady had absorbed her coffee and a small biscuit, drunk her glass of cold water with lemon juice, and taken a brisk cool shower. Dot occupied the time with putting out clothes, finding matching stockings and removing Ember from the disordered bed so that it could be made. This was always a touchy manoeuvre. But on this morning he rose unbidden, stretched all of his elegant black limbs and sauntered to the door, intent on breakfast.
Dot made the bed with five skilled flicks and opened the window. Then she shut it again on a gust like a furnace exhaling.
‘Going to be hot,’ she ventured. ‘I’ll pull the curtains as soon as you’re dressed, Miss Phryne.’
‘Wouldn’t opening the window be better?’ asked Phryne, towelling her hair.
‘No, Miss, if it’s going to be really hot you need all the shade you can get, to keep the cool in,’ Dot instructed.
Phryne accepted this, donned a loose cotton shift and went down to breakfast. There she ate poached eggs and crispy bacon with grilled tomatoes and advised her household of the nocturnal caller. She ordered a visit from an ironmonger to replace the bars, and watched Mr. Butler wrap the jemmy for dispatch. The girls had already breakfasted and were agog. Their reactions were distinctly different. Ruth, who had not much imagination, was a little excited. Jane, who did, was a little afraid. But both of them were restrained from interrogating Miss Phryne at table by Dot, who agreed with Jane. Burglars should not be tolerated in a lady’s house.
This might also have been Mr. Butler’s opinion, but this could only be guessed at by the keen observer, who might have noticed an intensifying of his customary impeturbability from that of a stunned mullet on ice to that of a stuffed, as it might be, moose. He supplied Miss Fisher with more coffee and said nothing.
‘Today, Dot, we are going to visit Sister Immaculata,’ said Phryne. ‘She’s teaching at an infants’ school in Port Melbourne. I’m hoping that she might be able to impart some family secrets and save us from having to dig deeper. Eliza is going back to Mr. Manifold’s shop to assist Sophie and poke around a bit.’
‘School’s out,’ observed Ruth, with some satisfaction. ‘The teachers are on holiday, like us.’
‘Sisters,’ said Dot severely, ‘are never on holiday.’
There, it appeared, she was wrong. On arrival at the bluestone reformatory, it appeared that the school was indeed closed for the summer. It was deserted except for the sound of scrubbing and shrill conversation, which indicated that a few of the congregation had been strongarmed under threats of eternal damnation into scouring the place with sand soap and carbolic, to judge by the scent. The convent next door had a dread portal doorway with a wicket gate inside it. Phryne knocked, clutching at her straw hat which the wind was trying to steal, and made her request.
‘Sister Immaculata?’ repeated a plump, sweating young nun, clearly perishing beneath her wimple. ‘She’s on holiday in a boarding house in Williamstown. I can give you the address. She’s been a bit unwell and the doctor ordered sea bathing,’ said the portress, scribbling on a spare service card and handing it through the bars. ‘Gosh! I wish it was me! Going to be another scorcher, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ agreed Phryne.
She took her leave and ordered Mr. Butler to drive to Williamstown. It was still early and the day promised, at least, a pleasant lunch at some seaside cafe. Or cool hostelry. The hostelry, perhaps, might be better. In Phryne’s experience, the hostelry was always better, due to the patrons voting with their feet if the lunch wasn’t up to scratch…
Dot was outraged when she mentioned this.
‘Miss, we can’t take a nun to a pub!’ she objected. Phryne had tried her very high. Her employer really was a Godless heathen.
‘Of course not, how very silly of me.’ Phryne patted Dot’s hand. ‘That’s why you’re here, you see? To stop me making terrible errors.’
‘All right, then,’ muttered Dot, still quivering. Her own early education had given her a great respect for nuns. Some of this respect had been instilled with a slipper. Some of it had been engendered by her deep love for the young and beautiful Sister Scholastica, who had taught her to read and write her beautiful cursive hand. She had once, on a never-to-be-forgotten day, broken up a fight and taken the bruised and winded little Dorothy into the very convent itself. There Dot had been hugged in a flurry of starch and robes, given lemonade, had her torn dress mended with fine stitches and had her skinned knee patched with sticking plaster. After which Dot adored Sister Scholastica with her whole heart. Miss Phryne, she reflected, just didn’t understand about nuns. But Sister Scholastica would have wanted Dot to forgive her, so she did.
The weather was not going to perturb Williamstown. Built mostly of bluestone, it laughed at gales and was mildly contemptuous of hot winds
and high seas. Blow thy belly full, it might have been heard saying. The Esplanade was chattering with school children, flushed and sticky with ice cream. The back beach was thronged with lunatic holidaymakers, emerging from the wooden bathing pavilion in fewer garments than they usually wore, except for a few fathers who were sticking to their work trousers, though they had removed their coats and were freely displaying their braces to an indifferent world. Sandcastles were being constructed in the face of the destroying blast. Solemn babies sat in puddles, patting the water with wooden spades. Harassed mothers distributed sandwiches in which the sand had suddenly become a prominent ingredient. Brown boys as beautiful as any Greek bronzes dived headlong into the sea, daring each other to go deeper.
The ice-cream man was coining money. Over the howling of the wind Phryne could hear some hardy soul’s wind-up portable gramophone declaring that yes, they had no bananas.
‘Here, I believe, Miss Fisher,’ said Mr. Butler, drawing up at a bluestone building with a cheerful green door. The green door was a bit of a shock. Phryne got out. The door was ornamented with a fat porpoise in brass, very well polished. She grasped the cetacean and knocked.
It was answered by a doleful elderly woman in a drab wrapper and carpet slippers on heavily bunioned feet which clearly gave her hell.
‘Miss Fisher to see Sister Immaculata,’ said Phryne.
‘Come in,’ said the drab.
‘I was rather hoping that she might come out,’ said Phryne, oddly unwilling to enter the dark hall, but entering anyway.
‘I’ll ask,’ said the unhappy lady, and limped away.
She had left Phryne standing in the hall. This was rude, even if practised on a heathen—and how did she know Phryne was a heathen, anyway? Phryne looked at Dot, who shrugged. Minutes passed. Then a small nun came bouncing down some invisible stairs and rushed to take Phryne’s hand.
Murder on a Midsummer Night Page 6