Murder on a Midsummer Night

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘That will be nice,’ said Phryne. ‘How about some bread and cheese and pickles? Bet you haven’t eaten lunch.’

  ‘That’d be good,’ said Jack Robinson. ‘Anything that’s kicking round the kitchen, Mr. Butler,’ he said to that stalwart figure. ‘Don’t want to give any trouble.’

  After a pause for a shudder in reaction to the idea that any guest in Miss Fisher’s house would be served something which happened to be lying around even so well conducted a kitchen as Mrs. Butler’s, he vanished again. He was back in moments with a tray on which reposed freshly baked bread, the cheddar cheese which Mr. Robinson liked and the pickled onions which he favoured.

  Phryne walked away to the window to allow him to dine in peace, and listened to the wind claw dust across the glass, a very unsettling sound. The trees were being lashed and whining under punishment like schoolboys under the birch. The house was creaking plaintively. Phryne suddenly wanted to be out of Australia altogether, on a boat going somewhere Aegean, with fresh fish for breakfast and azure skies above.

  But then, every country had its mistral, its meltemi, its own terrible wind. And in England she would be frozen to the bone, wearing three layers of clothing plus a coat, there would be only five hours’ daylight and that murky and grey, and the entire Fisher family would be trying to get close to the ancestral log fires, which baked the shins and left the back exposed to the chill of the ancestral draughts.

  Could be worse, thought Phryne. She considered Jack Robinson, her favourite policeman. He was very hard to recall when he wasn’t there. His hair was mid brown, as were his eyes, and his complexion was—ordinary. As were his clothes and his figure, which would be described as ‘medium build’. His anonymity had stood him in good stead when arresting criminals and had not been so extreme as to deny him promotion. While he did not approve of Miss Fisher’s investigations, he approved of Miss Fisher, and had frequently assisted her in various unofficial ways. And she doted on the wholehearted way he ate pickled onions.

  When the tray was devoid of any crumb, Mr. Butler bore it away. Mrs. Butler would be pleased. She loved enthusiastic eaters, and since the advent of the American Refrigerating Machine, she had been able to do a lot of the cooking in the cool morning and reheat it for dinners, which made her less hot and cross. She had even made a supply of sandwiches and put them into the machine, which meant that late lunchers got cold food, which pleased them. And all Mrs. Butler had to do was put them on plates, which pleased her.

  ‘Well,’ commented Jack Robinson, relaxing and relishing his third glass of cold beer. ‘Augustine Manifold.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phryne.

  ‘I gave those samples the old Scotch doctor supplied to the Government Analyst and he agrees with her. Not a word of apology, mind, for missing it in the first autopsy. Not testing the water in the lungs, I mean. Not a word about that. Just agrees that the water has no salt in it and has got soap in it, so tends to suggest that the deceased might have been drowned in a bathtub.’

  ‘Tends to suggest, eh?’

  ‘I know. But that’s the best we’re going to get out of that old grampus. They shoulda sacked him years ago and replaced him with his boy—he’s a sharp one.’

  Phryne refrained from mentioning that she had met the young man in question and that his burning desire was to be an engineer.

  ‘So, what have you been doing, Jack dear?’

  ‘Reported to the Powers That Be that we had a homicide, had it registered and a file opened. It’s now a homicide case. That was the hard part. Took me the best part of a day.’ Jack sipped a little more beer. ‘Then got a list of suspects and I’ll be working my way through them. First, the mother. Not likely.’

  ‘I agree. She was devastated by his loss. And she asked me to look into his death, you know; you had it written up as a suicide.’

  ‘Could be a double bluff. Some murderers are real deep.’

  They both thought about Mrs. Manifold. Harsh, yes, strong-minded, savagely reserved. But murderous, no.

  ‘She adored Augustine,’ Phryne told Jack. ‘Scrub her off your list.’

  ‘For the time being, all right. Girl who works in the shop. Sophie Westwood. Not strong enough. Takes a lot of heft to force someone’s head underwater. Even a mostly unconscious person will struggle if they can’t breathe. Besides, she was doing good in the shop, the boss was pleased with her, and now she might be out of a job, and things are pretty crook for finding another. She’s not pretty or taking. Not likely to get anything but factory work, and that ain’t no fun. Vague sign of a boyfriend, don’t know anything more. I think we scrub her, as well.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Phryne.

  ‘Reach me my notebook? It’s in my inside pocket.’ Phryne fetched it from the policeman’s suit coat, which Mr. Butler had hung neatly over a chair. He riffled through the pages. ‘Yair. Then there’s the odd job carpenter, now he’s a possibility. Cedric Yates. Strong enough, even though he’s only got one leg. He could hold the deceased down until he drowned. I got his history. Discharged honourably from the army with a missing limb. Was sent to Alexandria and then home. Soldiers’ rehab got him onto carpentry and in the end gave him a carpenter’s ticket. His teacher said he was a natural with wood. Didn’t talk much but got on all right with the other blokes. Nothing on his military record. Got a decoration for rescuing a pilot in Palestine. But he’s cousin to your Cecil Yates, and they’re all red-raggers, wobblies. Workers of the world unite. You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Really, Jack, you don’t think that poor Augustine was the victim of a revolutionary outrage?’

  Jack Robinson drank deeply of a refreshed glass and had the grace to hiccup. ‘Nah, not really. Main reason why I don’t think it was, say, Yates and Westwood working together, is that there’s no bathroom in Manifold’s house. A wash-place and a WC in the garden, but that’s all. There’s a tin bath but it has to be filled from the copper, which is only lighted on Mondays for the household washing. Augustine most likely died on a Saturday or a Sunday, he hadn’t been that long in the sea. If anyone lit the copper on a day when they weren’t washing, then Mrs. Manifold would know the reason why. She keeps a very tight hand on the expenses. Pinch a penny till it squeaked. And if anyone had lit the copper and drawn a bath, despite the old chook, the whole household would have known about it, and someone would have told me.’

  ‘Indeed,’ murmured Phryne.

  ‘So then we come to his friends. That’s why I was at the funeral, to get a squiz at them.’

  ‘And you got more than you bargained for,’ guessed Phryne.

  ‘That woman in heathen dress—red—at a funeral! That slinky woman in black straight out of Sapper! What a collection! Young blokes in clothes which must have cost the earth and all completely—’

  ‘Outrageous?’ hazarded Phryne.

  ‘Yair. You could say that. The sane ones were Rachel Phillips, married, two children, nothing known. Her dad, Mr. Rosenberg, runs a stamp and coin shop in the city, respectable old coot, pillar of the local synagogue, very devout. Wears one of them skullcaps. Mrs. Phillips works for him, believed to be real good at stamps. The old Mr. Rosenberg thinks the world of her. Disinherited his son, who was a waster, and is leaving the shop to Rachel.’

  ‘His son is a waster?’

  ‘He’s a drunk. You don’t see that much amongst the Jews. Named Zachary, calls himself Simon. Spends his time sponging off his younger sister. Does a little dealing of this and that, we’ve had him on the list for years. Sooner or later he’ll sell something he really has no title to and we’ll get him. So far he’s on the edge.’

  ‘Greyish, but not black.’

  ‘Yair. Greyish. But getting darker. Mrs. Phillips had no motive to murder Augustine. She didn’t even know him real well, as far as we’ve been able to find out.’

  ‘She told me she went to the funeral because her father didn’t feel
comfortable entering a Christian church.’

  ‘Yair, well, that’d be right. Professor Rowlands works up at the university. Lives in a nice house with a housekeeper to look after him. Bit of an eye for the ladies but nothing permanent so far. Gossip says he’s much run after but so far won’t let himself be caught.’

  ‘That would be right. A twinkle in the eye and a flirtatious manner which never goes too far. A charming man. I had him to lunch today.’

  The beer was beginning to catch up with Robinson. His next glass was filled with ice cold soda water by the observant Mr. Butler. Robinson didn’t seem to notice the substitution.

  ‘Did yer?’ he asked Phryne. ‘And?’

  ‘I was much amused but I am not sure that he told me the whole story about Augustine. I suspect he knows more. But he told me what the frightful Atkinson clique wanted with Augustine.’

  Phryne explained the treasure of Edward Teach and the fact that Augustine seemed to have found part, at least, of the hoard. And was about to sell them a treasure map.

  Detective Inspector Robinson sprayed soda water all over his chair. ‘Treasure map? I never heard such stuff.’

  ‘Yes, me too, but those Atkinsons are strange. I went on to their version of a wake after the funeral and I must say, Jack, I have been in some awful company before—I have dined with torturers and Apaches and strict Plymouth Brethren and politicians—but I never met such vile company as those people. Each in his or her own way, they were frightful.’

  ‘Do tell!’ urged Robinson.

  Phryne ordered her thoughts, opting for a glass of the soda water in which lumps of ice were floating. The heat was affecting her mind, taking the edge off her recall. She concentrated on that disgusting afternoon, recalling the scent of incense and hashish.

  ‘When I came in, they were all dancing,’ she began. ‘Luke Adler and Valentine Turner were minding the door and the gramophone, respectively.’

  ‘Turner has a police record for assault,’ said Robinson. ‘As does Adler. Street fights.’

  ‘Near certain public toilets, perhaps?’ asked Phryne, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘As it happens…’ Robinson spread his hands. ‘No street offences, though.’

  ‘I see. Then there was that unbalanced pair, James Barton and his sister Priscilla. She’s an hysteric who clings to the slinky lady, Blanche White, in whose name I, frankly, do not believe.’

  ‘Still trying to find out about her,’ Robinson admitted. ‘The Bartons are clean. Both of them get an income from a trust fund set up by their uncle, who was in wholesale chilled lamb.

  ‘Export, you know. James Barton went to university but failed his first set of law exams and has drifted ever since. She’s been hospitalised for an attempted suicide by drug overdose.’

  ‘Then there was Stephanie Reynolds in her red sari. She is a fan of the hidden masters and has a spirit guide called Charging Elk. I suspect she is sincere in an entirely bird-witted way. She seems to have been conducting seances for them, seeking treasure. Now don’t choke, Jack dear, the opinions of the Atkinsons are not those of the management. She has called up two spirits from the vasty deep, one called Selima and one called Zacarias. They have told her that Augustine was not to be trusted.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Robinson.

  ‘Veronica Collins didn’t make a lot of impression on me, except that I might have told her that one with so Restoration a figure should not wear clothes designed for the thin.’

  ‘Nothing known,’ said Robinson. ‘Lives with her mum in a small house. The Widow Collins takes in lodgers.’

  ‘She’s sinning above her station, then. And then there is Gerald himself, a poisonous little numero with, I suspect, a line in drug dealing.’

  ‘Is on the watch list,’ agreed Robinson. ‘He received a parcel from South America with a lot of cocaine in it, but those morons in customs grabbed him before he could open it. The cocaine was hidden in some real ugly terracotta figures, so he could say—possibly even with truth—that he didn’t know the drug was there. And wasn’t charged. He buys a lot of stramonthium and marijuana cigarettes for—he says— asthma. Got his money from Daddy, who died last year, just when son Gerald was on his arse bones.’

  ‘Suspicious death?’

  ‘Car accident. Brakes failed. Ran straight into a snow gum. We looked at the car, but no real evidence of tampering. Driver was drunk, anyway, as apparently he had been every day except Sundays for his whole adult life. Gerald was all right at school and started an antique shop, but it failed because he kept taking things home and not selling them. Now he lives on a whopping lot of rents. His dad owned most of Emerald Hill. Never married, no police record.’

  ‘And a nasty piece of work. I bet he’s got a bathroom.’

  ‘Several, I should think.’

  Mr. Butler refilled glasses in the silence. Then Phryne protested, ‘The only thing, Jack, is that they all said—even the spirits—that Augustine wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to know. If he was planning a massive fraud, wouldn’t he have told them? Showed them the map? Let them test it to find that the parchment was the right age and the ink wasn’t modern?’

  ‘Could Augustine have made a thing like that?’

  ‘Oh, I expect so. There are always leaves of old parchment knocking around, in the mountings of pictures, for example. And I could make you a good medieval ink if you could find me some oak galls in Australia, and some vinegar and soot. I had a friend in London, Ambrose, who used to make what were known as facsimiles. For museums, he said. So their real documents wouldn’t get exposed to the sun and air. Ambrose would have been able to construct a convincing pirate map in an afternoon.’

  ‘And yet everyone says that Augustine was straight as a die,’ observed Robinson.

  ‘Yes, it’s a puzzle, isn’t it?’ said Phryne, and they both fell silent, listening to the mad wind trying to tear the roof off the house.

  ***

  Simon kicked the big motorbike over and the engine roared. Not much longer. Very soon the right amount of money would be in his pocket, and then the longed-for revenge could begin. He savoured it, licking his lips.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep

  Seeming and savour all winter long.

  William Shakespeare

  The Winter’s Tale

  Miss Fisher retired for a rest after Mr. Butler had shown a much refreshed policeman to the door. Her room was cooled with ice and the electric fan and she lay down in the breath of winter with great delight. The cool air fanned her forehead, blowing delicate wisps of silky black hair across her eyes. She closed them. Just for a moment.

  When she awoke the wind had changed. The dreadful sense of assault by weather had gone. Apart from the humming of the fan, the room was silent. She stretched and found that she had been joined by, on one hand, a finely framed, perfectly black cat, extended to his full length asleep with his head on her pillow. On the other hand, a half-naked, beautifully smooth Chinese man; also sprawled, also elegant, also asleep.

  The situation was novel and delightful and Phryne did not want to disturb the lovely picture which they made. She settled down again between them, but the siren call of the carnal woke both of her male bed-companions before long. Ember flowed up into a meticulous stretch, yawning and showing his pointed teeth, on the arrival of the fishmonger at the kitchen door.

  Phryne rose to open the door for him and he passed her with a regal nod. Lin Chung had other ideas, but they did not involve food.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ he suggested.

  ‘We’ll get hot,’ she said, putting one hand on her hip.

  ‘But there is plenty of ice left,’ he pointed out. ‘So we can get cool again.’

  This argument convinced Miss Fisher. She watched hungrily as Lin stood up to remove the rest of his clothes. She shucked the sing
le garment she was wearing.

  And then she sprang on him like a small, impassioned tiger.

  Lin went down under this avalanche of kisses that were almost bites and surrendered to his fate. Strong arms held him down, strong thighs rode his flanks. The world dissolved into a white chrysanthemum behind his eyes.

  Some time later he realised that he was being covered with a discreet gown and Phryne was talking to someone at the door.

  ‘Just a light, simple dinner, cold salmon and salad, and can you open a bottle of Veuve? Thank you so much, Mr. Butler.’

  She came back and bathed in the cold air as he had seen her bathe in a hot shower, turning each part of her admirable form to the stream. Her beauty always amazed him. Her passion had surprised him. He felt gingerly over his body, ascertained that it all appeared to be present, and wrapped himself in a green satin sheet. Lin Chung felt almost cold, a great luxury in such a climate.

  ‘Ah, Phryne. Jade Lady,’ he sighed.

  ‘Beautiful man,’ she responded, and rubbed her naked body the length of his, a cat-like movement, finishing with her nose in the hollow of his throat. ‘I’ve ordered us a simple little repast. We don’t have to get up until the weather changes.’

  ‘This ice-and-fan arrangement is wonderful,’ he said. ‘I will institute it at once. Grandmamma feels the heat terribly and never gets a lot of sleep during the summer, and consequently neither does her household. Her view is if she is awake, everyone else should be awake. Her maids were overheard conspiring to put chloral hydrate in her late-night tea. And I happen to have a rather nice collection of ceramic pots, fully big enough, just off the ship from Hong Kong. I shall have one sent around tomorrow: the green porcelain with the blue lotuses, I think. It would suit the room better than the tin bath. Very clever, Jade Lady.’

  ‘Not me—Mr. Butler. He might, of course, have been thinking of putting a mickey finn in my late-night cocktail. I have been wandering around at night because I couldn’t sleep. And there was a burglar, of course.’