Lindsay sat down in the hall and Alastair went to make peace with his fiancée.
From the cry of delight which Phryne heard from outside the door, where she was unashamedly listening, it seemed that he had succeeded. He came out five minutes later, collected Lindsay, and went off down the path, a picture of humility.
Dot wondered that Phryne shut the door behind them with such a vindictive slap.
The phone rang as she was walking down the hall, and Phryne took the call herself.
‘Yes, this is Miss Fisher. . yes, the Honourable Phryne Fisher,’ Dot heard Phryne say impatiently. ‘A missing girl? Where was she last seen?’ She was scribbling notes on the telephone book. ‘I see, outside Emily MacPherson? Someone actually saw her go? Good. A description of the abductor please. . yes. Portly but respectable. . all right. Do you have a photograph of her? Good. And some idea of her destination? Oh, dear. I see. Gertrude Street, eh? She has been seen there? By whom? Never mind, I suppose that I don’t need to know that, really. Send me the photograph and I’ll do what I can. Yes, Mr Hart, I will reassure her that you still want her. . of course. Send the photograph as soon as you can. You shall have her home soon if that is where she is. Goodbye.’
‘What is it, Miss?’
‘Troubles rarely come singly, Dot. That was a Mr Hart who wants me to retrieve his daughter Gabrielle from a brothel in Fitzroy, whence she was enticed from outside the Emily MacPherson School of Domestic Science by a portly but respectable gentleman. And her father wants her back, convinced that she has been mesmerised. It sounds highly unlikely to me. However, I shall take the photo and do the brothel rummage with Klara. She knows everyone on Gertrude Street. Nothing I can do until the picture arrives. Now who is calling, for God’s sake?’
It was the estate manager. Phryne stamped into her salon and awaited him with scant patience. She was not in the mood for business.
Phryne spent an irritating morning arguing with Mr Turner who wanted her to buy more shares. Phryne was acquiring land, and selling off her speculative shares, sometimes even at a loss. The only ones she consented to keep were beer, tobacco and flour.
‘I don’t care,’ she finally shouted, out of all patience with the man. ‘I don’t care if shares in some Argentinian gold mine are going cheap. They can’t be cheap enough for me. I want houses and I want government stocks, and that’s all I want, except perhaps some more jewellery. That is my last word, and if you do not carry out my wishes, I will find a solicitor who can. Mr Butler, see Mr Turner out!’
Mr Turner left, taking his hat more in sorrow than in anger, and Mr Butler shut him out. Mr Turner turned back on the porch, as though he had thought of yet another stock which Miss Fisher might find more acceptable, but Mr Butler had locked the door. Mr Butler was sorry that his mistress was in such a tiz, and put his head around the kitchen door to warn his wife that lunch had better be early and good, because Miss Fisher was going to need a drink.
Miss Fisher, however, did not get the chance. Another caller hung on the bell, and this time Mr Butler was faced with a tall, raw-boned woman, who demanded, ‘Where’s my niece?’
Mr Butler was about to tell her to drink beer next time, because gin obviously gave her the heeby jeebies, when she flourished a photograph torn out of a newspaper. It was Jane’s photograph.
‘Perhaps you should speak to Miss Fisher, then, Mrs. .’
‘Miss,’ she snarled. ‘Miss Gay.’
Mr Butler went regretfully to Phryne to warn her that someone had come to remove Jane. Phryne came out into the hall with outstretched hand, at the same time as Jane emerged from her room, with Ember riding on her shoulder.
‘There she is. My niece. I want her back!’
‘Do you?’ asked Phryne unpleasantly. ‘I see. Jane, do you remember this. . lady?’
Jane had shrunk back against the wall, frightened by the strident voice and the clutching hand.
‘Of course she remembers me!’ shrieked Miss Gay, who seemed to be singularly badly named. ‘I’m her Aunt Jessie and she’s my niece Jane Graham, and if you didn’t know her name why did you call her Jane?’
‘I plucked a name out of the air, and I don’t think she recalls you, do you, Jane?’
Jane shook her head, numbly. Phryne turned Miss Gay by the sleeve.
‘Leave me your address, and some proofs that she is your niece, and I’ll have my lawyer look them over. I really can’t release Jane into your custody until I am sure that she is your relative. And possibly not then. What were you about, to let her get that thin, and be on a train to Ballarat all on her own?’
‘I pinned her ticket into her pocket, and she was lucky to get the job, going as a skivvy in a doctor’s house, she was, though I suppose they’ve got someone else now. Don’t listen to her if she says that I mistreated her. . I treated her like one of my own, so I did, when her mother died, and then her grandmother died. .’
‘Yes, thank you, Miss Gay, what is your address?’ asked Phryne, and wrote it down. ‘I’ll be in touch with you in due course, or my solicitor will. You are the girl’s legal guardian, I assume? Appointed by a court? No? I thought not. Good morning, Miss Gay.’
Phryne stepped back as she gave the woman a shrewd push and shoved her out of the house in mid-sentence.
‘Quick, Mr Butler, shut that door, bolt it and bar it, don’t let anyone in. I am not at home to anyone, not even a long lost relative or a man telling me I have won Tatt’s. Gosh, what a morning! Jane? Where are you?’
Jane was crushed into the corner of her bed, with an indignant Ember in her arms, and Phryne did not touch her. She sat down on the end of the bed and said casually, ‘I’m not going to give you up, you know. That woman has no claim on you. Even if you are Jane Graham, and it’s a nice name, I like it, she can’t make you live with her. She isn’t your guardian and she may not be your closest relative. So don’t worry. I’ll call my solicitor and have him draw up adoption papers at once. In fact, I’ll call him now. Have you remembered anything?’
‘Sort of. I began to remember when Ember scratched on the window. My name is Jane Graham. I recall my grandmother but I don’t remember that woman at all. As far as I know, I’ve never seen her before. What’s the address, Miss Fisher?’
‘Seventeen Railway Crescent, Seddon.’
Jane shook her head again. ‘No.’
‘Not a bell?’
‘No.’
‘You can tell me the truth, you know. I’ve given you my word that you shall stay with me, and I am not forsworn.’
‘Miss Fisher, I am telling you the truth. I don’t recall the address and I don’t know the name. I can remember everything up to my grandmother’s death. Then it’s all a fog.’
‘What was in the parcel we took with us on the train?’
‘Rachel coloured rice powder and Lalla perfume, a collar for Ember and some flea-soap, and. . and. . there was something else. . the chrysanthemums for Dot. I think that’s all.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your memory, is there, Jane?’
Jane shook her head, so that the heavy plaits danced.
‘No. I can remember everything that happened from the time I was on Ballarat station, but nothing of the past since my grandmother’s funeral.’
‘I know who we need,’ said Phryne briskly. ‘We need Bert and Cec. I’ll go and call them now.’
‘Bert?’ asked Jane, bewildered but uncoiling from her defensive crouch.
‘And Cec,’ agreed Phryne, on her way to the phone. She dialled, and asked the operator for an address in Fitzroy.
‘Bert? It’s Phryne Fisher. I’ve got a bit of a job for you. Are you on?’
The telephone quacked, seeming to expostulate.
‘No, no, nothing rough, or illegal, just a spot of investigating. Excellent. See you in an hour,’ and Phryne rang off. She smiled at Jane.
‘There’s just time for lunch, and then we shall send out the troops. Don’t look so downcast, pet. You are staying with me, come hell or
high water. If you remember anything else, anything at all, tell me. Now — lunch.’
Because of Mr Butler’s warning and because of her own culinary pride, Mrs Butler served up a riz de veau financiére of superlative tenderness and flavour, followed by a selection of cheeses and a compote of winter fruits. Phryne had two glasses of a nice dry Barossa, which she was trying for a vintner friend, and was in an expansive mood when Bert and Cec arrived in their shiny new taxi.
They came in and sat down, uneasy in Phryne’s delicate salon, and were introduced.
‘This is Jane Graham, or at least, we think she is. Have you seen the papers today?’
Bert nodded. Cec grunted.
‘Jane, this is Mr Albert Johnson, a staunch friend of mine.’ Jane looked at Bert. He was short and stocky, with shrewd blue eyes and a thatch of dark hair, thinning at the crown. He was wearing a threadbare blue suit and a clean white shirt, evidently newly donned. He smiled at Jane.
‘And this is Mr Cecil Yates, Bert’s mate; you should get on, he loves cats.’
Ember gave a mute vote of confidence by leaping up onto Cec’s knee and climbing his coat. Cec stroked him gently. He was tall and Scandinavian looking, with a mane of blond hair and incongruous deep brown eyes like a spaniel. He nodded at Jane.
Bert gave the kitten a polite pat and said, ‘Well, Miss, what’s the go?’
‘Jane was given to me to mind, because she was found on the Ballarat train in a skimpy little dress I wouldn’t have clothed a dog in, with a second-class ticket in her pocket and no memory of who she was or how she got there. Today a frightful woman arrived and demanded her, saying that Jane was her niece, and she has left me papers that seem to prove that this is true. I’m keeping her anyway, because she was misused in that woman’s clutches, and I’m adopting her. However, I have a good reason for wanting to know exactly what happened to her in Miss Gay’s house — was ever a harridan worse named — and I want you to find out.’
‘You say you got a reason,’ said Bert slowly. ‘Can you tell me what it is?’
‘No. But it has to do with the murder I’m investigating.’
‘What, the murder on the Ballarat train? You was on the train, Miss?’
‘I was. And I’ve got the victim’s daughter here, too. She has hired me to find the murderer, and so I shall. However. Find out all you can about dear Miss Gay. Who lives with her — especially men — who visits her, all of her background. Can you do it? Usual rates,’ she added.
‘The question is not, can we do it, but will we do it,’ observed Bert. ‘What do you think, mate?’
‘I reckon we can do it,’ agreed Cec, and Bert put out his hand.
‘We’re on,’ he said, and Phryne poured them a beer to celebrate.
Phryne took a nap that afternoon, and passed a quiet evening playing at whist with Jane and Miss Henderson, who had greatly recovered. Her blisters were drying, and Dr MacMillan had hopes that her liver was not damaged after all. Jane showed an unexpected ruthlessness, and won almost seven shillings in pennies before they broke up and went to bed. Jane took Ember with her, as usual, and he slept amicably on her pillow.
Lindsay Herbert lunched at the ’Varsity, went to his Torts lecture where he learned more than he thought that he needed to know about false imprisonment, and went home to dine with Alastair, who seemed subdued. His outburst in Phryne’s house had profoundly shocked him, and when the young men had stacked the dishes in the sink for Mrs Whatsis to clean in the morning, he lit a nervous cigarette and tried to expound.
‘I don’t know how to apologise to you, old man, for that appalling bad show at Miss Fisher’s.’
‘That’s all right, old fellow, think no more of it.’ Lindsay was sleepy with remembered satiation, and disinclined to listen to self-pity or even explanations.
‘But it’s not all right. I lost my head completely — just like those fellows in the Great War — shell-shocked, they used to call it.’
‘Why, what shocked you?’
‘First there was Eunice — poor girl, her face is all burned, she looks dreadful — then you taking up with Miss Fisher and just wafting off without a word — then a policeman had the infernal nerve to ask me — me! — where I was on the night of the murder.’
‘Well, I could scarcely say, “Sorry, old boy, must rush, I’m being ravished by a beautiful lady”, now, could I? Especially if I wasn’t sure if she was going to ravish me or not. I mean, a fellow would look a fool, wouldn’t he? And I suppose the police chappie has his job to do. Where were you, anyway?’
‘Here,’ snapped Alastair, butting out his cigarette as if he had a grudge against it. ‘Did she?’
‘Did she what?’
‘Ravish you?’
‘Old man, since the beginning of time, few men have been as completely ravished as I have been.’
‘Hmm,’ grunted Alastair. ‘Are you seeing her again?’
‘Friday night.’
‘Well, ask her how she is going on the murder. She’s taken possession of my fiancée and my friend, but she won’t solve the murder by sex appeal. No, Miss Fisher,’ commented Alastair savagely. ‘Not as easily as all that.’
‘Well, well, I’ll ask her,’ said Lindsay peaceably.
‘If you can spare the time,’ snorted his friend, and stalked out to go to bed, slamming the door.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Then two are cheaper than one?’ Alice said in a surprised tone, taking out her purse.
‘Only you must eat them both, if you buy two,’ said the Sheep. ‘Then I’ll have one please,’ said Alice. . ‘They mightn’t be at all nice, you know.’
Lewis Carroll Alice Through the Looking Glass
Bert and Cec found the large and imposing house at Railway Crescent, Seddon, without much difficulty. It was in a fine state of studied disrepair. The iron lace which decorated the verandah was both unpainted and broken, and the bluestone frontage had been whitewashed by some past idiot. The distemper was now wearing off in flakes and tatters, and no maintenance had been done on the roof since the Father of All was a callow youth. The gate sagged on its hinges, the front garden was a wilderness of hemlock and slimy grass, and the bell-pull, when pulled, emitted a rasping screech and fell off in Bert’s hand.
A sign had been painted over the whitewash next to the door. It said ‘Rooms to Let. Full Bord’ in red lead. Bert had an idea.
‘Quick, you get down the path, Cec, and I’ll ask for a room. I don’t want her to see you.’
Cec caught on and retreated into the bushes, and a scatter of footsteps announced that someone was coming.
The door creaked open on unoiled hinges, and a small and slatternly girl answered, ‘What do you want?’
‘I want a room,’ rejoined Bert roughly. ‘The missus at home?’
The girl nodded, knotting an apron stained with the washing up of several years, and swung the door wide.
‘Come in,’ she parroted tonelessly. ‘It’s ten shillings a week, washing extra, and no drink or tobacco in the house.’ In a small voice, she added, ‘But you’d be better to go elsewhere.’
Bert heard, grinning, and patted the girl on a bony shoulder. ‘I got my reasons,’ he said portentously, and the girl’s eyes lit for a moment with an answering spark.
‘What’s yer name?’ asked Bert, and the small voice said, ‘Ruth. Don’t let her know I been talking to you.’
There was such an undercurrent of fear in her voice that Bert did not reply aloud, but nodded.
‘Who’s at the door, girl?’ demanded a screech from the back of the house. ‘I don’t know, girls these days can’t do a good day’s work, not like it was when I was a girl. Twelve hours a day I used to work, and hard, too. Now they snivel and fall ill if they’re asked to serve tea. Well? Who is it?’
‘Please, Missus, it’s a man,’ faltered Ruth. ‘He wants a room, Missus.’
‘Oh does he? Have you told him about it?’
‘Yes, Miss, I told him.’
Ruth�
��s eyes implored Bert not to say anything critical, and he began to feel a strong sense of partisanship with this overworked skivvy. Poor little thing! The woman was evidently a tartar.
‘Yair, she told me. So, have you got a room or haven’t yer? I ain’t got all day.’
Miss Gay emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dirty tea towel. Bert looked her up and down and classified her instantly as Prize Bitch, filthy class. Prize bitches came in two classes: the fanatically clean, who smelt of bleach, and the slatternly, who smelt of old, boiled cabbage. Miss Gay was also redolent of yellow soap and sour milk. She was not a prepossessing sight, clad in down-at-the-heel house slippers, a faded wrapper in what appeared to be hessian, no stockings and a yellow cardigan draggled at the hips. Bert smiled his best smile and was rewarded with a slight softening of the rigid jaw and mean, thin lips.
‘Here’s me money,’ he offered, handing over a ten-bob note that vanished into the unacceptable recesses of her costume. ‘Show me the room.’
The small maid accompanied them up the unswept stairs to a room which had once been fine. The ceiling was high and decorated with plaster mouldings, and the walls had been papered with Morris designs. A plasterboard partition had been erected, cutting off the window, and the room contained a single iron army cot with two blankets, a dresser which had originally come from a kitchen, still equipped with cup-hooks, a table with one leg shorter than the others and an easy chair so battered that its original form could hardly be guessed. Bert concealed his loathing and said easily, ‘This’ll do me, Missus. What about meals?’
‘Breakfast at seven, and lunch at twelve, if you come home to it. Dinner at six. If you want a packed lunch, tell me the day before. Put anything to be washed in that bag and it goes out on Monday. Washing is extra.’
‘Latch-key,’ suggested Bert, and one was detached from Miss Gay’s jingling belt and handed over.
‘No alcohol or tobacco in the rooms, and lights out at ten. No women, either. Visitors are to stay in the parlour. Board is due every Friday, at twelve noon, sharp. Anything you want, ask Ruth here. She’s a stupid, worthless girl, but I can’t abandon my own flesh and blood.’
Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher Page 42