‘Tell me about the Captain.’
The drum solo ceased for a moment. ‘He’s very kind, Miss. Self-contained. But he means well. We’d know if there was anything wrong, Miss.’
This seemed only too likely. ‘Any ideas, Sheila?’
‘Wish I did.’ And that appeared to be it from Sheila, who finished the massage in silence. Phryne stood up.
‘Thank you. And now I think I would like a swim. There appeared to be splashing noises, and someone began to sing “Walking My Baby Home,” One or two other voices joined in. Phryne doffed the wrap in one movement and walked out of the cubicle.
‘Miss, the pool’s full of soldiers! You can’t go in there—’
But it was too late. The singing stopped dead as eight young men, entirely without clothing, stared at the naked goddess who entered the water and began to swim towards them. Then one of the men began to sing “My Blue Heaven.” Some averted their gaze. Others did not, and goggled at her. She waved, and swam in a curve around them. Nobody so much as moved. Phryne nodded to herself. She swam for around three minutes, and stood up in the pool, her porcelain breasts bobbing in the water in front of them.
‘So where does a girl go for a smoke around here?’ she inquired.
One of the men pointed. ‘There’s a courtyard next to the tea-house, Miss.’
Phryne inclined her head, swam back towards the cubicles, and dressed carefully. She waved at the men, found the courtyard, and lit a gasper. There were several men there smoking at their ease. They nodded politely. Phryne suddenly noticed a large tin placard on the back of the tea-house. She read the following: Pharmaceutical tonic, Hepburn Spa. This product carries the approval of the Chief Medical Officer of the State of Victoria. One of the men watched her, and spoke out of the corner of his thin mouth.
‘Yair, Miss. It’s all aboveboard. I run the still. It’s a beauty. Want to try some?’
He was a wiry, middle-aged man with a face scored with lines, and cheerful grey eyes. He held out a small medicine bottle, and poured out a measure into a teaspoon. Phryne accepted it, and tasted. Very like green chartreuse, she thought, and far stronger than the herbal wine the Captain had given her last night.
The man looked conspiratorial. ‘Jeez, the old biddies love this stuff. ’Specially the Methodists. They’re s’posed to be dry; but nerve tonic doesn’t count.’ He held out the bottle for her to read. Spencer’s Nerve Tonic. Take one teaspoon as required. Phryne smiled.
‘Yes, I can see that they would. Thank you.’
Cautiously, one by one, the men introduced themselves. There was a Jonno, a Bert, two Daves (Big Dave and Tiny Dave—who was, inevitably, the taller of the pair), a Stevo, a Billy, and a Kevvy. Some worked the still, some were masseurs, and one—a slim, elegant man called James—appeared to be the dance instructor. All seemed well-content with their lot, and praised the Captain highly. In Australian, this was expressed as ‘A good bastard.’
Suddenly there was a tremendous sound of an engine. It seemed to be in pain, and roared like a hippopotamus with a toothache. An ancient, dirty white truck had pulled up, and Phryne watched, fascinated, as an enormous man climbed out of the cabin. Wooden barrels, presumably filled with mineral water, were stacked in a tidy row along the back of the tea-house. The giant leaned over and picked up one under each arm, and carried them to the tray. They must have weighed a hundred pounds each, but he seemed not even to notice the weight. Sitting in the cabin, and glaring through the window, was a thin-faced, cold-eyed man. He did not deign to assist, but wound down the window. ‘Come on! Get on with it, ya big idiot!’ Then he wound the window up again, and stared forwards at nothing.
As the huge man returned for the next pair, Phryne looked him over. Six and a half feet tall, and several axe-handles across his shoulders. He was not so much fat as exceedingly well-armoured. In the Middle Ages he might have been used as a battering ram. But his strangely unlined face was mild and gentle, and his brown eyes were kind and filled with simple wonderment, as if looking at everything for the first time. Sheila stood beside Phryne and lit a cigarette herself. The man looked adoringly at both women for a long moment, smiled, and hoisted two more barrels. ‘He’s harmless,’ James pronounced, blowing a smoke ring.
Soon the tray was full. The man secured his load with thick rope to the back of the cabin and climbed aboard. The protesting motor roared back into life, and the truck slowly chugged back up the hill.
‘That’s Vern,’ said James. ‘Quite a specimen, isn’t he?’
‘I see. Tell me about the bottling plant.’
He looked surprised. ‘There’s nothing much to tell. Vern drives the truck. He picks up the barrels from here and delivers them to his brother, Sid, who’s in charge. He was the moody one in the truck. We’re not happy about Vern being cooped up there. We don’t trust Sid. Vern’s going to live at the pub, I hear. He’ll be happier there. He likes looking at young girls, you know. But he never does anything untoward. Why, do you think they might have something to do with Helena’s disappearance?’
‘Probably not.’ Phryne spoke abstractedly, thinking hard. Dot’s theory seemed to have sunk without trace. But…something about the scene she had just witnessed triggered warnings in her head. She would have to be very careful. Helena was probably alive, but in peril.
Phryne returned to Mooltan, listened to Dot’s account of her investigations, and sat in the library, working out a plan. Alice offered them a simple dinner of ham and cheese sandwiches, a slice each from a fresh apple pie, and unexpectedly good coffee.
‘Dulcie,’ she announced, ‘you, Dot, and I are going on an expedition tonight.’
Dulcie put down her coffee cup. ‘Where we going?’
Phryne outlined her plan. ‘Comfortable clothes and boots, black if you have them. We will require secrecy. And I will bring my flashlight. Country nights are so surprisingly dark.’
‘Is Aubrey coming?’ Alice asked. Phryne shook her head.
‘Men get over-excited in rescues. And other delicate moments. We will manage.’
‘Be careful,’ said Alice in a melting voice, staring at Dulcie. Dulcie clasped her hand for a moment and stroked her hair.
Half an hour later, the light had drained out of the sky as they set off up the road towards the bottling plant. It smelled eerily of mineral springs and wattle. ‘All right,’ Phryne grinned at them. ‘Over the top!’ Dulcie smiled. Dot gritted her teeth and looked stoic. Phryne switched off the torch. Her jacket pocket contained her gun, and a spare box of ammunition in case Vern needed more suppression than six bullets could provide. The plant was nothing more than three large galvanized iron sheds spaced apart from each other. Phryne waved the others back, and crept up to a lighted window in one of them. She peered in to look.
Vern was filling bottles from a keg by the light of a kerosene lamp, quietly and slowly, with concentrated efficiency. Sid sat lounging in a wicker chair, watching him. There was no-one else there. Phryne tiptoed back to Dot and Dulcie. ‘Try the other two.’ They slipped away and Phryne went back to the window to keep watch there.
Dulcie tried the door of the second shed. She pulled the door open with agonizing slowness. ‘Hello?’ she said in a low voice. ‘Anyone there?’
There was no answer. She did not dare look inside in case she tripped over something. ‘Dulcie,’ said Dot next to her ear, ‘the other one’s locked from the inside.’
Dulcie led the way to the third shed, a little apart from the others. She knocked gently. ‘Helena? It’s me, Dulcie. We’re going home now. Come on.’
There was a sound of a rusty bar being pulled back. The door opened. In the faint light, there was Helena, still in her white nurse’s dress. Her feet were bare. ‘Dulcie?’ said the girl. ‘Thank God for that! But he took my shoes. I’ll have to walk barefoot. And I don’t care!’
Slowly, they began to slip away. Back at Shed One,
Phryne heard Sid speak, but she could not catch the words. Vern’s reply was loud, and emphatic.
‘No! Mum said not to play with girls! And I won’t!’
A vast realization flooded Phryne’s brain. She’d been right about the place, but all wrong about the villain. Now Sid raised his voice. ‘Vern, I got yer the girl so she and you could stay here with me! Mum told me to look after yer. Youse don’t need to go live at the pub!’
At that moment, bright moonlight appeared above the hill. Sid chanced to look out another window, and saw the ghostly girl flitting across the yard with two black shapes beside her. He ran out the door and yelled. ‘You come back, ya little slut! You live here now!’
‘No!’ said Vern. ‘Don’t hurt her, Sid!’
Phryne moved quickly around the shed, drew out her pistol, and pointed it directly at Sid’s head. ‘Stop right where you are, Sid. Hands in the air!’
Sid gaped at her, froze, and put up his hands. Phryne turned to Vern, who had emerged from the door. ‘Hello, Vern,’ she said. ‘I’m Phryne Fisher. Why don’t you mind the girls while I deal with Sid?’
Vern blinked at her. The yellow light spilling out of the open door showed a slim, black-coated figure holding a gun to his brother. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss. I’ll do that.’
Dulcie, Dot, and Helena climbed onto the tray of the ancient truck. Vern mounted the cabin and opened the window to look at the girls. ‘Got to wait here for the lady,’ he explained, and sat immobile. His three passengers watched in admiration as Phryne advanced on Sid.
‘I’m not going to shoot you right now.‘ Phryne steadied her hand so the gun was pointing between Sid’s eyes. ‘Because we don’t want any trouble for the Captain. But you’re going into the shed where you locked up Helena, and I’m going to lock you in. Or you can receive, at no extra charge, several more holes in your worthless body. Of course, if you have violated Helena, then I’m going to shoot you anyway. I’ve nothing else to do with my evening, you horrible creature.’
‘Nah, I got her for Vern. He likes lookin’ at girls.’
‘And you don’t, of course. Well then, in you go.’
Obediently, Sid marched into the shed. There was no light inside, and Phryne did not offer him any. There was a separate lock on the outside, and she shot the bolt home with a loud snick. ‘Have fun!’ she exclaimed, and then joined Vern in the truck’s cabin.
Vern started the engine, and the truck galumphed its way down the hill towards Hepburn Springs. ‘Where are we going, Miss?’
‘Mooltan. We want our supper. Would you like some too?’
‘Yes, Miss. But Sid says I eat too much.’
‘Never mind Sid. But your Mum would be proud of you, Vern.’
He thought about this. ‘Can I have apple pie, Miss?’
‘As it happens, Vern, you may. There’s half a pie left. And you can have it all.’
The truck groaned to a halt in front of Mooltan. The front door was open, and Alice stood beside a frazzled-looking woman in a brown overcoat. The newcomer gazed at the truck, and her face glowed with relief. Helena leapt down and embraced her. ‘I’m back, Mum!’ Tears ran down her mother’s cheeks, and she wrapped both arms around her daughter, and did not let go for a long moment.
***
Phryne surveyed the dining room with satisfaction. Everyone was talking excitedly except for Vern, who sat at the table with a napkin tucked into his grimy shirt-front, methodically working his way through three-fifths of an apple pie, with extra cream. She let them talk themselves into a lull, and tapped a teaspoon on the side of her coffee cup.
‘I think we need to take note of local sensibilities tomorrow, Helena. You, your mother, and Dulcie should go and visit Sergeant Offaly and explain that you had experienced a bridal argument, and as a result, you’d come to stay here at Mooltan and gave strict instructions that no-one was to know where you were. Does that suit, Helena?’
Phryne looked the girl over. She was very pretty, with short hair cut in a bob. The grimy nurse’s uniform suited her well. There was a sweetness in her manner, but Phryne detected a whim of iron beneath it. Helena took Aubrey’s hand in hers and held it tight. Then she fixed her penetrating blue eyes on her mother’s face, and nodded.
‘Yes, Mum. That’s what we’ll tell him. Because we don’t want the village gossips talking about me, and what goings-on there might have been up at the bottling plant, do we?’
Her mother (a thin, mousy woman with faded hair) stared at Helena. ‘A bridal argument?’ she ventured.
‘Yes, Mum. Because Aubrey and I are getting married this summer.’ The maternal face turned to Aubrey. His face was set, his jaw was square, and he looked like a man who had been offered two separate lifelines: his beloved’s rescue, and the chance to secure parental permission at pistol-point. He had no intention whatever of letting go of either of them.
‘Yes, we are,’ he stated, with finality.
‘And Vern will stay at the pub in future,’ Phryne added, to head off any more dispute. Vern gazed adoringly at her for a moment, and bent his head to the last of the pie. Phryne continued, ‘What this was all about was that Sid didn’t want to have to pay for Vern’s keep at the pub. So he kidnapped Helena so Vern could look at her instead of the women he would meet at the pub. A mad scheme, you may say, and you would be right. But Sid is not a nice person.’
‘Mean as a dunny rat,’ Dulcie pronounced.
‘Miss, are you going to let Sid out?’ inquired Dot.
‘No. He can find his own way out. Or someone will rescue him, in due course. And he won’t say anything. He can’t. Not without getting arrested for kidnapping. I think he will be a new man when he gets out.’
‘A penitent sinner?’ Helena’s mother looked sceptical.
‘I doubt it. But being locked up overnight in his own prison isn’t going to be pleasant. He’s a small, mean bully. He won’t recover from this.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him, Miss,’ Vern offered. ‘What he did was bad. Mum wouldn’t’ve liked it. I’m not gonna listen to him anymore.’
Phryne inclined her head.
***
Next 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. Today she would visit the Captain again and offer him money. And he would offer her dinner. Then she would seduce him, if it seemed to be a good idea at the time. After that, she considered, it would be Violette’s move. Bon appetit, Madame.
The Reading
by the Polish Author
Vasudev Murthy
Sherlock Holmes in Japan was originally published by Harper-Collins India. Poisoned Pen Press acquired the U.S. rights and published it with the new title, Sherlock Holmes, the Missing Years: Japan, with some amount of additional editing.
I had a simply wonderful time working with PPP. I’d say they actually helped me look at my book with new eyes. Their editorial and support staff are an author’s dream; the whole process from editing to production to marketing was transparent and extremely collaborative.
PPP then gave me excellent advice in planning my next book, Sherlock Holmes, the Missing Years: Timbuktu; the end result was something I couldn’t have come up with on my own.
Working with PPP has been the Nirvana moment of my writing life.
—V.M.
***
[Editor’s Note: The following is an excerpt from Mr. Murthy’s unpublished manuscript titled The Ramgarh International Literary Festival, which is a parody of his experiences with literary festivals in general, though this one is set in a remote village in India. It is written in the style of one of his favorite authors, P.G. Wodehouse. Consider it comic relief from all of the surrounding murder and mayhem.]
***
Meeta looked at the schedu
le.
‘Hmm, choices, choices. Hall A has the little-known Oriya poet Mohapatra speaking about his little-known poems.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said, and I meant to be very sarcastic.
‘Hall B has a panel discussion on The Importance of Panel Discussions at Literary Festivals.’
‘Profound,’ said Abhishek, also in a cruel mood.
‘Hall C has Meditation Camp by the famous meditators Singh and Singh. Complete silence is expected. They expect standing room only, though everyone is expected to sit down. I heard there is elaborate security.’
‘Let’s skip that.’
‘Hall D has a reading by the famous Polish writer Władysław Czartoryski. Sheelaaa Dey is going to speak with him about his magnificent work.’
‘I don’t know how you pronounce his name.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s famous.’
‘This sounds intriguing. Let’s go.’
And the three of us ran six kilometers to Hall D, hoping to get good seats.
There were many smarter than us and so we found Hall D already packed. I wondered how it was that none of them showed up at our session but were always available for other sessions. We sat on the laps of some guys in Row 2 and waited expectantly.
Sheelaaa Dey was on stage, wearing a sheer dress that had not much to contribute. Everything about her was absolutely crystal clear. She smiled gorgeously at the audience and said Hi to several people she knew.
Władysław Czartoryski was announced and he came on stage, waving at the audience, which greeted him with thunderous applause.
He was a small, slight man with a beard, rimless glasses, a grey shirt, and grey trousers. It was obvious that he wore grey underwear too. He had a stoop. He looked very sad. It was clear he was from Poland.
Mics were adjusted and Sheelaaa Dey smiled at the audience and batted her eyelids. Władysław Czartoryski sat quietly and expectantly.
Sheelaaa picked up his book. It was a good nine hundred-fifty pages thick and required some effort to handle. She showed it to the audience, her muscles rippling.
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