Dead Man's Chest (17 page)

‘Oh, Miss Fisher, I thought I’d just slip away,’ she said, bending down to give Gaston a final pat on his shiny brown head. ‘You’ve been so kind and I didn’t want to disarrange your household any longer. I’ve left the sheets all folded at the foot of the bed, with my towel.’

‘Just a moment more,’ said Phryne. ‘Let Tinker carry your baggage. I suppose Madame knows that you are coming?’

‘Oh, dear, I don’t know, I assumed that the doctor arranged it, I . . .’ Miss Lavinia quite lost heart and sat down on the hallstand.

‘I shall call on Madame in a moment,’ Phryne told her. ‘While you, if you would be so kind, give Gaston his breakfast? If we don’t find the Johnsons,’ she suppressed the term ‘alive’, ‘perhaps you might give him a home? He’s a good little dog,’ she said.

Miss Lavinia picked up Gaston and buried her face for a moment in his glossy coat. Her small stock of courage, gathered so tightly to the sticking place, momentarily deserted her. Gaston licked her face encouragingly. He had heard the word ‘breakfast’. Tinker had already fed him but Gaston was happy to profit from Phryne’s ploy, as long as it included biscuits.

Phryne went next door and the small child Laszlo answered the door. This morning he was sucking a lollipop of massive dimensions and such bright colours that one could wonder what chemical marvels had gone into its manufacture. It seemed, however, to be giving satisfaction.

‘Miss?’ asked the boy.

‘Is Madame expecting Miss Lavinia as a house guest?’ asked Phryne.

‘Yes, Miss. Bridget came and told us about it. Madame’ll be down when she comes. ’Bout half an hour?’

‘What a well-informed infant you are,’ said Phryne, bestowing a penny.

She found Miss Lavinia in the garden, watching Gaston eat biscuits. His stub of a tail wagged happily.

‘It’s all right, they’re expecting you. There’s just one thing, Miss Lavinia. After the Johnsons left, the larder was looted by some persons who came in through the back door. Did you by any chance see who they were?’

‘No, dear, they only came after dark. All we could see was shapes. Boys, I thought. They walked as though they were young. They came every night for almost a week. Were they stealing food? How very unpleasant for you.’

‘Oh, no, it was all old, anyway, someone might as well have taken it. Since then the door has been locked and guarded. Now, pat Gaston goodbye and we’ll see you settled next door. Do you know Madame Sélavy well?’

‘No, dear. Mrs McNaster used to receive her occasionally. Madame took a little shine to me because I can play chess. I used to play all the time with my father. He was a vicar, and liked quiet pastimes. When he was in his final illness I played chess every day, and he died before we finished the last game. I have often wondered how it would have come out. He probably would have won. He usually did. Yes, let us get on, I can’t keep you from your occupations all day, most discourteous.’

Phryne and Miss Lavinia, preceded by a staggering Tinker, were admitted to the Sélavy household and escorted up- stairs. There were several guest rooms, not extravagantly surreal, with fresh linen and sea air from the open windows. Miss Lavinia took off her hat, tidied her hair, and drew a deep breath.

‘Thank you,’ she said to Phryne. ‘I hope we shall meet again.’

‘So do I,’ said Phryne, and took her leave, collecting Tinker from an impromptu game of two-up in the front hall. Through the parlour door she could see Madame Sélavy. She was attired like an Eastern potentate, in silken garments and a rose-red turban. She was serving tea from a huge silver samovar. The chess board was laid out on a small baroque table before her. She gave Phryne a grave nod. Miss Lavinia seemed to fit, oddly enough, into the ménage. The air was heavy with frankincense.

Tinker, safely in the street, expressed his feelings in a long whistle.

‘Quite, but she’s better off there than in a house where the mistress is accusing her of murder,’ Phryne told him. ‘Exotic does not mean evil, keep that in mind.’

‘Yes, Guv,’ said Tinker. ‘What’re we doing today?’

‘We are lazing away the morning, then we lunch here, and then we go to see Mrs McNaster for the last time. And you dress nicely and keep your eyes and ears open, my boy. Dinner will be bought or out, I haven’t decided which one yet. But first, I have to make a phone call.’

‘Who to?’ asked Tinker.

‘Tinker,’ reproved Phryne. ‘If you need to know, I will tell you. And since I will need your help in this enterprise, I will soon tell you all.’

‘When?’ he asked, pushing his luck.

‘Monday, depending on the courier,’ said Phryne, waved him away and picked up the phone.

Tinker mooched along to the kitchen to see what was doing there. Always something doing in a kitchen. As it happened, it was the after-breakfast washing-up, but he was getting quite good at washing up, and Jane was reading.

Those fairy tales were not the pretty things Tinker had been expecting. Things happened in fairy tales which wouldn’t happen in Sexton Blake.

‘At first she could not see anything, because the windows were shuttered. Gradually she became aware that the floor was sticky with clotted blood. Even worse, the corpses of the previous wives were hanging on the wall. There were six of them. She knew suddenly that having broken the ban on opening the door, she would be the seventh.’

‘See, you should do as your husband says,’ said Tinker. Ruth threw a dishcloth at him.

‘You should investigate husbands before you marry them,’ she retorted. ‘And you can dry the frying pan.’

‘Women,’ muttered Tinker, and dried the frying pan, because he didn’t want to miss what was going to happen next.

Phryne swam, bathed to remove the salt, ate a sandwich for lunch, and donned good clothes to visit the deceased Mrs McNaster.

She was laid out in a rather nice coffin, swathed in satin. She looked dead, of course, but resting comfortably.

The coffin was standing on trestles in the breakfast parlour, directly next to the staircase which led to the first floor, where the deceased had held shrewish sway for so long. There had been a satisfactory turnout for the viewing. Many of the people Phryne did not quite know in their present incarnations, but she began to recognise a pattern after a while.

The large gentleman in the plum brocade waistcoat with the fish motif was T Superbus. The large lady in flowing violet was Sylvia, wearing a goldfish brooch on her black-plumed hat. Her attendant was Pete, in a dark suit and a discreet cravat with a trout tie-pin. There were two ladies in identical black garments who might, possibly, be one or both of the RMs. This thesis was supported by the fact that they both wore identical silver bracelets seemingly made of fish bones. Magdalen Morse was there in a dragged-down black dress and a cloche pinned, apparently to her skull, with a lobster brooch. Lucius Brazenose and Thaddeus Trove, well dressed, looked like they were longing for a drink.

Phryne had loosed Tinker to wander around and forage. He looked quite spruce in his good clothes. Jane and Ruth stood together and examined the people. Comments had been made on how like herself Mrs McNaster looked. The weather was receiving its usual close conversational scrutiny. The doctor came in and greeted his guests in a distracted fashion.

At that moment Bridget the maid came down the stairs into the midst of the throng with an armload of sheets. She had obviously been remaking Mrs McNaster’s bed, possibly for another occupant. Seeing all the people, she checked and dropped a pillowcase. Phryne picked it up. It had a stiff patch, and there were little dents in the linen. Phryne said nothing but folded the case with the patch on the surface and held it out to the maid.

‘Bridget, you’re sacked!’ roared the doctor, crimson with embarrassment.

‘I just done what you told me to do!’ objected Bridget, hugging the sheets to her generous bosom. ‘Sacked, am I? I quit! I leave this house today!’

She stormed out and Tinker, at a nod from Phryne, went after her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ the doctor apologised to the company. ‘It’s so hard to get good servants these days . . .’

Which was an effective conversation starter, Phryne thought, as she turned aside and stowed the folded pillowcase in her bag. Just in—so to speak—case.

‘Bit
bouleversé
, our comrade,’ muttered Madgalen.

‘Yes, what is the matter with him?’ asked someone who might have been half of RM. ‘Not as though he adored his mother-in-law. You’d think he’d be relieved.’

‘Hush,’ said the other RM.

‘Got to do the civil,’ murmured Lucius Brazenose to Phryne. ‘But it’s a bit hot to wear the full catastrophe, you know.’

Phryne, steaming lightly in stockings, shoes and her good suit and blouse, agreed. Drinks, however, were not forthcoming. Something seemed to have held up the kitchen and even tea was now in short supply. Ruth’s Impossible Pie had vanished down to the last shred of coconut. Phryne suspected that Bridget had taken her grievances to the cook and was now packing her trunk and crying, and the cook had come out in sympathy with her oppressed Irish sister. Why had the doctor reacted so savagely? It could not just be the awkwardness of someone carrying the deceased’s bedsheets, not noticeably soiled, through the funeral company in the parlour. That was a faux pas, not a hanging offence. Jolly bouncing competent maids didn’t grow on any trees that Phryne knew. The doctor’s wife would be very cross when she emerged from her swoon and found her maid gone and a mutiny taking place in the kitchen . . .

Mr Wellbeloved, without his constant companion, the hyena Cyril, looked lonely. Julian Strange offered Phryne a nip from his flask. She took it, and regretted it. It was some vile aniseed raki or ouzo, which in its most debased form dissolved teeth. She obtained a cup of the pale imitation of tea which was all that was left, and rinsed her mouth.

Mrs Mason was just telling Sylvia Glass that her own cook was a jewel, a real jewel, when there was a stir and Miss Lavinia was escorted in by a tall, gaunt man who hovered over her protectively.

There was a gasp and a cluck from the matrons of Queenscliff, but the surrealists to a man or woman or whatever surged to her support. Phryne joined them to offer Miss Lavinia her condolences on her release from slavery and her coming into a large fortune. The tall man offered a hard hand and she shook it. Then she looked up into the face. Beaky nose, strong jaw, pendulous earlobes, eyes as bright as a pin, twinkling with recognition.

‘Monsieur,’ she said rapidly in French. ‘I believe that we have met before.’

‘Madame,’ he replied, ambiguously. ‘I could not have forgotten if we had.’

Madame Sélavy—male or female? She was equally convincing as both. And in any case it was none of Phryne’s business. She shook hands with the doctor, who seemed ready to expire with heat and irritation, murmured her best wishes to be conveyed to his prostrate wife, and looked around for her dependents.

Tinker was out of sight, probably in the kitchen. That boy had an affinity with any place which harboured food, Phryne thought. Well, he knew where he lived. Jane and Ruth rose obediently at her signal and they left in a convoy, out of the rustle of skirts and the fog of lavender water and respectability.

‘Not a word until we get home,’ Phryne warned as they crossed the road. Both heads nodded, the dark plait and the golden crop.

When the door had safely closed behind them, she asked, ‘Observations?’

‘They were a club or something, weren’t they?’ asked Jane. ‘All the people wearing fish.’

‘Yes, the surrealists,’ said Phryne. ‘Very good.’

‘And they made the nice ladies accept Miss Lavinia,’ continued Ruth. ‘Even though they hadn’t meant to.’

‘Good,’ said Phryne, taking off her hat.

‘And there was something wrong with that pillowcase,’ said Jane.

‘Why do you think that?’ asked Phryne.

‘Because you pinched it, Miss Phryne,’ they said in chorus.

‘You,’ said Phryne to her wards, ‘are so sharp you will cut yourself. I’ll have to think about it, then I’ll tell you. If we had the foresight to buy clever-girl chocolates, you may have one each. Now, I’m going to change my clothes, then I’m going for a walk. What about you?’

‘Not me,’ said Ruth, who had chapters of the
Stolen Bride
to read.

‘Nor me,’ said Jane, who was exploring metacarpals in the Room of Bones.

‘Then I’ll take Molly,’ said Phryne.

‘What about Tinker?’ asked Ruth.

‘Leave him alone and he’ll come home, wagging his tail behind him. I’ll be a few hours. If he isn’t back when I return we shall search—but he’s a clever boy,’ said Phryne airily. She went upstairs with the girls. Tinker was in the house before she set out.

Phryne walked Molly briskly up into the forest and the long way around the town, ending at the stretch of sand which lined Swan Bay. Molly arrived home so exhausted that she almost slept through dinner, which was very good fish and chips and pickled onions. Phryne arrived home hungry, tired, sandy and scratched but with a good knowledge of the local geography.

As soon as the parcel arrived from town, she would put her plan into place. Lin Chung had telegraphed that he would be in Queenscliff soon, and she wanted him all to herself with no interruptions from domestic problems, loss, kidnapping and attempted murder.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Shut, shut the door . . . ! fatigued I said, Tie up the knocker, say I’m sick, I’m dead.

Alexander Pope
Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot

It was ten o’clock on Monday. Mrs McNaster’s funeral cortège had departed. Tinker, at the gate, coincided with the arrival of the motorcycle rider and stood staring in stunned admiration at the machine. It was black and huge and inscribed with
Harley-Davidson
on its sleek side. It sounded like a plane landing.

‘Blimey,’ Tinker greeted the rider.

‘This Mercer Street? Miss Fisher in?’ asked the rider, shedding his leather flying helmet. He had curly hair and bright brown eyes.

‘She’s waiting for yer,’ said Tinker graciously, conducting this Hermes to the door and yelling, ‘The courier’s here, Guv!’ into the parlour, where Phryne was writing notes to herself.

‘Come in,’ she invited. ‘A cup of coffee, perhaps?’

‘Got to get home,’ said the young man. ‘Mum worries when I’m out on the bike. Here’s your stuff, with Grandad’s compliments. He wants me to ask if you would be so kind as to call on him and let him know if it worked,’ he added, evid- ently quoting the courtly Mr Rosenberg.

‘Done,’ said Phryne, taking the leather bag which the young man removed from his jacket. It was warm from his skin, and so were the contents. The courier gave Phryne a nod, asked, ‘Want a ride to the bottom of the street, young ’un?’, and took an ecstatic Tinker out of the room.

Phryne sat down again at the parlour table, pushed aside Dot’s drawn thread work, and opened the bag. Inside, carefully packed in cardboard and cotton wool, was a heap of coins. She gloated briefly. Then she dropped the local newspaper over them as Dot came in.

‘Hugh’s been dragged into seeing that policeman from Geelong,’ she said discontentedly. ‘And he’s supposed to be on holiday!’

‘You’ll have to get used to it, Dot dear, if you want to marry a policeman. The trouble with crime is that criminals tend not to retire,’ said Phryne sympathetically. ‘Still, you did cook him breakfast and you did dine with him and you did miss out on a fairly dire viewing of the remains.’

Dot sat down and took up her embroidery.

‘Oh, yes, of course, Mrs McNaster. How was it, Miss? I forgot to ask about it yesterday, I didn’t get back till ten!’

Dot was living the high life, and liking it. Last evening she had dined with Hugh at the Esplanade Hotel, watched
The Black Pirate
, starring Douglas Fairbanks, at the town hall, and had been walked home the long way with additional kisses and cuddles. Even though she had, indeed, prepared an heroic breakfast for Hugh, she had felt a wrench as she waved him off at the gate. Dot suspected that this, also, was part of being in love. She wasn’t at all sure that she liked it. How did Miss Phryne manage, bidding farewell to all those lovers apparently without a care? It was a puzzle.

‘All the surrealists were there, looking very respectable, which was a stretch for some of them,’ Phryne was continuing. ‘Mrs Green, however, is still prostrate, or so we are informed by Dr Green.’ She went on to tell Dot about the incident with Bridget.

‘Mrs Green’ll be real mad with her husband when she finds out that he’s sacked a good maid,’ Dot observed. ‘What’s happened to Bridget, then?’

‘Tinker, who was an ear-witness throughout, was carrying her bundle when she presented herself at Madame Sélavy’s door yesterday afternoon and was taken in,’ Phryne replied.

‘She’s better off there,’ Dot decided. ‘Something not right about that Green household. I wouldn’t want to work there.’

‘I agree,’ said Phryne.

Phryne was debating as to whether to show the pillowcase to Dot when Tinker rushed in, hair on end.

‘I’m gonna get one of them Harleys,’ he declared. ‘When I can. Went down to the bottom of the street like lightning.’

‘Later, Tinker, later,’ said Phryne. ‘Stick to a pushbike for the present.’

‘What did the bloke on the bike bring yer, Guv?’ asked Tinker.

‘Later.’ Phryne waved him away. ‘The breakfast washing-up waits.’

‘Nah, Máire’s doing it.’

‘Then go and help her,’ instructed Phryne.

The penny finally dropped and Tinker went obediently to the kitchen.

‘Now, Dot, something odd,’ Phryne began. ‘I’d like your opinion on it. When Bridget was carrying the linen, she dropped . . .’

The doorbell rang. Phryne shelved the subject. The pillowcase was too serious a thing to be gossiped about in a parlour on a bright warm day by the seaside, anyway. She decided to keep it to herself for the present, and await developments.

Phryne did not know the three who were shown in by Dot. A tall man, a frazzled-looking woman with flyaway red hair and a complexion to match, and a sullen young man.

‘Miss Fisher?’ asked the tall man. He was haunted by some secret sorrow, Phryne saw, which he was sure he was about to unload on her. This was becoming tedious.

‘I am Miss Fisher,’ she said, graciously enough. ‘To what do I owe the honour of —’

‘She lives here, doesn’t she, the girl with the yen for cameras?’ interrupted the sullen youth. ‘I been asking up and down this blighted street, and—’

‘You are referring to my daughter Jane?’ asked Phryne in glacial tones. The tall man sloshed at the young man with a careless, fly-swatting motion.

‘Give over, Ginger! I beg your pardon, Miss Fisher. I am Andrew Applegate, and this is my cameraman, Paul Orphin, known as Ginger, and my assistant and producer, Miss George. You have heard of the tragedy that befell our little enterprise?’

‘Yes, your leading lady was almost murdered,’ said Phryne bluntly. Miss George winced.

‘Yes, poor Lily. The medical authorities say that she will certainly live and might not even be scarred. In any case we can shoot around a scar. She will go on! Destined for stardom, cut down in the first blush of her career, which will undoubtedly be a dazzling one, and we have her contract, but . . .’

‘You are short one leading lady,’ finished Phryne.

‘As you say,’ Applegate coughed. ‘We have only the ship scenes to film, and the star is only seen from a distance in them, so since your daughter was so kind as to be interested in the workings of the camera, and since she has, like poor lost Lily, a fascination for the films . . .’

Jane and Ruth entered the parlour.

There was a dead silence as the film crew surveyed Jane’s new coiffure.

‘There must be plenty of Queenscliff girls who can stand in for poor Lily,’ Phryne said in consolation.

‘No, the silly young minxes have got it into their feather heads that there’s a murderer stalking the film, and they won’t sign up,’ rasped Miss George, in a voice which suggested too many cigars in a day. ‘We thought that your girl might not be so superstitious.’

‘Oh, she’s not,’ said Phryne, beginning to enjoy herself. ‘And I happen to know that there is a very good wig-maker in Queenscliff. Probably make you a good price, too—if you act now, before she’s arrested for receiving stolen goods.’

‘What do you say?’ Applegate spoke directly to Jane. ‘Five quid for a day’s work, in your hand. No mention in the credits, though, no residuals, no royalties.’

‘Miss Phryne?’ asked Jane.

Phryne waved a hand. ‘As you like, my dear girl.’

‘Ten,’ bargained Jane. ‘There are some books I want to buy.’

‘Ten it is,’ said Applegate, making Jane wish she’d held out for twelve and got the full Britannica.

Miss George produced a contract, which Phryne read very carefully before she found and unscrewed her fountain pen. Jane took it and signed.

‘One day’s work, and that is today,’ said Phryne. ‘And one copy of the film when it is finished. Also, I would like to view what has been filmed thus far.’

‘Deal,’ said the cameraman promptly. ‘I’ll set up the gear. We need to do some editing, anyway. Miss Jane can help me. That wall all right?’

A large amount of gear was dragged in by Jane, Paul and Tinker. Dot drew the curtains. Máire came in from the kitchen to ask about lunch and was told to take a seat. There were three reels of film, and they were, Ruth decided, not anything like as interesting as they should have been. Lots of shots of the sea, lots of shots of Lily standing on the shore, hugging a sulky-looking infant. Lily talking to the male lead, Lily weeping. Lots of pirates—really Queenscliff fisherman, some of whom looked definitely frightening and might well have been pirates in a former life. Old Mr O’Malley looked positively dangerous with a bandanna on and that knife between his few remaining teeth.

But Lily, thought Phryne, oh, poor Lily had had something very rare. The camera loved her. The cinema makeup had evened out her skin, the stringy hair had been shampooed and hung in ringlets, the light caressed the smooth planes of her cheek and throat. She was authentically beautiful, haunting in her abandoned cinematic sorrow, a model for Ariadne on Naxos. Dot thought the same.

‘Who would have thought it?’ she asked. ‘That Lily. She might be a star, after all.’

‘Yes.’ Miss George was in tears. ‘We actually have a real find in Lilias—we are going to change her name. She’ll be the making of us, and of herself as well. And someone went and mutilated her!’

‘Cruel,’ said Phryne. She had seen all that she needed. She excused herself and went to the kitchen for a strong brandy and soda. Poor Lily. But even that dolt Constable Dawson would have put his hands on the assailant by now. It was obvious.

Ruth delegated the luncheon sandwiches to Máire and followed Jane and the film crew to the foreshore, where a pirate ship had been hanging about for hours, waiting for the signal to land and filling in the time with a little hand-line fishing. Dot had just settled to her drawn threadwork again when Mrs Mason came calling, and had to be admitted.

This time Phryne offered her a drink right away, as she had one herself. Molly came and sat companionably on her feet. Mrs Mason was flurried and pink in the face and gulped down a sustaining gin and orange as though it was water.

‘The boys, Miss Fisher . . .’ she began, holding out her glass for more.

‘What has happened to them?’ asked Phryne, hoping for dengue fever.

‘They’ve run away!’ Mrs Mason burst into tears. Dot offered her a handkerchief.

‘How do you know? Did they leave you a note?’ asked Phryne. In answer a piece of notepaper was stuffed into her hand. It was creased and had evidently come from someone’s algebra homework. In a boyish hand was written:
ABC is an isosceles triangle. Angle a is 30 degrees. Got to get away from here Mum gone walking be back love Jol
.

‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Phryne said calmly. ‘They’re ashamed and horrified and they’ve gone away to get nice and cold and wet and hungry. Then they’ll be home demanding baths and food and first aid and sympathy. Give them three days, unless they’re tougher than they look. Have they got any money?’

‘A few pennies,’ sobbed Mrs Mason. ‘But I don’t know how much they got from . . .’

‘Selling hair? Can’t have been more than a few pounds. They can’t get anywhere with that. They’re nice civilised brats, not used to working, don’t know how to approach country people except as the Young Master and I bet that won’t go down well in Queenscliff and environs. More like two days, come to think of it. Finish your drink, go home and put your feet up and get your maid to read a nice book to you. If your son ran away to punish you, you must not comply and punish yourself. If he didn’t, then it is foolish. Can we lend you a romance? Dot, find the lady an engrossing novel.’

‘Don’t you have any motherly feelings?’ demanded Mrs Mason, finishing her drink and getting to her feet.

‘No, I seem to have missed out on them,’ replied Phryne sunnily. ‘Ah, here we are.
Bride of Midnight
. Sounds Gothic. Good morning, Mrs Mason.’

Dot saw Mrs Mason to her door, where the acidulated butler let her in. He gave Dot a conspiratorial look as Mrs Mason staggered in, carrying her book and calling for her maid.

Dot returned to find Phryne adding ice to her second drink.

‘You can’t say I didn’t try to avoid notice,’ she complained to Dot as she belted the ice block with the pick. Shards flew. Dot fielded several large bits and dropped them into the jug of orange juice.

‘I know, Miss, sometimes it’s just like that. And Hugh not back yet; he said he’d be back for lunch.’

Máire, who had retreated behind the kitchen door out of the reach of shrapnel, suggested timidly that she could be getting on with making the sandwiches now, and Miss Ruth had left an egg and bacon pie, if that would suit? Implication being, if she had the kitchen to herself. And Phryne, relinquishing her weapon, carried the jug into the parlour.

Tinker, who had been in the garden with Gaston, watering the herbs, returned.

‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘She’s got a temper, the guv’nor.’

‘She has that,’ agreed Máire. ‘And we’d better get the lunch all laid out proper, or she might take it out on us.’

Tinker didn’t think this likely, but carried the cloths into the dining room and began to dress the table, in case.

‘One more caller,’ Phryne vowed, ‘and I might commit an indictable offence.’

‘Cheer up,’ advised Dot. ‘It might be someone nice.’

‘Hah!’ Phryne drank her drink and opened the volume of fairy tales. They might, she thought, sweeten her mood.

She was halfway through ‘The Little Mermaid’ and mentally cursing the name of Hans Christian Andersen, who, though undoubtedly a nice man, had convinced thousands of little girls that suffering the pain of dancing on knives was a good exchange for marrying the prince, and thus condemned them to lives of disappointment, when the bell rang again and she heard Tinker scurrying to answer it.

Dot got up and went out into the hall, shutting the door behind her. Phryne shut Hans Christian with a snap as Constable Dawson and Hugh came in and slumped down into the wicker chairs. Hugh’s chair groaned and wheezed under his weight, but held up manfully.

‘Oh dear, gentlemen, what is wrong?’ she asked, surveying their downcast expressions.

‘This attempted murder,’ said Hugh. ‘You can speak freely in front of Miss Fisher, Tom. She’s a good friend of my boss, Detective Inspector Robinson. Sharpest mind outside the force, he says.’