Dead Man's Chest (2 page)

The sun parlour was spotless and comfortable, furnished with cane chairs and possibly just a thought too many wicker whatnots. A small maid came in with tea on a trolley, an innovation of which Phryne approved. The weight of the average tray of teapot, milk jug, hot-water jug, sugar basin, slop basin, strainer, and cups and saucers was far too much for any young woman. Not to mention what looked like a rather good pound cake, a succulent fruitcake and a mound of freshly made scones. Phryne was hungry.

She allowed Dot to explain the situation as she made a healthy attack on the cake and loaded a scone or two with plum jam and cream. Mrs Mason, now relieved of her fears for her nice Mr Thomas’s affections, exclaimed in horror.

‘The Johnsons not back! I can’t believe it! No warning! No letter! That is not like them, really it isn’t,’ she said, raising her plump pink hands. Now that she was being nice Mrs Mason, she had a pleasant, educated, alto voice. ‘And the kitchen empty?’

‘Not a crumb,’ said Phryne, taking over the conversation so that Dot could have her turn at the cake. ‘These scones are first rate, Mrs Mason.’

‘Thank you—my cook is very good,’ said Mrs Mason distractedly. ‘I really can’t imagine what might have happened! The Johnsons were on a week’s leave—they should have been back yesterday! But first things first. We shall telephone that nice Constable Dawson. Then we shall telephone Miss Miller, who has the employment agency. She might have a few people on her books, but really, this far into the season, I fear all the good people will be taken. But there might have been a cancellation,’ said Mrs Mason bravely. ‘Then of course you will dine with me tonight, and tomorrow the tradesmen will call as usual and you can order replacements. And you say that your daughters are still in the house and not a bite to eat? I shall order a hamper to be sent over immediately. And a bone for the doggie, of course.’

She bustled away. Phryne poured herself another cup of tea.

‘I know what you are thinking,’ she said to Dot, who was nibbling her second slice of cake.

‘Yes, Miss?’

‘You are thinking that I attract mysteries,’ said Phryne, a little uneasily. She had promised everyone a nice holiday by the sea and absolutely no murders. Though the Johnsons might be alive and well and living on damper (made from Mr Thomas’s flour) on Swan Island, of course.

Dot swallowed and considered.

‘Well, yes, Miss, you do. But I don’t reckon this was anyways your fault,’ she said generously, much restored by tea and pound cake, her favourite. ‘We just walked straight into this one.’

‘Thank you, Dot. Have a scone? They’re very good.’

‘Thanks,’ said Dot. ‘I will.’

They had made considerable inroads into the scones before Mrs Mason came back. She escorted a stout, self-possessed woman in an apron, who brought with her an appetising smell of onions and cucumber and mixed fruits. Mrs Mason introduced her with a small chuckle.

‘This is Mrs Cook, my cook.’

‘Cook by name and cook by profession,’ put in the round woman, inspecting the newcomers with interest. She had bright blue eyes, red cheeks, and the very clean hands of one who has been making pastry.

‘It’s fate,’ said Phryne, smiling. ‘My butler is called Mr Butler.’

‘Is he, dear? That’s fate for you. You say the Johnsons have not come back?’

‘They have not, leaving only a broken bootlace behind,’ Phryne replied.

‘I wouldn’t have thought it of them,’ said the cook slowly. ‘Seemed perfectly devoted to that Mr Thomas. Been with him a long time, too. And to steal the provisions—that I can’t believe.’

‘Nonetheless, a good-sized mouse would starve in that kitchen. Now, what are we to do?’

‘You’ll have to find someone else, dear, that’s true. I can lend you my scullery maid to get the new things settled in but she can’t cook for toffee.’

‘I thought of calling Miss Miller,’ suggested Mrs Mason deferentially. It was clear where power lay in this household. A good cook at holiday time must be worth her weight in diamonds.

‘She won’t have no one suitable,’ the cook assured her mistress. ‘Not this far into the season. I’ll ask around, Miss,’ she said to Phryne. ‘I’ve sent the boy over with a hamper which will feed you through breakfast tomorrow, then we shall see.’

‘Thank you,’ murmured Phryne.

‘And I’ve told him to light the pilot light for the hot water,’ said the cook. ‘You’ll be wanting a wash after all that travelling. You can hang on to the cheeky young monkey to do some of your lifting. If you can get any work out of him you’ll be doing well. It’s more than I can do.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Cook,’ said Mrs Mason. The cook smiled at Phryne and Dot and bobbed something which might pass for a curtsey.

‘Can’t leave my puff paste for long,’ she said, and went with a whisk of her apron.

‘She’s a character,’ said Mrs Mason admiringly.

‘She certainly is,’ agreed Phryne.

Returning to the house, Phryne found that the hamper had arrived and her household was gathered around the kitchen table watching Ruth make tea. She was managing it with a fine flourish. Mrs Butler taught her pupils well.

Jane was calculating how much the water would need to cool before she could drink the tea, and whether it was better to put the milk in first or last in order to cool it most expeditiously.

A lanky boy lounged in the doorway. His cap was on the back of his head, a gasper was in his mouth, and he did not look like a representative of the great working class.

‘Girls, you deserve tea, so you shall have it. George, you haven’t done any work yet, so you will have to earn it,’ Phryne announced briskly. ‘Stub the smoke and start on the trunks, if you want anything to eat before these starving ladies scoff it all.’

‘My name ain’t George,’ he scowled. ‘It’s Eddie.’

‘George it will be until I see some progress. Come along! Policemen will be here any moment.’

‘P’lice?’ said George, awestruck. Phryne diagnosed an avid reader of shilling shockers.

‘Off you go, Sexton Blake,’ she told him. He gaped at her. No one had read his mind since that strange lady next door had got him in the street and told him he was destined to be a cop. He ground out the gasper and almost ran into the hall.

‘You’re very good,’ said Dot admiringly. ‘The cook said she couldn’t get a hand’s turn out of him.’

‘Just a matter of knowing where to apply the lever,’ said Phryne.

CHAPTER TWO

From time to time a prince would try to force his way through the hedge to get to the castle, but no one ever succeeded.

Brothers Grimm ‘Sleeping Beauty’

Mr Thomas had been prepared for visitors. There was a trunk hoist for lifting the luggage to the top floor.

Phryne, deciding that the best thing she could do was get out of the way of the domestic preparations, climbed the stairs in a thoughtful frame of mind. It might be a good idea to have a look at the scene of the . . . crime, perhaps . . . before it was converted entirely to Phryne’s household usages.

The layout of the house was simple and agreeable. The main staircase debouched onto a substantial landing, rather dark but provided with a skylight, and on Phryne’s right, at the back of the house, was a formidable padlocked door. It was customary for one who often lent his house to strangers to keep one room inviolate, a place to store his precious glassware, vintage port and dubious etchings, and to keep them from prying eyes or serious thirsts by locking the room ostentatiously. This was a brass padlock weighing about a pound and Phryne could take a hint.

Beside the sanctum was a large linen press, a service table for trays of early morning tea, and the back stair. Phryne ventured down it a few steps and heard the girls in the kitchen. Dot was saying with approval, ‘Now that was a very good cup of tea!’ Phryne returned and found two small rooms were on the other side, evidently bedrooms as they were provided with iron bedsteads on which flock mattresses lay neatly rolled and tied. She searched them and found nothing but one dropped earring (silver, globular). To the front of the house she saw the main bedroom, which already contained a lot of Phryne’s clothes laid out on a large bed dressed with Phryne’s own dark green sheets. Dot had been at work. Nothing odd in this room, either, except a couple of collar studs and the odd pin. Out of a new shirt, perhaps.

The room had a cast-iron balcony which looked straight out to sea. The view was glorious. Phryne promised herself long hours of staring out to the horizon—or, at least, Portsea—and continued her search. Bathroom—spacious, very clean, no sign that a man had, for instance, shaved here. Recently renewed with a bath big enough to wallow in, gorgeous green tiles and a blue cork floor. She tried the hot tap. After an initial spray of cold, hot water gushed out. Phryne was pleased. She really craved a deep, scented, foamy bath after driving and after the swim she intended to take soon. The bathroom’s balcony window was of an appropriately frosted glass, lest those outside in the street should be honoured with a more intimate view of Miss Fisher than she allowed her casual acquaintances.

The three little front bedrooms had been claimed by Dot, Jane and Ruth. The rooms were charmingly characteristic. Ruth, who had been a slavey and had never forgotten it, cherishing her new-found prosperity, had made her bed with hospital corners, hung and folded her clothes, and set her favourite bedside reading—Carême’s
Cuisine
—with its accompanying dictionary on the square chest of drawers which served as a bedside table. Her shoes were paired and under her bed.

Jane, who had no interest in frivolities, had obviously allowed Ruth to make her bed and had then flung an armload of assorted garments to crumple nicely on the quilt. However, stacked meticulously on her bedside table, were a lot of books, a pad of paper and a bundle of pencils. In among the writing implements was a toothbrush, Phryne was glad to see. Jane was presently reading a volume on chess, presumably for light relief.

Dot’s room was like Dot herself: neat, well designed, everything to hand, the only unusual note being the rosary hanging from her bedside light. To be handy for any late-night prayers, apparently. Dot was reading
The Sheik’s Desert Lover
, shame on her. Nothing here—someone had swept the floor.

Phryne went downstairs as someone pounded on the front door. No Mr Butler to sift the unwanted from the welcome visitors. How I suffer, reflected Phryne humorously, quoting her friend Mrs Grossman.
Dah—ling, how I suffer!

She hauled open the front door to find herself confronted with a uniformed policeman. He seemed to be taken aback.

‘Er . . . Lady Fisher?’ he stammered, blushing.

Phryne grinned to herself. Clearly her fame had preceded her. This rural cop was very young with blue eyes and had turned an unattractive shade of beetroot. It clashed with the red plush wallpaper of the hall.

‘Just call me Miss Fisher, and do come in,’ she said. ‘It seems that we have a bit of a mystery.’

‘Constable Dawson, Miss,’ he said, sidling past her. ‘They say that the Johnsons have flitted.’

‘Leaving not a rack behind,’ agreed Phryne. ‘They cleaned out the kitchen, took all their goods and furniture, and I believe that a couple of artworks are missing.’

‘You searched the house?’ he asked briskly.

‘Certainly. Just a few bits and bobs.’

‘No . . . er . . .’ He was wondering how to ask this of one of the delicately nurtured. Phryne might have allowed him to keep on stammering but she was not a cruel woman.

‘No sign of a struggle, no bloodstains, no marks or scuffs such as one would find if bodies had been dragged,’ she told him, leading the way to the servants’ quarters. ‘All the locks were intact. But when I arrived the kitchen door was open, and so was the garden gate. I have locked both of them since,’ she added, to spare him the trouble of delivering the standard policeman’s lecture on securing one’s premises against the visitations of the ungodly. And to spare herself the tedium of listening to it.

The kitchen contained Ruth, sitting at the table and making notes for her shopping list. The tea tray had been tidied and prepared for further supply. Phryne gestured at Ruth not to get up.

‘Don’t forget ice,’ she advised, leading Constable Dawson into the empty rooms beside the kitchen.

‘No, Miss Phryne,’ replied Ruth, scribbling.

‘Nothing left, is there?’ asked Constable Dawson helplessly, tipping back his helmet and scratching his curly brown hair.

‘Not a lot. Tell me about the Johnsons,’ commanded Phryne.

‘Both about fifty. Getting on, as you might say. Supposed to be devoted to Mr Thomas. Been with him all his life. Mrs Johnson was his family’s cook and Mr Johnson the houseman. Never drunk, never chased girls—beg pardon, Miss Fisher—used to put a little bit on the gee-gees. Only a little bit. She was teetotal, a real good cook, and they both used to sing in the Presbyterian church choir.’

‘Not the stuff of which villains are made,’ commented Phryne.

‘On the other hand, maybe the stuff of which victims are made,’ returned the constable, rather neatly. ‘Have you searched the cellar?’

‘I didn’t know we had one,’ said Phryne, with a certain sinking in her well-tailored middle.

‘Just down here,’ said the constable, pushing aside a piece of drugget and lifting a previously unnoticed trapdoor which fitted flush with the scullery floor. ‘You don’t have to come down, Miss.’

‘Oh, yes, I do,’ said Phryne. ‘You need me to hold the light.’

‘Ought to be a switch here somewhere . . .’ muttered Dawson, taking two steps down into the dark. He flailed around for the string for the light and failed to find it.

‘Stay there,’ said Phryne, and called out for the boy. He arrived panting, cap pushed back, eyes bright.

‘Yes, guv’nor?’

‘Go out to the car and get my electric torch, will you, Tinker?’

The boy sprinted off.

‘You’re getting on with that workshy young blighter,’ observed Constable Dawson, who was completely unable to place Miss Fisher. A fashionable young lady, with that black hair cut in a cap and those rose-red lips, her skirt so short he could almost see her knees. But she had known about blood and scuff marks and she was not turning a hair at the idea of going down into a cellar which might contain the horrible remains of the late lamented Johnsons.

‘He’s suffering from a bad attack of hero worship,’ observed Miss Fisher. ‘He just needed someone to emulate. And it’s Sexton Blake, in his case.’

‘Ah,’ said Dawson, who himself subscribed to the monthly adventures of that ageless sleuth. ‘Bit childish?’

‘I don’t find him so,’ said this remarkable woman. ‘You have noticed, I trust, that there is no smell coming from the cellar? Nothing except cold earth and a faint scent of wine. I do not believe that we will find our missing lambs down in the dark.’

‘No, Miss?’ asked Constable Dawson, who had not been looking forward to going down those stairs.

Tinker returned with the torch and was allowed to stay as Phryne and the constable stepped gingerly down into the cellar. It did, the policeman noticed, indeed smell of cold earth and wine. And nothing else. Not that dreadful unforgettable sweet reek of rotting flesh. When they had brought in that drowned fisherman, the station stank of him for days and Dawson had alarmed his mother by totally refusing to eat meat for a week. Missing out on his previous favourite, rabbit stew.

He never wanted to smell that smell again. It wasn’t present and neither were the Johnsons. The cellar contained spiderwebs, a lot of bottles on racks, some corkscrews, decanters and what Miss Fisher informed him were tasting glasses. One painting, tipped so that it was facing the wall. It was of a pretty girl in a swing; very frothy petticoats, she had. Constable Dawson wished that he had not been born with a blush reflex.

‘Boucher,’ announced Miss Fisher. ‘Isn’t it fun?’

Constable Dawson thought it verged on obscene but did not venture an opinion. He knew he didn’t know anything about Art. But if that gentleman in the picture couldn’t see right up that lady’s skirts, he was a Dutchman.

There was also a box which contained a set of china ornaments. They were nice, the constable thought. Four china ladies in hoop skirts and big hats. One of them had a sheep with her, for reasons known only to the porcelain designer.

‘The seasons,’ said Miss Fisher. ‘Chelsea. Very valuable and not a chip. I’ll put them back. Autumn with her lamb, Spring with her blossom, Winter with her bundle of holly, Summer with her roses. Well. No corpses, that is a nice surprise. Thank you, Tinker, you may replace the torch. Shall we ascend? I’ll ask Ruth to make some tea while we are looking at the missing artworks—or, rather, where they had been. You know what I mean. Dot? All clear,’ she said, as Dot’s anxious face appeared above her.

‘That’s good news,’ said Dot.

‘This is Miss Williams, my companion. Dot, this is Constable Dawson,’ Phryne said. ‘No, leave the drugget, I’d like to inspect Mr Thomas’s wine. Now, some tea would be nice. Can you make some tea for us, Ruth?’

‘I can,’ said Ruth, glowing with pride.

Dot escorted Constable Dawson into the parlour, where a large unfaded patch in the plush wallpaper denoted the loss of a painting.

‘And there are four marks in the dust on this mantelpiece,’ she added.

‘Nothing else missing, Miss?’ asked Dawson. ‘Only I reckon those marks were left when someone put them china ladies in the cellar.’

‘And the painting is the Boucher,’ agreed Phryne. ‘What an observant young officer you are! I can tell that you will go far in your chosen profession. We can prove the hypothesis. Tinker, take your piece of string and measure that painting in the cellar, will you?’

‘Right away, Guv’nor!’ gasped the boy and dashed out.

‘How did you know he would have a piece of string?’ asked Jane, who had tucked herself into a corner of the couch after her preliminary survey of the bookshelves. She had a small stack of books on the little table next to her.

‘He’s a boy,’ said Phryne. ‘Boys always have string. And toffee and all manner of interesting stuff in their pockets. When my mother was washing I used to empty said pockets and I found fishhooks, BB pellets, pins, elastic bands, bottle caps, cigarette cards, fudge, corks, everything you can imagine—including, on one occasion, a live frog, and on another a couple of blue-tongue lizards.’

‘Gosh! Alive?’ asked Jane.

‘And very disgruntled,’ Phryne told her. ‘Nothing ruins a well-conducted lizard’s day like being stuffed into a boy’s pocket with nothing but elderly fudge and fishhooks to eat and the prospect of being plunged into a boiling copper to look forward to.’

‘What happened to the frog?’ asked Jane.

‘It got away,’ Phryne replied.

Constable Dawson was confused. This Miss Phryne was a lady and her mother took in washing? There was a story there, he could tell. But he probably wasn’t going to hear it. Now her companion, that Miss Williams, he could place her. Good girl, in bed every night by ten, read improving books, saving up for her own home, good plain cook, very competent about the house, probably had a bloke of her own. They almost always did, in Constable Dawson’s sad experience. He sighed a small constabulary sigh and attended to Tinker, who came running back and, with obvious pride, climbed on a chair and demonstrated, by the knots in his long piece of string, that the saucy painting in the cellar was the same size as the patch on the wallpaper.

‘Very neat, Tinker, you can get down now. How are we going with the trunks?’ asked Phryne.

‘All upstairs, Guv’nor,’ he said.

‘Good. I wonder if I can hire you from Mrs Mason? Would you like that?’

Tinker shot her a look of the sort of intense devotion which St Catherine of Siena might consider overdrawn.

‘Please, Miss! The old chook . . . I mean, Mrs M don’t like me above half,’ he explained. ‘I don’t think she’d miss me. Plenty of boys around.’

‘All right. Go and ask Ruth if there is anything you can do for her, and help her unpack my special box, will you? And be very careful with the port,’ she added, as he poised on one toe at the door, like a shabby, tweed-capped Hermes on his way to take messages to lower-class maidens from Zeus, when slumming.

There was a faint ‘Right you are, Guv’nor’ as he vanished kitchenwards.

‘Well, Constable Dawson, that’s all we have to show you,’ said Phryne. ‘Come and have some tea and we shall discuss this further.’

Dot and Ruth entered the breakfast room, pushing a trolley on which reposed a good teapot, the usual accoutrements, a plate of ginger biscuits and one of plain thin-cut bread and butter. A meagre spread compared to Phryne’s usual level of catering but perfectly adequate.