Dead Man's Chest (6 page)

‘La-di-dah,’ said Tinker through a gargantuan mouthful. He liked to taste all of the components of this wonderful breakfast at once. He swallowed and went on, ‘All she thinks about is the movies. Thinks she’s Theda Bara. Works all right if you yell at her. That’s what Mrs Cook does. That Lily’s only got a job because its the height of the season. Soon as Easter’s over, she’ll be goin’ back to Mother.’

‘And good riddance,’ murmured Dot. No one had ever allowed her to behave like that.

‘Still, any port in a storm, that’s what the fishos say.’ Tinker had cleared his plate and was now leaning back with the expression of a tiger shark who had ravened down a goodly portion of sperm whale and really couldn’t eat another toothful of that nice nourishing blubber. ‘Eh, Gaston?’

The little dog had absorbed a solid meal of dog biscuits and leftovers and seemed replete. He was lying with his head on Tinker’s foot. Molly, still not too sure of Gaston, kept her distance and growled occasionally to remind him that he was unwelcome.

‘All right,’ said Ruth, getting up and handing him the kettle. ‘Refill that, will you, Tinker, and then can you water the herb garden? After that there’s a lot of peeling.’

Tinker took the kettle. It was work, but the company was very pleasant, and for a breakfast like that every day Miss Fisher had his entire devotion.

Phryne woke after a disturbed night in which she had been: 1) sacrificed to the Corn King, 2) shut in a dark hut and fed only on sago, and 3) thrown into a volcano. That’s what comes of too much anthropology late at night, she thought, then brightened. These dreams could not be omens of trouble ahead. All of the said sacrifices had to be virgins, and it was far, far too late for Phryne Fisher to qualify.

She rose and bathed in the elegant bathroom. She wrapped herself in one of her flowing Chinese robes. There was no bell in the room so she went out in search of breakfast and met Dot on the landing. She was carrying a tray.

‘Coffee, Miss Phryne, and a nice new roll. I’ve found that apricot jam you like, too, and the Queenscliff butter is first rate. Shall I take the tray onto your balcony? There’s a nice little table and chair there.’

‘Thanks, Dot dear, that is really kind of you. How fares the household this morning?’

Phryne seated herself at the iron table and Dot poured her a cup of the inky, dangerous Hellenic coffee which jolted Phryne into wakefulness.

‘Jane isn’t up yet,’ said Dot disapprovingly. ‘Ruth and Tinker are starting the peeling and so on.’

‘Ah, yes, a kitchen maid. We shall have to do something about that today. Did you sleep well, Dot?’

‘Yes, Miss, I could hear the sea. It’s really hard to keep awake if you can hear the waves.’

‘I stayed up reading those anthropology texts, Dot dear, and they were too, too dire. I strongly suspect the “naked savages” of having a little quiet fun at the expense of the enquirers.’

‘Well, why shouldn’t they?’ asked Dot. ‘Poor benighted heathens, why should they have to answer all them questions from a lot of white men? They’re likely to think it’s none of their business. You got all you want, Miss?’

‘Yes, thank you, I shall be down soon,’ Phryne assured her.

To beguile her very good bread with excellent butter and superlative apricot jam, she read a few more pages of Dr Thorndyke. Phryne had been educated enough as to the beastly ways of the poor benighted heathens.

When Phryne had assumed some summer garments, omitted stockings and found her sandals, she descended to the kitchen, where the household now seemed to gather, and found that the staff had been augmented, once more, by Lily. She was peeling oranges with a discontented air and seemed pleased to see Miss Fisher, who might be interested in the amazing news she had to impart.

‘There’s a movie being made in Queenscliff!’ she exclaimed, spraying orange juice into her immediate environs. Tinker, who was sitting next to her chopping dates, made a disgusted noise and moved his chopping board rather pointedly to the other end of the table. He had never had a clean shirt (and another to change into and one in the wash, making three shirts in all) before, and he objected to being stained so early in the morning.

‘Really!’ Phryne sounded gratifyingly interested. ‘What are you making, Ruth?’

‘It’s an Arabian Night dessert, Miss Phryne,’ said Ruth. ‘So I need the oranges in cups, not in bits.’

‘Like this,’ said Phryne, taking the little knife away from Lily and sliding it into the halved orange. ‘You just slip the knife around like this, and
voila
! An orange cup. You do the next one and tell me about this film.’

Lily made such a mess of the next orange that Phryne removed the knife for public safety reasons and gave her the potato peeler.

‘Tcha!’ remarked Ruth. Being a cook had not improved Ruth’s temper.

‘I’ll do the oranges, you peel,’ Phryne encouraged. ‘You can’t stay in the kitchen unless you work, you see.’

Lily looked at Miss Fisher. A lady, Mrs Mason had said. She was dressed in a loose cotton shift printed with seaweed and scallop shells which seemed simple. Lily somehow knew that her entire monthly salary would not begin to pay for it. Dot dropped an apron over Miss Fisher’s head, confirming Lily’s view that this was haute couture. And she was real good with that knife.

‘They just came in this morning,’ Lily told Phryne. ‘Staying at the Esplanade.’

‘Oh, very high class,’ said Tinker, chopping mint now in a cloud of scent. ‘If they’re so swanky, why ain’t they staying at the Queenscliff?’

‘You shut up,’ snapped Lily.

‘Tinker, do put a sock in it,’ requested Phryne. The boy blushed and continued with the herbs, which smelt divine. ‘If you don’t like potatoes, we can give you the onions,’ hinted Phryne. Lily hated chopping onions. The smell went into her hair and sank into her skin so that everyone would know she was a skivvy, fit mate for a butcher’s boy.

‘Mr Applegate and Mr Orphin,’ said Lily sulkily, mutilating an innocent potato. ‘They had a lot of gear, cameras and film and stuff. And they say that they’re making a film about Queenscliff, and we’re all going to be in it!’

‘Ha!’ said Tinker, remembered his orders, and turned it into a cough. ‘I reckon that’s all the mint, Miss Ruth. What’s next?’

‘Strain the orange juice into this jug,’ requested Ruth. She was wondering what to have for her fish course. The fishmonger’s boy had not yet come, which argued that there had not been a good catch, at least, not enough left over for the town when the fishermen had fulfilled their quota of fish for the city of Melbourne, whose tables and fish-and-chip shops all that bounty of barracouta were destined to furnish forth. Perhaps she could do as Miss Leytel daringly suggested and leave out the fish course, supplying more vegetables, simply but beautifully cooked. There were globe artichokes and those lovely carrots just cried out to be candied with ginger.

She would ask Miss Phryne when she had finished interrogating Lily. Ruth and Dot knew an interrogation when they heard it. Though most felons reported that it was a pleasure to tell Miss Fisher anything she wanted to know.

‘So, what is the name of the film?’ asked Phryne. She made very beautiful orange cups and Ruth marvelled. Never had she thought that Phryne would be able to turn her hand to anything in the kitchen. Greatly daring, and believing that Phryne might need an excuse to stay in the kitchen and talk to Lily, she presented Phryne with a platter of lemons to be sliced, deseeded and laid in sugar to be candied. Miss Leytel had a very good recipe for candied peel.

Phryne began slicing lemons expertly. Lily, emboldened, mangled another potato and gasped, ‘
Benito’s Treasure
—it’s a mystery!’

‘You would think there were enough of them around here,’ observed Dot, who was stoning cherries with a paperclip.

‘But they’re using the story of the pirates!’ imparted Lily, putting down a potato peeled to the size of a walnut.

Dot hated waste. She took the peeling on herself, now that she had completed her cherries. Dot could peel potatoes in her sleep.

‘Those boys were talking about treasure,’ said Ruth, coming out of her text for a moment. Lily giggled.

‘Ooh, yes, everyone knows about it. It was Benito’s treasure. He came into the bay in his ship, landed the treasure from some cathedral, all golden saints and church cups, and when he came out again a navy ship was waiting and blew him out of the water. Everyone knows about the treasure, though no one knows where it is.’

‘It sounds like it will make a good story,’ prompted Phryne.

‘They’re already setting up in Swan Bay,’ Lily told her. ‘I’m going out there when . . . when . . .’

‘When you have finished here. Which is now. Take off your apron, dear girl, and I hope to see you on the silver screen,’ said Phryne, and Lily found herself free, and vanished out the back door. ‘And good fortune to you,’ said Phryne, handing over her lemon slices. ‘We really must find you a kitchen maid, Ruth dear. That one is a wet slap and a dead loss.’

‘But where?’ wailed Ruth.

‘Missus?’ said a tentative voice outside the door. Tinker opened it.

‘It’s one of the fishos,’ he told Phryne. ‘A Mick.’

‘You will not use that word again, Tinker, or you will be finding other employment,’ Phryne told him. It was the fisherboy from the day before, looking frightened and bearing in his arms a huge fish. It had a disgruntled expression, for which it could hardly be blamed.

‘Hello, Michael,’ said Phryne. ‘Is that for me?’

‘Caught it meself, Missus,’ said the boy, looking away. ‘To say thank you, like. For saving my skin like you did.’

‘That’s a very good thankyou.’ Phryne admired the fish. ‘Can you cook this, Ruth?’

‘Ooh, yes, baked with olive oil, lemon and herbs,’ said Ruth, receiving the snapper into her arms and hugging it.

Michael Callaghan shifted from foot to foot.

‘Was I after hearing that the lady needs a kitchen maid?’ he asked.

‘You were, yes,’ said Phryne.

‘Then there’s me cousin, Missus, out of place through no fault of her own. Máire O’Malley is her name, and she could be starting right away. Could I be sending her up here so you could try her skills?’

‘You could.’ Phryne smiled at him and he stopped shuffling. ‘Do that very thing and that right speedily.’

He bowed and then he was gone and the back gate swung shut behind him.

‘Well,’ said Ruth, ‘she has to be an improvement on Lily.’

And then it was time for morning tea and the base preparations for dinner were almost done.

Phryne moved around to the other side of the table. The snapper seemed to be glaring at her.

CHAPTER SIX

Sun-girt City, thou hast been Ocean’s child, and then his queen

Percy Bysshe Shelley ‘Lines Written among the Euganean Hills’

Phryne betook herself and an iced orange juice cocktail to her balcony for a mid-morning consultation with Dr Thorndyke but found herself distracted from the admirable prose of R Austin Freeman.

Treasure? Surely not. The story as given was absurd. What would a Royal Navy ship be doing down here, so far away from any settled colony? What, indeed, would a respectable pirate be doing down here, so far away from any achievable loot? But Ruth had said that the boys next door were hunting for it. Probably generations of holidaying boys had searched for it. Nothing like a really improbable quest to occupy a holiday. It prepared one for later life quests, like Justice and Truth, equally unattainable. For some reason her life, lately, had been haunted by pirates, of whom she could not approve. She had never found them romantic. On the other hand, perhaps she might see if there was any mention of this Benito in the encyclopedia downstairs. Later. The view was really engrossing. The sea was like a crumpled blue satin sheet, liberally embroidered with sails. The sky matched it, with clouds. Delightful.

Tinker had completed his kitchen tasks, had sharpened the carving knife again, and was now engrossed in the enjoyable and very messy task of disinterring his new bike from under the detritus of years. Gaston was in attendance at a safe distance, supervising from his favourite place in the mint bed. Tinker had borrowed a paring knife and a trowel and a handful of sandpaper and Dot had insisted on him wearing the houseman’s apron, made of thick, dark green canvas. Tinker was not used to the idea of having clothes which needed protecting.

He had taken off his good shirt, which freed his arms, and he was now arrayed in his apron, his new blue singlet and his proper working trousers.

Dot reflected that she had better arrange something about the washing soon. She should also call on Mrs Cook and tell her that her kitchen maid had gone off to the film set and might not be expected back. Therefore, she put on her straw hat and went next door, cutting through the back gate and the lane and coming upon Mrs Mason’s house from the kitchen garden. This was the route adopted by all the tradesmen, and Dot heard Mrs Cook’s voice raised in wrath from as far away as the compost heap. The cook was denouncing the fishmonger’s boy, whose fish apparently were both stale and late. Dot thought of the massive piscine feast which awaited the Fisher household that night. Dot adored fish in almost any form. She felt a little guilty, but only a little.

She almost collided with the boy, coming out, as she was at the door, going in. He accelerated towards his bike and set off in a cloud of dust. Mrs Cook was not going to be in a good temper.

However, Dot had met incandescent cooks before. She knocked politely, and went in.

Another boy with a trike watched desolately from the shadows.

Ruth was peacefully shelling peas when her sister Jane drifted into the kitchen, seeking tea. For once, Jane did not have a book with her. She was pale and mute.

‘I say, Janey, are you all right?’ Ruth asked, pouring hot water onto the leaves.

‘Read too much anthropology,’ faltered Jane. ‘Too many feasts and taboos and horrible initiation rituals.’

‘Buck up,’ Ruth urged. ‘That’s all in the past and not here. How about some toast? Maybe an egg?’

‘Just tea,’ Jane replied. ‘There isn’t a thing to eat which isn’t the subject of something too nasty.’

‘Even bread?’ asked Ruth.

‘Especially bread. And apples. And corn. And meat.’

‘Drink your tea, then, and let’s talk about something else. That dreep Lily’s been here. And she’s gone. Someone is making a film in Queenscliff about Benito’s treasure,’ said Ruth, casting around for subjects which did not relate to food or religion, which rather limited her choice.

‘Those boys talked about treasure,’ said Jane, picking up a little and drinking her tea with three sugars.

‘I asked Miss Phryne about it, but you know how she is about pirates. Ever since that Chinese lady pirate Mountain of Gold cut off Mr Lin’s ear.’

‘Gosh, yes. Though he has got a nice rubber one and it did make him head of the family,’ Jane responded.

Tinker, rubbing industriously at a spoke, pricked up his ears. This was something he did know about it. Benito was Queenscliff folklore.

‘I can tell you about him,’ he offered. Both girls turned to him. Miss Jane looked real sick and if she wanted a story to take her mind off things, Tinker was her man.

‘Tell,’ said Jane. Then she added, ‘If you please, Tinker.’

‘He was called Benito of the Red Sword, because he killed a lot of people,’ said Tinker. ‘He was sailing off Lima in 1842 when the revolution happened and they had to get the gold out of the city quick. He was a Royal Navy captain, then. They loaded all the gold and the church things, cups and candlesticks, and twelve statues of the apostles, and a statue of the Virgin Mary made all of gold.’

Ruth gently insinuated a bowl of fruit puree under Jane’s gaze and put a spoon in her hand. Jane started to eat without noticing. Ruth hugged herself. That was a very good puree, of peaches and apples and nectarines. That ought to put some life back into her limp and depressed sister.

‘Gold leaf, maybe,’ said Jane. ‘All gold would be too heavy to carry.’

Tinker shrugged. ‘S’what they say,’ he maintained. ‘Anyway, this Benito killed the priests and the soldiers who were sent to guard the gold, and then he took off on the grand account. He was a pirate after that. Then he ended up here, in Australia, and the navy sent a ship to take him, and he hoisted the black flag, which means “no quarter”, and—bugger!’

He stopped to shake a pricked finger. Someone had wired the old tyres onto the rims when they began to fall apart.

‘Don’t you dare put that finger in your mouth!’ Ruth ordered, pouring water from the kettle into a bowl and adding carbolic. ‘You come in here and soak your hand in this, and I’ll make you some tea—and maybe some banana bread? And you could go on with the story,’ she added, fascinated.

‘What am I eating?’ asked Jane, putting the spoon back into the bowl.

‘Nectarines,’ said Ruth cunningly. ‘I bet there aren’t any taboos about nectarines.’

‘No, I didn’t read of any,’ conceded Jane, picking up the spoon again. ‘It tastes very nice, Ruthie.’

‘I always wanted to repay Miss Phryne,’ said Ruth shyly. ‘You know, for rescuing us. This way, I can do something for her that she couldn’t do herself. Though she’s a whiz with a knife, you should have seen her making orange cups.’ Ruth became aware of an affronted boy staring at her and was glad to change the subject. ‘Sorry, Tinker. What happened then?’

‘Then there was a big fight, and Benito ran the rip. First ship to ever do it, they say.’

‘What’s the rip?’ asked Jane.

‘You ain’t seen it? I’ll take you there sometime. It’s the mouth of the harbour, where it meets the sea. There’s a wave. Anyway, Benito dived into harbour and the navy ship dursen’t follow. They could wait for him to come out again. There weren’t no people here then, just a few fishos and the odd escaped convict. So he hid the treasure in a cave in Swan Bay somewhere, left two people, a woman and a boy, then off through the rip again where the navy was waiting for him. First shot hit the magazine, they reckon, and the ship blew up and Benito and all his men and the rest of the treasure sank to the bottom.’

‘Gosh,’ said Jane, finishing the fruit.

‘Ouch,’ said Tinker as Ruth cleaned his hand, dried it, and applied iodine. ‘Thanks,’ he added. Tinker was not used to being tended.

‘Tea,’ said Ruth. ‘And banana bread.’

‘So no one has ever found the treasure?’ asked Jane, distracted from horrible rituals as Ruth had meant her to be.

‘Ah, there’s stories,’ said Tinker with his mouth full, tapping the side of his nose with his iodined finger. ‘But no one knows anything.’

‘’Scuse me,’ said a gentle voice from the door.

They looked up. A thin young woman dressed in a faded grey dress, barefoot, her head enveloped in a scarf, smiled tent- atively at them.

‘Hello, are you Máire?’

‘Máire I am,’ she answered.

‘Come in,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m Miss Ruth, that is Miss Jane, and here is Tinker. So you are my new kitchen maid?’

‘Yes, Missus,’ said Máire.

‘Then here is your apron,’ said Ruth, presenting Lily’s unused one. ‘Come in, sit down, and start peeling apples. We are going to make a cake or two. But first you are going to have tea and the last of the banana bread,’ added Ruth. This girl’s skin was so white as to be translucent, and she was as thin as a moonbeam. Her hair, when the headscarf was removed, proved to be deep black.

Tinker returned to his bike. He would have to unravel all that wire before he could clean the rims and put on his new tyres. Molly awoke and came to greet the newcomer, putting her head into the girl’s lap, hoping for a bite or crumb. Molly was partial to banana bread as well.

Máire sat as ordered, ate and drank, smuggled a crust of the cake to Molly, and won general approval by picking up a paring knife and beginning on the apples as soon as her cup was empty.

‘We’re going swimming after lunch,’ said Ruth to Jane. ‘Miss Phryne’s on her balcony and Dot’s gone to speak to Mrs Cook about the washing. She’ll be back directly.’

‘Then I’ll go and sit in the garden,’ said Jane. ‘And I’ll read . . .’ She intercepted Ruth’s reproving glance. ‘On second thought, why don’t I sit here and read aloud to the workers? What shall we have? The fairy stories?’

‘They aren’t going to amuse Tinker,’ said Ruth, who loved fairy stories.

‘He has his work,’ said Jane loftily.

Tinker bristled. Then he thought, Why not?

‘I like them stories well enough, Miss,’ he called to Jane. ‘I c’n tell ’em to the littlies in the winter.’

‘Good man,’ approved Ruth.

Jane fetched the book, removed herself as far as was prudent from spurting juice or spraying flour, and began.

‘“Le Maître Chat”, or “Puss in Boots”.
There were three sons of a miller who had just died, and his property was distributed as follows: first, the mill, to the eldest son, second, the donkey and cart, to the second son, and for the youngest son there was nothing but the mill’s cat. “Woe is me,” said the boy as he took hold of his legacy. “After I have eaten this cat and made a cap out of its skin, I will have nothing.” “By no means,” said the cat. “You do not want to eat me. I will make your fortune, if you will swear to do as I tell you.” “Just as you say,” said the boy, who had nothing to lose.
’

‘I know what that’s like,’ said Tinker.

‘So do I,’ said Jane.

‘So do I,’ said Ruth.

‘And me,’ ventured Máire.

There was a silence where they all contemplated each other. Each young person in that kitchen, in their own way, had come to the extremity of hunger and despair. Yet there they were, peeling apples and listening to fairy stories, clean, warm, well-fed and safe. Then Jane adjusted her glasses and went on.

‘“You must make me a pair of top-boots,” said the cat.’

Phryne was just thinking that she ought to tear herself away from the view, dress and go down to lunch, thereafter finding the telegraph office and sending some telegrams, when she saw a boy approaching the front door, which argued that he was not one of the multitudinous tradesmen but a messenger. Phryne leaned over the balcony.

He knocked and the door was opened by Dot, who was still wearing her hat and seemed to have just returned from an interview with Mrs Cook. She sounded a little sharp. The cook must have been in a temper, deduced Phryne. Cooks so often were.

The boy didn’t speak. He bowed deeply and handed Dot a card. Then he turned and left, all without a word.

Phryne smiled at Dot’s ‘Well!’ as she slapped the door shut, found some suitable garments and assumed them, and went downstairs.

‘Funny thing just happened, Miss Phryne,’ Dot began.

‘I was an ear-witness throughout,’ Phryne told her. ‘What did he deliver?’

‘This.’ Dot handed over the card. ‘I arranged about the washing, Miss; it’s going to the Chinese, they’ll collect it at the end of the week. Quite a civilised place, Miss, if they’ve got a Chinese laundry. And it’s all peace and quiet in the kitchen. That Irish boy sent his cousin and they’re ploughing through the work while Jane reads them fairy tales. I didn’t disturb them. I just heard her say
“Sire, Sire, the Marquis of Carabbas is drowning!”
as I went past.’

‘“Puss in Boots”,’ decided Phryne. ‘I wonder how Tinker is liking them? Still, he has his bike to fix. In that case perhaps we should lunch out, Dot. How do you fancy a stroll to the town and a little refection?’

‘That would be nice,’ Dot replied, wondering if it was entirely right to just laze about while others did the work. Still, it
would
be nice . . .

Phryne saw her companion’s stern resolve weakening.

‘Come along, Dot dear, just go and tell the kitchen that we shall not be in for lunch, remind Jane that she ought to take some exercise, and I’ll fetch my hat and read this missive,’ said Phryne.

Dot, persuaded, hurried to the green baize door. She knew Phryne hated to be kept waiting.

Phryne found and donned her white straw hat with the wide brim, scrutinised herself in the mirror and nodded—very pretty, could pose for a British Rail advertisement—then opened the envelope.

When Dot came back she was still staring at it.

‘What’s in the letter, Miss?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Not one of them anonymous ones?’

‘No, it’s a perfectly ordinary invitation to watch an Art Film with the Surrealist Club, tomorrow night next door. At nine. Interesting. Surrealists? I don’t know any surrealists.’

‘Your fame has gone before you,’ said Dot, and opened the door.

It was a lovely day. The sun shone. The waves bounced in a friendly, unthreatening way. The people of Queenscliff smiled at the visitors, who paraded along the broad and well-swept streets arm in arm. There was an air of holiday; an expansive, unbuttoned amity.