Death by Water (9 page)

Mary fetch this, Mary get that, really Mary you are a fool, no one will ever marry you. Terrible old woman she was. Some of the stokers said she was an evil
taniwhara
.’

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‘What’s a
taniwhara
?’

Caroline’s brow wrinkled as she sought for a translation. ‘An evil . . . fairy?’

‘Not a fairy,’ said Phryne. ‘Unless you’re thinking of something small, with wings, that buzzes round flowers.’

‘That’s bees,’ Caroline told her. ‘Professor Applegate would know the right word. They’re spirits which take a human body, except they belong to places.’

‘Sounds like spirits of place. The Romans had them and called them genius locii. Naiads and dryads and sea-monsters.’

‘Them things. That was the word. Genie. There’s lots of good ones and a few bad ones. Some of the crew said she was an evil genie and Miss Jacobs was her captive. Seemed like that, and all. Well, she lost her emeralds which she shouldn’t never have had in the first place, and the company had to pay for them. But I did hear,’ added Caroline, collecting her tray and opening the door, ‘that Miss Jacobs got away in Melbourne. Left the old bitch flat. Someone told me that. I hope it’s true. Well, all this gossiping isn’t getting the sheep shorn,’

she added, and went out, allowing the door to close behind her.

Phryne had a lot to think about, and did so until the luncheon gong sounded and she had to find a respectable dress and some sandals. Not for anything was she going to wear stockings on such a lovely day. Besides, she had hopes of another swim, if she could arrange to have Jack Mason secured to something stout. Pity keel-hauling is quite out of fashion, she thought, and went to lunch clad in a shift patterned with parrots, a loose-weave scarlet shawl, and a pair of beige kid sandals hand-made for her small, high-arched feet.

Lunch was delightful. The soup was a delicate consommé, the fish had clearly died willingly for their ultimate destination as sole bonne femme, and the salads were appropriately crisp:
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cucumbers and lettuce with a vinaigrette, and cooked potatoes under a velvet blanket of mayonnaise. There were vases of fresh flowers on every table and the string quartet played selections from light classics. Rather stressing the Brahms, but Phryne could tolerate Brahms in a good cause.

The table had the usual cast: Mr Forrester, both Wests, Professor Applegate, the Cahills, Jack Mason, Mr Aubrey and Miss Lemmon (the last two in close conversation in a foreign tongue).

A fiftyish, stocky, bald stranger had joined table three. He rose and introduced himself as Mr Singer and a fluffy woman in a pink cardigan as Mrs Singer. He had been, it appeared, a fabulously successful man in the sheet metal business and was now retired and, Phryne thought, on some sort of mission of explora-tion. Mrs Singer remarked brightly that this was their fourth cruise for the year. Mr Singer ate potato salad with his cold ham and grunted an assent when she appealed to him.

‘Oh yes, we’ve been round the world twice,’ she said.

‘Haven’t we, dear? Always on P&O, they’re so reliable. Mr Singer always checks the crew manifests and the stewards to see if there are any undesirables amongst them, don’t you, dear?’

Mr Singer grunted and gestured for a steward to fill his beer glass.

‘He won’t find any undesirables on this line,’ put in a young man. Unlike Jack Mason, he seemed content to sit still. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Fisher, I’m Doctor Shilletoe. Feel the faintest qualm, give me a call. Always at your service,’ he said, his eyes widening as he took in Phryne’s attractions, and she did not doubt his sincerity. ‘Even just a headache should be treated right away,’ he added hopefully.

‘You must lead a very interesting life,’ said Phryne. She recalled the doctor. He had danced so close to Mrs West that they were almost sharing the same gown. ‘Professionally, I
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mean.’ She smiled artlessly into the big brown eyes of the charming young man. He hurried into speech, anticipating Albert Forrester, who had not given up on Miss Fisher.

‘Oh yes, well, there’re the usual injuries amongst the crew, broken bones from falls and burns from the engines. I’ve had to deliver a few babies and we’re always available for messages from the merchant fleet. I got one today from a small cargo vessel about a man with abdominal pain, and—no, perhaps not at lunch,’ he said, intercepting a glare from Mrs Cahill. ‘I’m free until three,’ said the young doctor. ‘Perhaps we might continue this conversation in the Palm Court later, Miss Fisher?’

‘Indeed,’ Phryne said, smiling. ‘But you were saying about undesirables?’

‘Oh, it’s hard to get a job on a P&O ship, and the captain is very choosy about who he signs on. No criminal records, no problems in their previous berth. He calls this a happy ship and he aims to keep it that way.’

‘Good,’ said Phryne. ‘I like calm. And peace. And isn’t it just the most beautiful day?’

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ said Mrs Cahill with a spurt of venom. ‘Tomorrow it will be cold. We’re going down to Fjord land, and it’s always cold there. Glaciers. Ice.’

‘Then, my dear doctor, if you have finished, perhaps we might go up on deck and enjoy it while it lasts?’ suggested Phryne, and Doctor Shilletoe bolted the rest of his lunch so speedily that Phryne feared for his digestion. Phryne ate a crème caramel with just the right amount of burned sugar on the top, drank a cup of pale coffee—not a patch on Leo’s—

and excused herself.

The young doctor led her up onto the sun deck and found her a chair in the shade. He suddenly looked very tired and swayed perilously.

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‘Do sit down,’ said Phryne. He sank down beside her.

‘What happened to the man with the abdominal pain?’

‘It sounded like a dicky appendix, so I told them to put into the nearest port and take him to hospital. But they were too far out, so I talked the ship’s barber through the op. I was so worried about them giving chloroform—you can kill someone really easily with chloroform and the idiots had been keeping it in a warm place so I didn’t know how strong it was, and it wouldn’t do for the poor fellow to wake up. The actual operation isn’t too hard if you keep your head. I have never had to describe an op over the radio in morse code. Sparks kept going green on me. I was matching him by the end of it.

It was really horrible.’

‘Steward,’ said Phryne to one of the ubiquitous white coated men—did they get them from a factory?—‘a stiff brandy. Make it a double,’ she added. Doctor Shilletoe, given a sympathetic audience, had all of a sudden fallen to pieces.

Phryne was entirely familiar with the nervous reaction which had a nasty habit of socking one over the occiput after one had done all the proper things and dealt with the emergency. She suffered from this delayed shock herself. She leaned the young man’s head back on her arm and shoved a pillow behind him.

‘Can’t drink with the . . .’ he murmured.

‘Nonsense,’ said Phryne bracingly. ‘I will explain to the captain, and so will—er . . . sorry, I don’t know your name, Steward.’

‘Roberts, Miss,’ the steward informed her. ‘They say he saved that sailor’s life,’ said Roberts stoutly. ‘Poor Sparks is still in the head, throwing up. Drink this, sir, do,’ he urged, putting the glass to the young man’s lips.

Doctor Shilletoe sipped, coughed, and drank the brandy off. Then he shuddered. Not a young man given to hard liquor,
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Phryne noted with approval. Roberts went back to the bar and returned with a tall glass full of ice and a sparkling mixture.

‘Shandy,’ he explained. ‘Just lemonade and sherry. He’ll be thirsty after all that booze.’

‘Very astute of you, Roberts,’ said Phryne. Doctor Shilletoe accepted the glass and took a long gulp. Then he sat up and wiped his eyes.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘And I meant to make such a good impression on you,’ he added with the suspicion of a chuckle.

‘So you did,’ Phryne told him. ‘Have you ever done that before? Talked someone through an operation on a radio?’

‘No, never. It was grotesque. And so slow! I’d say something, Sparks would put it into morse and telegraph it, then their sparkie would decode it, then the answer would come back the same way. It was like long distance chess, with lives.

What did you give me to drink?’

‘Brandy,’ said Phryne. ‘And you need to reassign your three o’clock surgery. Give it to your assistant, who will be delighted if I know assistants, and get some rest. I know about shock. So do you, if you’d think about it.’

‘I suppose I do,’ he said faintly.

‘And I will be delighted to talk with you another time,’ she concluded, putting a hand under his arm and assisting him to his unsure feet. Something fell from his pocket and he was too shaky to pick it up before Phryne saw what it was. It was a photo of Mrs West, simpering. The doctor grabbed it and thrust it into his inside pocket. Phryne did not comment but exclaimed, ‘Oh, I forgot the drink chit.’

‘No need, Miss,’ said Roberts approvingly. ‘Medical expenses.’

Phryne saw the doctor to his rooms on the third deck down and then found herself rather at a loss. This did not last.

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‘Miss Fisher?’ asked Albert Forrester, catching her as she came back into the light well of the Grand Staircase. ‘I wonder if I could interest you in some photographs?’

‘Of course,’ said Phryne, and went willingly.

T’ang Lee

San Francisco

The younger brother sends respectful greetings to the respected elder
brother and advises that Chang and his wife and son will be with
you soon. They are overwhelmed by the elder brother’s kindness in
sending them tickets for this voyage. If the elder brother will con-descend to telegraph their safe arrival to the younger brother, he
will be greatly obliged. The omens here are not hopeful.

The younger Lee brother says farewell with many thanks.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Children’s voices should be dear

(call once more) to a mother’s ear

M Arnold

‘The Forsaken Merman’

The interesting thing about Albert Forrester was that he was a really good photographer. Phryne looked at the wealth of pictures laid out on his bed in First Class and approved.

Not lewd pictures to sell to tourists to astound their friends in Sydney or Toronto about what you can do with a really cooperative donkey. Not even the slightly fogged art studies of bored naked whores in a cold studio somewhere in Montparnasse. These were really good. Phryne sat down to inspect them.

Mr Forrester, who felt that his day had vastly improved from that bad moment when Miss Fisher had gone off with the doctor, sat down in a chair and watched her face. She was really looking at the pictures, and she was showing—regret-tably—no sign of sexual excitement. He was an expert at
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detecting the rising flush, the faint bedewing of delicate perspiration, the suppressed wriggle as various organs made their presence known. No. Not, so to speak, a sausage. Philosophically, he settled for her enthusiasm for his artistic skill.

Mr Forrester got his pleasure wherever he could in whatever form it took, and was consequently a happy man.

‘These are very good,’ she commented. ‘I love the barred sunlight, all those straight lines across the curved nude. You were thinking of Picasso, perhaps?’

‘I was,’ he responded.

‘And these Turkish bath ones are Ingres. I never liked his nudes. Yours are much better. They look happy.’

‘It was ladies’ day and I persuaded my ladies to let me watch,’ he said, smiling at the memory. ‘They were very stiff and uncomfortable for about ten minutes and then they forgot about me and began to have fun. The thing is to stay still, not to stare directly at anyone, and not to touch. Same as wildlife photographers and bird watchers.’

‘They’re very innocent,’ said Phryne. ‘Not all young women, either. That’s unusual.’

‘Young women quite often haven’t grown into their bodies, and they think about them all the time,’ he said, picking up one of the photos. ‘Older women are used to their nakedness.