Murder in the Dark
Praise for Kerry Greenwood’s Phryne Fisher series
‘Brimming with glamour, high life, and a hint of debauchery, Greenwood’s series delivers a literary glass of champagne, lifting readers’ spirits while tickling their fancies.’ —
Booklist US
‘Miss Fisher is a remarkable and engaging creature who can solve whodunits as easily as if she were the naughty niece of Miss Marple and, when action is called for, handles herself like a cross between Xena and Buffy.’ —
Sydney Morning Herald
‘Greenwood’s prose has a dagger in its garter; her hero is raunchy and promiscuous in the best sense.’ —
Weekend
Australian
‘Manners and attitude maketh the PI, and Phryne is, as always, perfect.’ —
The Book Bulletin
‘Greenwood has the enviable skill of being able to write as if she is in the 1920s.’ —
West Australian
‘Independent, wealthy, spirited and possessed of an uninhibited style that makes everyone move out of her way and stand gawking for a full five minutes after she walks by—Phryne Fisher is a woman who gets what she wants and has the good sense to enjoy every minute of it!’ —
Geelong Times
‘Greenwood’s strength lies in her ability to create characters that are wholly satisfying: the bad guys are bad, and the good guys are great.’ —
Vogue
‘Fisher is a sexy, sassy and singularly modish character. Her 1920s Melbourne is racy, liberal and a city where crime occurs on its shadowy, largely unlit streets.’ —
Canberra Times
K
ERRY
G
REENWOOD is the author of thirty-nine novels and the editor of two collections. She is the author of the Corinna Chapman mysteries, as well as many books for young adults and the Delphic Women series.
When she is not writing she is an advocate in Magistrates’ Courts for Victoria Legal Aid. She is not married, has no children and lives with a registered Wizard.
Also in the Phryne Fisher series:
Cocaine Blues
Flying too High
Murder on the Ballarat Train
Death at Victoria Dock
The Green Mill Murder
Blood and Circuses
Ruddy Gore
Urn Burial
Raisins and Almonds
Death Before Wicket
Away with the Fairies
Murder in Montparnasse
The Castlemaine Murders
Queen of the Flowers
Death by Water
MURDER IN
THE DARK
A Phryne Fisher
Mystery
Kerry Greenwood
First published in 2006
Copyright © Kerry Greenwood 2006
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The
Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
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National Library in Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Greenwood, Kerry.
Murder in the dark.
ISBN 978 1 74114 709 4.
ISBN 1 74114 709 3.
1. Fisher, Phryne (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
I. Title. (Series: Phryne Fisher series).
A823.3
Typeset in 11.5 on 14pt Adobe Garamond by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to Miz Cindy Brown and Phoenix of Port Townsend. Cuter than a little white pup sitting under a shade tree and sweeter than a pound of molasses poured over a kitten.
With thanks to so many people. The friends who have forgiven me lost lunches, forgotten birthdays, missed appointments, errant dinners. All my singers: my fellow folkies from the old days at the Three Drunken Maidens, my MUCS and MONUCS, my IV and Scratch and R.A.G. choirs. My Ars Nova and my Society for Creative Anachronism, dancers and musicians.
To Jean Greenwood, the researcher every author should have, and David Greagg, whose patience ought to gain him sainthood. Samantha of Dragonfly, who healed me. All the Pryors. And Belladonna my cat, who by gently tapping the caps lock key every two hours and suggesting a little exercise and some cat treats, managed, devotedly, to get me through this book uncrippled. For Michael Warby’s advice on medieval games and in loving homage to the master of us all, PG Wodehouse. For Adina Hamilton, who made a marzipan boar’s head. And for Tom Lane, who wanted me to save Gatsby.
Possession is nine points of the law.
Blackstone Laws of England
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Contents
Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la la la la la la,
’Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la la la la la.
Trad
Monday, 24th December 1928
Very few people turned Phryne Fisher down. She wasn’t used to it. With her looks, which were those of the cinema star Louise Brooks, her wealth, which was that of Croesus, her elan, which was remarkable, and her appetites, which were reputed to be those of an unusually broadminded nymph, she didn’t hear ‘No’ a lot. Mostly people said nothing but a correctly phrased ‘Yes, please.’ It was therefore with some astonishment that she realised her beloved Lin Chung was, indeed, turning her down as flat as the linenfold panelling of her boudoir.
‘No,’ he said patiently. ‘I really can’t, Phryne.’
‘Can’t?’ she asked, rolling over with a flash of thighs and sitting up to consider his strange, uncooperative attitude. ‘Or won’t?’
‘Both, really.’ Lin Chung buttoned his loose blue shirt over his admirably smooth torso. ‘I have to preside over my old Great Great Uncle’s funeral. I liked him, Phryne. He was a brave old man. I would not skimp on his ceremonies. Grand-mamma is ill. Camellia needs my presence. I cannot justify neglecting the venerable dead and taking a week off from my business in order to play cowboys and Indians in Werribee with the Templars, Phryne.’
‘Aha,’ she said, observing him closely. ‘You don’t like them, do you?’
Lin shrugged his collar around his neck and stabbed the fastening closed. He reached for his light blazer.
‘No, I do not like them. I do not approve of them, either. Those bright young things burn far too bright for me.’
‘There’s something behind this attitude,’ she commented, dragging a dressing gown on and belting it tightly.
‘Probably. I am influenced by a number of things,’ admitted Lin. ‘But the conclusion of it is, I cannot accompany you to the Last Best Party of 1928, and I hope you are not too grievously disappointed.’
‘Surprised more than disappointed,’ she said. ‘You won’t change your mind?’
‘I regret,’ he said, giving her that sidelong glance which she thought of as quintessentially Chinese.
‘Then I shall find my own company,’ she declared.
‘As you wish,’ he agreed.
The boudoir was silent for a moment, as Ember the cat arose from his silken nest and paused at the closed door, mouth open in a plaintive but entirely unvoiced meow. Phryne jumped up and let him out.
‘A drink,’ she said, and escorted her lover onto the landing. The bijou residence of the Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher, located in the desirable if a little scruffy suburb of St Kilda in the town of Melbourne, was home to the said Miss Fisher, her maid and constant companion Miss Dorothy Williams, her adopted daughters Jane and Ruth, home from school for the holidays, her cat Ember, the girls’ dog Molly, a shrill but persistent canary which Dot was minding while her sister was making other arrangements for it, and Mr and Mrs Butler, the bulwarks of the establishment. Phryne had secured their services by offering a very good salary with very good conditions and never interfering in the manner in which they ran the house. Mr Butler buttled, orchestrated cocktails which would have made him a deity in any alcohol based religion and drove the Hispano-Suiza whenever Phryne would let him. Mrs Butler cooked and kept the house. Other functionaries came in by the day to dust and polish, and the laundry, of course, went to the Chinese, who understood about starch and never lost so much as a pillowcase.
One of the perks of the Fisher household was that apart from their own bedroom and parlour, Mr Butler had a small cubbyhole called a butler’s pantry in which to entertain his own intimates. It was just big enough for a sink and the tasting glasses, a couple of chairs and a window that looked out into the fernery, which was full of orchids. The window was open. A scent of jasmine floated in. The afternoon was at three, the port was remarkably fragrant, and Mr Butler was content with the world. Especially since Dot had volunteered to do the refreshments should Phryne decide that she wanted any. A jug of Pimm’s Number One Cup was already mixed and in the new, huge, American Ice-maker and Refrigerator.
Mr Butler filled his guest’s glass and said comfortingly, ‘Don’t take on so, Tom.’
‘Oh, it’s all very well for you,’ said Tom Ventura, pettishly. ‘You and your Miss Fisher and your cellar full of port. You’re comfortable enough, I dare say. You don’t have a house party which is going to take as much organising as a small war only half done and you, and I say this for your ears only, Tobias, you don’t have an employer who’s half off his head all the time. And her head. They’re both bloody mad.’
‘My Miss Fisher can be a bit excitable,’ said Mr Butler judiciously. ‘But she’s very reasonable.’
‘Not so the Templars,’ groaned Mr Ventura.
‘They can’t be that bad,’ soothed Mr Butler. His guest choked on the good port and would have leapt up, eyes flaming, if he had not been so tired. Besides, the dog Molly was asleep on his feet. Mr Ventura liked dogs. His voice, however, rose to a cracked shriek.
‘Eleven times the whole plan has been changed! Eleven! Each time I have had to recalculate all the accommodations, the staff, the hampers, the amounts of drink and food, the timing of deliveries—the difficulties would make a devil weep!’
‘Now, now, Tom, where are those drops the doctor gave you? Here,’ said Mr Butler, sloshing some into a clean glass and adding water. ‘Take these and just sit quiet for a little. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Molly rose from her couch and licked Mr Ventura’s hand. She was a compassionate dog and, besides, she loved the taste of valerian. Mrs Butler opened the door and offered a small tray on which a coffee pot reposed. Mr Butler took it. Amazing woman, his Aurelia. Always understood what was going on.
He poured a demitasse for Mr Ventura and observed, ‘I know that my Miss Fisher is going to your party, Tom. And I know that your twins—the Golden Twins, the paper called them—your Gerald and Isabella Templar have hired the old Chirnside place at Werribee from the Catholics for this house party. Called the Last Best Party of 1928, reputed to be costing a fortune, and all the guests to be housed in tents on the grounds for the whole five days, full of fun and sensation and the Lord knows what goings-on. Not like my Miss Fisher to stay in a tent,’ mused the butler, taking another sip of port and observing that his guest seemed to be recovering. ‘And I know that the weather is going to be hot and the police have been taking a dim view.’