Murder in the Dark (14 page)

It had been an interesting demonstration but now Phryne should resume her prowling, searching for barrels. Before she set off for the house she thought she ought to go and congratulate the girls on their performance. She went down the slight slope to the horse lines, where ponies were being unsaddled, rubbed, walked, and finally allowed to drink water with the chill taken off.

‘I say, Miss Fisher, wasn’t that a good show?’ asked Ralph, grinning hugely.

‘A very good show,’ agreed Phryne cordially.

‘Stay for a stirrup cup?’ he asked, waving a bottle of iced champagne.

‘Not today,’ said Phryne. ‘But thank you.’ She walked on through the Grammar Boys’ lines and into the huddle of animals and people which was the Wonnangatta Tigers’ encampment.

‘Well done, Jill,’ she said to the young woman, who was rubbing down her coal black pony.

‘Thanks,’ said Jill. ‘Stand over, Black Boy, damn you! Gosh, it’s hot, isn’t it?’

‘Forfeit,’ said Ann, who had not ridden and was standing by with a tray on which reposed a bottle of beer and two glasses.

‘All right,’ said Jill, leaning for a moment on the pony’s side while she groped in her pocket. She tossed a penny onto the tray.

Phryne looked her question and Ann giggled. ‘It only makes it worse when someone is forever saying “it’s hot” when it’s really hot,’ she explained. ‘Jill has already had her chance to say “it’s hot” today.’

‘It is, however,’ said Phryne. ‘You ride very well. What did you think of the Grammar Boys?’

‘They’re good,’ said Ann. ‘And they’ve got real purebred polo ponies and lots of remounts. But we’re fast,’ she added loyally.

‘Well, my money’s on you,’ said Phryne. ‘Now, I’ve got to find a barrel.’

‘There’s one over there,’ said Jill, not asking why Phryne was looking for a barrel.

So there was. It was a large barrel full of water for the horses and there, stuck to its side, was the telltale luggage label with the clerkly script on it. Phryne peeled it off carefully and read it aloud: ‘Your next will not inebriate/But causes you to cerebrate.’

‘Oh, a riddle game,’ observed Ann. ‘But that’s a hard one. What on earth does it mean?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ said Phryne grimly.

The Joker was mildly distressed, which was his approximation of
strong emotion. The acolytes were so pretty. The music was so sweet.
He liked music. But a contract was a contract, and at least,
provided he acted with skill, the corpse would be very beautiful.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Things are seldom what they seem
skim milk masquerades as cream
Highlows pass as patent leathers
jackdaws strut in peacock feathers.

WS Gilbert
HMS Pinafore

Phryne collected her luncheon hamper in a bad mood. She stalked across the grounds in a worsening mood and then exclaimed in disgust. She saw that someone was already sitting under her hornbeam tree. Curses on them. She approached, ducking under the long hanging branches decked out in brightest green, ready to evict and possibly maim the trespasser.

The young man jumped to his feet. Phryne did not know him, but he was good looking and apparently civilised and he had come here, as she had, for refuge from the sun and a nice quiet read. Phryne picked up his book, which had fallen from his lap when he stood up. It was, she saw to her delight,
Whose
Body?
by Miss Dorothy Sayers.

‘Phryne Fisher.’ She held out her hand. The young man shook it.

‘Nicholas Booth. Pleased to meet you.’

‘You came here for some peace and quiet, eh?’ continued Phryne, briskly. ‘So did I. So you can have that end of the wooden bench and table, and I’ll have this end, and we needn’t interrupt each other.’

‘If you’re sure you don’t just want me to go away . . .’ He had cornflower blue eyes and Phryne had a weakness for cornflower blue eyes.

‘No, not at all. You being here will protect me from any other invaders. And I am a great admirer of Miss Sayers.’

‘Golly, Miss Fisher, so am I. What are you reading?’

‘
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
, by Miss Christie,’ said Phryne. ‘Now, let’s sit down and make ourselves comfortable before someone gazumps us.’

She arranged her hamper and thermos at one end of the wooden bench and seated herself a judicious distance away from the young man. The hamper contained a selection of very good sandwiches, a bunch of grapes and some of Mrs Truebody’s superlative biscuits in a small cardboard box. The thermos contained, by Phryne’s especial direction, hot black coffee. She propped Roger Ackroyd against the hamper and began to read. After a moment’s delay, the young man did the same and they dined amicably in complete silence, except for the rustle of greaseproof wrappings and the turning of pages.

The day grew hotter. Lunch had been filling and perfect for a hot day. Even liberal doses of coffee weren’t going to keep Phryne awake. She had read the same line five times without the faintest idea of what it meant. She gave up and shut the book.

Nicholas Booth was already asleep, neatly and unobtrusively. Phryne knew that sleeping outdoors was utterly forbidden to any lady. She lay down on the grass, relying on her citronella to keep insects away, pillowed her head on her bag, and closed her eyes just for a moment.

When she awoke it was past three o’clock, the heat was appalling, and she knew the answer to her riddle. When she tried to sit up she remembered why taking naps on hot days was so unwise. It had the effect of a sweet sherry hangover.

She staggered to her feet, feeling as if she had been hit over the back of the skull with a blackjack. Fortunately, there was still coffee in her thermos and she gulped the life-giving fluid, concentrating on the answer, making sure that it didn’t vanish like a dream. Nicholas Booth was still asleep, and she did not wake him as she gathered her things and left the shade of the hornbeam, heading for the kitchen.

The cup that cheers but does not inebriate, in the old Temperance parlance, was, of course, tea. The array of things which could contain a note which related to tea—pots, cups, urns, kettles, caddies—was huge, but the thing could be done by a determined woman who was getting rather tired of being pulled about as on a leash by someone with a twisted sense of humour. It was here, she thought, that a few accomplices would be useful, but she dared not share the secret more widely, especially with the kitchen maids so nervous already. She needed a pretext and went in search of Mrs Truebody.

The housekeeper was taking a well-earned rest, sitting in her upholstered chair and drinking a refreshing cup of—well, tea, Phryne noticed.

‘Someone has played a little prank on me, Mrs Truebody,’ Phryne said. ‘They’ve borrowed a not very valuable ring and I will only get it back if I can solve the riddle. Now it occurs to me that your assistants handle most of the tea-making apparatus in the house. I’m happy to give a small reward to the one who finds either the ring or another label like this—with writing on it. By the way, do you know the fist?’

‘No, Miss Phryne,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Young men will have their fancies, I suppose. Leave it with me, I’ll see to it,’ she said, and Phryne took her leave.

The day was wearing on. The cries of the tennis players were dying away. Just the moment for a nice swim, now that the sun was off the lake. She had time before collecting her costume for this evening’s Japanese revel.

Ten minutes later Nicholas Booth, who had woken up as if hungover, stunned by heat and had also sought the haven of the lake, looked up from his watery cradle to see something flash across his gaze like a crimson bird. It was a woman in a red bathing cap and a red costume, who had entered the water in a flat, expert dive. She came up spouting, turned over and floated.

‘I’ll wager that feels better,’ he said to her.

‘It certainly does,’ she agreed. ‘Ah. Mr Booth. What’s that strange little island in the middle of this lake?’

‘It’s artificial,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to have a shell grotto in the middle but it’s all locked up.’

‘I can live without a shell grotto,’ Phryne told him, ‘but I’ll race you to the island.’

She was off in a flash. Nicholas turned over in the water and launched himself into a powerful crawl. Phryne did not have a recognised stroke. She swam, he saw, like a seal, diving just under the water and coming up periodically for air. And she was fast. Her hand slapped the shore of the little island before his and she turned a laughing face to him. He was enchanted.

‘Well done!’ he said. ‘You must have been a mermaid in a previous life.’

She smiled at him and he had the odd feeling that he had just passed some sort of test. Phryne anchored herself by one toe and relaxed back into the water.

‘I think we ought to consider that an introduction,’ she said. ‘My name is Phryne, Mr Booth.’

‘And mine is Nicholas.’

They shook wet hands. Nicholas joined Phryne, mooring himself alongside her. She noticed that he was tall, young and prettily made. Not marble-perfect like Gerald—someone had broken his nose for him at some past date, and his mouth was too wide for beauty—but pleasantly male.

‘So what brings you to the Last Best Party, Phryne?’ he asked.

‘I knew the Templars in Paris. I thought it would be interesting to see them in such a new and rustic setting. You?’

‘Oh, I’m just a boring public servant. The Templars bring a lot of glamour into my humdrum existence.’

‘Ah,’ said Phryne. ‘Humdrum. Yes, I can see that.’

She didn’t believe a word of it. Though it was faintly possible he was a public servant, that was not all that he was. He had a nice voice, tenor with a woodwind quality. He was not, evidently, one of the hash smokers, who tended to sound hoarse.

‘So, to whom do you owe your allegiance, Nicholas? The Lady or the Lord?’

‘The Lady,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

‘Of course,’ she echoed, making a small movement which washed waves of cold water over her body.

‘But that is more a spiritual allegiance,’ said Nicholas. ‘Are you spoken for, Phryne?’

‘For the purposes of this party,’ said Phryne deliberately, ‘no, I am not spoken for. How about you?’

‘Footloose and fancy free,’ he said.

Phryne leaned over in the water and kissed him. It was a very frank kiss. It caused him to lose his grip on the island and he went under with a splash. When he came up again, wiping his hair out of his eyes, he found that she had drawn herself onto the shore and was extending a hand to help him out. She was poised like a sculpture on the chill stones of the landing place and he thought it wise to stay in the water for a while, to cool his ardour. Phryne divined what he was doing and laughed.

‘I shall come back and join you as soon as I get overheated,’ she said.

‘I am overheated enough for both of us,’ he said. ‘I am overheated enough to create a small area of boiling water around me. You are remarkable, Phryne!’

‘So I have been told,’ said Miss Fisher, preening briefly like a vermilion bird. A rosella, perhaps. Or something more dangerous. Were there any red hawks, he wondered, red birds of prey?

‘Have you got anywhere finding Tarquin?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Ouch,’ he added, as Phryne’s fingers attached themselves to his earlobe and he had to join it on the island or lose it forever. He came up in a rush of water and Phryne felled him instantly.

‘What do you know about the disappearance of Tarquin?’ she asked, planting herself across his bare legs and causing another riot in what he had previously thought of as his private parts.

‘I heard Gerald and the Lady talking about it,’ he said, as the fingers tweaked his ear again. ‘Ouch! Do give over, Phryne, I’ll talk, I’ll talk. They were having a loud quarrel. All of the acolytes heard it. She was bathing. It wasn’t my turn to attend her so I was just reading my book when they started shouting. I heard your voice there, too. And although I couldn’t stand the horrible little monster, I don’t think Tarquin would ever have left Gerald if he could have helped it. Something has happened to him and if you’re looking for him I would like to help. I could be useful. I can go anywhere in the Lady’s Own. I’ve been listening for any clues, but although the Sapphic girls talk all the time they keep their own counsel.’

‘Yes, they do, don’t they?’ Phryne removed herself from Nicholas’s lap and bit a thoughtful thumbnail. ‘They talk to me, however. And we shall have a heart-to-heart soon. They’re strong-minded women but I don’t think they’d hurt Tarquin. Especially since he wasn’t competing for the Lady’s attention. He was no threat to them.’ She surveyed Nicholas narrowly. He bore her gaze for a moment then lowered his eyes. Phryne nodded. Good. Only the hash-affected or the arrant liar stared straight into one’s eyes.

‘Are you the Nicholas who always recites “Lepanto”?’ she demanded, a surprise question.

‘Yes,’ he admitted.

‘Why?’

‘It’s the only poem I know by heart. They made me learn it at school.’

‘I see. Come back into the cool,’ she ordered, and paddled herself out into the middle of the lake. ‘Sound travels oddly over water but we seem to have this side of the lake to ourselves. Someone is leaving me clues,’ she told him, and summarised the saga of the luggage labels.