Murder in the Dark (19 page)

‘House cows just behind the old scullery, in the yard,’ said Sam.

‘Then someone put a bag over my head and marched me to the scullery and threw me in and the door shut and then there was hammering.’

‘I wonder why no one heard it?’ asked Phryne, seeing the girl begin to tremble and knowing she didn’t have a lot of time.

‘It was dinner time. Everyone was doing something,’ said Marigold.

‘And the noise in that kitchen’s real loud,’ said Sam. ‘No one would have heard. Now don’t you take on,’ he said to Marigold, engulfing her in a huge embrace. ‘Here’s Elsie. She’s brought your morning tea. She’ll sit with you while I go for mine. I won’t be more than half an hour,’ he said, replacing the child in her sitting position. ‘And maybe the lady will read to you.’

‘Of course,’ said Phryne. ‘If you remember anything at all about the person, you tell Sam and he’ll tell me. This is our secret for the moment,’ she added.

Marigold’s face lit with the light of revenge. ‘Yes,’ she said.

Sam went out, Elsie came in, and Marigold was provided with chicken broth, a selection of sandwiches and another big slice of chocolate cake. She had milk to drink and Elsie had brought her own tea.

Marigold spooned soup. Elsie sipped tea. Phryne opened the book at the marked page.

‘The Open Road,’ she began to read. ‘The Rat was sitting on the riverbank, singing a little song. He had just composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would not pay proper attention to the Mole or anything else . . .’

Sherry Cobbler
Mix a cup of sugar with slices of lemon, orange and crushed pineapple. Add a cup of sherry, two cups of lemonade and a cup of shaved ice. Mix well.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

D’ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?
D’ye ken her sons of peerless faith?
D’ye ken that a fox with his last breath
cursed them all as he died in the morning?

John Woodcock Graves ‘John Peel’

Saturday, 29th December
Phryne found Dot staring incredulously at a man who was dressed as a woman. Several of the Lady’s men liked to wear the clothing of the opposite sex. The man in the fetching lilac petticoat and chemise was joined by a young woman with cropped hair who was wearing flannel bags and a singlet. They kissed passionately.

That was too much for Dot, who averted her eyes. When Phryne reached her, she might have been praying.

‘Come along, Dot dear, is that your basket? Good. This way.’

She took Dot’s hand and conducted her to the Iris Room. Dot faltered.

‘Miss, that man . . . and that lady . . .’

‘Yes, and it just shows you what you’ve missed by being such a good girl, eh? How are things at home?’

‘All well, Miss, the girls are behaving. Luckily they like Miss Eliza. And if they annoy her she threatens to read Marx to them. Oh, and that bad black cat stole the whole knuckle end of the ham. Just whipped it off the kitchen table neat as neat and was out of the door like a shot. Miss Eliza told Mrs B not to worry because he had saved your life and deserved a few treats.’

‘I can see that by the time I get home Ember will have to be greased to fit sideways through the door. No mail?’

‘Here’s your letters, Miss.’

Dot handed over a bundle and Phryne leafed through it. Bills, bills, flyers from fashion houses and invitations to various parties. Nothing interesting. No letter in neat scholarly blue. But what was this? A slim envelope addressed to the Silver Lady in Lin Chung’s own hand. Phryne put it in her bosom for later perusal.

She gave the the remainder of the mail back to her companion, who was teetering on the verge of telling Phryne something she didn’t like to tell. Phryne prompted her.

‘Well, Dorothy?’

‘Someone has been ringing up, Miss, and when we answer the telephone they just hang up. It’s very annoying and Mr Butler roared at them last time. They haven’t called since. He’s complained to the telephone company and they say they can’t do anything about it. Could it have something to do with your investigation, Miss?’

‘Possibly. Blow a whistle down the phone next time. That ought to crack the malefactor’s eardrum for him. Or her, of course. What news about that company—what was it? Sauropods Inc?’

‘No, Miss, Triceratops Pty Ltd. I rang Mr Jamieson the stockbroker,’ said Dot, proud of her mastery of the frightful technology of the telephone. ‘He doesn’t know a lot. It’s a mining company, prospecting in the Pilbara for silver, lead and zinc. I’ve written it all down,’ Dot added. ‘He said that there’s been a lot of interest in it lately. It’s been selling far better than expected.’

‘Not surprising, if people are being blackmailed into buying the shares.’

‘But, Miss, the market’s closed for the holiday. It won’t open again until the second of January. After New Year, you know,’ said Dot. ‘What’s the point of buying shares now?’

Phryne thought about it.

‘The investor’s money is in the hand, Dot dear, and the company doesn’t have to prove itself until the market opens again. Classic in its simplicity, and explains why the ransom note only arrived today. I couldn’t have gone any faster finding the clues—well, I admit I have been a trifle interrupted, perhaps. Led astray, even. But this pretty scheme relies on the market being closed. I shouldn’t imagine there’s so much as a penny’s worth of silver, lead or zinc in the Pilbara. So as soon as the market opens again the shares will crash and voila, the blackmailer keeps the money. Legally. Did Jamie tell you anything about the directors?’

‘He was a bit cross, Miss, he’s on holiday himself. But he said he’d ask around. The Companies Office is closed, of course.’

‘For the holiday,’ Phryne nodded. ‘All right, Dot, well done. We shall make a telephonist of you yet. Mrs Truebody, who is the housekeeper here, has agreed to take messages for me on the house phone. Here’s the number. Call me if you find out anything that might help. Now, have you got some clean knickers for me?’

‘Yes, Miss, of course, and all the other things you asked for,’ said Dot, shocked that Phryne would think she would forget anything. She collected the laundry bag, gave Phryne a fresh one, and laid out the underwear and sundries in the small room’s chest of drawers. If Dot wondered how Phryne had managed to get, simultaneously, grass stains, water stains and wine stains on her simple cotton shifts, she didn’t comment aloud. ‘I’ll bring the folly dress tomorrow,’ she told her employer. ‘What’s your fancy dress tonight?’

‘Arab, I gather,’ said Phryne. ‘Son of
The Son of the Sheik
. Well, that’s that. Where’s Mr Butler?’

‘Talking to that Mr Ventura. Mr B’s sorry for him, I think.’

‘And he deserves it,’ said Phryne. ‘Gerald and Isabella must be hell to work for. Sorry, Dot, shouldn’t have said hell.’

‘That’s all right, Miss Phryne,’ said Dot equably. From what she had overheard, that was an understatement.

‘Come and we’ll have a chat with Mrs Truebody,’ said Phryne. ‘And we can collect Mr B as well, before his poor abused ears fall off.’

After waving bye-bye to Dot, Phryne found herself at something of a loose end. It was still early. The polo match wasn’t until Monday. She didn’t feel like swimming.

She opened Lin Chung’s letter. In his exquisite hand it said simply: ‘If you need me, call, and I will come. Yours in every possible way, Lin.’ That was agreeably lacking in preconditions. Phryne kissed the letter. She did not need Lin at this moment, in fact she had a point to prove about how well she could manage on her own, but she might need him in the end and it was nice to know that he would come if she called.

The weather, which had approximated the genial atmosphere at the heart of Mt Hekla, had cooled with the coming of a south-west wind, but this was accompanied by an annoying amount of blown dust. Phryne had just decided that under a hornbeam was the place to be when she heard the drumming of hoofs and threw herself aside. She had not been in any danger. Ralph Norton brought his pony to a halt as though all four feet were on a sixpence, and grinned at her.

‘No need to fling yourself around like that, Miss Fisher, my Caroline can stop on a penny and jump like a cat. Isn’t she just the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen?’

Caroline was mouse-coloured, with red and gold ribbons braided into her mane and tail. Phryne stroked the soft nose and the pony whickered, breathing hay scented breath down her neck. She had deep, gentle eyes. The fact that Ralph Norton doted on her improved Phryne’s opinion of him. Horses had a tendency to bite large holes out of hypocrisy or cruelty.

‘She is,’ said Phryne. ‘And she’s as glossy as silk. How do you get her hoofs to shine like that? It can’t be just ordinary boot polish.’

‘It isn’t,’ said Ralph, dismounting and feeling in his pocket for a carrot, which he gave to the pony. ‘It’s blacking mixed with champagne. A little expensive, but brings the hoofs up like nothing else can. Has to be French champagne, mind, not that awful Australian stuff.’

To use the words ‘extravagant’ and ‘outrageous’ to this young man would have been using language he did not speak, Phryne reflected. Caroline shifted on her burning bright hoofs and nudged Ralph for some more carrots. He obliged. She munched.

‘Coming along on the hunt?’ asked Ralph. ‘I can borrow a mount for you, if you feel like coming out for a day’s sport. Gerald Templar is riding, and so is Miss Isabella. They say she rides like Diana herself.’

‘I’ve seen her in the Bois de Boulogne,’ said Phryne. ‘A very good seat, I admit. No, I am not coming along on any hunt—what are you hunting? Surely not a fox?’

‘No,’ said Ralph. ‘They’re bringing it in now—see? Here come the hunters. I say, just look at Miss Isabella.’

Phryne looked. Hair clubbed severely, male riding clothes immaculate, Diana’s own self, Miss Templar, trotted past on a tall bad-tempered chestnut gelding. It ramped, almost bucked, and kept snatching mouthfuls of leaves off passing trees.

‘I’ll buy that horse at your funeral, Isabella,’ called Gerald.

He was also immaculate, from polished boots (champagne blacking again? Phryne wondered) to snowy stock with pearl pin. His roan mount was more docile, or perhaps Gerald was controlling it with more skill.

‘Don’t say rude things about Tonnerre,’ said Isabella. ‘He doesn’t like it.’

‘I couldn’t say enough rude things about Tonnerre,’ said Gerald frankly.

‘Just because you are riding that sluggard Acorn,’ observed Isabella, as Tonnerre backed, flinched and conceived himself threatened by a blown piece of paper. She coaxed his wild head around, explaining that it was just a piece of paper and not the horse-eating monster he seemed to have identified in it.

‘She’s good,’ said Ralph, breathing heavily through his nose. ‘That brute is a . . . well, brute. Her brother shouldn’t let her ride it.’

Gerald seemed to share his opinion. ‘I wish you’d ride Nuthatch. He won’t actually try to kill you.’

‘Hush,’ chided Isabella.

Phryne saw that both polo teams and a reasonable number of the hearties, who had beguiled the previous days playing sport and emptying barrels, were gathered in a rough line, waiting for the Templars. Phryne saw Jill on Black Boy and Ann on George, and Dougie on Mongrel. And Nicholas on a rangy grey which was idling away this tedious waiting time by chewing its bit.

Gerald and Isabella rode to the centre of the line. Standing beside Phryne was Sylvanus, who had a large pocket watch in his hand.

‘Now,’ said Gerald.

Two men had hauled up a large cage and, at this signal, opened the door. Nothing happened until the beast within turned around and saw a gateway to freedom. Then it took off like a medium range shell.

Phryne had time to see that it was a fallow deer. Sylvanus began counting, checking off the seconds by reference to the watch. The deer flew towards a distant patch of grey green which marked the beginning of the forest. There it would be very hard to find. Dogs whined. Horses shifted restlessly. Sylvanus counted.

‘Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,’ he said.

‘Tally-ho!’ cried Isabella, and she and Tonnerre sprang into the chase. The hunt was up. Ralph whooped and followed. In a minute the drumming of hoofs had faded, and the two workmen began to pack up the cage.

Phryne sat down on a lawn chair where she could see the hunt, and Sylvanus slumped down beside her.

‘The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible,’ he observed. ‘As the divine Oscar said.’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, who disliked hunting. She had been dragged along a few times by a rather charming MFH, and she had found the spectacle beautiful and the blood-lust distasteful. Red-faced squires watched happily as the fox was killed and dismembered by belling hounds. Men who had never had to depend on their hunting skills for their next meal watched and cheered.

Phryne ate meat and if pushed could have killed her own dinner. If it was her or the chicken it wasn’t going to be her. But she rather liked foxes and could not see why, if they raided farms, they should not be decently and quickly disposed of, rather than tormented until they died. It was no use hunters saying they did it for the sport. If so, they might as well hunt an aniseed drag. No, they needed that blood reward. It was disgusting.

‘’scuse me, Miss,’ said one of the workmen, touching a finger to his forehead in what Phryne thought to be an exaggerated, if not actually sarcastic, show of deference. ‘Can we have a word with you about this cage?’

Phryne was on the point of saying something like, ‘Go away, there’s a good chap, and don’t get involved in blood sports again,’ when she caught the shadow of a wink in a very bright eye and got up.

‘Forgive me, Syl, I’ll be back in a jiff.’ She moved out of earshot.

The taller workman was dressed in a blue singlet and moleskins; the other wore a shabby farm overall. He actually had some hay in his hair.

‘You’re overacting,’ she told them quietly.

‘Fooled everyone up to now,’ the taller man told her. ‘Bert and Cec say hello. We got in on the delivery of that poor animal for them capitalists to massacre for sport, doing the hungry man’s family out of a meal as usual. Snatching the food from his starving children’s mouths.’