Murder in the Dark (27 page)

‘Who is?’

‘Both of them. I reckon they’re evenly matched. But the Tigers can’t win,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ asked Phryne. ‘They’re doing pretty well until now.’

‘They got no remounts,’ said Green. ‘My young men can have a fresh horse every chukka if they want.’

‘Ah,’ said Phryne. But he was right. The Tigers were beginning to flag. Their ponies, willing as ever, were tiring. Still the Grammar Boys did not seem to be able to break through. Whenever they set up a long run down the field, Jill would be there on Rapide, turning on a sixpence, or Ann on George, or the ever present Dougie on Mongrel.

‘Half-time,’ said the umpire, and the horses streamed off the field. The Tigers slumped to the ground while their mounts were watered sparingly and rubbed down. Valets and stablemen attended the Grammar Boys. Tired ponies were led away and fresh ones brought up from the lines. Phryne saw that Ralph was going to ride Buttercup. Housemaids from the manor were passing through the riders, distributing sandwiches, fruit cup and tea.

Phryne could hear the Grammar captain haranguing his team. ‘Are we going to be beaten by these up-country rustics?’ he yelled.

Phryne did not hear any answer from the exhausted men. The Wonnangatta Tigers were drinking tea as though there might be a world shortage, but they were not eating. Jill was lamenting Rapide’s knee, which was swelling, while Ann was moving the saddle onto Black Boy’s back. She fed him a handful of coarse brown sugar. Phryne could see the pony relishing the taste.

‘Here we go again,’ said Albert Green. He had managed to corner a whole box of unwanted sandwiches and had a huge tin mug of tea. ‘You watch, Miss, they’ll score this chukka.’

But they didn’t. Faint and flagging the Tigers might have been, but their ponies were used to wheeling cattle in high country scrub. They were as tough as old tree roots, and so were their riders. They might have limped behind the action, but when the ball was there, so were the Tigers.

The Grammar Boys were wearying. This was not how the game was supposed to go. They decided on a rush and barrelled down the ground, only to be met with a resistance so fierce that the ponies must have wondered what had come over their riders.

The last chukka. The Tigers were exhausted. Their ponies’ sides were striped with foam. Albert Green, having mangled his way through all of his sandwiches, said, ‘By God, they might do it, they might!’ and Phryne found that against all inclination she was caught up in this contest.

But she did not see it when Johnson, maddened by this rustic and feminine defiance, decided to settle the matter by himself. Rushing beside Dougie when the play was elsewhere, he delivered a powerful blow to the pony’s knees, and Mongrel went down. There was a howl of outrage.

‘What happened?’ demanded Phryne.

‘The hound!’ howled the old man. ‘That’s never sport! They ought to be ashamed! A foul, and no umpire could see it!’

‘They cheated?’ asked Phryne ‘They did, by God,’ swore Mr Green.

Phryne opened her bag, took something out and squeezed it hard.

Mongrel was led off the ground. His legs weren’t broken, at least. But Dougie had no other pony and the Tigers were now one rider down. Surely the Grammar Boys must win.

Then, drawn irresistibly by her favourite scent in the whole world, along came Mintie the goat. She was inoffensive, as goats go. She tripped carefully through the people. She did not cross the sacred boundary onto the polo ground. She was merely heading for a source of mint.

The Grammar horses had seen cars and planes and trains and bicycles, but they had never seen goats. As one pony, they stopped and stared at Mintie as she made her way around the ground.

‘Now!’ yelled Jill, passing the ball to Ann, and they fled down the ground, skirting hysterical ponies who had found that they really couldn’t stand goats until, with a resounding thwack, Ann hit the ball through the goals and rode off the field as the bell sounded for the end of the match.

There was a sudden, vast silence. Mintie had gone from their sight, seeking her herb. Fallen Grammar Boys got up from the turf, feeling their bruises. Ponies nuzzled riders, unable to explain what had come over them. Johnson scowled. Wonnangatta Tigers stared at each other.

Then someone on the hill began to applaud and the air was filled with clapping and cheering. The captain of the Grammar Boys slapped the captain of the Wonnangatta Tigers on the shoulder as the umpire proclaimed them winners. Ralph Norton said ‘Good show!’ to Ann. Then, horses and all, they paraded back towards the house, arms around each other, Jill and Ann carried shoulder high by their peers.

And when they had all gone, Phryne Fisher fed a whole bunch of mint to an appreciative goat.

No one noticed her actions except Mr Green. He never said a word, but chuckled, at intervals, for the next three days.

‘This is the festival of . . .’ Dot began.

‘I’m tired of all these saints,’ said Ruth. ‘Tell us a nice miracle.’

‘All right,’ said Dot, taken aback. ‘One day Saint Elizabeth of Hungary was warned by her cruel husband that she could not give any more of his bread to the poor. He told her if he caught her giving any charity again, he would kill her.’

‘They made husbands really nasty in the old days,’ said Ruth, embracing Molly.

‘But she was a kind lady and the poor were starving. So she went on feeding them. Then one day her husband stopped her at the door. She was carrying a basket of bread, one of those baskets with a lid. “What’s in here?” he roared. And she said, inspired by God, “Roses.” And he shoved her to her knees and tore open the basket and what do you think he found?’

‘Bread,’ said Jane, a practical thinker.

‘Roses,’ said Dot.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Jane.

‘Of course you don’t,’ replied Dot. ‘It’s a miracle.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

To kill two birds with one stone.

Trad

Luncheon was hilarious, with polo players replaying the game, and notable for Mongrel hopping up onto the bar table for his champagne as if he hadn’t been felled by a blow which would have broken the knees of a lesser beast. His action in kicking Johnson on the way out was charitably put down to the unaccustomed wine going to the pony’s head. Phryne found Ralph Norton deep in conversation on pony rearing with Jill, Ann and several other Tigers. She attracted his attention long enough to collect on her bet.

Phryne sauntered back to the house to find that Nicholas had just woken up feeling like a human again.

‘Bourbon,’ he told her, shuddering strongly. ‘Never touch the stuff. Or that peach brandy called Southern Comfort. It’s lethal. Is it lunch time? I might be able to eat a bit. Thanks to you, Phryne. Ministering angel and all that.’

‘I’ve brought our boxes,’ said Phryne. ‘You missed a riveting game of polo. The Tigers won with the help of a passing goat. Have you got egg sandwiches?’

‘No, ham.’ Nicholas investigated further. ‘And this one’s tomato and lettuce and cheese and things.’ He ate it. It stayed down. ‘I am not going to die after all,’ he announced.

Phryne poured them both a cup of coffee from her refilled thermos.

‘Good, because I need my bed. I am proposing to conclude lunch with a nice nap,’ she told him. ‘Tonight is going to be testing. Are you armed?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas soberly. ‘Are you?’

‘I am. My companion brought me some extra ammo.’

‘I’ve got enough for all the good it will do,’ he said, eating another sandwich. ‘This Joker is impossible to catch.’

‘Nonsense. You’re just saying that because no one ever has,’ she told him. ‘Stop being so discouraging. I just won five pounds on a polo team that no one would sensibly back, so you can see how foolish you are being. Now, you need some exercise. Go for a nice long walk and a swim and you will feel much better. The Feast of Fools starts at four on the Great Lawn. I shall be there. And if you do not know how to dance a pavane, I shall be delighted to teach you. Bye,’ said Phryne, and Nicholas removed himself and his lunch box into the corridor. He heard the door shut and a chair-back being forced under the handle.

A little at a loss, he went to the hornbeam to finish his meal, and then decided on a nice long walk as Miss Fisher had suggested. He was getting stale with all these late nights.

Phryne Fisher, relieved of company, finished the biscuits (which were as excellent as ever) with a cup of coffee. Then she took off most of her clothes and lay down in her bed, cradling the pillow to her cheek, and willed herself to fall asleep. And did.

Three thirty and Phryne came awake, as she had arranged with her internal clock. Time for a wash and the donning of her very own costume. Phryne had been persuaded by a certain Orkney fiddler to attend several functions which required medieval dress, and she decided that she would have her own clothes made. This was a rather tasty page’s outfit in Lincoln green. She did not want to be encumbered with the long sleeves and flowing gown of a medieval woman on this night. And her instructions had told her that she was elected page for the night.

And while she was at it she needed to muster her troops. She needed to talk to Sam, Gabriel, the wharfies and Mrs Truebody about the projected capture of the Joker. This took some effort and she scrambled into the tights and jerkin just in time to arrive at the Great Lawn before the Templars. The company was very decorative, as multi-coloured as a field of flowers. Gauzy veils floated from high hennins, sleeves dipped to the grass to meet the curly points of shoes, and Sylvanus Leigh was resplendent as the Lord of Misrule. He had a jester’s costume and a reproving bladder on a stick. He grinned sardonically at Phryne in her boy’s clothes and belted her with the bladder.

‘Lost your nerve, lovely lady?’

‘Joining the other side,’ retorted Phryne.

Sylvanus laughed. Phryne sniffed. Somewhere, someone had lit a fire and was roasting meat. On a spit, perhaps? Very medieval. We must look like a Turkey carpet from the sky, thought Phryne. All these colours. All moving. Nicholas arrived in a knee length purple gown and surcoat, wearing a small round Piranesi hat.

‘Pavane,’ said Phryne, holding out her left hand. He bowed, kissed her fingers, and waited for instructions.

‘The pavane was invented so that everyone, even the elderly and infirm, could walk around the hall and inspect everyone else—clothes, hairstyle, who they were dancing with. Therefore it is slow and graceful and even one in possession of two left feet can dance it. Thus . . .’

The company had lined up in a long snaking circle of couples around the perimeter of the Great Lawn. Three musicians stood in the middle. One had a pipe, one had a drum, and one was playing Phryne’s particular detestation, the crumhorn, an instrument which sounded like a trodden-on trumpet with warped clarinet overtones.

‘Bow,’ said Phryne, bowing. ‘Step, pause at the end of each step. You lift yourself onto your toes and down but you don’t need to worry about that yet. Step, three small steps, pause. Forward again. Step, pause, step, pause, step, step, step, pause. Again. Then back,’ she said, shoving him gently. ‘The same thing. Step, pause, step, pause, step, step, step, pause. Then you drop to one knee and I go around you, clockwise, thus. Then I stand here and you go around me. That’s it. And now forward . . .

’ After a few repetitions of the figures, Nicholas began to enjoy the pavane. It did allow one time to look around, especially considering that most medieval dancers would have been pavaning since early childhood. Even the hearties and the horsemen were joining in, though some were miffed when Jill and Ann insisted on dancing with each other. Step, pause, step, pause, step, step, step, pause. Where was the Joker? Who was he? And who was his target? Am I going to live through tonight? thought Nicholas. He stumbled, and missed his step.

‘Hold up,’ said Phryne. ‘Talk, if you’re worried.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I’m worried too,’ said Miss Fisher. ‘I’m not a soldier, trained to battle. In fact I bet soldiers worry as well, they just don’t tell us about it.’

‘Just the usual worries, Phryne: shall I eat breakfast tomorrow?’ he said, smiling with some effort.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, smiling with no effort at all. ‘I am confident of that.’

Nicholas immediately felt better. He told himself this was silly, but he felt better all the same.

‘And I can’t imagine a world without you in it,’ he said to the top of Phryne’s green velvet cap, which was all of her that he could see when she moved closer to him. Her long pheasant’s feather tickled his chin.

‘Good,’ she answered. ‘Keep on imagining. With you imagining and Dot praying, we ought to manage.’

An hour later Nicholas was mastering the intricacies of the Officer’s Bransle and wondering why he had ever classed himself as an inept dancer. Of course, there was no medieval version of the Charleston, for which he just didn’t have the ankles. And instead of the sharp, jarring rhythms of modern dances, the medieval ones were energetic enough but designed for someone wearing approximately three times the weight in clothes of the average 1928 nightclubber.

He grabbed a stout acolyte around the waist and hurled her into the air. This was fun. Though he did wish Sylvanus would stop bashing him with that stupid bladder on a stick. And if those were authentic medieval jokes, the bawdry of his ancestors had been remarkable.

Phryne took a break while the musicians retooled their crumhorn. With any luck it would be permanently broken. The strange thing was that anyone could even tell when there was something wrong with it. She accepted a drink of chilled red wine cup from Minnie, who was quivering with excitement.

‘Everything’s ready, Miss. Your blokes brought the stuff out and it’s all where you said it should be.’

‘Good,’ said Phryne. ‘And Mrs Truebody knows about getting everyone inside and the big doors shut? This is a dangerous person.’

‘Yes, Miss. Just you give the signal.’

‘Good work, Minnie.’

‘Oh, and Miss?’

‘Yes?’ asked Phryne, holding out her goblet for a refill.

‘Sam said I should tell you, Miss. About him and me. We’re getting married.’