Murder in the Dark (33 page)

The music, Phryne saw, was going to be interesting. Not usually given to mingling, the brouhaha of the night before had brought all of them together: the belly dancers and Arab musicians, the choral singers, the medieval musicians, and the jazz people. They had sat together, played together and got drunk together, and now they saw no reason why they should be separated. Jazz players in a small place like Melbourne knew all the other jazz players in town, and the same went for every speciality. They hadn’t had anything to say to each other before, and now wondered why.

‘One in, all in,’ explained Tabitha, escorting Nerine, who was bringing with her a nervous Terence carrying a large jug and Thomas carrying a tray of glasses. They reached Phryne and Nicholas with an inaudible sigh of relief and set down their burdens on the white-clothed table.

‘Have a drink with me, my honey-lambs,’ said Nerine.

‘It’s a new cocktail, invented in her honour,’ said Tommy.

‘Made of mint, sugar, bourbon and pineapple juice, and real toothsome,’ drawled Nerine.

‘Called a Nerine,’ said Tabitha, filling glasses. ‘Cheers!’

‘Bottoms up,’ said Nicholas, sipping even though he had sworn off bourbon forever. The bourbon was not stressed. The Nerine was, in fact, deliciously acid. He said so.

‘Gotta go,’ said Nerine. ‘Enjoy the music, y’all. You ain’t heard nothing like this concert’s gonna be.’

They went, thoughtfully taking their jug. Masked figures were arriving from the polo set and the horde of hearties. The impeccable evening costume of the Grammar Boys was a joy to behold. The improvised costumes of the Wonnangatta Tigers were remarkable for their ingenuity. Ann, for instance, was wearing a medieval undergown in bright red, a soft Japanese kimono and a bunch of hibiscus in her hair, which was loose around her shoulders. Jill wore a strictly tied kimono and trousers, in which she looked severe but decorative. Dougie and Murph were wearing their own moleskins and the short gowns and surcoats from the costume store. They looked a good deal more like the knights of the time than the acolytes had, Phryne thought, hard-bitten men who were used to the saddle and knew which end of a sword was the naughty one. They liked their new clothes, and swaggered as though they had just won the Battle of Agincourt.

Seated on folding chairs (which they must have brought with them as there were no folding chairs in the house) were three gentlemen in grey suits. Their sole concession to the masqué theme was a domino each. By the strong green tinge, they were drinking Nerines, as absinthe was not on the barman’s menu.

Phryne was about to go across and ask them who they were when the music began and she had to stay put.

The players had tossed for their performing order, and the Arabs had won. The three belly dancers came on, standing perfectly still as a tall man repeated verses from
Omar Khayyam
.

‘Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
‘The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
‘The Bird of Time has but a little way
‘To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing. . . .

‘But come with old Khayyam and leave the Lot
‘Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:
‘Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
‘Or Hatim Tai cry supper—heed them not.

. . .

‘Ah, Moon of my Delight, who know’st no wane
‘The Moon of Heaven is rising once again:
‘How oft hereafter rising shall she look
‘Through this same garden after me—in vain!’

At the end of each verse, the dancers came awake in a jingle of bracelets, twirled their rounded bellies and curved their smooth brown arms. Now that Phryne was not feeling disgruntled, she could appreciate how erotic they were. And how skilled. How long did it take to get that sort of muscular control over the whole abdomen? They danced through the hearties, fighting off unwelcome grabs while allowing the well intentioned to stuff folded money into their garments.

‘And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
‘Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass
‘And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
‘Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass!’

‘So, the theme is wine,’ said Nicholas.

‘I don’t know that there are many jazz songs about wine,’ Phryne replied. That theme was too facile for the air of suppressed excitement being generated by the musicians.

The jazz players were next. Nerine leaned into her microphone to croon.

‘Take a sniff, take a sniff, take a sniff on me,
‘Ev’body take a sniff on me,
‘Cocaine all around my brain.’

‘“The Cocaine Blues”,’ said Phryne. ‘Not just wine, then.’

Nerine concluded and the whole ensemble began to play a quickstep: ‘Sweet Red Wine’. The company danced. Phryne stayed where she was. She felt that her friend had had enough exercise for one evening. The next dance was a foxtrot called ‘Rosy, My Woman Now’, about rosé wine, and the next saw Nerine return to the microphone. ‘My lady Morphine,’ she sang. ‘She a mean lady to me/My lady Morphine . . .’

The jazz players went on with various favourites as the company danced and Phryne went to the bar for another Nerine for herself and a sherry cobbler for Nicholas. Was the theme . . . surely they wouldn’t dare . . . but why not? She would know with the next bracket.

The choral singers joined the medieval musicians and Phryne winced at the sound of the crumhorn. However, the singing was deft and very sweet. ‘Oh, metaphysical tobacco,’ they sang. ‘Fetch’d as far as from Morocco . . .’

‘Aha,’ said Phryne.

The next song was a rousing temperance hymn about ‘the cup that cheers but does not inebriate’, which they sang with the verve of those who did not have to drink tea except by choice. Phryne applauded.

The singers filed off, some jazz players came on, and the musicians, after a certain amount of argument about which instruments they were replacing with which outmoded old relics, began a familiar theme.

‘Crutnacker,’ said Gerald, by Phryne’s ear. ‘That’s what the players call it. Aren’t we lucky to have so many orchestral players amongst these people? And dancers,’ he added.

Two dancers leapt onto the greensward and began to sway. Coffee, thought Phryne. Considering that they were trying to keep their footing on grass, they were very good. She sipped her drink.

Coffee leapt off the stage, to be replaced by several people in flat Chinese hats.

‘And tea,’ said Nicholas, recognising the theme even though it was played on a viola, a psaltery, a flat drum, two recorders, a clarinet and a crumhorn.

‘Drugs,’ said Phryne. ‘That’s the theme. Cheeky. Pity they haven’t got a song about hash. I must get someone to write one.’

When the orchestra had concluded their excerpts from
Nutcracker
, Gerald rose.

‘Dear people,’ he said, holding out his hand to his sister, ‘we have had a wonderful time and we would like to thank everyone who contributed to this entertainment. It lacks only ten minutes to midnight and the end of the party. But I have grave news and I want you all to—’

‘Wait one minute,’ said a man in a grey suit who had run to the dais. ‘We have a proposition for you, Mr Templar.’

‘You have? And who are you?’ he asked, still holding Isabella’s hand so that she could not get away and do something Wagnerian.

‘Why, you don’t know me? Of course, you couldn’t. I am Sol Weisenheimer of Weisenheimer Bild, and I want to take you to Hollywood. We need you.’

‘Well, thank you, that’s quite an honour. But I’m sorry, I can’t leave all my friends,’ said Gerald.

Mr Weisenheimer danced a frustrated dance, waving his hands, his watch chain glittering.

‘I’m not asking you to leave your friends,’ he shouted. ‘I want your friends and all, and Nerine the singer, and the young Adonis and the girl who looks like Louise Brooks.’

Phryne looked at Nicholas and chuckled.

‘Why?’ asked Gerald, bewildered. ‘What do you want with all of us?’

‘You explain, Carruthers,’ said Mr Weisenheimer, and his second in command tugged on his lapels.

‘You know of the recent great innovation in cinema,’ he said.

‘Sound,’ said Phryne.

‘Give the lady a cigar. Sound. More and more people will come flocking to the movies to hear their favourite silent picture stars. And what will they hear?’

‘The stars?’ said Gerald.

‘They will hear heavy accents, mumbling, shrill piping and scratchy old whisky voices,’ said Mr Carruthers. ‘So what we need are—’

‘Melodious voices,’ said Phryne, adding in an undertone, ‘Nicholas, go and get Sylvanus and bring him to Gerald right away. Don’t let Gerald sign anything without his leave. This could be the solution we have all been hoping for and we don’t want to undersell ourselves.’

‘Another cigar,’ said Mr Carruthers, ‘to the very clever and beautiful lady. We need a bank of voices. Young voices, older voices, accents, sweet voices, rough voices, all actors who can read a script and memorise it, like you do with your poetry. We need people who are dedicated to each other so that they do not compete and scratch and—pardon me, ladies—bitch like our voice casting do now. You and your group are perfect for our purposes, Mr Templar. You and your sister will, of course, be stars. You also have one very talented comedienne. But all the others will be on contract for when we need them. Now I can’t offer you more than a quarter-million for the package, the whole package, mind.’

‘Not me, honey,’ Nerine called out. ‘I like it here and I’ll go home when I wish. If ’n I do, I’ll call you first, Mr Weisenheimer.’

‘Deal. Jazz will take a bit longer to become generally acceptable in Little Rock,’ said Mr Carruthers. Weisenheimer pressed his card on Nerine.

‘Really can’t,’ said Phryne regretfully, ‘but give me your card, just in case.’

‘You sure?’ asked Mr Weisenheimer. Up close he had the bright eyes of the fanatic and smelt sweetly of coffee and cologne.

‘You already have one Louise Brooks,’ she told him. ‘You don’t need another.’

‘We could always do with another Louise Brooks,’ he replied. ‘And I suppose you’re keeping young Adonis, too?’

‘That’s up to him,’ said Phryne.

‘Sorry,’ said Nicholas. ‘But you’ve got Gerald. He’s magnificent enough for any movie.’

‘So he is,’ said Mr Weisenheimer. ‘The women of America will be swooning over him before the end of 1929, or my name’s not Weisenheimer.’

‘And it is,’ said Nicholas.

‘So,’ said half of Weisenheimer Bild, revealing his origin.

‘Come and talk to me, Mr Weisenheimer,’ said Sylvanus, dragging Phryne along as well. ‘We need to talk about contracts.’

‘You’ll do it?’ cried Mr Weisenheimer.

‘If the price is right.’

After an interval of ferocious bargaining, Syl settled for half a million dollars, contracts for all, and a clause in them which said that if any person wanted to go home, his fare would be paid by the studio. Phryne thought that she could have got more from the incandescent Mr W, but it was a good deal and left both sides thinking they might have done worse, which was the sign of an equitable contractual negotiation.

Gerald and Isabella were sitting on their thrones. The acolytes were discussing America. The musicians were working out who was going and who was staying. The rest of the gathering was treating their bemusement with more beer.

‘Well, Gerald, this solves your troubles,’ said Phryne.

‘What a bolt from the blue!’ murmured Gerald. For the last time he pulled Phryne into his loving, charismatic embrace. Tarquin, who was at his feet, did not even bother to bite her ankle. Everyone was excited, laughing, embracing.

‘Charge your glasses,’ said Gerald. ‘It is now midnight. Happy New Year!’

Fireworks went off over the polo ground and lake. Phryne drew Nicholas close as a cool wind sprang up. She was supremely content and not a little amused at the turnings which fate had taken at the Last Best Party of 1928.

The singing of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was conducted with especial fervour as the company knew that they were leaving. Some wanted to return to Paris. Most wanted to go to America. Contracts were being signed in a flurry of paper. Skyrockets went off in the pure, dark blue midnight sky.

‘Didn’t I say this was a marvellous idea?’ cried Mr Weisen-heimer.

‘Yes, Mr Weisenheimer,’ said Carruthers.

The third man grinned, seemed about to speak, changed his mind and nodded.

Late that night, after the sturdiest party girl had gone to bed, Phryne stood alone in the garden. She was still recovering her nerve and did not want to sleep quite yet. She was sleepy, but not sleepy enough.

It might have been the angle of the remaining lights, it might have been the hash smoke she had breathed earlier, but suddenly Phryne could see the manor house as it had been before it was uglified. Lights streamed from porch and windows. The front door was open, showing fine delicate decoration, green and pink and blue, gilded and shining. Gas lights burned with a fine glow from chandeliers made of rock crystal, like waterfalls of ice. Music sounded from inside, a string quartet playing Handel’s
Water Music
. Phryne could not see any guests, but she could hear the drag and rustle of the trains of many ball gowns and the padding of many feet in dancing shoes which would be worn through by morning. Glasses tinkled. There was a murmur of voices. The whole house shone with welcome, with hospitality, with pleasure in its own society.

Phryne was entranced. She held her breath, knowing that the vision was as insubstantial as a soap bubble and could vanish at any moment. She strained her eyes but still could not see any people, though she could hear them dancing. She heard a girl laugh lightly and almost saw the flirt of her fan as she tapped her beau on the wrist for his impudence. Little points of red light on the balcony must have been gentlemen smoking their after dinner cigars. A scent of hair powder and shoe polish and silks cleaned with lavender water wafted her way from the shining house, and before she could prevent it, she sneezed.

And it was all gone into the darkness.

After that, there was nothing else to do but extinguish her own gasper, finish her Nerine, and put herself to bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.