Murder on a Midsummer Night (19 page)

‘We’re a four,’ Vern instructed Bill, the youngest. ‘We live together and ride together. We’re mates. And these are our horses. They get twenty-two litres of water a day where we get one. They get fed three times a day and rested ten minutes an hour. Though with this new bloke I dunno how much rest we’re gonna get.’

‘Saw Banjo,’ said Bill. ‘Back at camp with the Methusaliers.’

‘Did yer? What’s he like?’

‘Old bloke,’ said Bill. ‘Gives the best horses to the troopers, says the HQ officers can ride screws. Said this new general’s a cavalryman. Says Allenby’s been trying on generals like a man in a hatshop tries on hats. He’s sent half of HQ home and moved out into the desert. I reckon we’ll see Damascus soon.’

‘And then home,’ sighed Curly.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Come on, poor babe:
Some powerful spirit instructs the kites and
   ravens
To be thy nurses! . . .
Poor thing, condemn’d to loss!

William Shakespeare
The Winter’s Tale

Phryne woke and blinked sleepily. It was evidently late. The sun had moved over her coverlet. Ember had already departed, perhaps to breakfast, perhaps to lunch. Lin Chung was lying asleep beside her. Yesterday had been strenuous and Phryne was not minded to sleep again or even to make love, as it would be cruel to wake her lover. She lay back in her silk nightdress and enjoyed the soft sunlight and the down pillow and the feeling of utter repose.

A soft tap announced Dot. Phryne slipped out of her bed and went into her sitting room.

‘I slept in until nine,’ said Dot, who had never done such a thing while she had her health. ‘So did Mr Butler and that James Barton just ate his breakfast and went back to byes like a baby. The girls just got up and Mrs Butler didn’t rise until eight, she said it was like a holiday. She says she doesn’t mind serving breakfast instead of lunch, but would you like some of either, and Mr Lin?’

‘A nice question. He was up until all hours designing the surprise for the Atkinsons. Send up a cooked breakfast for him and the usual for me, Dot dear, and just turn the hot tap as you pass? I am going to have a bath. Then we shall come down and plot.’

Dot did as requested and Phryne bathed in a new bath scent, Ocean, which smelt of salt water and frangipani, a strange but interesting combination. When she heard the rattle of the dumb waiter she wheeled the trolley out.

Lin woke to the scent of bacon. This made him remember Cambridge, which had been cold. But he was warm and dressed in silk pyjamas. Half of them, at least. He was rummaging for the bottoms when Phryne came in.

‘Early lunch,’ she said. ‘Or maybe very late breakfast. Will you partake?’

‘I will,’ he said.

‘And would you like my bath?’

‘That, too,’ said Lin Chung, and abandoned the search for his trousers. There was not a square inch of him which Phryne had not seen. He stripped off the top instead and went to bathe in Ocean-scented water.

Phryne had already eaten her croissant and was drinking coffee when he reappeared and loaded a plate with bacon, scrambled egg, sausages and grilled tomato. Phryne averted her eyes and began to dress.

‘I need to tell a respectable family a terrible secret,’ she said, looking at her array of clothes. ‘What do you suggest? Black?’

‘Dark blue,’ said Lin, with his mouth full. ‘A suit.’

‘Good notion,’ approved Phryne. She had assumed the dark blue suit and was selecting a hat by the time Lin Chung laid down his fork and filled his teacup.

‘I need to find a place in which to produce your performance,’ he said. ‘So I shall be away perhaps all day. Dinner tonight?’ he asked.

‘Indeed,’ said Phryne. She sprayed herself with Floris Stephanotis, kissed him warmly, and was gone with a tapping of her Louis heels.

Lin shrugged and drank more tea. What a woman. She was a force of nature.

Phryne advised Mr Bonnetti that she and her assistant would be pleased if a family council could be reconvened at two in the afternoon. He had agreed. She had requested that his wife should be present. To this he had also agreed, a trifle hesitantly. Phryne thought that of all the Bonnettis, the woman with the orange roses was the one who might be able to hold the family together under the revelation Phryne was about to make. She checked her little bag, which contained her little gun. No way of knowing how this might go. Then she rang Jack Robinson, heard his news, and made her request. This, after the usual objections, he granted, as he usually did.

Then she collected Dot, who carried the box containing amongst other things, Patrick O’Rourke’s pitiful remnants, the letters and the shawl of the girl Kathleen. She intimated her destination to Mr Butler, and had herself driven to the Bonnetti house. She only made one stop on the way.

Her two guests were silent. It was, one observed to himself, like watching a rather good performance of
St Joan
. The GBS
St Joan
of course. The profile was set, the lips firm, the whole being radiated divine purpose. Better to do as the nice lady says, and then no one would get hurt.

In all probability.

The Bonnetti mansion was as tall and imposing as before, but Phryne allowed no flinching. She swept her supporting cast up the endless stairs, observing tartly that filial piety would, one thought, require a son to water his mother’s geraniums. To which Dot agreed. ‘Pity to let them all die like that,’ she said. ‘Those red ones are rare.’

‘We shall speak to the butler about it,’ Phryne responded.

The door was opening in anticipation of their arrival and the looming Mr Johns allowed them to pass him and enter the hall. This had been vigorously cleaned. The gold picture frames glowed. The carpet smelt of orange vinegar, tea leaves and elbow grease. Mr Johns conducted them into the Bonnetti dining room, now fresh, dustless, and populated with Bonnettis. Phryne raked the room with an assessing stare. Mr Adami, looking nervous. Mr Bonnetti, looking anxious. Ditto Mrs Bonnetti, Mrs Bernadette, her attendants Dr James and Tata, Mrs Johnson and Mr Johnson, who looked hysterical. The Bishop, looking down at his folded hands. All present and correct.

‘Mr Johns will stay, if you please,’ she said icily.

At a gesture from Mr Bonnetti, Mr Johns took up a station near the door.

The big windows had all been opened and a sweet scent was being blown in from a mass of creamy roses.

‘Miss Fisher,’ said Mrs Bonnetti, trying for and almost achieving a social manner. ‘Will you sit down? Perhaps some tea?’

‘Tea might be a good idea,’ said Phryne. Her inflexible manner was inflicting the willies on her employers, which was just what she had in mind. These foolish people had put her to a great deal of trouble. Their lack of trust in each other had caused a good deal of damage—to each other. Another object lesson of why humans should have stayed in trees, where they could not behave in such an idiotic way. Or possibly we should never have emerged from the sea. Evolution, Phryne sometimes thought, had a long way to go before the Homo became even close to Sapiens.

Tea arrived, wheeled in on a series of trolleys by three Italian servants. The general shake-up of the housekeeping meant that someone had spent the intervening time with the Silvo, polishing the huge silver teapot, the Modern Dutch cow creamer, water jug, sugar basin, slop basin, strainer and silver spoons. And someone else had carefully washed and dried a precious Meissen tea set, cups, plates and saucers. It was all very decorative—and had not been looted—and the servants distributed the crockery and cutlery nervously, as though they had been told very firmly how valuable it was.

Dot thought that it was very pretty, but there was no point in having a tea service which would be ruined if someone dropped a cup.

Phryne waited until everyone had gone through the tea ritual—strong or weak? A little more water? Sugar? How many lumps? And milk? She sipped to clear her voice.

‘Well, Miss Fisher, here we all are,’ said Mr Bonnetti.

‘Yes, indeed. You will recall that I was asked to find out if there was a child of Kathleen O’Brien and Patrick O’Rourke. There was.’

‘We knew this already.’ Mr Johnson’s voice was ragged with strain.

‘If you would be so good, Mr Johnson, as to allow me to continue?’ Phryne asked.

Mr Johnson, at a signal from his brother-in-law, subsided.

‘I now know that the child lived, against the odds. And I know who the child is.’

‘No!’ screamed Mr Johnson.

‘Sit down, now,’ said the Bishop firmly. ‘Mrs Bonnetti is right. We must have this secret out of its lair, and defy the foul fiend.’

‘Ordinarily, the existence of the child would not matter,’ Phryne continued. ‘But strange things have been happening in your family, Mr Bonnetti, and because all of you were spitting on your hands and bending your best endeavours to make sure that no one else found out anything, you have got yourselves into a pickle. And you made yourselves into perfect victims for a man with no scruples. You received a message saying “the child is among you” and each and every one of you lost his or her wits.’

‘Don’t say it!’ cried Mr Johnson.

‘Will you put a sock in it?’ demanded Phryne. ‘Shall I have you removed from the room?’

‘No, no, I’ll stay,’ he said biddably. Then without warning he threw himself across the table, to the detriment of the Meissen, both hands grasping for Phryne’s throat.

‘Meddling bitch!’ he yelled.

Phryne drew away disdainfully, out of reach of those murderous hands, and drew her little gun. The room went quite still.

‘Pick Mr Johnson up and put him back in his chair,’ she told the Italian servants. They looked at Mr Bonnetti, who nodded. They did as they were told.

‘Sheila, block your ears, don’t listen!’ he shrieked.

‘Tom, what’s wrong with you?’ she exclaimed.

Phryne went on, keeping hold of the Beretta in case of further assaults.

‘What Mr Johnson doesn’t want you to hear is that he was being blackmailed. By, as I said, a subtle and ruthless man. What he didn’t tell you when he married you was that although he came from a nice respectable family, he was not their son by blood. He was adopted. By the coincidence of his birth, which was in January 1865, the blackmailer made him believe that he was the child of Kathleen O’Brien, and that—’

‘Oh, dear Lord Jesus,’ said Bishop Quinlan.

Mr Bonnetti jumped to his feet to embrace his sister, who was sagging. He looked shocked but also puzzled.

Phryne held up a hand and the buzz of talk stilled. She realised that she was still holding her pistol in it and put it down.

‘He handed over all the money he could steal, extort or borrow to this man. The police have traced the postbox. It was a perfect plot and as long as he didn’t actually trust anyone with the secret, like his brother-in-law and head of the family, he would have been bled white. I doubt he was actuated by love of his wife,’ she said with some distaste. ‘But he knew that his nice cosy billet and his unending stream of cash for his businesses would dry up if this was found to be true.’

The Bishop was now sitting next to Mrs Johnson, holding her hand. He was praying under his breath. Sheila Johnson was echoing the words.

‘But, of course, it’s not true—is it, Mr Bonnetti?’

‘No,’ said Mr Bonnetti heavily. ‘It is not true.’

‘Because that same subtle man was levying the blackmail on you, too,’ said Phryne. ‘He sent the “child is among you” notes. He said he was, in fact, the child. Because you wanted to be relieved of his attentions, you employed me. But you also kept paying.’

‘What else could I do? It might have been true. In the beginning, he didn’t want much. Then . . .’

‘The demands escalated,’ said Phryne. ‘They became intolerable. And he seemed to know things. Secret family things.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Bonnetti.

‘Gentlemen,’ Phryne said, now addressing her fascinated guests. ‘Do you know anyone in this room?’

‘Oh yes, dear,’ said Mr Wright. ‘I’d be sure if he turned his back . . . yes. What do you think, Archie?’

‘I never forget a back,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘Not after I chased it all the way through the cemetery looking for a contribution to a funeral. Besides, we know him, Albie.’

‘We do?’

‘Walking gentleman in all those Shakespeares. Spear carrier—nice legs he had—in that scandalous production of
Caesar and Cleopatra
where Maggie Arnold wore that muslin gown that you could see straight through. It revealed that she was not wearing any undergarments. That’s our Toby.’

‘So he is,’ marvelled Mr Wright. ‘Been getting any work lately, Toby? This is Toby Johns,’ he told the company. ‘Used to be an actor. Not a very good actor. Last time we saw him was at Patrick O’Rourke’s funeral. Then he left the stage, it seems.’

‘Which is where he got his secret family knowledge,’ said Phryne. ‘From Patrick O’Rourke.’

‘So he is not the child,’ said Mr Bonnetti, astounded. His wife was glaring at him from under her tea-time fascinator of mauve feathers.

‘No,’ Phryne told him. ‘He is a thief. You have been allowing him to loot the estate and practise
droit de seigneur
among the maids, not to mention oppressing your Italian staff.’

This brought heartfelt agreement from the Italians. ‘
E vero, bella signorina
!’ said one.

‘He was fortunately caught trying to sell the Antiochus the Second to Mr Rosenberg and he is presently under arrest. Would you like to come in, Constable Pinkus?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said a tall young man, resplendant in full uniform, from the door behind Mr Johns.

‘You don’t dare,’ sneered Mr Johns. ‘I know your secret.’

‘No, actually, we do dare,’ said Phryne. ‘Because you don’t. Now are you going quietly or do I have to shoot you? I would be delighted to oblige. A few holes in your anatomy is the least you deserve for your settled cruelty over so many years. You contemptible man,’ she added, picking up and levelling the pistol. ‘Try to run, would you? Please?’ she coaxed. ‘Left leg or right?’

‘You bitch!’ cried Mr Johns.

‘Music to my ears,’ said Phryne, unfazed.

Under the threat of the little gun, Mr Johns allowed himself to be handcuffed. ‘It was easy,’ he yelled into their faces. ‘You made it so simple! You wouldn’t talk to each other, you never trusted each other, you made it too, too easy! Hypocrites! I hated you, I hated you all. You, Bonnetti, and your affectation of father of the family, wouldn’t even confide in your own wife! She would never have let me get away with it. You, Johnson, terrified that your meal ticket was going to throw you out. For incest! And you,’ he snarled at Mr Wright and Mr Lawrence. ‘I was a good actor! They were just envious! I never got a chance! But I played butler to perfection, to perfection! Difficult. I couldn’t let up for a moment. But I did it and no one suspected me! You’re all fools!’