Urn Burial (3 page)

‘But who else but my host? He is to publish a small book of mine, a little volume.’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Nothing really, but Reynolds brought me here to finish it. If I am in the town, I have too many good companions. I drink, I talk . . . and nothing gets written. Thought, argued over, dreamed, discussed, considered, certainly –

but written, no. You would know this, Madame, you who have known many poets, in Paris, perhaps? And this grotesque and delightful house is a perfect place for a surrealist – it cries out for a resident poet who can really appreciate its strangeness. Therefore, I am here. I ask the same of you. What brings so sophisticated and beautiful a lady to this rural setting, hmm?’

Phryne was wondering the same thing and enumerated her reasons over a cup of Cave House tea, which was much more palatable than the coffee.

‘Tom Reynolds is an old friend of mine, my adopted daughters are back at school, the house is empty, and I need a rest. I have just concluded a 18

nasty case at the theatre and I felt like a little holiday.’

‘Bien suˆr,’ agreed the poet affably. ‘Will you introduce me to your Chinese? Such a beautiful face, like a bronze. What is his name?’

‘Lin Chung. They call him Lin.’

‘I wish I could draw,’ lamented the poet. ‘Every time I see a face like that I long to be able to capture the beauty; the cool, aloof beauty in the bones.’

‘Never mind. You capture it in words.’

‘You are very kind.’ The poet smiled, revealing a face containing unexpected humour as well as the strength of character to be seen in all surrealists. It took determination to be really strange.

That, or absinthe before breakfast every day.

‘So, gentle lady, a little walk, perhaps?’ He held out his arm and Phryne took it.

They walked out of the breakfast room into a pillared portico lined with enough gargoyles to trouble even a surrealist. Tadeusz winced a little and guided Phryne on to a grassy path which led into a rose garden. The fog had burned away under a cool morning sun.

‘A cigarette?’ She accepted. He opened a battered silver case which had a tarnished outline upon it resembling a rising sun. ‘They are Turkish-Balkan Sobranies which I hope are to your taste.

Now, you will want to hear about the house party.

You can see most of them from here.’ He escorted her to a garden seat and pointed.

‘There, playing at being civilised, is Major 19

Luttrell – a military bully, a King Boar, I assure you, beautiful lady, along with his much-tried wife.’

She saw a tall stout gentleman leaning over a small figure under the beech tree. ‘He leads her a dog’s life,’ he said flatly. ‘Some women are saints.’

‘Which makes some men devils. If she’d climbed on a chair and flattened him with a poker when he first began to bully, he’d be a lot more ame-nable and might have some respect for her,’ commented Phryne.

The poet tossed back his hair and said in a faintly astonished tone, ‘As the beautiful lady says.

Visible at a distance because of her illuminated gown, she has a gaudy taste, is Miss Cynthia Medenham, the novelist. You have heard of her?’

‘Yes, she writes symbolic, impenetrable prose, which if it wasn’t so hard to understand would probably be banned. But it sells well, I gather,’ said Phryne, who had given up on Silk after chapter three, despite the promising ingredients of a woman who was the reincarnation of an eight-eenth-century courtesan, a tiger skin, and a virgin (but virile) boy.

‘Hmm, yes. How much of her rather lush prose arises from personal experience I cannot – alas –

say.’ The poet grinned. ‘Playing with a hockey ball and stick is Miss Judith Fletcher, a jolly girl in the English manner – abominable. Do not agree to play tennis with her, she will exhaust you as she exhausted me. She drinks only water, which she calls Adam’s Ale in that intolerably hearty manner, and should marry a . . . a farmer. Instead, her 20

mother,’ he pointed out a middle-aged lady has-tening across the ground with a sunhat in her hands, ‘is determined that she should marry Gerald Randall, a flannelled fool, over there.’ Two young men were hitting a cricket ball between them in a rather desultory manner. One was slim and dark, the other tall and blond and both, indeed, were wearing flannel bags and jumpers.

‘His friend Jack Lucas is just such another – no brains at all and no appreciation of poetry.

However, Mr Gerald plays the piano, passably, unless he attempts Liszt which cannot be recom-mended, anyway. He is absolutely passe´.’

‘Who, Gerald?’

‘Liszt,’ said the poet with strong conviction.

‘There is your Mr Lin with Tom Reynolds. It was brave of him to come, but braver of you to bring him.’

‘No courage was involved, I assure you.’ Phryne sighted a woman of steely bearing, formally dressed in a walking costume and her daytime pearls, and asked, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Evelyn – Mrs Reynolds. She seems to be looking for someone, Madame – could it be you?’

‘Probably. Excuse me, Mr Lodz. And thank you for your most illuminating lecture.’

Evelyn Reynolds caught the end of this and said,

‘What have you been lecturing Miss Fisher on, Tadeusz?’

‘Why, poetry,’ he said with a gentle smile which should not have deceived her for a moment.

‘Poetry, but of course.’

21

Mrs Reynolds took Phryne’s hand in her small soft grasp and said expressionlessly, ‘Miss Fisher, how nice to meet you. Tom’s told me all about you.’

‘Mrs Reynolds.’ Phryne was cordial, for the moment.

‘Evelyn, please. I’m sure we are going to be friends.’

‘Possibly,’ said Phryne. ‘That depends on whether I can stay with you, Mrs Reynolds.’

‘Oh? What could prevent it?’

Phryne held on to the ringed hand and smiled into the powdered face. Mrs Reynolds was good looking, with a chocolate-box prettiness which had faded into a general pleasantness. She had blue eyes, which were beginning to look rather worried. The Honourable Miss Fisher was her social catch of the season. Mrs Reynolds would be boasting about her visit for years.

‘Lin Chung. I understand that you don’t like Chinese,’ said Phryne flatly.

‘No, indeed, what can have given you that idea?

I’m sure that some of them are admirable people.

Look at the Chinese preachers and the missions and . . .’ She dried up.

‘I just want to make it perfectly clear. Lin Chung and I are a package for the present. You either get both of us or neither. If there is any doubt in your mind that you and your staff can treat him fairly and in a civilised fashion, then we are leaving today.’

Mrs Reynolds resisted for a moment. Phryne felt 22

the hand twitch. She was obviously weighing up what country society would say about her accommodating a Chinese who was having an affair with the much-publicised Miss Fisher against what the country would say if Miss Fisher left in a huff because Mrs Reynolds would not accommodate him. She capitulated. ‘Of course, of course, Miss Fisher, naturally. You need have no fears on that score.’

‘You’ve placed him at the very end of the house.

Can you change his room?’

‘Not now, Miss Fisher, I would have to move someone else. I didn’t mean . . . I’ve got a full house, I’m sorry. But there is no objection to him –

none at all, I assure you.’

Phryne stared at her and believed it. There would be no further comment about her affair with Lin Chung. Now all she had to do was convince him. She took Mrs Reynolds’ arm and changed the subject.

‘Evelyn, you look worried. What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Lina. I’d only say this to you, Phryne, because you rescued the girl. She’s still in hysterics and can’t tell us anything about what happened –

every time someone asks her a question she starts to cry again.’

‘She avoided actual violation, Dot said.’

‘Yes, but she’s been mauled about and bruised black and blue. Can you tell me what happened?

Tom should have called me last night but I had a terrible headache and I went to bed early.’

Phryne told her hostess all that she could recall 23

of the previous evening. Evelyn sighed.

‘I can’t get Tom to take it seriously,’ said Phryne.

‘Neither can I. He just keeps chuckling on about rural lovers so I have to restrain myself from throwing a hairbrush at him.’

Phryne began to like her hostess. She herself had just refrained from throwing a full set of fire irons at the incomprehensibly obtuse Tom and his rustic romances.

‘You say you heard a shot – just one?’

‘Yes. I asked Mr Lodz, but he didn’t hear it. He said he was writing.’

‘You know what poets are.’ Evelyn’s face brightened. ‘Such a nice man, a good guest. He’s terribly amusing and speaks five languages. He hasn’t got very far with his book, though. He keeps going back to poems that Tom thought were finished and altering them. Publishers have to get used to writers, I suppose.’

‘And writers used to publishers. It can’t be easy for either of them. Now, can I help? Can I talk to Tom again?’

‘If you like, Phryne, but it won’t be the least use.

He doesn’t want to take this seriously. Mrs Hinchcliff is most upset; the stores haven’t come, the butcher’s boy is late and I’ve managed to upset you, Phryne, about Mr Lin. And now the river’s rising again. Oh, dear, here I am boring on about my problems. I do beg your pardon. What would you like to know? The usual, I expect. Lunch is at one, just a light meal. Dinner is at eight, evening 24

dress if you please. If we are up late, we have supper at eleven. Are your rooms comfortable?’

‘Yes, very,’ said Phryne truthfully.

‘Perhaps you might like to boat. There is the boathouse – it’s never locked.’ She indicated a small shed on the riverfront. ‘But do take care. As I said, the water’s rising. We are going to the caves tomorrow, that might be an agreeable outing.

There’s good walking that way, and I’m sure Tom will lend you a horse if you would like to ride. It’s a bit too cold for bathing, though Jack and Gerry go out bravely every morning for a cold plunge.

Such nice boys. Now, who haven’t you met?’

Taking Phryne firmly in tow, Mrs Reynolds conducted her to another rustic seat where an old woman was crocheting. Her fingers moved like bone shuttles, so easy and automatic was the movement. It was a small garment of some kind, perhaps for a baby. The lady was dressed in a tweed skirt, sensible shoes, and a pale-blue fluffy jumper. Her long white hair was coiled into a neat bun. She looked up, her face soft and undistinguished.

‘Miss Fisher?’ asked an old voice. ‘I’m Miss Mead, Miss Mary Mead. Delighted to meet you,’

she said, summing Phryne up, from Russian leather sole to close-cut cap of black hair in one comprehensive glance. ‘Are you looking for your Mr Lin? He’s in the house, I believe, with Mr Reynolds.’

Miss Mead was watching Phryne’s face, and seemed disappointed when she did not react. ‘Too 25

kind,’ said Phryne meaninglessly, preserving her blank expression. Evelyn led her on to another old lady, this one of the acidulated sort. She was dressed entirely in black, with a skirt down to her feet and sleeves down to her wrists, collar high about her neck, and perched on her head was probably the very last rusty black bonnet in captivity.

‘This is Miss Fisher, Miss Cray.’

‘Did you bring the Chinese with you?’ asked a sharp voice, very suddenly. ‘Is he a mission boy?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Phryne, stepping back.

‘Is he a Christian?’

‘Yes, I believe so. Are you?’ asked Phryne gently.

Miss Reynolds smelt trouble and intervened.

‘Miss Sapphira Cray is one of the Church’s most tireless workers. She’s always collecting for the missions.’

‘Is she?’ asked Phryne. ‘Miss Cray? I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll give you quite a lot of money for your mission if you never again refer to my exceptionally educated friend as a mission boy, and refrain from insulting him for the duration of our visit. Do we have a bargain?’

Miss Cray shot Phryne a sharp look, considered whether to take offence or not, decided on the side of lucre, and nodded.

Mrs Reynolds apologised as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I’m so sorry about that, but she is a very good woman. She’s Tom’s second cousin, never spends a shilling on herself; always wears 26

those dreadful old clothes, and gives everything she has to the heathen.’

‘Lucky heathen,’ said Phryne. They stopped at the border of the lawn, where two young men had abandoned their cricket and were strolling together, smoking cigarettes and laughing. ‘I’ve been told that they are Gerry and Jack.’

‘Yes, such nice boys. So well mannered. I think Mrs Fletcher had hopes that Gerry might take to her daughter Judith. They get on well together.

Gerry’s the heir to the fortune, you know.’

‘No, which fortune?’

‘Oh, sorry, I should have explained. His great-grandfather Randall was a ship’s chandler, and he sold so well and cleverly that he made a huge fortune and had his own shipping line. Then his father married American money. I think it is so nice of the Americans to have money.’

‘It quite reconciles us to their accent,’ agreed Phryne. Her own grandfather had married a Chicago heiress. She had introduced steam heating, Parisian clothes and liquid assets into the Fisher family, to its eternal improvement.

‘Yes, but regrettably Gerry doesn’t get along with his step-mama. So he’s staying here until he goes to university in March – he’s reading law, I believe. His friend Jack Lucas comes from a very old family, but they’ve got no money at all – lost it all in the Megatherium crash. Jack’s going to start work as a clerk as soon as he leaves here. I feel so sorry for him, he’s just as clever as Gerry, but when I asked him what he wanted to be he 27

laughed quite bitterly and said, ‘‘It doesn’t matter what I want to be, Mrs R, I’m going to be a clerk in an auction room.’’ So sad, poor boy.’

Phryne felt a pang. She had been acquainted with the sole perpetrator of the Megatherium business, and she had let him run away to South America. Still, even if she had handed him over to the law, the investors would have lost their cash.