Dead Man's Chest (15 page)

‘Seven am, yes, they both came out the the back gate, carry- ing bags. There was a car there and they got in.’

‘What sort of car?’

‘One of those big ones,’ said Miss Lavinia, to whom cars were clearly a closed book. ‘Dark blue or black. Rather like the doctor’s car, with those platforms on the sides.’

‘Running boards.’

‘Ah, thank you. And they had Gaston with them, I am sure. Mrs Johnson had him under her arm. And you’ve got Gaston here! He came back to his home, the clever little doggie. What, then, has become of the Johnsons?’

‘A good question. Now, what are your plans, Miss Lavinia?’

‘I really don’t know,’ confessed the older lady. ‘I was Mrs McNaster’s niece, you see, and I am the only remaining heir to the Holystone fortune. She had it for life. After she died it will be mine—is mine, I suppose, now. She had me so busy night and day I didn’t really think about it. I never thought I’d outlive her, dear. I was perfectly happy as a teacher, and then she called me and said it was my duty to look after her, so I came here. I have been very unhappy. I thought I might die from lack of sleep at first. I haven’t slept a night through for eleven years.’

Miss Lavinia’s face bore a wistful look which softened her lines and made her look like the young, self-confident woman she had been before she had been ground down by domestic slavery.

‘But you coped,’ said Dot, finishing with the stocking and folding it up.

‘One does, does one not?’ asked Miss Lavinia mildly. ‘My young man, the one I would have married, was killed at Passchendaele. So I had no one to miss me, and nothing to do, though I did like being a teacher. Perhaps I can still be useful in some small way.’

‘Let me introduce you to my sister, who does social work in St Kilda,’ Phryne offered. ‘Anyone who can teach will be heartily welcome. And greatly needed. Or perhaps you might like to join the Lady Mayoress’s Auxiliary? Do not think that you have nothing to offer the world. Do you want to stay in Queenscliff?’

Miss Lavinia suddenly sounded decisive.

‘No, dear. I would like to go back to the city. I used to live in Hawthorn. I would like a nice little house in Hawthorn, the leafy part where the trees grow high in the street and meet overhead. And I would like a garden. Here the salt kills all my favourite flowers. Roses. Pansies, petunias, gillyflowers—all the cottage flowers. That would be so nice. And a kitchen garden, of course. Mrs McNaster would not let me grow flowers. I used to sneak out sometimes and help the gardener. Oh,’ said Miss Lavinia, with a shocked gasp, ‘I am free, aren’t I?’

‘You certainly are,’ said Phryne.

Miss Lavinia burst into tears.

Phryne left her with the sympathetic Dot and a clean hankie and wandered out into the kitchen. The potato scones were apparently coming along well. They smelt gorgeous. Ruth and Máire, who still looked worried, were consulting the cookbook, even though tonight the Fisher ménage was dining at the Esplanade Hotel. Phryne went out and inspected the fig tree which made the excellent jam. It seemed happy. Its leaves would have clothed the whole family of Adam and Eve . . .

Well, well, something had happened to the Johnsons after they got into that car, otherwise Gaston would not have escaped. And the event had happened not a great way away, because Gaston was a small dog and could not have travelled far. Then the Ellis brothers had taken away the furniture, keeping that job off the books. Why? The furniture would be of little value. But, of course, if it was removed, the investigating authorities would assume that the housekeepers had indeed performed a moonlight flit and stop looking for them. In fact they would not be discovered missing until Mr Thomas came home, which argued that the kidnappers did not know that Miss Fisher was to occupy the house. Or perhaps they did not care . . . and with Constable Dolt in charge, crime must be positively waving in Queenscliff.

Phryne decided to leave Jane with her bones, Dot with Miss Lavinia and the washing, and Ruth with her cookery and take herself off for a swim. So she did.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

See how love and murder will out.

William Congreve
The Double Dealer

Tinker was walking with Hugh down Hesse Street towards the sea when he was catcalled by three boys lounging outside the ice-cream shop.

‘Yah! Pantry boy!’ yelled Jolyon. ‘Found a friend, then?’

They huddled together directly Hugh crossed the road and stood in front of them. He was huge. He was authoritative. Fraser, however, stuck out his jaw.

‘Who’re you, then?’

‘As it happens, I’m Detective Sergeant Collins from CIB,’ said Hugh evenly. ‘And you must be Kiwi, Fraser and Mason.’

‘What’s it to you?’ demanded Fraser hotly.

‘I’ve met a lot of boys like you,’ said Hugh tolerantly. They relaxed. ‘Running wild, no fathers to clip their ears.’ They stiffened. ‘Well, boys, I’m here to tell you that if you so much as look squiggly-eyed at any of Miss Fisher’s family again, if you lay a hand on them, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. I’m going to kick you up the bum now,’ he added, suiting the action to the word. There were three yelps. ‘And if you are ever drawn to my attention again, I’ll break your bloody necks. Understood?’

A small crowd had gathered. They approved of this condign action. They were laughing. Several voices urged the detective sergeant to provide an encore. Fraser, Kiwi and Jolyon had not made themselves popular in Queenscliff. They were staggered, astonished and in pain. They ran away without another word.

‘Come on, Tink,’ said Hugh, and Tinker, aglow with hero worship, fell in behind, hefting his burdens with pride.

Máire had not mentioned that her father was a gnome. There was Mr O’Malley, sitting on the pier, mending nets, and there was no other word for him, except, perhaps, leprechaun. He had a long straggly beard and hair which stuck out at equal lengths on every side of his woolly cap. He was wearing a neatly darned ancient fisherman’s jersey which might once have been blue, sea boots, and oilskin trousers. At the other end of the net, spindle in hand, was a young woman in almost identical gear with the addition of a wide straw hat. Gráinne’s mother might have bent to her husband’s wishes about her daughter wearing trousers, but she was not going to allow her to ruin her fine milky complexion in all that sun and that was her last word on the subject, so it was.

‘Mr O’Malley?’ said Hugh easily.

‘And who would be doing the askin’?’ The old man squinted up the height of Hugh. He had cornflower blue eyes, like his daughter. Then he switched his blowlamp gaze to Tinker. ‘And you I know, young devil of an Edward, pinchin’ fish for yer mam. Not that I ever grudged it to the poor woman, her havin’ her man at sea and all them childer and all, God love her.’

Tinker wriggled in extreme discomfort at these personal observations.

‘It’s me, I got a job with a lady, and this is Miss Fisher’s visitor, and we’d like to go fishing,’ said Tinker. ‘H’lo, Grainy.’

‘Hello.’ The girl regarded Tinker coolly. ‘You’ll be the gentleman that my sister Máire was tellin’ me of?’

‘That’s me,’ said Hugh. ‘Well, what do you say?’

‘It’s gettin’ late for the garfish,’ said the old man. ‘Would you fancy a little rock fishin’, now? Perhaps come along while I pick up me cray pots?’

‘That sounds good,’ said Hugh.

‘Then let me stow me net and we’ll be off. Gráinne, my heart, you’ll go back to your mother now.’

‘I will not,’ said Gráinne. ‘You promised me, and you need me to pick up the pots. I know where they all are.’

‘Well, well, what can I do with you?’ cried her father. ‘Step in then, sir, and my daughter can cast us off.’

Gráinne was still eyeing her father very narrowly. Tinker was not surprised that the boat shot off from its mooring. Neither was Gráinne, who leapt like a cat into the thwarts and settled down by the steering oar with a smile which was not quite smug. The smile said, ‘You’re not going to leave me behind, Daddy dear.’

The old man, unexpectedly, chuckled.

‘You’re a true daughter of mine, so you are,’ he said to her. ‘So be it, then, Swan Island it is and perhaps there might be a lot of the creatures in the pots, if God is good.’

‘If God is good,’ agreed Gráinne.

The sea was as flat as a silver platter and the sun was strong. The little boat crept across to the bulk of Swan Island, which was surrounded by reefs, apparently, and very dangerous. Also, as far as Tinker knew, uninhabited. A ragged fusillade of shots sounded across the water.

‘That will be the young gentlemen hunting,’ said Gráinne. ‘Shoot at anything, they will. Seagulls. Swans. Still, they are such bad shots that rabbits run there safe as babes in arms.’

‘Young men will be young men,’ said her father. ‘Some more than others, God knows. There’s the ferry setting out,’ he added. A huge brightly lit ship sailed majestically out in front of the small
Black Oak
. ‘And she’s pinched our wind, so she has.’

‘Can you swim, Tink?’ asked Hugh. ‘I forgot to ask.’

‘’Course I can,’ said Tinker with scorn. ‘All the kids can swim around here. Except some of the the girls. Look, we can see the filming.’

Hugh looked back. There was a crowd on the shore. In among them he was sure that he recognised Jane in her new bobby cut. She was standing next to the cinematographer, listening intently with her head on one side, like a bird picking up knowledge instead of worms. Hugh waved. But Jane was otherwise occupied.

In the crowd were the three Mason boys. Subdued for the present. And there was a butcher’s trike, a string of sausages trailing sadly from the basket. The local dogs appreciated the position and were exploiting this golden opportunity by tugging the string and wolfing the sausages as they appeared.

‘There’s Amos,’ commented Tinker, also enjoying the spectacle. ‘He’s going to get the sack if he don’t stop mooning about after that la-di-dah Lily.’

But Amos had no eyes to spare for his own business. He was staring at Lily standing on the shore, waving her arms, then bending to embrace a small boy who had been forcibly dressed in a Bubbles costume and seemed mutinous.

‘Lily?’ asked Hugh.

‘Her,’ said Tinker. ‘Miss Movie Star. Thinks she’s so beautiful! I s’pose it’s good though. She was a rotten cook. Mrs C was about to sack her.’

‘I see,’ Hugh replied, a little nettled at this plain speaking. ‘Didn’t Mrs Cook sack you, too?’

Tinker looked a little abashed.

‘Well, yair, she was gonna, but then I met the guv’nor and I resigned.’

Tinker was pleased with his long word.

‘When you fall in love, Tink, you will regret those unkind words,’ Hugh told him. Amos’s expression of dog-like devotion made Hugh uncomfortable. He had seen that look before. Gráinne giggled.

‘Me, fall in lurve? Nah,’ said Tinker. ‘I don’t have nothin’ to do with the sheilas. I gotta make a livin’. Look at Amos—used to be a good bloke, now he’s moonin’ about, no thought about his job or his mum or nothin’ as long as he can see Lily. Bloke’d be cracked to . . .’ Aware suddenly of Hugh’s affianced state and Gráinne glaring at him, he backtracked hurriedly. ‘I mean, Miss Dot is a fine woman and you’re a good girl, Grainy, don’t get me wrong . . .’

‘Down sails and let’s get the curragh overboard,’ said the old man. ‘Me first pot’s about here.’

Gráinne jumped up and slackened lines. Then she heaved over a strange round object, like a big basket made of rushes with a tarred overcoat of—canvas, perhaps? Hugh had never seen such a thing before and said so.

‘’Tis a curragh,’ Mr O’Malley told him. ‘Other boats use a dinghy but they have to haul it and that’s a drag on a boat. Good sticks they’ve got here, they call them manuka, for making of a true Irish boat. Me and my daughter made it ourselves; it’s just the same as a very big cray pot, so it is. Good manila line here and there’s me corks. Over you go now, my girl, and God be between you and harm.’

Gráinne lowered herself down into the little boat, which bobbed like a duck, and began paddling towards a buoy. When she reached it, she hooked the marker onto a line which the old man began hauling. Despite his leprechaun size he was very strong.

‘Heave-ho, up we go,’ said Tinker as he grabbed the end. The pot came up, dripping seaweed. It was a basket with an inwoven funnel down which the crayfish could crawl, and out of which they could not retreat. Mr O’Malley counted ten small crayfish, most of which he threw back.

‘Go and grow up into fine big fish, with a blessing,’ he told them. Three he placed into another basket, a long, wide, shallow tray, which he dropped into the water.

‘They keep fresh better like that,’ he said. Then he rebaited the pot with a piece of very aged meat—Hugh had been wondering where the smell came from—and passed it back to Gráinne waiting in the curragh below.

Hugh baited his line, dropped it in the water, and sat back to enjoy fishing. Dot had teasingly accused him of going fishing because he needed to rest and this was an acceptable way of sitting in the sun all day and doing nothing. In that she had been correct. Hugh was tired. The fraud and murder case had been trying and difficult and his boss, Jack Robinson, had been very anxious to get a conviction, meaning sleepless nights and long days for Detective Sergeant Collins.

Swan Island lay tangled and green on one quarter. The
Black Oak
rocked in the gentle offshore breeze. The line trailed into the blue water under the blue sky. Seagulls called. Hugh closed his eyes against the glare. Just for a moment.

Phryne swam hard up and down for ten minutes, then she hauled herself ashore and rested. The Johnsons were probably still in the vicinity of Queenscliff or Point Lonsdale. If she had been official, she could have ordered a meticulous search. As she was extremely unofficial, she had to come up with an alternative method. How to find the Johnsons?

An idea occurred to her which was so outrageous that she gasped. Then she began to laugh. She rolled over and over on the greensward, giving rise to varied emotions in the hearts of the gentlemen who watched her. Finally, covered in grass, she sat up, hugging herself. Brilliant. She could make it work. It would work, human nature being what it was.

She would need to make a phone call to an acquaintance in Melbourne. But not today, curses. Tomorrow, he would be answering the phone. She dislodged a small cypress cone from her hair, shook herself, and went back into the sea to calm herself down. Even so, she giggled at intervals.

The elderly gentlemen sighed.

Dot was warming to Miss Lavinia. They had had a cosy chat about drawn threadwork. They had shared a cup of tea. The doctor had sent the gardener over with Miss Lavinia’s possessions—a small trunk, a smaller toiletries bag and a tiny handbag—and Dot had helped her to retrieve the dropped stitches in her fisherman’s jersey, caused by some careless packing.

‘I knit them for the fishers,’ said Miss Lavinia. ‘Little enough we can do for the brave fellows, going out on that dangerous sea to fetch us our dinners. “
Buy my caller herrin’/ They’re not brought here without much darin
’,”’ she sang in a small, true soprano.

‘“
Wives and mothers, maist despairin’/ call them lives of men
,”’ Dot joined in. ‘“
Buy my caller herrin’ /New drawn frae the firth
.”’

‘I like that song,’ said Máire, who had come in to report sandwiches made for lunch.

‘I’ll teach it to you,’ promised Miss Lavinia.

Máire made a little curtsey.

‘T’ank you, Missus. Now lunch is on the table and potato scones have to be eaten hot, or they’ll be spoiled completely,’ she said, ushering Dot and Miss Lavinia into the parlour.

Ruth, the visitor, Dot and Máire, despite protestations that her place was in the kitchen, sat down to strong tea and potato scones loaded with butter. Jane was still with the film people, Phryne was swimming, Tinker and Hugh were fishing. The conversation turned to the proper recipe for Anzac biscuits, and proved engrossing.

No dinner had to be cooked tonight and Ruth was rather relieved, even though Mrs Leyel’s excellent treasure trove of a book still had many things to try which sounded delicious. Cooking was a full-time task and very hard work. After lunch, the washing-up done and Máire dismissed for the day, Ruth decided to retire to her own room and catch up on the fate of the stolen bride. There were sandwiches for anyone who came home hungry.

Miss Lavinia and Dot sat in the bay window, in good strong sunlight, mending the holes in Tinker’s socks, which he had managed to wear or possibly tear through in a very short time. They listened to the radio as they sewed. Music from the Palm Court lounge. Very acceptable.

When Phryne came home she did not disturb them. She tiptoed past and raided the kitchen for the plate of sandwiches which she knew would be there. She took some up with her. She needed to perfect her scheme. This time her orangeade had no gin in it. Phryne required a clear mind.

She had finished her notes and was staring idly out the window when Jane came running. She rushed into the house and called, ‘Miss! Miss Phryne! A terrible thing has happened!’

‘What?’ asked Phryne, appearing at the head of the stairs. ‘Calm, Jane, take a deep breath. And another. There,’ she said, coming down the stairs and putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Now, tell me.’

‘Lily!’ gasped Jane.

‘The movie star? What’s wrong with her?’

‘The pigtail snipper got her,’ said Jane. ‘And she’s terribly wounded. He cut her throat.’

‘Dear Lord,’ murmured Miss Lavinia. ‘It’s those boys.’

Phryne felt that too much emotion was being expended for a front hall.

‘Look, everyone come into the parlour, we shall all sit down, and calm down. Are you hurt, Jane?’

‘Just winded from running up the hill,’ responded Jane. ‘And I suppose I’m in shock.’ She examined herself. Blue fingernails. Faint. Short of breath. Dizzy. Yes, they were all the hallmarks of shock. She put her fingers to her pulse. Light and fast.

‘Then we shall treat you for shock,’ said Phryne briskly. ‘Have a nice long sniff at Miss Lavinia’s salts. Lean back. Dot, put her feet up.’

‘Hot sweet tea,’ said Ruth, and went to make it.