Death at Victoria Dock (2 page)

Dot had just found some small stains inside the coat. Phryne looked down at her body. She hadn’t noticed any pain.

‘Now you mention it, Dot, I have got a few small glass cuts. Nothing to bother about. Just find the sticking plaster. Another item on the account,’ she added, stepping out of the bath.

‘Account, Miss?’ Dot sounded puzzled.

‘Yes, an account. Someone is going to pay it in full. Get me a nightdress and my thick gown, Dot. I’m going downstairs again. That constable must have thawed by now.’

Phryne took her place at the fire and was confronted by Mrs. Butler bearing a steaming glass of whisky toddy on a tray.

‘Oh, no, Mrs. B., I really don’t like toddy.’

‘Try a taste, Miss. It’s my mother’s recipe and it’s defrosting that young constable real good. We were worried about you, Miss,’ said Mrs. Butler. Phryne took the glass and tried a sip. It was warm, and Phryne was still cold. Mrs. Butler beamed.

‘You drink that up, Miss. I’ve got some chicken broth heating at this very moment. You’ve had a shock—can’t have you catching the megrims.’

‘I don’t think that we have the megrims any more, Mrs. B.’

‘You watch a murder and then go to bed on an empty stomach and megrims you will have. Soup in ten minutes,’ said Mrs. Butler, and nodded to her husband, who hovered nervously at the door.

‘She’ll be fine,’ she said quietly. ‘Nerves of steel. Why don’t you have a sup of my toddy too? It’s been a long night.’

Dot, Mrs. Butler, Mr. Butler and the young policeman all had another glass of toddy on the strength of it. It began to rain again.

Phryne sat in her parlour and thought about the young man’s last words. ‘My mother is in Riga.’ Latvia. The Russian revolution and the Houndsditch massacre. When had that all happened? The year 9, or thereabouts.

The cuts on her body, inflicted by the flying glass, began to make themselves felt. There would certainly be a reckoning. For Phryne’s scratches, the ruin of her clothes, the damage to her car, and the theft of life from a beautiful young man with a gold ring in his ear and a blue tattoo on his neck.

Chapter Two

‘’Zounds! I was never so bethumped with words
Since first I called my brother’s father “dad”’.

William Shakespeare,
King John

Phryne seemed only to have slept for a moment when she was roused by Dot bearing a tray of Greek coffee strong enough to stand a spoon up in. Phryne dragged herself out of the seductive embrace of her feather pillows and groaned.

‘What time is it?’

‘Ten o’clock, Miss, and a fine spring day,’ replied Dot, with what Phryne considered to be offensive cheeriness. The coffee was, however, good, and the sunlight was streaming in through the window. Phryne decided to forgive Dot and essay a little breakfast after she had taken a painfully brisk shower and rubbed herself awake.

‘That nice young constable is coming at eleven, Miss, and I thought you’d prefer rolls and marmalade today.’

Phryne thought she detected a blush on her maid’s cheek, but it might have been the sun. She smiled, accepted the tray, and broke and buttered her roll in amiable silence.

She had dreamed with painful sharpness about the dead young man and the sogginess of his broken body under her hands. Black coffee and cold water were taking the edge off the memory but she still felt that she owed him a life, having officiated over his death.

‘What is his name, Dot? The constable, I mean.’

‘Hugh, Miss…I mean Constable Collins, Miss.’

It definitely
was
a blush, no doubt of it. Phryne restrained herself from making any of the seven risqué warnings that came to mind and asked, ‘How long did he stay last night?’

‘Only about another hour, Miss. He was cold. That was the first body he had ever seen and he was a bit shook up. We were sitting in the kitchen. He just wanted someone to talk to.’

Dot was evidently unaware of the number of sinful activities which could take place in a kitchen. Phryne smiled affectionately.

‘He was lucky to have had you to talk to, then. I thought he was a pleasant young man, too.’

And so was the dead one who rose before Phryne’s eyes, blond hair darkening with spilt blood. Phryne took more coffee.

‘Well, we shall see,’ said Dot obscurely. ‘What shall you wear today, Miss? It’s a lovely day.’

‘I was never so glad to see spring,’ agreed Phryne. ‘It was as cold as the…it was very cold last night. And today up pops the sun as though it hasn’t been sulking for months. Odd climate. What does one wear to interview policemen?’

‘The linen suit, Miss, and the velvet top?’

‘No, find me the Chanel—no, a dress. Something light and springy—the azure one and a light wrap. That Kashmir shawl, and the silver shoes. I am feeling like a siren, today.’

Dot, who associated sirens with loud warning noises, looked askance as she found the clothes.

‘You know…a mermaid. I shall go for a walk on the foreshore as soon as I can, so find the straw with the grassy ribbons. Blast! There goes the phone. I hope it isn’t that idiot Jack Leonard. Did he call again last night, Dot?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ said Dot, emerging from the wardrobe with the hat. ‘Three times.’

‘I don’t know why the man doesn’t give up. Lord knows I haven’t encouraged him. He just isn’t my type.’

Phryne dressed quickly, a skill learned in many a cold Montmartre studio, and was dusting her admirable nose with
Fleurs de Riz
powder when Dot came back.

‘A client, Miss, a Mr. Waddington-Forsythe. Wants to see you urgently on a private matter.’

‘Did you tell him that I don’t touch matrimonial work?’

‘Yes, Miss. He said it isn’t that.’

‘Oh, well, tell him to come at two. I am going to walk by the sea today no matter what is disturbing the upper class.’

‘You know him, Miss?’

‘I have met him. Businessman, terribly rich, awfully boring, with a young and pretty wife who has no brains at all.’

Dot retreated. She sometimes found her mistress to be alarmingly outspoken.

Phryne surveyed herself in the glass. A thin, heart-shaped face, with grey-green eyes set wide apart, eyebrows carefully etched, a small nose, and a round, determined chin. She painted her mouth carefully, then blotted off the lipstick. She brushed her black hair hard; shiny and cut in a neat cap, two ends swinging onto her cheeks. She wondered, briefly, if she was beautiful, decided she was and blew a kiss to her reflection before going downstairs to meet Dot’s nice policeman.

He was waiting for her, still looking shocked and tired, as though he had not slept. Phryne called for more coffee and sat down on the sofa, where the sun was streaming in through the window, making the patterns on the Turkish rug dance.

‘Would you tell me, Miss, in your own words, what happened last night?’

Because he looked so wan, Phryne refrained from snapping that her own words were the only ones she had and obliged with a full, closely observed account of the previous evening’s events. He wrote it down in his notebook, frowning heavily with conscientious effort, and shut the notebook.

‘So you didn’t get a look at the young man, Miss?’

‘Which one?’

‘The man who ran away.’

‘There were two, aren’t you listening? No, I did not get a good look at them and I would not know them again. All I can say is that they were not unusually tall or short, and they had the expected complement of legs and arms. Have some coffee. You don’t, if you will forgive the observation, look well.’

Constable Collins drank his coffee, which was powerful, and essayed a smile.

‘I admire your courage, Miss,’ he said slowly. ‘You didn’t turn a hair.’

‘Oh, yes I did, the whole thing was shocking. I don’t like being shot at. And he was a very pretty young man. Has he been identified yet?’

‘No, Miss. Nothing in his pockets but a handbill for the Latvian club. My chief says that I’ve got to find out more about them. I’m new to this, I don’t know where to start.’

‘You are training to be a detective, are you not?’ Phryne smiled. He was rather a lamb. She could see why Dot liked him. His guileless brown eyes and frank, open countenance like a
Boy’s Own
adventure hero would serve him well when he became a detective and acquired some elementary cunning.

Phryne found and lit a gasper and leaned back in her chair.

‘What I think would help is, first, a little research. Find out if the club has ever had any trouble with the police—that will be in your own records. Then go along to their next public meeting with a young lady as disguise. Do you have a young lady?’

The constable looked aside, blushing slightly.

‘No, Miss. Though, perhaps…I might ask…’

‘An admirable idea. The Latvians are Catholic. Can you fit in? They might have prayers or some sort of service. It is always so humiliating to be standing up when everyone else is sitting down.’

‘That’s all right, Miss, I’m a Catholic too. I can manage that. But what if the meeting is in their language?’

‘It won’t be, or it wouldn’t be a public meeting. Find out when the next meeting is and then you can come here and…’

‘Ask Miss Williams? Do you think she would mind?’

‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind being asked,’ temporized Phryne, not willing to compromise Dot ahead of time. ‘No woman minds being
asked
. Good. That’s a start. You might look among missing sailors for the dead man.’

‘Why sailors, Miss?’

The constable was evidently willing to sit at Phryne’s feet and absorb her wisdom, a situation she found both novel and refreshing in a policeman.

‘Did you look at him? No, never mind. He had a gold ring in his ear. Sailors get them when they cross the Line. And there was a tattoo on his neck. An A in a circle, done in blue. That must mean something. Find out what it means.’

‘Could this be a Camorra, Miss?’ he asked, excitedly.

‘No, a Camorra is Italian and I assure you that Latvia is a long way from Italy. They simply would not know what to say to one another. Though their methods seem to be similar. It could be anything—could merely be of personal significance. Perhaps his sweetheart is called Anna. Will that do to be going on with?’

‘Yes, Miss, thank you. I’ll suggest the meeting to my chief, I’m sure he’ll agree.’

‘Who is your chief?’

‘Detective-Sergeant Carroll, Miss. He has charge of a lot of things that happen on the wharves.’

‘And have you been with him long?’

‘Six months, Miss. He’s a bit gruff. Throws things, sometimes. But he’s a great thief catcher.’

‘This is your first murder, isn’t it, Constable?’

‘Yes, Miss, and I don’t know how I’ll ever get used to it.’

‘Take it day by day,’ advised Phryne. ‘Is that all you want of me? If so, I’m going for a walk.’

She stood up, directed Mr. Butler to refuse all calls, and escorted the young constable to the door.

‘We shall see you soon,’ she said smoothly, and accompanied him into the street. There was a cool wind blowing straight off the sea. The sun shone down. Phryne donned her straw hat, flung her shawl around her shoulders and walked across the road to the breezy foreshore, where she walked for an hour, breathing deeply, thinking of nothing at all.

She returned in time for a light salad lunch and broke the wrapping on a new notebook. She always opened a new one for each case. Being Phryne’s, they were silk bound and her fountain pen contained ink of particular blackness. This notebook she headed ‘Waddington-Forsythe’ and looked up from her desk as Mr. Butler showed a tall, elderly man into the room.

He was thin, pale, and stooping, with weak pale eyes and a cropped head of silver hair. She put his age at sixty-five and his profession as something that took him to his office before sunrise and kept him there until dark. However, the carriage had authority and his voice was rich and deep.

‘Miss Fisher? Kind of you to see me. I have a…particular problem which…I hope…you may be able…’

Phryne interrupted.

‘Why not just tell me about it, eh? If I can’t help, I’ll not take the case. And my discretion,’ she added with a touch of steel in the tone of voice, ‘is absolute.’

‘Oh, indeed. Well.’

There he stalled again. Phryne offered him a drink, which he accepted, complimenting her on the excellence of her whisky, and then finally unburdened his mind.

‘My daughter has vanished,’ he said bluntly. ‘She has been missing for three days.’

‘Good God, man, have you not gone to the police?’

‘No,’ he blushed, painfully. Phryne kept talking. If she had to wait for Mr. Waddington-Forsythe to get to the point she would be there all day, and she fancied a seat in the garden and a gin-and-tonic while the sun was still shining.

‘Just nod when I reach the right scandal. She has run away with a lover? No? She has run away because of a quarrel at home? Yes. And the quarrel was about something that goes to your credit?’

The head paused, then did not nod. Phryne was good at charades.

‘Not your credit, but someone’s credit? Your wife? Yes.’

Phryne was glad that she had not had to enumerate all the other things which could cause young women to run away from home, such as molestation, rape, drug addiction or white slavery, and was thankful that she might be spared the usual sordid rummage through the brothels in Gertrude Street.

‘So, she ran away because she had a quarrel with you about your wife? When was this?’

The stiff lips moved.

‘Three nights ago—that is, Wednesday. She was violently opposed to my re-marriage, Miss Fisher. She is fourteen and…she was very fond of her mother who died when she was seven. She did not understand about Christine, and Christine did not take to her, either. They have never got on. Then on Wednesday she said that I never loved her, that I was blind as a bat, that Christine was…I cannot repeat what she said about her…’

He was about to break down and cry, Phryne saw, and a man of this type would never recover from the shame if she allowed this to happen. She slapped open the notebook and took up her pen.

‘Her name, please?’

The old man pulled himself together.

‘Alicia May Waddington-Forsythe. She is fourteen years old, born on the 12th of August nineteen-fourteen. I wonder if it was the war? It seems to have had a terrible effect on the world, Miss Fisher.’

Miss Fisher agreed that the Great War had had a terrible effect on the world. She thrust back memories of desolated battlefields rotting with corpses as seen when she had been an ambulance driver with Queen Alexandra’s Volunteers—she had run away from school at sixteen to do so—and concentrated on her client.

‘She was wearing her school uniform, and she took some things with her…my wife will know what she took. She is as concerned as I am, Miss Fisher.’

‘What school does she go to?’

‘The Presbyterian Ladies College.’

Phryne brightened. Her two adoptive daughters went to that school. They were both clever and observant and might have something to say about Alicia. The September holidays were almost upon them. As sources of information they would be admirable.

‘Good. And at what time did she leave?’

‘Five in the afternoon. She flew upstairs in a fury, then I just never saw her again. Paul…’

‘Paul?’

‘My son…she is his twin sister. There is supposed to be a sympathy between twins but these have been fighting since they were born, it seems. He said that she pushed past him and let herself out the back door at five and no one has seen her since.’

‘What is the composition of your household, Mr. Waddington-Forsythe?’

‘Just myself, Christine, Paul and three live-in servants. A small establishment. We are undertaking renovations to the house. My wife is expecting, you see, and she felt that she would like a nursery.’

The beam of paternal vanity which crossed the elderly lined face was striking.

I expect he thinks that it is a marvellous thing to sire a child at his age, Phryne commented cynically to herself. Look at the poor fish, grinning as though he’s done something out-of-the-way clever. Aloud, she said, ‘Quite. So there are workmen and such in and out of the house all day. Perhaps your daughter might have struck up a friendship with one of them?’