Death by Water (24 page)

‘Yes, but . . .’ Dot gnawed her lip. ‘She’s not strong enough.’

‘She might be stronger than she looks. She can dance all night. A weakling couldn’t do two solid hours of the quickstep, the bunny-hug and the turkey-trot, as I happen to know she can. And it wasn’t a very hard blow, Dot. That might have been intentional, so no one would notice a bump on the corpse’s head, or it might just have been as hard as she could hit.’

‘We have to find out where they were this afternoon,’ said Dot. ‘I’ll ask around at dinner, and you do the same.’

‘Oh, and by the way, Dot, something not too nice has happened to the doctor. He’s a bundle of nerves, poor man. See if anyone knows what it was. And if I was seen entering Mr Forrester’s cabin this afternoon—it’s none of their business.’

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‘Everyone knows you’re interested in his photographs,’

said Dot. ‘His steward says he’s printing some for you special.

He was saying that maybe they aren’t all that bad. There’s one of a lady and a baby that he says looks like the Blessed Virgin.’

‘So it does,’ said Phryne, and smiled. Gossip, it appeared, could work both ways. ‘Now I am going to have a little nap, and then dress for dinner. We’re dining at the captain’s table tonight, so break out the blue satin and the sapphire panache.’

‘Right you are,’ said Dot. She opened the wardrobe, where Mrs Cahill’s princess dress glittered in all its sequinned finery.

A nice lady, that Mrs Cahill. Dot hoped that the person who had tried to drown Miss Phryne was caught soon. Otherwise Miss Phryne might have to get rough. And these New Zealand-ers might not understand.

Phryne glimmered on the sight as she waited at the door of the Grand Salon to be announced. She was draped in satin of a peculiar night-sky blue, which showed off her arms and back and her pert profile remarkably like fine china. The Maharani sapphire glowed on her breast. Mr Forrester, catching up with her, offered his arm.

‘If I might have the honour, Phryne?’

‘Certainly, Albert.’ She smiled on him.

Professor Applegate, wearing her other Molyneux evening gown, a slightly frayed poem in black cherry brocade, smiled.

She stopped smiling when Mr West offered his arm. It was not done to refuse an escort, but she contrived to express, as she walked to the captain’s table, that though she might be standing next to this man he was far, far beneath her.

Mrs West giggled on Jack Mason’s arm. The boracic lotion had worked. The inflammation had gone down, though he
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still looked like someone who had gone eleven bare-fisted rounds with the landscape and lost by a knock out.

Several other people had been in the wars, it seemed. Mr West had a scratch on one cheek, a matching one appeared, patched with powder, on Mrs West’s face, and Mrs Singer was walking stiffly, almost limping.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said dully. ‘I tripped. On a step.’

Phryne would have bet good money that she had tripped on a husband’s temper. Wife-beaters never made the mistake of hitting their wives where it showed. Several bruised ribs, a kidney punch, a kicking of shins, a wringing of the upper arms—all effective, very painful, and invisible in ordinary clothes. Phryne’s fingers itched for Mr Singer’s jaw. It was a prominent jaw, easy to hit, hard to miss with a reasonably competent punch. Or possibly a kick. A kick might be more satisfactory.

Phryne came back to herself as the captain took her hand.

She surveyed him. A large, strong, healthy man, with white teeth, apple cheeks and those bright blue eyes with crow’s feet caused by staring over long distances. His hand was strong but he did not squeeze too hard. Phryne liked him instantly. He said, ‘Ah, Miss Fisher, you look lovely tonight!’ and she did not doubt his sincerity.

The party from table three sat down. Captain Bishop’s eyes had widened a little over the exposure of Mrs West’s flesh, but only a little. Phryne was pleased to see that Mrs Cahill’s newly curled hair, caught back in a clip, looked very becoming. Professor Applegate was affable, Mr Aubrey charming as always and Mr Forrester a little elevated, as though by wine. Only the Singers cast a gloom on the festivities. Phryne decided to take the initiative. Captains of cruise ships must have a hard life, she thought, dining with new people every night. Also, she did not want to figure in his memoirs as one of a table from hell.

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Compliments were required and they needed to be bold and simple to be effective.

‘Captain, this is the most beautiful ship in the world,’ she said. ‘I have never seen anything like her.’

The captain beamed. The dinner was off to a good start.

Soup was served, wine glasses were filled, and the evening commenced in good order.

Mrs Singer took several glasses of sweet wine and said very little. Professor Applegate, who had a deal of worldly experience, gave her one glance, as intimate as a doctor’s examination—she could have been mapping bruises—and engaged her in conversation about Maori myths. Mr Singer scowled at his eggs Benedict and drank beer. Mr Aubrey and the captain reminisced about the East, and Margery Lemmon and Phryne joined in.

‘And what have my guests been doing all day?’ asked the captain, smiling in a fatherly way as the roast beef was cleared away and the ice cream and fresh fruit were distributed.

‘A little reading,’ said the professor.

‘A little walking,’ said Mrs Cahill.

‘A little swimming,’ said Phryne, watching faces.

‘Nothing much,’ muttered Mr Singer. Mrs Singer did not answer.

‘We went to keep poor Mason company,’ said Mr West joc-ularly. ‘Eh, Jack? Laid up on a bed of pain with all those bruises and his fellow gone who knows where. Went and played a few hands of cards with him.’

Margery Lemmon raised an eyebrow. ‘That must have been after I left,’ she said.

‘That was kind of you,’ said Phryne, abandoning her theory that West must have tried to drown her, but thinking it uncharacteristic. Mrs West giggled.

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‘I spent the day on deck,’ said Mr Aubrey. ‘Bracing part of the world, this. Wind straight off the ice. When do we dock in Dunedin, Captain?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Then there’s a visit to a Maori village and, tomorrow night, the masquerade. I hope you all have costumes,’ said the captain. ‘There are prizes, you know.’

‘And I’m intending to win one,’ said Mrs West.

Phryne thought that she had already seen as much of Mrs West’s bosom as was healthy for an adult. She hoped that the Circe costume would be more dramatic and less revealing, but expected that she would be disappointed.

‘Are there rules for visiting a Maori village?’ asked Margery Lemmon. ‘Do you have to take off your shoes as you do in a Muslim temple?’

‘Yes, my dear, you approach in a body and wait until you are called to enter. Then you take off your shoes, because the floor is padded with a fabric called tukutuku. Then you sit in a circle on the floor while speeches of welcome are made, there is a meal, and you are expected to put money in the tray which will be passed around to pay for your entertainment.

There will also be dancers. The ship’s crew have challenged the Otago marae to a dance contest, which ought to be fascinating.’

‘Do men and women dance together?’ asked Mrs West.

‘Not in these dances. The women dance a poi dance, where they flick and turn a delicate ball of woven flax. It’s very graceful. And the men dance a haka.’

‘And a haka is . . .?’ trailed Phryne.

‘A war dance,’ said the professor. ‘A very good war dance.

You will like it,’ she said. It was more of a command than an expression of opinion. ‘Every place has their own haka, and new ones are made up every day.’

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‘But your basic war dance remains ‘‘Come out, skulking enemy, and we will convert you into cat food with these incred-ibly heavy clubs,’’ ’ said Jack Mason.

‘Just as your Saxon ancestors must have danced it in the good old days,’ responded the professor waspishly.

‘Banging sword on shield and yelling insults,’ said Mr Aubrey. ‘Nothing stirs the heart and thickens the blood like a good war dance. The Scots still have the sword dance and the kilt and the bagpipes.

‘The Aborigines still do it,’ said Mr Cahill. ‘Come to a border and yell and wave spears. Mostly don’t end up hurting anyone. Makes all the young bucks feel like real heroes. Never saw any harm in it, myself.’

‘Boys will be boys?’ asked Margery Lemmon.

Mr Cahill grinned at her. ‘Well, Miss, they will,’ he said. ‘Be boys, you know. Look at Jack Mason there. No need to climb a mountain. Nice comfy ship with food for the taking. Needs to go and spifflicate himself on some cold rock. That’s boys for yer,’ concluded Mr Cahill, and Mrs Cahill sighed and nodded.

Dinner concluded in harmony, and Phryne went to her suite replete but puzzled. She had been sure that the author of her assault was one of the Wests, and now it seemed that it was not.

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Jocelyn Chant

Birmingham

Dear Jocelyn, I know about Maisie. I know about the others, too.

I can’t stand the shame and humiliation any more. I’m taking the
children to my sister Joanie in America. I shan’t come back. Not
again. You can write to me in Ohio but I shan’t come back.

Goodbye.

One who was once your loving wife

Lucy

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rough satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long:
John Milton

Lycidas

Tuesday

The sun rose. Dot saw it. Phryne didn’t. When she emerged on deck, the ship was navigating its way into Dunedin harbour, and there was the city spread out before her.

It looked like North Fitzroy. The buildings were predom-inantly late nineteenth century, decorated in the respectable colours of beige, brown and dark brown. Like Rome, it was built on seven hills. Unlike Rome, the heights of the Southern Alps made a backdrop for it, high and white and glittering in the early sun. The
Hinemoa
had come in through a fjord, and Dunedin was at the end of it. The mountains closed Dunedin as in a cupped hand. In the depths of winter, it was probably more like a clenched fist.

‘That’s the Otago peninsula,’ said Navigation Officer
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Theodore Green. ‘Home of seals and penguins and such like.

Also home of our local Maoris, who mostly live in the North Island, due to it being warmer. I say, Miss Fisher, can you give me any good news about the . . . er . . . matter?’

‘Last night I thought I had it all sorted out,’ said Phryne frankly. ‘Today I am not so sure. I am going to set a trap for the thief, and I shall let you know who falls into it. At least with me flaunting my bijou no one else has had anything stolen. Keep up your spirits, Mr Green. Are you coming on this junket to the Maori village?’

‘Marae, Miss Fisher, it’s called a marae. Yes, of course. There is going to be a dance contest, and I have reasonable money on our girls. They’re very serious about this.’

‘And the haka?’

‘Ah yes, well, they do have the advantage,’ said Theodore Green. ‘We have to dance it in sailor’s clothes. They get to display their tattoos. But the professor is saying something about a secret weapon. She’s a formidable old lady in Maori society, you know.’

‘Indeed. Well, I’ll go get my coat. Does this outing include lunch?’

‘Certainly. I hope you like sweet potato,’ he called after her as she went in.

‘I shall be interested to try it,’ replied Phryne.

An hour later twenty visitors—the maximum the village could accept—and all of the
Hinemoa
’s Maori crew came down the gangplank and boarded a little boat, which putted out into the harbour. It was another MV like
Adventure
, this one called
Wayfarer
. A self-important craft with views of its own on big ships.

Dot was with Phryne. She was still out of breath. She had almost been late, which, for Dot, was unforgivable.

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‘I’m so sorry, Miss, it was Primrose,’ she said.

‘The child with the teddy bear? What’s wrong with her?’

‘Mrs Ryan said she was in hysterics, but she didn’t seem hysterical to me, just furious. She says that someone tried to steal her bear. Came to her cabin and tried to drag him out of her arms.’

‘How very singular. Was it true?’

‘Her mother was in the recreation room and heard her scream blue murder, but she didn’t see anyone by the time she got there.’

‘Did the kidnapper get the teddy?’

‘No, Miss, but something put a big gash in his belly. I’ve just been sewing him up again. What sort of devil would cut open a child’s toy? They love their toys more than their mum at that age. It was cruel.’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘Cruel. Did Primrose say anything about the kidnapper? Male, female, tall, short?’

‘Said he had a black cloak and no face. Poor little thing must have had a nightmare,’ said Dot.

‘Nightmares do not cut open toys,’ Phryne reminded her.

‘Oh. So it was a mask, perhaps?’

‘Or a stocking pulled over the face. I bet the child put up a fight!’

‘She would have,’ said Dot, chuckling. ‘But she’s all right now.’

‘And I fancy that Teddy may now rest secure from further evisceration.’

‘You know what this was about?’ asked Dot as the little boat chugged across the water.

‘The sapphire, Dot. He, she or they thought I might have put it in the teddy. This thief,’ said Phryne meditatively, ‘is building up really quite a record of bad deeds. He, she or they are going to come to a bad end, Dot.’