Flying Too High (21 page)

Mrs Butler pursed her lips and nodded. Phryne wondered if the two of them were going to give notice in the morning. Assuming, of course, that the doctor was amenable to seduction.

Phryne bathed luxuriously and dressed carefully in a loose, warm velvet from Erté. It was black, with deep lapin cuffs and collar and a six-inch band of fur around the hem. She brushed her hair vigorously and applied just a little rouge.

Dot assisted her into the gown and knelt to adjust the soft Russian boots around Phryne’s slim ankles.

‘You fancy your chances, Miss?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s clumsy, but rather endearing, don’t you think?’

‘You be careful,’ warned Dot. ‘This one’s an Aussie. They got different ideas about their girls, not like them Russians.’

‘And Italians,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I’ll be careful, Dot. Are you going out or staying in?’

‘I’m staying in,’ said Dot, giving the bootlace a final tug. ‘I’ve been to the library and I’m going to read and listen to the wireless. I won’t disturb you, Miss. I can come and go by my own stair.’

‘I hope that this doesn’t upset you,’ said Phryne. ‘Or the Butlers.’

‘They’ll be sweet,’ said Dot. ‘Just like I was. It’s a bit of a shock at first, but you get used to it. Have a nice time, Miss,’ and Dot, innocent of any envy, went down to take her own dinner with the Butlers. Phryne smoked one gasper after another, worrying. Dot was right. Australian men were different. She did not want to get involved in an emotional relationship. She had no patience with dependence and no understanding of jealousy.

She heard the doorbell ring, and sailed downstairs to meet her guest, with outward poise and inward qualms.

He really was beautiful, she reflected as he escorted her into the dining-room. He had pale skin, curly brown hair, was well-built and tall. Phryne took her seat and accepted a glass of white wine from Mr Butler. The young man contrived by a miracle not to knock over the vase of ferns in the centre of the table and smiled ruefully.

‘I’m afraid I’m still clumsy, Miss Fisher.’

‘Really, you must call me Phryne. I’m not your patient, Dr Fielding.’

‘Then you must call me Mark.’

‘You haven’t been a doctor long, I gather. Why did you choose medicine?’

This was always a safe question to ask any professional. Soup was served. It was good—perhaps a little too much celery. Mark Fielding ate fast, as though he was about to be called away at any moment.

‘I want to be useful,’ said Mark Fielding. ‘I want to heal the hurts of the world.’ He laid down his spoon. ‘That sounds silly, doesn’t it? But there is such a lot of pain and suffering, and I want to ease it. I work with old Dr Dorset, he has great experience, but he’s a cynical old man. He says that everyone in the world has ulterior motives. What do you think?’

Phryne took in a sharp breath as the unreadable brown eyes flicked sidelong to look at her. Yes, she could believe it. Her own motives were nothing to boast of.

The excellent dinner concluded, Phryne lured Mark upstairs with a promise of coffee and kirsch. She accepted the tray from Mr Butler, observed that the woodbox next to the fire had been replenished, and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

‘I shan’t want you again tonight, Mr B.,’ she said. ‘Sleep well.’

‘You too, Miss Fisher,’ he replied with perfect gravity, and chuckled all the way down the stairs.

‘I know what she is, Mrs B.,’ he said at the kitchen door. ‘She’s a vamp.’

‘Ah, well,’ sighed his wife. ‘At least it ain’t like the last place. Young men are clean about the house. It’s better than the old gentleman’s greyhounds.’

Thereafter Phryne’s household always referred to her lovers as ‘the pets’.

Mark Fielding leaned back into the feathery embrace of a low, comfortable sofa in front of a bright fire.

‘Oh, this is nice,’ he sighed. ‘Listen to that wind outside. It’s beginning to rain, too. I wish I didn’t have to go home…I mean,’ he corrected himself hurriedly, ‘I mean…’

‘You don’t have to go home,’ said Phryne calmly. ‘I wouldn’t turn a dog out on a night like this. Stay with me, Mark. It’s warm in here.’

She was lying at full length on the hearth rug, prone, with her chin cupped in her hands, the short cap of black hair swung forward to hide her face. She had not looked away from the fire as she spoke. The young doctor was astonished. He had never been propositioned by a woman before.

He glanced around the room. Every surface was velvety, textured, soft. The pinkish mirror wreathed in vine leaves reflected his face crowned with a garland. He tried to sit up but the sofa was unwilling to release him. He sipped the remains of his kirsch and yielded up his body to fate.

‘It’s kismet,’ he said softly, as Phryne gathered her gown about her and pulled him down into her arms.

Phryne closed her eyes as the red mouth came down onto hers, the lips parted, then the mouth moved down her throat to the open collar of the velvet gown. For such a clumsy young man, Mark Fielding removed a lady’s clothes with startling skill.

Phryne, naked, and stretched out in a pool of velvet and fur, drowsed up out of a fiery trance to glimpse the flash of thigh and buttock and he slid down to lie beside her.

She reached up to catch her fingers in the curly hair, as silky as embroidery floss, and bring the face down for her kiss. As he slid his strong hands between fur and skin to gather her close, he whispered. ‘Phryne, are you sure?’

Phryne had seized him, locking his waist with her thighs. She was sure.

***

Mark abandoned himself to unimagined delights. The heat of the fire caressed his skin. The scent of Phryne’s breasts and her hair, musky and amorous, almost drowned him in sweetness.

When Phryne awoke, the fire was out, and someone seemed to have amputated her legs at the hips. She groaned and tried to sit up. The numbness was explained by the weight of the beautiful young man asleep on top of her. Phryne shook him, laughing and shivering. ‘Mark, wake up, you’re crushing me.’

Mark Fielding was dragged up out of a deep dream by the hand on his shoulder.

‘It must be Mrs Murphy’s baby,’ he murmured. ‘All right, I’ll be down in a min…no wait, what…oh, Phryne,’ he remembered suddenly, shifted his weight, and hauled her into his arms. ‘Oh, my dear girl, how cold you are, and how cold I am, too.’

‘We fell asleep, and I think we ought to go to bed before we catch our death. You’ll have to carry me,’ said Phryne smugly. ‘I’m numb.’

Mark staggered up, stamped a few times to recover the use of his feet, then lifted Phryne without effort and bore her into the bedroom. He flung her into the huge bed then dived in after her. The invaluable Mrs B. had left a hot waterbottle and they snuggled close together, limbs entwined, and began to thaw into life. Oddly enough, when Mark Fielding was to think of the amazing Phryne Fisher, that was the moment he remembered as being the most intensely erotic.

***

The morning of Miss McNaughton’s party dawned, cold and bright. Phryne did not see it. She breakfasted in bed with Dr Fielding, sharing toast and buttery kisses. He left at nine, begging to be allowed to return that night.

Phryne had obtained Detective-inspector Benton’s solemn promise that he would attend Miss McNaughton’s party and Jillian Henderson had rather warily agreed to come. Bert and Cec reported that they had completed their investigations and there was only Miss Wilson left to interview.

Phryne decided to ring her. She found the number, and a light, feminine voice identified herself as Margaret Wilson.

‘Miss Wilson, this relates to the complaint you made to the police last week.’

‘That horrid old man stole my clothes when I was swimming!’ exclaimed Miss Wilson. ‘I was so mad that I went straight to the police, even though I only had my bathing costume on. But that is all fixed. They lent me a coat to go home in, and the next day I got my clothes back.’

‘Think carefully. Did you pass anyone on that path?’

‘Yes, Bill McNaughton. I was going to ask him to help me but he was in one of his rages, and there is not a lot of percentage to be got out of Bill when he’s like that.’

‘Miss Wilson, where have you been all week?’

‘In retreat, at Daylesford. I go every year. Why?’

‘Bill’s father was murdered. You are the only person who can say that Bill was on that path.’

‘Lord! Poor Bill. I must go and make a statement, then. Should I go now?’

‘No. The slops had their chance. Can you come to Miss McNaughton’s children’s party tomorrow?’

‘Yes, of course. Will that help?’

‘About twelve. Do you know Miss McNaughton?’

‘Oh, yes, we went to school together. Why didn’t Bill say that he saw me?’

‘He didn’t remember your name.’

‘Isn’t that just like Bill. He never even
looked
at his sister’s friends. All right, Miss Fisher, I shall be there tomorrow. Thank you,’ said Miss Wilson, and hung up.

***

Phryne and Dot drove along the gravelled drive and left the car in the carriage yard. The front door was open and there was the sound of someone playing the piano with more exuberance than skill. The sound of running feet echoed down the hall.

Mabel showed Phryne in and took her coat. The house was clean and decorated with balloons and streamers.

‘We’ve put the table in the conservatory, Miss Fisher. It’s out the back. The room with the stone floor. That policeman has arrived. So has Miss Wilson from around the corner, two of your agents, and a lady lawyer called Miss Henderson.’

‘How are things now, Mabel?’

‘Ever so much better, Miss,’ said Mabel, lowering her voice. ‘Mr Bill hasn’t had a single rage, and Mr Paolo is charming. Such a nice man, for a foreigner. He’s playing the piano at the moment so the children can play musical chairs. Come out, Miss, it’s such a pretty sight.’

It was. The conservatory was a big block added on to the back of the house. It was floored with black slate and masses of plants were suspended from the beams. Paolo was thumping wildly on a baby grand piano looking like a fatherly faun. A scatter of children were running around a diminishing number of chairs. Presiding over the gingerbeer, orange-pop, lemonade and a quiet tray of cocktails was Mrs McNaughton. Phryne hardly knew her. Her cheeks were flushed and she was wearing a paper hat. With her was a tall man in a Harris tweed coat. He had a moustache of impressive proportions and held a whisky and soda in his left hand. His right hand was missing and the tweed sleeve was neatly pinned up. This was Gerald. He smiled dotingly at Mrs McNaughton and raised his glass to Phryne.

Jillian Henderson was deep in converse with Amelia over the properties of begonias and tuberoses, for which she had a passion. Detective-inspector Benton sat on the edge of the chair looking exquisitely uncomfortable. The children gave him uneasy glances. They knew a cop when they saw one.

Bert and Cec, having been provided with beer, were seated at a cast-iron table, watching the game with approval.

After a final burst of Chopin, Jim was left in regal possession of the last chair. He accepted the prize penny, and gave it to Elsie to store in her drawers.

Phryne stepped into the middle of the floor and clapped her hands.

‘Before we have lunch, we are going to play a new game,’ she told the children and watching adults. ‘The game is called, “Murder”.’

There was a buzz of excitement. Bill came in from the garden, saw Margaret Wilson, and roared, ‘Margaret Wilson! I knew I’d seen that red bathing costume before.’

‘Bill, join in the procession,’ ordered Phryne. ‘Bert and Cec, you bring the kids. It will be all right. I promise. Come along.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Dot.

‘To the tennis-court,’ said Phryne. She led her congregation across the manicured grass until they all stood under the tree.

‘When I spoke to you on this spot last week, Benton, I asked you two good questions, and you didn’t listen to them. Do you remember what they were?’

‘Where did the rock come from, and why was the deceased on the tennis-court in his street shoes. Yes, I remember. I said that the fact that the stone was imported showed that the crime was premeditated, and that the place was chosen to be out of sight of the road.’

‘Yes. You were bending the facts to fit your theory. This is almost always fatal. Now I did not have a theory so I approached the matter with an open mind. Where did the rock come from? Bert?’

‘It’s the same as the ones in Paris St, Miss. They are taking up the old kerb-stones and replacing them with cement. They’ve been there a while, and there’s clover growing over them.’

‘Good. What did you find on the murder weapon, Benton?’

‘A clover burr, hemp, chewy, and some grass,’ said Benton.

‘Good. Now it struck me that whoever imported the stone might have been playing a game. What game have all the children been playing since Luxor was found?’

She pointed at Jim. He faltered. ‘Pyramids, Miss.’

‘Cec will now take us to where he found the rope.’

Cec led the way, and revealed the pile of bluestone pitchers. They had been tumbled over the fence, and under them was revealed the cache of Pharoah’s treasures, food for the afterlife in the form of a licorice block and pictures of his royal relatives, transport and even slaves with white kilts. Amelia stared at them, paling to the whiteness of chalk. Paolo took her arm, worried.