Queen of Flowers (17 page)

‘Will you marry me?’ and I could hardly get my ‘yes’ past my
lips I was so shaken. And then he kissed me, so sweetly, and
I went to do the upstairs rooms and he went to talk to my
mother. His friend Mr McLeod sneered but Mr Murray wished
that we should be very happy and that Rory had found him a
bonny bride. That’s all I can fit on this card. I’ll write a proper
letter later, your very, very happy friend Anna.

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CHAPTER NINE

. . . Rapine, avarice, expense,

This is idolatry; and these we adore
William Wordsworth

‘London MDCCII’

James Murray was a great success, though Dot still had doubts about him for the first ten minutes. But his manner was so easy and his voice so attractive and he played such a beautiful violin that eventually she was seduced into forgetting that he might have been one of Miss Phryne’s lovers. And that his presence might disrupt her household.

Jane doted on him for his readiness to answer her every question about the Orkney Islands. Ruth sat at his feet and cried luxurious tears while he played her the lament for Archibald McLeish.

‘Of course, that’s what we play on the way to the funeral,’

he explained. ‘But on the way back, when he’s safely buried and
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we have to go on with the business of living, we play this: it’s called “Archie’s a stiff ”.’

And he launched into a jaunty, rollicking version of the lament which had everyone laughing. Then Ruth said, ‘Isn’t that a hard-hearted thing to do? Leaving him alone in his grave like that and laughing on the way home?’

‘Poor old Archie’s dead, hinny,’ James Murray told her gently. ‘There’s nought we can do for him anymore but remember him kindly. But we have to live, see? And living, we may as well dance. Because we all come to it, my bird.’

Dot, of all people, agreed. She was onto her second sherry.

‘The dead are with God,’ she said firmly. ‘God will look after them. That’s what God does. And mourning too long is a sin, Father O’Reilly says. As though you don’t trust God.’

‘And even if you don’t,’ said James, perilously close to blasphemy, ‘there’s nothing to be done but get used to it. If it must be borne, my grandma used to say, then it should be borne gladly.’

‘Is she still living?’ asked Phryne. ‘I remember her very well. And poor Ian Hamilton. How did he fare?’

‘Grandma is still living,’ he said. ‘Ian Hamilton married Lettice Howell, and he has three sons now, fine boys. His family asked him to come back, the eldest son is a disappointment, apparently. But he would not. They sent him to Orkney, he said, and in Orkney he would stay, it was his home. He’s bought into the distillery and is doing very well. As you see, our whisky travels well.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Phryne.

‘And you, m’lady—a lovely house, two lovely daughters, there is no husband for you?’

‘I do not need a husband,’ said Phryne. ‘But I do not lack for company.’

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‘You never would,’ said James affectionately.

‘Time to go to bed,’ announced Dot abruptly, shepherding the two girls before her out of the parlour. ‘Goodnight, Miss.

Goodnight, Mr Murray.’

‘Would you like to sleep here?’ asked Phryne. Was there another kind of invitation in her smile? ‘I’ve a spare room and you would be welcome.’

‘I’ll come tomorrow, if I may stretch your kindness,’ he told her. ‘Tonight I have an appointment, and also I can ask around about your missing girl. That camp is no place for her.’

‘If she was there,’ said Phryne. ‘Try to find out about the fracas on the beach. Rose Weston thought she had an assignation with a pretty boy. He didn’t come. But someone else may have improved the shining hour.’

‘So they might, at that,’ agreed James. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight, then,’ he said, taking up Phryne’s hand and kissing it.

When he had gone, Phryne finished the whisky, remembering Orkney, and put herself to bed. She fell asleep immediately and slept like a log all night.

Monday dawned drizzly and chill, with a little wind which searched out crevices in tents and jackets. James Murray’s violin was dry and cosy in its padded case enclosed in oilskin. James himself was wrapped in a blanket that was reverting to felt under a tent which had forgotten about its duty to be water-proof. He swore, unwound himself and lit his primus. Tonight he would sleep under a roof, which would be a welcome change, and perhaps he could get a bath and wash his shirt.

Phryne Fisher, here, and as bright and sharp and beautiful as ever. Wonderful are the ways of the Lord, he thought, as the gas popped and went out. He lit another match. All he had to do was explain about Maggie.

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And, of course, ask around about this missing girl. That might not be well received. The camp had a tendency to keep itself to itself and would not welcome any enquirer after wisdom asking inconvenient questions. This needed planning.

He made his tea and drank it and packed up his posses-sions. Someone tripped over his guy rope and cursed, landing with a thud.

‘Want a drink of tea, friend?’ he asked as the figure picked itself up. It was Little Jack, a stringy youth vaguely connected with the three-card trick men.

‘All right,’ agreed Little Jack. He sugared the tea heavily and drank it in one gulp.

‘I heard some rumour,’ said James easily, ‘that someone had lost a girl in this camp. A good girl,’ he added. ‘With people looking for her. You seen anyone like that, boy?’

‘Girls?’ said Little Jack. ‘There’s lots.’

‘This will be a stray one. Been here since some time in the morning yesterday. Probably cries a lot.’ Little Jack looked shifty. Unfortunately, that was his usual expression. James went on: ‘And unless she gets given back, I reckon the camp’ll be swarming with police by tomorrow.’

Little Jack looked frightened. James let him go. Then he wandered out into the settlement to find another gossip. If he did this properly, the news of police invasion should reach the ears of whoever had the girl—and then, with luck, they would turn her loose and Phryne could retrieve her. James told Bet from the darts stall, a known gossip. She would cover the carnies.

And then, greatly daring, he went into the confines of the circus and sought out a rigger who had once sailed with him on a nervous run across the Atlantic. Spending two weeks listening for the underwater thud of a torpedo and expecting death by water creates a bond which the circus class system cannot break.

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‘Come in and have some tea, Jamie,’ said Scottie, who was not Scottish but an Australian called Allen Scott. ‘Bloody cold morning.’

‘Not as cold as that North Sea crossing,’ said James, sitting down on a stool in the rigger’s tent and lighting a cigarette.

‘Bloody right,’ said Scottie, pouring two mugs of tea with a judicious admixture of rum. ‘So, what’s the news from the outcasts?’

‘I’m moving out of the camp,’ said James. ‘I’ve met an old friend.’

‘What, another one?’ asked Scottie. ‘You were surprised enough about that Neil bloke.’

‘I was, but this one is much more attractive.’

‘A sheila,’ said Scottie.

‘You have the right of it,’ said James. ‘But there’s a girl missing in the camp, did you hear? A well-connected girl from a good family. Make sure you get rid of anything illegal, Scottie.

The place will be crawling with police by tomorrow.’

‘Jacks! I hate them jacks. So who’s got this girl?’

‘Ah, there you have me,’ murmured James. ‘But whoever it is had better give her up soon, or there will be trouble for all of us.’

‘Girls are always trouble,’ said Scottie into his rum.

James agreed, drank up, then went back to his campsite.

He folded his tent with thoughtless efficiency, hoisted the tent and knapsack to his shoulder, and walked whistling through the camp, violin in hand. He could almost hear the whispers running behind him. That ought to produce an effect, he thought.

Phryne had gone out to consult with Rose Weston’s school when he arrived at the bijou Fisher residence. Dot and the girls were home and he gladly gave himself up to an unfamiliar but
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very pleasant sensation of being cared for. His dirty clothes were whisked away to the Chinese laundry. His coat was taken off and brushed. He was provided with carpet slippers while his boots were cleaned and dried. A large breakfast was cooked especially for him. He ate it while a small black and white dog slept determinedly on his feet and two children asked him questions. It was like coming home. James Murray was sinfully pleased with the world.

Bert said to Cec, ‘I dunno about this. That Mongrel is a real mongrel.’

‘Too right,’ said Cec.

‘And if he’s got the girl I dunno how we’re gunna make him give her back.’

‘Too right,’ said Cec.

‘But we’re gunna do it anyway,’ said Bert resignedly.

‘Too right,’ said Cec.

They knocked on the door of a dilapidated house. St Kilda had been a great watering place once, like Brighton. As the rich people got motor cars and built themselves houses in Mount Eliza and Portsea for their dose of ozone, the houses had changed hands, always downwards. Most were now divided into flats, or even rooms. Mongrel and Simonds lived on the third floor.

‘I reckon one match and this whole place’d go up like a torch,’ observed Cec. The rickety stairs were shedding touch-wood, the woodworms were fighting the borers for ascendancy and Cec had just put his fingers through the bannister.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ growled Bert. He was heavier than Cec and was walking carefully at the edge of the stairs, where they joined the wall and might be a fraction more robust.

When they reached the door it was shut and no amount of banging produced any answer.

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‘Bugger,’ said Bert. He thumped on the next door, behind which he could hear a baby screaming.

‘What?’ asked an unimaginably weary voice. A woman stood there with a child in her arms and a toddler hanging on her stained apron. Both children were shrieking. There was a rolling stench of urine and burned milk.

‘Looking for your neighbours,’ said Bert, holding out a shilling. The grimy, work-worn hand snatched and the coin vanished.

‘They ain’t in,’ she said flatly. ‘I heard you bashing on the door. Woke the baby, you bastard.’

‘Sorry,’ said Bert, holding out another shilling. ‘Any idea of where they went?’

‘Got jobs down on the foreshore,’ said the woman. ‘Hope they don’t come back,’ she added, grabbing the second shilling and slamming the door.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Bert to the peeling paint. ‘Bugger,’

he said again.

‘What?’ asked Cec.

‘First, that puts them right on the spot when the girl vanished,’ said Bert. ‘And second, now I got to tiptoe down them stairs again. What was that you said about a match, Cec?’

‘Not with all them people in it,’ chided Cec. ‘Besides, it’s held together by the bedbugs linking arms.’

This was a long sentence for Cec. He hated dirt. They made it down the stairs in one piece and got into the street with sighs of relief.

‘We’d better go and tell her,’ said Bert.

‘Too right,’ said Cec.

The school was not pleased with Rose Weston, Phryne could tell. The ancient red-brick buildings had survived bad girls
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before, and unstable girls, and girls prone to nervous hysterics.

But Rose’s combination of insolence and intelligence was hard to characterise. The form teacher, Miss Ellis, who carried the master locker keys, tried to explain.

‘You see, she could be very clever—suddenly. It was always a surprise. I was never sure what to say to her. She could fail to understand something really simple, however often it was explained. For instance, she still doesn’t understand fractions.

She would sit there and shake her head slowly from side to side, like a moron. Then she could flash out with a comment that meant she was a long way ahead of me.’

The teacher was a young woman in a neat suit, with neat hair and neat hands and a precise, neat voice. She would not have had a chance against Rose Weston’s irrational intelligence and nervy irritability.

‘She comes from a troubled household,’ said Phryne.

‘Yes, but so do others. There are girls here whose parents have died and whose families have been dealt similar blows. We can understand tears, and rebellions, and melancholy, and vapours, and passing bad behaviour.’

‘But Rose had all of them.’

‘Yes. I believe that the headmistress was going to ask her grandfather to find her another school. When she was a boarder, mind you, there were no complaints of her, just a few little naughtinesses. I fear that her home environment was not ideal.’

‘You could safely say that,’ said Phryne.

A bank of lockers appeared. ‘This is the only place she had leave to keep things at this school,’ said Miss Ellis worriedly.

‘But it’s not to say that she didn’t have another cache. She knows the buildings, she used to board here.’

‘Let’s just see what’s in the locker,’ said Phryne.

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The door opened. Phryne caught the expected avalanche of textbooks and handed them to the form teacher, one by one.

‘Funny, my locker at school was just like this,’ she said chattily. ‘I used to shut the door very fast and duck when I opened it again. Now, what do we have here? Ink-stained texts. History, chemistry, French conversation—“
Bonjour
,
Monsieur Dubois, ça va? Ça va bien, merci
.” Exercise book full of rather good little drawings.’