The Castlemaine Murders (9 page)

‘Then Mr Carter died.’

‘Starved himself to death,’ said Mr Burton, eating his asparagus with relish. ‘Then his wife tried to keep on going but the whole concern was so run-down by then that she sold it all and went into a convent. True,’ he assured Ruth, who was staring at him with wide eyes. The convent was a Fate Worse Than Death in her romances. ‘The Good Shepherd, in Eltham. She is a poor, thin, devout, trodden down and much tried woman and the nuns are very kind to her. Farrell calls in when we are passing to bring her some Turkey lolly. Only thing she lacks, she says.’

‘Very good choice,’ said Dot. She could not imagine that poor Mrs Carter would want to try marriage again after Mr Carter. And at least the nuns would feed her regularly. Speaking of which, could Dot manage another bit of lettuce and a slice more of beef? Probably. And some asparagus before Mr Burton ate it all.

Dot had never met a dwarf before. Once one got used to his stature, it was just like talking to a well-spoken, intelligent and courtly man, and Dot was quite comfortable in his company, which was not what she had been expecting at all.

The pace of eating slowed to a stop. People put their elbows on the table and nibbled favourite foods. Mr Butler wheeled in a silver trolley on which reposed dessert. It consisted of a large and complex fruit salad sorbet: lemon ice studded with pineapple, mango, plum, peach, apricot, strawberry and passionfruit. Coffee was already made and the diners tasted tiny, delicious mouthfuls of sorbet and sipped their coffee, and when Mr Burton said, very deliberately, ‘You know, I am not sure that I deserve a dinner like that,’ there was general agreement.

. . .

Phryne led her guests into the parlour, where there were soft chairs for those who wished to repose and more coffee and liqueurs for those who wished to stay awake. Mr Burton listened closely as Phryne explained her Ghost Train discovery and Jane explained the findings of the autopsy.

‘But how very curious!’ exclaimed the dwarf, looking at their exhibits. ‘Yes, that’s a Carter’s ticket all right. That newspaper does look old enough to be 1857. Attempted expulsion at . . . could be anywhere. That was a rather turbulent year.’

‘I know where it was,’ said Lin Chung quietly.

‘Where?’ asked Phryne.

‘I told you about it, Phryne. That’s close to the date. The twenty-first of July 1857. That’s when Constable Thomas Cooke stopped a riot against the Chinese. At Golden Point, near Castlemaine.’

‘Yes, you told me. And that’s when your gold went missing too. How very odd! But we haven’t got the place, Lin dear. It could be a coincidence.’

‘Of course it could,’ said Lin.

‘And can you make anything of this sketch, Eliza?’ asked Phryne. Eliza, who had done herself well at the table and was feeling sleepy, roused herself to look.

‘It’s very vague, Phryne. Can’t really see the quarterings. But there aren’t many supporters with tails and fins—that definitely looks like a fin. A merman, a mermaid, or maybe a heraldic dolphin. We could look it up.’

‘So we could.’ Phryne smiled at her sister for the first time since she had seen her get off the boat at Station Pier. Eliza almost returned the smile. Then she got up, murmured that she was very tired and the company should excuse her, and went out.

Phryne swore softly and went back to the puzzle.

‘And it would be nice to find the rest of the newspaper,’ said Lin. ‘At home we have the report on that riot. And if not we can always enquire about the name of the local newspaper.’

‘We will do that tomorrow,’ said Phryne. ‘After we have all been interviewed by the police again.’

‘Mr Burton, do your family still grow apples?’ asked Dot, deciding that it was time for a change of subject. Mr Burton evidently agreed.

‘I am feeling far too complacent to talk about social conditions or about old murders, Phryne. Let’s have a little music and some light conversation, eh, to aid digestion?’

Phryne went to the gramophone. She selected ‘Danse Macabre’. She felt it was appropriate.

In the thirteenth year of the reign of the glorious Emperor Lord of
the Dragon Throne Kwong Sui of the Ching Dynasty in the season
of Frosts Descend.

The elder brother Sung Ma sends greetings to the younger sister
Sung Mai.

It is a strange place, a ship. After a week it is the most uncomfortable
place in the world, so small, like a prison. After that it
becomes familiar and comprises the whole world. Every morning
we rise and wash and eat, the men play games or gamble or sing,
the crew tend the ship, the cooks cook the meals, the doctor—that
is me, most unworthy, but I am the only one—looks after the sick
and we are all, from Dark Moon hunting rats to the shipmaster
directing the course, perfectly fitted into our places. Sometimes we
have storms, only small ones, sometimes we go fast or slow,
sometimes we see dolphins or other ships, and yesterday we saw a
whale. It was a vast mass of flesh, the largest animal I have ever
seen. It surfaced and rolled, slapping the sea with a tail as big as
the ship, then dived again and we were all afraid it would surface
under the ship and sink us. But it did not. The Goddess of the
Sea called it away, perhaps, to save our lives. I am going to play
chess with the captain. Good night, little sister. I hope all is well
with you.

CHAPTER FIVE

The year is drawing to an end
The leaves are turning golden
I want to go home
I want to go home
I have loitered around this mud flat far too long.

Su Tungpo, translated by Lin Yutang

Phryne slept very well, assisted in her slumbers by an absence of Lin Chung, who was too indecently overfed to consider amorous dalliance, and the presence of Ember the black cat. Though a little more portly than the statue of Basht which decorated Phryne’s mantelpiece—like his mistress, Ember was devoted to the pleasures of the table—he knew exactly where to sleep to provide himself with the most restful night. Ember’s notion of restful did not include being either rolled on or ejected because he was sleeping in the exact centre of the bed, as thoughtless felines did. He occupied a position to the left of Phryne’s head, in the hollow between her chin and her shoulder, or, on hotter nights like this night, removed himself a little way to the side where the curve and fall of her hip made a nice dent in the bedclothes and he could catch a refreshing breeze from her open window.

Phryne rose betimes. For Phryne, betimes was between nine and ten o’clock. Ember had risen earlier, exiting through his own door, at the rattle of milk cans which did not even cause his mistress to roll over. Unless Phryne had visitors, she preferred to breakfast in bed. But the morning was so warm and delightful that she descended to the breakfast parlour to partake of café au lait and a croissant from the French bakery in Acland Street. She was feeling rather lazy and French and disinclined to do anything more effortful than a short swim or a stroll. She again blessed the happy chance which had taken her to St Kilda, this slightly tatty city by the bay, where a walk along the plage was only a wish away, rather than a hot, gritty, expensive taxi ride away, arguing with a grumpy driver over centimes. Perhaps she did not feel so French today after all.

It was Monday. Jane and Ruth had gone to school. Dot, whose betimes was much earlier than Phryne’s, was sewing something. She came to the table for another cup of tea and Phryne asked her what it was.

‘A pillowcase. For my glory box. My last one. I’ve got all my bed-linen now,’ announced Dot proudly.

‘Congratulations,’ said Phryne. ‘Now you can get married.’

A pang struck her that Dot was going to leave.

‘No, I can’t,’ said Dot, ‘I have to make ten teacloths, three tablecloths, six damask napkins, twelve cotton napkins and the wedding dress. And the petticoats. And the underthings. And the nightie. And the negligee. Could take years.’ She grinned. ‘At least I’ve got the man. Hugh’s in no hurry. He has to be promoted to Detective Sergeant before he can support a wife. And I’m in no hurry. I like it here. Miss, is there something wrong with your sister?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, comforted. ‘And I’m wondering what on earth it can be. She came here in a fine flaring rage, determined to hate and despise everything, so it doesn’t sound like she wanted to leave home. You know, Dot, I believe that Father has adopted the fine old family tradition of getting rid of inconvenient relatives by sending them to Australia. It worked with him.’

‘She almost said as much,’ agreed Dot.

‘But she was always the good girl,’ protested Phryne, allowing Mr Butler to pour her another cup of café au lait. ‘She always did exactly as she was told. She stayed at school, whereas I ran away to France. She went from boarding school to a finishing school and then she went home like a good girl. She was presented at court, she went to all the dances, she had a season, or a modified post-war season . . .’

‘And she didn’t catch a husband,’ said Dot. ‘That’s what the season is for, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. That’s why I wouldn’t do it. I stayed in France and, until they relented, I never replied to any of the telegrams or letters. Finally they gave up and said I needn’t. The season is a stud, a saddling paddock, where all the young gels parade and all the mothers scheme to snare my Lord Brutal, Duke of Huntin’ Shootin’ and Fishin’ or His Dryness the Earl of Tedium. But Beth—Eliza—seemed to like it. She told me all about it whenever I saw her. About her dances and her young men and her masquerades.’ Phryne drank some coffee thoughtfully.

‘Do you think it’s a man? An unsuitable man, I mean?’ asked Dot.

‘Almost sure to be, wouldn’t you say? And it must be serious. The aristocracy never really mind their daughters taking unsuitable casual lovers—I mean, that’s what stable boys are for—but mésalliances, non. She must have threatened marriage and she must have stuck to it, otherwise Father would not have rusticated her. I didn’t know she was so proof against being shouted at. My father gets his way most of the time because he is convinced that people only do as they are told when you shout at them. I remember him in Paris, the one time he came, shouting at those ignorant Frenchies for refusing to understand English.’

‘What if they don’t do as they are told?’ asked Dot, who was familiar with the method.

‘He shouts at them louder and for longer. Until they either run away or crack, generally. It works, for him. But Father is an unmitigated bully. Always has been. Beth used to be putty in his hands. Couldn’t stand loud noises.’

‘I wonder who he is?’ asked Dot.

‘Well, the mail is here,’ said Phryne. ‘Perhaps he’s written.’

Mr Butler entered with the letters on a silver tray. He was ambushed at the breakfast parlour door by Eliza, who grabbed the letters, sorted swiftly through them, scattering some on the floor. She grabbed one, pressed it to her breast and ran away, all without a word. Phryne heard her footsteps on the stairs. Mr Butler looked staggered.

‘My dear Mr Butler!’ said Phryne. ‘I do apologise for my mannerless family. Let me just pick up the letters, there, and you can give them to me and then I suggest that you go and have a sit-down and a little pick-me-up. You have had a shock. Well, Dot,’ she observed, as Mr Butler tottered off to his pantry for a small glass of port, ‘that would seem to be proof.’

‘She certainly wanted that letter before you saw it,’ agreed Dot.

‘But did she really think I was going to forbid her to correspond? I am not the stuff of a Victorian father, Dot dear.’

‘Perhaps she isn’t thinking too clearly,’ soothed Dot.

Phryne sorted through the letters. One pile was business.

One pile was trivia—invitations, thank-you letters, cards for gallery viewings and at homes. The smallest pile was always personal letters. Phryne fanned them in one hand.

‘One from Father, by the look of it. One from Mother. My, we are attracting attention! And one I do not recognise. Neat handwriting, posted in Melbourne.’

Phryne ran her letter opener under the flap and there was a bright flash. She had dropped the knife and retreated to the other side of the table before the bang; Phryne could move very fast when roused. The letter caught fire and Dot swatted it with a handy plate. Nothing could make Dot burn good linen.

‘You all right, Dot?’ Phryne stood up.

‘Yes, you?’ gasped Dot, fanning herself with the plate.

‘Yes. That was flash powder. Magicians use it to cover up the substitution of the pretty lady with the donkey. Someone has a quirky sense of humour, Dot dear, and when I catch them I shall insert flash powder into various crevices on their person and light it. Anything written on that enclosure?’

‘It’s a bit singed,’ said Dot. ‘I think it says “STAY AWAY FROM THE CORPSE OR BECOME ONE” but the edge has burned off.’

Mr Butler, Mrs Butler, Molly the dog and the butcher’s boy all appeared from the kitchen, expostulating.

‘Pithy,’ said Phryne. ‘No, no need to worry, Mr Butler— you are having a morning, aren’t you? Someone sent me a joke which backfired rather literally. They will, in due course, be sorry. In future, Mr B, take the mail into the garden, in case we get any more little surprises. That will be all,’ said Phryne, and the Butlers went back to their tea. Phryne lit a meditative Sobranie. Dot said nothing, grieved by the black soot on the breakfast cloth.