Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (19 page)

‘Gazpacho Andaluz,’ she read with interest. ‘Caneton Rouennais à la presse
,
salade aux tomates
,
russe et verte
,
tartelettes aux fraises des bois
,
fromages
,
fruits
,
café
.
Perfect for a summer’s day. Light, tasty, cool. Not an ortolan on the page, which was a mercy, because had they been there Phryne would not have been able to resist trying one. And bringing on herself a few extra years in purgatory.

‘Gentlemen,’ she said aloud, raising her glass, ‘A toast to discretion.’ They drank. ‘Mine, I assure you, is absolute,’ she added.

‘We know that, Miss Fisher,’ said the football player. ‘Or we wouldn’t be here. And neither would you. You know what I mean,’ he added.

The atmosphere, which had been tense, eased a little.

‘Quite,’ said the banker. ‘We know about you. We know you have assisted several of us to avoid…notice. Even talked a policeman out of prosecuting. Smuggled old Tom’s friend in to see him when he was dying, to say goodbye.’

‘We queens appreciate you,’ said the fancy-goods importer.

The waiter giggled and subsided quickly under Mr. Featherstonehaugh’s glare, which could have been employed to flambé crêpes Suzette.

‘So we’ve asked around,’ said the barrister.

‘And we may have something for you,’ said the actor.

‘But first,’ said Mr. Featherstonehaugh, ‘the repast.’

Waiters brought in the soup. It was iced, spicy and delicious.

‘Have you seen our Measure for Measure, Miss Fisher?’ asked the actor.

‘Not yet,’ said Phryne. ‘It isn’t one of my favourite plays.’

‘Wasn’t mine either,’ confessed the actor. ‘When I was cast for Angelo I hadn’t the faintest how to manage him. I just said the words as carefully as I could. But then Clarissa arrived and the whole piece took fire.’

‘Clarissa?’

‘You haven’t heard of her?’ The actor was aghast, almost choking on his gazpacho.

‘I’ve been out of town,’ apologised Phryne.

‘She really is something surprising,’ opined the barrister. ‘Cold and determined, her Isabella the nun.’

‘But in real life she’s very warm,’ said the actor. ‘Been on the boards since she was a tot, of course. Born, as they say, in a trunk. Played fairies when she was four. Graduated to Juliet when she was fourteen—the age, of course, of the real Juliet. Got away with a lack of technique because she was so beautiful—long golden hair, blue eyes. Now she has the technique to play anyone, and she’s still beautiful. Hardly fair, is it? And she’s here for good, I believe. Fell in love with some lawyer stage-door johnny and married him.’

‘But she’s funny,’ said the footballer. ‘Saw her in that comic thing—something about earnest? Playing a sarky girl.’

‘The Importance of Being Earnest, my dear,’ said the banker.

‘Yair, that was it. Funny,’ said the footballer.

‘Your Angelo is chilling—a study in twisted lust,’ said the barrister.

‘I’ve had such a lot of practice,’ sighed the actor.

There was a general laugh as the caneton was brought in with the salads. The meal was sumptuous without being too rich for people who had to go back to work. Phryne’s opinion of Mr. Featherstonehaugh’s acumen rose another notch. She allowed the waiter to help her to salade russe, for which she had a passion. Mr. Bates did not eat, but confined himself to crumbling bread and drinking glass after glass of the white wine. He spoke to no one. Phryne caught occasional glances from the others. They looked on him with great compassion, even pity. She wondered why.

A heated discussion between the actor and the fancy-goods importer about colours attracted her attention.

‘They’re calling it “bugger’s mauve”,’ objected the importer. ‘No lady is going to buy it.’

‘But Beaton says it is the colour which all fair women ought to wear,’ said the actor. ‘And who’s going to tell the gently born what such crude characters as actors call it? It’s the purest violet.’

‘Couldn’t put it on a footy jumper,’ said the footballer.

The table paused and looked at him. Phryne was impressed that no one laughed at him.

‘Agreed,’ said the barrister. ‘Now, what about these strawberry tarts?’

‘Wonderful,’ said Phryne. ‘They taste like fraises de bois
.
Australia really does have excellent fruit.’

‘The pineapples,’ said the fancy-goods importer, a cockney by the sound of him. ‘The mangoes! When I think I had to pay six shillings apiece for green African mangoes in London. I could buy up a bathtub of them here and just bathe in it for the same money. And pawpaw and bananas and nectarines and berries. Paradise.’

‘White peaches,’ said Phryne.

‘There’s an orchard in Bacchus Marsh to which I might direct your attention,’ said the barrister idly. Phryne was alerted. None of this conversation was idle. ‘They rather specialise in soft fruit. I’m sure they would welcome your interest, Miss Fisher. And your patronage, perhaps.’

‘Indeed?’ asked Phryne. ‘What’s the name of this excellent orchard?’

‘Groves of Bilitis,’ said the barrister, without emphasis.

‘I shall make a note of it,’ said Phryne. Bilitis, eh? Someone had been reading Louÿs. Might as well have called it Sappho’s Orchard. Interesting.

‘Coffee,’ said Mr. Featherstonehaugh.

The gazpacho had been superb, the tomatoes at their ripest, the caneton would have been happy to have such an afterlife in prospect, the strawberries had been sprinkled with kirsch. The fruits were on ice and delicately frosted by some kitchen alchemy, and the cheeses included Camembert and Stilton as well as cheddar for the football player, who had simple tastes and had drunk Victoria Bitter throughout. Phryne took a bunch of dark grapes and picked them, one by one. She had received one clue. Time for another.

‘Mr. Bates?’ she asked.

He grunted.

‘What can you tell me about Polly Kettle?’

‘Stupid bitch,’ he mumbled.

‘Agreed,’ said Phryne. ‘To a certain philosophy she would have appeared to be headlong, rash and foolish.’

‘Too right,’ said Mr. Bates.

‘But she is missing, and I fear that she is in serious danger. Won’t you help me?’ she asked gently.

‘Someone’s stealing girls,’ he said, quite clearly. ‘Been on to it for months. It was my story. I was finding things out. But that silly bitch grabbed it and ran with it and now she’s been nabbed. Paper won’t touch it. Because it’s her story now. She stole it from me.’

‘I see,’ said Phryne. ‘Knowing that I will not quote you, what can you tell me?’

‘Out of the convent,’ he said, taking another gulp of wine and holding out his glass. Phryne caught the glance between the waiter and the proprietor. Mr. Featherstonehaugh nodded and the glass was refilled. ‘Bad girls.’

‘Oh, I say,’ objected the banker, and was hushed by the importer.

‘But they haven’t been turning up in the usual places,’ said Mr. Bates.

‘You mean, brothels in the city?’ asked Phryne.

‘Not a sign of them. Bill said he’s been getting enquiries about passengers on his boats.’

‘I have,’ said the importer. ‘My boats don’t usually carry people, just goods. To and from, you know.’

‘To and from where, exactly?’ asked Phryne.

‘Here to London River,’ he told her. ‘Via Aden.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said the actor.

‘Why “oh, dear”?’ asked the footballer.

‘The Middle East has rather a penchant for blonde girls,’ said the actor. ‘Boys, too.’

‘White slavery?’ asked Phryne. ‘Surely not.’

‘Why not? Just because it’s a popular legend doesn’t mean it isn’t true,’ said Mr. Bates aggressively.

‘Of course,’ said Phryne soothingly.

‘Employment agency called Jobs for All in Lonsdale Street,’ barked Mr. Bates, not conspicuously soothed. ‘Asked Bill for places for ten girls going to Aden. He smelt a rat. Refused to send them. But he isn’t the only person with boats in Melbourne ports.’

‘My oath,’ said the importer. ‘And some not as fussy as me. Thing was, the funny thing was, the funds were to come from a Catholic charity. Connected to the convent. Called Gratitude. I didn’t like it, not one little bit.’

‘How many girls have disappeared?’ asked Phryne.

‘Eighteen, counting the recent ones,’ grunted Bates. ‘All of them discharged to a “good Catholic home” as domestic servants from that convent. Poor cows probably on their way to an Egyptian brothel. And once there, how could they get away? Can’t speak the language, probably kept doped. It’s wrong.’

‘And if these people have Polly Kettle?’ asked Phryne.

‘I reckon she’s on her way there, too.’

Mr. Bates hauled himself to his feet and stumped out. There was silence as they listened to his faltering steps, the opening and closing of doors, the gatekeeper summoning a taxi.

‘Poor man,’ said Phryne.

‘He had a bad war,’ said a merchant. ‘Fell in love with a fellow soldier. Who loved him back. They were very happy together. For years. Then…’

‘They found them both in the same shell hole,’ said the barrister. ‘Bates was mortally injured. And he was lying in the pieces of his lover, cut in half by shrapnel. A common tale. But Bates is one of those fellows who only has one chance at love. And it was gone. They say he spent months in a mental hospital, begging them to let him die. But he didn’t die.’

‘Horrible,’ said Phryne.

There was another silence. Mr. Featherstonehaugh served more coffee and liqueurs. Phryne took a green chartreuse.

‘Some of our cast have been made offers,’ said the Shakespearean actor. ‘Travel to the Middle East, wonderful parts, excellent pay.’

‘In a travelling company?’ asked the other actor.

‘To be met at the boat,’ said the first actor, with heavy emphasis.

‘And who has been offering them these marvellous opportunities?’ asked Phryne.