Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (44 page)

Mrs. Donnelly decided to try outraged innocence.

‘Who are you, bold as brass, and you with a gun, comin’ in here to me very own cabin, frightenin’ me daughters…’

‘We’re not her daughters,’ said one of the golden-haired children. ‘She’s going to do something awful to us. I heard her talking to the captain. They stole me! Shoot her!’

‘I’d love to,’ Phryne assured her. ‘But for the moment we will leave her to the law. Now, tell me your names. Then tear up one of those sheets and we shall tie her up.’

‘Are we rescued?’ asked a second child, naming herself as Madge.

‘You certainly are. Strips of linen, please. It’s cheap. It’ll tear.’

The children found that it did indeed tear. Phryne trussed Mrs. Donnelly securely, gagging her with more strips. Then she motioned the children to sit down again on their beds and went to the door.

‘I want to go home!’ wailed one child, whose name was Marion.

‘So do we all,’ said Phryne. ‘But there’s a man with a rifle out there. I’m expecting some help any moment,’ she added. Surely Jack must have overborne the harbour master by now.

The first golden-haired child, Muriel, went to Mrs. Donnelly and kicked her as hard as she could in the shins.

‘I see your point,’ said Phryne. ‘But we are not allowed to torture prisoners. Let the law do the revenge. Now, everyone, quiet. I need to listen.’

Phryne pressed herself against the door. She heard footsteps. Then she heard the clang of one of those lids. She opened the door.

And there was Ruth. Of all people, she had been the one least expected.

‘Ah, Ruth,’ said Phryne. ‘Could you sit here with these girls and make sure this beastly woman doesn’t escape?’

‘Can I have the gun?’ asked Ruth.

‘No, I’ve only got one and I’m going to need it. But feel free to hit her with whatever you like if she tries to get away.’

‘Right you are, Miss Phryne,’ said Ruth. ‘Find a weapon, ladies.’

Mrs. Donnelly did not move a muscle. She sat tied to a chair in the midst of her victims, every one of them with some weapon—a hairbrush, a chamber-pot, a curling iron, a table knife—and every one of them watching her like cats watching a mouse.

Phryne emerged from the cabin to find Bert latching the last lid, Cec licking his knuckles, and Jane looking ruffled.

‘How very nice to see you, darlings,’ she exclaimed.

‘You didn’t need no help,’ said Bert, grinning.

‘Oh, yes, I did. There was the man with the rifle, for example. What happened to him?’

‘We had a bit of an accident with that rifle and he sorta fell overboard,’ said Bert artlessly.

‘And the others?’

‘All under hatches except for the ones tied up in the lifeboat,’ said Cec, fighting down an urge to salute.

‘How did you get here so fast?’ asked Phryne. ‘Where’s Jack?’

‘Still contendin’ with the bloated bureaucracy,’ said Bert. ‘We borrowed a boat. Tink and Aub’s looking after it.’

‘And you’re sure that the owner would have freely donated it to the cause if he had been around to ask, which, as it happens, he wasn’t?’

‘Yair, like that,’ said Bert.

Phryne kissed him. ‘I’ll square him, whoever he is,’ she said. ‘You realise that we’ve taken up piracy, my dears?’

‘Yo ho ho,’ said Jane, who was beginning to feel very pleased with herself.

‘And a bottle of rum, with any luck,’ added Bert.

***

In all it was something of an anticlimax when Jack Robinson arrived in the pilot boat with his warrant. He arrested the ship by nailing said warrant to the mast. He also took into custody Father Declan, Mrs. Donnelly (who was considerably bruised), twenty-nine crewmen (all protesting that they knew nothing about any white slavery), four rescued girls and a lot of documents from the safe in the main cabin. He did not enquire as to how the safe had been opened, nor what happened to the sheaves of banknotes which Father Declan swore should be there. After all, Jack had won a considerable victory, a wonderful case, and he had the girls, the crew, the mastermind and the ships.

He didn’t need the money, and he knew wharfies.

Chapter Nineteen

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.

William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

Phryne, who had sent Jane to knock up a local chemist and buy some cold cream (at twice the price for the inconvenience) had finally cleaned her face and, at the price of considerable ouching, removed the golden wig and the blue hat. Her head felt curiously cool and light.

The waterfront at Williamstown was a buzz of noise, activity and relief. The Black Maria had been sent for to carry the prisoners. Jack Robinson had actually accepted a kiss on the cheek. Aub and Tinker had brought the yacht safely back to her mooring without a scratch. The foreshore was loud with lamentations, laughter and policemen shouting. Engines revved in the quiet streets, a stream of them coming along the Esplanade.

As it was so late, or early, no pubs were open. Though Bert boasted that he could find a drink in any port at any time, the local hostelries were nervous about the Licensing Act, seeing that the town was seething with policemen.

Phryne wanted a hot and luscious bath. She had been groped and handled by people she didn’t like, and wanted to wash off their contaminating touch. It was black dark, the very deep of the night. Not even seagulls cried.

‘Tide’s turning,’ observed Bert, taking a deep sniff.

Phryne listened to the sirens as the moored ships in the river farewelled their friends, who were going out, escorted by tugs, to dare the Rip at Queenscliff and thence to any port in the world. She felt a strong urge to get on a ship and go somewhere. Anywhere. Even though she was very pleased with where she was. She shook herself.

‘Home, darlings?’ she asked.

Heads nodded. Bert and Cec did not seem to want to stay and be hailed as heroes of the hour, so she loaded her whole family into Bert’s taxi and took off for St. Kilda. They had coped with adventure very well. Ruth, though seasick, had been reassuring to the kidnapped girls, who had to go into police custody until their doting parents arrived. Tinker had managed very well with danger. Jane had not turned a hair. Bert and Cec had dropped into their comradely action as though they had never left the army. And she was pleased with how close she had come to sticking up a whole ship by herself.

‘I want a bath,’ said Phryne.

‘And I want a drink,’ said Bert.

‘We shall have both,’ Phryne reassured him.

***

The bath was deep, hot and scented with chestnut blossoms. Apart from a reasonable number of bruises, Phryne was unhurt. She washed herself and her hair and drank the little glass of green chartreuse which Dot brought her. Phryne would not rouse Mr. and Mrs. Butler at four a.m., and they did seem to be able to sleep through anything, which was fortunate. Ruth was foraging in the kitchen. Bert had found the bottle opener and the store of beer. As far as he was concerned, this constituted breakfast. Cec agreed.

‘So you found all the girls, Miss?’ asked Dot, who was remarkably tidy for someone who had been awake and embroidering and worrying for so long. She had finished her waratahs. And started on the
banksias
. And pricked her finger, which she hadn’t done in years. It had been a long night.

‘Ten women and four little girls, saved from the bonfire. The little girls had been actually kidnapped, Dot.’

‘And were they…unhurt?’ asked Dot.

‘Yes, because to do otherwise would reduce their sale value. That man was a fallen priest, Dot.’

‘I hope he hangs,’ said Dot, clutching her rosary, which was wound around her wrist. ‘And after he hangs, I hope he burns in Hell.’

‘As to that,’ said Phryne, standing up in the bath and reaching for a towel, ‘I cannot say. But I should think it most likely. And we could hardly have any more evidence against him, Dot dear. As we left I heard that hag Mrs. Donnelly denouncing him as a son of Satan.’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Dot.

‘Both of them,’ said Phryne. ‘All of them. Well, we’ve put a crimp in the trade. Good enough for one night. Put that blue dress in the rag bag, and those stockings can go to tie up the jasmine. Give me the scarlet gown, Dot dear, I must go down and tell the troops how well they did.’

The troops had settled down in the parlour. Bert and Cec had beer, the rest had tea, and a scrambly, delicious kind of dormitory feast of leftovers. Mrs. Butler always cooked for a regiment, as she could keep things overnight in the American refrigerating machine. It was now looking rather empty. Phryne accepted a piece of cold egg and bacon pie and a cup of tea. Dot, relieved that it was all over, allowed Bert to pour her a glass of sherry to celebrate a notable victory over the forces of darkness. In her previous respectable hard-working life, Dot had never thought she would be drinking confusion to the devil at four in the morning. She liked it.

Tinker was above himself with delight. He had been useful. He had been pivotal! He sat next to Bert and listened to him talking about ships. Tinker knew all about fishing boats, but had never met anyone who knew the big ships. Bert was a deepwater man. Jane was thinking about chess again. Ruth was more than a little shocked and still felt a bit nauseous. She leaned on Dot and closed her eyes. It was so nice to be home. Dot hugged her. Keeping up with Miss Phryne was wearing on the nerves.

‘Right,’ said Phryne, who caught herself in a yawn. ‘I’m going to bed. Better leave a note for Mrs. Butler, Dot. Don’t let anything save house fire or earthquake wake me until noon, please. Good night. You all did wonderfully well. But did you notice one thing about our rescued ladies?’

‘They seemed like ordinary tarts to me, Comrade,’ said Bert.

‘Yes. But none of them was Polly Kettle,’ said Phryne, and she trailed up the stairs, half blind with exhaustion, and fell into bed.

***

She woke and every single bruise made itself felt. Even her scalp hurt. She got out of bed on legs which wobbled, sat down at her dressing table and looked at her face. A little pale, but no bruises visible. Overstretched muscles twanged and cried. Ember, who liked Phryne’s dressing table because he could look at himself in the mirror—a fine figure of a black gentleman cat, he considered—put a paw on her hand and allowed her to caress his ears.

‘We have been seeing life lately, Ember dear,’ she told him, stroking Milk of Roses into her skin. Ember liked Milk of Roses, too. She allowed him to lick her wrist. ‘The cure for an overworked body is a slow, decorous stroll,’ she told him. ‘Down the stairs for lunch will do for the present.’