Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (9 page)

‘God have mercy,’ said Dot, hefting a filthy baby. The tethered child was clinging to her leg. It was howling. They were all howling, now. Phryne went out into the backyard to get away from the noise and found the earth quite bare of grass. Worn barren by the children’s feet. What a universe, she thought. She had seen battlefields in France with more amenities. What could she do to ameliorate the situation? Money would go straight to Dad and Dad’s beer and Dad’s smokes. Of course, she could castrate Dad with that blunt knife on the scullery sink. That would solve one problem, at least. It was a very tempting idea.

Thinking about this, she went back inside to find that Dot had worked her household magic. Every child had had his or her face and hands scrubbed with green soap. Every child was sitting on his or her patch of floor with a basin, cup or plate of bread and milk. Babies had been provided with bottles, which suppressed their justifiable complaints. Silence had fallen. Mr. O’Hara snored.

Phryne waited until the eldest child had eaten her bread and milk. Then she said, ‘What’s your name? I’m Phryne and this is Dot.’

‘Katie,’ said the child. She was not as grimy as the others and had bright, famished eyes like a sparrow. And was as light on her feet as a sparrow, too, which would serve her well, as long as she could outrun Mr. Fraser.

‘Have you seen Mary since she went away?’

‘No,’ said Katie. ‘She ain’t come back ’ere. Would yer, if yer ever got away?’

It was a good question. Phryne wouldn’t.

‘Tell me about Mr. Fraser,’ she coaxed.

‘He lives up the road in the big blue house. Friend o’ Dad’s. Brings us lollies. I useta like him but he made Mary cry. She made me promise not to be alone with him.’

‘Did you promise?’ asked Dot.

‘Yair,’ said Katie.

‘Then keep your promise,’ Dot told her.

‘But he’s got books,’ protested Katie. ‘That’s why Mary went to his house.’

‘I shall send you books,’ said Phryne. ‘What do you like to read?’

‘Adventures,’ said Katie wistfully.

‘Adventures you shall have. When does your mother get home?’

‘Six,’ said Katie. ‘It’s all right, yer know, when we’re all at school. But it’s holidays,’ said the child, who had never associated holidays with swimming and beach picnics.

‘I shall speak to your mother,’ said Phryne, putting threepence into her hand. The recently scrubbed fingers clutched tight. ‘And I shall have a word with Mr. Fraser,’ she added grimly.

‘Dad’ll be real crook if he don’t come with beer and smokes no more,’ warned Katie.

‘He shall come,’ said Phryne.

Dot mopped the children and distributed lollies from the bag Katie had bought. Then they wrestled the sagging door shut behind them. Dot took a deep breath of relatively clean Collingwood air.

‘Mr. Fraser?’ asked Dot. ‘That brute sold her to Mr. Fraser for beer and cigarettes?’

‘Yes. See why we shouldn’t jump to conclusions? Now I shall call on him—alone.’

‘You’re not going to…do anything rash, Miss?’ asked Dot.

‘I never act rashly,’ said Phryne.

Dot, who disagreed, did not reply.

After a quick word with Bert, Phryne obtained admittance to the big blue house, which was in an excellent state of repair. The hallway was polished and extremely tidy. Just, no doubt, as Mr. Fraser’s mother had demanded. He was a soft, smiling little man, with an agreeably warm handshake. When he smiled, he had dimples. Phryne was not enchanted.

She allowed him to usher her into a parlour which had been decorated—presumably by himself, for it was all cool surfaces and Charles Rennie Mackintosh furniture. The walls were covered with bookshelves. What a magnetic attraction this place must have had for an intelligent, print-starved child like Mary O’Hara! A fine literary web, and in the middle sat Mr. Fraser, smiling, like a spider waiting for prey. She handed him her card. He read it and raised his eyebrows.

‘The Hon. Miss Fisher! To what do I owe the honour of—’

‘Two things,’ said Phryne. ‘First, I am looking into the disappearance of three girls. One of them is Mary O’Hara. Have you seen her since she was sent away in unmerited disgrace to bear your child?’

‘Miss Fisher…’ he protested.

‘Do not waste my time, Mr. Fraser,’ she warned. ‘You bought her from her frightful father for beer money. Not an uncommon transaction. I just need to know whether you have seen her.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t like that, Miss Fisher. I really loved her. My little Mary! So sweet, so kind!’

‘And you let her be sent away to that convent,’ she said.

‘I…couldn’t admit it,’ he faltered. ‘She was under sixteen.’

‘And that’s how you like them, eh?’ asked Phryne, smiling a wicked smile which knocked Mr. Fraser back on his heels.

‘Er…yes,’ he said. ‘And she loved me, too.’

‘Then why didn’t you offer to marry her?’

‘I…don’t know,’ he said.

‘I see,’ said Phryne.

‘What must you think of me?’ he cried.

‘Oh, I already know what to think of you,’ she told him. ‘Katie O’Hara is about ready for your attentions. If you so much as lay one finger on her, I will arrange to have you killed.’

‘Miss Fisher!’

‘Outside your house,’ she said, ‘there are men who would skin you alive for sixpence. I will supply the sixpence. But you will be safe if you continue to provide for the O’Hara family, and allow Katie and the others to read your books. Look on it as the wages of sin,’ said Phryne, and left.

Chapter Five

There’s no scandal like rags,
nor any crime so shameful as poverty.

George Farquhar, The Beaux’ Stratagem

Phyrne jumped into the car and swore.

‘Bert, get us out of this accursed place,’ she said, and Bert engaged some gears.

‘Next address, Guv’nor?’ he asked.

‘Next address,’ said Phryne. ‘God bless my blood pressure! This,’ she added, ‘is not going to be an agreeable day.’

‘Who’s next, Miss Phryne?’ asked Jane.

‘The last missing girl, thank God. Julie Reilly. Seventeen years old, wanted to be a teacher, sent to work in a wool mill, not welcome home again in her shameful condition.’

Dot considered it fortunate, in view of Miss Phryne’s disintegrating temper, that the Reilly house was locked and there was a To Let sign on the front fence. The children scattered in search of information. Bert got out and leaned on the cab door, smoking his rollie and staring at the horizon. He was thinking. Phryne found the flask she always popped into any picnic basket and poured herself a tot.

‘I might just go into that milk bar,’ suggested Dot. ‘See if they know where the Reillys have gone.’

‘Why not?’ asked Phryne. She was dealing with a rush of hatred. This always gave her a headache. Had she been armed, she thought, which luckily she was not, she might have shot that appalling little man in his too-neat house. That would have caused comment, even in Collingwood. And she had heard that the appointments of the womens’ prison were not in the least comfortable. Bert had caught her mood.

‘So he’s the father?’ he said. ‘That bloke in the big house?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne.

‘I could just mention it to the comrades,’ suggested Bert. ‘People like that have accidents. Quite often. Sort of terminal ones.’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ growled Phryne. ‘He’s paying the rent for that family. They need him. But I would be obliged if a watch was kept on him. If the comrades detect any funny business, then the accident should proceed on schedule.’

‘Right,’ said Bert. When Miss Phryne spoke in that tone, it was time to salute. He had known officers like her. They could be trusted. They led from the front. And they knew their own mind.

‘What did the comrades say about the situation?’ she asked, a little mollified by the good cognac and the gasper she had lit.

‘The old man is a bludger,’ reported Bert. ‘The old woman works all the hours there are. Comrade Scott reckons O’Hara could work if he liked, but he don’t like.’

‘He’s a leech,’ said Phryne.

‘Too right,’ agreed Bert. ‘I reckon this family have run off on the rent,’ he added.

‘Moonlight flit?’ asked Phryne.

‘Yair, not an eviction, there’s no notice on the gate. I’ll just have a dekko at the letterbox.’

He was about to open it when the postman’s bike appeared. Bert greeted him.

‘Gidday,’ he said.

‘Gidday,’ replied the postman. ‘You visiting the Reillys?’

‘Lookin’ for ’em,’ said Bert easily. ‘Any ideas?’

‘They was gone from one delivery to the next,’ said the postman. He pushed back his cap. ‘And I got a couple of letters for ’em, too. If they ain’t here I have to take ‘em all the way over to dead letters.’

‘I’ll take ’em,’ said Bert, and held out his hand.

The postman looked doubtful. His freckles darkened. ‘There’s twopence due,’ he warned.

Bert felt for a coin, found sixpence, said, ‘And keep the change,’ and the postman handed over several letters.

‘Well, hooroo,’ and the bike was pedalled onward, fortunately not being challenged by rain, hail or gloom of night.

Bert dropped the letters into Phryne’s lap. ‘That’s interferin’ with His Majesty’s Mails, that is,’ he said complacently.

‘So it is, well done,’ agreed Phryne. She surveyed the envelopes. ‘This looks like a personal letter, and this is her copy of The Woman Worker,’ she told Bert.

‘I read that,’ said Bert.

‘So do I; a splendid production. And this is definitely a bill. We can put that into the letterbox. And the magazine. I’ll steam the letter open when we get home, it might contain a clue. Anything else in that box?’

‘Just this,’ said Bert, holding out a folded note. It bore a scrawl in black ink and a confident, sprawling hand. Phryne read it aloud.

‘Julie, remember the revolution SS 5.10. BM
.
Cryptic,’ she said. ‘Ah, here are the troops.’