‘About thirty; it’s a quiet night,’ replied the doctor. She replaced the child in his cot and led the deafened Phryne out of the nursery and down a flight of stairs to a ward.
Rows of white draped beds stretched to infinity. There were moveable screens in yellow around some of the beds, and on most of the white painted lockers were small traces of individuality; pictures or books or flowers. The floor was polished and dustless, and down the length of the room was a long trestle table loaded with linen, and trays and equipment.
‘Here’s a remarkable man, you know,’ she added, stopping at the seventh bed from the door. ‘He brought this poor lass in — she collapsed in his cab.’
Cec stood up, laying Alice’s hand gently down, and ducked his head. Waking up, Alice saw an elegant lady standing before her, and smiled.
‘Hello, how are you?’ Phryne asked, feeling a wave of affection for the girl.
‘Better,’ whispered Alice, ‘I’m going to get better.’ And Cec said slowly, ‘Too right.’
‘Sleepy,’ murmured Alice, and floated off again. Cec sat down and took up her hand.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Phryne asked as they moved on.
‘Criminal abortion — the monster nearly killed her with his unskilful butchery — and, from what she says, raped her as well.’
‘Police?’ asked Phryne, wincing.
‘Say they can do nothing until someone locates the bastard. I believe that yon cabbie and his mate are looking for him. They were much concerned. You recognise him, Phryne?’
‘Of course, he’s Bert’s mate, Cec. You don’t think that he’s responsible for her condition?’
‘I thought that, naturally. But I don’t believe so. His mate says that he’s never seen her before until the man put her into their taxi in Lonsdale Street.’
‘Will she live?’ asked Phryne.
‘I believe so,’ said Dr MacMillan.
‘Now, I’ve found a pleasant place for lunch, so let us go, otherwise I’ll get distracted again, and won’t have lunch until next week.’
She led the way at a fast trot to a small but clean dairy with scrubbed pine tables and stone walls, and pulled out a chair.
‘Ah, what a place,’ sighed Dr MacMillan. ‘The missus makes excellent pies and the coffee is all that the heart can desire. Mrs Jones,’ she bellowed through a serving hatch, ‘Lunch! Coffee! And that right speedily!’ An answering ‘All right, Doctor, hold your horses!’ from the room behind indicated that Dr MacMillan had made her presence felt before. Phryne put down her purse and lit a gasper.
‘I see that they have accepted your trousers, Elizabeth,’ she commented.
‘Aye, they have, and without a murmur,’ Dr MacMillan ran a broad hand through her short pepper-and-salt crop. ‘And they’ve a fascinating collection of patients. Ah, coffee.’
The coffee arrived in a tall jug, accompanied by hot milk and granulated sugar. Phryne poured herself a cup and sipped. It was indeed excellent. Dark and pure.
‘And what have you been doing, m’dear?’ asked the doctor.
‘Establishing myself. I’ve hired a maid,’ answered Phryne, and told Dr MacMillan all about Dorothy. ‘And I think I shall buy a plane. A new Avro perhaps.’
‘I always meant to ask you, Phryne, how did you come to be answering my call for help in the ’flu epidemic? You could have knocked me over with a feather when I sighted you climbing down out of that plane.’
‘Simple,’ said Phryne, sipping coffee. ‘I was at the airbase when your call came in, and there was only me and a mechanic there. And a choice of two planes, both of ’em rather war-weary. There was a dance in the village and all the men had gone to it. So I persuaded Irish Michael to swing on the propeller of the old Bristol, and off I went. It seemed like the right thing to do. And I got you there, didn’t I?’
‘Oh, aye, you got us there all right. I was never so frightened in all my life; the wind and the storm, and the sight of the waves leaping up to drag us into the water. What a journey! I swear that my hair turned white. And you as cool as a cucumber, even when the compass started to spin.’
‘No point in getting upset in the air,’ said Phryne. ‘Very unforgiving element. No use changing your mind about it, either. Once you’re up, you’re up, so to speak.’
‘Aye, and once ye’re down, ye’re down. I can’t imagine how we found the island, much less how we landed on it.’
‘Ah, yes, that was a little tricky, because I couldn’t see very well, what with the spray and the wind, and there’s only one long beach to land upon, and I was afraid that our approach was too fast, but I couldn’t count on finding the beach again, the wind was so strong, so I just put her down; that’s why we ran along the shore for such a long way. But it was a good landing; we had at least ten feet to spare when we ground to a halt.’
‘Ten feet,’ said Dr MacMillan faintly. ‘Pour me some coffee, there’s a dear.’
‘The real courage in that jaunt,’ observed Phryne, ‘was yours. I couldn’t have gone into those cottages, with all that filth and stench and corpses, not for anything, except that you swept me along in your wake. I still have nightmares about the cottages.’
‘Crofts,’ corrected Dr MacMillan. ‘And they need not cause you grief. As my Highland grandmother said — and she had the Sight—“Tis not the dead ye have to be concerned about! Beware of the Living!” And she was a wise woman. The dead are beyond your help or mine, poor things. But the living need us. Thirty souls at the least, Phryne, are still on that island to praise God who might now be angels — or devils. And speaking of courage, m’girl, who crept up the hill onto that lord’s land and led away and slaughtered one of his beasts to make broth?’
Phryne, recalling the thrill of stalking highland cattle through mist and over bog in company with a handsome young gillie, laughed, and disclaimed any virtue in the feat.
They lunched amiably on egg-and-bacon pie, then Phryne strolled back to the Windsor in an excellent mood.
She inspected the hotel’s lounge, found a copy of Herodotus, and took it with her to her suite.
The rooms were transformed. Dorothy had returned, and had evidently put in a good two hours’ work, fold- ing and hanging and sorting clothes, pairing shoes and repairing ripped hems. A small pile of neatly mended stockings lay over the arm of the sitting-room chair, and a petticoat decorated the other; the long rip in the hem, made by some partner’s heavy foot, was put together like a suture, so the rent could hardly be seen. Phryne dropped into the only unoccupied chair, a little dazed. Dorothy came in from her bedroom, where she had been combing out her hair.
‘Did you have a nice lunch, Miss?’
‘Yes, thank you, and you have evidently been busier than a beaver! How did you manage with the cards?’
‘Very well, Miss. And I got my bundle, and all. Here’s the change from the taxi.’
‘Keep it, Dorothy, a woman should have a little extra money. Did you remember to have lunch?’
‘Oh yes, Miss. And there’s a note for you, brought by hand about an hour ago,’ she said, handing Phryne a folded letter.
‘Thank you, Dorothy. I don’t want anything for the moment, so why don’t you finish your hair. You mend beautifully,’ she added. ‘Why did you become a house-maid?’
‘Mum thought it best,’ replied Dorothy. ‘It ain’t nice to work in factories or shops.’
‘I see,’ said Phryne. Factory work was still considered low.
Phryne unfolded the note. It was headed in gold with the name ‘Cryer’ in a tasteless and flamboyant script, and the address underneath; Toorak, of course. The handwriting was also lacking style, being scrawled across the page in purple ink.
‘Please honour a little dinner party tomorrow night. Melanie Cryer’. It boded ill; purple ink and no directions about time or dress. There was a telephone number below the gold heading. Phryne picked up the instrument and spoke to the operator.
‘Toorak 325,’ she said, and there was a buzzing and a few odd clunking noises. Then a woman’s voice said, with an accent which was pure Donegal, ‘Cryer’s. Who did ye want?’
‘This is Phryne Fisher. Is Mrs Cryer at home?’
There was a muffled squeak as the maid transferred the message to someone obviously standing next to her, and Phryne heard the experience violently displaced. A shrill voice exclaimed, ‘Why, Miss Fisher, how kind of you to
