‘Did you go to school in China, Mr Lin?’ asked Judith, too loudly.
‘Oxford, actually,’ he drawled. ‘I have been to China, of course. But I was born in England.’
‘Really?’ Judith was again on the verge of saying something unwise but Phryne was devoid of conversational gambits. The discourse at the table was as forced as the early woody peaches which the poet was peeling with a silver knife.
‘What do you do, Mr Lin? Are you a mission worker?’
‘No, I am a silk importer,’ he replied politely. ‘Silk to make gowns for beautiful ladies.’
‘Ah, silk,’ rhapsodised the poet. ‘Whenas in silks my Julia goes . . .’
Mrs Reynolds obviously knew the rest of the poem and considered it indelicate, or at least unfit for the luncheon table. She rose in her place to mark the conclusion of the meal and the guests straggled out. Lin Chung was claimed by Judith, who grabbed him by the hand, insisting on tennis, and Phryne accompanied Gerald and Jack out through the french windows and on to the porch.
‘Do you care for a walk, Miss Fisher?’ asked Gerald.
Phryne saw Lin Chung dragged away by Judith and smiled ironically. ‘Certainly,’ she said, tucking a hand under each elbow, ‘but only to the rose garden. I’m still sore from that fall.’
‘Just to the rose garden,’ agreed Jack.
CHAPTER FOUR
The treasures of time lie high, in urns, coins and
monuments, scarcely beneath the roots of some
vegetables.
THE ROSE garden already contained Miss Mead and Miss Cray, so Phryne and her companions kept walking. The original conceit of the builder of Cave House had stretched to a knot garden which might have been laid out by William Morris himself. It was wet and scented and Phryne sniffed with pleasure as she sat down on a Pre- Raphaelite box bench which could have supported a medieval King, with room left over for the rest of the court.
‘Here’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance,’ quoted Gerald, laying a snippet of it in her lap. ‘I pray you, love, remember.’
‘I’ll remember,’ said Phryne. He knelt beside her, his brown eyes like a spaniel’s. He was very attractive in a dewy, fragile fashion. Phryne could not imagine a more unfitting mate for him than that rough, maladroit girl.
‘Beautiful Miss Fisher,’ he said, ‘I have a favour to ask.’
‘Gerry, get up, don’t be an ass,’ said Jack violently.
‘Go away, Jack,’ said Gerald, never removing his gaze. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be escorting Miss Cynthia to Bairnsdale about now?’
Jack swore and kicked the bench. Then there was the sound of running feet as he retreated towards the house. Phryne ran a meditative hand through Gerald’s silky, curly hair. She knew when she was being charmed, but that didn’t make her dislike the process.
‘Get up, precious, sit beside me,’ she said. ‘You’ll plead just as well in that position and the damp will ruin your flannels.’
A little disconcerted, the young man did as ordered and repossessed himself of Phryne’s hand. ‘You see, you’re one of Mr Reynolds’ oldest friends, he might listen to you. It’s about Jack. He’s my dearest chum, boyhood companion and all that. Tom Reynolds did his father out of a lot of money and won’t give him a bean.’
Phryne cut him short. ‘I know all about it, Gerald, and I’ll try. But it may not work. And in return . . .’
‘In return?’ The spaniel-brown eyes loomed closer.
‘You can help me in my investigation,’ she said, and kissed him, decisively, on the mouth.
He tasted sweet, of early strawberries, perhaps. He kissed beautifully. Phryne finally dragged herself away and stroked one finger lightly along his cheek, which was flushed with the most delicate rose.
‘Tell me about Jack, and Dingo Harry, and everything about Cave House,’ she said.
‘I’ll show you around, may I?’ he asked eagerly.
Phryne was feeling her injuries and was, besides, flooded with lust, an emotion which could not properly be transferred to such slender shoulders as Gerald’s, who might snap under the strain. She hoped that Lin Chung was enduring a really punitive game of tennis and turned to accompany Gerald back to Cave House.
‘Phryne,’ someone called. ‘Phryne, dear, there you are.’
‘Here I am,’ she agreed. ‘Hello, Tom.’
‘Been looking for you, old girl. Haven’t shown you my house. Sorry, Gerry,’ he said to the young man. ‘Got to cut you out. Prior acquaintance and all that.’
Phryne gave Gerald a combustible smile and said, ‘Another time.’
Gerald faded away in the direction of the stables and Phryne looked at Tom Reynolds.
His clipped speech was not unusual. She put it down to the years of sub-editing he had been forced to do before he left newspapers and took to books. He still spoke in headlines. He took her arm and returned the inspection; a stout, red-faced and jolly man, now looking strained and tired. His scanty grey hair was rumpled and Phryne smoothed it down across his pink scalp with an affectionate caress. He always reminded her of a teddy bear.
‘Amazing house, Tom dear,’ she commented with perfect truth. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a mishmash, but the brewer who built it, old Mr Giles, built well. It’s got foundations down to the middle of the world and it’s all good material – mahogany and cedar and fine cut stone. Of course, he’d made several fortunes – always safe putting your money into beer. Odd cuss. You were sitting on his tomb.’
‘I was?’ asked Phryne, rather startled.
‘Yes, he planted several of his relatives around here. He’s in the knot garden, his wife is in the rose garden, under a lot of Mademoiselle Bichot teas, and the house is full of urns of his nearest and dearest. He sold the place to Evelyn’s father on the understanding that we take care of the urns, so we have. There’s a marble one on your mantelpiece, I think.’
‘Lord, Tom, you might have warned me! I thought it was a tobacco jar!’
‘Lucky you don’t smoke a pipe,’ he chuckled. ‘I was all for banishing them to the cellar but m’wife didn’t think that was right, and I’ve got used to them. How did you get on with Evelyn?’
‘Very well. She came to see me after I fell off Cuba.’
‘He’s a touchy one. Are you all right, Phryne? Not like you to be thrown. Well, let’s have a look at the house.’
‘Tom, there’s something very wrong here,’ she said soberly as she limped across the lawn.
‘What, with the house?’ He laughed uncomfortably.
‘Pay attention, Tom. Look, you know me. You should know that you can trust me. You’ve been ignoring or playing down two nasty happenings lately. Now that suggests to my suspicious mind that you are either fully aware of the situation and want to deny it, or that you are constitutionally obtuse, and I’ve never known you to be obtuse, Tom. You’re in trouble.’
The bright brown eyes blinked at her unladylike frankness. He began, ‘Now, Phryne, old fellow . . .’ then sank under her cool green gaze. ‘Oh, well, what’s the use. You will have picked up all the gossip anyway by now, you’re such a sponge for atmosphere. Yes, there is something happening. I’ve had letters. Someone wants to kill me. It’s been going on for a while and I’m sick of it – but there’s nothing I could go to the police with, Phryne, just insinuations. I heard about the tarred wire that brought poor Cuba down and could have killed you. That must have been aimed at me. Oh, God, here’s Joan Fletcher.’
‘Tom,’ said Mrs Fletcher, pink with indignation, ‘my daughter . . .’
‘Your daughter?’ asked Tom tonelessly.
‘She’s playing tennis with that Chinese person.’
‘Yes?’
Mrs Fletcher drew in a deep breath and said in a voice loaded with horror, ‘And she’s laughing!’
