CHAPTER TEN
Though earth hath ingrossed the name, yet water has
proved the smartest grave.
THE MAJOR was not in his room. The door was open and the bed neatly made. Phryne looked around. There was a silver-framed photo on the bureau; a splendid uniform, hung with campaign medals, with a recognisable Major William inside. There was a large and muddy oil of a wobbly church on the wall and a few small pastels of flowers. She noticed that her hands were trembling slightly and wondered why. Then she tracked down the memory.
Lina’s freshly made bed, her clean room. Doreen had obviously just left.
Lin looked across at Phryne and she returned the glance with interest.
‘Tom, dear, I think we ought to find the Major,’ she said meaningly. ‘He might be . . . hurt.’ Reynolds shook his head.
‘Phryne, you’re exaggerating.’
‘Do I usually exaggerate?’ she asked tautly.
‘No,’ he decided. ‘No, you don’t. All right.’ He pressed the buzzer and Phryne filled in the interval while Hinchcliff climbed the stair by drifting around the room, picking up small things and putting them down. The usual bric-a-brac, she thought: a terracotta Infant Samuel at Prayer who clearly suffered from hydrocephaly; a blue china vase full of dried grasses; a small stained-glass box; and a tall medieval angel carved from some heavy dense wood. She picked it up. The wings met over the haloed head, the hands were pressed together in piety, but the figure was unusual. This angel neither bent his head in prayer nor stared blankly at the viewer radiating divine messages. The carved mouth was curved in a smile, the head held at a slight angle. It was a delightful work.
‘Tom, where did you get this?’ she asked.
‘Oh, do you like it, Phryne darling? It’s all yours.
Just put it out of sight, don’t let m’wife see it – the boy carved it. I thought I’d got rid of all his stuff.’
‘What boy?’
‘Her son Ronald. He had a mania for Gothic art, used to play all manner of games, knights and saracens, that sort of thing. Ah, Hinchcliff. Have you seen the Major this morning?’
‘No, Sir.’ Mr Hinchcliff seemed to convey, with perfect politeness, that this had improved his day.
‘Find out where he is, there’s a good chap. We’re a bit nervous today what with Lina and all.’
‘Certainly, Sir.’ Mr Hinchcliff left the room, bestowing on Phryne not an actual smile, but an approving look. That was a young woman with the right stuff, he seemed to be thinking, despite her eccentric choice of companions.
Lin Chung volunteered to go and check the billiard room and Phryne agreed to meet him there in an hour. Then, cradling the angel, she returned to her room to put it away, and found her door not only closed but apparently barred. She knocked.
‘It’s me, Dot.’
Something clunked, a key turned, and the door opened just enough to admit Phryne. She gave the carving to her maid who held it uncertainly.
‘Here, shove this in the baggage. Well, Dot dear, we seem to have a profusion of locks.’ Phryne looked at the doorframe, which now sported a very large and elaborate iron bolt which could have secured a crypt, and a modern box-lock which opened with a key.
‘Do you feel safer now, Dot?’ asked Phryne, concerned. Her maid looked pale and unhappy. The strong ochre of her woollen house-dress cast a yellowish light on her milky complexion and her long hair had been even more firmly braided than usual, a sure sign that Dot was perturbed.
‘Yes, Miss, and it stays locked and bolted whenever we’re inside.’ Dot pronounced firmly.
‘Fine with me,’ Phryne said gently. ‘As soon as the river goes down we can go home, Dot.’
‘Why, Miss, have you solved the murder?’
‘I think so. Now you’ll be called down for lunch soon, won’t you? I want you to find something out for me. You should be able to turn the conversation around.’ Phryne told Dot what she wanted. The maid nodded.
‘All right, Miss, that doesn’t seem too difficult. I found out about Mr and Mrs Hinchcliff like you wanted. They worked in one of the gentlemen’s clubs in Spring Street. Mrs H says they were very happy there. She did the housekeeping and he was the butler. He’s an imposing man, don’t you think, Miss? Mr Reynolds used to come to the club, and when he married Mrs Reynolds he asked them to come with him. They had a son that died, Miss, and they wanted to get away, and Mr Reynolds pays them almost double what they’d get in the city, so they’re saving up for their retirement. Mr Hinchcliff had a bit of a gambling problem, used to go to the races, but out here there’s nothing to bet on. Except that he plays cards with Mr Black, Mr Willis and Mr Jones. They reckon he’s an awful card player, but he can’t lose money to ’em because Mrs H won’t let them play for money. Mr Willis reckons he could build a new stable with the matches he’s won from Mr H playing poker.’
‘Well, well. The gambling bug has bitten Mr Hinchcliff, has it? Well done, Dot.’
‘I’ll go down to lunch, then. By the way, Miss, we’ve got another urn.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Phryne was struck with a sudden memory of Lin Chung like a flash of bright light. She blinked.
‘Yes, Miss. It’s on your dressing table. A nice white marble one.’ Dot smiled. The situation had become less threatening now that there was a lot of secure ironmongery between her and midnight walkers. ‘Oh, before I forget. There are two keys to our door, Miss. I’ve got one and here’s yours.’ Dot handed over a new silver key and went out, ostentatiously locking the door behind her.
Phryne put the key in her bag. Someone was either trying to scare her or help her by scattering urns in her path with such a liberal hand. If it was designed to frighten it hadn’t worked. If it was someone trying to help her, she owed it due consideration. She sat down to examine the urn. It was, as Dot had said, made of white marble, and according to the worn gold lettering on the base it contained the mortal remains of someone called Mrs Claybody.
This was apposite, though Mrs Claybody was now ash rather than clay. Phryne took a sheet of paper and examined the lid.
It was fixed on with what looked like old sealing wax, which had been broken fairly recently. She breathed a half-serious apology to whatever might remain of Mrs Claybody and tipped the contents of the urn out onto the paper.
A small quantity of fine, grey, bonfire ash spilled across the paper. Phryne shook the urn and turned it upside down. There was nothing else inside. She poked through the ash with one finger, locating what might have been fragments of bone, but nothing unusual.
Phryne poured Mrs Claybody back into her last resting place and replaced the lid. The urn contained no clue. Assuming that someone in the house was trying to provide her with some direction, and not just indulging in diseased rural humour, the clue was not in the urn.
The clue must be the urn itself.
Phryne looked at it. Mrs Claybody had been provided with an elaborate container. The white well-polished marble had been carved by a good craftsman into a curvy, satisfying shape, and no expense had been spared in the matter of gilt lettering and gold handles. It was a period-piece of high Victoriana and Phryne hoped that Mrs Clay- body, wherever she currently was, appreciated it.
Then she leapt to her feet as if stung. White marble, gilt, and curlicues. She had seen something like it in the house.
She unlocked and relocked the door with speed and walked quickly down the stairs to find Lin Chung.
He was in the billiard room, watching Jack Lucas angle a cannon. The spotted white ball bounced off an ivory ball, rolled and then kissed the red ball into a pocket. The watching poet applauded. Miss Medenham said, ‘Oh, good shot!’ Gerald complained, ‘Jack, you are really too good at billiards to have had a virtuous youth.’
The double meaning of what he had just said struck the young man, and he bit his lip and blushed. Cynthia and Jack Lucas both laughed. Miss Mead, who had been looking at her crocheting, shot them a sharp look.
‘Lin, dear, can I have a word?’ said Phryne. He came with her into the alcove formed by the French windows. ‘We’ve got to get into the cellar,’ said Phryne, smiling indulgently on the lovers.
‘Why?’
