more until all this commotion with Lina and the Major is over, but I promise, on my honour, if Jack does not appreciate his legacy I will buy it from him and he will be able to live on the proceeds until he dies of old age.’
He scanned her face, made a decision, and said, ‘I never meant you to be hurt, divine one.’
‘I know you didn’t. But you could have killed Tom and that wouldn’t have been kind. I traced the ink and the paper on some of those notes, though not all.’
‘I wanted the money for Jack and I thought . . .’
‘I know what you thought. Unfortunately your method was appropriated by someone else. By the way, have you been leaving urns all over the place?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I think someone’s trying to help me, but so far I haven’t worked out what they’re trying to tell me. No more tricks, Gerry. I want your assurance, I want your word. It’s all getting too dangerous.’
‘I promise.’ He wet his finger and traced a cross on his blazer. ‘What . . . what do you know about me, Miss Fisher?’
‘I was in the boathouse,’ she said gently.
All the living colour ebbed from Gerald’s face, leaving him as pale as a porcelain faun. Phryne stroked his cheek. ‘I was lying in a punt with Lin. I’m telling you, Gerry, your secret is safe with me and I will fix it. Now I need you to tell me exactly which of the tricks you played.’
‘Three notes and the wire which brought Cuba down,’ he muttered.
‘Nothing more? You didn’t saw through the axle? You sent no note to Lina? You were not out in the fog on the night she was attacked?’
‘No. I was out, all right, but talking to . . . the person you know of. Phryne, that time in the boathouse, that was the first time that we . . .’
‘I know. I heard everything you said.’
The boy kneeled up, his face close to Phryne’s, and whispered, ‘It wasn’t just for a favour, Phryne. You were beautiful, you were lovely, I wanted you.’
‘I know. I wanted you, too.’
‘And you’ll fix it for Jack if I’m a good child?’
‘I will.’
Gerald smiled a breathtaking little-boy’s smile. He took up Phryne’s hand and kissed it. Rising with one smooth movement, he signalled to Jack Lucas, and they left the room through the French window. Phryne heard them laughing outside.
‘You seem to have improved their day,’ commented Lin Chung, behind Phryne.
‘I’ve saved their bacon,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a legacy for Jack and I’ve made Gerald promise that he won’t play any more little jokes on Tom. That should clarify the situation.’
‘It should?’
‘Certainly. Lord, it’s getting late. I’m going to have a nap before dinner. It’s been an interesting day.’ She smiled reminiscently.
‘Mr Reynolds says that we are all going to Buchan Caves tomorrow. The dray is repaired,’ said Lin Chung, stroking her wrist.
‘Good. See you at dinner.’
‘And after?’ he asked, sliding one finger up her sleeve along the inside of her forearm where the skin was as thin as silk.
‘And after,’ said Phryne.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Now since these dead bones have already out-lasted
the living ones of Methuselah, and in a yard under
ground, and thin walls of clay, out worn all the
strong and specious buildings above it.
DOT COLLECTED Phryne’s early-morning tea and met Li Pen’s eyes as he loaded a cup onto his tray. By mutual agreement they both came to the same door, which Dot unlocked.
She walked across the room, drew the heavy velvet curtains, and said, ‘Morning, Miss Phryne. It’s a nice day.’
She pulled the curtains of the four-poster back and stopped.
Like an engraving from a pillow book, thought Li Pen. Like a painting from one of them old-time artists, thought Dot.
Phryne, her black hair falling across Lin Chung’s chest, lay naked to the waist, turned so that one small breast was bared to their gaze. One of her hands was curled open against his cheek, and his face had turned to her, so that Dot could see a stylised man; his nose and cheekbones, and the delicate black line of brow and eyelash and hair, as if drawn with a very fine brush. His other arm embraced Phryne even in sleep, long fingers splayed across her white back which was bruised from her fall.
‘Hmm?’ asked Phryne, swimming to the surface.
‘Hmm,’ agreed Lin Chung, waking all of a piece, languorous with pleasure. He noticed Dot’s flabbergasted face and the appreciative countenance of Li Pen behind her. He was showing remarkable interest for a warrior-monk vowed to holy poverty, vegetarianism and chastity. But then Li Pen had always admired art.
‘Silver Lady, we’ve got company,’ said Lin, and Phryne woke. The picture dissolved. Dot handed her a robe and she sat up against Lin’s chest to accept her cup.
‘Good morning, Dot,’ she said calmly. ‘We’re going to the caves. Are you coming, too?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ Dot replied. ‘I’ve cleaned your clothes but they aren’t dry. You’ll have to wear the parrot jumper again, and the velvet trousers.’
‘Fine.’
Li Pen said in Cantonese, ‘She is as beautiful as the Manchu Princess of which you spoke, Master. More beautiful, because of her jade eyes.’
‘Good, I’m glad you enjoyed the picture,’ replied Lin. He repeated the remark to Phryne and she said, ‘Thank you,’ to Li Pen, who bowed. The whole transaction was so incredibly improper that Dot decided it had never happened.
Li dressed his master in a robe and Lin Chung took his leave. Phryne washed briefly in the washbasin, pulled on her caving clothes, and went down to breakfast.
She was starving.
Breakfast was almost over when Mr Hinchcliff announced, ‘Mr Jenkins,’ and a strange figure was shoved into the breakfast room.
He was small, no more than five foot six, perhaps, and he appeared to be covered in hair. Phryne decided that he must have been cultivating his beard, which was of the general dimensions of a bathmat, since puberty and possibly before. The only person she had previously seen who was that furry was Jo Jo, the Dog-faced Boy. He was wearing moleskins and a blue shirt under a tweed jacket which had seen better centuries and was largely composed of patches. His feet occupied large hobnailed boots and his long wild hair was crowned with a shapeless felt bag which might, at a venture, have been called a hat. The modish colour of the season for swaggies, it appeared, was washed-out grey.
‘Harry, my dear chap, sit down and have some breakfast,’ called Tom Reynolds. So this was the famous Dingo Harry. Phryne hadn’t recognised him without his trail of scalps. Tom Reynolds had obviously settled the quarrel about trespassing, probably in favour of Dingo Harry ignoring any boundary he wished to cross.
‘Thanks, Tom. I haven’t had a civilised breakfast for many a long year,’ said Dingo Harry, giving Phryne her first surprise of the day. He spoke in a deep, pleasant, educated voice.
Dingo Harry was given free range amongst the edibles. He sat down next to Phryne, carrying his plate with
