her face, but she had no name.
‘So, I had been writing poetry which is soon to be a book, if I can ever get it finished. I came here to complete the work. And Major Luttrell brought his wife here. That is the unbelievable thing, unbelievable, making me wonder if even an adopted Hungarian or Pole is under the special protection of St Stanislaus. Major Luttrell brought his wife, my Letty, here. She knew me after a few days. How did you know me, my own?’ he asked, and Mrs Luttrell, nestling shamelessly against him, said, ‘Your eyes, Ted. I knew your eyes.’
‘We were going to run away together,’ resumed the poet, ‘though that would bring my Letty into social disrepute. We met in the library. I left messages for her there. We were counting on the ineffable Cynthia to distract him sufficiently so that we could make what I believe is called a clean getaway, hmm? However, now the Major is dead and this fortunately is not necessary. Another cocktail, if you please.’
‘What a story!’ exclaimed Miss Fletcher. Phryne, reserving her opinion on the likelihood of this romantic history, rose and stretched. If Letty believed it, who was she to cavil?
‘Well, that’s all the mysteries but two. Hinchcliff, can you bring Doreen in here?’
The Butler’s eyebrows left his control and rose, slightly. He bowed and went out.
Miss Medenham wound up the gramophone. Mr and Mrs Reynolds came in and sat down. Evelyn had cried herself out, washed her face, and looked composed and sad, but not heartbroken. Her boy was dead. Now she could bury him, and mourn.
Tom Reynolds, bulkier than ever with bandages across his shoulder and chest, accepted a cocktail against competent medical advice and swigged it. This took his breath so comprehensively that he could only goggle as a weeping chambermaid was ushered in by the butler.
‘Doreen, you left the urns,’ said Phryne gently. ‘It had to be you. Only you could get into all the rooms without being noticed. You knew Lina’s body was in the Buchan Caves. How did you know?’
Doreen burst into tears and was supplied with a glass of sherry and a handkerchief.
‘He told me,’ she finally managed. ‘The Major. He knew about everyone. He knew about Annie’s babies. He got Mr H in debt to him for hundreds of pounds, gambling on those wicked cards. He knew about me and Mr Jones, he threatened to tell Madam and get me fired, and I’ve got five sisters, I can’t go home. He didn’t want to . . . to . . . he didn’t want me in that way. It would have been easier if he did. He just wanted to talk to me. He liked to come to the kitchen window and boast about it – about the girls he’d strangled in India, about his wife being next after me if I told on him, about Lina and where he’d put her. He said he’d kill me if I told. So I left the urns for you, Miss Fisher, you being so clever and all. Oh, dear.’ She wept with relief into Lin Chung’s silk handkerchief.
‘It was very brave of you to try and help me,’ said Phryne.
‘It’s all right, Doreen, I’m not going to dismiss you,’ said Mrs Reynolds wearily. ‘You go back to the kitchen now, and ask Cook for some hot tea.’
Doreen snuffled, blew her nose, and went out.
Phryne felt a gentle hand on her arm. It was the beautiful Gerald, rosy and angelic, smiling his guileless child’s smile.
‘You promised,’ he reminded her.
‘Oh, yes, so I did. It’s all fixed. Tom, can I take Jack to pick out his paintings now?’ she called. Mr Reynolds assented, and she took Jack Lucas and his lover into the corridor.
‘Paintings?’ he exclaimed. ‘There isn’t anything in this house worth having. It’s all etchings of the Monarch of the Glen and pretty little pastels done by ladies which look like endive salad, dying. What have you sold my birthright for, eh?’
‘Trust me,’ said Phryne crossly. ‘And follow me,’ she added, making her best pace up the stairs to the room which had been the Major’s.
‘The builders of Cave House went on a Grand Tour,’ she told Lucas, opening the door.
‘I know, that’s where they got that near-Boucher and all those naughty prints of naked ladies,’ snapped Jack Lucas. ‘None of it worth more than threepence-ha’penny on the open market.’
‘Yes, but what else was on in Paris in the 1880s?’ asked Phryne acidly, bringing the young man’s nose to surface with the large oil depicting a wobbly church. He squinted. There was a silence. Then Gerald began to laugh. He reeled over, staggering and whooping with mirth, to enfold Phryne in a close embrace, weeping tears of joy down her neck and kissing her gleefully between paroxysms.
‘You mean . . . from the Salon des Refuses?’ said Jack. ‘Yes, there’s the signature . . . It’s a Manet, a genuine Manet . . . My God, why have I never seen these before?’
‘You have spent insufficient time in servants’ bedrooms. In my chamber is what I judge to be a Monet; there’s a very pretty little Renoir of a girl with an umbrella in Lina’s room and a swingeing great expanse of grass and lilies which have to be either Pissarro or possibly very early Sisley in the servants’ hall. Impeccable provenance, by the way – the original bills of sale are in the library. I asked Tom for ten of them and he agreed. It seems that both he and his wife don’t like all this modern stuff, so they put them away out of the public eye. I think they ought to realise you enough for a nice comfortable life, don’t you? Or would you rather go and argue with Tom Reynolds for your thousand pounds?’
‘Miss Fisher, these are worth thousands, we can’t accept . . .’ began Jack and Gerald cried out in protest.
Phryne said, ‘Yes, you can. Tom knows, more or less, what these are worth. But he was very close friends with your father and only his own stubbornness stopped him from giving you cash. This terribly generous gift assauges his conscience and he’ll be very hurt if you don’t take them. Don’t, by the way, miss the tiny little Seurat of an acrobat in Doreen’s room. It’s a gem. Now, for God’s sake, escort me to the dining room. It’s been an interesting day and I’d like a glass or two of wine.’
Gerald and Jack held out an arm each, and Phryne paraded down the monumental stair between two beautiful young men. They made an impressive entrance into dinner.
Dinner was lavish, if scrappily served, the kitchen being still deeply engrossed in enough gossip to last them for years. The company adjourned to the parlour to repair their ravelled nerves with dancing and conversation. The music began to play, a slow foxtrot, ideal for the sleepy end of a dreadful day. Tadeusz drew Mrs Luttrell to her feet, saying, ‘If you dance with me I’ll do the bravest thing man ever did for woman.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’ asked Letty, nestling into his arms. The dark-brown hair flopped over his forehead and she smoothed it back. Tadeusz assumed a grave demeanour.
‘I’ll go and teach Mrs Croft how to make coffee,’ he said solemnly and Letty laughed.
Miss Medenham snared the Doctor. Miss Fletcher was claimed by Gerald and Mrs Fletcher danced with Jack. Phryne reflected irritably that Cave House seemed to be positively oozing with happy endings.
Lin openly escorted Miss Fisher to her room. Dot, full of tea and gossip, had gone to bed. The murdered girl and the death of the murderers would not be banished from Phryne’s mind, and the slow inexorable fall insisted on unrolling itself before her tired eyes like a motion picture. She sat down at the table to remove her makeup, and an open book caught her eye. Urne Buriall, by the very learned Sir Thomas Browne.
Phryne puzzled through the unfamiliar spelling, nodded soberly, and stood up into Lin Chung’s arms.
ALSO FROM ALLEN & UNWIN
Kerry Greenwood
Phryne Fisher is back—as smart and sassy as ever.
Phryne Fisher, her sister Beth and her faithful maid, Dot, decide that Luna Park is the place for an afternoon of fun and excitement with Phryne’s two daughters, Ruth and Jane. But in the dusty dark Ghost Train, amidst the squeals of horror and delight, a mummified bullet-studded corpse falls to the ground in front of them. Phryne Fisher’s pleasure trip has definitely become business.
Digging to the bottom of this longstanding mystery takes her to the country town of Castlemaine where it
