Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

‘A little money would be pleasant, but I was speaking the truth.’

‘Good. Now, give me that packet.’

The Princesse’s hand went protectively to her bag. ‘Why?’

‘I want it,’ explained Phryne hardly at all. ‘Shall I make you an offer for it? Or are you an addict yourself?’

‘No!’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘No! Make me an offer.’

Phryne reflected that it was fortunate that Melbourne was not a French-speaking country, or this conversation would have unduly interested the policeman whom they happened to be passing. She said abruptly, ‘Twenty pounds.’

‘Done,’ agreed the Princesse, and handed over the packet. Phryne pocketed it, and stuffed notes into the Princesse’s shabby purse.

‘Well, I have shown you what you needed to be shown,’ declared the old woman. ‘And here I shall leave you. Farewell for now, dear child. I will send you my address. You interest me.’

And with that, she left, trotting away into the crowd. Phryne immediately inquired her way to a post office, purchased brown paper and string, and, on the way, dropped into the Ladies’ public toilet, where she hoped to be unobserved. She emptied her pocket, and found the little crunchy package and the note.

The package was full of a white powder, and the message written in greasy black pencil — perhaps eyebrow pencil — merely said ‘Beware of the Rose’.

There was no signature and Phryne had no time to puzzle over it. She included the small package in her larger one, wrapped them up and addressed them to Dr MacMillan, with a brief note asking for an analysis, and only breathed a deep breath once the parcel had been stamped and consigned to the mercies of the post office.

Wondering about the Princesse and if she were trying to frame her, Phryne went into a cash chemist and bought a packet of bicarbonate of soda wrapped in white paper and sealed with red wax.

It was only ten in the morning, and Phryne was at a loose end. Eventually, she decided to see a newsreel as a painless way of passing the time, and spent a blameless hour learning about sterile dairies. One never knew when such knowledge might come in handy.

At twelve Phryne walked back to the hotel, to dress for Lydia Andrews’ luncheon party. The weather was brisk and cool, and she chose a linen suit and draped herself in a loose cloth coat in dark brown, and called a taxi, all without waking Sasha, who was sleeping very deeply. Phryne wondered about this slumber, which seemed unnaturally profound, and was minded to jab her hatpin into him to see if it had some effect — but decided against it. One did not jab fauns with hatpins, and she expected it to be a trying afternoon; it was not a good idea to begin it with a bad deed on one’s conscience.

She arrived at the Andrews’ address at ten past one, and saw that two chauffeur-driven cars were waiting outside. This pleased her. A tete-a-tete with Lydia was not an attractive proposition. Three ladies were seated at the luncheon table as she entered the neat, pastel-coloured house and gave her coat to a very small maid in pale blue. Phryne recognised only Lydia, sitting at the table with her back to Phryne. The two inconnues stared at her levelly. One was short and plump; one was short and thin. Their combined heights would not have reached the ceiling. They were both of indeterminate colouring, clothing and style, and Phryne had to keep saying to herself, even after they had been introduced, ‘Ariadne is the thin one, Beatrice is the fat one.’

Lydia was overdressed in a pink Fuji dress, silk stockings, and a tasteless costume brooch in the shape of a flying bird that was enamelled in dark green and studded with stones so large that they must have been paste. She was tapping a pink pencil on a row of figures in a small notebook.

‘Tell your husband that I disagree with him,’ stated Lydia firmly. ‘There is no profit to be got from these chancy gold shares. He can obtain three per cent from the companies on this list and I will advise you further should you decide to invest. I put seven thousand into Greater Foodstuffs and the dividends are excellent. I recommend it. And don’t touch any share promoted by Bobby Matthews. He’s a confidence man if ever I saw one.’

‘You’ve always given me good advice,’ murmured Beatrice, ‘I put my little savings into the Riverina scheme and I’ve been very pleased with the result. If you say the Greater Foodstuffs is good, I’ll tell Henry to invest.’

‘You won’t regret it,’ said Lydia. ‘Look at these accounts.’ Beatrice scanned the list of figures. ‘That’s not much of a profit,’ she commented. Lydia glared pityingly at her innumerate friend.

‘Beatrice, that’s the telephone number.’

Phryne coughed, and watched Lydia melt into a poor little girl in front of her very eyes.

‘Oh, Miss Fisher!’ simpered Lydia. ‘Meet my guests. .’

A cocktail was provided for Phryne, though the others were taking sherry, a drink which Phryne abominated. She attributed this to having got drunk for the first time at the age of fifteen at a dormy feast on cheap sweet sherry; the memory of that hangover would have caused a girl with less courage to swear off alcohol for life. The smell of sherry still made her faintly nauseous.

‘Tell me about your family, Miss Fisher,’ gushed Lydia, and Phryne tried the cocktail — it had been made with absinthe, which she did not drink — and obliged with a full description of her father’s inheritance, his landholdings, his title and his house. Ariadne and Beatrice remained resolutely unimpressed, but Lydia was ecstatic.

‘Oh, then you must have met my father — the Colonel. He’s invited everywhere.’

‘Yes, I believe I may have,’ agreed Phryne. It was never wise to swear that one had never met a person when this could easily be checked.

‘But you are not drinking — is the cocktail not to your taste?’ added Lydia, and Phryne murmured that it was excellent. She was beginning to feel a little dizzy, and decided that one really needed to be in good athletic standing to indulge in Turkish baths. Phryne pulled herself together with an effort; the ladies had changed the subject, and were now discuss- ing the social event at Mrs Cryer’s last night.

‘They said that those Russian dancers were there,’ said Ariadne breathlessly.

‘And that one of the ladies danced a most abandoned tango with the boy,’ confided Beatrice, oblivious of Lydia’s attempts to catch her eye. ‘Disgustingly indecent, but skilful, I heard. I always think that too great a proficiency in dancing shows that a girl is really fast. Who was it, Lydia? Some flapper, I suppose.’

Lydia, at length managing to capture her friend’s attention, pointed circumspectly at Phryne. Beatrice did not turn a hair.

‘I expect that you learned to dance on the Continent, Miss Fisher,’ was her only comment, and Phryne agreed that this was so. To Lydia’s relief, the luncheon was now announced. Lydia led the way into a charming breakfast- room with potted plants and ruffled curtains. Phryne, carrying the cocktail, decanted it unobtrusively into a potted palm against which she had no personal grudge, and hoped that it would not give her away by dying too rapidly.

The luncheon was excellent — light and cool, salads and ham and meringues — followed by cup upon cup of very good coffee. The ladies lit cigarettes and the conversation became personal.

All three of them, it seemed, had unsatisfactory husbands. John Andrews was cruel, crushing and often absent, Ariadne’s husband was persistently unfaithful, and Beatrice’s a habitual gambler.

Lydia hinted, dabbing at her unreddened eyes with a perfectly white, perfectly dry handkerchief, at sexual perversions too grim for words. Phryne pressed a little, hoping that words might be found, but Lydia just shook her head with a martyred expression and sighed.

Phryne attempted to ascertain John Andrews’ nature, but the picture of him gleaned through Lydia’s sighs was curiously unconvincing. Phryne knew that he was crude, cruel and a man who relished power, but she could not envisage him as intelligent enough to invent the complex tortures at which his wife hinted. Mr Ariadne was a banker; Mr Beatrice was an importer and stock-jobber. The litany of misery went on until Phryne could bear it no longer. She was sleepy, after the bath, and it was four o’clock. She stood up.

‘It is my turn next, Lydia,’ she said, patting the stricken woman on the shoulder and receiving that disagreeable frisson one gets from touching a fish. ‘Come to lunch with me at the Windsor tomorrow.’

‘Oh, not tomorrow — I can’t come tomorrow. Besides, I expect that you are very busy. I’ll call you, shall I?’

‘Yes, do,’ agreed Phryne, rather bewildered by this abrupt unclinging of one whom she had diagnosed as an inveterate clinger. ‘Nice to meet you, ladies. Good day!’

She resisted the impulse to run. The three women had seemed to be watching her closely. What was this all about?

‘Do you have any advice as to stocks I could buy?’ she asked, conscious of her speech blurring. She was