look miserable and pay him the money. Ten quid. Take note of anything he says,’ he added, ‘and be careful. If it looks dangerous, bail out.’
‘I will, sir. How did you get the lead?’
‘Information received,’ sighed the detective-inspector resignedly. ‘Information received, Jones.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wallace Stevens ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird’
Phyrne had many things to do, and sorted her priorities briskly as she slid the big car into top gear along Footscray Road. Dot closed her eyes initially, but allowed herself to peep through her fingers. Eventually, she thought, I may get used to this. In about a hundred years. The wind tore at her hair. The old cab was left far behind, toiling along ant-like in Phryne’s wake.
‘I’ll have to go shopping first. Dot, where’s the cheapest place to buy clothes in the city?’
‘Paynes,’ yelled Dot. ‘Cheap and nasty. Not something you could wear, Miss!’
‘We shall see. Then I must dash off to Toorak and visit Lydia, and then I am bidden to dinner and a gala by Mr Sanderson. And after that — home and to sleep.’
She slung the car around the corner of Spring Street and drew up outside the hotel, tossed the keys to the doorman and was halfway up the steps before she noticed that she was talking to herself.
‘Dot,’ she called, ‘you can open your eyes now!’
Dot blushed and clambered out of the Hispano-Suiza with more haste than grace and ran to join Phryne.
‘Now for Paynes and a really outrageous dress,’ her errant mistress said. ‘Come with me, Dot, I want your opinion.’
So it was that Phryne acquired a skimpy costume of Fugi cotton, with fringes, in a blinding shade of pink known colloquially as ‘baby’s bottom’, a pair of near-kid boots with two-inch heels, an evening bag fringed and beaded to within an inch of complete inutility, stockings in peach, and a dreadful cloche hat with a drunken brim in electric blue plush.
Her method in choosing these garments was simple. Anything at which Dot exclaimed, ‘Oh, no, Miss!’ she bought. She also purchased a pink wrap with pockets, trimmed with maribou which looked ragged even when new. She dropped in at Woolworth’s and collected two rings, a six-foot length of beads that could not possibly have come from Venice, and jazz garters. She equipped herself with cheap undergarments from the same shop.
Laden with parcels, she returned to the Windsor and gave Dot the oddest instructions she had yet received.
‘Dress up in all that tatty finery, Dot, and wear it in for me. I haven’t time.’
‘Wear it in, Miss?’
‘Yes. Tread over the heels, roll around the floor a bit, spill something down the dress and wash it off, but not too well, rip the hem a little and mend it. This stuff has got to look well-worn. Break some of the feathers, too. Bash that appalling hat in and out. You get the idea?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ sighed Dot, and took all the parcels into her own room.
Phryne reclaimed the car and was soon travelling fast down Punt Road, and recalling to mind the matter on which she had been sent to Australia.
I wonder if Lydia is addicted; I really can’t see that oaf John poisoning anyone — he wouldn’t have the imagination. Strangling, yes, beating of the head with the nearest blunt instrument, certainly, but poisoning? No. On the other hand, if one wished to be rid of a husband like that — and who wouldn’t? — then self-administration of something relatively harmless. . oh, wait a minute. . what was it that Lydia wrote?
She was so preoccupied with the sudden insight which had flashed over her that she had to brake hard to avoid a tram. Fortunately, racing cars have excellent brakes. She eased off her speed to the legal limit down Toorak Road to give herself time to think.
‘If I’m right, it is relatively easy to prove,’ she thought. ‘I need only suborn a maid. . and I don’t think she treats her maids well. .’
The Irish maid, nervous and voluble, babbled, ‘Oh, Miss Fisher, it’s you. Mistress is ill and abed, but she sent word that you was to be let in if you came. This way, Miss.’
Phryne followed the young woman and took her arm. ‘Not so fast. Tell me about Mrs Andrews’ illness. Does it come on her suddenly?’
‘Yes, Miss, she was well enough last night, and then this terrible vomiting — and the doctor doesn’t know what it is. Nothing seems to work.’
‘How long do these attacks usually last?’
‘One day, or two days, not longer, but she’s that weary after them. Takes her a week to recover.’
‘And Mr Andrews, is he ill too?’
‘No, Miss, that’s what’s got ’em all puzzled. Otherwise they’d think it was something she ate. But they eat the same, Miss, and we finish it up in the kitchen, and we ain’t sick. It’s a mystery,’ concluded the maid, stopping outside a pink door. ‘Here we are.’
‘Wait another moment. What’s your name?’
‘Maureen, Miss.’
‘Maureen, I’m trying to find out what causes this illness, and I need some help. I’m sent by Mrs Andrews’ family in England. There is some information I need.’
She held out a ten shilling note. Maureen’s fingers closed on it, savouring the feel of the paper.
‘First, where is Mr Andrews?’
‘At his club, Miss. He used to stay home when she was sick, but lately he seems to have lost interest.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘Oh, Miss!’ protested the maid, squirming. Phryne waited. Finally the answer came, in a tense whisper.
‘No. I dislikes both of ’em. She’s soft and cruel, seems all sweet and hard as a rock, and he’s all hands. I’m leaving as soon as I can get a job in the factory. Better wages and hours and company, too.’
‘Good. I thought as much. How do they get along?’
‘Badly, Miss. They quarrel all the time; it used to be about his little bits on the side. Now they fight about money, mostly. She says that he’s wasting all his fortune on lunatic schemes thought up by that Hon. Matthews. He says she’s got no courage. Then she cries and he storms out.’
‘How long has the money argument been going on?’
‘Years, Miss — but it’s much worse ever since he met up with that Hon.’
‘You have been very helpful. There’s something more. Do you get on with her personal maid?’
‘I ought to, she’s me sister Brigit.’
‘Good. Here’s what I want you to do, and there’s ten quid in it for both of you.’
Phryne told Maureen what she wanted. The girl nodded.
‘We can manage that,’ she agreed. ‘But why?’
‘Never mind. Deliver the stuff to Dr MacMillan at the Queen Victoria Hospital, and tell her I sent you. And if you get caught and sacked, come and see me at the Windsor. But I’d advise you not to get caught,’ she added, suddenly struck with the knowledge that she might be endangering this girl’s safety.
Maureen smiled. ‘Brigit and me have done harder things than that,’ she said softly. ‘And now I’ll announce you, Miss.’
‘Very well. If you’re questioned, just say I wanted gossip.’
‘And so ye did,’ agreed Maureen, and opened the pink door.
‘Miss Fisher, Mrs Andrews,’ she announced in her clear Donegal voice, and Phryne went in.
The room was pinker than anything else Phryne had ever seen. In deference to modern tastes in decorating, it was not frilled and hung with tulle or muslin, and neither was there a four-poster bed. But the walls were papered with pink-and-pink flowers, there was a pink Morris-designed carpet on the floor, and two standard lamps and a bedside light all with pink frames, bases and shades. Phryne, in charcoal and green, felt that she clashed badly.
