Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

Lydia was reposing on a chaise-longue covered with pink velvet, and she was herself attired in an expensive silk robe of blinding pinkness. Phryne felt as if she had stepped into a nightmare. Lydia looked just like a doll — the curly blonde hair, the delicate porcelain skin, the soft plump little hands. . Phryne sat down on the end of the sofa and asked, she hoped sympathetically, ‘How are you, Lydia?’

The little-girl voice whined as high as a gnat. ‘I’m not at all well, and no one’s come to see me, and I sent for you hours ago, and I’ve been waiting all this time!’

‘I’m sorry, Lydia, but I was not in when your message arrived. I came as soon as I could. Has the doctor been?’

‘Yes, and he can’t find anything wrong with me. But there is something wrong with me. It’s not fair. John eats the same as I do, and he’s not ill. And he’s not here. He’s so cruel!’

‘Is there nothing that you eat that he doesn’t eat?’ asked Phryne. Lydia’s smooth forehead wrinkled.

‘Only chocolates. He doesn’t like chocolates.’

‘Poor Lydia. Can I order something for you? A cup of beef tea? Some soup?’

‘No, I couldn’t eat anything,’ declared Lydia, flinging herself back into the embrace of her pillows. Phryne, fighting her instincts, took the small hand in her own. It was hot.

‘Lydia, have you ever thought that you might be poisoned?’ she asked as gently as she could. There did not seem to be an acceptably euphemistic way of putting the question. Lydia gave a dramatic wail of terror and hid her face.

‘Come, you have thought of it, haven’t you?’ Lydia sobbed aloud, but Phryne, bending close, made out, ‘John. . so cruel. .’

‘Well, I suppose that he must be chief suspect. How do you get your chocolates?’

‘Why, John buys them. . he always has. .’ The china-blue eyes opened wide. ‘The chocolates! I’ve always been ill after eating chocolates! And he bought them! It must be him!’

‘Calm yourself, Lydia. Come now, this isn’t the first time the idea had occurred to you, is it?’

From out of the depths of the pillows came a muffled, ‘No.’

‘Have you never said anything to him about it?’

‘No, Phryne, how could I?’ The white face emerged, hair tousled attractively.

‘Why don’t you let me speak to him?’ asked Phryne, and was immediately clutched hard by surprisingly strong fingers.

‘No!’ The voice was a scream. ‘No, you mustn’t! Phryne you must swear — you must promise not to say anything to him! I couldn’t bear it!’

‘Why not?’ asked Phryne in a reasonable tone. ‘If he’s trying to kill you, he should be warned that we’re onto him. One warning should be enough.’

‘No! Promise!’ and Phryne relented.

‘There, there, I shan’t say anything. I promise. I swear. But you see that we can’t leave it at that, Lydia.’

‘Yes, we can,’ announced Lydia with hysterics threatening in her voice. ‘I won’t eat anything that he doesn’t eat, and then I’ll be safe.’

‘Very well, I must go now, Lydia, I’ve got to dress; I’m going to the Melba Gala tonight. Shall I call your maid?’

‘No, I’m all right,’ said Lydia. ‘But come and see me again soon?’ she pleaded, and Phryne found her own way out, deeply thoughtful and not a little disgusted.

She drove back to the Windsor, finding Dot in her own garments again, placidly mending stockings and listening to the wireless. A sugary arrangement of Strauss waltzes offended Phryne’s ears and she hurtled into the bedroom to rummage through the clothes.

‘Do turn that off, Dot, I’m oversweetened for one day, and run me a bath. How did you get on with the garments?’

‘They’re still crumpling nicely, Miss,’ said Dot, pointing out a bundle of pink cloth which had been damped and screwed into a ball. ‘By tomorrow midnight they’ll be dry and such as no good girl would think of wearing. I’ve scuffed the shoes and the hat will never be the same again,’ she added.

‘Good girl. Now what am I to wear to the Gala? The gold? No, too obvious. Perhaps the peacock-blue. . yes. Dot! Find my sapphire earrings and black underthings. The black shoes and sables.’

Phryne stripped off her charcoal and green costume, and rang for Turkish coffee. She wanted, if possible, to remain alert.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw

Or heard or felt came not but from myself

And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

Wallace Stevens ‘Tea in the Palaz of Hoon’

The Sanderson home was imposing, but understated; more like the houses of the wealthy in Europe than the flashy Cryer establishment. A butler showed her in to a drawing-room decorated with restrained elegance and the company rose to meet her.

Here, to her surprise, was Bobby, soi-disant Hon. Matthews of cricket ball fame, John Andrews, without his wife, and several politicians, who were so close to identical that Phryne could not recall if she was speaking to Mr Turner (Independent) or Mr Jackson (Labor) or Mr Berry (Conservative). Their wives obviously patronised the same milliner and the same couturier, and were also hard to distinguish from each other. Phryne greeted Mr Sanderson with affection and met his wife, a rounded, shrewd woman with a twinkling eye. The rest of the guests seemed uncertain as to how to take Miss Fisher. Bobby Matthews, at least, showed an unequi- vocal reaction. When he saw that he was unobserved, he scowled blackly. Phryne smiled.

Sherry was brought, and conversation became general. Phryne slipped through the crowd and bobbed up at the Hon. Bobby’s elbow, causing him to start and almost spill his drink.

‘Well, well, Bobby, how very unpleasant to see you again! Sent you out to the colonies, did they? I wonder what the colonies did to deserve you. What have you been doing in Melbourne? Floated a few companies? Sold a few shares in Argentinian gold mines?’

‘I’m involved in several business ventures,’ replied Mat- thews stiffly. ‘And I don’t like your tone, Miss Fisher. What were you doing in Paris all that time, eh? Would you like me to tell this company about the Rue du Chat-qui- Peche?’

‘Certainly, and I’ll extol your prowess at cricket.’ Phryne smiled dazzlingly and held out her cigarette for a light. Bobby lit it with the look of a man who wished that it was Phryne that he was igniting, and said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘Look, you don’t have to ruin me, Miss Fisher. I’ve got a good thing going here. These colonials are a lay-down misere for a county accent and a title. I’ll split the proceeds, if you like.’

‘Sit down, Bobby, and stop looking so scared. I am not intending to expose you. . but you can rely on me doing so if you damage anyone I’m fond of.’

‘How will I know who to steer clear of?’

‘Put it this way — you can make hay of all of the present company, except for Dr MacMillan.’

‘That leaves me enough scope.’

‘Do you know anything about the coke trade here?’

‘Cocaine? I don’t get entangled in that sort of thing.’

‘Too virtuous?’ asked Phryne, blowing a smoke ring.

‘Too careful of my own skin. They are not nice people to know. But I’ve heard a few things. The main man is called the King of Snow, but no one seems to have any idea who he is. I believe that the stuff is being imported in sackfuls, but it’s not my business.’

‘And how long has this King been reigning?’

‘Three years, I think — I gather that he has taken over all the little operators, and some of them have been found in the Yarra encased in concrete. His methods are rather crude. A friend of mine is in the trade — he says that the only way to survive is to pay the King whatever price he demands. You’ll be fished up in a cement waistcoat if you don’t watch your step.’