Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

Her pile of luggage was being carried out by Bert, Cec and several boys who wished to acquire merit. Phryne rewarded them all, beginning with the smallest boy, and working her way up to the august manager himself, to whom she handed a sizeable douceur, which he took without a flicker.

‘Goodbye,’ said Phryne, giving him her hand. ‘I really hate to leave you, but there it is. Thank you so much,’ she smiled upon the enriched and grateful, and walked out of the Windsor, trailing her clouds of glory.

She took her seat in the Hispano-Suiza, making the journey quickly, for it was freezing in the open car, despite her furs. She pulled up in style to meet Mr Butler at the gate. Dot preferred to travel with Bert and Cec.

‘Just bring her in here, Miss, and mind the paintwork. Nicely she goes,’ he instructed, and Phryne took the car in without mishap.

Mr Butler grinned and passed a doting hand over the red bonnet.

‘Mr Butler, I presume? Do you like the car?’

‘That I do, Miss. She’s a beauty.’

‘Good. See if you can get the hood up, I’m frozen. Winter seems to have come, eh? I’m expecting you to drive this car for me, so you can take her out for a little practice later, if you like. But be careful of her, she’s the only one in Australia, and where we shall get parts for her I do not know. I must go in, my toes have gone numb,’ were Phryne’s parting words before she ran up the garden path to the back door.

She walked into a wave of warmth and the scent of cooking, and dropped into a chair in the sitting-room, where there was a small, bright fire. Mrs Butler bustled in.

‘Tea, Miss? Are you cold?’

‘Frozen, but rapidly thawing. Coffee might be better, but you’ll need to make tea for Bert and Cec and Dot, who are coming with the luggage.’

‘Very good, Miss. Cutlets for lunch, with creamed potatoes? Apple pie for dessert?’

Phryne nodded, and took off one shoe. Her toes really had gone numb. She rubbed them briskly, reflecting that the Melbourne winter looked like being long and trying. She was grateful for the fire and all her other blessings for a quiet five minutes, before there was a thump at the door and she knew that the luggage had arrived.

Bert and Cec were a team. They had worked together for so long, in the army and on the wharf, that each seemed to sense where the other was. Consequently they were very efficient.

Apart from a few loud comments on her decor, Phryne did not hear a word or a bump as her possessions were carried up the stairs with ease and despatch.

‘Come and have tea,’ Phryne shouted as the last chest was carried in and Dot shut the doors of the sagging van.

Mrs Butler brought in a trolley laden with cakes and sandwiches, and the big kitchen teapot. Bert and Cec clumped down the stairs to accept cups and perch themselves on the overstuffed chairs.

‘How have things been going?’ she asked, and Bert grinned.

‘We bought a bonzer new taxi,’ he took a sandwich, ‘and we sold the old grid. It’s been going good, Miss. And you’re in the paper, did you see?’ he added, flourishing the early Herald. Phryne looked at the front page. Bert’s stubby finger pointed out a picture of a young woman poised on the upper wing of a biplane, with the legend ‘The Hon. Phryne Fisher in Flight’, then her eyes dropped to a stop press underneath.

‘Mr William McNaughton was found dead on his tennis court today from head injuries. Police inquiries are continuing.’

‘Oh, Bert, look at that,’ she whispered.

Bert read the paragraph and said, ‘Yair? Another capitalist bites the dust. So what?’

‘His wife is a client of mine. Are you on, if I need you?’ Bert handed Cec a cake and took one himself.

‘Yair, Cec and me is on,’ he agreed. ‘Good cakes these.’

Dot finished her tea and ran lightly up the stairs to begin unpacking. Mr Butler accompanied her, more ponderously, with a pinch bar to open the tea-chests. Phryne wondered whether she should ring Mrs McNaughton, while Bert read another part of the paper aloud.

‘Irish Lottery won by Melbourne Flyer,’ he said. ‘Blimey! What a bloke could do with ten thousand quid.’

‘Really?’ asked Phryne. ‘What bloke is that?’

‘It’s here, in yesterday’s Herald. Henry Maldon, famous flyer, who last year won the air race from Sydney to Brisbane, has been confirmed as the winner of the Irish Christmas Lottery, a sum exceeding ten thousand pounds sterling. Mr Maldon today refused to either confirm or deny that he was the winner, but his housemaid Elsie Skinner agreed that the letter bearing the superscription “Irish Lottery” had arrived on that Monday in January, and that both Mr and Mrs Maldon seemed very happy. Mr Maldon has been married for three years to the former Miss Molly Hunter, the daughter of a prominent grazier family. They have one child, Alexander. The six- year-old child of Mr Maldon’s former marriage, Candida, lives with the family. When asked what he would do with the money, Mr Maldon closed the door and refused to talk to our reporter.’

‘I don’t blame him,’ commented Phryne.

‘Yair, and I can think of one housemaid who is now out of a job,’ said Bert.

‘Yes. Will you stay for lunch?’ asked Phryne, and Bert shook his head.

‘We got a living to make,’ he said gloomily, then spoiled the effect by grinning. ‘So give us a shout if we can help with any of the. . er. . rough work, Miss.’

He collected Cec and departed. Phryne took up the newspaper and began to read. She was restless and could not concentrate. How had Mr McNaughton died? Had Bill been arrested? Should she call Mrs McNaughton, who would be a bundle of hysterics by now?

Phryne was summoned by Dot, who wanted her to make the final decision on which of her clothes were to be given away, and the subject proved so absorbing that lunch was announced before the two of them had finished more than half of the garments.

The cutlets, creamed potato and peas, and the apple pie were excellent, and Phryne said so, treating herself to two cups of coffee before she allowed Dot to drag her back to her room. After another hour, Dot had stored all the good clothes and had a heap of rejects in the middle of the floor.

Phryne stood up and said decisively, ‘You can have whatever you like, Dot, and then you have my full permission to dispose of the rest. I am going to ring Mrs McNaughton. I should have done so before, but she is going to be in such a state. .’

At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Phryne heard Mr Butler’s firm tread in the hall. There was the sound of the door opening, then a faint shriek and a thud. Phryne ran down the stairs and encountered Mr B. carrying a limp bundle with some difficulty.

‘Mrs McNaughton, Miss,’ he observed gravely.

‘Lay her on the couch, please, and ask Mrs B. for some tea.’ Phryne removed the woman’s hat and elevated her feet. Dot produced smelling salts.

‘They’ve arrested Bill,’ whispered Mrs McNaughton, and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Mrs McNaughton had not been treated well by the stresses inherent in having a murdered husband and a murderous son. Her face was puffy with long crying, and her fair hair straggled all down her unmatching dress and coat. As Phryne eased her into a more comfortable position, three soaked handkerchiefs fell out of her sleeve.

‘Poor woman,’ observed Phryne. ‘I think we need a doctor, Dot. See if there’s a local one. Mrs B. might know. Tell him we can pick him up if he hasn’t got any transport. Ask Mr B. to ring the lady’s house and tell her staff that she is here, in case they are worried about her. And I shall fetch a blanket,’ she added to the empty room. She found a soft grey blanket in the linen closet and wrapped Mrs McNaughton carefully, as she was now shivering. She sat down on her new easy chair and began to search her patient’s handbag.

There were keys, more wet hankies, salts, powder compact, a search warrant for the house, telephone number of Russell Street’s Police Station, one fountain pen (leaking), Phryne’s card, a card-case (mother-of-pearl), two letters tied with ribbon, a purse with seven pound three and eight-pence, and some powders in paper, marked ‘Mrs McNaughton. One powder as required’.

Phryne replaced all the chattels except the letters, and opened them carefully, sliding off the elaborate bow of ribbon. She read rapidly, with one eye on her inert client, who moaned occasionally. As she read, her eyebrows rose until they disappeared under her bangs.

‘A fine, robust turn of phrase the gentleman has,’ she commented aloud. ‘Who is he?’ She leafed through the pages of passionate prose and found the signature: ‘Your devoted Gerald’. Gerald had not carried his frankness as