as she straightened her mother’s limbs and composed them for further slumber. ‘And here’s one door he won’t batter against again.’
She stepped out of the room, leaving the stout woman to sit by the bed, and pointed to dents and cracks in the wood. The door had done nobly in fending off the master of the house. The timbers had cracked a little, but they had not broken.
‘Ah,’ said Phryne, deeply disgusted and wondering whether she wanted to find out who killed Mr McNaughton.
‘He used to hit her — and me, too,’ said Miss McNaughton matter-of-factly. ‘But he stopped hitting me because I said I’d leave and that I’d take Mother with me. That frightened him; he was terrified of scandal, and I could have made a very impressive one. He didn’t beat Mother while I was here, but I wasn’t here very often. I am at the Gallery School, you know.’
‘Yes, your brother told me you were an artist. And Bunji still has your watercolour of a plane on her wall.’ Phryne was fishing. In all this time Miss McNaughton had not mentioned her brother.
‘Bill didn’t think that I could paint. He has the artistic sensibilities of an ox. And he called Paolo a greasy little dago. But he didn’t kill my father,’ stated Miss McNaughton, stopping on the stairs with one hand on the bannister. ‘If Bill had killed Father he would have announced it to the world. He would not have run away. He takes after Father — everything he does has to be right. He and Father never made a mistake or offered an apology in their lives. Bill would have stood over the body and announced that he had a perfect right to kill his own father if he liked, and would anyone care to argue about it? I don’t know who killed Father, but it was not Bill. I don’t care if you don’t find who killed him. In fact I’d rather you did not. Father had thousands of people who rightly hated him and any one of them is more valuable than Father. I loathed him and I hated what he did to me and my mother; do you know, after he had pounded on Mother’s door and been refused, he used to come and make an attempt on me?’
‘Did he succeed?’ asked Phryne gently. Miss McNaughton stared through Phryne with her pale blue eyes.
‘When I was younger,’ she said quietly. ‘He managed to catch me in the bathroom. Twice. After that I put a chair under the handle. He used to stand outside and bellow at me to let him in. I considered it, because it might have calmed him down, but I couldn’t, I really couldn’t. That’s why Paolo is the only man I have ever loved — could ever love. He took such pains with me, he was so patient when I flinched and cried, and. . and. .’
‘I know,’ observed Phryne quietly. ‘But it happens to a lot of women. You and I are fortunate in that we have found lovers who could coax us out of our shells. Come down, Miss McNaughton, and let’s get warm. Then you can show me your work.’
‘Please call me Amelia,’ said Miss McNaughton suddenly. ‘You are the only person apart from Paolo that I have told. . come and sit by the fire in the drawing-room, and I’ll bring the stuff down. You might not like it,’ she warned, and ran upstairs again.
Phryne was shown into a fine big drawing-room with Chinese furnishings. The ceiling was lacquered red and the walls were hung with scroll paintings and embroideries. Several brocade garments decorated the chimney piece, and the chairs were pierced and decorated blackwood, with silk cushions and legs carved with lions and clouds.
On the mantleshelf stood one free-standing jade sculpture of a rather self-satisified dragon devouring a deer. The deer’s eyes reminded Phryne uncomfortably of Mrs McNaughton’s and Phryne turned away from it to study the silk painting by the square, latticed window. She recognised it as a copy of a famous artist. It was ‘Two Gentlemen Discoursing Upon Fish’. ‘Look how the fish disport themselves in the clear water,’ enthused one gentleman. ‘That is how the Almighty gives pleasure to fish.’ ‘You are not a fish,’ objected the other. ‘How do you know what gives pleasure to fish?’ ‘You are not I,’ replied the first. ‘How do you know that I do not know what gives pleasure to fish?’ And that, of course, was unanswerable.
What did any of us know about the other, mused Phryne. If she had met the late and entirely unlamented Mr McNaughton, would she have known that he was a domestic tyrant who, when refused by his wife, had sexually assaulted his daughter?
Amelia came in with a rush, and shoved a portfolio of impressive proportions into Phryne’s arms. ‘I’ll see about the tea,’ she muttered, and rushed out again. Phryne diagnosed artistic modesty.
She emptied the folio onto the blackwood table and spread out the contents. There were watercolours, a few oil sketches, and charcoal and red chalk drawings. They were good, Phryne found with pleasure. It was always easier to genuinely praise than to try and find something nice to say about rubbish.
There were three watercolours of aeroplanes, with a pale wash of sky behind them. There were sharp, clear pencil drawings of flowers and birds, exhibiting signs of a Chinese phase. There were several rather muddy landscapes and a clever cubist house; but Miss McNaughton’s real skill was in portraiture. With chalk or charcoal she could catch a likeness more clearly than a photograph. Here was Bill in flying togs, hulking and self-confident, but with a hint of reckless good-humour which Phryne had also seen. Here was her mother, in pastels, worn and lined, with the fluffy, harried look so familiar to Phryne. It was evident that Amelia’s skills were not yet perfect — she was prone to a certain lack of confidence in her lines and some of her colours might have been bolder. Phryne searched through the portraits with delight. Here was a group of children, somewhat after Murillo but nonetheless charming. Here were eleven studies of a cat; she had caught the creature’s elusive muscularity under the fur. Here was a swarthy man, thin and intense, with deep eyes and charming faun-like face; he had pointed ears, and the whole gave an impression of power and patience. Phryne was reminded of a Medici, and wondered if it was a copy of a Renaissance work. She turned the oil over. ‘Paolo’. Aha. Good looking, but not beautiful. Deep, and a strong personality. Such a man must have made a potent impression on Amelia, who was not familiar with any powerful man who did not brawl and rape. She looked forward to meeting him.
There was a portrait of a woman. Phryne recognised her friend Isola di Fraoli, the ballad singer. She had caught her perfectly: the mass of black hair, the glint of earrings, the deep bosom and rounded arms, and the wicked, penetrating half-smile. The last oil was a portrait of a man. Broad and tall but running to fat, he stood with legs straddled, dominating the artist with his presence. He had a jowled, big-boned face, mottled with red across the cheeks and nose. One hand was clenched and the mouth was open, as if in command. It was just a shade this side of caricature, and so carefully deliniated that it was obvious that the artist hated every line in him. Being an artist, however, she had dealt honestly with him. Phryne did not need to turn it over. The resemblance to Bill was marked. This was Amelia’s father. Phryne regretted that she might have to discover who murdered him. He was the essence of everything she did not like about the male sex.
Amelia and the tea entered simultaneously. Phryne took a cup and commented, ‘You have a great deal of skill, Amelia. Would you sell me some of these? I’ve just moved into a new house and I’m decorating.’
‘I can’t sell them — they are only sketches. Take what you want, Miss Fisher. I would like to have some of my work in your house.’
‘Call me Phryne, and I insist on paying. I wouldn’t have someone say that I exploited you, especially since I shall make a packet on them when you are famous.’
‘Take whichever you like,’ blushed Amelia. ‘Five pounds each — that’s what students usually charge. Do you really like them?’
‘Yes,’ said Phryne sorting rapidly. ‘Your professors must have told you that you have an uncommon gift for por- traiture. These sketches of the cat are good, too. Have you seen that page of drawings by Leonardo of the cats, turning into dragons? Very hard to draw, cats. There’s a bony shape under the skin and you have caught the furriness very well. I’ll have the cats, they can go along the stairs, and these chalks, one of the Gipsy Moth. I learned to fly in one of them — lovely little ’bus. Also the children, though they are derivative, don’t you think? Do you like children?’
‘I love children. I want lots of them. Now Father is. . now Father is dead, I shall have my own money, and Paolo and I can get married. We shall have a house in Carlton near the galleries with a studio for him and a studio for me, and lots of nurseries.’
‘Why haven’t you married before?’ asked Phryne, adding Paolo, Bill, and Isola to her pile. Amelia wriggled with embarassment.
‘Paolo wanted to. He’s quite well-off, he’s the son of an industrialist. His father disowned him but he has an income from his mother. But I wasn’t sure, and I wanted to. .
‘To be sure. How long have you known him?’
‘Two years. I am sure, now. It is just that Father said such awful things about him, and even hired a private detective to follow him around and to see if he was sleeping with his models.’
