‘And was he?’
‘Oh, yes, but that doesn’t matter to me. I know that he loves me. He has put such a lot of work into me that he values me. One always prizes the object on which one has lavished the greatest amount of effort. Take that portrait of Father. I hated him. But to paint him, I had to look at him quite otherwise than usual: I had to examine him as an object, not as a loathsome man who tormented me. I stopped being afraid of him after that. Somehow the process of painting him had disinfected him.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Phryne. ‘May I have the portrait? Perhaps you would like to keep it. Apart from the Paolo, I think it is your best work.’
‘Take it. I was going to burn it.’
‘That would be a pity,’ said Phryne. She bound up the rejects in the portfolio and wrote out a cheque.
‘Perhaps you would consider a commission,’ she added. ‘I have a full-length female nude — you may have seen it. .’
‘Yes. “La Source”. It’s you, isn’t it. A bit Pre-Raphaelite, but skilful. Do you want something to match?’
‘Yes, a male nude in the same pose. Do you draw from the figure? Or haven’t you got up to that yet?’
‘Yes, but it’s difficult. In oil? And the same size? Let me have the dimensions, and I’ll see what I can do. I haven’t done a big oil. Father would never give me the money for enough paint, and students aren’t supposed to sell their work. There’s an acrobat who does some modelling — lovely body, all muscle, but light. My friend Sally did an Eros of him which was super. I’ll try it, now I can afford the materials.’
‘Good. Now, give me another cup of tea and let’s get down to business. Have you a family lawyer? We ought to get Bill out of the cooler if we can.’
‘Get him out? But he’s been arrested.’
‘Yes, but we might be able to bail him.’
‘Oh. No, we haven’t a lawyer who does criminal matters.’
‘Leave it to me, I know just the person. Where does Paolo live? I’d like to see his work.’
Amelia wrote down the address. She was uneasy. She was about to speak when a scruffy maid ran in and announced shrilly: ‘That cop’s here again, Miss.’
‘Put your cap straight,’ ordered Phryne. ‘Wipe your face on that apron and stand up. A tragedy in the family is no excuse for panic. There. Now, be a good girl. We all need your help, you know. Where would the house be without you?’ Phryne smiled into wide brown eyes and tucked a whisp of hair back under the cap.
‘There. Now, who is at the door?’
‘Detective-inspector Benton, Miss Amelia,’ announced the maid and walked proudly out.
‘Phryne,’ cried Amelia, ‘you are wonderful. Please don’t leave me.’
‘I shall be here. Sit down again.’
Amelia obeyed. The maid returned and announced sedately, ‘Detective-inspector Benton, Miss Amelia.’
She cast Phryne a dignified glance and escorted a tubby man into the room. He was red-faced and almost comic, but his dark-brown eyes were sharp and shrewd.
At half-past three Molly Maldon and her husband walked to the lolly shop to cross-examine the shopkeeper’s son Jimmy. The child was an unpleasant, sharp stripling, with a spotty face and oily fingernails. Molly, however, was prepared to love anyone who might lead her to Candida, and she asked as gently as any woman seducing an uncertain lover.
‘Did you notice a big black car here at lunch-time, Jimmy?’
‘Yeah,’ drawled the youth. ‘Bentley, 1926, black, in a terrible state of polish.’
Did you see a little girl get into the car?’ asked Henry. Jimmy smothered a yawn and Molly bit her lip. Boxing the little thug’s ears would probably prove counter-productive.
‘Yes, I saw her. They kind of dragged her into the back seat. Leather upholstery,’ he added unhelpfully. ‘Red leather.’
‘Did you notice the number?’
‘Some of it. There was mud on the number plate. I reckon it was KG 12 something. Couldn’t read the last digit. Sorry. Mum, when’s dinner? I’m starving.’
Henry Maldon took Molly’s arm before she could do something hasty and dropped a shilling into the boy’s ready palm.
‘Thanks, son,’ he said heavily. Jimmy yawned again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Shakespeare
‘How do you do. My name is Phryne Fisher. I undertake investigations and I have been retained by the McNaughton family to act for them in this matter.’
The policeman took up a commanding position at the mantlepiece and glanced quizzically at Phryne.
‘There is no room for amateurs in murder, Miss Fisher,’ said the policeman condescendingly. ‘But I am sure that you will be a comfort to the ladies.’
‘I hope that I shall,’ replied Phryne with all the sweetness of a chocolate-coated razor blade. ‘And I hope that you will allow a mere amateur to observe your methods. I am certain that I will learn a lot from your procedures. After all, it is seldom that I have the chance of getting so close to a famous detective like yourself.’ Amelia looked up. Surely the man was not going to be taken in by this load of old cobblers? It seemed that Phryne had not underestimated the receptiveness of the detective to a bit of the old oil. He softened and became positively polite.
‘Of course, I shall be delighted to instruct you, Miss Fisher,’ he purred. ‘But I came to tell Miss Amelia that she should get a lawyer for her brother. He’s coming up before the Magistrates tomorrow morning, and he should be represented.’
‘Thank you, I shall do that,’ said Amelia. ‘Are you certain that my brother killed my father, Detective- inspector?’
‘Well, Miss, he hasn’t admitted it. He says that he came home last night and intended to have a discussion with Mr McNaughton. He admits that he had continual arguments with his father, and that they became violent at times.’
‘Yes, that is true,’ sighed Amelia.
‘He wanted to drive his father to a meeting at the aerodrome so that the mother would not be upset by their argument,’ said the detective-inspector. ‘He says you suggested it, Miss Fisher. He waited for his father until four o’clock, then gave up on him and went for a walk in the park. He says he met no one except an old man with a sack over his shoulder, and a young woman, who ran past in a bathing suit.’
‘So have you found the girl or the old man?’ asked Phryne respectfully. ‘I’m sure that you are looking for them.’
‘Well, yes,’ the policeman paused. ‘Yes, so to speak, but we haven’t found them. And we won’t. I don’t for a moment believe that there was a man or a girl, or that he went for a walk in the valley. I am sure that he killed your father, Miss McNaughton.’
‘Why?’ asked Phryne artlessly.
‘Why? Well, such things are not nice for a young woman, Miss Fisher.’
‘Ah. Suppose you take me out to look at where it happened. I have always wanted to see the scene of the crime.’ Phryne wondered if she was laying it on too thick, but it seemed that, for this obtuse man, no flattery could be too gross.
‘Very well, Miss,’ agreed the detective-inspector. ‘Come along with me.’
‘You stay here, Amelia,’ instructed Phryne. ‘Have some more tea. I shall be quite safe with Detective- inspector Benton.’
Amelia, open-mouthed, smothered a giggle in her teacup.
Benton led Phryne out of the house and along a fine mossy path to the tennis-court. It was beautifully kept, with a grass surface as smooth as a bowling green. The lines were freshly painted and the net was not in evidence.
‘This grass will not hold footprints,’ commented Benton. ‘But here are the holes caused by Mrs McNaughton’s high heels. She ran off the path here, you see, stood for a moment where the heels have sunk in deep, then ran
