me that she was sick all over him.’
Henry laughed aloud. ‘That’s my girl!’
Dinner in the formal dining-room was hilarious. Phryne purchased good champagne and after a while everyone was happy. The food was excellent, from the entree of cream of pumpkin soup, through an exquisite cheese souffle, a
Phryne, who had bagged the quaint hat, ate as though she had been fasting for some months. Dot was freshly surprised at each course. Candida, who had been allowed to stay up by special permission, had presided over the ceremonial burning of the nightgown, the last trace of her captivity. She was engaged in assisting Bear to eat his chocolates. Golden candlelight from the tall sconces glittered off the massive silver epergnes and dishes; the log fire burned brightly. Tall vases of lilies and gum tips lent the air a delicate scent. Of all endings to adventure, this was the best possible.
‘To Candida!’ cried Phryne, and raised her glass. Uncle Jack allowed the child to take a sip from his glass. The bubbles tickled her nose. She chuckled. She knew that it was the custom to respond to a toast. She clutched Bear close to give him confidence, and stood up on her chair.
‘Uncle Jack, Aunty Bunji, Mummy, Daddy, Dot and Phryne,’ she began. The table was silent. Candida was overcome with sudden affection.
‘Thank you for finding me and bringing me Bear,’ she said, then launched herself into Phryne’s arms, and kissed her moistly on the cheek.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shakespeare
Returned in good order to Melbourne, Phryne spent Thursday afternoon cleaning the car with Mr Butler’s assistance. She gave her household an edited account of her adventures, and did not go out until Thursday afternoon to Fitzroy. She wanted to find Klara. As Klara was locally notorious, this did not prove difficult.
A thin little gutter sparrow sat in a cafe, staring into an empty cup of tea. She looked up as Phryne walked in and smiled with genuine tenderness.
‘Phryne! Come and buy me some tea. I’m parched. Got a job for me?’
Phryne bought the tea, which she would not have touched for quids, and explained. Ancient eyes started out of a childish face.
‘And they’ll kill him the next day?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll do it for ten quid. If I didn’t have to make a living I’d do it for nothing. Sidney Brayshaw, eh? Bonzer. Will you make the arrangements?’
‘Can you? I don’t know if Briggs is still at Pentridge.’
‘Sure. Give me another twenty to square them.’
Phryne produced the money. ‘You won’t fail me, Klara? I gave my word.’
‘No. I’ll not fail,’ promised Klara, tracing a cross with a grubby forefinger on the flat breast of her gym tunic. Phryne left quickly. She found Klara unsettling.
Thursday night was appointed for Phryne’s seduction of the delightful Dr Fielding. It was not until Mrs Butler was asking her what she fancied for dinner that she remembered.
‘Oh, hell, I forgot. Mrs B., I asked that nice young doctor to dinner.’
‘You have been busy lately, Miss,’ agreed Mrs Butler. ‘So we won’t quarrel about it this time.’
Phryne took the hint and smiled. ‘I hope that there won’t be a next time,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Can you manage a simple, light dinner?’
‘Vegetable soup, lamb chops, green beans,
‘Good. Very nice. Then coffee and liqueurs in my sittingroom upstairs. Can Mr B. take care of the fire? And leave the woodbox full. After he’s brought the coffee, Mrs B., I don’t want to be disturbed.’
Mrs Butler pursed her lips and nodded. Phryne wondered if the two of them were going to give notice in the morning. Assuming, of course, that the doctor was amenable to seduction.
Phryne bathed luxuriously and dressed carefully in a loose, warm velvet from Erte. It was black, with deep lapin cuffs and collar, and a six-inch band of fur around the hem. She brushed her hair vigorously and applied just a little rouge.
Dot assisted her into the gown and knelt to adjust the soft Russian boots around Phryne’s slim ankles.
‘You fancy your chances, Miss?’
‘Yes, I do. He’s clumsy, but rather endearing, don’t you think?’
‘You be careful,’ warned Dot. ‘This one’s an Aussie. They got different ideas about their girls, not like them Russians.’
‘And Italians,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I’ll be careful, Dot. Are you going out or staying in?’
‘I’m staying in,’ said Dot, giving the bootlace a final tug. ‘I’ve been to the library and I’m going to read and listen to the wireless. I won’t disturb you, Miss. I can come and go by my own stair.’
‘I hope that this doesn’t upset you,’ said Phryne. ‘Or the Butlers.’
‘They’ll be sweet,’ said Dot. ‘Just like I was. It’s a bit of a shock at first, but you get used to it. Have a nice time, Miss,’ and Dot, innocent of any envy, went down to take her own dinner with the Butlers. Phryne smoked one gasper after another, worrying. Dot was right. Australian men were different. She did not want to get involved in an emotional relationship. She had no patience with dependence and no understanding of jealousy.
She heard the doorbell ring, and sailed downstairs to meet her guest, with outward poise and inward qualms.
He really was beautiful, she reflected as he escorted her into the dining-room. He had pale skin, curly brown hair, and was well-built and tall. Phryne took her seat and accepted a glass of white wine from Mr Butler. The young man contrived by a miracle not to knock over the vase of ferns in the centre of the table and smiled ruefully.
‘I’m afraid I’m still clumsy, Miss Fisher.’
‘Really, you must call me Phryne. I’m not your patient, Dr Fielding.’
‘Then you must call me Mark.’
‘You haven’t been a doctor long, I gather. Why did you choose medicine?’
This was always a safe question to ask any professional. Soup was served. It was good — perhaps a little too much celery. Mark Fielding ate fast, as though he was about to be called away at any moment.
‘I want to be useful,’ said Mark Fielding. ‘I want to heal the hurts of the world.’ He laid down his spoon. ‘That sounds silly, doesn’t it? But there is such a lot of pain and suffering, and I want to ease it. I work with old Dr Dorset; he has great experience, but he’s a cynical old man. He says that everyone in the world has ulterior motives. What do you think?’
Phryne took in a sharp breath as the unreadable brown eyes flicked sidelong to look at her. Yes, she could believe it. Her own motives were nothing to boast of.
The excellent dinner concluded, Phryne lured Mark upstairs with a promise of coffee and kirsch. She accepted the tray from Mr Butler, observed that the woodbox next to the fire had been replenished, and gave him a conspiratorial smile.
‘I shan’t want you again tonight, Mr B.,’ she said. ‘Sleep well.’
‘You too, Miss Fisher,’ he replied with perfect gravity, and chuckled all the way down the stairs.
‘I know what she is, Mrs B.,’ he said at the kitchen door. ‘She’s a vamp.’
‘Ah, well,’ sighed his wife. ‘At least it ain’t like the last place. Young men are clean about the house. It’s better than the old gentleman’s greyhounds.’
Thereafter Phryne’s household always referred to her lovers as ‘the pets’.
Mark Fielding leaned back into the feathery embrace of a low, comfortable sofa in front of a bright fire.
‘Oh, this is nice,’ he sighed. ‘Listen to that wind outside. It’s beginning to rain, too. I wish I didn’t have to go home. . I mean,’ he corrected himself hurriedly, ‘I mean. .’
‘You don’t have to go home,’ said Phryne calmly. ‘I wouldn’t turn a dog out on a night like this. Stay with me,
