Mark. It’s warm in here.’
She was lying at full length on the hearth rug, prone, with her chin cupped in her hands, the short cap of black hair swung forward to hide her face. She had not looked away from the fire as she spoke. The young doctor was astonished. He had never been propositioned by a woman before.
He glanced around the room. Every surface was velvety, textured, soft. The pinkish mirror wreathed in vine leaves reflected his face crowned with a garland. He tried to sit up but the sofa was unwilling to release him. He sipped the remains of his kirsch and yielded up his body to fate.
‘It’s kismet,’ he said softly, as Phryne gathered her gown about her and pulled him down into her arms.
Phryne closed her eyes as the red mouth came down onto hers, the lips parted, then the mouth moved down her throat to the open collar of the velvet gown. For such a clumsy young man, Mark Fielding removed a lady’s clothes with startling skill.
Phryne, naked, and stretched out in a pool of velvet and fur, drowsed up out of a fiery trance to glimpse the flash of thigh and buttock, and he slid down to lie beside her.
She reached up to catch her fingers in the curly hair, as silky as embroidery floss, and bring the face down for her kiss. As he slid his strong hands between fur and skin to gather her close, he whispered, ‘Phryne, are you sure?’
Phryne had seized him, locking his waist with her thighs. She was sure.
Mark abandoned himself to unimagined delights. The heat of the fire caressed his skin. The scent of Phryne’s breasts and her hair, musky and amorous, almost drowned him in sweetness.
When Phryne awoke, the fire was out, and someone seemed to have amputated her legs at the hips. She groaned and tried to sit up. The numbness was explained by the weight of the beautiful young man asleep on top of her. Phryne shook him, laughing and shivering. ‘Mark, wake up, you’re crushing me.’
Mark Fielding was dragged up out of a deep dream by the hand on his shoulder. ‘It must be Mrs Murphy’s baby,’ he murmured. ‘All right, I’ll be down in a min. . no wait, what. . oh, Phryne,’ he remembered suddenly, shifted his weight, and hauled her into his arms. ‘Oh, my dear girl, how cold you are, and how cold I am, too.’
‘We fell asleep, and I think we ought to go to bed before we catch our death. You’ll have to carry me,’ said Phryne smugly. ‘I’m numb.’
Mark staggered up, stamped a few times to recover the use of his feet, then lifted Phryne without effort and bore her into the bedroom. He flung her into the huge bed then dived in after her. The invaluable Mrs B. had left a hot waterbottle, and they snuggled close together, limbs entwined, and began to thaw into life. Oddly enough, when Mark Fielding was to think of the amazing Phryne Fisher, that was the moment he remembered as being the most intensely erotic.
The morning of Miss McNaughton’s party dawned, cold and bright. Phryne did not see it. She breakfasted in bed with Dr Fielding, sharing toast and buttery kisses. He left at nine, begging to be allowed to return that night.
Phryne had obtained Detective-inspector Benton’s solemn promise that he would attend Miss McNaughton’s party, and Jillian Henderson had rather warily agreed to come. Bert and Cec reported that they had completed their investigations and there was only Miss Wilson left to interview.
Phryne decided to ring her. She found the number and a light, feminine voice identified herself as Margaret Wilson.
‘Miss Wilson, this relates to the complaint you made to the police last week.’
‘That horrid old man stole my clothes when I was swimming!’ exclaimed Miss Wilson. ‘I was so mad that I went straight to the police, even though I only had my bathing costume on. But that is all fixed. They lent me a coat to go home in, and the next day I got my clothes back.’
‘Think carefully. Did you pass anyone on that path?’
‘Yes, Bill McNaughton. I was going to ask him to help me but he was in one of his rages, and there is not a lot of percentage to be got out of Bill when he’s like that.’
‘Miss Wilson, where have you been all week?’
‘In retreat, at Daylesford. I go every year. Why?’
‘Bill’s father was murdered. You are the only person who can say that Bill was on that path.’
‘Lord! Poor Bill. I must go and make a statement, then. Should I go now?’
‘No. The slops had their chance. Can you come to Miss McNaughton’s children’s party tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course. Will that help?’
‘About twelve. Do you know Miss McNaughton?’
‘Oh, yes, we went to school together. Why didn’t Bill say that he saw me?’
‘He didn’t remember your name.’
‘Isn’t that just like Bill. He never even looked at his sister’s friends. All right, Miss Fisher, I shall be there tomorrow. Thank you,’ said Miss Wilson, and hung up.
Phryne and Dot drove along the gravelled drive and left the car in the carriage yard. The front door was open and there was the sound of someone playing the piano with more exuberance than skill. The sound of running feet echoed down the hall.
Mabel showed Phryne in and took her coat. The house was clean and decorated with balloons and streamers.
‘We’ve put the table in the conservatory, Miss Fisher. It’s out the back. The room with the stone floor. That policeman has arrived. So has Miss Wilson from around the corner, two of your agents, and a lady lawyer called Miss Henderson.’
‘How are things now, Mabel?’
‘Ever so much better, Miss,’ said Mabel, lowering her voice. ‘Mr Bill hasn’t had a single rage, and Mr Paolo is charming. Such a nice man, for a foreigner. He’s playing the piano at the moment so the children can play musical chairs. Come out, Miss, it’s such a pretty sight.’
It was. The conservatory was a big block added on to the back of the house. It was floored with black slate and masses of plants were suspended from the beams. Paolo was thumping wildly on a baby grand piano, looking like a fatherly faun. A scatter of children were running around a diminishing number of chairs. Presiding over the ginger-beer, orange-pop, lemonade and a quiet tray of cocktails was Mrs McNaughton. Phryne hardly knew her. Her cheeks were flushed and she was wearing a paper hat. With her was a tall man in a Harris tweed coat. He had a moustache of impressive proportions and held a whisky and soda in his left hand. His right hand was missing and the tweed sleeve was neatly pinned up. This was Gerald. He smiled dotingly at Mrs McNaughton and raised his glass to Phryne.
Jillian Henderson was deep in converse with Amelia over the properties of begonias and tuberoses, for which she had a passion. Detective-inspector Benton sat on the edge of the chair looking exquisitely uncomfortable. The children gave him uneasy glances. They knew a cop when they saw one.
Bert and Cec, having been provided with beer, were seated at a cast-iron table, watching the game with approval.
After a final burst of Chopin, Jim was left in regal possession of the last chair. He accepted the prize penny, and gave it to Elsie to store in her drawers.
Phryne stepped into the middle of the floor and clapped her hands.
‘Before we have lunch, we are going to play a new game,’ she told the children and watching adults. ‘The game is called, “Murder”.’
There was a buzz of excitement. Bill came in from the garden, saw Margaret Wilson, and roared, ‘Margaret Wilson! I knew I’d seen that red bathing costume before.’
‘Bill, join in the procession,’ ordered Phryne. ‘Bert and Cec, you bring the kids. It will be all right. I promise. Come along.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Dot.
‘To the tennis-court,’ said Phryne. She led her congre- gation across the manicured grass until they all stood under the tree.
‘When I spoke to you on this spot last week, Benton, I asked you two good questions, and you didn’t listen to them. Do you remember what they were?’
‘Where did the rock come from, and why was the deceased on the tennis-court in his street shoes. Yes, I remember. I said that the fact that the stone was imported showed that the crime was premeditated, and that the
