hate a draught!’ ‘Eunice, I want my tea!’ ‘Eunice, you are so slow!’ ‘Eunice, when do we get to Ballarat?’ ‘Eunice, are you listening?’ ‘Eunice, where’s my novel? No, not that novel, you stupid girl, the one I was reading yesterday. What do you mean, you didn’t bring it? What other mother has to endure such a stupid, graceless, uncaring daughter? At least you’ll never marry, Eunice, you’ll be with me until I die — and don’t think you’ll get all my money — don’t frown at me, girl! No one loves a poor, deserted old woman! Eunice! Where are you going?’
Phryne thought that if Eunice had finally tipped Mother out of the train, she could understand it. But it did not look as though she had. Surely Eunice would not have drugged the whole train — or burned herself so badly.
Under the burns and the soothing cream, Eunice was rather good looking. She had strong, clean features, rather masculine but well-formed, and curly brown hair kept firmly controlled under bandeau and net. Her eyes, Phryne remembered, were a rich brown, and she was long-limbed and athletic. Why should her mother have been so sure that Eunice would never marry? Admittedly, there was a shortage of young men, and a superfluity of women — the War to End All Wars having slaughtered the manhood of the Empire — but they were there if one tried. Perhaps Eunice had never had the chance to try. Mother was a full-time career.
Dot poured herself another cup of tea and began to twist her plait into a knot, which meant that she was thinking.
‘Miss, could she have. .?’
‘I don’t think so, Dot, because of the burns. She didn’t need to go through all this pretence. All she had to do was boost Mother out of the window, wait a few minutes, then stagger out into the corridor and faint. The train would be miles away by the time she ‘recovered’, and then all she had to do was gasp that Mother was looking out of the window, lost her grip and fell, and that would be that. No old lady would survive a fall from a fast-moving train, at least, it’s unlikely. No. Someone altogether other has contrived this, and a clumsy attempt it is. The previous theory at least has the virtue of simplicity. This one is too elaborate and should not prove too hard to solve, if it is murder.’
‘If it’s murder, Miss? What else could it be?’
‘Kidnapping? Some frolic that went wrong? I don’t know, Dot. Let’s wait until we see what develops. Would you like to take a short nap? I can watch for a while — I’m not sleepy.’
‘Neither am I,’ said Dot. ‘I don’t want to ever sleep again!’
They watched until four in the morning, when a respectful, soft-footed maid came to ask if the Hon. Phryne Fisher could spare Sergeant Wallace a word.
Miss Fisher could. She rose from her seat on the floor and wrapped her cream dressing-gown around her, and followed the maid into what looked to be the hotel’s breakfast-room. Phryne was too tired to be hungry, but thought longingly of coffee.
Miraculously, the policeman had before him a full percolator and several cups. He poured one for Phryne and she sat sipping gratefully and breathing in the steam.
This sergeant was one of the large economy-sized policemen, being about six-and-a-half-feet tall and several axe- handles across the shoulders. The Australian sun had scorched his milky Celtic complexion into the hue of council house brick. His light grey eyes, however, were bright and shrewd.
‘Well, Miss Fisher, I’m Sergeant Wallace and I’m pleased to meet you. Detective-inspector Robinson says to give you his best regards.’
Phryne looked at this country cop over the edge of her coffee cup. He grinned.
‘I telephoned the list of passengers to the central office an hour ago, Miss Fisher, and Robbo was on duty. He recognised the name. Thinks a great deal of you, he does. We went to school together,’ he added. ‘Geelong Grammar. I won a scholarship. However. How are you, Miss? Feeling more the thing?’
‘Yes. But Miss Henderson is still very unwell — and worried about her mother. Have you found her?’
‘Yes, Miss, we’ve found her all right.’
‘Dead?’
‘As a doornail. We brought her into Ballan a few minutes ago. Did you see her, Miss? To identify, I mean?’
‘Yes, I saw her,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I would know her again.’ She thought of the tiny, wizened figure, her thinning white hair carefully combed and dressed in a bun, her fingers laden with many emeralds.
‘Would you do it, then, Miss? I’m only asking to spare Miss Henderson, and they have no near relations. And Robbo, I mean Detective-inspector Robinson, has a high opinion of your courage, Miss Fisher.’
‘Very well. Let’s get it over, then. Lead the way.’
The huge policeman shouldered his way out of the breakfast-room into a cold yard, and thence into a stable smelling of dust and hay and horses.
‘We put her in here for the moment, Miss,’ he said solemnly. ‘We’ll take her into the Coroner’s later. But I want to make sure that it’s the right woman.’
He lifted the lamp high, casting a pool of soft golden light. ‘Is this her, Miss Fisher?’ he asked, and drew back the blanket from an untouched face.
‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘Poor woman! How did she die?’ As she spoke her hands touched the skull, and felt the terrible dent where consciousness had been crushed. The skin was clammy and chill in the way that only the dead are cold. The eyes were shut, and someone had bound up the jaw. Mrs Henderson wore no expression now but peace and faint surprise. There was nothing here to shock Miss Henderson. Phryne said so.
‘Maybe not from the face,’ said the sergeant grimly. ‘But have a look at the rest.’
Phryne drew off the blanket and stepped back a pace, astonished and sick. Such a fury had fallen on the old woman that scarcely a bone was whole. She was covered in red clay. Her limbs were broken, even her fingers twisted out of true, though no part of her seemed to be missing. She laid the blanket back over the wreck of a human creature and shook her head.
‘What could have done that? Did a train run over her?’ ‘No, Miss. The doctor has a theory, but it’s not a nice one.’
‘Tell me, while we go back to the hotel,’ she said, taking the sergeant’s arm. He closed the stable door carefully and waited until Phryne was seated with a fresh cup of coffee before he said, ‘The doctor reckons she was stamped on.’
‘Stamped on?’
‘Yes, Miss, by feet.’
‘Ugh, Sergeant, I hope your doctor is wrong. What a dreadful thought! Who could have hated her that much?’
‘Ah, there you have me, Miss. I don’t know. Now tell me exactly what happened this night, from the time you got on the train.’
Phryne gathered her thoughts, and began. ‘I boarded the train at six o’clock at Flinders Street Station with my companion, Miss Williams, a bunch of narcissus, a picnic basket, a trunk, a suitcase, a hatbox and three novels for railway reading, intending to go to Ballarat to visit some of my cousins — the Reverend Mr Fisher and his sisters. I believe that they are well known in the city and they were expecting me, so you can check with them, and tell them that I shall be along as soon as I can. We were seated in the fourth compartment of the first-class carriage. We saw to the baggage, then had a cup of tea and a biscuit from the dining car. There I made the acquaintance of Miss and Mrs Henderson, and the woman with the children.’
‘Mrs Agnes Lilley, that is, Miss, and Johnnie, Ernest and George.’
‘Quite. Those children were the most pestilential set of little nuisances who ever afflicted a train. Mrs Henderson found them particularly annoying, I thought. I had a few words with that poor old lady on the subject of modern children and how they should have all been drowned at birth, and then Dot and I went back to the compartment. We had some tea in the thermos and we didn’t need to stay in the dining car. I noticed that the couple—’
‘Mr Alexander Cotton and his wife, Daisy,’ put in the sergeant helpfully.
‘Yes, she seemed ill and nervous, and he was bringing her a cup of tea. A clumsy young man. He spilled it all over a passing child and I refilled it from my flask so that he didn’t need to go back to the dining car and doubtless spill it all over again. That sort of young man can continue being clumsy all night, if pressed. I also noticed that his wife is very pregnant, because I find expectant women uncomfortable travelling companions. I hoped that she wasn’t going to deliver in the train, which I believe is not uncommon. Can I have some more coffee?’
‘There’s none left.’ The sergeant pressed a bell, and the landlady came to the door.
