‘Murder, Dot. Robbery was probably an afterthought. No one would go to all that trouble just to rob an old woman, rings or no rings — at least, I don’t think so. People are strange. Have some marmalade, it’s excellent.’
‘When do you reckon that cop will let us go?’ asked Dot, taking some marmalade. Phryne was right — it was excellent.
‘Have to be fairly soon, Dot, after all, they’ve found the body and none of us could have killed her. . except me, of course. I wonder if he suspects me!’
‘Suspects you, Miss!’ Dot was indignant. ‘You wouldn’t go through all this mucking about if you wanted to kill someone. Like a play, this is, not like real life.’
‘You are very acute, Dot. That is exactly what it is. Just like a play. Elaborate, theatrical and stagey. Hello! Here comes our policeman now. Who has he with him?’
Sergeant Wallace came into the breakfast-room, leading a girl by the hand. She was about twelve or thirteen, with two long plaits of brown hair and a skimpy, too-tight dress in shabby winceyette. She was carrying a battered leather attache case and a felt hat, the elastic of which was frayed by chewing. The sergeant led her over to Phryne’s table and said:
‘Well, Miss Fisher, Robbo said that you have a talent for mysteries, and here’s one that I can’t solve. This young woman was on the train, that’s clear enough, for she had a ticket to Ballarat in her pocket, done up with a safety pin. She was found standing on the platform at Ballarat. No one came for her, and no one knows her, and she can’t remember her own name. She can’t tell us anything at all about herself, and I don’t mind telling you I’m stumped. Perhaps you’d do me the favour of taking charge of her for the moment, until we can get the Welfare onto it?’
At the mention of the word ‘Welfare’, Dot had gone pale, and Phryne did not fail to notice this, feeling rather the same herself. In her childhood of straitened circumstances, the Welfare who took children away so that they were never seen again, was a hideous phantom.
‘No, no, there is no need to trouble them,’ she said hastily, taking the girl’s hand and sitting her down beside Dot. ‘We will be delighted to look after the poor little mite, won’t we, Dot?’
Dot nodded and went to fetch a fresh cup and a plate for the girl. The sergeant was about to leave when Phryne seized his arm.
‘There’s something I forgot to tell you,’ she whispered. ‘Her fingers were bare, weren’t they? And when I saw her first, they were loaded down with rings — valuable ones, mostly emeralds and diamonds.’
‘Thanks, Miss Fisher, that is a help. Robbery might be the motive, then, though I can’t imagine how that advances matters. How is the daughter?’
‘I left her sleeping peacefully. I’ll send Dot to help her with her toilet as soon as she’s finished breakfast. Dr Heron had better see her again before she gets up, she was very deeply drugged.’
The sergeant agreed and went away. Phryne came back to her table to find that the girl had been helped to eggs and bacon and toast and tea, and was eating as though she was famished.
‘Slow down, old thing, there’s plenty more,’ she said, and the girl looked up, smiled, and laid down her knife and fork to take a gulp of tea.
Phryne let her eat in peace as she observed her. Neat table manners, someone had taught her well; and if she had plaited her own hair, she was a tidy creature. She could not help the winceyette dress, which had been made for someone less coltish and thinner, and Phryne resolved to get rid of that dress as soon as possible. Though she had not spoken, she had understood what Phryne had said. Therefore she spoke English, which was a help. There were permanent blue shadows under the eyes which spoke of childhood illness, but she seemed sturdy enough. The nails on the large well-formed hands were bitten to the quick.
The girl finished her breakfast, pushing back the plate with a satisfied sigh, and Phryne poured her some more tea.
‘I’m Phryne Fisher, and this is Dorothy Williams. What’s your name?’ she asked quietly, and the girl’s brow puckered.
‘I can’t remember!’ she said, and began to cry.
Dot hastily supplied her with a handkerchief and a hug, and Phryne said quickly, ‘Never mind. We’ll call you Jane. Would you like to come and stay with me for a while, Jane?’
Jane stopped crying and nodded, drying her face. Phryne smiled.
‘Good, that’s settled. Now I have to go and talk to that nice policeman again, so why don’t you find yourself something pleasant to pass the time. There are books and games on that shelf. Dot will help you. See you in an hour or so, Dot.’
Phryne slung her red coat around her shoulders, checked that cigarettes and money reposed in her pockets, and sauntered out into the chilly yard to find the sergeant.
She found him staring mournfully at the stable door, from whence two well-dressed men were carrying a stretcher.
‘Going for autopsy in Melbourne,’ he said in answer to her question. ‘I hope she was dead when all that happened.’
‘So do I. And I haven’t got far with the new puzzle, either.’
‘No? She don’t remember?’
‘She don’t. I have called her Jane. Was she definitely on that train?’
‘Why, yes, Miss, she was seen on it, second carriage from the end. Second-class ticket, single. Nothing on her to identify her, so the Ballarat people shipped her back, thinking that the two mysteries must be connected.’
‘That is not necessarily the case,’ said Phryne. ‘She could have nothing to do with it.’
‘And that’s true too,’ agreed the sergeant, in deepest gloom.
‘Well, they’ve taken the body away, and now I have to break it to Miss Henderson. Hang on a tick. It would come much better from a woman. I don’t suppose that you. .’
Phryne sighed. She had thought that this might happen.
‘All right. I’ll tell Miss Henderson if you take me to see the scene of the crime.’
‘Deal,’ agreed the sergeant, and Phryne returned to the hotel.
Miss Henderson was sitting up in bed and taking a little toast and tea when Miss Fisher arrived. Dot had taken the child Jane into the bathroom and was abjuring her to wash behind her ears. Miss Henderson took one look at Phryne’s solemn face and said, ‘Mother’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid she is.’
‘You know, I thought she must be.’
Miss Henderson began to cry, in a helpless way, seeming to be unaware that she was still holding a piece of toast in one hand and her cup of tea in the other. Phryne took away the cup and the toast and gave Miss Henderson a handkerchief, three of which she had prudently provided.
Miss Henderson wiped her face and leaned forward, grabbing Phryne’s wrist in a fierce grip. ‘You are a detective, are you not? I read about that case of the unspeakable little man you caught in Queenscliff. And the Spanish ambassador’s son’s kitten. You’re clever. You can catch him for me.’
‘Catch whom?’ asked Phryne, fighting the urge to free her hand. ‘Calm yourself, Miss Henderson.’
‘The murderer, of course.’
‘Do you really want to hire me? Think about it. I may find out the truth.’
‘That’s what I want you to find,’ said Miss Henderson firmly. ‘I know that Mother was a nuisance. I have quite often felt like killing her myself, God forgive me, but that does not mean that I did it or contrived it. Murder is such a monstrous thing. And why? Why? The person she injured most was me — hounding me, nagging me, day after day, hour after hour, until I thought I’d go mad! If anyone had reason to kill Mother, it was me, but I didn’t. And now I don’t know what to do or where to turn.’
She sobbed for a few minutes, then took control of herself again, putting down the handkerchief.
‘So I want to hire you, Miss Fisher, to find whoever killed my mother. Find out the truth.’
‘All right,’ agreed Phryne, sitting down on the end of the bed. ‘On condition that you drink the rest of that tea and don’t get up until the doctor has seen you.’
‘I’ll be good. Miss Fisher, tell me — did she suffer?’
‘No,’ said Phryne, thinking of the great blow the old woman had taken to the head — surely no awareness could survive that. ‘No, I’m sure she did not suffer.’
