Death at Victoria Dock (4 page)

‘Who shot at you?’ he asked, with every appearance of really wanting to know.

‘Anarchists, I believe.’ Phryne peeled the orange assiduously. ‘Outside Victoria Dock gates. Last night,’ she added. ‘The police tell me that they were anarchists. So I want to know more about them. Why, for instance, did they want me dead?’

‘That does not sound like them,’ said Peter, quietly. ‘What had you done?’

‘Nothing, I was just driving past on a public road when the windscreen of my car shattered.’

‘Did you see them?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, splitting the fruit neatly down the middle. ‘I saw them.’

She omitted to mention that what she had seen was two shapes which presumably were men and which she would never know again.

‘This is most disturbing, Miss Fisher…Fisher?’

‘That is my name. Tell me about Latvia and about anarchists.’

‘Vera said Lithuania.’

‘Latvia,’ said Phryne through a mouthful of orange. ‘This is a really good orange. Do you work on the wharf?’

‘Yes. Latvia, well, it has been many years since I have been there. What is happening in Latvia I have only heard from the exiles, and exiles cannot be depended upon.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Litvinov signed a non-aggression pact.’

‘In 1920.’

‘So. You have been reading. But Russia has always coveted the Baltic states, because the Baltic Sea has warm water ports. Lenin died in 1924 and that has been the ruin of Russia. Now that Stalin is in control, I fear that Latvia will not long keep her independence. Already there are spies of the Bolsheviks in all the Baltic states, and there have been arrests, and now that the forced communalization of the country is happening in Russia, Latvia cannot be long untouched. There will be massacres and much unhappiness and more and more of the people will flee. More will come here, perhaps, because it is better to plot revolution in a country a long way from the OGPU.’

‘And who are they?’

‘They used to be the Cheka. They are the secret arm of the Russian state. Some of their agents were Tsarist spies. It is not so long since the Tsar fell, you know.’

‘Indeed. And are there many anarchists here?’

‘Not only anarchists and Latvians, but Latvian anarchists, eh?’ The eyes were bright and shrewd. ‘There are some. We have here in Melbourne the Nagiakas, the Zmowa Robotnicza, even the Red Cross—the Zenosis.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Miss Fisher, I don’t think that I should tell you any more. These are dangerous people who will not bear investigation. They would not be pleased if they knew that you were even asking about them.’

‘Why not? And did they ask my permission when they shot at me?’

‘That must have been a mistake. They try not to draw attention to themselves.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Because they wish to finance the Revolution at home, of course. I’m sure that there are OGPU agents in Melbourne. And revenge against the relatives who are still in the homeland is not unknown. No, not unknown,’ he mused, and a shadow of pain crossed his face, deepening the lines. Phryne had previously put his age at about thirty, but now thought that he must be ten years older.

‘Am I putting you in danger by asking?’

‘No, not I, Miss Fisher. But if you want me to tell you more it might be politic to move.’

‘No, I disagree. The level of noise in this place is such that no one can overhear us. If we walk out together looking like conspirators then someone will certainly notice. Pray continue. Would you care for a cigarette?’

She offered her own case and he accepted.

Someone was attempting a medieval tune on an instrument which sounded like a trodden-on trumpet. Phryne asked one of the lovers what on earth it was.

‘A crumhorn!’ cried one of the young persons, disengaging his or her mouth from someone else’s. ‘It’s authentic.’

‘It certainly is,’ yelled Phryne, and put a hand on Peter’s arm. ‘See? Lean a little closer and look like you are thinking of attempting to seduce a rich parvenue and no one will notice a thing.’

Phryne did not add that such things had been known to happen at Vera and Joseph Wilson’s parties before; she had picked up a particularly beautiful lute-player once. And, now she came to think of it, a charming seaman who had unaccountably failed to make his ship the next morning and had to go out in the pilot boat.

Peter Smith put his arm around Phryne so that he could bring his mouth close enough to her ear.

‘If you insist,’ he sighed. ‘So. There are three groups at least that could have provided your gunman.’

‘Men. There were two of them.’

‘Men,’ he agreed. ‘One has no name. The others are called the Latvian Revolutionary Alliance and the Free Latvia Party. I regret that they have been financing the Revolution by…you speak French?’

Phryne nodded. His arm was strong and he smelt delightfully of oranges. She was beginning to have designs upon him.

Peter Smith evidently felt the same, because he was holding her a lot closer than was tactically necessary. The crumhorn completed his piece and was replaced by three untuned recorders.

‘I speak French.’

‘
Illégalisme
,’ he breathed in her ear. ‘They have been robbing banks.’

‘
Have
they?’

‘With small success. They are not very efficient. But now the police are looking for all of them and they may have thought that you could know them again, and—’

‘Decided to rub me out. Possibly.’

Phryne still had not mentioned the death of the young man and now felt that she could not.

‘Why
illégalisme
? Why not get a job?’

‘Ah, you do not understand. They are anarchists. Anarchists do not work. They refuse, they say, to exploit or be exploited. Therefore, the banks. In any case they could not earn sufficient for what they have in mind.’

‘And what is that?’

Peter Smith paused. Phryne could see what he was thinking. A rich woman with no stake in the Revolution, how safe was her tongue? Would she be likely to tell anyone? Phryne stared into the dark-blue eyes with as limpid a gaze as she could possibly manage and saw the man make a decision.

‘It is no secret, after all,’ he said, softly. ‘All of the Latvian community know of it. They want to train assassins in this law-abiding country of yours, Miss Fisher, and…’

‘And?’

The cacophony produced by the recorders was jarring Phryne’s ears. She leaned fully into the man’s embrace and heard him whisper, ‘
Ils veulent assassiner Staline
—they want to kill Stalin.’

Chapter Four

‘Absolutism tempered by assassination.’

Ernst Munster on the Russian Constitution

‘Would you care to kiss me?’ said Phryne. ‘Just the hand. Then we shall go home to my house and you shall tell me more, if you will.’

Peter Smith kissed Phryne’s hand lingeringly enough to convince any watcher that their alliance was not political and they clambered out of the party just as the recorders had been replaced by a very good flute.

‘Phryne, just before you go.’ Vera caught at her sleeve.

Phryne reached into her bag.

‘What for this time, Vera?’

‘The famine. In Africa.’

Phryne handed over two pounds. Vera gave her a receipt and said, ‘Be careful of my Peter Smith, now, Phryne. I want him back. The World Revolution needs him.’

Phryne smiled a wicked smile and kissed Vera’s cheek.

‘You can have him back in time for the Revolution,’ she whispered, and made a commendable exit without falling over too many bodies or the perambulator on the stair.

***

‘Home, Bert,’ she ordered, climbing into the taxi and swallowing a few times to regain her hearing. Peter Smith did not speak on the journey, nor until he was being led into Phryne’s parlour.

‘This is your house?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are an aristocrat, then.’

‘Not really. I spent all of my childhood on the verge of starvation and in dire poverty. Then the Great War killed a lot of young men and my father gained a title and I became a lady. Surprising, eh? What will you have?’

‘A little whisky, I see that it is Laphroaig. A noble spirit. Hmm. So you know what it is to be poor?’

‘Yes.’

Peter Smith relaxed a little and sat down in one of the comfortable chairs. He sipped the whisky and stared into the fire.

‘They are not likely to succeed,’ he commented. ‘I agree.’

‘I didn’t say a thing!’

‘No, but the thing is, on the face of it, absurd. To even get near to Stalin, a known Lett or a known anarchist, it would be impossible.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. There are always methods. No one can be guarded closely enough to resist a really determined assassin. Look at Tsar Alexander. He was surrounded with bodyguards and they still got him.’

‘True. In any case I do not see the connection between a plot to kill Stalin and an attempt to kill you.’

‘There is more to it,’ said Phryne slowly. ‘They were there to kill someone else. A young man. They had shot him.’

‘He was dead?’

‘Comprehensively.’

‘And you saw them. So, that is reasonable. Naturally they would want to remove a witness. You relieve my mind. I would not like to think that my countrymen had taken leave of their senses.’

‘Thank you so much. Do you approve of this…murder?’

‘They must have had their reasons. He may have been a Bolshevik spy.’

‘He can’t have been. He was only a boy.’

‘When I was such a boy, I and some others attacked Riga prison to free some of our brothers who were penned there. Some guards were killed. One of our men also.’

‘And you escaped?’

‘Yes. I had to flee the country. I left that night as supercargo in an English coaler.’

‘Have you ever been back?’

‘I? No,’ he laughed painfully. ‘There was nothing to take me back. My mother and my sister were shot by the secret police. I had no reason to go back. And I have reasons to stay here.
J’avais raison
. I have ties.’

Phryne was silent.

‘However, that was a long time ago. I have been in many places since then.’

‘These anarchists—the ones that are here—do you know them all?’

‘Yes. Most of them.’

‘And you don’t know who the boy was, or why he was killed? I want to know,’ Phryne said firmly. ‘I don’t care two hoots about Stalin. I am not interested in politics at all. But I want those two—I want them tried for murder and if he was a Bolshevik spy there must be better ways of dealing with them than to shoot them. Why not keep them and offer them false information? This is Australia and we cannot afford to have people exporting their revolutions here. If we have a revolution it must be an Australian one, or it can’t possibly work.’

‘You have reason,’ he said stiffly, a literal translation of the French, Phryne realized. ‘The police are doubtless in possession of all your information. Why not leave it to them?’

Phryne was tired and disinclined to argue. ‘Perhaps that would be best. In any case, now that I have met you, Mr. Smith, perhaps we can improve our acquaintance. If you would like to call me in a few days, we can arrange something politically null. Dinner?’

‘I shall certainly do myself the honour to call,’ he said formally, accepted her card, and left. Phryne put herself wearily to bed and slept all night without dreams.

***

Phryne breakfasted on croissants, strong
café au lait
and oranges. It was nine o’clock when she requested Mr. Butler to find the Anglican Sisterhood and put her in telephonic communication with the mother superior. It took twenty minutes, but eventually she was handed the phone and advised that Mother Theresa was willing to speak to her.

‘Phryne Fisher here,’ she said. ‘Hello, Mother Theresa.’

An alto voice of some calm and humour replied, ‘Mother Theresa here. What can I do for you, Miss Fisher?’

‘I’m looking for a lost girl. Her name is Waddington-Forsythe. Do you have her, or have you seen her?’

‘Why should I speak to you, Miss Fisher?’

‘Because I feel that something very unpleasant may have happened to the child.’

‘You are retained by Mr. Waddington-Forsythe?’ asked the nun, with a nuance of distaste.

‘Yes. I accepted the commission, thinking it was a prank or an unacceptable sweetheart, but I have met the family and now I have misgivings. Mother, have you seen her?’

The woman was silent.

Phryne said quickly, ‘Have a heart, Mother Theresa! Don’t make me comb all the brothels in Gertrude Street again.’

There was a shocked intake of breath. Mother Theresa asked sharply, ‘Then this is not some adolescent tantrum? She is a godly and serious young woman, with a definite vocation. Have you any reason to think that…that such a fate may have befallen little Alicia?’

‘No, but she is definitely missing. She isn’t with any of her relatives, and her parents and her brother don’t know where she is.’

‘Her stepmother. Her own mother is dead, may she rest in peace.’

‘You know the family?’

‘Oh, yes. I beg your pardon for hesitating, Miss Fisher. Mr. Waddington-Forsythe is…’

‘A pill. I know. Is Alicia with you?’

‘No. Would it be of use to talk to me about the family? It might give you a clue.’

‘Yes. When shall I come to see you?’

‘Today, if you like. I am always at home, Miss Fisher.’

‘I’ll come directly,’ promised Phryne, was blessed, and rang off. Phryne went to get dressed in suitable convent-visiting clothes, wondering which Theresa she had taken as her saint. Theresa of Avila, Phryne guessed, a strong-minded Spaniard who had bishops hiding under their desks, rather than the sentimental and girlish Therese of the Flowers, from Liseux.

‘Dot, take a coat, we are going to visit a convent. What shall I wear?’

‘Something lavish, Miss.’

‘Lavish?’

‘Yes, Miss, it will please the little girls to see a lady in nice clothes. It always did when I was at school. The sapphire blue suit, Miss, with the silk coat and a nice hat.’

‘It’s not a Catholic convent, Dot, it’s an Anglican one.’

‘I didn’t know they had convents. But it will be the same, Miss.’

‘Sapphire and silk it shall be, and that darling blue hat with the anemones. That should be lavish enough. Are you coming?’

‘If you want me, Miss.’

‘Of course I do.’

Dot smiled, provided undergarments and the suit, then sprinkled Phryne with attar of roses.

‘Why roses?’

‘It’s the only scent the nuns don’t object to, because of the miracle of St. Elizabeth of Bohemia,’ explained Dot patiently. ‘And there are no scents in convents but honest soap and baking bread. When a lady visited we used to stand around her, sniffing.’

Phryne insisted that Dot have some attar too, so that they would match. Dot took her azure coat and donned her embroidered afternoon tea dress, pulling on a sensible hat and driving gloves.

‘Where is this convent, Miss?’

‘Eltham. Mr. Butler is driving. We shall sit in the back and be ladies, for a change. We might have to stay overnight, so bring a nightie and pack one for me. I’ll be downstairs arranging for a picnic basket.’

Phryne negotiated with Mrs. Butler for a luncheon basket and the loan of her husband for the day. Mr. Butler joyfully dusted off his chauffeur’s cap and got out the maps. It was not often that Phryne allowed anyone to drive her prized car.

Such was Phryne’s strength of character and the efficiency of her household, that she and Dot were seated in a car loaded with travelling rugs, hats, overnight bags and picnic baskets by ten o’clock, and Mr. Butler was steering the great car out into The Esplanade on the way to Eltham. Phryne disliked being driven in her own car, but she had an effect to make and Dot to amuse. Dot disliked cars under any circumstances and was only reconciled to the Hispano-Suiza because of a recently discovered aversion to trains.

‘Tell me about St. Elizabeth of Bohemia, Dot.’

‘She was the wife of a nasty prince,’ said Dot. ‘We are going to hit that truck!’

‘No we aren’t. Go on. If you keep interrupting, I shall never get the story straight, and think of the peril to my immortal soul.’ Sobered by this reflection, Dot pulled herself together.

‘As I say, a nasty cruel prince who would not let her give food to the poor. So she used to smuggle it out in her basket. He had threatened to have her killed if he caught her giving any of his bread to the beggars. One day he grabbed her when she was carrying a basket full of food and demanded to know what she had in it. She said, ‘Roses,’ and he didn’t believe it and tore the basket open. It was full of roses. God had saved her so that she could keep feeding the poor.’

‘Gosh, Dot, what a story! And she must have got such a shock when he opened the basket. Imagine, there she is, expecting to be killed on the spot, possibly even rather liking the prospect of going to Heaven and leaving this cruel man, and then saved, suddenly, miraculously. It must have been like a blow in the face.’

‘I suppose it would have been,’ agreed Dot, dragging her eyes away from the Plenty Road milestones which seemed to be fleeting past with indecent speed. ‘Where are we now, Miss?’

‘Preston. Cheer up. We’ll be out of the suburbs soon and there will be less traffic. I spoke to your young constable this morning. He’s rather nice, Dot. Do you like him?’

Dot stared at Phryne, reddening.

‘Yes, Miss, I like him well enough.’

‘He’s about to ask you to help him in a spot of detection. I suggested that he go to the Latvian Club and sit in on one of their meetings, with a young lady as cover, and he thought of you. He’s a Catholic, by the way,’ added Phryne.

‘Oh, Miss,’ wailed Dot. ‘What shall I do?’

‘It won’t do any harm if he just asks, Dot. You can always say no.’

‘But I don’t want to say no,’ confessed Dot. Phryne chuckled.

‘Then say yes, Dot. What could be more proper than a meeting of the Latvian Club? I’m sure that it will be all right. He just wants to observe, you know. Have you got the thermos? I could do with some tea,’ said Phryne, to distract Dot.

She poured the tea, already sugared, and they sipped in silence. Mr. Butler was a very good driver, and the roads were almost empty. Farmland stretched out on either side, with a few scattered houses. Reservoir was approaching. Phryne lit a gasper and enjoyed the scenery. The very first plum blossoms of spring were decorating the landscape. ‘Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,’ she murmured. ‘And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.’

Eltham was beautiful, and the Convent of the Holy Spirit was awesome. Phryne reflected how proud the gold-rich ex-digger who had built it must have been of his beautiful house. His wife, she was told by a chatty guidebook, had been born in Paris, and had taken Directoire ideas and married them to Old British Empire with verandahs. It was built of red brick with cornices and gargoyles and was so very, very vulgar that it was magnificent. Its total disregard of all canons of taste was dramatic and oddly endearing.

‘My Sacred Lord,’ exclaimed Dot, startled, and crossed herself.

‘Yes, it is rather…er…actually I can’t think of a word that adequately describes it. According to the guidebook, the sisterhood acquired it after the original owner drank himself to death celebrating the end of the Boer War. They’ve been here ever since. I wonder which of the three doors I can see is the front one? And those gargoyles seem familiar…aha, I have it. Notre Dame, of course.’

A very tidy bevy of small girls approached at a convent-trained walk, stopped in front of the visitors and stared up at them. The Anglicans appeared to detest the flesh as much as the Catholics, to judge from the ugliness of the school uniforms. The girls were clad in dark serge, box-pleated and ankle-length, white shirts in a painful condition of starch and the most pot-shaped hats Phryne had ever seen. They smelt of good honest soap and scrubbing, and their hair was strained painfully back from rosy faces.

‘Miss Fisher?’ asked the tallest girl. ‘Mother sent us to escort you.’

The girls were feeding their eyes on Phryne’s clothes, and on Dot’s. Dot had been right about the scent. Phryne, surrounded by small mushroom buttons which bobbed about her, could distinctly hear them sniffing.

The left-hand of the three doors was the front door, panelled in blue glass like the wings of tropical butterflies, and they were conducted down a corridor which had been polished glassy. The walls and ceiling were stencilled in burnt orange, umber, mustard and wine-red with dancing maidens and pagan gods. Phryne wondered that the convent management had not papered over them.