Death by Water (19 page)

At the hotel the passengers were buying picture postcards of Milford Sound and what looked horribly like stuffed penguins. Phryne left them to it, returned to the ship, had a hot shower and went to break the bad news about his sou’wester to Navigation Officer Green at lunch.

‘I should have told you to tie it down,’ he worried. He had forgotten to tell Miss Fisher a fact, an important fact! ‘They just tear things that are tied down. No matter, Miss Fisher. I’m sure that the
Hinemoa
can afford to lend me another sou’wester.

Have some of this chicken Véronique, it’s very good.’

‘Thank you,’ said Phryne. Exercise and cold air always sharpened her appetite. She noticed that the Wests were not at lunch, though the rest of the cast was complete.

‘And my niece Margery is going to try a Madrassi curry, which I asked the cook to make,’ beamed Mr Aubrey. ‘Did you enjoy the keas, Miss Fisher?’

‘Very much,’ said Phryne.

‘But this is such a strange place,’ said Mrs Cahill. ‘Don’t you feel those high cliffs closing in on you?’

‘No,’ said Mr Mason. ‘But I’d like to try climbing them.

Must be possible. I mean, trees grow on those slopes.’

‘So do supplejack and bush lawyer vines,’ the professor told him. ‘But you’re welcome to try. You’ll need spikes if you want to attempt the glacier.’

‘No gear,’ confessed Jack Mason. ‘I left all that stuff behind in Melbourne. Pity. Not country you could just take a nice healthy walk in.’

‘Not without a machete and a compass,’ said the professor.

‘And a gallon of the doctor’s insect repellent,’ added Phryne.

‘Great stuff. I haven’t got a single bite.’

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‘Well, I’m going to try for a walk,’ said Mason, getting up.

‘Shake some of the fidgets out of my legs. We don’t sail till morning, right? I’ll be back by then.’

‘Take care,’ said Miss Lemmon.

‘Take care?’ said Jack Mason, grinning. ‘I don’t care.’ He strode out of the Palm Court.

‘What a trying young man he is,’ commented Mrs Cahill.

‘I’m glad my sons weren’t like him.’

‘Yes they were,’ said Mr Cahill, grinning at his wife. ‘You remember when Jim rode the wild brumby? When Andy got thrown and had to bush bash for ten miles to get home? Wasn’t it Jim, when he was a nipper, who climbed the water tower and couldn’t get down and wouldn’t call for help and stayed there all night?’

‘Oh,’ said Mrs Cahill, faintly. ‘Yes.’

‘They were good boys, but,’ said Mr Cahill comfortably.

‘No life for a boy, ship like this. Needs to be down with the stokers, living like a man.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Phryne told Mr Cahill. ‘His father wants him to be a lawyer.’

‘He ain’t got the makings of a lawyer. Give him to me for a year and I’d make him a good cattle man,’ grunted Mr Cahill.

‘He’s gonna break his neck doing something thickheaded. Boy’s bored.’

‘If he takes a nice long walk in the rainforest he won’t be bored,’ predicted the professor.

Phryne met Dot in the corridor outside their suite.

‘Nice service from Father Kelly,’ she reported. ‘I’m going to sit in the library and read my book.’ Dot showed Phryne a book about saints’ lives, suitable for a Sunday. ‘You’re going to talk to the Melody Makers?’

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‘Yes, and I’ve ordered the beer. You’re going to have to do the sanctity for both of us. See you later,’ breezed Phryne, and descended the Grand Staircase.

She found the musicians in a large panelled room which had been set up for rehearsal, with music stands and a litter of instrument cases. These had been stacked against the walls and the room now held a long table at which the Melody Makers were sitting, diverting themselves in various ways.

Lizbet rose from the floor, where she was assisting in the hemming of what looked like curtains.

‘Hello,’ she said. Phryne observed that she was chewing her cud like a cow. Lumberjack gum, she assumed. What a curious pastime. ‘This is Miss Phryne,’ said Lizbet to the Melody Makers. ‘Friend of my Uncle Cec. She’s trying to find out who’s nicking the jewels.’

‘Wasn’t us,’ said Mavis instantly.

‘Everyone says that,’ Phryne replied. ‘But someone is stealing them. What I want to know is, who? And you ought to be able to tell me. You face the crowd and apart from making your excellent music, you have nothing else to do but watch the dancers. Two of these gems were stolen while the ladies in question were dancing. First Miss Van Sluys and her diamonds, and second the pink pearls of Mrs West. And when I was dancing on Friday night, I felt a sharp tug at my neck, from behind.’

‘Why didn’t they get your sapphire, then?’ asked Jo, the tenor, previously seen in evening dress, clad today in a nice quiet grey pullover and flannel bags.

‘It was secured,’ said Phryne. ‘Now, I want to provoke your thoughts, so I have ordered a case or two of thought provoker.’

At her signal, Roberts the steward wheeled in a drinks cart.

Underneath it was a case of beer bottles.

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‘Well, that’s different,’ said Violet, the flute player. There was a chorus of agreement. The vague residual resentment that a foreigner had invaded their sacred Sunday’s rest evaporated.

Caps were uncapped. Amber liquid flowed. Sewing was laid aside, as were books, a game of draughts, three letters home, a crossword puzzle and a fiendishly complex jigsaw puzzle, still at the ‘looking for a piece with a flat edge’ stage. Cigarettes and, in Jo’s case, a pipe were lit and the Melody Makers sat down to a good, solid gossip.

‘First we must tell you that we like this ship,’ exclaimed Magda in her throaty accent. ‘My sister and I like the Melody Makers and the
Hinemoa
. The variety of music, it is extending our repertoire. Nowhere else do we get a chance to play Bach at lunch and jazz at dinner.’

‘Yair,’ drawled Joan, the cello player. ‘Good company, good food, pretty good pay. Mind you, that’s ’cos Mavis, when she sees a booking agent, comes over all feral and grows these long teeth.’

‘With which she skins him alive,’ agreed Lizbet.

‘And then she sells him back his skin,’ added Annie, with the bitterness to which all viola players are prone, while there are violins in the world.

Mavis blushed modestly at these heartfelt tributes. She was a middle aged, middle sized woman with cropped hair which was silvering and bright brown eyes.

‘My girls work hard,’ she said. ‘They should be paid accordingly. If P&O wants us that badly, then they can be expected to pay well. Someone pour me a gin. Shall we introduce ourselves, ladies?’

‘I reckon she knows most of us by sight,’ said Lizbet. ‘She’s been looking at us while she was dancing. I seen you, Miss Phryne. Every night.’

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‘Well, yes,’ Phryne admitted. ‘You are more interesting than anyone I have been dancing with.’

‘Let’s see,’ said Jo, puffing on her pipe and putting her feet on the table. ‘You’ve had Teddy Green, who is a darling, but scarcely love’s young dream. Jack Mason, which must be like dancing with a thunderstorm. Hasn’t grown into his legs yet, that boy. Might be quite passable as a bear wrangler or an elephant handler, but ladies, no. That snake West must have been a nasty experience and I note you haven’t repeated it. You’ve got taste.

And old Mr Aubrey, a certified sweetheart. Hmm. I see what you mean.’

Jo gave Phryne what she had only previously received from a man, viz, a slow, lecherous wink. Aha, thought Phryne, back suddenly with the Sapphics in Paris. No real revelation there, what with the male clothing and so on.

‘Sorry,’ said Phryne in answer to the wink. ‘Blatantly heterosexual.’

‘Can’t blame a girl for trying,’ said Jo amiably. ‘More gin, Miss Phryne?’

‘Thanks,’ said Phryne, and mixed hers with a lot of tonic.

‘You’ve seen them all,’ said Phryne. ‘Rack your brains for me, ladies. Do you recall Miss Van Sluys losing her diamonds?’

‘Such a hullaballoo,’ said Katrina, fanning herself. Screaming and carrying on. She was dancing with Jack Mason when it happened.’

‘Was she indeed?’ asked Phryne. ‘Does anyone else remember that?’

‘But yes,’ said Magda. ‘We were doing a slow foxtrot to

‘‘Bye, Bye, Blackbird’’, everyone was dancing around, it was getting late, Mavis had just told us, two more songs and then

‘‘Now Is the Hour’’, and then—she started to shriek.’

‘And she was dancing with Jack Mason?’

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‘She was,’ confirmed Annie. ‘I play percussion for the dance band. I’d just had to fight the oaf off when he wanted to play my drums—there is always some idiot who wants to play the drums—so I sent him off to dance with the pretty girl. She was a pretty girl, too. Spoilt as a hothouse flower. But pretty.’

‘And pretty rich,’ agreed Mavis. ‘Her father offered a hundred quid’s reward for the return of that necklace so we dis-cussed it carefully. But none of us saw anything. It’s hard to see details when the lights are low, because the available light comes through the Tiffany garlands and it’s all colours.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Phryne, sipping.

‘Then when the West pearls went west—sorry—she was dancing with Jack Mason. Don’t think we didn’t think it was him, but we really couldn’t see how he’d done it, and anyway, where did they go? Everyone was searched. He couldn’t have swallowed them,’ Jo pointed out. ‘Besides, I don’t reckon he’s clever enough to do something as ingenious as this. Not a bad boy, but not that bright.’

‘I think he might be cleverer than he looks,’ said Magda darkly.

‘Just because he’s proof against your charms . . .’ began her sister.

‘And has he fallen into your arms?’ retorted Magda.

‘Ladies, ladies,’ interrupted Phryne. ‘Have another drink.

Do you mean that neither of you has managed to . . . er . . .

engage Mr Mason’s attention? Really?’

Magda glared at Katrina. Katrina glared at Magda. For a moment the room was quiet. Then Katrina laughed and Magda embraced her.

‘Neither of us,’ they admitted, together.

‘He must be ill,’ said Phryne, finding this hard to believe.

The Czech sisters had ‘it’ in volcanic proportions, whether one
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favoured the cool, flaxen, blonde Magda or the dark, smouldering passionate Katrina. ‘I may have to look at Jack Mason again,’ she concluded. ‘All right. Anything that you can tell me which might help?’

‘You’ve probably worked out the cast of people by yourself,’

Mavis told her. ‘Your table three have been there in all the robberies. Let’s see. Old Mr Aubrey, he’s a sweetheart. Everyone loves him. Just don’t let him start showing you pictures of his grandchildren. He can go on about them for hours. Oh, and never try one of his curries. Phong, the Malay cook, makes them for him special. Has to use an enamel pot because they eat into the stainless steel. Professor Applegate? Very fair old lady. The Maoris think she’s something special. We had some trouble with one of the Maori boys fancying Annie and just a word from the professor put him right back in his box.’

‘I don’t know what she said to him,’ commented Annie, giggling at the memory. ‘But he just folded up and slunk away.

And she barely clears five feet high and he must have been close on seven feet tall and half a hundredweight. And when the crew tried to blame us for the thefts she told the officer that we couldn’t possibly have done them because everyone was on stage, playing. No, nice lady.’

‘Jack Mason, he’s just a boy. He’s here with Thomas, his man, snooty devil. Don’t mix with such as us. Only drinks the best of wine. Lah di dah,’ said Joan, coarsely.

‘Mrs West, silly bitch, always flirting.’

‘Any suggestion that she does more than flirt?’

‘Never heard,’ said Jo. ‘Don’t care,’ she added. ‘Women like her give women a bad name.’

‘Mr West?’

‘A snake,’ said Jo. ‘Never tips. Oily to his superiors and nasty to his inferiors. We don’t like Mr West.’

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‘How about the Cahills?’

‘Nice old bloke, real bushie,’ said Violet. ‘She’s nice too.

Come into money late, I reckon, bit out of their depth. That’s why they look after the pennies. But he asked us to play

‘‘Paddlin’ Madeline Home’’ for her, it being her favourite song or something, and we did, and he gave us a shilling. No harm in them,’ opined Violet.

‘And how about the Singers?’

‘They’re not nice,’ said Magda. ‘He is in pain and cruel to her, she is desperately trying to please him, and the more she tries, the less she pleases. It is sad,’ she concluded, looking Slavic.

Her sister nudged her. ‘What about Mr Singer asking you all those questions?’ she prompted.

‘Ah yes, it was strange. He wanted to know everything about the crew,’ she said. ‘I told him it was no use asking me, the crew do not like us and I do not know any of them.’

‘What was he asking?’ Phryne was beginning to feel the effects of too much gin in the afternoon.

‘Names, he had a list of names he was looking for. All men.

I told him to ask someone else. He swore at me. I cursed him.

That was all.’

‘Mr Forrester?’ prompted Phryne.

‘A lecher,’ said Mavis. ‘But a polite one. Knows what ‘‘no’

means.’

‘How about Miss Lemmon?’ Phryne persisted.

‘She’s enjoying it. Takes after her uncle. That’s about all we can tell you, Miss Fisher.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it is,’ said Phryne, getting up carefully.

‘Drink the rest of the drinks, girls. When you’ve finished call Roberts to take the cart away. Thanks for a very nice talk,’ said Phryne, and went out.

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She leaned briefly against the wall, then tacked her way up the Grand Staircase to her own suite. When she got there she fell into the embrace of her bed and fell instantly asleep.