Death by Water (5 page)

‘Joan plays the cello and the double bass. That’s her in satin trousers—wouldn’t be decent otherwise. Vi plays the flute and the sax, and Rosie the clarinet—I wonder where she’s got to. Old Mother Mavis is going to split a gusset pretty soon. Jo’s the one in the suit. She sings ballads and she can pretty much play anything, so she fills in. You on the
Hinemoa
on a job, Miss Fisher?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, deciding instantly to trust this laconic young woman.

‘Uncle Cec would want me to help you,’ said Lizbet. ‘He thinks the world of you, Miss Fisher. Uncle Bert, too. They’re really proud of working for you. You let me know if I can help.

We’re on every night except Sundays. Well, hooroo for now,’

said Lizbet, and drifted back to the musicians.

Mavis had given up on the errant Rosie after Magda returned from the crew quarters without her. She gathered her
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girls, lifted her baton, and they launched into a nice, upbeat version of ‘Pardon me, Pretty Baby’. Phryne sang along under her breath.

Phryne observed that Lil, the trombone player, had been propped upright against a convenient pillar. She was playing faultlessly, probably by memory. Musicians, it seemed, were like sailors; as long as they weren’t too drunk to stand up they could manage their duties.

The singer was the woman in the evening suit. She had a very pleasant tenor voice, rich without being gluey. Misfits, thought Phryne, we are all misfits. Lizbet plays the trumpet which girls don’t do. And that tenor Jo is good enough for the stage, though I bet she can’t get a job with the Melbourne Chorale. And whoever thought that I would be a detective?

She put down her empty glass and was aware of someone hovering in her vicinity. It was Navigation Officer Green, nerving himself up to ask Phryne to dance. While this was an amusing spectacle, Phryne was not a cruel woman by nature.

She cut his indecision short by walking up to him and asking sweetly, ‘May I have this dance?’

‘Oh, er, yes, Miss Fisher,’ he stammered, taking her in his arms as though he was afraid she would break. Or, possibly, bite.

Years of sullen, compulsory attendance at Miss Gissing’s School Of Dance had not obliterated his fine natural clumsi-ness. But this lady seemed to know what she was doing and at least he knew the steps. And she wasn’t wearing a train. He had still not got over his horror at the sound of tearing stitches, and the glacial politeness of his partner assuring him that it didn’t matter at all, it was just an old dress, really.

Now the song was telling him about the red red robin going bob-bob-bobbin’ along, of all unlikely things for a robin to do, and Navigation Officer Theodore Green found
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that he was dancing without thinking about his feet. He was aware that Miss Fisher was leading, but that was neither here nor there. The fact remained that his feet were not colliding painfully with Miss Fisher’s delicate louis-heeled blue shoes and they were moving around the Palm Court dance floor in fine style.

‘See, it’s easy,’ said Phryne, tilting her head to speak to him.

‘As long as you forget what your feet are doing. Talking to me will aid this process.’

‘Really, Miss Fisher?’ he asked as they executed a precise turn and came back across the floor. He could have rested his chin on her sleek head and she smelt wonderful.

‘I’ve met all the passengers concerned,’ she told him. ‘Mr Aubrey is a charming man and seems wealthy enough.’

‘Oh yes, Miss Fisher, I believe he’s very comfortable. When we finish these little New Zealand runs, he’s already booked on the round-the-world cruise. All the crew like him. He’s a very nice old gentleman and has some fascinating stories about the old days in India. Really cheers up when the weather starts getting tropical.’

‘Just so. Mr Forrester couldn’t take his eyes off my chest, but he wasn’t looking at the gem.’

‘Er, I believe that he’s very successful with the ladies,’ said Theodore Green reluctantly. ‘Stewards always knock and wait for a count of ten before they go into his cabin. But there haven’t been any complaints,’ he said.

‘No, he would only be interested in the ones who wanted him,’ said Phryne. ‘That’s the secret of being a successful man about town. Make it your rule in life, my dear Navigation Officer.’

‘Er . . .’ said Theodore Green wildly.

‘Mr West is very possessive. Mrs West is very young.’

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‘That’s true. A couple of times there have been . . . well

. . . scenes when some young man was paying her attention which Mr West considered too familiar. Now our surgeon has fallen for her. Hook, line
and
sinker, I’m afraid. Her clothes seem to invite . . . er . . .’

‘Closer inspection?’ asked Phryne wickedly.

‘Er, yes, Miss Fisher.’

‘True. The gown she was almost wearing this evening would have made about two napkins and a small tablecloth.

But that is the fashion. She would have ripped the gem off my neck if she could.’

‘She has lots of her own,’ Theodore informed Phryne. ‘And one of hers was stolen last voyage. Cost the company a pretty penny to hush it up.’

‘Greed knows no moderation,’ said Phryne severely.

‘“These are the Four that are never content, that have never been filled since the Dews began—Jacala’s mouth, and the glut of the Kite, and the hands of the Ape, and the eyes of Man”.’

‘Kipling,’ he said. ‘The ‘‘Jungle Book’’. You know that he made up the
Just So Stories
on a ship?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, still thinking about Mrs West. ‘If one of her jewels was stolen I think that means we should discount her. I’d say she loves those gems with a fiery passion.’

‘Very likely,’ said Theodore Green as they essayed another turn. This was working! Who said he couldn’t dance?

‘I can’t see Professor Applegate stealing a stone unless it was a Maori artifact. Margery Lemmon is a possibility. So is that bouncing young man Mr Mason. He might think that being Raffles’ ‘The Gentleman Thief ’ was jolly good sport. The Cahills haven’t a particle of initiative. Well, we shall see. There,’

she said, as the music stopped. ‘Wasn’t that fun?’

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‘Oh yes, Miss Fisher,’ breathed Navigation Officer Green.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Phryne, allowing him to conduct her to her previous chair. ‘Champagne.’

The Palm Court was filling up with dancers. Mavis and the Melody Makers were doing well for a band with a missing clarinet and an alcohol-assisted trombone. They were playing a quickstep: ‘Ain’t she sweet?’

Jonquil West floated past in the arms of Doctor Shilletoe, the ship’s doctor. The doctor was a personable young man.

Phryne saw Mr West hunched at a small table, his clasped hands before him, quivering with tension. The couple danced very well. She was almost professional. It crossed Phryne’s mind to wonder where Mr West had found his Jonquil.

She was wearing a red dress which dipped almost to the waist at the back, revealing her porcelain pale skin. The doctor’s hands, perforce, were stroking the smooth torso. Mrs West was almost purring.

There’s trouble, thought Phryne, looking at the darkening West face. Why on earth would he take her on these cruises when he’s as jealous as that? She’s bound to dance with pretty young men. That’s one of the things which cruises do for young men. Strange.

Navigation Officer Green came back with a glass of champagne. He was very proud of getting that glass across the dangerous terrain of the dance floor and safely into Miss Fisher’s hands without spilling a drop. Phryne accepted it. Good champagne. In the French manner, if not actually French speaking.

‘None for you?’ she asked.

‘Oh no, Miss Fisher, we can’t drink with passengers, it’s a company rule.’

‘But you can dance with us?’

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‘Yes, we’re expected to dance.’ Until now this had struck him as the most dire of his duties but he was beginning to reconsider this opinion. ‘Good exercise and good relations with the passengers. On sailing ships, they used to make the crew dance. On long voyages, you know, when they were becalmed or on station. Gets the fidgets out of the legs.’

‘And gives them something to do with their hands,’ said Phryne lightly. Evidently nothing was going to deter Theodore Green from imparting interesting facts to Phryne. She decided to enjoy them. You never know, she told herself, when you might need a fact or two.

Mr and Mrs Cahill went past. They danced well, thought Phryne, as though they had danced together for a long time.

Margery Lemmon was dancing with her uncle, old Mr Aubrey.

The language they spoke was not English but sounded sweet on the tongue. The professor was not dancing. She was sitting at a small table, reading a letter through pince-nez. Albert Forrester was setting up his camera and tripod.

‘Come along, Miss Fisher,’ he called to her. ‘You’ll look wonderful amongst the palm leaves.’

‘I’ll leave you,’ said Theodore Green regretfully.

‘See if you can get Mrs West away from Doctor Shilletoe,’

Phryne advised. ‘Cut in on him if you need to. That might avert the scene which is presently on its way at the speed of sound.’

‘Right you are,’ said the navigation officer, fired with new confidence. Phryne saw him tap Doctor Shilletoe on the shoulder and possess himself of an armful of Mrs West just as her husband was standing up from his thunderous crouch.

When he saw his wife in the safe arms of an inoffensive officer of the ship, West relaxed and accepted a drink from a hovering steward. Good, thought Phryne. Scenes are so inelegant.

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They can, of course, be instructive, but I can bait that man at any time and this is my first night.

She posed under the fronds for Mr Forrester. He was an unusual photographer. Instead of giving endless instructions in a faintly annoyed tone—‘chin a bit higher, turn your head a little, no, not that much’—he talked amiably and then, when one was least expecting it, took the picture. He was using a camera that Phryne had always associated with Hollywood films. It had a handle.

‘Yes, it’s a cine camera,’ he told her. ‘I engineered it to take one frame at a time. The exposure is a lot faster than plate, so I can catch a passing expression. It’s a bit more iffy to develop but at least I don’t have to lug plates around.’

‘Interesting,’ said Phryne, suddenly feeling weary of people telling her things. ‘Would you like to dance?’

‘Delighted,’ he said, clapping his lens cap in place.

Photography was his second love, after all. His first was ladies of all sizes and shapes. And this one was a very delec-table size and shape indeed.

And the band played ‘Walking My Baby Back Home’.

Phryne returned to her cabin, resisting a pressing invitation to his cabin from Mr Forrester, and sank onto her bed. Dot was head down in the wardrobe. All Phryne could see of her were her well shod feet.

‘Dot, are you looking for something?’ she asked at last.

Dot’s head appeared. Her face was red with effort and anger.

‘Miss Phryne,’ she declared. ‘This room has been searched!’

‘Well, well,’ murmured Phryne. ‘Anything missing?’

‘I’ve just been checking. Nothing’s gone, but it’s all been handled, moved around.’

‘You’re sure?’ asked Phryne, knowing that Dot was sure. She
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had re-arranged all their goods only a few hours ago. As she had expected, Dot nodded.

‘Was your stuff searched?’

‘All of it. Even . . .’ Dot’s lip quivered. ‘My underthings.’

‘Dot, dear, come and sit here by the window and we shall finish off that nice bottle of gin. It’s not personal. The burglar was looking for information about me and had no interest in your underclothes, I promise.’

‘Promise?’ asked Dot, accepting a glass of gin and tonic. She sat down in the pretty wicker chair and looked hard at Phryne.

Then she nodded and sipped her drink.

‘I’m very glad that he or she didn’t find this,’ said Phryne, producing a closely folded wad of paper from her evening bag.

‘What’s that?’ asked Dot, on a gasp. She wasn’t used to strong drink.

‘My briefing notes on the other four robberies. All that the burglar would have seen in here was proper: the clothes and possessions of a lady of my station. Nothing unusual. I thought this might happen so I carried all my dangerous secrets with me. Don’t worry. The burglar won’t be back. He or she now knows that we are just who we said we were.’

‘All right,’ said Dot. ‘But it gave me a turn.’

‘I bet it did.’

Phryne and Dot stared out at the sea. The waves were black, rolling gently, and the stars overhead were pounced silver on black velvet, like the mourning dress of a queen. Phryne drank her gin, pleased. The cabin was very quiet. Then she heard a scratching noise. Scratching noise?

‘Dot, did you hear something?’ she asked. Dot leapt to her feet.

‘He’s under your bed!’ she exclaimed, grabbing up a discarded shoe.

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‘And he shall shortly not be under my bed. Out you come, if you please,’ said Phryne. ‘I am armed, you know.’

There was a pause. Then out from under the sumptuous bed came the most disreputable tom cat Phryne had ever seen.

His tail was chewed to string. His ears were punched like bus tickets. He had been, probably, a very pretty silver tabby kitten, but life had been hard on him. He paused to strop a claw or two on the carpet, then picked up his burden and walked to Phryne’s feet, where he sat down, staring up into her face. He had very clear, very green eyes in his pugilist’s face.

‘Well,’ said Phryne, putting the gun back under her pillow and suppressing an urge to giggle, ‘nice to meet you, sir. That’s a very fine rat you have there. He must have got in when the burglar did, Dot. Now I suppose you would like me to open the door?’ she said to the cat.