Flying Too High (11 page)

‘I won’t call the police,’ gasped Henry. ‘Is she all right? Let me speak to her.’

‘Tomorrow,’ promised the voice, and there was the final click of a breaking contact. Henry threw down the phone and swore.

‘Was that them?’

‘Yes, Jack. They say that we have to wait for a letter. Oh, Jack, how am I going to tell Molly? And how are we going to bear it?’

‘You can bear most things,’ said Jack. ‘You’re a brave man. What about the time you walked out of the Sahara?’

‘That’s different,’ snapped Henry. ‘That was only me. This time, it’s Candida.’

Haggard with exhaustion and strain, he poured another whisky. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Seven

Wrest once the law to your authority:
To do a great right, do a little wrong

The Merchant of Venice,
Shakespeare

The Melbourne Magistrates’ Court was cold and stony, and Phryne was not feeling very well. The crowd of solicitors did not elevate her mood. All men, it appeared. She caught sight of Jillian across the depressing courtyard and struggled through the press of suits to catch her by the arm.

‘Ah, Phryne, I have spoken to the prosecutor and he has no objection to bail with reporting conditions. The informant is our old friend and he hasn’t any objection either. I just have to go in and get the matter on and we should have Bill out in two ticks.’

Phryne caught sight of Detective-inspector Benton, and called to him. He ploughed through the crowd toward them.

‘Miss Fisher! How is the detecting?’

‘I still have much to learn. Thank you for not objecting to bail. Tell me, can I see the body? And can I have a look at the murder weapon?’

‘What will young ladies take up next? Very well, Miss Fisher. Come over to my office once you have regained possession of your client and I will show you the weapon. You can’t see the body, I’m afraid, but you can read the Coroner’s Report if that will do.’

‘It will indeed,’ said Phryne, pleased. She really did not like corpses much. She pushed her way into Court One and saw that Jillian Henderson was on her feet. She looked as plump and self-confident as the city pigeons outside, and as sure of her place.

‘If I might draw the Court’s attention to the matter of McNaughton, your Worship?’

A very old magistrate found his glasses, focused them on Jillian and smiled thinly.

‘Yes, Miss Henderson?’

‘A bail application, your Worship. I have spoken to the informant and the learned prosecutor and I believe that they have no objection.’

‘Is that the case, Senior-sergeant?’

A huge policeman scrambled to his feet.

‘Yes, your Worship. The informant agrees that there is no reason why the accused should not be bailed.’

‘Very well, Miss Henderson; now all you have to do is convince me.’ The magistrate leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.

Phryne was close enough to hear the prosecutor mutter: ‘Damn the old cuss! This’ll take all day.’ He sorted his notes, looking for the details of the crime.

‘This is an alleged murder, your Worship. The victim was my client’s father. The evidence against him can be summarized in three points: Firstly, he had a violent argument with his father. Secondly, he cannot be proven not to have been at the scene of the crime when his father died. Thirdly, he is very strong, and the crime required strength. For want of better evidence, your Worship, I shall be moving that the matter be struck out at Committal. For the moment, your Worship, even supposing that my client did kill his father, which is strenuously denied, there is no point in keeping him in custody. In your Worship’s vast experience, your Worship must have seen a lot of domestic murderers. They do not repeat their crime. I may add to this that my client is a man of unblemished reputation with no criminal record. He has never come to the attention of the courts before. He is willing to surrender his passport and offer a surety and agree to whatever reporting conditions your Worship considers proper. As your Worship pleases…’ Jillian sat down. Phryne was impressed. So, evidently, was the magistrate.

‘Yes, well, I see no reason not to accede to your request, Miss Henderson. Stand up, accused. You are bailed on your own recognizance to appear at this Court on the 17th of August 1928, at ten of the forenoon, and not then to leave the precincts of the Court until the matter has been dealt with according to law. You are required to report to Carlton Police Station between the hours of nine in the morning and nine at night every Friday until the date of your hearing. Should you fail to report or appear or otherwise breach the conditions of your bail a warrant will be issued for your immediate arrest and you will have a further charge to answer in addition to those already preferred against you. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Bill.

‘Does your client agree to the terms of his release, Miss Henderson?’

Jillian leapt to her feet.

‘He does, your Worship.’

‘Take him down, usher. Accused, you will be detained until you sign your bail notice, and then you are free to go.’

Jillian and Phryne left the court.

‘This way, and we’ll collect Bill. Golly, Phryne, that was easier than I expected. Old Jenkins must be tired. Usually it takes a good hour of solid argument to persuade him to let anyone out of police clutches.’

She led Phryne out of the court building and along the street to the watch-house. It was a grimy building that smelt of despair and carbolic in roughly equal proportions. Phryne hated it instantly.

‘Yes, it does pong,’ agreed Jillian, having noticed Phryne’s grimace. ‘And you never get used to it, somehow. Good morning, Sergeant. How are you this bleak and miserable Wednesday?’

‘I’ve been better, Miss Henderson. Have you come for McNaughton?’

‘I have, so hand him over—surely you don’t want to keep him?’

‘Not particularly,’ replied the desk-sergeant, a gloomy individual with a long, drooping face. ‘I’ll see if they’ve finished with him.’

He was gone for ten minutes. He returned with Bill and the bail notice.

‘Please check your belongings, sir, and sign this if they are all correct.’

Bill, who was shaky and subdued, checked his hat, keys, wallet, cigarette case, lighter, miscellaneous coins, and spark-plug.

He signed. The copy of the bail bond was ceremonially folded and placed in an envelope. Phryne was close enough to Bill to feel him quivering with impatience.

‘Steady,’ she murmured. ‘We shall be out of here soon.’ She laid a hand on his arm as though he might bolt. Jillian, on the other side, did the same. Bill contained himself until they were out in the street again. Once there, he drew in long breaths of comparatively clean, cold air.

‘My God! I need a drink. Come on ladies—the Courthouse Hotel.’

Although the Courthouse was not an ideal hotel for ladies, neither Phryne nor Jillian demurred. Bill offered both of them an arm and almost ran across the street into the comfortable beery snug, where he ordered a jug of beer. Phryne had gin and Jillian tonic water, as she had a conference in the afternoon and did not want to breathe all over the client.

‘They lose confidence,’ she explained, ‘if you stink of alcohol. It’s a dry profession,’ she added. Bill had not spoken since the beer had arrived. He had been supplied with a glass but he disdained it. Lifting the jug effortlessly he engulfed the drink in a seemingly endless gulp. When he lowered it, the jug was half empty.

‘Miss Fisher, I didn’t kill my father.’

‘I know. This is Jillian Henderson, a dear friend of mine, who has undertaken your defence.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Henderson. You certainly did a job on that old magistrate. He was giving the other applications a very nasty time indeed. I was surprised to see you, but I’ll be delighted if you’ll manage my defence.’

Here was an alteration. Three days in jail had humbled Bill McNaughton most impressively. Phryne called the barman and ordered another jug.

He brought it, and set it down in front of Bill.

‘This one’s on the house, mate. Boss says you’re a great advertisement for his brew.’

Bill laughed, finished the first jug, and then grew solemn again.

‘If I didn’t kill him—and I didn’t—then who did?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. All I need from you is an exact description of the two people you saw on your walk.’

‘I think you’ll do this better on your own. Let me know, Phryne. Don’t forget to report, Mr McNaughton, or we may not be so lucky next time. Bye,’ said Jillian and zoomed off to free more birds from the constabulary cage. Bill looked after her.

‘Miss Fisher, I feel like the prodigal son. I would have been better off with the swine and the husks. Do you have any idea of what a place like that is like?’

‘I once spent a night in a Turkish prison. It sounded and felt like the depths of hell and there were bedbugs.’

‘Yes, that is it. The depths of hell with bedbugs. I’ll do anything to avoid going back there. I say, that woman is hot stuff in court, isn’t she? You could see that the magistrate was pleased. She didn’t waste a word. Would it be all right if I sent her some flowers? I could have kissed her, but I didn’t think that she’d like that.’

‘Here is her card. I’m sure that she would love some flowers. Now drink up. Before you go back to your mother’s house for a long bath, a bed with sheets and a proper shave, there are a few things I need to tell you.

‘Amelia is a very good artist. She will be great. Therefore, I would have you pay her the proper respect. There is an uncertainty in her work which I attribute entirely to you. Yes?’

‘She really is good? I never really looked at her stuff. Father scoffed at it so I didn’t bother. Very well. I’ll not tease poor Amelia. An artist, eh?’

‘Here. This is a portrait of your father.’

‘It’s caught the pater perfectly. Who did it?’

‘Amelia. I bought it from her.’

‘Lord, really? Amelia?’ He took a gulp of beer.

‘And another thing. When you get home you will probably find Paolo Raguzzi there. You will not call him a greasy little dago. You will be nice to him. He is not only a good sculptor but he loves your sister truly and…er…fairly faithfully and she needs his support. He will probably want to model you; if so, you will agree. In return I will get you out of trouble.’

‘You’ll find the murderer if I do my Angel of the House and don’t upset the mater?’

‘Yes.’

‘Deal,’ said Bill promptly.

‘The people who passed you on the path. What did they look like?’

‘The first was an old man, a tramp, with a battered old felt hat and a sugar sack over his shoulder. I didn’t see his face. The girl was a pretty young slip, in a red bathing-costume and cap. I couldn’t see her hair but she was tanned and small—maybe five feet tall. I seem to have seen the girl before, but not the old man.’

‘Any smell?’

‘Smell? What do you think I am, a bloodhound? None in particular.’

Phryne wondered again at the noselessness of man.

‘Had the girl been in the water?’

Bill absorbed more beer and thought deeply.

‘Yes, her costume was sticking to her body, and her arms and shoulders were shiny.’

‘Did you get the impression that the old man and the girl were connected?’

Bill thought some more and finished the beer.

‘I didn’t notice, really. I was in a rage. I often run down to the river and go for a quick swim when things get too personal at home.’

‘I thought you were going to the aerodrome for your arguments in future.’

‘Yes, I was to take the old man out there.’

‘Did you kill him?’

Bill looked Phryne in the eye and said solemnly, ‘No, I wish I had. Then I wouldn’t mind being charged.’

‘All right. Now, I shall see you into a taxi.’

‘No fear! I’m going to walk. I need to stretch my legs. I will behave, Miss Fisher. I just hope you can get me out of trouble.’

She watched him stride off down the street in the direction of Kew. She crossed to the police station to find Benton and the murder weapon.

She was directed to his office and sat down while he fetched the rock from the safe.

‘Can’t have important clues lying about. See,’ he said, opening the grey cardboard box and exhibiting a squarish block of bluestone. ‘It was brought down with great force. Much more than any woman could muster. There’s blood and matter on the obverse, but none on the back, indicating the blood did not spurt. The murderer might not have had a spot on him. Seen enough?’

Phryne looked very carefully at the sides of the stone, and especially the blotch of blood on the striking face.

‘Doesn’t that bloodstain fade toward the middle? Have a look. There seems to be less blood in the centre than you would find at the sides. What could cause that, do you think?’

Benton came to look.

‘No, I can’t see that, Miss Fisher. Is that all?’