Flying Too High (3 page)

‘It isn’t me,’ protested Bill. ‘It’s him. He knows a lot about business but nothing about flying—he’s scared to death in the air, he’s only been up once—and he tries to lay down the law to me about flying and I get angry, then he gets angry and then…’

‘And then your poor mother has to put up with a scene that shatters her nerves again.’

‘Well, what business is it of yours, Miss Fisher?’

‘I told you. Your mother called me in to stop you from killing your father. I’m an investigator. I don’t think you are really meaning to assassinate the man, but I have to do something to earn my retainer. Perhaps you could conduct your arguments somewhere else, if that is how you have to carry on,’ she suggested. ‘Here, for instance. No neighbours near, and your mother need never know.’

‘That might be an idea. Of course, the mater has never been strong, but I didn’t know it was upsetting her all that much. Amelia was always saying that the mater flinched at every sound, but you can’t believe Amelia.’

‘Why not?’

Bill snorted and leaned forward to whisper.

‘The girl’s potty. Gone off to be an artist, joined the gallery school and talks of nothing but light and colour. I never pay any attention to her. She’s not interested in flying. But you, Miss Fisher, you’re different. I’ll do what I can,’ conceded Bill. ‘I don’t want the mater to worry.’

‘That’s handsome of you,’ said Phryne ironically, and began to talk aeroplane shop.

An hour later she extracted Dot from the friendly attentions of Jack Leonard and drove back to the city, exhilarated by her adventure and satisfied that Bill would curb his anger when he met with his father that night.

***

‘Have you seen Candida?’ asked Molly Maldon, perplexed. There were times when the strain of coping with Candida and her father told on Molly. She was a small woman, fiery and logical, with a wild Celtic streak. Henry Maldon always said that her temper had come with her red hair.

Molly could cope with the baby Alexander, because he was not subtle and because he was very young, but Candida frequently reduced her to pulp. She was an honest child who did not scruple to lie like a trooper if it suited her. She was a delicate asthmatic with the strength of ten and the willpower of Attilla the Hun. She was a sweet, affectionate angel who had nearly bitten her baby brother’s ear off. Candida was very intelligent, and had taught herself to read, but occasionally did things that were so stupid that Molly wondered if the child was touched. Candida’s natural mother had died in an asylum and Molly had been known to comment, in moments of complete exasperation, that it was Candida who had driven her there.

Henry Maldon looked up from his navigation tables. He was a tall vague man, with blue eyes and weathered skin. He always seemed to be looking into far horizons. This meant that he had scattered Melbourne with his keys, wallets, hats, cigarette lighters and on one inexplicable occasion, both socks.

‘Oh, Henry, do buck up. Where is Candida?’

‘She was right there,’ said Henry, dragging his mind away from the South Pole. ‘Sitting on the floor reading the newspaper. She liked the treasures from Luxor, and I promised to help her make a pyramid out of blocks if she let me alone to finish my sums. Then she was quiet for…good God, a whole hour…and I never heard her go out.’

‘She knows that she is not allowed to leave the garden,’ said Molly. ‘The first thing to do is to search the house. Wake up, Henry, do! I have a nasty feeling about this.’ Henry, alert at last, rummaged his way through the ground floor of the small house which he had recently bought. It had been so complete a windfall that he was still not altogether sure that it had happened. Most of the belongings were still in boxes, and it was not difficult to scour the places where even a cunning and vindictive six year old might secrete herself.

‘Try the roof,’ suggested Molly.

There was a ring at the doorbell. Molly ran down the passage and snatched the door open.

‘You bad, bad girl,’ she said, and realized that the caller was looking rather puzzled. It was her husband’s old crony, Jack Leonard.

‘I say, Molly, what’s afoot? Been through the wars?’

‘Candida’s missing!’ exclaimed Molly, bursting into tears. ‘The spanking I shall give the little madam when I find her, she won’t sit down for a week. Oh, Jack did you come in a car?’

‘Yes, got the old motor outside. Do you want me to look for her?’

‘Oh, Jack, please. She’s only a little girl and I’m worried. She could have been gone for an hour.’

‘Cheer up, old thing, that kid is as tough as…I mean,’ amended Jack Leonard, seeing a furious light in Molly’s eyes, ‘she’s clever, Candida is. She won’t come to any harm. I’ll have a scout about. I’ll find her, never fret. I say, Henry, this is a nice house. Bought with the…er…proceeds, I expect?’

‘Yes, with the new plane and the money in the trust fund for the kids, I’m nearly as broke as when it happened. Molly hasn’t even had time to unpack all the new furniture and things yet, and the garden’s not even planted. All right, Molly,’ said Henry Maldon hastily, detecting signs of combustion in his red-headed spouse. ‘We’ll go out directly. Come on, Jack.’

‘Saw the most amazing thing this morning,’ commented Jack Leonard as he piloted the car out from the curb. ‘This spiffing young woman turned up at Bill McNaughton’s school and spun a Moth.’

‘They will spin, if you mistreat ’em bad enough,’ agreed Henry Maldon absently. He was beginning to wonder about Candida. Usually she was reliable, but she had a strange, wilful streak and might wander anywhere, if it struck her as a compellingly good idea. ‘Amateur, was she?’

‘No, old boy, an expert. It was a controlled spin down to three hundred feet, then she zoomed out of it, and all with good old Bill in the dickey. Then she upped and waltzed out onto the top wing and walked from one end to another. I tell you one thing, Henry, if I could find a woman like that, damned if I wouldn’t marry her. But she wouldn’t have me. Poor Bill, he was as white as a sheet when Miss Fisher finally let him take the crate down. Nearly kissed the runway. You aren’t listening, are you, Henry?’

‘No,’ agreed Henry. ‘I can’t see her anywhere.’

‘Miss Fisher?’

‘Candida!’ he snapped. ‘Drive round again, Jack, and do stop talking. I want to think.’ Jack Leonard, although childless, did not take offence, and turned the car yet again.

Chapter Two

To be poor and independent
is very nearly an impossibility

Advice to Young Men,
William Cobbett

Phryne whisked Dot into town, taking St Kilda Road at a sedate twenty miles an hour.

‘Are you all right, old thing?’ she called. Dot, huddled into her blue coat, did not answer. Phryne pulled up outside a small house on The Esplanade, which was her newest acquisition, and turned off the engine.

‘Dot?’ she asked, shaking her maid by the shoulder.

Dot turned on Phryne, her face still blanched with shock.

‘You nearly scared me to death, Miss. When I saw you climb out of that machine I thought…I thought…’ Phryne enveloped Dot in a warm hug.

‘Oh, dear Dot, you mustn’t start worrying about me. I’m sorry I scared you, my dear old bean…there, dry your eyes, now, and don’t concern yourself. I’ve done that trick thousands of times, it’s easy. Anyway, next time I do something like that, don’t watch. All right? Now, have you got the keys? All the inside work should be finished, and the housekeeper should be here.’

Dot sniffed, pocketed her handkerchief and found the keys. She smiled shakily at Phryne who had leapt lightly out of the car and was waiting at the front gate.

It was a neat, bijou townhouse, faced with shining white stucco so that it looked like an iced cake. It had two storeys and a delightful attic room with a gable-window which Dot had claimed. She had never had a bedroom of her own until she had come to work for Phryne, and she still found the idea tantalizing. A room with a door which you could lock, a place to be completely alone until you wanted to let the world in.

Phryne stood aside in the little porch to allow Dot to open the front door, which was solid mahogany. The hall was dark, and Phryne had lightened it with white paint, upon which the stained glass fanlight cast beautiful colours. The ground level rooms, which as yet were sparsely furnished, were floored with bare polished boards and overlaid with fine Turkish rugs. In front of the large fireplace was a rug made of sheepskin, on which Phryne intended to recline. The decor was cool greens and gold, reflecting the timber floor, and there was only one painting; a full-length nude holding a jar out of which water was spilling, to fall in a cascade at her feet. It was called ‘La Source’ and it bore a striking resemblance to Phryne herself. Dot disliked this painting intensely.

Phryne called into the silent house ‘Hello? Anyone here?’ and in answer a stout women in a wrapper fought her way through the bead curtain and said, ‘Well, Miss Fisher, is it? I’m Mrs Butler. The agency sent me. Mr Butler is outside, dealing with the plumber.’

‘Phryne Fisher, and this is Miss Dorothy Williams, my personal maid and secretary. What’s wrong with the plumbing?’ asked Phryne, wearily, for she had spent weeks on the design of a luxurious bathroom and indoor WC and she was going to have them no matter what the plumber said. So far he had charged her twice his quoted price and she was minded to become quite harsh with him if the house was not entirely ready, with everything that was supposed to flush, flushing.

‘Mr Butler is dealing with him, Miss. You’ll find that it will all be ready tomorrow when you move in, just as you wish,’ soothed Mrs Butler, with a hint of steel in her voice. If she cooked as well as he managed plumbers, Mr and Mrs Butler were going to be a find.

‘Now, what about a cup of tea, Miss? I’ve got the kettle on, and perhaps you’d like to see the kitchen, now that it is all finished?’

‘Yes, I would, thank you, we’ve had a tiring day, eh, Dot? And more shocks than are good for us, perhaps.’

Dot followed Phryne through the bead curtain into the kitchen. It was a big room, with a red brick floor and new green gas stove on legs. There were two sinks, newly installed, and a hot-water heater with a permanent flame. Phryne’s new dishes had all been washed and stacked in an old pine dresser, and the window was open onto her neat backyard, with garden furniture and a fernery. The despised outdoor lavatory was newly scrubbed and painted for the use of the domestics.

Mrs Butler tipped boiling water into the teapot and set it down. Phryne took a chair.

‘Well, it all looks nice. How do you think you’ll like it here, Mrs Butler? Is there anything you need?’

‘Not so far, Miss. The tradesmen call every morning, and all the appliances work. Nice to have a gas stove. An Aga stove is warm in the winter, and there’s nothing better for bread, but it’s a trial in the summer, to be sure. And the electrical fires are lit, and the real ones, Miss. The house will warm up in a few hours. It will be ready for you tomorrow, with luncheon on the table. Will you be dining in?’

‘Yes. I haven’t much on hand at the moment. How about your room, Mrs Butler? I thought that you would rather bring your own things.’

‘Yes, Miss, it’s fine. Nice view over the yard, and my suite fits in perfect. I’m sure we’ll be very happy here. Your tea, Miss.’

Phryne drank her tea, and paid attention to the raised voices in the yard. Mr Butler and the plumber appeared to be exchanging hearty curses. Phryne noticed that Dot still looked rather pinched and suggested, ‘Come up and have a look at your room, Dot. You’ll want to see how the furniture fits in. Thanks for the tea, Mrs B. I hope we’ll be here about eleven tomorrow.’

Dot raced up the stairs to the first floor, where Phryne had a bedroom in moss green and a sitting-room in marine tones. She opened the door to her own little stair. It was carpeted with brown felt, had an enchanting twist in the middle and led into the attic room.

Because it was at the top of the house it was always warm, and Dot, who had been chilled to the bone since early childhood, luxuriated in heat. She had chosen the furniture herself: a plain bed, wardrobe and dressing-table, a wash-stand and jug, and a table and padded chair by the window. It was all painted in Dot’s favourite collection of colours; oranges and beiges and browns. Covering her bed was a bedspread made of thousands of velvet autumn leaves. Dot sank down on it with delight.

‘I saw it in the market, and thought that you’d like it,’ said Phryne’s voice behind her. ‘Here are your keys, Dot. This is the room and this is the door at the bottom of your stair. I’ve got a spare pair and Mrs Butler has them in her bunch so she can clean, but otherwise you are on your own. I’ll just go and look at my bed-hangings.’ Phryne went out, closing the door behind her.

Dot rubbed her face on the velvet, then smoothed it into place again. Of all presents she had been given in her short life, and they had not been many, this was the best. This space was hers alone. No one else had any rights in it. She could put something down and it would remain there. She could lock her door and no one had a right to make her unlock it. Her mistress might be vain, promiscuous, and vague, not to mention prone to frightening Dot to death, but she had given Dot a great gift and had sufficient tact to go away and let her enjoy it. Dot sat in her padded chair, stared out to sea and loved Phryne from her heart.