Flying Too High (7 page)

‘He used to hit her—and me, too,’ said Miss McNaughton matter-of-factly. ‘But he stopped hitting me because I said I’d leave and that I’d take Mother with me. That frightened him, he was terrified of scandal, and I could have made a very impressive one. He didn’t beat Mother while I was here, but I wasn’t here very often. I am at the Gallery School, you know.’

‘Yes, your brother told me you were an artist. And Bunji still has your watercolour of a plane on her wall.’ Phryne was fishing. In all this time Miss McNaughton had not mentioned her brother.

‘Bill didn’t think that I could paint. He has the artistic sensibilities of an ox. And he called Paolo a greasy little dago. But he didn’t kill my father,’ stated Miss McNaughton, stopping on the stairs with one hand on the bannister. ‘If Bill had killed Father he would have announced it to the world. He would not have run away. He takes after Father—everything he does has to be right. He and Father never made a mistake or offered an apology in their lives. Bill would have stood over the body and announced that he had a perfect right to kill his own father if he liked, and would anyone care to argue about it? I don’t know who killed Father, but it was not Bill. I don’t care if you don’t find who killed him. In fact I’d rather you did not. Father had thousands of people who rightly hated him and any one of them is more valuable than Father. I loathed him and I hated what he did to me and my mother; do you know, after he had pounded on Mother’s door and been refused, he used to come and make an attempt on me?’

‘Did he succeed?’ asked Phryne gently. Miss McNaughton stared through Phryne with her pale blue eyes.

‘When I was younger,’ she said quietly. ‘He managed to catch me in the bathroom. Twice. After that I put a chair under the handle. He used to stand outside and bellow at me to let him in. I considered it, because it might have calmed him down, but I couldn’t, I really couldn’t. That’s why Paolo is the only man I have ever loved—could ever love. He took such pains with me, he was so patient when I flinched and cried, and…and…’

‘I know,’ observed Phryne quietly. ‘But it happens to a lot of women. You and I are fortunate in that we have found lovers who could coax us out of our shells. Come down, Miss McNaughton, and let’s get warm. Then you can show me your work.’

‘Please call me Amelia,’ said Miss McNaughton suddenly. ‘You are the only person apart from Paolo that I have told…come and sit by the fire in the drawing room, and I’ll bring the stuff down. You might not like it,’ she warned, and ran upstairs again.

Phryne was shown into a fine big drawing room with Chinese furnishings. The ceiling was lacquered red and the walls were hung with scroll painting and embroideries. Several brocade garments decorated the chimney piece, and the chairs were pierced and decorated blackwood, with silk cushions and legs carved with lions and clouds.

On the mantleshelf stood one free-standing jade sculpture of a rather self-satisfied dragon devouring a deer. The deer’s eyes reminded Phryne uncomfortably of Mrs McNaughton’s and Phryne turned away from it to study the silk painting by the square, latticed window. She recognized it as a copy of a famous artist. It was ‘Two Gentlemen Discoursing Upon Fish’. ‘Look how the fish disport themselves in the clear water,’ enthused one gentleman. ‘That is how the Almighty gives pleasure to fish’. ‘You are not a fish,’ objected the other. ‘How do you know what gives pleasure to fish?’ ‘You are not I,’ replied the first. ‘How do you know that I do not know what gives pleasure to fish?’ And that, of course, was unanswerable.

What did any of us know about the other, mused Phryne. If she had met the late and entirely unlamented Mr McNaughton, would she have known that he was a domestic tyrant, who when refused by his wife had sexually assaulted his daughter?

Amelia came in with a rush, and shoved a portfolio of impressive proportions into Phryne’s arms.

‘I’ll see about the tea,’ she muttered, and rushed out again. Phryne diagnosed artistic modesty. She emptied the folio onto the blackwood table and spread out the contents. There were watercolours, a few oil sketches, and charcoal and red chalk drawings. They were good, Phryne found with pleasure. It was always easier to genuinely praise than to try and find something nice to say about rubbish.

There were three watercolours of aeroplanes, with a pale wash of sky behind them. There were sharp, clear pencil drawings of flowers and birds, exhibiting signs of a Chinese phase. There were several rather muddy landscapes and a clever cubist house; but Miss McNaughton’s real skill was in portraiture. With chalk or charcoal she could catch a likeness more clearly than a photograph. Here was Bill in flying togs, hulking and self-confident, but with a hint of reckless good-humour which Phryne had also seen. Here was her mother, in pastels, worn and lined, with the fluffy, harried look so familiar to Phryne. It was evident that Amelia’s skills were not yet perfect, she was prone to a certain lack of confidence in her lines and some of her colours might have been bolder. Phryne searched through the portraits with delight. Here was a group of children, somewhat after Murillo but none-the-less charming. Here were eleven studies of a cat; she had caught the creature’s elusive muscularity under the fur. Here was a swarthy man, thin and intense, with deep eyes and charming faun-like face; he had pointed ears, and the whole gave an impression of power and patience. Phryne was reminded of a Medici, and wondered if it was a copy of a Renaissance work. She turned the oil over. ‘Paolo’. Aha. Good looking, but not beautiful. Deep, and a strong personality. Such a man must have made a potent impression on Amelia, who was not familiar with any powerful man who did not brawl and rape. She looked forward to meeting him.

There was a portrait of a woman. Phryne recognized her friend Isola di Fraoli, the ballad singer. She had caught her perfectly; the mass of black hair, the glint of earrings, the deep bosom and rounded arms and the wicked, penetrating half-smile. The last oil was a portrait of a man. Broad and tall but running to fat, he stood with legs straddled, dominating the artist with his presence. He had a jowled, big-boned face, mottled with red across the cheeks and nose. One hand was clenched and the mouth was open, as if in command. It was just a shade this side of caricature, and so carefully delineated that it was obvious that the artist hated every line in him. Being an artist, however, she had dealt honestly with him. Phryne did not need to turn it over. The resemblance to Bill was marked. This was Amelia’s father. Phryne regretted that she might have to discover who murdered him. He was the essence of everything she did not like about the male sex.

Amelia and the tea entered simultaneously. Phryne took a cup and commented, ‘You have a great deal of skill, Amelia. Would you sell me some of these? I’ve just moved into a new house and I’m decorating.’

‘I can’t sell them—they are only sketches. Take what you want, Miss Fisher. I would like to have some of my work in your house.’

‘Call me Phryne, and I insist on paying. I wouldn’t have someone say that I exploited you, especially since I shall make a packet on them when you are famous.’

‘Take whichever you like,’ blushed Amelia. ‘Five pounds each—that’s what students usually charge. Do you really like them?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, sorting rapidly. ‘Your professors must have told you that you have an uncommon gift for portraiture. These sketches of the cat are good, too. Have you seen that page of drawings by Leonardo of the cats, turning into dragons? Very hard to draw, cats. There’s a bony shape under the skin and you have caught the furriness very well. I’ll have the cats, they can go along the stairs, and these chalks, one of the Gipsy Moth, I learned to fly in one of them—lovely little ’bus. Also the children, though they are derivative, don’t you think? Do you like children?’

‘I love children. I want lots of them. Now Father is…now Father is dead, I shall have my own money and Paolo and I can get married. We shall have a house in Carlton near the galleries with a studio for him and a studio for me and lots of nurseries.’

‘Why haven’t you married before?’ asked Phryne, adding Paolo, Bill, and Isola to her pile. Amelia wriggled with embarrassment.

‘Paolo wanted to. He’s quite well-off, he’s the son of an industrialist. His father disowned him but he has an income from his mother. But I wasn’t sure, and I wanted to…’

‘To be sure. How long have you known him?’

‘Two years. I am sure, now. It is just that Father said such awful things about him, and even hired a private detective to follow him around and to see if he was sleeping with his models.’

‘And was he?’

‘Oh, yes, but that doesn’t matter to me. I know that he loves me. He has put such a lot of work into me that he values me. One always prizes the object on which one has lavished the greatest amount of effort. Take that portrait of Father. I hated him. But to paint him, I had to look at him quite otherwise than usual: I had to examine him as an object, not as a loathsome man who tormented me. I stopped being afraid of him after that. Somehow the process of painting him had disinfected him.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Phryne. ‘May I have the portrait? Perhaps you would like to keep it. Apart from the Paolo, I think it is your best work.’

‘Take it. I was going to burn it.’

‘That would be a pity,’ said Phryne. She bound up the rejects in the portfolio and wrote out a cheque.

‘Perhaps you would consider a commission,’ she added. ‘I have a full length female nude—you may have seen it…’

‘Yes. ‘La Source’. It’s you, isn’t it. A bit Pre-Raphaelite, but skilful. Do you want something to match?’

‘Yes, a male nude in the same pose. Do you draw from the figure? Or haven’t you got up to that yet?’

‘Yes, but it’s difficult. In oil? And the same size? Let me have the dimensions, and I’ll see what I can do. I haven’t done a big oil. Father would never give me the money for enough paint, and students aren’t supposed to sell their work. There’s an acrobat who does some modelling—lovely body, all muscle, but light. My friend Sally did an Eros of him which was super. I’ll try it, now I can afford the materials.’

‘Good. Now, give me another cup of tea and let’s get down to business. Have you a family lawyer? We ought to get Bill out of the cooler if we can.’

‘Get him out? But he’s been arrested.’

‘Yes, but we might be able to bail him.’

‘Oh. No, we haven’t a lawyer who does criminal matters.’

‘Leave it to me, I know just the person. Where does Paolo live? I’d like to see his work.’

Amelia wrote down the address. She was uneasy. She was about to speak when a scruffy maid ran in and announced shrilly: ‘That cop’s here again, Miss.’

‘Put your cap straight,’ ordered Phryne. ‘Wipe your face on that apron and stand up. A tragedy in the family is no excuse for panic. There. Now, be a good girl. We all need your help, you know. Where would the house be without you?’ Phryne smiled into wide brown eyes and tucked a whisp of hair back under the cap.

‘There. Now, who is at the door?’

‘Detective-inspector Benton, Miss Amelia,’ announced the maid and walked proudly out.

‘Phryne,’ cried Amelia, ‘you are wonderful. Please don’t leave me.’

‘I shall be here. Sit down again.’

Amelia obeyed. The maid returned and announced sedately, ‘Detective-inspector Benton, Miss Amelia.’

She cast Phryne a dignified glance and escorted a tubby man into the room. He was red-faced and almost comic, but his dark-brown eyes were sharp and shrewd.

***

At half-past three Molly Maldon and her husband walked to the lolly shop to cross-examine the shopkeeper’s son Jimmy. The child was an unpleasant, sharp stripling, with a spotty face and oily fingernails. Molly, however, was prepared to love anyone who might lead her to Candida, and she asked as gently as any woman seducing an uncertain lover.

‘Did you notice a big black car here at lunch-time, Jimmy?’

‘Yeah,’ drawled the youth. ‘Bentley, 1926, black, in a terrible state of polish.’

‘Did you see a little girl get into the car?’ asked Henry. Jimmy smothered a yawn and Molly bit her lip. Boxing the little thug’s ears would probably prove counter-productive.

‘Yes, I saw her, they kind of dragged her into the back seat. Leather upholstery,’ he added unhelpfully. ‘Red leather.’

‘Did you notice the number?’

‘Some of it. There was mud on the number plate. I reckon it was KG 12 something. Couldn’t read the last digit. Sorry. Mum, when’s dinner? I’m starving.’

Henry Maldon took Molly’s arm before she could do something hasty and dropped a shilling into the boy’s ready palm.

‘Thanks, son,’ he said heavily. Jimmy yawned again.

Chapter Five

She speaks poniards and every word stabs

Much Ado About Nothing,
Shakespeare

‘How do you do. My name is Phryne Fisher. I undertake investigations and I have been retained by the McNaughton family to act for them in this matter.’

The policeman took up a commanding position at the mantlepiece and glanced quizzically at Phryne.

‘There is no room for amateurs in murder, Miss Fisher,’ said the policeman condescendingly. ‘But I am sure that you will be a comfort to the ladies.’

‘I hope that I shall,’ replied Phryne with all the sweetness of a chocolate-coated razor-blade. ‘And I hope that you will allow a mere amateur to observe your methods. I am certain that I will learn a lot from your procedures. After all, it is seldom that I have the chance of getting so close to a famous detective like yourself.’ Amelia looked up. Surely the man was not going to be taken in by this load of old cobblers? It seemed that Phryne had not under-estimated the receptiveness of the detective to a bit of the old oil. He softened and became positively polite.