Murder in the Dark (11 page)

‘In the 1840s there were two brothers, Thomas and Andrew Chirnside, who bought the land and built the house,’ she said. ‘On a visit back home, Thomas fell in love with their cousin, Mary Begbie, but her parents wouldn’t let him have her. So when Thomas came back here he sent Andrew and begged him to fetch Mary to Australia any way he could. And he did—oh yes, he did.’

Phryne scented a rat. ‘Married her himself?’ she guessed.

‘Yes,’ said the housekeeper. ‘But they must have forgiven each other because Thomas had this house built to be her domain—serene, he wanted it to be, and dignified. Such times as they had! All the notables to dine, and picnics and race meetings and polo tournaments and cricket games. They prospered.

‘At one time, old Mrs Davies told me—she was housekeeper before me—they supplied the house entirely from the estate: home killed meat, home smoked ham and bacon, home grown fruit and vegetables, home baked bread, and butter, cream and cheese from the cheese factory out on the Geelong road. Grain and flour from their own mill. Now we get our eggs and chickens from Mr Cullen, our vegetables from Garfield’s and our milk from the dairy college, and that’s all very satisfactory, but it must have been like living in one of those old manor houses, in the old days. Of course, then, you couldn’t just send a boy down to the shop if you ran out of cream.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Phryne. ‘So what happened to the brothers?’

‘They died within a couple of years of each other,’ said Mrs Truebody. ‘Then the sons divided up the land and that was the beginning of the end. Prices sank, costs and taxes rose. Oh, and the old mistress, a terrible thing, died when her hair caught on fire from a spilled bedside candle—terrible burns. An awful death.’

There was silence for a moment, and Phryne heard the kitchen noises: chopping of herbs, slicing of bread, a seething of pots on the range. And an ‘ouch’ as a bread cutter cut her finger instead. Then Mrs Truebody resumed.

‘They sold out in 1922 and the Church bought the house and land in ’23. They built that extra wing last year. And they whitewashed the house, making it look like a ruin. But no use repining,’ said Mrs Truebody bracingly. ‘The house had its day and now is something else, and very good sort of people they must be, of course. They get up at five in the morning to pray, I am told.’

‘Indeed,’ said Phryne, and took another ginger snap.

‘Yes, such is the nature of human life, as the vicar says. We come up and are cut down like the grass. Oh dear, yes. When my young man was lost to that wicked African war I thought I’d die of grief, but I didn’t die. And I’m glad I didn’t, on the whole. But I’m running on like an old gossip. What was it you wanted to ask me, Miss Phryne?’

‘Several things. They concern small boys, ghosts, and time. You’ve seen the little pest whom Gerald has adopted, a little ratbag dressed in gold?’

‘Yes, and a more ill-conditioned boy I never saw. I would have had him across my knee if he hadn’t been the master’s favourite,’ responded Mrs Truebody.

‘He’s missing. Do you think he has run away?’

The immaculate head bent over Mrs Truebody’s competent hands. She inspected a thumbnail as she gave the matter suitable consideration. Finally she looked up, having made up her mind.

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Pest that the little runt is, he adores the master. Adores him. After all, Mr Templar did rescue him from an orphanage, or so they say. Tarquin—what a name for a boy!—really loves him, jumps to it as soon as Mr Templar speaks. Only sign of decent gratitude I’ve seen in the brat.’

‘My feeling entirely,’ agreed Phryne. ‘Now the next question. In the old days, did the household play parlour games? Riddles, perhaps?’

Mrs Truebody smiled reminiscently. ‘Oh yes, dear, and charades. I was always handing out aprons and caps and tea towels for charade costumes.’

‘Would any of the family’s parlour games books still be around?’

‘I doubt it, Miss Phryne, all the movable goods, the pictures and plate and so on, were sold at auction, and the rest the Church has sold—even the stair carpets, for the Lord’s sake. Woven specially for the house, they were, and ripped up and sold for a song. It’s a wicked world,’ said Mrs Truebody sadly.

‘No argument here,’ said Phryne. ‘When did you last see Tarquin?’

‘When he came in to enquire about the master’s orders for dinner. I swore to him that it would all be done as Miss and Mr Templar ordered, and then he ran away—back to Mr Templar, I assume. Last I saw of him. But I shall ask the staff presently. Anything else, Miss Fisher?’

‘How do you manage to get such clear coffee? Not a ground in it,’ said Phryne.

‘It’s clarified with crushed eggshell,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Takes up all the loose grounds and when the coffee is strained, the grounds go with the eggshells. Also, it is something to do with the eggshells. I hate wasting them but the head gardener does not like them in his compost and they really aren’t edible.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ agreed Phryne. ‘What would you understand by “time”? As a clue in a riddle, I mean?’

‘Oh, a clock, I suppose. There are several of them here. Has something really happened to that poor little scrap?’ she asked suddenly, laying a hand on Phryne’s arm.

‘I’m afraid it has,’ said Phryne.

‘Well, we can’t have that,’ said Mrs Truebody firmly. ‘Not in my kitchen. Not in my house! Can you imagine what the old mistress would have said about having boys kidnapped from her household? You tell me what you want, Miss Phryne, and I’ll contrive it.’

‘Stout fellow,’ exclaimed Phryne, warmed by acquiring a reliable ally. ‘Start by asking all of your staff when they last saw Tarquin. He can’t have vanished into thin air! Last seen by me at about ten o’clock going out of the Templar tent. Ambushed, I suspect, by the third standard lamp post near the drinks tent.’

‘I’ll send in some more coffee,’ said Mrs Truebody, and bustled out.

Phryne drew her gown around herself and rubbed her eyes. Ground glass in the cold cream meant that she had not been able to clean her face, which felt gluey with old make-up. She got up and prowled around the housekeeper’s room. She had two clocks, a tall one and a small cheap alarm clock. Neither contained any clue.

Phryne watched Mrs Truebody go from person to person, from egg-sheller to bread-slicer to rasher-cutter and ask the questions, and each person shook their head. Damn. Perhaps he had been gathered up by a large eagle and flown to celestial regions. After all, he was Gerald’s cup bearer and rather good at it, if you discounted the scowling.

A neat young woman brought in more coffee and another plate of biscuits. These ones had bits of candied orange peel in them and were just the thing for a hot sleepless night. Phryne said so. The girl smoothed her apron and smiled with unwearied bright brown eyes. She could not have been older than eighteen, an age at which ‘midnight’ is not a signal to go to bed, and sleep is considered optional.

‘Oh yes, Miss. Mrs Truebody made them herself. She’s an angel with biscuits and sponges.’

‘Are you an apprentice?’ asked Phryne.

Minnie giggled, which was, Phryne discovered, her first response to any question. ‘No, Miss, just a hired kitchen hand, but I’m learning a lot. I wish this party went on longer!’

Phryne didn’t. But there was something she could ask this girl and she had better do it fast before Mrs Truebody got back.

‘Now, what about this ghost?’ she asked. The girl looked frightened, giving only a token giggle.

‘She’s in the old scullery,’ she whispered. ‘Just a shape and a moaning and a terrible feeling of fear and despair. They say she was a kitchen maid and fell in love with a noble visitor. He ruined her and cast her away and she hanged herself there. But don’t let Mrs Truebody hear you ask about her! She doesn’t believe in ghosts.’

‘In any case there’s no reason for that ghost to hurt you,’ said Phryne consolingly. ‘She’d be after men, surely, not girls like herself.’

‘Oh,’ said the girl, struck by this new idea. ‘No, of course. You’re right, Miss.’

‘Last of all,’ said Mrs Truebody, coming into the room. ‘Minnie, when did you last see that gold child, Tarquin?’

‘When he came in about dinner, Mrs Truebody. I haven’t been out of the kitchen since.’

‘And neither have you,’ said Mrs Truebody. ‘Tell everyone, ten minutes more and then we all have a cup of tea and a sit-down. We have done very well. As soon as your eggs are all shelled, Minnie, you, Hannah, Betty and Annie can go and get some sleep. Tell Gabriel I said he was to walk you to your corridor.’

‘Yes, Mrs Truebody. Thank you, Mrs Truebody,’ gasped Minnie, and took her leave. Phryne saw one of the huge young footmen shamble up from his position at the knife sharpening table, grunting an agreement.

‘The girls are worried about this ghost,’ said Mrs Truebody wryly. ‘I, on the other hand, am now worried about abductors. Both will have to be tough to get past our Gabriel. Not a bright lad, but very strong and he likes the girls.’

Phryne and Mrs Truebody contemplated Gabriel, twenty-two years old, half a ton of solid beef and several axe handles across the shoulders. Yes, it would be a bold ghost or abductor who took him on.

‘So, what news?’asked Phryne, dragging her gaze away from the giant footman.

Mrs Truebody tutted. ‘Nothing useful. Most of them only saw the boy when he came here before dinner. We haven’t really been out of the house all night. But Sam saw something that might be of use. I told him to come in when he’s finished the carving knives.’

Sam could have been Gabriel’s twin and in fact was his cousin. He hulked into the small room and stood clenching and unclenching his huge hands, as out of place as an elephant in a glass foundry.

‘Tell the lady what you saw, Sam,’ prompted Mrs Truebody.

‘More what I smelled,’ said Sam in a roar, which he immediately modified to a hoarse whisper. ‘At about eleven o’clock I was coming back from the drinks tent with a box which had the beer for us and the bottle of gin for—’ He flinched under a blowlamp glare from the housekeeper. ‘I mean to say, a bottle of gin. When I got under that third light I could smell gin real strong, so I stopped and took out the bottle in case it was leaking. It wasn’t. There was glass on the ground, so I reckoned that someone had dropped a bottle. That’s all,’ he said, beginning to sidle out of the door. Sidling was not one of his skills but he managed a sort of sideways shuffle.

‘Wait. Did you see a label on the lamp post?’ asked Phryne.

The huge brow corrugated in thought. ‘Yair, I reckon I did. I thought, must have been left over from the unpacking. That all?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Did you see anyone around?’ Phryne asked.

‘Lots of people,’ said the huge young man, surprised. In retrospect Phryne thought it a foolish question, too. She nodded and Sam escaped, trying not to mow anyone down in his enthusiasm to leave.

‘Anything else we can do for you, Miss?’ asked Mrs Truebody.

‘Yes. Give me an escort with a torch and tell me how many clocks are in the house.’

Mrs Truebody nodded intelligently. ‘For your riddle, Miss? Quite so. Apart from these two, there are only three. The big grandfather in the hall, the Swiss one with the cuckoo in the study and the case clock on the mantelpiece in the library. Those rooms ought to be empty. I’ll lend you little Billy, he’s lighter on his feet than Sam.’

‘Good. Then I shall leave you in peace and thank you very much for your kindness. And your coffee and biscuits, which were first rate.’

‘Very kind of you to say so, Miss,’ said Mrs Truebody, bobbing a curtsy. She promptly dispatched Phryne into the darkened house with a gangling youth, all knees and elbows, who carried a bright electric torch.

Little Billy (who had clearly been named by that method which called redheads Blue and bald men Curly) asked no questions but led the way to the tall grandfather clock. Phryne opened the door with care, and Little Billy let the beams of his torch fall inside. Nothing, except what one ordinarily finds inside a grandfather clock, with the addition of several lost keys, a pen nib and a lot of dust.

The case clock in the library was likewise empty of any interesting clues. Little Billy still asked no questions, which marginally unsettled Phryne. This might have explained why her hand slipped when opening the little door in the cuckoo clock, and the cuckoo dashed out, shouting ‘cuckoo!’ at the top of its voice. In a noisy classroom during the day it would have attracted attention. In the hushed early hours of the dark house it sounded like the trump of doom. Even worse, something which had been sleeping unnoticed on the study couch stirred.

It was shedding blankets as Little Billy and Phryne fled, halting just outside the door, trying not to breathe.

The pestilential bird cuckooed twice more. The sleeper thrashed a little, monotonously cursed the night, the mosquitoes, the beer, and even the canton in which the clock had been made as well as all cuckoos everywhere, and then fell asleep again. Little Billy and Phryne stayed still until their hearts had stopped trying to leap out of their respective breasts, and then crept back beyond the green baize door, where Little Billy carefully extinguished the torch and grinned.

‘That was fun!’ he said blissfully.

Phryne refrained from clipping him over the ear. Youth will be served, she thought, though sometimes with parsley and white sauce.

‘Thank you for your help,’ said Phryne, who was still panting slightly with reaction. ‘Tell Mrs Truebody I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Goodnight, Billy.’

Phryne slipped away to her own room. It had not sprouted any new lethal traps in her absence. She washed her face in cool water, jammed a chair-back under the locked door handle, and fell asleep, wrapped in her mosquito nets, to await what the morning might bring.

Friday, 28th December
She woke earlier than was her wont, hungry. Outside it was light and almost cool. Phryne washed and put on a cotton dress and loose trousers, clapping a broad brimmed straw hat on her head. Breakfast, her guide to the party informed her, would be served in the breakfast tent, and the scent of bacon wafting towards her proved a sure indication.