Murder on a Midsummer Night (8 page)

Today is washing day so we are all at liberty provided we do not give trouble. We are sitting in the garden. I have my favourite seat under the willow tree. It hangs down like a fairy curtain, so green and lacy. Margaret is visiting because it is washing day at her house too. We are working at embroidered slippers. We are making two pairs, one for her papa and one for mine, but it is easier if we do a slipper each so her papa’s will be finished first. Gerald was meant to read to us but he went to play football with some other boys, so Margaret’s brother Patrick is supplying his place. He is reading a Shakespeare play called
The Tempest
. We are supposed to use a special Shakespeare which omits the parts unsuitable for young ladies but we cannot find it so he is reading the whole play. It is very exciting and has spirits in it. Patrick wants to be an actor. He is a very good reader and dancer but his papa will never permit him to take up such an occupation which is not for gentlemen’s sons. His father is a lawyer like mine and wants Patrick to be a lawyer too. He tells me that he will never be a lawyer, but an actor as soon as he is eighteen and can join the actors’ theatre. Then he will marry me as we have always intended. We have been in love since we met at Margaret’s sixth birthday party.

Phryne stretched. The candlelight was flickering. She trimmed her candle and moved the book a little closer. Patrick was the man for Kathleen, then. What had happened to these two tender lovers?

The journal then gave the reader a recipe for kangaroo tail soup, one for seed buns and one for potato scones. Phryne blinked at a recipe for Marlborough cakes which took eight eggs and required whisking for an hour to make it light. Miss Kathleen enclosed a sketch for a pair of detachable sleeves called engageantes and an embroidery pattern for a summer petticoat.

Mama says that now I am sixteen and out and have put up my hair I may have a crinoline, and today one was fitted. I am to practise four hours a day walking and sitting in it. It is strange at first because there is no weight of undergarments and skirt. The skirt of the gown seems almost to float. But it swings easily and I knocked a lot of china off the little table in the nursery with it before I began to become accustomed to the movement. I am sure that I will be much more comfortable in summer with this admirable contrivance. But I can’t run anymore, and I cannot sit in the willow tree in a crinoline. I suppose I am becoming a young lady. I am working very hard at my music and water-colours and reading that beastly Carlyle on the French Revolution which was awful, the poor Queen and King and the poor little Dauphin. I am now responsible for the flower arranging for the parlour and the public rooms and Mama is teaching me to make potpourri today. The last of the roses are blooming even now. There is a very good song about the last rose which Margaret sings very pathetically and makes us all cry.

Which was all very well, thought Phryne, who agreed with Kathleen about Carlyle. And she remembered leaving childhood behind, but she never remembered missing it at all. Phryne’s childhood had been endured but rarely enjoyed. And in the clothes she was presently wearing—which Miss Kathleen would not have thought decent as undergarments—she could climb as many trees as she pleased. Things have got better, thought Phryne.

‘Now we are plunged into a great jam-making,’ said Miss Kathleen.

All the trees seem to come ripe at once and everyone helps Mrs Clitheroe and the maids. There is just a cold dinner on jam-making days. I had a terrible time making my apricot jam jell. It just wouldn’t wrinkle on the little plate until Patrick and Margaret came to help and Patrick put lemon juice in it. He said his mother always did so. My darling Patrick! I can hardy wait until he is eighteen—and it is tomorrow!

Phryne rubbed her eyes. There was something attractive about the fresh enthusiasm of Miss Kathleen. When was doom going to land on the poor girl?

There followed comment on Motherhood and Noble Women and several hints on the care of the skin (wash with milk, rub in until dry), removal of freckles (lemon juice and glycerine) and care of the hair (wash once a month, massage with coconut oil if dry). Then the ciphering became unreliable and Phryne had to guess at the meanings.

Patrick went to speak to my father and Papa laughed at him! Then he came up the stairs to me and said very gruffly ‘Do you mean this nonsense?’ and I told him indeed, indeed I meant it and it was not nonsense, and he grew very angry. He forbade me to leave the house and has told Miss Beale that I will not be returning to school. I am to stay with my sister and my mama and not go out alone. And he says he will take away my books and my music and that I am no longer to come down to dinner at seven, when the grown-ups dine, but stay in the nursery with the children. This is hard. I begged him to have mercy but he laughed. Today I shall tell him again that I and my Patrick are in dead earnest.

Phryne shook her head. This struck her as unwise. So it had, in fact, proved.

I spoke to Papa again and he struck me a great blow across the face and said that I would never marry if he had any choice in the matter. I fell over and was too horrified and grieved to get up. He just stared at me and then he went out of the room, and Mama came crying and took me back to the second floor and washed my bruise in arnica. All she said was ‘Poor child! Poor child!’ and would not say why Papa was so angry. Mama bade me stay in bed today and I have been weeping. But I will stop soon. I will eat the chicken fricassee and the junket which Cook has prepared for me. Then I will see Patrick again, if I have to climb down the ivy . . .

I did it! I climbed down and into the back garden and out the back gate and there he was, waiting, like the note which Minnie smuggled upstairs said he would be. We fell into each other’s arms and I wept and he wept too. He said my father and his were on opposite sides of some financial thing and each thought the other had cheated him and we were all forbidden to have anything to do with each other. He gave me a letter which Margaret had sent to me, saying goodbye. But any number of Papas cannot come between me and my only love. Patrick is to make the arrangements and I will contrive to see him again in three weeks’ time. Then no Papa can keep us apart.

It sounded like Miss Kathleen was going to fling her bonnet over the windmill, all right. A risky move. Especially in 1864, when Papas were Papas and domestic tyranny was a virtue. Phryne felt the need for a drink, went downstairs and got a consoling gin, and was followed up to her room by Ember, who liked people to be awake when he was awake. He sat down, purring, in the window niche. Phryne stroked him absentmindedly as she read.

‘It’s done!’ announced the diary.

I got leave of Papa to go to the doctor, and bribed Minnie with my pearl earrings. The whole thing was over in half an hour. Then we went to the doorkeeper’s house at Patrick’s place, which is empty, and we stayed there all day. Then I had to go home with Minnie, but I shall come again. And he is my golden man, my beautiful boy, my only love, my Patrick.

There were a few more recipes after this, for family dinners. Sea Pie, Boiled Potatoes, Vegetable Marrow with Gooseberry Fool for dessert. Or even simpler: French Onion Soup, Bread, and Apple Compote.

I am paying strict attention to everything Mama says about running a household as I shall have one of my own before long. If the soup is too salty, cook a raw potato in it and it will take up the salt, or add a spoonful of sugar. A greasy pot full of boiling water and soda is already washing itself. Remove the smell of onions from knives by thrusting them into earth. Use Jones’ Patent Flour. Never buy green pickles, make our own in season. How long will I have to wait? Oh, Patrick, come and take me away!

Ember purred. Phryne stroked. Something awful was coming, she could tell. The sky gave an obliging growl and lightning flicked across the page.

Patrick has a position as an actor! This is wonderful, but he is going on tour, to Castlemaine, Bendigo, Ballarat and other places, with the troupe, and I must stay in my father’s house though I am so loath to be here. Father looks on me very darkly when he sees me and never speaks. I am glad of this because I might faint if he did. I have been keeping to my room. I am not very well at present. Although I only ever used to see Patrick during the day, tonight I imagine him lying here beside me, his dear head on my breast, his sweet eyes devouring me. I think there is going to be a storm. LATER. Mama has the headache she always has before a tempest, and there are important people to dinner, so she has taken some laudanum and steel pills and laid herself down on my bed. She will have a cup of black coffee when she gets up after half an hour. She is asking me what I am writing and I have told her, my diary. Then she said a strange thing. If I could help you to your Patrick, my dear, she said, I would, but your papa has other plans for you. When I asked her what other plans she said suitable marriage and would not say to whom. But now she is gone and I am worried. I cannot marry anyone but my Patrick!

Oh, poor girl, said Phryne to herself, drinking the gin and stroking the nightblack fur. There was not really going to be a storm, of course, because the best lightning conductor in the world could not fool Ember. If it was going to thunder in earnest, he would not be lying on the window sill, purring. Phryne forced herself to read the last page of the cipher.

‘Patrick will come for me,’ said Miss Kathleen.

Now that I am in disgrace and have nothing to lose I am sure that he will come whatever his papa says. I know that the troupe are coming to Ballarat where I now am. I cannot even remember the scandal and the scenes. I collapsed during them and was taken away and put to bed and had brain fever for three weeks. Even in this hostile place the Sisters do not dare to actually mistreat me or set me to unfamiliar work. The other girl here does the washing, a horrible, hot, exhausting task. But I am not asked to work. I am allowed to read the Bible and I have been reading it. May God’s vengeance fall upon my father and Patrick’s father. I have started a cashmere lace shawl for the baby. And I wait. Patrick will come for me.

And there the story ended. Poor girl! No Patrick ever came for her. She had returned without the infant, been imprisoned again by the stern Papa, then been sold to Mr Bonnetti, who seemed to have been kind to her. By then her heart must have been so very broken that nothing much would bother her again.

Phryne drank the rest of her drink, blew out the candle, smoked a silent cigarette in the dark and put herself to bed with the black cat for company. She did not want to read. She had heard enough stories for one day, and didn’t even want to dream.

‘It’s very plain, sir. I was beetling along over Turkish lines when the old Sop suddenly cut out on me and down we went, fearful smash, my leg was caught in the wreck of the fuselage and I daresay I was shouting a bit, the fire was already at my toes. Then these soldiers appeared out of the night. One of them told me, “Stop squealing, you bloody idiot, you’ll bring the bloody Turks down on us and we’ll be buggered!” I think they were Aussies, sir.’

‘The language sounds familiar,’ said the officer. ‘What happened then?’

‘I don’t know,’ confessed the pilot. ‘There was a whooshing noise and when I woke up next I was secured in a stretcher on a camel and my ’bus—or the bits of it, at least—was secured on another camel and we were on our way to hospital. They think I shall keep my leg, sir. Can we get them a medal, sir?’

‘Either a medal,’ said the officer, ‘or a reprimand for leaving their posts. With this command, you never know.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

William Shakespeare
Twelfth Night

Phryne rose in just the right mood for a funeral: sombre. Her mood was sombre, her charcoal suit, grey stockings and black shoes were sombre, even her flat grey felt hat was sombre. So was the day. Everything matched. Dot, who was staying home, struck an uncharacteristically bright note in her terracotta house dress and brown cardigan figured with autumn leaves. Phryne gathered up her bag and gloves and her light outer coat and proceeded to the door, where Mr Butler was awaiting her. He was wearing his livery cap and coat. The Hispano-Suiza was already purring.

‘To the church, if you please, Mr Butler,’ she said.

‘Nice day for a funeral,’ he replied, and let the great car glide into the street.

Phryne realised, as she walked into the church, that she was in for a full requiem mass. That being so, she settled down to enjoy it, sniffing appreciatively as a cloud of incense billowed around her. A little acolyte with a large heavy censer had found that if he swung the censer hard enough the reciprocating motion had the same effect on him and there was something of a blur of frilly robe and feet as he and the censer went orbiting around the church and around each other. The attendance was not large. Presumably all those people who had been flattered into buying Royal Doulton cups and saucers didn’t feel any need to come see Augustine off to the Higher Regions. Gerald Atkinson was there, holding a handkerchief to his lips. He was accompanied by several young men and a couple of ladies. Cedric Yates was there in his demob suit. The girl Sophie was there, in drab black borrowed from the wardrobe of Mrs Manifold, who was a pillar of stygian grief, draped in black down to her stockings and her veil. Eliza and Lady Alice attended her.

‘Stabat Mater,’ murmured Phryne.

The young woman next to her stifled a giggle.

‘Yes, but she really is stricken,’ she reproved. ‘Poor woman.’

‘I know,’ said Phryne. ‘Funerals bring out the worst in me. Phryne Fisher,’ she said, extending a hand.

‘Rachel Phillips,’ replied the young woman. She obviously didn’t own any mourning clothes, but had managed with grey and beige. She had black hair and dark eyes and a profusion of gold jewellery. Phryne thought her stylish and comfortable in what she had always thought of as a very Jewish way.

‘Augustine used to buy a lot of stuff from my dad,’ Rachel explained. ‘Rosenbergs, in Little Collins Street. Stamps, coins and small treasures. Dad says he couldn’t really bear to come to the funeral—in a Christian church, yet—but I can cope; I married out, and poor Augustine was a good customer.’

‘I’m looking into his death,’ murmured Phryne, watching the rapidly revolving acolyte collide with a burly priest, who caught the child in one hand and the censer in the other. That was a relief. Some of that really superb lace might have got singed. And the child, of course.

The congregation found seats and settled, opening the order of service and focusing on the small print.

The significant dates of Augustine’s life were there, and a very stern verse from Ezekiel, again. With a few added jolly comments from the preacher on vanity. Phryne tried not to allow the gloom of the service to ruin her day. She said as much to her seat mate.

‘You should go to a Jewish funeral,’ observed Rachel. ‘Well, you shouldn’t,
kine hora
, of course, but that is even more realistic. They’re dead, they’re gone, and we owe them nothing but memory and truth. Plain pine coffin and no decorations.’

‘A rational people, I have always said,’ agreed Phryne. ‘But possibly too realistic. I have no patience with people who insist on calling a spade a bloody shovel.’

‘That is an opinion,’ said Rachel carefully.

‘Do you know all these mourners?’ asked Phryne, changing the subject. One should not debate comparative religion with comparative strangers, she told herself. One of them might be an evangelist. Or an axe murderer.

‘Yes, most of them. You already know Sophie and Mr Yates from the shop? That man is a magician of a carpenter; he made some cabinets for us once and they were works of art. The old man with the gorgeous head of white hair is Professor Rowlands, from the university. A perfectly civilised being with a tendency to lecture on languages, which are his field. Ancient languages. The tall young exquisite is James Barton, famous family, and the pretty girl in the dreadful clothes is his sister, Priscilla. Next to her is her constant companion, Blanche White.’

Phryne giggled into her prayer book.

‘Yes, I know, has to be an assumed name. I mean, look at her. From Cairo, she says. I’d think she was a closet Jew if it weren’t for the fact that I don’t like her and I don’t want her in my family.’

Miss White was svelte, dressed entirely in black, and smooth as a cat. Her hair was slicked down and folded into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were artfully outlined with kohl and her shoes and hat were the last word in elegance. What was she doing with Priscilla Barton, who looked like she had dressed from the ragbag and was wearing a hat which would have been spurned by a not-very-picky dustman’s horse?

‘I do see what you mean,’ agreed Phryne.

‘Then there are the followers. Luke Adler has brown hair, Valentine Turner is the blond, Stephanie Reynolds is the one in the red sari and Veronica Collins is the plump girl next to the gentleman in the black suit.’

‘I know him,’ said Phryne, not disclosing the presence of her favourite policeman, Detective Inspector Robinson. ‘So these were Augustine’s friends?’

‘Yes,’ said Rachel Phillips. ‘I suppose so. They feted him rather, took him out to lunch and so on, but I never could work out if they liked him at all. Or if he liked them, indeed. He was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve. I’d better hush, the ritual is starting.’

‘
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine
,’ said the priest in a no-nonsense tone, ‘
et lux perpetua luceat eis
.’

Rest eternal give to them, Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them, translated Phryne to herself. She wondered how Rachel would feel about the next lines, assuming she understood Latin.

‘
Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.
’

You are praised, Lord, in Zion, and homage will be paid to you in Jerusalem. Phryne stopped translating and allowed the service to flow over her, sonorous, plaintive, strong.
Kyrie eleison
, murmured Phryne.
Christe eleison
. Lord have mercy on us. Christ have mercy on us.
Kyrie eleison. Dies Irae. Tuba mirum. Rex tremendae
.

She surfaced from her trance somewhere near the middle of the Recordare, when a titter could be heard from the pew in which Augustine’s friends were sitting. Priscilla Barton was giggling, a high hysterical noise, which increased when Mrs Manifold turned to glare at her. Irritated, her brother James jumped to his feet, dragged her roughly up by one arm and hauled her out of the church, his face red with shame. What had brought that on? Phryne wondered. What was in the Recordare? Remember kind Jesus, requests not to be forsaken, I moan as one who is guilty . . . Perhaps Miss Barton had been tickled by the request at the end, which had always struck Phryne as funny.

Inter oves locum praesta, et ab haedis me sequestra
. Place me amongst the sheep and separate me from the goats. Well, yes, it was a comical image, but not enough to make you laugh in the middle of a requiem mass. Miss Barton seemed a little unstable. But her brother was clearly used to her hysterics, as well as annoyed and embarrassed by her. He had got her out of public view smartly, if not gently.

The door swung shut on the high-pitched noise as the priest, offended, put his shoulder into the denunciation of
confutatis maledictis
, when the accused are confounded, adding an extra growl to the
flammis acribus addictis
. Doomed to the flames of woe. Sounded bad. Phryne shifted a little and found that Rachel Phillips was also anxious.

‘Never mind. The Lacrimosa, the weeping and mourning, is next, then we get into the more comfortable stuff and into the final straight,’ she whispered. Rachel gave her a weak smile. Mrs Manifold was weeping along with the prayer.

Phryne pulled herself together and watched what she could see of that pew which contained the bright young things. It was there, she felt almost sure, that the mystery of Augustine Manifold would be solved.

An organ, played rather well, accompanied communion. Half of the congregation knelt at the altar rail, including, Phryne noticed, Gerald Atkinson, which was a bit of a surprise.

Domine Jesu passed without incident, though Phryne caught Miss Collins mouthing a peppermint. Benedictus. Sanctus.

And in the middle of the Agnus Dei the whole group murmured. Something to do with sheep, definitely. Phryne hoped that someone would tell her the joke.

Finally the request to shed eternal light on the deceased was repeated and the mass was over. ‘
Ite, missa est
,’ said the priest, and gathered his acolytes to lead the coffin out of the church and into Mr Palisi’s commodious, rubber-tyred motor hearse, which must have been a considerable investment. However, one could rely on people dying.

While it was not common for ladies to accompany the body to the cemetery, Mrs Manifold was being helped into an undertaker’s car, so Phryne invited Rachel Phillips to accompany her. Mrs Phillips shook her curly head.

‘But I’ll see you at Augustine’s house later,’ she promised. ‘I’ve had enough religion for one day, that’s all.’

Phryne felt the same as she got into the big red car and leaned back against the leather upholstery. Mr Butler diagnosed exhaustion and said over the noise of engines starting, ‘Basket next to you, Miss Phryne. Mrs B’s compliments.’

Phryne opened the basket and found a flask of cognac, a thermos of strong coffee, a paper bag containing coconut macaroons and a big white napkin. In a wash bag reposed a clean handkerchief, a little crystal bottle of smelling salts, a small spray bottle of eau de cologne and a comb and mirror. Phryne combed her hair, sprayed herself with eau de cologne, poured and drank two cups of coffee and ate a macaroon during the journey across town. For Augustine was going to rest with his fathers in the Melbourne General Cemetery in Carlton. Funeral processions were interesting, she found, not having ridden in an Australian one before. Traffic allowed them to pass. People stopped in the street. Men took off respectful hats as the cortège passed, and Phryne fought down a strong impulse to wave regally. She screwed the cup back onto the thermos and stowed all the belongings away. She felt much better.

‘Your wife,’ said Phryne, as the big car turned into the gates, past the Gothic keeper’s cottage, ‘is a jewel among women.’

‘I have always thought so, Miss Phryne,’ Mr Butler said complacently, aware that the said wife had also packed him a basket, containing a thermos of sweet milky tea and a packet of cold lamb sandwiches with homemade chutney. He knew a place where he could park in McIlwraith Street in order to enjoy his picnic in peace. Mr Butler did not like the idea of all those dead people lying there and envying him his lunch. He bought an armload of blue daisies from the flower stall, gave them to his employer, and took the big car away.

It was a rather nice cemetery, Phryne thought, hoisting her bouquet and walking slowly in procession behind the coffin carriers. The monuments tended to the large and sad—broken columns, spilt urns, weeping women—without the element of macabre which affected places where people had been buried for longer. Phryne recalled Kirkwall in Orkney, where all graves, even those of children, were ornamented sternly with skulls and bones. She noticed the huge monument to Burke and Wills and the grave of King, the only survivor. She sang ‘I know that my redeemer liveth’, the phrase on the grave of a singer. She veered aside from the procession to lay some flowers on the grave of the miner Thomas Beaconsfield and, further along, the last resting place of that Queen of the Gilbert and Sullivan stage, Dorothea Curtis. Though properly she should have had violets, the diva’s favourite flower. Pity that so many of her clients were dead, but that was the way of the detective trade.

And life had improved, she considered, as she read
Erected by William Witheridge in remembrance of his beloved wife Johanna who departed this life aged 31 years. Also to the memory of his five infant children requiescant in pace
. No longer did a woman have to lose five infant children before she gave up the ghost herself, probably with a sigh of relief. Phryne read the next stone.
Sacred to the memory of James . . . for he was a promising and engaging boy whom it has pleased Divine Providence to take from his fond and beloved parents after two days’ illness Sweet innocence fond lies here—lamented by a mother dear Who hopes by faith in endless joy To meet again her lovely boy
.

A red rose had climbed over little James’s stone and almost obliterated his dates. It was blooming in hot, scented, vibrant life, and Phryne was suddenly moved almost to tears. She hurried on, embracing her flowers.

The weather was getting into its stride. The sombre morning was clearing, the mist lifting, the sun emerging and striking sharp and hot. Phryne was glad of her hat. She noticed that the group of Augustine’s friends were clinging close together. Priscilla Barton had rejoined them and was walking along beside her brother James, clutching a vial of smelling salts in her hand.

Phryne wondered about the state of mind of a woman who would wear a red sari—decorated with golden sequins, indeed—to a funeral. It might be a defiant gesture. Looking at Miss Reynolds’ pretty, vacuous face ornamented with the red caste mark, Phryne did not think she exhibited enough character to make such a gesture. The young men Adler and Turner were beginning to perspire in their suits, though Gerald Atkinson remained as cool as several cucumbers in a cold frame. Miss Blanche White stalked beside Miss Barton in a long-legged ballet dancer’s glide which she was maintaining even over grass and cobbles. A notable feat. And Miss Veronica Collins brought up the rear, complaining about the heat and fanning herself with the funeral card.