The Green Mill Murder (9 page)

‘Sorry,’ said Mr Sullivan through the folds of the linen.

‘Not all all,’ said Phryne meaninglessly. ‘I am very sorry, Bobby. I’ll try and find Charles, but do you really want me to find him, if he has to stand trial for murder?’

‘Charles?’

‘Well, he ran away from the Green Mill, and the murder weapon is still missing. Did he have a reason to kill Bernard Stevens?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bobby, sitting down on the floor and leaning on Phryne’s lap. ‘Yes, he had a reason. Bernard Stevens was—well, I don’t quite know how to describe him.’

‘Try.’

‘He wasn’t . . . one of us, but he liked a little fling, with us. He had expensive tastes. He made a great play for Charles. He made Charles promise to be at the Green Mill to see the end of the dance marathon.’

‘I wondered why he wanted to go on that day,’ said Phryne, edging her thigh from under Bobby’s sharp elbow.

‘Yes. And there was another thing. He had pictures.’

‘Pictures?’

‘Yes, photographs. Taken at a party. There were some of Charles and Bernard, and one of me kissing Charles on the mouth—he would allow me to do that sometimes, if he felt that I had deserved it. And there are other photos of me— really dangerous ones—which would ruin me utterly if they were found.’

‘What do they show?’ asked Phryne, very gently.

‘There was a sailor, a boy from Glasgow. When Charles wouldn’t let me do any more than kiss him, the boy offered, and I fell, and he was so pretty and smooth, and we went to bed together, and he . . . and I . . . and we were both naked and lying on top of the sheet and – do you know what they do to you for sodomy? I’ll go to prison! And rather than go to prison, I’ll have to die, and I don’t want to die.’ Bobby buried his head in Phryne’s lap again. He wept briefly, sniffed, and looked up.

‘So I have been sitting here for two days, taking panicky phone calls from Charles and waiting, waiting for the police to arrive. They must have searched his room. They must have found the photographs. They must know that . . . what I am. And I am just sitting and waiting.’

‘For your house of cards to be blown down,’ concluded Phryne. ‘Not to despair. I know the policeman in charge of this inquiry. He is an old friend of mine. I shall get the photographs and return them to you if I possibly can. Where were you on the night of the murder?’

‘Dining at the Windsor with a client. She had a million brocade patterns on which she demanded my opinion, and she took me home to her house and we went through every single one of the blasted things—all gaudy, vulgar rubbish, very expensive. I didn’t get home until two in the morning but I did get the contract to do her country house.’

‘Well, then, no need to worry. Detective Inspector Robinson is looking for a murderer, Bobby. He isn’t concerned with other evidence of moral turpitude. Now, get up, like a good boy, mix a nice brandy and soda for yourself, and tell me why Charles can’t be the murderer.’

Bobby, a little shocked, got up and mixed the drink as ordered, and drank it in one shuddering gulp. Then he smiled a weak and watery smile.

‘Charles can’t stand the sight of blood. There was blood, wasn’t there?’

Phryne sat up straight. A piercing sense of something important that she had missed flicked past like an arrow and vanished.

‘Yes, there was blood,’ she agreed, dragging her mind like a fisherman trawling the seabed. Her net came up empty.

‘Well, then. I can imagine Charles poisoning someone, if sufficiently threatened, I can imagine him hiring an assassin to kill someone, but I cannot imagine him sticking a knife into anyone. It’s just not possible.’

‘Hmm. And you don’t know where Charles is?’

‘No. He has been calling from public phones, you can hear the pips. I’ve called around all our mutual friends and no one has seen him. His awful mother called me, so I gather that she isn’t hiding him. He has quite a lot of money, so he could be in a hotel somewhere. Please find him, Miss Fisher. He isn’t the murderer.’

‘I’ll do what I can. About his brother, this Victor—did Charles say when he was killed?’

‘On the Gallipoli campaign,’ said Bobby. ‘Yes. Charles said that his brother was an Anzac, and his mother was very proud of him.’

‘I see. Did you board at school?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘And Charles did not go home for the holidays?’

‘Not home, he always joined his mother at some resort; she liked to take the waters at Hepburn Springs. Sometimes they went to the seaside.’

‘Just Charles and his mother?’

‘Yes. His father was always busy at work. Why?’

‘Never mind. I must leave you, Mr Sullivan. Don’t worry yourself into a breakdown. I think that it will be all right. And I’ll see you soon.’

Phryne paced down the stairs to the car, marvelling. What a mind Mrs Freeman had! The unsatisfactory son accounted for, dead as a war hero, and used to taunt Charles. Holidays taken away from home while Victor was still living there. Careful explanations to Victor, presumably that his idealistic brother should not be exposed to a shell-shocked wreck of an adored figure. Cruel and vengeful and very, very clever. Planning of a high order. And Charles thought that Victor was a dead war hero, and that he was the only living son.

‘Poor Charles is in for a shock, even if he isn’t in for a hempen collar,’ said Phryne aloud as she started the car. ‘Assuming that Victor is still alive, which of course I don’t know. I wish I could catch that memory!’

The big car slid to a halt in a winding cul-de-sac in the tattier part of South Yarra, and Phryne sat for a moment contemplating the house.

Someone had thought that an honest but simple Victorian terrace would be improved by blocking in both verandahs in order to cram as many tenants in as possible. The place was clean, smelling of sour yellow soap and flyspray, but it was cheerless and drear, painted a particularly depressing shade of dark stone. Phryne rang the bell, and a voice directed her up to Violet King’s room. The stairs were painted, in lieu of carpet. Phryne began to understand how someone could dance their legs off for a chance to get out of this house.

Iris Jordan answered the door. In that shabby room, crowded with memorabilia of the tinselly kind, kewpie dolls and dance cards, she burned with a strong vitality. She had taken off her loose blouse and was clad in a skirt and a blue workman’s singlet. Shadows slid over the perfect curved muscles in shoulder and chest.

‘Miss Fisher? Glad you’re here. All those stupid doctors have done is to give the poor mite morphia. Have a look at this.’

The frail girl, fair hair wet with sweat and face drained of all colour, was lying cramped up on a couch which would have been an asset to the Spanish Inquisition in making heretics talk. She was breathing fast through her open mouth; her eyes were dilated, black.

‘What can we do?’ asked Phryne. ‘Shall I call another doctor?’

Iris snorted. ‘We have to get her unkinked, and now is a good time. You clear that table and drape this sheet over it, and I’ll get that nightdress off. Poor little thing! If I’d got her at the time, before the muscles set, this wouldn’t be half as bad.’

Phryne, as ordered, gathered an armload of magazines and assorted trivia from the table, placed the junk on the floor, and spread out the sheet, which evidently belonged to Iris. It was marked with her initials and was of a soothing pink. Iris was coaxing Miss King out of her nightdress and up onto her feet.

Miss King took two faltering steps on legs that were quite crippled and fell with a squeak of alarm. Iris caught her and lifted her, entirely without effort, onto the table.

‘We’ve got to loosen those calf muscles, Miss King,’ she said in her cool, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Were you wearing high heels?’

Miss King nodded, quite overborne by Iris’s dominating presence.

‘Silly. If you do such a thing again, wear flat shoes. Your calf muscles are knotted up like old leather.’ Iris poured something oily out of a bottle into her cupped hand. It smelt powerfully of eucalyptus and pepper.

‘My own compound,’ said Iris, turning Miss King over onto her stomach. ‘I only use it on athletes and horses. This will sting a bit,’ she added. ‘Just let yourself relax. You shall have your legs back in a few days, pet.’

Phryne watched as the strong hand smoothed oil onto skin that immediately reddened. Iris began to knead the thin legs, searching mercilessly for knots in the muscles. To Phryne’s untutored eye the muscles appeared to be all knot. The girl’s thin legs and bony buttocks upset Phryne, so she wandered away to leaf through the magazines and examine the pictures which covered all available wall space. Miss King, it appeared, was a movie fan. A large photograph of Douglas Fairbanks took pride of place. Next to it was a cabinet photo of a thin, intense young man; Phryne recognised Percy McPhee and wondered how he was faring. Clearly he did not live with Miss King. A piece of newspaper had been carefully clipped and glued to a larger sheet which was tucked behind the clock. It was an advertisement from
The Age.

Phryne moved closer to read it, trying not to listen to the slap of hand on flesh and muffled moans from the patient.

‘SMALL dairy and vegetable farm, Bacchus Marsh, own water, peach trees, house, ten milking cows, sheds. £200 or will exchange for a baby car.’

Well, well, that was why Percy McPhee and Violet King had danced for forty-seven hours and twenty-one minutes, until they were almost dead and one of the other couple was dead. Could either Percy or Violet have been desperate enough to stab their rival? They were both very young, very poor, and might see this farm as their only chance at marriage and a happy future. They had certainly been at the end of their tether when Phryne had seen them; neither couple would have been able to keep on their feet much longer. It was a possibility.

There were two problems with the theory. One was the murder weapon. Both of them had been searched and Miss King had not been wearing a hat. The other was the precision of the blow. Would anyone who had been dancing for nearly two days and nights have the strength to stab someone neatly in the heart and dispose of the weapon so effectively? Where had it gone? Phryne began to wonder if the murderer had swallowed it. There was a knock at the door. A crone in a starched wrapper glared at Phryne. ‘He’s here,’ she snapped, ‘that Percy McPhee. And I tell you, whoever you are, that I won’t have my house turned into a bad place by any fancy men. I won’t have that girl in the house any longer, I tell you, not if he keeps calling. I tell you straight.’

‘So you do,’ said Phryne coldly. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Her fee-anc-ay,’ the landlady sneered. ‘Out to all hours with him, didn’t even come home for a whole two nights, for all her airs. Out she shall go, I won’t have such goings-on in a respectable lodging house!’

‘Oh, I do so agree,’ said Phryne, forcing the woman out into the landing. ‘Who are you?’

‘Mrs Garland. And I won’t . . .’

Her voice drained away as she got a good look at Phryne. Money, thought Mrs Garland; handmade shoes, emerald earrings, silk shirt, fancy suit. Mrs Garland had never considered that Violet King might have friends like this. Phryne smiled slightly, allowing the impression to sink in.

‘I’ve brought a masseuse for Miss King,’ she said. ‘She won a dance marathon, and I don’t think she’ll be cluttering up your respectable house any more. And I would like to speak to Mr McPhee. That is out of the question in Miss King’s room, as I am sure you’ll agree. I’m sure that you have a parlour? Good. I’ll just tell Miss Jordan where I’m going.’

Phryne called to Iris that she would be away for half an hour, and followed Mrs Garland down the stairs to a cold Victorian parlour, perfectly preserved, from the slippery horsehair sofa to
The Monarch of the Glen
over the mantelpiece. A young man with a walking stick was waiting in the hall.

‘Thank you, Mrs Garland,’ said Phryne. ‘Come here, Mr McPhee. You look all in. Have a seat. My name is Phryne Fisher, you may remember me.’

Percy, who was still drawn and walked with difficulty, grinned. ‘I couldn’t hardly miss you,’ he said, easing back against the horsehair. ‘I came to see Violet. Couldn’t walk yesterday. Is she all right?’

‘I brought a masseuse, she’s with her now. Poor little thing was nearly crippled. She wrote to me. She was worried that the Green Mill might refuse the prize.’

‘Yair. I dunno what we are going to do. You see, Miss, Violet and me, we want to go to the country. There’s a farm at Bacchus Marsh we can swap for the car. It’s our only chance. Violet’s an usherette at the pictures, I’m out of work.’

‘Can you manage a farm?’

‘I’m from a dairy farm. I could milk before I could walk.’ He grinned again. ‘Come to the city looking for them streets paved with gold, but they was just plain asphalt. I reckon I can make a go of it. And if we don’t make money at least we can eat. The dance marathon was our only chance. And we won it fair and square. Now them lousy . . . now they want to refuse us the prize. And I don’t reckon we could do it again. Violet couldn’t, anyway. I was carrying her for the last ten hours.’

‘Yes, I saw you. You were behind me. And you couldn’t have done it.’ Phryne had a sudden picture of the position of the dancers. ‘No, you couldn’t have, you were behind me, Violet hanging on your shoulders. You were not in range of the victim.’