Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries)

Unnatural Habits

A Phryne Fisher Mystery

Kerry Greenwood

www.PhryneFisher.com

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2013 by Kerry Greenwood

First E-book Edition 2013

ISBN: 9781615954315 ebook

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

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Contents

Unnatural Habits

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Afterword

Bibliography

More from this Author

Contact Us

Dedication

All names in this book are fictional. No real person was intended. If someone has actually been named, it is a fault of my impoverished imagination.

This novel is dedicated to my sister Janet.
My hero. Sisterhood is powerful.

Acknowledgments

With thanks to David, an angel in wombat form. Jenny P and Ika, Helen, Jan and Henry Gordon-Clark, my formidable researcher Jean Greenwood, Michael Warby of the keen historical mind and refusal to be defeated by the guardians of any hidden store of documents, Susan Tonkin, who outfaced the National Library to obtain the only extant copy of The Woman Worker, and the Bacchus Marsh Historical Society.

Epigraph

But man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven,
As would make the angels weep.

—William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

Chapter One

‘Do you believe in clubs for women, Uncle?’

‘Yes, but only after every other method of quieting them has failed.’

Punch
cartoon
,
1890

The attack came suddenly. Out of the hot darkness in the notorious Little Lon came three thugs armed with bicycle chains. The tallest lashed his against the crumbling side of a building. It hit a metal sign advertising Dr. Parkinson’s Pink Pills for Pale People, which rang like a drum.

‘An ominous noise,’ commented Dr. Elizabeth MacMillan.

‘The natives are restless,’ agreed her companion. She was the Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher, five-feet-two with eyes of green and black hair cut into a cap. They were not the target of this assault. They were blamelessly approaching the Adventuresses Club bent on nothing more controversial than a White Lady (Phryne) and a dram of good single malt (Dr. MacMillan) and an evening’s exchange of views on weather, politics and medicine. But Little Lonsdale Street was always liable to provide unexpected experiences.

However, the person who was fated for a good shellacking appeared to be lone, female and unprotected, which could not be allowed. Phryne turned abruptly on her Louis heel and, putting both fingers in her mouth, whistled shrilly.

‘Look out, boys!’ she yelled. ‘Cops!’

Usually, this was a sound strategy. As police always entered Little Lonsdale Street in parties of four, the thugs would be outnumbered. It was just their bad luck, this evening, that they were led by a foolhardy tough with no sense of self-preservation. News like Phryne got around. He should have recognised her. But instead of a tactical withdrawal, he swung the chain again and struck a sign advertising Castlemaine Bacon (none finer). He advanced on Phryne and the doctor. She looked at her companion.

‘You can’t say I didn’t give them a chance to get away,’ said Phryne apologetically.

Dr. MacMillan waved a Scottish hand.

‘You did,’ she admitted.

Phryne raised an arm and made a circling movement. Men dressed in blue cotton appeared out of the darkness. They fell on the chain wielder and his satellites. To the noise of crunching bone and flesh hitting walls and pavement, Phryne and the doctor walked through the lesson (do not attack the concubine of our master Lin Chung unless you have a tank and a Lewis Gun and probably not then) and spoke to the intended victim, who was still cowering against a dustbin with her arms protecting her face.

‘Hello,’ said Phryne. ‘Did they hurt you?’

‘Didn’t get started,’ said the victim in a cultured voice. Not a working girl, then. ‘What did you do with them?’

‘Over there.’ Phryne directed her attention to the melee, which had almost resolved into three untouched Chinese men and a heap of damaged thugs, groaning for burial or at least a stiff drink and a few bandages. The young woman boggled at the sight.

‘Who are the Chinks?’

Phryne winced. ‘The Chinese,’ she said coldly. ‘They follow me when I wander around this bit of the city. Their master is concerned for my safety. Not that I cannot look after myself. What have you done to attract this kind of attention, I wonder?’

‘Asking too many questions,’ replied the girl. She was small and plump. Her hair was shingled as short as the doctor’s and her clothes were expensive. And not what they had been, sartorially.

‘Always unwise in Little Lon. Can we offer you a drink and a new pair of stockings? I’m Phryne Fisher, and this is Doctor MacMillan of the Queen Victoria hospital, and our club is just over there.’

‘Oh, Miss Fisher!’ the young woman gasped. She pinkened. ‘Of course. Thank you! I am a bit of a wreck.’

Phryne caught the eye of the blue-clad warriors. She bowed with both hands pressed together in front of her breast and indicated the stone entrance of the Adventuresses Club. They nodded and bowed deeply in turn.

‘Of course, having a bodyguard does endow one with a certain insouciance in dealing with the denizens of Little Lon,’ Phryne told the girl. ‘Might we know your name?’

‘Oh, sorry. Kettle,’ said the young woman. ‘Margaret Kettle—but everyone calls me Polly. I’m a reporter.’

‘You are not, I understand, hoping to write any stories about this club?’ demanded Dr. MacMillan.

‘No!’ protested Polly. ‘No, certainly not, that was not what brought me to Little Lon.’

‘Lips sealed?’ asked Phryne.

‘Buttoned,’ promised Polly earnestly. She could see her drinks and her stockings vanishing just as she thought that they were hers. And she really needed a drink. Gently brought-up girls seldom met thugs in noisome alleys, and she was shaken.

‘All right, then. My guest, Molly,’ Phryne told the female giant sitting in the porter’s chair. ‘Bung over the book and I’ll sign her in. Quiet night?’