Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (16 page)

‘How goes it, Dot dear?’ asked Phryne.

‘Nothing useful,’ said Dot. ‘I was just sitting here, thanking God for my own nice clean bed and safe roof and good clothes. I can have whatever I want to eat or drink. God has been very good to me. And you, too,’ she added hastily, in case Phryne should be offended at being considered an agent of the divine.

‘Indeed,’ said Phryne, sitting down on the wrought-iron garden chair.

‘I could have been one of those girls,’ said Dot. ‘Before I met you and you rescued me. If that creature had actually got to me. I would have been disgraced and in that convent. How was the lying-in home?’ she asked.

‘Just as frightful as you can imagine,’ said Phryne. ‘The Blue Cat Club, however, was palatial. I have suggested to Mr. Butler that he buy Mr. Tarrington’s book. He has the nicest concoctions. It’s called Cooling Cups and Dainty Drinks
.
Worth buying it for the title. Sometimes civilisation lies in the outsiders, Dot. None of the Blue Cat’s members would have anything to do with illegitimate children.’

‘Because they aren’t interested in women,’ said Dot calmly.

‘That’s so,’ agreed Phryne.

‘I know they’re committing a sin,’ said Dot slowly. ‘But at least it doesn’t hurt anyone else.’

‘Bravo,’ said Phryne. ‘We shall make a bohemian of you yet. What did the priest say?’

‘He knows the Kettle family quite well,’ said Dot. ‘He says Mrs. is very devout, Mr. only turns up for Easter and Christmas. There’s a brother, he never comes to church at all, and Polly used to be there a lot but lately she’s been absent, too. He thinks she has a boyfriend. I never met an Anglican priest before. I thought they would be different from our priests but they’re really not. I suppose a priest is a priest. He’s an old man. Seen a lot. I liked him. You ought to meet him, Miss. How did you get on with the bishop?’

‘I haven’t spoken to him yet, and until I do I can’t go to the convent. But this afternoon we just have to pass away the time soothingly, while the minions ring a million phone numbers, the kitchen seethes, and you get on with your tea-cloth. And I finish this mystery, which has to go back to the library. Then we need to return to Collingwood and catch poor Mrs. O’Hara. I have a little present for her.’

‘Oh, Miss,’ said Dot, clutching her embroidery to her bosom. ‘Not…some of them…things?’

‘No, just an appointment for a fitting with the Marie Stopes device,’ said Phryne soothingly. ‘Eleven children are enough for any woman. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘The priest says it’s a sin,’ said Dot, not entirely convinced.

‘There’s a lot, as I remarked, of sin around,’ Phryne told her. ‘This way at least we can mitigate the damage.’

‘I suppose,’ said Dot, and got back to her stitching.

Phryne opened her book and sipped her lemonade. Agatha Christie. What a plotter. Phryne wished briefly that the real world was so amenable to being solved.

***

Phryne drove to Collingwood without more than the usual number of incidents. Dot kept her eyes firmly shut for the whole journey. The sky was darkening like an ink stain. There was going to be a huge storm soon, and Dot wanted to be alive to see it. Dot liked storms. Poor little Ember was tucked safely away in his wardrobe. And rain might reduce this humidity. Even in the open car Dot was soaked in sweat, which she felt was unladylike.

***

Mrs. O’Hara was a meagre, underfed, overworked harridan. It would be surprising if she was not, Phryne thought. Phryne eyed her. It appeared that she was not presently pregnant. She could see the woman’s hip bones through her washed thin dress.

‘Yair?’ she demanded. She was so tired that no real anger could be heard in her voice. Inside the house, babies wailed.

‘We came to your house yesterday,’ said Phryne. ‘To ask about your daughter Mary.’

‘She’s not here,’ said Mrs. O’Hara, defending the doorway with her body.

‘I know,’ said Phryne gently. ‘She’s missing.’

‘Yair,’ said Mrs. O’Hara.

‘Where might she have gone?’ asked Phryne.

‘Dunno,’ said Mrs. O’Hara. ‘The others is all still ’ere. You talked to my ’usband?’

‘I did,’ said Phryne.

‘’E says you said that Fraser’s the father,’ said the woman, leaning into the edge of the door and lifting one foot as though it hurt.

‘I believe he is,’ said Phryne. ‘Come on, let us in. It’s going to pour in a moment. Is your husband home?’ she asked, hoping that a merciful heart failure had removed him from the suffering world.

‘’E’s at the ’ospital,’ said Mrs. O’Hara, moving aside to let them in. ‘’E’s been attacked.’

‘Really?’ asked Phryne, pleased. ‘By whom?’ There were so many possible contenders.

‘Dunno,’ said Mrs. O’Hara, leading them into the hot, crowded, filthy kitchen. ‘’E says some nun came and ’e keeled over.’

‘A nun?’ exclaimed Dot, putting her basket of food down on the unscrubbed table.

‘Sister Immaculata, ’e said. I dunno,’ said Mrs. O’Hara and sank down into a chair. Immediately a wave of children engulfed her. She tried to embrace them all. ‘’E sold Mary to ’im, didn’t ’e?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne.

‘And now she’s run away,’ said the woman. Her hair straggled out of its bun and she tried to shove it away with a worn, calloused hand.

‘Yes,’ agreed Dot, distributing lollies with a liberal hand.

‘Woman from Children’s Protection came.’ Mrs. O’Hara accepted a cup of strong, heavily sugared tea from Katie. ‘Said she’d be back. With food. But she’s not goin’ to take ’em,’ she said fiercely.

‘No, they’re yours,’ agreed Phryne. ‘And if you keep this appointment, you need not have any more than you can feed.’

‘Thanks, Miss,’ said Mrs. O’Hara. ‘I didn’t know,’ she told Phryne. ‘I never knew he’d do that.’

‘No?’ said Dot sceptically.

‘But she might have been better off with ’im than ’ere,’ said Mrs. O’Hara, and began to cry.

Katie glared at Phryne. A small boy kicked her in the ankle. Dot grabbed the child and restrained him.

‘We are all going to have tea,’ she told the children, ‘while Miss Phryne talks to your Mum. I’ve brought sandwiches and cake.’

She was immediately mobbed. Silence fell, except for gobbling noises. Table manners were not taught, evidently, in the O’Hara household.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman, wiping her cheeks with both hands. ‘I’m that tired.’

‘I know,’ said Phryne. ‘Can you think of where Mary might have gone?’

‘Nah. We don’t have no relatives. He come ’ere from New Zealand. We’ve never met none of his family. And my brother was killed in the war, my mum and dad have passed on. I dunno where she might ’ave gone. If you find her, tell ’er that we miss ’er. Tell ’er if she come ’ome I’ll deal with ’er dad. The bastard.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ said Phryne. She handed over a parcel of books to Katie, and she and Dot left.

‘Phew,’ said Dot.

‘Absolutely,’ said Phryne. She took the time to put the Hispano-Suiza’s top up. The sky was leaden and portentous.

They were almost home when the storm hit. Phryne left the big car at the kerb and they ran inside through raindrops as big as golfballs, which seemed to contain much more water than was physically possible. The mosquitos vanished, the air cleared like magic, and standing in her own porch Phryne rejoiced in the wafts of cool air.

Then she bade her minions leave their phone researches in case of lightning strike and closed the outer door on a really very impressive storm.

Chapter Eight

Isabel: I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for’t!…
Or with an outstretched throat I’ll tell the world aloud
What man thou art.
Angelo: Who will believe thee, Isabel?
My unsoiled name, the austereness of my life
My vouch against you, and my place in the state
Will so your accusation overweigh
That you shall stifle in your own report, and smell of calumny.

William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

The lights went out, as they usually did. A cool wind swept through the house from the open kitchen door as Tinker went to his shed to fetch his hurricane lamp. Ruth reported that the Butlers were having a lie-down until the power came back on, and brought iced lemonade.

‘I hope the refrigerator doesn’t melt,’ she worried.

‘That takes hours,’ said Phryne. ‘And if it does, we’ll just have to eat all the ice cream.’

Tinker, returning with his lamp, said, ‘You beaut!’

‘Come in, Lucifer, Son of the Morning,’ said Phryne extravagantly. ‘Shall we play cards?’ she suggested.

‘All right,’ said Jane. ‘It’s a bit too dark to read.’

‘Snakes and Ladders,’ suggested Ruth, who always lost patience playing even Vingt-et-un with Jane, who calculated the odds with every card.

‘Good idea, get the box,’ said Phryne, who had played far too many games of cards in exigent circumstances. A game called Texas Hold ’Em always reminded her of terribly young and grimy American troops in France in 1918. Poor doughboys, she thought. Snakes and Ladders she had played with her own siblings. And Jane could have no odds to calculate.

Or could she? Mathematics were a closed book to Phryne. As long as her debits vastly exceeded her credits she was happy. Or perhaps the other way around. Phryne hired mathematical people to do such thinking for her. They seemed to be happy with the arrangement. Ruth found the box and unfolded the Snakes and Ladders board. It was an old one, with happy smiling tots climbing the ladders and gaping, fanged snakes. A Victorian child’s toy. They settled down and began to play. One, two, three and up the ladder—joy. And four, five and down a snake, horror.

Molly, nervous, decided that the place to feel safest was lying on Phryne’s feet. She was hot and heavy. Phryne slipped off her shoes and reversed the process, resting her own slim feet on the dog. Molly woofed companionably and licked her toes. Molly had always liked the taste of Phryne’s skin. Lightning flashed, bleaching the cosy room with actinic light. Thunder thumped like an HE shell. Phryne closed her eyes against a sudden vision of the Western Front. That was thunder. Not high explosive; no stench of blood and sulfur and dead men. She was in her own house. In excellent company. But she shivered. Molly licked her feet to comfort her. Dot divined that something was wrong.

‘Miss?’ she asked.

‘Mmm?’ said Phryne.

‘Miss, it’s your turn,’ Dot prompted.