Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (48 page)

‘Hello, Miss Phoebe,’ said Herbert Grant. He took her hand with care. Phoebe looked into his eyes with huge affection. ‘You look beautiful in that dress.’

‘Thank you, Herbert,’ she replied.

‘Will you really marry me?’ he asked in a small, ashamed voice.

‘Today,’ said Phoebe.

This is turning into a Gilbert and Sullivan ending, thought Phryne. ‘If that is so then derry down derry we’ll merrily marry when day is done!’ Where did Dot find that very pretty rabbit to pull out of her hat? she wondered. I underestimate that girl.

‘Come on, Polly, we’re leaving,’ she said, drew the young woman to her feet, and led her toward the door.

‘But isn’t this a maiden sacrifice?’ asked Polly. ‘How can she really love him? I’m sure I was alone in the house—no other lady there.’

‘She’s his housemaid,’ said Phryne. ‘Do you have things to collect? Got your handbag and your notebook? Yes? Right. Come along while the magic lasts.’

‘His housemaid?’ asked Polly, as they swung the big door shut behind them.

‘No, Ruth, Snap needs to stay behind to guard the house,’ said Phryne, as the huge dog showed signs of accompanying them.

Ruth farewelled the mastiff with the remains of the biscuits.

‘His housemaid?’ repeated Polly, shocked and elated and a little nettled at being supplanted so easily.

‘And she’ll give his stepmother a run for her money,’ said Dot. ‘Strong-minded young woman. And she knows all about him, and really dotes on him.’

‘So romantic!’ exclaimed Ruth.

‘So, do we take you home?’ Phryne, loading her family into the Hispano-Suiza, asked Polly.

‘Yes, I have to see my father. He’ll be frantic. And then,’ she said grimly, ‘I have to see my mother.’

Fortunately, though Dot would not agree, Phryne drove fast. They arrived in Camberwell just in time to prevent a murder.

The front door was open. A flying housemaid just avoided them as she ran down the drive, cap awry, apron sailing. When they entered the house at a run, they heard raised voices and headed for the sound.

It was an arresting tableau. Mr. and Mrs. Kettle were bailed up against a wall by their son. He had a shotgun, a weapon to be treated with extreme caution due to its tendency to massacre anyone within range. Polly gestured to the minions to spread out around the walls as they approached Martin-called-John from behind. Mr. Kettle saw Phryne. Mrs. Kettle’s gaze was fixed on the boy with the gun.

‘What have you done with her, Mum?’ he yelled.

‘She’s here,’ said Phryne, forcing the gun barrel up and shoving Polly into the boy’s arms. The gun fired and brought down nothing but plaster.

Then Polly embraced her brother, Mrs. Kettle sank to the floor in hysterics, and Mr. Kettle tottered into a chair.

‘It’s all right,’ said Phryne clearly. ‘It’s all fixed. Polly’s back and she isn’t hurt. She isn’t hurt. Tell him, Polly.’

‘I knew she was plotting,’ sobbed Martin. ‘I knew she sent me away for a reason. Then when that friend of Miss Fisher’s told me you were missing, I knew it was her. I pinched some money and got the first train.’

‘Yes, yes,’ soothed Polly. ‘But I’m all right, Johnnie. I’m really not hurt at all. I’ve just been held captive and very bored. That man has never read a book in his life; I’ve been putting myself to sleep every night with the volumes of Victorian sermons from his library. Sit down, John. Miss Fisher came and got me just now.’

‘Ruth,’ said Phryne, ‘a large glass of whisky for Mr. Kettle. Dot, can you go and sort out the kitchen and countermand the cops if someone has called them? Tink, go out and retrieve that housemaid—you’ll probably find her having the vapours in the street. Jane, are you too tired to take some more notes?’

‘No,’ said Jane.

‘Good, have a chair. Clear some of the plaster dust off the table. Polly, would you like a little whisky?’

‘No,’ said Polly. ‘I’d like a lot of whisky. Mother…’ She turned to the woman sitting against the wall, wailing. ‘How could you?’

‘I did it for your own good!’ she whimpered. ‘He was a good match, and your father wanted you to give up all this newspaper nonsense.’

‘Me?’ demanded Mr. Kettle. ‘What have you done?’

Ruth supplied drinks for all. Mr. Kettle hauled his wife to her feet and plumped her down into a chair. She cried aloud at his handling and seemed about to rocket into hysterics.

‘Ruth, just pick up the house phone and ask the housekeeper to bring in a large bucket of cold water, will you?’ asked Phryne.

Mrs. Kettle eyed her with loathing.

‘This is a mess,’ said Mr. Kettle, gulping his whisky.

‘Certainly, and I cannot abide messes. They’re taking up time which ought to be spent on amusing occupations,’ Phryne told him. ‘Now, I will summarise, and Jane will note down what I say. Ready, Jane?’

Jane nodded, pencil in hand.

‘Good. Mrs. Kettle was jealous of her daughter. She resented the attention and love lavished on her by her father. She wanted to get rid of her. So she hatched a plot with poor, simple Herbert Grant’s stepmother to have her kidnapped and forced to marry him. He’s rich. It would be a good match. And that would get the annoying daughter out of the house forever. Right?’ Phryne pierced Mrs. Kettle with an icy stare. Mrs. Kettle winced. ‘True?’ demanded Phryne. ‘I can always give your son back his shotgun.’

‘Yes,’ muttered Mrs. Kettle. ‘Yes!’

‘You didn’t!’ exclaimed Mr. Kettle. ‘And you let me worry all this time. I nearly went mad!’

‘Excuse me,’ said Phryne in sub-zero tones. ‘You can recriminate later. Polly told her brother that she’d never marry Herbert Grant, and you packed him off smartish to Mount Martha, where he would not hear about Polly’s abduction.’

‘Yes,’ Mrs. Kettle said. ‘He’s going to be a lawyer. He can’t afford to have any scandal…’

‘Herbert Grant picked Polly up and tucked her away and I came and rescued her this morning.’

‘So it seems,’ said Mrs. Kettle.

‘And he is even now marrying a very suitable girl from a respectable background, so your matrimonial ambitions have come to naught, as they deserved. You will not try to marry Polly to anyone again.’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Kettle.

‘And you will allow your son to pursue the career of his choice. What’ll it be, John?’

John, sensing a never-to-be-repeated opportunity, said, ‘I want to be a carpenter. I’m good at making things.’

‘Your great-grandfather was a carpenter,’ said Mr. Kettle. ‘It must run in the family.’

‘Grouse!’ said John.

‘You will cease pestering your husband with your attentions, foreswear hysterics, be an angel of the house, and donate your next six months’ dress allowance to the charity of my choice. Sign, please,’ said Phryne.

Mrs. Kettle looked up at her family. She could not see a way out. Her son, still white with anger. Her husband, shaken and appalled. Her betrayed daughter, incandescent with freedom and disgust.

She signed.

‘Thank you,’ said Phryne. ‘If I hear a word about you again, this goes to the Hawklet. Good morning.’ And she swept out, carrying her minions with her.

Polly caught up with her at the door. ‘My scoop?’

‘Tomorrow at eleven,’ said Phryne. ‘Come to my house. Now I think you had bettter go to your father.’ She beckoned Tink, who was escorting the maid up the drive.

Inside, the shouting had begun.

‘The middle class,’ sighed Phryne as they all piled into the big car. ‘I should never have got involved with the middle class.’

Chapter Twenty-one

This is the very womb and bed of enormity…

Ben Jonson, Bartholomew Fayre

Phryne rang the Blue Cat when she got home, then went for a swim with the minions. Even Dot so far unbent as to take off her shoes and stockings and paddle. It had all worked out beautifully. Polly Kettle was home, all the lost girls were rescued and Miss Phryne hadn’t had to shoot anyone important. Jack Robinson was pleased, and this extended to Hugh Collins. And it was a lovely day. Tinker, who could swim like a fish (having been thrown into the sea at the age of six by his father, in an experimental mood, to see if he’d drown), was teaching Jane how to duck-dive for shells. Ruth, who still had her long hair, preferred to float. Phryne rolled and luxuriated in the waves. She had always admired seals, but early attempts at swimming like one always left her human sinuses full of water.

And tonight she would tie up another loose end. Mr. Featherstonehaugh had agreed to her proposal to admit her again to the Blue Cat for drinks before dinner.

How did he manage to put ortolans en brochette on his menu in Australia, a country entirely without ortolans? Surely no one bottled the poor little birds? Even for the French, a country that elevated cuisine to the heights usually enjoyed by religion, that seemed to be extreme.

Phryne and her minions returned to the house. Jane and Tinker resumed chess. Ruth and Dot sat reading in the garden. Phryne took a long nap. It was so nice to have it all worked out. Except for a few minor niggles.

***

At about five Dot came to Phryne’s boudoir and said that a nun was waiting for her below. Phryne got up, donned a silky gown, and went down to the smaller parlour, away from Tinker and Jane’s chess game, which was getting noisy. She asked Mr. Butler to bring lemonade, but the nun disclaimed any need for refreshment.

The nun was small and thin. The robes were shapeless and the wimple and band concealed the face. But Phryne knew who she was.

‘I thought it was you, Agnes,’ she said. ‘You were the only person who knew all the real names of the pregnant girls in the convent.’

‘Other people could have known that,’ said Agnes.

‘Yes, for a while I wondered if it was a socialist lady from Bacchus Marsh with decided opinions,’ answered Phryne. ‘But she didn’t know who those defaulting fathers were. Then I wondered if it might be Sister de Sales, who seemed sympathetic to the poor inmates.’

‘It could have been her,’ said Agnes.

‘But real nuns are never let out alone,’ said Phryne. ‘Only in pairs. And your brother was a doctor; doubtless he performed the operation many times. You used to help him. My friend Dr. MacMillan says it isn’t difficult.’

‘No. Just two tiny incisions and two little snips. Then no more girls to be tortured by Sister Dolour.’