Urn Burial (18 page)

‘Here,’ he said, puzzled, laying a palm on slimy bricks laid lengthwise and criss-crossing. ‘This is the only part like this.’

‘Good. Now pull, push and twiddle everything which looks twiddleable.’

Lin obeyed long enough for his candle to burn down. Phryne gave him another one.

‘This is futile,’ he protested. ‘The water’s rising.

Hadn’t we better go back up the stairs?’

‘In a little while.’ Phryne, the water almost at her hips, pounded a likely-looking brick, then leaned on a particularly careless obtrusion of mortar. Nothing happened and the water continued to rise.

‘Dammit,’ she muttered. ‘You’re right. Let’s go back.’

He reached out to take her hand as she began to clamber over a fallen dresser which might have been designed for Alfred the Great. She slipped, slid, and fell against the wall, swearing in a variety of languages.

‘Dommage,’ she said as he hauled her to her feet.

‘Now I’m wet through, and all for nothing. It was a silly idea, Lin.’

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He did not answer. The bricks groaned. Lin dropped his candle and flung himself against a moving wall. A dark crack widened and then the door gave way.

Phryne, Lin Chung, and a thousand gallons of water spilled out of the cellar of Cave House into light.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Darkness and light divide the course of time, and oblivion shares with memory a great part of our living beings; we slightly remember our felicities, and the smartest strokes of affliction leave but short smart upon us. Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows destroy us or themselves.

Urn Burial, Sir Thomas Browne, Chapter V.

IT WASN’T as bright as sunlight. Phryne hooked her fingers over an iron projection and Lin Chung was flung against her by the force of the water, almost carrying them both along with the stream. He grabbed another iron rung and Phryne spared one hand to grasp at his shoulders, bringing her feet up out of the water.

‘A life on the rolling wave,’ she commented. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Wet but undamaged. How about you?’

‘Wetter but also undamaged.’ She released her hold as the first rush of water drained away.

‘Where are we? Some sort of tunnel?’

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‘Let’s find out where it leads,’ suggested Lin Chung. Phryne heard the steely control in his voice and led the way down a paved stone passage like a stormwater drain. The light was honest daylight.

Twenty paces revealed that the opening was narrow, perhaps three feet wide. Phryne ducked to go under the lip and found herself in a small sandy bay, knee-deep in a fast-moving stream. She grabbed for Lin and warned, ‘Look out! This must be the river!’

He climbed carefully up the bank and lifted Phryne out of the water, setting her down beside him. She felt him draw a huge breath of relief. She groped for her cigarettes and found, to her delight, that the case was waterproof. Lin lit their last match and she inhaled gratefully. She was wet through, slimy and mouldy, but unhurt, and her Chinese companion was revealed to be a brave man. That, she thought, was worth a ducking. The sun shone weakly in a pale-blue sky and Phryne was dazzled after so long in the dark. The air smelt delightfully of wet grass and horses.

‘There’s Cave House,’ Lin said. ‘There’s the stables, and there’s Mr Reynolds.’

‘Phryne dear, what have you been doing?’ asked Tom Reynolds, reigning on his hack, apparently much astonished by their appearance.

‘I took a fancy for a little swim with all my clothes on,’ she said tartly. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To look for the Major. I’m going back along the bridle path, Tadeusz is going along the road as far as he can, Miss Fletcher is taking Brindle 180

along the riverbank, and Willis is covering the paddocks.’

‘Fine. Go ahead.’ Phryne waved the cigarette.

Tom stared, then shrugged. Phryne and Lin Chung began their walk back to Cave House. The poet passed them on a thoroughbred, riding as easily as if he was sitting in an armchair, with a stock saddle and long stirrup-leathers. Something about his seat jogged Phryne’s memory. She had seen someone riding that way before. A parade came back before her eyes. Men riding through Pall Mall, and hats loaded with waving emu feathers.

An hour later, much recovered, Phryne and Lin Chung watched Hinchcliff question the staff. The butler had been shocked by the danger into which the honoured guest had been put, and was adamant that he had not locked the door. He had checked the door on his usual rounds and, finding it locked and the keys gone, had assumed that Miss Fisher had concluded her visit and had carelessly taken his keys with her.

The combined anxiety of Dot and Li Pen had persuaded the household that something was wrong, and a search had revealed the cellar broken open and the prisoners gone. Li Pen and Dot had met the bedraggled adventurers as they dripped up the gravel path to the door.

Phryne had been bathed and scolded by Dot, Lin had been bathed and scolded by Li Pen, and both were feeling virtuous and comfortable.

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‘Now, I will know the meaning of this,’ the Butler began portentously. ‘The keys are here, they were left on the kitchen table. Who locked the cellar door?’

The maids exchanged glances and shook their heads. Doreen plucked up courage and said, ‘It wasn’t me, Mr H, or Annie. We was together with Mrs Croft in the kitchen, having a cuppa. I couldn’t get into the room I was meant to be clean-ing, because Miss Fisher’s had a lock put on her door, and Annie couldn’t do the billiard room while the gentlemen was playin’. So we came down here. We’ll do the rooms later.’

Mr Hinchcliff looked at his wife – the housemaids were her province – and Mrs H nodded.

Mrs Croft spoke up. ‘And the skivvy was washing up the whole time – I could see her.’

‘We ’aven’t been in the ’ouse all day,’ grumbled the gardener, and his boy muttered, ‘Too right.’

‘I was in the stables tryin’ to fix that flamin’

dray,’ said Mr Willis, ‘and me boys with me.’

‘I was in the toolshed, looking for bits and pieces to finish that model for Alfred,’ said Mr Jones. ‘He was with me.’ The boy spoke up, impelled by a poke from the toe of Mr Jones’ shoe. ‘’Sright, Boss, we was.’

All eyes turned to the only remaining member of staff.

‘It was me,’ confessed the mechanic. Phryne looked at him properly for the first time. Mr Paul Black was a strongly built, thickset man; a contrast to the tall slim Jones. His face was scarred, so 182

liberally smeared with grease that it was hard to guess his features, and his lank black hair was apparently styled with sump oil. ‘I saw the door open and I couldn’t see anyone inside. The light wasn’t on, so I assumed that Mr H had forgotten to close it. The keys were in the lock. So I shut the door and locked it and left the keys on the table,’

he said, in a whining tone which set Phryne’s teeth on edge. She spoke coolly.

‘Mr Black, the light was on. I have since ascertained that the string for the light has been cut.

You must have known we were there.’

‘I thought . . . you mighta wanted ta be alone,’

he grinned, and Phryne fought down an urge to start throwing things. There was a fine heavy skillet to hand and she thought that Mr Black’s looks could hardly be damaged further by a good solid metallic impact. And this would make Phryne feel much better.

‘Then you knew we were there and you shut the door anyway?’ asked Lin Chung relentlessly.

‘It was a joke!’ wailed Mr Black.

‘A joke?’ bellowed Mr Hinchcliff, filling up with air like a bloater fish. ‘Out you go, my lad, and that today. Get your traps.’

‘Hang on, you can’t fire me!’ protested Mr Black. ‘I demand to see the Boss!’

‘You can’t, he’s out hunting for the Major,’ said Phryne. ‘So you want to stay here, Mr Black?’

‘Yes.’ He hung his head, then knelt and pawed at Phryne’s immaculate knee. ‘Don’t let ’im fire me, lady. I’m sorry. I didn’t know the water came 183

up that high. It was just a joke, lady. Please!’

Lin Chung removed the dirty hand and Phryne stood up.

‘We shall see, Mr Black,’ she said. ‘Turn out your pockets, please.’

‘Eh?’ He gaped at her, still on his knees.

‘Your pockets, Mr Black,’ she insisted. Li Pen held Mr Black terribly still in some oriental hold while Lin and Mr Hinchcliff searched him.

‘Interesting,’ said Phryne. There was the string from the light, neatly rolled into a little bundle.

There were seven shillings and threepence, a spark plug – she had never known a mechanic who did not have at least one spark plug on his person, it was a badge of office – a clasp knife, an indelible pencil, and a bunch of keys. Mr Hinchcliff pounced on them and exclaimed, ‘Mr Reynolds’

lost keys!’

‘Let’s see, what else? A few wood shavings, a box of matches, a packet of Woodbines, nothing else of consequence. Let him go, Li Pen, if you please,’ said Phryne very politely. Li Pen was holding a man twice his own weight helpless in an effortless and efficient manner. She was always likely to respect anyone who could do that.

Li Pen released Mr Black and he scooped his belongings back into his pockets, shaking with outrage.

‘There now. You shall see the Boss when he comes back from his ride. But I’d spend the time packing and paying off any small debts, if I were you. I know that the road to Bairnsdale is cut, but 184

you can get to the township of Buchan from here, cross country, and the walk might do you good,’

commented Phryne.

Mr Black snarled, showing broken teeth. For a moment it seemed that he might attack this smooth, insolent woman, and Phryne saw a smile of pure anticipatory happiness cross Li Pen’s bronze face.

Then Mr Black spun around and threw himself out of the kitchen. Phryne and Lin Chung withdrew, hearing Mrs Croft say savagely behind them, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish. Now, I’ll just put the kettle on, and we’ll all feel better for a nice cuppa tea.’

‘Was it a joke?’ asked Lin. ‘If so, I fear that I will never really understand Western humour.’

‘It wasn’t a joke,’ Phryne assured him soberly.

‘Now we know where the man in boots went with Lina’s body. Li Pen lost him by the riverbank. He just walked to that little bay, went in through the tunnel and laid the body in the sarcophagus.

Doreen says that the bit of material is from Lina’s nightdress. Mrs Reynolds gives her old clothes to the staff, and Lina bagged a rather good pale-blue silk negligee, over Doreen’s spirited bidding, apparently, which is why the girl remembers it.

The body was there.’

‘Then where is it now?’

‘Best place to put it would be the river, now it’s running so strongly.’

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‘Yes, but wait a bit – why didn’t he throw the body into the river in the first instance? He had no need to go to all that trouble,’ protested Lin Chung.

‘Perhaps he wanted to keep her.’

‘What on earth for? You are chilling my blood, you know.’

‘Nonsense. Your blood doesn’t chill that easily, my dear.’ Phryne smiled up into his face. ‘Who can fathom why murderers do things? Perhaps she reminded him of his mother. Perhaps she still held some attraction for him – what a revolting thought. Come on, I’m hungry, let’s see if we can get something to eat.’

The riders returned mid-afternoon, just in time for afternoon tea. Phryne, who had not lunched and had only been able to prevail on Mrs Croft for a sandwich, was ravenous, and sat herself in front of a table laden with more sandwiches, three kinds of cake, and bread and butter. She was joined by the poet and Miss Cray, both possessed of healthy appetites.

The bread was homemade and the butter home-churned, the sandwiches well filled and the cake excellent, and it was some time before Phryne remembered her manners. Guests must carry on light conversation at afternoon tea, not sit there wolfing down the provender as though they had not eaten for months.

‘Tell me about your work, Miss Cray,’ she said, 186

a safe gambit in ordinary circumstances. The crabbed woman swallowed a mouthful of bread and said, ‘The heathen, Miss Fisher. I am determined that they will be brought to see the light.’

‘Oh, which heathen are we talking about?’ asked Phryne, intercepting a glance from Lin Chung and suppressing a smile.

‘All of them,’ snapped the woman. Phryne leaned closer, fighting off her distaste for Miss Cray’s scent. Holy poverty, it seemed, did not allow for luxuries like clean clothes. She smelt like a ragbag which had been left out in the rain and her nails were apparently in mourning for the state of the Faith.

‘That’s a tall order, Miss Cray. What church are you working for?’

‘The Christian Church.’ Miss Cray seemed uncomfortable. ‘I can expect your donation soon?’

‘Yes, I’ll write you a cheque this very afternoon.

To whom should I make it out?’ Phryne’s curiosity was piqued.

‘To me. I will distribute it where there is need.

For there is great need, Miss Fisher. The people walk in darkness all over the world – in the South Sea Islands, in China, in the heart of Africa. There are millions who have never heard the Word.

China particularly,’ said Miss Cray, fixing Lin Chung with a glittering eye, then remembering Phryne’s promise and restraining her missionary zeal.

‘The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light,’ murmured Miss Mead. ‘This is a great 187

work, Miss Cray. One is reminded of the Acts of the Apostles.’

‘Indeed,’ muttered Miss Cray, putting down her plate. She seemed to have lost her appetite. She bundled her weeds together and stood up.

‘I go to pray for the world,’ she announced, and went.

For some reason, Miss Mead smothered a small smile, and a monstrous idea bloomed in Phryne’s breast. She dismissed it instantly. Impossible.

‘Tell me, Miss Mead, what do you do?’

‘Nothing much, Miss Fisher. I live in a small house in the city, and it is such a treat to be out here in the country, in such a well-run household, too.’

‘Tell me, Miss Mead, do you have a theory about the disappearances of Lina and the Major?

Do you think they are connected?’

‘Oh yes, dear. Sure to be. Strange the world may be, but not, I think, so strange that first a maid and then a guest vanish independently.’