Kerry Greenwood - Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

‘It’s worth nineteen bills, Pete,’ she soothed. The priest set down the tray, and stared at the girl, then picked up her wrist and allowed it to drop.

‘Strong magic,’ he commented, setting out the blood and the feathers, and laying down a white tablecloth over the Chinese carpet. He removed his shirt and began to anoint himself with the blood, muttering under his breath. Gabrielle stared at him. Her attention had been caught, for the first time.

Around the old man’s neck swung a bright gold coin. Her eyes fixed on this as he began to dance.

Three times around the girl the old man moved; then he lit the bundle of feathers and cried out, ‘Erzulie! You captured this soul! You possessed this girl! Erzulie! You took her! I call for the third time, and you release her. You give her back to the world: Erzulie!’

Neither Chicago Pete nor Klara had moved. The smoke from the chicken feathers filled the delicate room with a farmyard reek. Phryne almost fancied that dreadful, elemental things moved and squeaked in that smoke; she shook herself and pinched the back of her hand hard.

Gabrielle Hart flinched as from a striking thunderbolt and began to wail. Klara ran to her and hugged the shocked face against her skinny bosom. The old man straightened up, shiny with sweat, and held out a bloodstained hand to Phryne.

She poured the coins from her purse, and added one extra.

‘You come on a Saturday,’ he said to Phryne as he bent to collect the instruments of his magic. ‘We got good jazz. Best in the city.’

‘For the love of Mike,’ cried Chicago Pete. ‘Get out of here! And take all that heathen stuff with you!’

The priest folded the tablecloth and went out. Klara released the girl.

‘All right, Mr er. . here is the money, and we must be going. Can your doorman call us a taxi? Thank you so much,’ said Phryne graciously.

The doorman was dispatched for a cab. Gabrielle Hart sat in her chair and cried and cried.

‘You sure you want her?’ asked Chicago Pete, and Phryne smiled.

Klara and Phryne left the respectable-looking house and waited for the taxi on the front steps. Gabrielle had stopped crying and was now asking questions, some of which Phryne could answer.

‘What am I doing here? Who are you? Where am I?’

‘I am the Hon. Phryne Fisher, and this is Klara. You are in Gertrude Street, Fitzroy, and only God knows what you are doing here. You had a brainstorm, my dear, and we are taking you home.’

‘No, no, someone else said that to me. . someone else said that they were taking me home. . and they didn’t. . they hurt me!’

‘Oh, Lord. . all right. Calm yourself. You shall tell the driver where to go. Oh, thank God, it’s Cec.’

Cec smiled his beautiful smile from the driving seat of the taxi.

‘I’m on me pat,’ he told Phryne. ‘Bert’s still about that. . er. . business with the boarding house. Poor old bloke. They said you was out on a case in Gertrude Street and I thought. .’

‘You thought right. This young woman is Gabrielle Hart, and she will tell you the address. Take her there and deliver her into the care of her father only. If he isn’t home, wait, but I think that he will be there soon. Give him my card and tell him I shall call on him tomorrow. Hang on to this girl, Cec, don’t let her get out until you are at her house. She’s a little disordered.’

‘All right,’ agreed Cec, opening the door. ‘Come on, Miss.’

Gabrielle Hart moved to the taxi, got in, and gave Cec the direction. He looked over at Phryne.

‘What about you, Miss?’

‘We’ll get another taxi. She’s scared of us. See you later, Cec.’

‘We might as well walk down to the rank,’ suggested Klara. They had only gone about three paces before the attack came.

Two men came quickly, out of an alleyway. They disregarded Klara, brushing her aside, and both grabbed for Phryne. She dropped to her knees under their weight; she heard her stocking tear and felt her knee graze. They had one arm each, and she could not reach her pocket. They did not say a word. Phryne’s breath scraped in her chest. They were taller and heavier than her.

A master-at-arms had once spent three weeks teaching Miss Fisher the elements of unarmed combat. She was not afraid, only very angry that she should be taken thus off guard. She allowed her fury free rein.

‘Crack’ went the first one’s knee as she kicked back, hard, then rammed her high-heeled shoe down on his other foot. He let go. With the impetus from that Phryne flung herself at the other attacker. Her elbow caught his ribs; her knee came up with all her force, and he fell to his knees, dropping a cosh. Phryne, fast and lethal, retreated a pace and kicked again, and felt a rib or two break with a curious, dry sound.

‘Bastards!’ panted Klara, standing on the other attacker’s stomach with one foot on his throat. ‘Pete musta changed his mind about the girl.’

‘No, not Pete, I think.’

Phryne kicked over one man and dragged his head up by the hair.

‘Who sent you?’ she hissed. The man looked up glazedly into blazing green eyes and winced.

‘Who?’ Phryne shook him and bashed the skull against the ground a few times. ‘Tell me or I’ll kill you.’

The knife was at the attacker’s unsavoury collar. He blinked.

‘I just reckoned you’d be rich, dressed up like that,’ he croaked, and fell out of consciousness.

‘Fitzroy is so bad for the nerves,’ sighed Phryne. ‘Leave him alone. I owe you a good dinner and a night out, Klara. What shall it be?’

‘The Bach concert on Tuesday, and dinner at the Ritz,’ decided Klara. She dusted off her hands and pulled down her gym tunic. ‘I prefer Johann Christian, but I can put up with Johann Sebastian. We can get a taxi at the rank. You all right, Phryne?’

‘Fine,’ agreed Phryne, pulling up her torn stocking. ‘I’m fine.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘Give your evidence,’ repeated the King angrily. ‘Or I’ll have you executed, whether you are nervous or not!’

Lewis Carroll Alice Through the Looking Glass

Phryne woke on Thursday morning knowing who had murdered Mrs Henderson, and wondering what she was going to do about it. The method was obvious; the motive transparent, and even the face of the blond guard was beginning to resemble one which she had seen in real life.

‘How shall I do this? It will break poor Eunice’s heart.’ Phryne took her morning bath without appreciating the scent and dressed in haste.

It had to be Alastair Thompson. He was used to disguise. He had a terrible temper. He had no alibi for the night in question. All that he had to do was to chloroform the people, sling a rope around Mrs Henderson, and cast a line over the water tower. He was a rock climber. Then he could haul her up, and himself, and leave no tracks. Whether he dropped her or trampled on her did not matter. All he had to do was to get rid of the mother and Eunice would fall into his arms and give him all her money, of which Phryne supposed that there must be a fair amount.

Phryne decided to call Detective-inspector Robinson, and when she had established contact with him, found that he had reached the same conclusion.

‘I’m bringing him in for questioning today,’ he assured Phryne. ‘I’m of the same mind, Miss Fisher. I’ll let you know.’

Phryne decided that there was no need to worry Miss Henderson with any news until she could say something positive, and closeted herself with her solicitor, who had drawn up the adoption papers.

‘But Miss Fisher, you have kept the girl from her guardian’s care,’ he protested. Phryne grinned and shoved Miss Gay’s ‘documents’ at him.

‘She has no legal guardian. Miss Gay is her aunt, but no adoption proceedings were ever taken. Here’s her birth certificate and all. Poor little thing. Have you sorted it all out?’