Kerry Greenwood - Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

From her extensive knowledge of the underworld Phryne knew that it was no great matter to smuggle anything into a prison. All that was needed were a few timely words and more than a few coins of the realm. She recalled that the orgy which preceded the death of the Carlton murderer Jackson had been described to her in great detail by the prison guard who let the three girls in, disguised as prisoners. He said he had stayed to ‘supervise’ and fend off any inquiries. What had been his name? Briggs, that was it, a Northern Irishman of flexible morality and an ever-open palm. He volunteered for the duty which the other warders avoided; sitting up with the man to be hanged on the morrow. Stranger things than Klara had been taken into Pentridge for the comfort of those about to die, though the strangest was probably a bushranger’s horse. He had wanted to say farewell to it in person.

‘I think I can manage that, yes,’ she agreed.

‘In the death cell?’ bargained Sidney. Phryne wondered how long he had been in love with death. Perhaps the desired culmination of his whole career would be his judicial execution at the hands of stronger men. She poured out some rum and helped him drink it. Sidney, dispossessed of his gun, was a pathetic creature.

Ann was less pathetic because she was so very dead. Phryne stood over the corpse and looked down on her. The expression of surprise had faded. She looked now as if she was asleep. The thirsty spirit had gone, presumably back to its maker. Phryne collected up the few personal belongings that pointed to a second man having been present and stuffed them in her pockets. Then she went to sit on the front step and wait for the car. She was aching and bruised and tired out but pleased with the night’s work.

Phryne offered Henry a cigarette and lit her own. Candida and Bear were wrapped up in the parachute. They were awake, but warm. The lights of the big car approached. Tree trunks sprang into visibility.

‘Here they are at last,’ said Phryne. ‘I’d kill for a cup of tea. Look, Henry, it’s picanninny daylight. The sun will be up in an hour.’

The car drew up, and disgorged Dot, Molly, Jack Leonard and Bunji. They saw two bedraggled figures sitting on the front step of the small house. They were smoking. Next to them was a bundle of white silk, in which one could see a straggling head of pale hair and a bear.

‘Is it all right, Miss?’ asked Dot, breaking the silence. Molly flew to Candida, who embraced her frantically.

‘Daddy came down out of the sky and the lady brought Bear so I knew that it was all right,’ she informed Molly. Then she wriggled down and laid herself out across Molly’s knees.

‘What are you doing, Candida Alice?’ asked Molly fondly.

‘I want my spanking, and then I want my lollies!’ said Candida.

Molly laughed, sobbed, and delivered five moderate slaps. Candida sat up and Dot put her bag of lollies into her hands. The child checked through them carefully. The whole threepence worth was there, even if somewhat muddy. Candida filled her mouth with mint leaves and began to cry.

They all piled into the car as the sun was rising and took the road for the town. Phryne laughed aloud at the sight of them, all dusty and streaked, and reflected she must be the most bedraggled of them all.

‘What’s the best hotel in Queenscliff?’ she called to Molly.

Molly could not reply because she had unwisely accepted Candida’s offer of a toffee and her teeth were glued together.

Henry said, ‘The Queenscliff Hotel is the best, but we can’t go there looking like this.’

‘Yes we can,’ said Phryne flatly. ‘You should have seen the state in which we once entered the Windsor. I’m positively overdressed by comparison.’

Dot remembered it well. Phryne looked a lot more respectable in her present attire.

They drew up outside the Queenscliff Hotel and climbed the stone steps wearily. There, Phryne’s money, charm and air of authority obtained three rooms, one with a bath, and breakfast as soon as it should be laid. Phryne saw that her guests were settled in front of a hastily lit fire in the drawing-room, then sent a boy out for a roll of brown paper and some string. She wrapped Sid in the paper, using knots taught to her by a young sailor she had loved briefly during the Great War. By the time she had finished, only Sid’s head was free. With the help of the hotel porter, she then carried Sid to the police station and deposited him on the counter.

The desk-sergeant looked up, blinked, and dropped his pen.

‘What’s all this about, Miss?’

Phryne sank wearily into a chair and pointed at the uncomfortable felon.

‘Read the label,’ she said.

The desk-sergeant called for a constable and walked around into the room. He surveyed Sid carefully and read the label aloud.

‘“For Detective-inspector Jack Robinson, Russell Street, Melbourne. A present from Phryne Fisher.” Aha, we had a message about you, Miss Fisher. They telephoned from Geelong. Every cooperation, they said. You are a respected person, evidently.’

Phryne smiled faintly.

‘His name is Sidney Brayshaw, and you’ve been looking for him for some time, I believe. You’d better get a doctor fairly soon, because I had a little trouble picking him up and he got damaged. Detective-inspector Robinson is going to be furious if you let him bleed to death.’

The sergeant ripped off the paper and led Sidney away. As Sidney was leaving the room, he broke the silence he had maintained throughout his humiliation and called to Phryne, ‘You better not forget, lady. Remember — I’m not dead yet.’

‘You look like you could do with a doctor, too,’ suggested the young constable. ‘You seem to have taken a bit of a battering. I’ll just give the local man a call, shall I?’

‘Yes indeed, if you want Sidney to live to hang. He is undoubtedly the most unpleasant person I have ever met in my whole life. How I would love to squeeze the life out of the little rat. Have you heard of him, Constable. .’

‘Constable Smith, Miss Fisher. I am astounded that you have come in with Sidney Brayshaw. Why, there’s his portrait on the wall,’ commented the young man, pointing out a ‘Most Wanted’ poster. He took it down.

‘He ain’t wanted anymore,’ he said. Phryne laughed. The constable did not think he had ever seen a face so drawn. The black hat and the black collar enclosed a countenance as white as marble.

‘Where are you staying, Miss? If you don’t mind my saying, you look all in.’

‘The Queenscliff Hotel. Can you drive my car there? And make me a present of that poster? It will make a perfect souvenir.’

Constable Smith, who had a sense of occasion, rolled up the poster and presented it with a bow. Then he vanished behind the desk, presumably to ask permission to leave and to summon the doctor to Sid.

Phryne was almost asleep on her feet when the constable came back. She gave him the keys, suffered herself to be helped into a seat beside him, and by the time Constable Smith had proudly steered the big red car around the corner she was fast asleep.

Thus Phryne made her most impressive entrance, though she missed it at the time; lolling gracefully with her head on a policeman’s shoulder. He stalked up the steps in correct uniform, helmet on and every button gleaming.

He stopped at reception and asked the manager, ‘Where shall I put her?’

The manager did not flick so much as an eyebrow. ‘Ah, yes, that is Miss Fisher. Room Six. Her maid has just gone out to purchase some necessaries. Follow me, Constable.’ Phryne was carried up the carpeted stairs and laid gently on the bed. Constable Smith took off Phryne’s boots and flung the quilt over her.

‘Thank you, Constable, I think that will be all,’ observed the manager. ‘I shall inform her maid that Miss Fisher has returned. I believe that a Mr Jack Leonard was expressing a wish to speak to you.’