Kerry Greenwood - Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

A thin little gutter sparrow sat in a café, staring into an empty cup of tea. She looked up as Phryne walked in and smiled with genuine tenderness.

‘Phryne! Come and buy me some tea. I’m parched. Got a job for me?’

Phryne bought the tea, which she would not have touched for quids, and explained. Ancient eyes started out of a childish face.

‘And they’ll kill him the next day?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll do it for ten quid. If I didn’t have to make a living I’d do it for nothing. Sidney Brayshaw, eh? Bonzer. Will you make the arrangements?’

‘Can you? I don’t know if Briggs is still at Pentridge.’

‘Sure. Give me another twenty to square them.’

Phryne produced the money. ‘You won’t fail me, Klara? I gave my word.’

‘No. I’ll not fail,’ promised Klara, tracing a cross with a grubby forefinger on the flat breast of her gym tunic. Phryne left quickly. She found Klara unsettling.

Thursday night was appointed for Phryne’s seduction of the delightful Dr Fielding. It was not until Mrs Butler was asking her what she fancied for dinner that she remembered.

‘Oh, hell, I forgot. Mrs B., I asked that nice young doctor to dinner.’

‘You have been busy lately, Miss,’ agreed Mrs Butler. ‘So we won’t quarrel about it this time.’

Phryne took the hint and smiled. ‘I hope that there won’t be a next time,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Can you manage a simple, light dinner?’

‘Vegetable soup, lamb chops, green beans, pommes de terre Anna ? Apple pie and cream?’ suggested Mrs Butler.

‘Good. Very nice. Then coffee and liqueurs in my sittingroom upstairs. Can Mr B. take care of the fire? And leave the woodbox full. After he’s brought the coffee, Mrs B., I don’t want to be disturbed.’

Mrs Butler pursed her lips and nodded. Phryne wondered if the two of them were going to give notice in the morning. Assuming, of course, that the doctor was amenable to seduction.

Phryne bathed luxuriously and dressed carefully in a loose, warm velvet from Erté. It was black, with deep lapin cuffs and collar, and a six-inch band of fur around the hem. She brushed her hair vigorously and applied just a little rouge.

Dot assisted her into the gown and knelt to adjust the soft Russian boots around Phryne’s slim ankles.

‘You fancy your chances, Miss?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s clumsy, but rather endearing, don’t you think?’

‘You be careful,’ warned Dot. ‘This one’s an Aussie. They got different ideas about their girls, not like them Russians.’

‘And Italians,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I’ll be careful, Dot. Are you going out or staying in?’

‘I’m staying in,’ said Dot, giving the bootlace a final tug. ‘I’ve been to the library and I’m going to read and listen to the wireless. I won’t disturb you, Miss. I can come and go by my own stair.’

‘I hope that this doesn’t upset you,’ said Phryne. ‘Or the Butlers.’

‘They’ll be sweet,’ said Dot. ‘Just like I was. It’s a bit of a shock at first, but you get used to it. Have a nice time, Miss,’ and Dot, innocent of any envy, went down to take her own dinner with the Butlers. Phryne smoked one gasper after another, worrying. Dot was right. Australian men were different. She did not want to get involved in an emotional relationship. She had no patience with dependence and no understanding of jealousy.

She heard the doorbell ring, and sailed downstairs to meet her guest, with outward poise and inward qualms.

He really was beautiful, she reflected as he escorted her into the dining-room. He had pale skin, curly brown hair, and was well-built and tall. Phryne took her seat and accepted a glass of white wine from Mr Butler. The young man contrived by a miracle not to knock over the vase of ferns in the centre of the table and smiled ruefully.

‘I’m afraid I’m still clumsy, Miss Fisher.’

‘Really, you must call me Phryne. I’m not your patient, Dr Fielding.’

‘Then you must call me Mark.’

‘You haven’t been a doctor long, I gather. Why did you choose medicine?’

This was always a safe question to ask any professional. Soup was served. It was good — perhaps a little too much celery. Mark Fielding ate fast, as though he was about to be called away at any moment.

‘I want to be useful,’ said Mark Fielding. ‘I want to heal the hurts of the world.’ He laid down his spoon. ‘That sounds silly, doesn’t it? But there is such a lot of pain and suffering, and I want to ease it. I work with old Dr Dorset; he has great experience, but he’s a cynical old man. He says that everyone in the world has ulterior motives. What do you think?’

Phryne took in a sharp breath as the unreadable brown eyes flicked sidelong to look at her. Yes, she could believe it. Her own motives were nothing to boast of.

The excellent dinner concluded, Phryne lured Mark upstairs with a promise of coffee and kirsch. She accepted the tray from Mr Butler, observed that the woodbox next to the fire had been replenished, and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

‘I shan’t want you again tonight, Mr B.,’ she said. ‘Sleep well.’

‘You too, Miss Fisher,’ he replied with perfect gravity, and chuckled all the way down the stairs.

‘I know what she is, Mrs B.,’ he said at the kitchen door. ‘She’s a vamp.’

‘Ah, well,’ sighed his wife. ‘At least it ain’t like the last place. Young men are clean about the house. It’s better than the old gentleman’s greyhounds.’

Thereafter Phryne’s household always referred to her lovers as ‘the pets’.

Mark Fielding leaned back into the feathery embrace of a low, comfortable sofa in front of a bright fire.

‘Oh, this is nice,’ he sighed. ‘Listen to that wind outside. It’s beginning to rain, too. I wish I didn’t have to go home. . I mean,’ he corrected himself hurriedly, ‘I mean. .’

‘You don’t have to go home,’ said Phryne calmly. ‘I wouldn’t turn a dog out on a night like this. Stay with me, Mark. It’s warm in here.’

She was lying at full length on the hearth rug, prone, with her chin cupped in her hands, the short cap of black hair swung forward to hide her face. She had not looked away from the fire as she spoke. The young doctor was astonished. He had never been propositioned by a woman before.

He glanced around the room. Every surface was velvety, textured, soft. The pinkish mirror wreathed in vine leaves reflected his face crowned with a garland. He tried to sit up but the sofa was unwilling to release him. He sipped the remains of his kirsch and yielded up his body to fate.

‘It’s kismet,’ he said softly, as Phryne gathered her gown about her and pulled him down into her arms.

Phryne closed her eyes as the red mouth came down onto hers, the lips parted, then the mouth moved down her throat to the open collar of the velvet gown. For such a clumsy young man, Mark Fielding removed a lady’s clothes with startling skill.

Phryne, naked, and stretched out in a pool of velvet and fur, drowsed up out of a fiery trance to glimpse the flash of thigh and buttock, and he slid down to lie beside her.

She reached up to catch her fingers in the curly hair, as silky as embroidery floss, and bring the face down for her kiss. As he slid his strong hands between fur and skin to gather her close, he whispered, ‘Phryne, are you sure?’

Phryne had seized him, locking his waist with her thighs. She was sure.

Mark abandoned himself to unimagined delights. The heat of the fire caressed his skin. The scent of Phryne’s breasts and her hair, musky and amorous, almost drowned him in sweetness.

When Phryne awoke, the fire was out, and someone seemed to have amputated her legs at the hips. She groaned and tried to sit up. The numbness was explained by the weight of the beautiful young man asleep on top of her. Phryne shook him, laughing and shivering. ‘Mark, wake up, you’re crushing me.’