Kerry Greenwood - Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

‘Wouldn’t it rot your socks?’ exclaimed Bert, kicking at a passing fence. ‘Wouldn’t it?’

Cec said nothing, but that was normal for Cec.

CHAPTER FOUR

When this yokel comes maundering Whetting his hacker I shall run before him Diffusing the civilest odours Out of geraniums and unsmelled flowers. It will check him.

Wallace Stevens ‘The Plot against the Giant’

‘You ain’t one of them white slavers, are you?’ demanded Dorothy, stopping dead in Collins Street, and causing a gentleman directly behind her to swallow his cigar. Phryne reached into her pocket, chuckling.

‘If you’re really thinking that, then accept this ten quid and go home to your mother,’ she suggested. The idea of scouting for white slaves in the Block Arcade tickled her fancy. Dorothy looked at the ground so intently that Phryne wondered if she was surveying for the gold which was popularly supposed to pave Melbourne’s streets.

After a little while the girl took Phryne’s hand.

‘I don’t think that really,’ she said in her flat, harsh drawl. ‘Not really. But it was in the Women’s Own , see, and they said that lots of working girls gets took by them.’

‘Indeed. Come on, Dorothy, it’s not far now.’

‘Slow down, Miss, you walk so fast. I’m wore out.’

‘Frightfully sorry, old dear,’ murmured Phryne, slowing her swift pace and patting Dorothy’s hand. ‘We’ll soon be there; just around the corner at the top of the hill. You shall have a bath, and perhaps — yes, a cocktail, and. .’

Phyrne led Dorothy up the steps into the Windsor and past the magnificent doorman, who did not so much as flicker an eyelash at the sight of the miserable and under-clad Dorothy. His only private comment was to the effect that the aristocracy did have singular tastes.

Phryne conducted Dorothy to the bathroom and shut her in, instructing her to wash herself and her hair thoroughly, pointing out the products to be used for various surfaces. She left her confronting, rather dubiously, the array of jars, unguents, boxes and wash-balls which were laid out upon the skirted table, next to a very naked nymph in gunmetal. Phryne sighed. Clearly the nymph had aroused all of Dorothy’s latent suspicions. However, a certain splashing and puffs of scented steam from under the door indicated that her doubts did not extend to either hot water or Phryne’s cosmetics. The smell of ‘Koko-for-the-Hair’ (as used by the Royal House of Denmark) made itself palpable.

Phryne had few really ingrained fears, but lice was one of them. The very idea made her skin crawl. In her early youth she had spent a miserable day with her head wrapped in a kerosene-smelling towel and she was not going through that again if she could help it. She rumaged in her fourth trunk, and found a very plain nightdress and a dressing-gown in a shade of orange which did not suit her at all, and sat down to check off her visiting list.

She had some twenty people to leave cards upon in the morning, and the prospect gave her no pleasure. She sorted out a suitable selection of cards and wrote, on each, the name of the person who had referred her to the householder. This took about twenty minutes, and at the end of it Phryne began to wonder at the silence in the bathroom. She crossed the room and knocked, the garments over her arm.

‘Are you all right, old thing?’ she called, and the door opened a crack.

‘Oh, Miss, I’ve tore my dress, and it’s the only one I got!’ wailed the hapless maid.

Phryne stuffed the nightwear through the gap in the doorway and ordered, ‘Put those things on, Dorothy, and come out! I’ll advance you enough for a new dress.’

There was a muffled gulp, almost a sob, from the room, and a moment later, Dorothy emerged in a sweep of orange satin.

‘Oh, ain’t it fine! I love pretty clothes!’ she cried. It was the first spontaneous exclamation of pleasure Phryne had heard from the girl, and she smiled. Dorothy, bathed and revenged, was unrecognisable. Her fair skin was flushed, her hair appeared darker because it was wet, and her eyes shone.

Phryne opened a little door and said, ‘Would you like to go straight to bed? This is your room, and here is the key — you can lock yourself in, if you like.’

‘I’ll sit up a little, Miss, if I may.’

‘Very well. I’ll order tea.’

Phryne picked up the house phone and did so, then returned to her seat at the desk, while Dorothy paraded up and down, enjoying the swish of her gown.

‘Did you mean it, Miss, about me being your maid?’ asked the girl, turning when she reached the wall to parade back.

‘Yes, I need a maid — you can see the mess my things get into. . Phryne indicated the sitting-room, which was liberally strewn with her belongings. ‘But only if you want the job. I’m here on confidential business, inquiring about a lady on behalf of her parents, so if you want to work for me you must never gossip or tell anyone anything about what you might overhear. I need someone of the utmost discretion. We may be staying in grand houses, and you must not, on any account, say anything about my concerns. You’re free to talk about me,’ she added, grinning. ‘Just not my business.’

‘I promise,’ said Dorothy, solemnly wetting her forefinger and inscribing a careful cross on the breast of the satin gown. ‘Hope I may die.’

‘Well, then, all you have to do is to look after my clothes, find things that I’ve lost, answer the phone if I’m not in, and generally look after me. For instance, tomorrow someone has to take a taxi and deliver all those cards to people I’m supposed to meet in Melbourne. How about it?’

Dorothy’s chin went up.

‘If I’ve a new dress, I can do it.’

‘Good stuff!’

‘What about wages, Miss?’

‘Oh. I don’t know what the going rate for a confidential maid and social secretary is. What were you getting?’

‘Two-and-six a week and me keep,’ said Dorothy. Phryne was shocked.

‘No wonder they’ve got a servant problem here! What were you doing for that?’

‘Everything, Miss, but cooking. They kept a cook. And the washing was sent out to the Chinese. So it wasn’t too bad. I had to go out to work. We can’t live on what Mum earns. Of course, you wouldn’t know about that. You don’t know what that’s like, no disrespect meant. You ain’t never had to starve.’

‘Oh, yes I have,’ said Phryne grimly. ‘I starved liked Billy-o. My family was skint until I was twelve.’

‘Then how. .?’ asked Dot, folding a dressing-gown. ‘How. .?’

‘Three people between Father and the Title died,’ Phryne said. ‘Three young men dying out of their time, and the old lord summoned us out of Richmond and onto a big liner and into the lap of luxury. I didn’t like it much,’ she confessed. ‘My sister died of diphtheria and starvation. It seemed too cruel that we had all those relatives in England and they hadn’t lifted a hand until Father became the heir. But don’t tell me about poverty, Dot. I ate rabbit and cabbage because there was nothing else, and I confess that I’ve not been able to face lapin ragoût or cabbage in any form since. Oh, you’ve found the blue suit, I had forgotten I brought it.’

The tea arrived on a silver tray. There was also a teacake, which Phryne cut and buttered immediately.

‘Never mind my history, come and help me eat some of these cakes,’ said Phryne, who hated teacake. ‘White tea, is it? And two lumps?’

Dorothy sniffed, was about to wipe her face on her gown, then remembered herself and retreated to the bathroom to find her handkerchief. While she poured the tea, Phryne reflected that Dorothy must be very tired. Revenge and release is just as much of a strain as hatred and murder. She palmed a small white pill and dropped it into the tea. Dorothy needed the sleep.