Kerry Greenwood - Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

‘You didn’t take to him, Miss Fisher?’ asked the detective. ‘What about the other one, his friend?’

‘Lindsay Herbert. A very nice, if rather gushing and naive, young man. I took to him, and he took to me, and stuck to me like glue, almost as if he had been instructed to do so.’

‘What, Miss, did the young hound try to take advantage of you?’ gasped the detective-inspector, and Phryne chuckled.

‘If there is any advantage to be taken, Jack, you can rely on me to take it. I can cope with Master Lindsay. I didn’t really have a chance to talk to Thompson. Perhaps you will have more success.’

‘Perhaps. I shall certainly do so, and that at the earliest. Where do they live, these students?’

‘In digs in Carlton, I fancy. But I know where they will be at nine tomorrow morning.’

‘Where?’

‘Rowing. I am going down to the boathouse to watch them practice. Perhaps you would like to come too?’

‘Yes, Miss Fisher, I think that I might.’

‘Good. Now, the autopsy report.’

Phryne scanned the buff folder critically, attempting to translate the medical terms into something that might relate to the broken body of the old woman. It seemed that all of the gross fractures had been inflicted after death, including the massive blow which had cracked the skull. The cause of death had been. .

‘Hanging? That’s what that means, isn’t it, Jack? Fracture of the cervical vertebrae?’

‘Yes, Miss. Hanging it is. The hyoid bone in the throat, which is always broken when there is a death by strangulation, was fractured but the doctor says that it was a broken neck. That’s how you die if you are hanged, Miss. The sudden jerk.’ He mimed the rope pulling taut and the sickening flop of the broken neck, and Phryne shuddered.

‘Don’t, Jack, please, it’s too awful. What could have happened? The first bit is clear. Someone doped the carriage and sent us all to sleep, and perhaps we were meant to sleep forever. Then no one would be able to tell when the body was removed, or how, but I woke up too soon. How that murderer must be disliking me, for I foiled his little plan proper. All right, the carriage is full of people all asleep, and the old woman is dragged out — with a rope around her neck? — suspended, and dropped.’

‘Don’t forget the Ballan doctor’s theory.’

‘The man is deranged, it’s too ghastly to contemplate.’

‘And how is the girl, the one who lost her memory?’

‘Jane? I call her Jane, she hasn’t remembered. I shall have a photographer take some pictures of her, and perhaps you can have them distributed among the stations and your staff. Someone must have lost her. I’m keeping her anyway, she’s been molested, and if that is what triggered her off, then I am going to skin the man alive if she remembers who he is. She’s a very clever girl and I expect to have her recalling her past any day now.’

‘Sexually molested?’

‘So Dr MacMillan says.’

‘Poor little thing. You’ll let me in on the arrest, Miss Fisher, as usual?’

‘You will have to be quick,’ said Phryne grimly, and Jack Robinson nodded.

‘You didn’t kill that child-molesting bastard we arrested in Queenscliff,’ he said gently. ‘Even though you did shoot him a bit.’

‘That’s because I promised to deliver him to you in a plain brown wrapper,’ said Phryne reasonably. ‘This one is all mine.’

Wisely, the detective-inspector decided not to pursue the subject, and returned to the matter of murder on the Ballarat train.

‘I’ve checked up on all the guards and railway employees on that train, by the way, and Wallace was right — not one of them under forty. You are sure that it was a young man?’

‘Positive,’ said Phryne, recalling the smooth, unlined throat and chin.

‘I shall see you tomorrow, then, Miss Fisher — at the Melbourne University boathouse,’ and the policeman escorted Phryne out of the building and down the steps. She was restless, aroused by the ardent young man’s attentions, and decided to pass some blameless hours in the museum and art gallery. There she spent some time before the Apollo, a copy of the Belvedere, and tore her salacious mind away with some difficulty.

Phryne was home in time for a pleasant dinner and a bath, then put herself to bed early, sober and alone.

Dot woke Phryne with a cup of Turkish coffee at eight-thirty, and informed her half-asleep mistress that it was a nasty damp, chill morning, but that it was not actually raining. She added that Mr Butler had taken Jane to the photographer and that Miss Henderson was still asleep. Phryne absorbed the coffee, which was as close as one got to neat caffeine, washed and dressed in boots, trousers and a heavy jacket. Dot found a suitable hat and an umbrella and gloves, and assisted Phryne to start the huge car.

‘I must have been mad to agree with this,’ she commented. ‘Steady she goes, Dot. Thanks, go inside quickly before you freeze to the spot. Back directly,’ she called, and put the Hispano-Suiza into gear.

She drove without haste, threading the traffic through the city and out onto the road which circled the gardens, finding the turn without backing more than enough to ruin the temper. The track down to the boathouse was rough but not too muddy, and the big car negotiated it with ease. She stopped and got out, and the first thing that she saw was a long wooden shell with eight pairs of legs, locomoting down to the water.

A further glance showed her that this was a racing boat being carried by its crew. She waved, and a forest of hands waved back; evidently the crew were not used to being watched while training, and appreciated the company. A small man, thin, with a red face and fanatic’s eyes, was climbing onto a very new and shiny bicycle.

He gave Phryne a disapproving glare in passing, and wobbled down onto the towing path. The crew had dropped their boat neatly into the water, where it seemed to float as light as a leaf, and then they all hopped in with scarcely a ripple, oars extended. Phryne saw the beautiful Lindsay and Alastair, who was rowing stroke. He still looked nervous and strained. Phryne heard the command: ‘Racing start! Three quarter!’ the boat slid quickly into the stream. ‘Half!’ and the oars feathered and dipped with speed. ‘Three quarter and go!’ and the boat was moving swiftly down the waterway, the coach toiling alongside on his bicycle. They were under the bridge, and Phryne had to strain her eyes to see them. By one of those freaks caused by the combination of sound and water, she heard the command ‘Bow and two!’ and the boat spun on its axis and sped down the river towards her. It seemed to be travelling quite fast, and the coach was toiling over his handlebars. This did not interrupt his breath in the slightest, and he was shouting opprobrious epithets like a sergeant-major.

‘Jones, pull your stomach in! Get your hands round that oar, Hoskins! You aren’t stirring soup! What’s the matter with you, Herbert, dreaming about your lady friend? Put your back into it! Catch! Finish! Catch! Finish!’

He roared to a halt and glared as the crew regained the boathouse. ‘You row like a lot of schoolgirls! How do you row?’

‘Like schoolgirls, sir,’ came the obedient chorus, and Mr Ellis grunted, seeming to breathe fire through his nostrils. ‘That’s right! That so-called racing start was slower than a nurse and a pram! So we do it again! And if you are still thinking about your lady friends,’ here he gave Phryne a furious look, whiffling the ends of his bristly black moustache, ‘or your breakfasts, you’ll never make the team! All right! Racing start! And this time, keep your minds on what you are doing!’

The crew lifted the oars again, and Phryne wandered away from the bank and found a seat and lit a cigarette. She had a book in her pocket and was just wondering whether Lindsay would be mortally offended if she read it, when she glanced up and saw the sight of the year, which more people claimed to have witnessed than would have fitted on the bank, even standing on each other’s shoulders.