Kerry Greenwood - Urn Burial

The riders returned mid-afternoon, just in time for afternoon tea. Phryne, who had not lunched and had only been able to prevail on Mrs Croft for a sandwich, was ravenous, and sat herself in front of a table laden with more sandwiches, three kinds of cake, and bread and butter. She was joined by the poet and Miss Cray, both possessed of healthy appetites.

The bread was homemade and the butter home-churned, the sandwiches well filled and the cake excellent, and it was some time before Phryne remembered her manners. Guests must carry on light conversation at afternoon tea, not sit there wolfing down the provender as though they had not eaten for months.

‘Tell me about your work, Miss Cray,’ she said, a safe gambit in ordinary circumstances. The crabbed woman swallowed a mouthful of bread and said, ‘The heathen, Miss Fisher. I am determined that they will be brought to see the light.’

‘Oh, which heathen are we talking about?’ asked Phryne, intercepting a glance from Lin Chung and suppressing a smile.

‘All of them,’ snapped the woman. Phryne leaned closer, fighting off her distaste for Miss Cray’s scent. Holy poverty, it seemed, did not allow for luxuries like clean clothes. She smelt like a ragbag which had been left out in the rain and her nails were apparently in mourning for the state of the Faith.

‘That’s a tall order, Miss Cray. What church are you working for?’

‘The Christian Church.’ Miss Cray seemed uncomfortable. ‘I can expect your donation soon?’

‘Yes, I’ll write you a cheque this very afternoon. To whom should I make it out?’ Phryne’s curiosity was piqued.

‘To me. I will distribute it where there is need. For there is great need, Miss Fisher. The people walk in darkness all over the world – in the South Sea Islands, in China, in the heart of Africa. There are millions who have never heard the Word. China particularly,’ said Miss Cray, fixing Lin Chung with a glittering eye, then remembering Phryne’s promise and restraining her missionary zeal.

‘The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light,’ murmured Miss Mead. ‘This is a great work, Miss Cray. One is reminded of the Acts of the Apostles.’

‘Indeed,’ muttered Miss Cray, putting down her plate. She seemed to have lost her appetite. She bundled her weeds together and stood up.

‘I go to pray for the world,’ she announced, and went.

For some reason, Miss Mead smothered a small smile, and a monstrous idea bloomed in Phryne’s breast. She dismissed it instantly. Impossible.

‘Tell me, Miss Mead, what do you do?’

‘Nothing much, Miss Fisher. I live in a small house in the city, and it is such a treat to be out here in the country, in such a well-run household, too.’

‘Tell me, Miss Mead, do you have a theory about the disappearances of Lina and the Major? Do you think they are connected?’

‘Oh yes, dear. Sure to be. Strange the world may be, but not, I think, so strange that first a maid and then a guest vanish independently.’

‘My feeling also,’ murmured Phryne, taking up the plate of lemon cake and offering it to Miss Mead. The old woman’s blue eyes were very sharp and perceptive, but Phryne had nothing to hide and felt no threat.

‘Do you think that the unhappy maid is dead, Miss Fisher?’

‘I do, Miss Mead. Though I am not sure about the Major. In both cases there were few clues – the rooms had been cleaned.’

‘It is, as I said, a well-run house. Perhaps – I am loath to suggest something which you must have thought of yourself, Miss Fisher – but perhaps the only two people who might know where the Major was going are Miss Medenham and Mrs Luttrell.’

‘Yes, I had thought of that, and I shall get around to them in time.’

‘Of course. Have you seen many plays this year, Miss Fisher? I went to Ruddigore , and it was very charming entertainment. The singing, particularly, was very fine.’

‘Yes, very fine. Have some cake,’ said Phryne.

On the other side of the room, the poet and Tom Reynolds were discussing the search. Lin Chung drifted closer.

‘We’ve covered all the places he could have gone. It must be the caves, Tadeusz. Miss Fielding found the bay straying near the road to Buchan. The river’s cut the road to Bairnsdale and it’s the only way he could have gone.’

‘It could be the town,’ objected the poet. ‘Perhaps he’s sick of our company and wanted the bright lights.’

‘Tadeusz, you know that Buchan hasn’t got any bright lights. The Major could have dropped in at the Coffee Palace for a cuppa but that’s the extent of the place.’

‘Well, perhaps he doesn’t like your coffee. It is truly awful, you know.’

‘Don’t know, never drink the stuff. Why don’t you go and tell Mrs Croft that her coffee is terrible?’

‘Because, Tom, I have never liked being hit with pots. Listen. His wife says that he didn’t come to bed last night – not with her, anyway. So he must have been elsewhere. Willis says that the horse was missing when he got up. It must have been someone the dogs know or there would have been a noise.’

‘Tadeusz, how do’ye think I can go about asking Miss Medenham if she seduced the Major?’

‘A difficult conversation,’ agreed the poet.

‘I’m going to see Mr Patterson when we get back to town,’ Miss Judith Fletcher said to her mother in a flat, hard voice.

‘Why?’ gasped Mrs Fletcher. Her cup danced on its saucer and the spoon tinkled.

‘Because I want to buy a farm and breed horses. I’m not going to do this any more, Mother. I’m not going to marry Gerry. Why should I? He hasn’t done me any harm. I managed to convince myself that I was in love with him but I’m not. I’m not going to be carted around like a slave and sold to the highest bidder. I’m not going to wear those blasted clothes and I’m never, never going to be the girl you want me to be.’

‘Judy, you’re mad!’

‘No, Mother, I’m perfectly sane. I’m taking charge of myself. I’ve been a good girl for as long as I can remember. I’ve tried to be charming to boys I loathed and I’ve tried to be like you. But I’m not like you at all.’

‘Get me my salts,’ demanded Mrs Fletcher, falling back onto the sofa cushions. Judith took the slopping cup out of her feeble hand and applied salts ruthlessly, so that her mother choked and sat up.

‘It doesn’t matter what you say, Mother, and it doesn’t matter if you go blue and faint. I’m moving out of your room and I’m seeing Mr Patterson as soon as we get back. You can stay in the house – I don’t want it – and I’ll make you some sort of living allowance, but I shan’t be there to be humiliated any more.’

‘You . . . you unnatural daughter!’ hissed Mrs Fletcher. Judith flinched but remained adamant. Phryne, listening unashamedly, had to suppress a cheer.

‘You always wanted another husband, Mother, and someone might take you on if I’m not there.’

Miss Fletcher was clearly intent on stating everything which was on her mind, an unwise procedure at afternoon tea. Miss Mead, also eavesdropping, got up, wrapped her crochet in its silk scarf, and moved towards Mrs Fletcher, who was taking a deep breath in preparation for what would probably be a pyrotechnic display of hysterics.

‘Come along,’ murmured Miss Mead, putting a soft little hand on Mrs Fletcher’s arm. ‘I’ll take you up to your room. This way, Mrs Fletcher. Come along. These family affairs are so trying,’ she said, and somehow Mrs Fletcher found herself on her feet and out the door, cheated of her scene.

Phryne heard the shriek in the hall as Joan Fletcher realised this, and gave Miss Mead marks for social adroitness and courage.

Judith plumped herself down next to Phryne and announced, ‘I told her.’