Kerry Greenwood - Urn Burial

‘I know. I heard everything you said.’

The boy kneeled up, his face close to Phryne’s, and whispered, ‘It wasn’t just for a favour, Phryne. You were beautiful, you were lovely, I wanted you.’

‘I know. I wanted you, too.’

‘And you’ll fix it for Jack if I’m a good child?’

‘I will.’

Gerald smiled a breathtaking little-boy’s smile. He took up Phryne’s hand and kissed it. Rising with one smooth movement, he signalled to Jack Lucas, and they left the room through the French window. Phryne heard them laughing outside.

‘You seem to have improved their day,’ commented Lin Chung, behind Phryne.

‘I’ve saved their bacon,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a legacy for Jack and I’ve made Gerald promise that he won’t play any more little jokes on Tom. That should clarify the situation.’

‘It should?’

‘Certainly. Lord, it’s getting late. I’m going to have a nap before dinner. It’s been an interesting day.’ She smiled reminiscently.

‘Mr Reynolds says that we are all going to Buchan Caves tomorrow. The dray is repaired,’ said Lin Chung, stroking her wrist.

‘Good. See you at dinner.’

‘And after?’ he asked, sliding one finger up her sleeve along the inside of her forearm where the skin was as thin as silk.

‘And after,’ said Phryne.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Now since these dead bones have already out-lasted

the living ones of Methuselah, and in a yard under

ground, and thin walls of clay, out worn all the

strong and specious buildings above it.

Urn Burial , Sir Thomas Browne, Chapter V.

DOT COLLECTED Phryne’s early-morning tea and met Li Pen’s eyes as he loaded a cup onto his tray. By mutual agreement they both came to the same door, which Dot unlocked.

She walked across the room, drew the heavy velvet curtains, and said, ‘Morning, Miss Phryne. It’s a nice day.’

She pulled the curtains of the four-poster back and stopped.

Like an engraving from a pillow book, thought Li Pen. Like a painting from one of them old-time artists, thought Dot.

Phryne, her black hair falling across Lin Chung’s chest, lay naked to the waist, turned so that one small breast was bared to their gaze. One of her hands was curled open against his cheek, and his face had turned to her, so that Dot could see a stylised man; his nose and cheekbones, and the delicate black line of brow and eyelash and hair, as if drawn with a very fine brush. His other arm embraced Phryne even in sleep, long fingers splayed across her white back which was bruised from her fall.

‘Hmm?’ asked Phryne, swimming to the surface.

‘Hmm,’ agreed Lin Chung, waking all of a piece, languorous with pleasure. He noticed Dot’s flabbergasted face and the appreciative countenance of Li Pen behind her. He was showing remarkable interest for a warrior-monk vowed to holy poverty, vegetarianism and chastity. But then Li Pen had always admired art.

‘Silver Lady, we’ve got company,’ said Lin, and Phryne woke. The picture dissolved. Dot handed her a robe and she sat up against Lin’s chest to accept her cup.

‘Good morning, Dot,’ she said calmly. ‘We’re going to the caves. Are you coming, too?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ Dot replied. ‘I’ve cleaned your clothes but they aren’t dry. You’ll have to wear the parrot jumper again, and the velvet trousers.’

‘Fine.’

Li Pen said in Cantonese, ‘She is as beautiful as the Manchu Princess of which you spoke, Master. More beautiful, because of her jade eyes.’

‘Good, I’m glad you enjoyed the picture,’ replied Lin. He repeated the remark to Phryne and she said, ‘Thank you,’ to Li Pen, who bowed. The whole transaction was so incredibly improper that Dot decided it had never happened.

Li dressed his master in a robe and Lin Chung took his leave. Phryne washed briefly in the washbasin, pulled on her caving clothes, and went down to breakfast.

She was starving.

Breakfast was almost over when Mr Hinchcliff announced, ‘Mr Jenkins,’ and a strange figure was shoved into the breakfast room.

He was small, no more than five foot six, perhaps, and he appeared to be covered in hair. Phryne decided that he must have been cultivating his beard, which was of the general dimensions of a bathmat, since puberty and possibly before. The only person she had previously seen who was that furry was Jo Jo, the Dog-faced Boy. He was wearing moleskins and a blue shirt under a tweed jacket which had seen better centuries and was largely composed of patches. His feet occupied large hobnailed boots and his long wild hair was crowned with a shapeless felt bag which might, at a venture, have been called a hat. The modish colour of the season for swaggies, it appeared, was washed-out grey.

‘Harry, my dear chap, sit down and have some breakfast,’ called Tom Reynolds. So this was the famous Dingo Harry. Phryne hadn’t recognised him without his trail of scalps. Tom Reynolds had obviously settled the quarrel about trespassing, probably in favour of Dingo Harry ignoring any boundary he wished to cross.

‘Thanks, Tom. I haven’t had a civilised breakfast for many a long year,’ said Dingo Harry, giving Phryne her first surprise of the day. He spoke in a deep, pleasant, educated voice.

Dingo Harry was given free range amongst the edibles. He sat down next to Phryne, carrying his plate with some effort and setting it down carefully so that the bible-thick layer of ham would not fall off the edifice of toast and the scale model of Mont Blanc composed of scrambled egg.

Phryne watched him eat. This was usually instructive. She had seen wharfies and sailors eat as daintily as ladies, and ladies shovel food in as though they had spent a long day humping sacks up a gangplank. Dingo Harry secured his hair with a piece of string, then ate solidly but tidily through the whole menu. Then he wiped his mouth politely on a napkin, combed crumbs out of his beard and observed, ‘You’re Miss Fisher, the detective? You do nice work, Miss. I heard about the murder on the Ballarat train. Are you interested in caves?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, flattered at how far her notoriety had spread and perfectly prepared to be interested in caves if they proved interesting.

‘Buchan Caves are a lump of Middle Devonian limestone that was once the bottom of the sea – it’s very rich in marine fossils – sandwiched between the granite shelves on either side, so that they lie in a ring of mountains. All the interesting caves are limestone and there’s hundreds of ’em here. That’s why I originally came, to study the caves.’ He gulped down his tea. ‘Well, thanks for breakfast, Tom. Let’s be going. Might I escort you, Miss Fisher?’

He offered his arm and Phryne took it. As they walked out of the house, she said quietly, ‘I thought you would have seen me as a bloated member of the Capitalist classes,’ and the man smiled, as far as one could see through the foliage.

‘I’ve got a few friends and I hear things, even out here,’ he said. ‘Your maid talks to the kitchen staff and my old mate Terry hears and he tells me. You’ve got two friends who are red-raggers like me. You didn’t instantly leap to the conclusion that I killed Lina, even though a wandering hermit tramp is a Godsend to anyone who wants a nice quick solution without revealing any family secrets.’

‘Have you seen Lina or the Major?’ she asked, and Dingo Harry shook his head. Either he hadn’t, or he wasn’t going to trust Phryne yet.

The dray had been repaired and even washed, and Terry Willis had prevailed on the carthorse to cooperate. Phryne was surprised to see that Paul Black was driving, large as life and twice as repulsive in an oilskin and hat. She let go of Mr Dingo’s arm and grabbed her host’s, asking, ‘What happened about Black?’