Kerry Greenwood - Urn Burial

‘Who, Gerald?’

‘Liszt,’ said the poet with strong conviction. ‘There is your Mr Lin with Tom Reynolds. It was brave of him to come, but braver of you to bring him.’

‘No courage was involved, I assure you.’ Phryne sighted a woman of steely bearing, formally dressed in a walking costume and her daytime pearls, and asked, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Evelyn – Mrs Reynolds. She seems to be looking for someone, Madame – could it be you?’

‘Probably. Excuse me, Mr Lodz. And thank you for your most illuminating lecture.’

Evelyn Reynolds caught the end of this and said, ‘What have you been lecturing Miss Fisher on, Tadeusz?’

‘Why, poetry,’ he said with a gentle smile which should not have deceived her for a moment. ‘Poetry, but of course.’

Mrs Reynolds took Phryne’s hand in her small soft grasp and said expressionlessly, ‘Miss Fisher, how nice to meet you. Tom’s told me all about you.’

‘Mrs Reynolds.’ Phryne was cordial, for the moment.

‘Evelyn, please. I’m sure we are going to be friends.’

‘Possibly,’ said Phryne. ‘That depends on whether I can stay with you, Mrs Reynolds.’

‘Oh? What could prevent it?’

Phryne held on to the ringed hand and smiled into the powdered face. Mrs Reynolds was good looking, with a chocolate-box prettiness which had faded into a general pleasantness. She had blue eyes, which were beginning to look rather worried. The Honourable Miss Fisher was her social catch of the season. Mrs Reynolds would be boasting about her visit for years.

‘Lin Chung. I understand that you don’t like Chinese,’ said Phryne flatly.

‘No, indeed, what can have given you that idea? I’m sure that some of them are admirable people. Look at the Chinese preachers and the missions and . . .’ She dried up.

‘I just want to make it perfectly clear. Lin Chung and I are a package for the present. You either get both of us or neither. If there is any doubt in your mind that you and your staff can treat him fairly and in a civilised fashion, then we are leaving today.’

Mrs Reynolds resisted for a moment. Phryne felt the hand twitch. She was obviously weighing up what country society would say about her accommodating a Chinese who was having an affair with the much-publicised Miss Fisher against what the country would say if Miss Fisher left in a huff because Mrs Reynolds would not accommodate him. She capitulated. ‘Of course, of course, Miss Fisher, naturally. You need have no fears on that score.’

‘You’ve placed him at the very end of the house. Can you change his room?’

‘Not now, Miss Fisher, I would have to move someone else. I didn’t mean . . . I’ve got a full house, I’m sorry. But there is no objection to him – none at all, I assure you.’

Phryne stared at her and believed it. There would be no further comment about her affair with Lin Chung. Now all she had to do was convince him. She took Mrs Reynolds’ arm and changed the subject.

‘Evelyn, you look worried. What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Lina. I’d only say this to you, Phryne, because you rescued the girl. She’s still in hysterics and can’t tell us anything about what happened – every time someone asks her a question she starts to cry again.’

‘She avoided actual violation, Dot said.’

‘Yes, but she’s been mauled about and bruised black and blue. Can you tell me what happened? Tom should have called me last night but I had a terrible headache and I went to bed early.’

Phryne told her hostess all that she could recall of the previous evening. Evelyn sighed.

‘I can’t get Tom to take it seriously,’ said Phryne.

‘Neither can I. He just keeps chuckling on about rural lovers so I have to restrain myself from throwing a hairbrush at him.’

Phryne began to like her hostess. She herself had just refrained from throwing a full set of fire irons at the incomprehensibly obtuse Tom and his rustic romances.

‘You say you heard a shot – just one?’

‘Yes. I asked Mr Lodz, but he didn’t hear it. He said he was writing.’

‘You know what poets are.’ Evelyn’s face brightened. ‘Such a nice man, a good guest. He’s terribly amusing and speaks five languages. He hasn’t got very far with his book, though. He keeps going back to poems that Tom thought were finished and altering them. Publishers have to get used to writers, I suppose.’

‘And writers used to publishers. It can’t be easy for either of them. Now, can I help? Can I talk to Tom again?’

‘If you like, Phryne, but it won’t be the least use. He doesn’t want to take this seriously. Mrs Hinchcliff is most upset; the stores haven’t come, the butcher’s boy is late and I’ve managed to upset you, Phryne, about Mr Lin. And now the river’s rising again. Oh, dear, here I am boring on about my problems. I do beg your pardon. What would you like to know? The usual, I expect. Lunch is at one, just a light meal. Dinner is at eight, evening dress if you please. If we are up late, we have supper at eleven. Are your rooms comfortable?’

‘Yes, very,’ said Phryne truthfully.

‘Perhaps you might like to boat. There is the boathouse – it’s never locked.’ She indicated a small shed on the riverfront. ‘But do take care. As I said, the water’s rising. We are going to the caves tomorrow, that might be an agreeable outing. There’s good walking that way, and I’m sure Tom will lend you a horse if you would like to ride. It’s a bit too cold for bathing, though Jack and Gerry go out bravely every morning for a cold plunge. Such nice boys. Now, who haven’t you met?’

Taking Phryne firmly in tow, Mrs Reynolds conducted her to another rustic seat where an old woman was crocheting. Her fingers moved like bone shuttles, so easy and automatic was the movement. It was a small garment of some kind, perhaps for a baby. The lady was dressed in a tweed skirt, sensible shoes, and a pale-blue fluffy jumper. Her long white hair was coiled into a neat bun. She looked up, her face soft and undistinguished.

‘Miss Fisher?’ asked an old voice. ‘I’m Miss Mead, Miss Mary Mead. Delighted to meet you,’ she said, summing Phryne up, from Russian leather sole to close-cut cap of black hair in one comprehensive glance. ‘Are you looking for your Mr Lin? He’s in the house, I believe, with Mr Reynolds.’

Miss Mead was watching Phryne’s face, and seemed disappointed when she did not react. ‘Too kind,’ said Phryne meaninglessly, preserving her blank expression. Evelyn led her on to another old lady, this one of the acidulated sort. She was dressed entirely in black, with a skirt down to her feet and sleeves down to her wrists, collar high about her neck, and perched on her head was probably the very last rusty black bonnet in captivity.

‘This is Miss Fisher, Miss Cray.’

‘Did you bring the Chinese with you?’ asked a sharp voice, very suddenly. ‘Is he a mission boy?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Phryne, stepping back.

‘Is he a Christian?’

‘Yes, I believe so. Are you?’ asked Phryne gently. Miss Reynolds smelt trouble and intervened.

‘Miss Sapphira Cray is one of the Church’s most tireless workers. She’s always collecting for the missions.’

‘Is she?’ asked Phryne. ‘Miss Cray? I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll give you quite a lot of money for your mission if you never again refer to my exceptionally educated friend as a mission boy, and refrain from insulting him for the duration of our visit. Do we have a bargain?’

Miss Cray shot Phryne a sharp look, considered whether to take offence or not, decided on the side of lucre, and nodded.

Mrs Reynolds apologised as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I’m so sorry about that, but she is a very good woman. She’s Tom’s second cousin, never spends a shilling on herself; always wears those dreadful old clothes, and gives everything she has to the heathen.’