Kerry Greenwood - Urn Burial

‘Can’t you?’ asked Phryne. ‘It’s your money, after all.’

Mrs Reynolds was so shocked that Dot had to pour her another glass of Moët.

‘Miss Fisher . . . all that I own is my husband’s. I can’t think of acting against his wishes,’ she said as stiffly as three glasses of champagne in quick succession would allow. Phryne sighed.

‘Of course, how silly of me. So. Jack Lucas might have written them. Yes. It’s possible. The spelling is too good to be really illiterate. One would think that someone who doesn’t know how to spell ‘‘bastard’’ or ‘‘deserve’’ would not know how to spell ‘‘swindler’’ or ‘‘money’’. However, what use is Tom dead to Jack Lucas?’

‘Tom’s left Jack a thousand pounds in his will. He wants to make up for the loss, you know, but he feels terribly guilty and that makes him tetchy. What’s more Jack approached him the wrong way, asking for an advance on his inheritance, and Tom called him a beggar eager to wear dead men’s shoes. Oh dear, oh dear, what am I to do?’

‘The easiest thing to do is give Jack the money. If that doesn’t suit, Tom should go to town and change his will and make sure that everyone knows that he’s changed it. Then there’ll be no reason to kill him.’

‘Oh, no, he’ll never do that. He won’t go back on his word and he told old Lucas that he’d provide for his son.’ Evelyn set down her glass unsteadily.

‘Let him provide for the boy, then,’ said Phryne in her most reasonable tone.

‘Not after that dreadful quarrel.’

‘Perhaps I could talk to him,’ Phryne continued. Mrs Reynolds put out a hand to stop her as if fearing that her excitable guest was about to leap out of bed and beard the Master of the House in his den.

‘Oh, no, he’d be terribly offended and hurt if he knew I was talking like this about him. He trusts me.’

‘Evelyn, I’ve given you my advice. It’s up to you to persuade Tom to take it. By the way, is there anyone else who has a grudge against Tom?’

‘No, not that I know of. Of course, that Fletcher woman tried very hard to snare him when he lived in town, but she’s now occupied with throwing poor Judy at Gerry Randall. I can’t imagine why she wants him, she’s as rich as Croesus already. The girl is a great catch, though I suppose that you can’t really be too rich. And I’ve often wondered why Tom invites Major Luttrell here, he doesn’t seem to like him much. But gentlemen will have their fancies, won’t they?’

‘They will,’ agreed Phryne. Her current fancy was lodged far too far away from her with only his Confucianist principles to keep him warm. Mrs Reynolds rose.

‘I really should go – Doctor Franklin is attending Lina and I really should be there.’

‘Yes. See if you can find out what she isn’t telling. She must have seen something if the man was close enough to . . .’ Phryne censored her words in deference to her hostess’s sensibilities, ‘assault her. And what was she doing out of the house, anyway? Surely your housekeeper doesn’t encourage the maids to wander.’

‘Certainly not. Mrs Hinchcliff is very strict. Even if she were not, Lina is her niece. Miss Fisher, thank you for listening to me. I must go,’ she said, drawing herself up to her full height and smoothing down her tweed costume. Dot let her out.

‘The old school trained its daughters well, Dot. There aren’t many of them left in these parlous days. Thank God,’ said Phryne, and drained her glass.

Phryne was recovered enough to come down to lunch. She endured some mild teasing from Gerald, Jack and Judy about her horsemanship, flirted mildly with the poet and Gerald and drank a little consommé.

The poet was gallant in a middle-European way. He raised his glass of hock in a toast.

‘To Miss Fisher – most beautiful of Dianas.’

‘I suppose even Diana took the occasional toss,’ giggled Judy to Gerald, who smiled, and to Jack who did not.

‘Beware lest you suffer the fate of Actaeon,’ warned Tom, which silenced Judy.

Gerald caught on instantly. ‘I’ll try not to surprise you bathing, Miss Fisher.’

‘I’m not likely to be in the position – far too cold for swimming.’

‘Letty,’ said the Major in a poisonous whisper heard perfectly by everyone at the table. ‘Stop that blubbering and sit up straight.’

Mrs Luttrell whimpered, bit her lip, and took up a spoonful of soup. Phryne was trying to be sorry for this obviously oppressed woman but couldn’t quite manage it. She had married the repellent Major, so she should find some way of dealing with him. Braining him with a handy chafing dish was Phryne’s current favourite.

‘So, you don’t go for an early morning dip, Miss Fisher?’ bellowed Major Luttrell. ‘Should try it. Tones you up. The young chaps always do. I’ve seen ’em with their towels and togs running down to the jolly old river at the crack of dawn.’

‘I’m toned enough, thank you,’ said Phryne firmly.

Miss Mead remarked, ‘I do think that the amount of physical exercise that gels do now must have something to do with their dress. So sensible! Flying planes and driving cars and climbing mountains, so difficult in long skirts and . . . er . . . garments.’

Before Judith could embarrass Miss Mead by asking her about her corsets, as Phryne could see she was preparing to do, she put in, ‘Yes, Miss May Cunliffe won the London-to-Cairo road race, and women currently hold a number of records in aviation. Are you interested in planes, Miss Fletcher?’

‘Of course not,’ snapped her mother. ‘Most unbecoming.’

Judith, who had been about to reply, shut her mouth and turned a trying shade of brick-red. Gerald said hastily, ‘Do you fly, Miss Fisher?’

‘Certainly,’ said Phryne. ‘Look me up when you’re in town and I’ll take you for a spin.’

The young man lowered lavish eyelashes and murmured, ‘Oh, thanks, that would be lovely.’

Phryne was susceptible to lavish eyelashes and modesty. She smiled on the young man. Lin Chung, declining to play the game, was nevertheless paying close attention to the conversation. Phryne hoped that his principles were taking a battering.

‘Did you go to school in China, Mr Lin?’ asked Judith, too loudly.

‘Oxford, actually,’ he drawled. ‘I have been to China, of course. But I was born in England.’

‘Really?’ Judith was again on the verge of saying something unwise but Phryne was devoid of conversational gambits. The discourse at the table was as forced as the early woody peaches which the poet was peeling with a silver knife.

‘What do you do, Mr Lin? Are you a mission worker?’

‘No, I am a silk importer,’ he replied politely. ‘Silk to make gowns for beautiful ladies.’

‘Ah, silk,’ rhapsodised the poet. ‘Whenas in silks my Julia goes . . .’

Mrs Reynolds obviously knew the rest of the poem and considered it indelicate, or at least unfit for the luncheon table. She rose in her place to mark the conclusion of the meal and the guests straggled out. Lin Chung was claimed by Judith, who grabbed him by the hand, insisting on tennis, and Phryne accompanied Gerald and Jack out through the french windows and on to the porch.

‘Do you care for a walk, Miss Fisher?’ asked Gerald.

Phryne saw Lin Chung dragged away by Judith and smiled ironically. ‘Certainly,’ she said, tucking a hand under each elbow, ‘but only to the rose garden. I’m still sore from that fall.’

‘Just to the rose garden,’ agreed Jack.

CHAPTER FOUR

The treasures of time lie high, in urns, coins and

monuments, scarcely beneath the roots of some

vegetables.

Urn Burial , Sir Thomas Browne, Chapter I.

THE ROSE garden already contained Miss Mead and Miss Cray, so Phryne and her companions kept walking. The original conceit of the builder of Cave House had stretched to a knot garden which might have been laid out by William Morris himself. It was wet and scented and Phryne sniffed with pleasure as she sat down on a Pre-Raphaelite box bench which could have supported a medieval King, with room left over for the rest of the court.