‘Hmm,’ said Phryne. ‘So they are now relying on the spirits?’
‘Are they? Mediums, I suppose I ought to say media, no, that doesn’t sound right either. Good Lord.’ The professor drank some more coffee. ‘Well, I hope it leads them to wealth, but I, for one, will not be holding my breath.’
‘Indeed. Are there lots of hoards lying around?’
‘No—well, it depends on to whom you are talking. There’s always been a lot of interest in the Temple treasure.’
‘Which temple would that be?’
‘The Temple of Jerusalem, the Great Temple. Built by Herod. Destroyed by the Romans. Picture the scene. You’re a priest. The Romans have captured Jerusalem. They have started out being civilised, but they are already borrowing a few talents from the treasury and you can see that if anything goes wrong, they will sack it. So what do you do?’
‘You sneak the treasure out in man-loads, every night, and bury it,’ said Phryne.
‘Exactly. That Temple mound is honeycombed with paths and tunnels. By the time we get to the Jewish rebellion in AD 67 there would still be enough left for the Romans to pillage and, outside, enough concealed to begin life anew outside the Holy City. I suspect—I hope—that the Temple library was concealed somewhere safe, as well. Libraries are far too inflammable for my taste. The Romans made new coins with some of the Temple treasure. Judea Captiva, in chains and in mourning. They were not a subtle people, the Romans. Previous coins had plants on them. But even if the Temple treasure was distributed like that, who is to say that it is still there? There is a scroll which seems to set out where it was hidden. And, of course, spots marked X, or rather, spots marked epsilon or alpha. But it says things like “by the base of the hill shaped like a bull’s horn, ten talents of silver” and the chances are that the hill shaped like a bull’s horn…’
‘Isn’t there anymore. I see. Any more missing gold?’
‘For that you will have to go to South America, and there find blood-stained gold in plenty on the sacrificial altars of their frightful gods.’
‘Let’s change the subject.’ Phryne did not need sacrificial altars at luncheon.
Mr. Butler brought in the salted nuts and dried fruit which Miss Fisher liked with her after-dinner cognac. She picked up a nut. ‘Do you know of anything significant about almonds in the classical world?’
He choked a little on the coffee, wiped his mouth, and objected, ‘Really, Miss Fisher, that was an inquiry out of the blue! And I hardly know how to answer a lady at her own respectable table.’
‘Assume it is not respectable,’ she ordered.
‘Very well. Zeus, the king of the gods, spilled his seed upon the ground, and from it grew a double-sexed monster, called Cybele/Agdistis. A hermaphrodite, you understand. The gods conferred and thought that they really couldn’t have that sort of thing, so they decided the creature should be female and…er…’
‘Castrated it,’ said Phryne.
‘Quite so. The castrated hermaphrodite, now female, was called Cybele, mother of all. From her excised portions an almond tree grew. Nana, a nymph, put one of the almonds in her bosom and conceived and bore Attis, a beautiful youth with whom Cybele fell madly in love. One version of the story says that she drove him mad, and he performed the same operation on himself, under a pine tree, and bled to death. From his blood, violets grew. Another version says he was killed by a boar, but I think that’s a borrowing from Adonis, another dead boy. Like Tammuz. You know, in the Bible, the prophet heard at the temple steps the voices of “the women weeping for Tammuz”? In any case, there was a cult, much disapproved of in Rome, of Attis and Cybele, in which the priests, the Galli, castrated themselves and threw their…er…parts at a pine tree which was cut down, brought inside, wound around with woollen ribbons and decked with flowers.’
‘An interesting early form of the Christmas tree,’ commented Phryne, unmoved by this barbaric recital. Professor Edwin Rowlands was taken aback. He had never met anyone like Phryne before. And she looked so demure in her azure dress.
‘A fascinating theory which needs thought,’ he assured her. ‘If you remember your Catullus you might recall poem sixty-four. No, it’s sixty-three. “Ego mulier, ego adulescens, ego ephebus, ego puer, ego gumnasi fui flos: I to be a woman, who was once a child, once a youth, once a boy, I was the flower of the playground…” Then he says “iam iam dolet quod egi, iam paenitet: Now, now, I rue my act, now, now I would it were undone.” And Catullus concludes with an invocation to the goddess who causes men to do such things. “Dea, magna dea, Cybebe, dea domina Dindymi, procul a mea tuos sit furor omnis, era, domo: alios age incaitatos, alios age rabidos. Goddess, Great Goddess Cybele, Lady of Dindymus, far from my house be all your fury Lady and Queen: drive others to a frenzy, drive others to madness.”’
‘A good poet,’ said Phryne. ‘Frenzy and madness. The same might be said of treasure hunters.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Professor Rowlands, selecting an almond from the bowl of fruits and nuts, and biting it.
***
Dot reached the door of the Actors’ Benevolent Society and settled her hat, which the wind was trying to tear from her head. She had coiled her long plait into a bun and pinned it firmly, or the wind would have had the hair off her head as well. She had cotton gloves in deference to the heat, and she knew her hands were sweating. And she hated seeing new people. But Miss Phryne had sent her, so she must think that Dot could manage this interview, and rather than disappoint Miss Phryne, Dot would prefer to be publicly whipped through St. Kilda at the tail of a cart.
The door opened to her knock and she was blown inside. When the door shut again, an aged but beautifully groomed gentleman was offering her a chair.
‘And perhaps a glass of cold water, or a cup of tea?’ he added.
‘Thank you!’ gasped Dot. The wind had taken all the breath out of her.
‘Shocking weather, this,’ commented the aged gentleman, allowing his guest time to settle her garments and regain her composure. He poured cold water from a thermos, and lit the flame under a spirit stove. His movements were very slow and painful.
Dot drank the cool water and smiled at her preserver. He was dapper to a degree. His shirt front was blinding, his suit old but meticulously pressed, his white hair glossy with care and even his shoes were shining. He sat down at the desk. Dot was struck, suddenly, by a pang to the heart. She knew this was Albert Wright. She had seen him before, when Dot’s mother used to save up to go to the theatre every six months. She had last seen him young and now he was old…
‘I saw you on stage,’ she told him. ‘You played the gentleman in all those comedies. You sang and danced. When I was a girl—’ she broke off and blushed. ‘I had ever such a crush on you, Mr. Wright.’
‘My dear girl,’ he said, smiling and taking her hand. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me for a week. Ah, yes, I could dance then! And sing! They were such fun, those comedies. Silly, innocent things. I would prance on and say, “Anyone for tennis?” and the audience used to applaud. Great days, great days.’
‘You don’t act anymore?’ asked Dot, forgetting her reserve and her anxiety about talking to new people.
He grimaced. Then he rose, silenced the kettle and made the tea. He sugared his liberally and explained.
‘The pins, dear. I got arthritis and that was the end of my dancing days. But I toiled on, you know, never say die. Had singing jobs, some straight parts, second extra gentleman in Shakespeare. But Shakespeare’s terrible, because unless you’re King you never get to sit down. Didn’t really suit me and I wasn’t very good at it, to tell you the truth. Then my uncle died and left me a modest competence and I secured this position. No one needs benevolence like actors do. I was one of the lucky ones. Usually if we get sick they might as well shoot us, like broken-down horses.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ said Dot
.
‘True, O King,’ he said. ‘But never mind. “Toujours l’audace,” as the dear Emperor said. Now, what can I do for you? You’re not in the profession, dear. How can I help you?’
‘Oh!’ Dot had remembered her orders. She took an envelope from her purse and gave it to Mr. Wright. He slit it open and his eyebrows rose. It was a rather large cheque signed Phryne Fisher.
‘Munificent!’ he said. ‘We can get old Charles out of the doss house and into a clean apartment with a paid companion. He was wonderful in his time, you know. His Othello sent shivers up my spine. Now he’s doing Lear, of course, in real life. You’re not Miss Fisher, dear,’ he said curiously. ‘I mean, I beg your pardon, but I’ve seen her at the theatre quite often. Small woman, carriage like an empress, magnificent clothes, attended mostly by a Chinese chap dressed by Savile Row.’
‘No, I’m Dorothy Williams, her confidential companion.’
‘That,’ said Mr. Wright, ‘must be an interesting profession.’
‘Oh, it is,’ Dot assured him. ‘She wants to know about a man you buried in Melbourne General Cemetery in 1914.’
‘Then we will finish our tea and consult the books,’ he told her. ‘My dear Miss Williams! What a wonderful day,’ he added, tucking the cheque into his wallet and patting it close to his heart. ‘And it seemed so unpromising when I got up and realised that it was going to be fearfully hot again. I sometimes feel it would be soothing to be a savage,’ he added. ‘And then all one would have to wear would be a lap-lap and a few pieces of shell. Still, it wouldn’t do,’ he said, sipping his tea. ‘It wouldn’t do for Melbourne at all.’
Dot peeled off her wet gloves and agreed.
An hour later Mr. Wright found the entry he was seeking.
‘Really, the books are in a shocking mess. We’ve only had someone in charge all the time since ’23. Before that it was whoever was resting and had the time, and the treasurer used to write his bank statement in eyebrow pencil on the back of a playbill. True!’ he said in reply to Dot’s shocked exclamation. ‘See, here’s one of them—and it’s the one we want.’
Dot scanned the playbill. In suspiciously dark and greasy pencil—perhaps it really was eyebrow pencil—someone had written service and interment of poor Pat O’Rourke, wake and headstone poor fellow no harm in him shame to treat a sweet swan so…There followed a series of calculations, much crossed out, and a final twelve pounds, eight shillings and tenpence halfpenny, which leaves eighty-three pounds ninepence in the fund. Mr. Wright raised an eyebrow. Now that she was close to him, Dot was aware of his scent of eau de cologne and powder. Did this delightful man use theatrical makeup even though he had retired from the stage?
‘Sorry about the accounts, they kept a running record, but half the time the treasurer was doing his work in the wings and they did get a little confused. I remember him. Patrick O’Rourke. Never really succeeded, poor chap, though everyone said he was a sweet boy. Old man, when I met him, of course. Living in a wretched room in Fitzroy. No one could quite understand how he came to be gassed. Didn’t have any family here. Irish, you know. Though perhaps he had some distant relatives, several people came to the funeral which we didn’t know. Otherwise it was just the theatre chums. We were the only family he had ever known.’
Dot sensed a clue, jumping up and down and yelling ‘here I am!’ into her ear.
‘Mr. Wright, this could be very important. I would like you to cast your mind back and tell me everything you can recall about the other people at the funeral.’
‘Oh, my dear, that’ll be a stretch of the old memory! Not as young as I was.’
Dot knew that she was expected to say something flirtatious but she really didn’t know how, so she said, ‘Nonsense! You’re as young as you ever were. When I saw you dancing on stage, doing “Top Hat and Tails” with Margaret Arnold.’
‘Oh, yes, that was our star number,’ he said dreamily, beginning to hum the tune. ‘Come to think of it, Maggie was at that funeral. It was a freezing day and she was wearing her furs—the price of virtue, I hasten to add; she had married that newspaper magnate by then. I found a new partner, Jessie, darling girl she was, died young. Like too many of us. Cold day, I had my astrakhan coat. Maggie had her furs. Johnnie was there, yes, and old Freddie, weeping into his hankie. Gorgeous Gwen Powell with that reprobate, Hayward Rendell. Most of them were old—I thought them old. Then. Oh, such a long time ago.’
‘Let me go and get us a nice cool drink,’ Dot offered, having seen the restorative effects of alcohol on Phryne’s clients.
‘I’ll send the boy down to the theatre bar,’ he told her, ‘if you’ve got the wherewithal.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Dot, who had an emergency fund of Miss Phryne’s money for contingencies like sudden thirst, immediate taxis, witness expenses, or bribes. She turned her back to extract the little folder from her undergarment. Mr. Wright smiled at her. He really was a charming old man.
He took the note, called ‘James!’ down the stairs, and after a short interval a pale, panting boy appeared. Too much greasepaint and not enough sleep, Dot diagnosed.
James booked an order from Mr. Wright and took off again. He clattered down and, in due course, plodded up. On one hand, like a waiter, he held a tray with several glasses, an ice bucket, a bottle of tonic and a bottle of gin. James offered Dot the change and she nodded at him to keep it. He blushed with pleasure and for a moment looked quite healthy. James bowed elaborately, putting back the skirts of his imaginary brocaded coat, flourishing an imaginary feathered hat. Then he was gone, in case Dot changed her mind.
‘Going to be good, that boy,’ commented Mr. Wright, loading ice into both glasses and pouring a solid dose of gin into each one, topping it up with tonic.
‘Mud in your eye!’ he said cordially, then leaned back, sipping, closing his eyes. Dot got out her notebook and began to make a list of names as he spoke them.
‘Maggie, of course, and me, then old Charlie and Freddie, that was Charlie Latham, fine dancer in his time. The Russian—Serge was his name? Came out here with the Ballets Russe and never went home to the steppes. He was a dear friend of the deceased, but Paddy had crept away from all of his old friends. Serge never even knew where he was living, come the last act. None of them did. Thought he’d gone back to Ireland, perhaps. Serge always said that Paddy had a secret sorrow. Only one who knew where he was was Archie, now Archie ought to be able to tell you who was at that funeral, good memory, old Archie, and he used to take our little donation over to Paddy every Thursday. Archibald Lawrence. You might have seen him on stage, Miss Williams. There was a woman in a dark suit, very antique, long skirt, big hat. Hard to see her face. And two men; both much of a muchness, can’t recall anything about them, sorry, except they were wearing ordinary clothes and they slipped away from the church, didn’t even follow the coffin to the grave, though some people are just too sensitive to do that—poor Serge had to be carried away by Freddie when he wanted to fling himself in, you know how emotional those Russians are…Tell you what,’ he said, sitting up and opening his eyes suddenly. ‘I believe that Archie is at home, he hates the heat. Let’s call him on the telephone and invite him to have a drink with us.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ said Dot, who had been hoping for a chance of disposing of her drink. She never drank gin and especially not in the morning. There was no suitable receptacle to pour it into and anyway she hated wasting things, and this was expensive gin.
Fortunately Mr. Wright excused himself to go and use the box office phone and Dot noticed that the silent boy James had reappeared. He was looking hungrily at the tray. She beckoned and offered him her glass. He smiled, drained the glass, refilled it with tonic and returned it, all without a word. Then he gave her his court bow again, and vanished. He would do well on the stage, Dot thought, as long as he didn’t have a speaking part.
‘That boy been here?’ asked Mr. Wright as he
struggled up the stairs again. ‘He’s a mumchance brat.’
‘Can’t he talk?’ asked Dot.
‘Oh, yes, nice little voice, but he’s on tonight and he’s saving it. Have to conduct all my conversations with him in dumb show. Old Archie’s delighted with the invitation and should be here soon. I think that calls for another round, don’t you?’
‘I’m still drinking this one,’ said Dot truthfully.
‘Now, how can I amuse you in the interim, Miss Williams?’ asked Mr. Wright. ‘We have some scripts, and a rare collection of playbills and scrapbooks.’
‘Tell me about when you were on stage,’ invited Dot. Nothing could have pleased Mr. Wright more. He sipped his gin and began to reminisce.
Dot soon got lost in the Freddies and Charlies and Jimmies and Roses and Julias, but she was fascinated. The theatre flowed over her like a highly flavoured river of pink champagne, fizzing with gossip and spiked with refreshing malice like the Angostura bitters in a cocktail. When she heard footsteps on the stairs, Mr. Wright was describing a phenomenon called ‘corpsing’.
‘You see, after a while, in a long run, you start to sleepwalk through the part. I remember when we were doing one of those Cheltenham tragedies, all sound and fury, you know, I started making a shopping list, and when I got to the end of it, reminding myself that we were out of soda water, I found that I had denounced my wife, disinherited my son, and turned my daughter out of the house with her child of shame. I came to myself in front of seven hundred people in the full glare of the footlights without the faintest idea of what I was going to do next. A terrible feeling.’
‘What did you do?’ gasped Dot. He waved an elegant hand.
‘Oh, I coughed myself over to prompt and got the line. No one took those melodramas seriously, you know.’
‘Luckily for you,’ commented a spare man from the doorway. ‘Has young James been struck dumb? He wouldn’t announce me.’
Murder on a Midsummer Night Page 15
