What did any of us know about the other, mused Phryne. If she had met the late and entirely unlamented Mr McNaughton, would she have known that he was a domestic tyrant who, when refused by his wife, had sexually assaulted his daughter?
Amelia came in with a rush, and shoved a portfolio of impressive proportions into Phryne’s arms. ‘I’ll see about the tea,’ she muttered, and rushed out again. Phryne diagnosed artistic modesty.
She emptied the folio onto the blackwood table and spread out the contents. There were watercolours, a few oil sketches, and charcoal and red chalk drawings. They were good, Phryne found with pleasure. It was always easier to genuinely praise than to try and find something nice to say about rubbish.
There were three watercolours of aeroplanes, with a pale wash of sky behind them. There were sharp, clear pencil drawings of flowers and birds, exhibiting signs of a Chinese phase. There were several rather muddy landscapes and a clever cubist house; but Miss McNaughton’s real skill was in portraiture. With chalk or charcoal she could catch a likeness more clearly than a photograph. Here was Bill in flying togs, hulking and self-confident, but with a hint of reckless good-humour which Phryne had also seen. Here was her mother, in pastels, worn and lined, with the fluffy, harried look so familiar to Phryne. It was evident that Amelia’s skills were not yet perfect — she was prone to a certain lack of confidence in her lines and some of her colours might have been bolder. Phryne searched through the portraits with delight. Here was a group of children, somewhat after Murillo but nonetheless charming. Here were eleven studies of a cat; she had caught the creature’s elusive muscularity under the fur. Here was a swarthy man, thin and intense, with deep eyes and charming faun-like face; he had pointed ears, and the whole gave an impression of power and patience. Phryne was reminded of a Medici, and wondered if it was a copy of a Renaissance work. She turned the oil over. ‘Paolo’. Aha. Good looking, but not beautiful. Deep, and a strong personality. Such a man must have made a potent impression on Amelia, who was not familiar with any powerful man who did not brawl and rape. She looked forward to meeting him.
There was a portrait of a woman. Phryne recognised her friend Isola di Fraoli, the ballad singer. She had caught her perfectly: the mass of black hair, the glint of earrings, the deep bosom and rounded arms, and the wicked, penetrating half-smile. The last oil was a portrait of a man. Broad and tall but running to fat, he stood with legs straddled, dominating the artist with his presence. He had a jowled, big-boned face, mottled with red across the cheeks and nose. One hand was clenched and the mouth was open, as if in command. It was just a shade this side of caricature, and so carefully deliniated that it was obvious that the artist hated every line in him. Being an artist, however, she had dealt honestly with him. Phryne did not need to turn it over. The resemblance to Bill was marked. This was Amelia’s father. Phryne regretted that she might have to discover who murdered him. He was the essence of everything she did not like about the male sex.
Amelia and the tea entered simultaneously. Phryne took a cup and commented, ‘You have a great deal of skill, Amelia. Would you sell me some of these? I’ve just moved into a new house and I’m decorating.’
‘I can’t sell them — they are only sketches. Take what you want, Miss Fisher. I would like to have some of my work in your house.’
‘Call me Phryne, and I insist on paying. I wouldn’t have someone say that I exploited you, especially since I shall make a packet on them when you are famous.’
‘Take whichever you like,’ blushed Amelia. ‘Five pounds each — that’s what students usually charge. Do you really like them?’
‘Yes,’ said Phryne sorting rapidly. ‘Your professors must have told you that you have an uncommon gift for por- traiture. These sketches of the cat are good, too. Have you seen that page of drawings by Leonardo of the cats, turning into dragons? Very hard to draw, cats. There’s a bony shape under the skin and you have caught the furriness very well. I’ll have the cats, they can go along the stairs, and these chalks, one of the Gipsy Moth. I learned to fly in one of them — lovely little ’bus. Also the children, though they are derivative, don’t you think? Do you like children?’
‘I love children. I want lots of them. Now Father is. . now Father is dead, I shall have my own money, and Paolo and I can get married. We shall have a house in Carlton near the galleries with a studio for him and a studio for me, and lots of nurseries.’
‘Why haven’t you married before?’ asked Phryne, adding Paolo, Bill, and Isola to her pile. Amelia wriggled with embarassment.
‘Paolo wanted to. He’s quite well-off, he’s the son of an industrialist. His father disowned him but he has an income from his mother. But I wasn’t sure, and I wanted to. .
‘To be sure. How long have you known him?’
‘Two years. I am sure, now. It is just that Father said such awful things about him, and even hired a private detective to follow him around and to see if he was sleeping with his models.’
‘And was he?’
‘Oh, yes, but that doesn’t matter to me. I know that he loves me. He has put such a lot of work into me that he values me. One always prizes the object on which one has lavished the greatest amount of effort. Take that portrait of Father. I hated him. But to paint him, I had to look at him quite otherwise than usual: I had to examine him as an object, not as a loathsome man who tormented me. I stopped being afraid of him after that. Somehow the process of painting him had disinfected him.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Phryne. ‘May I have the portrait? Perhaps you would like to keep it. Apart from the Paolo, I think it is your best work.’
‘Take it. I was going to burn it.’
‘That would be a pity,’ said Phryne. She bound up the rejects in the portfolio and wrote out a cheque.
‘Perhaps you would consider a commission,’ she added. ‘I have a full-length female nude — you may have seen it. .’
‘Yes. “La Source”. It’s you, isn’t it. A bit Pre-Raphaelite, but skilful. Do you want something to match?’
‘Yes, a male nude in the same pose. Do you draw from the figure? Or haven’t you got up to that yet?’
‘Yes, but it’s difficult. In oil? And the same size? Let me have the dimensions, and I’ll see what I can do. I haven’t done a big oil. Father would never give me the money for enough paint, and students aren’t supposed to sell their work. There’s an acrobat who does some modelling — lovely body, all muscle, but light. My friend Sally did an Eros of him which was super. I’ll try it, now I can afford the materials.’
‘Good. Now, give me another cup of tea and let’s get down to business. Have you a family lawyer? We ought to get Bill out of the cooler if we can.’
‘Get him out? But he’s been arrested.’
‘Yes, but we might be able to bail him.’
‘Oh. No, we haven’t a lawyer who does criminal matters.’
‘Leave it to me, I know just the person. Where does Paolo live? I’d like to see his work.’
Amelia wrote down the address. She was uneasy. She was about to speak when a scruffy maid ran in and announced shrilly: ‘That cop’s here again, Miss.’
‘Put your cap straight,’ ordered Phryne. ‘Wipe your face on that apron and stand up. A tragedy in the family is no excuse for panic. There. Now, be a good girl. We all need your help, you know. Where would the house be without you?’ Phryne smiled into wide brown eyes and tucked a whisp of hair back under the cap.
‘There. Now, who is at the door?’
‘Detective-inspector Benton, Miss Amelia,’ announced the maid and walked proudly out.
‘Phryne,’ cried Amelia, ‘you are wonderful. Please don’t leave me.’
‘I shall be here. Sit down again.’
Amelia obeyed. The maid returned and announced sedately, ‘Detective-inspector Benton, Miss Amelia.’
She cast Phryne a dignified glance and escorted a tubby man into the room. He was red-faced and almost comic, but his dark-brown ey
es were sharp and shrewd.
At half-past three Molly Maldon and her husband walked to the lolly shop to cross-examine the shopkeeper’s son Jimmy. The child was an unpleasant, sharp stripling, with a spotty face and oily fingernails. Molly, however, was prepared to love anyone who might lead her to Candida, and she asked as gently as any woman seducing an uncertain lover.
‘Did you notice a big black car here at lunch-time, Jimmy?’
‘Yeah,’ drawled the youth. ‘Bentley, 1926, black, in a terrible state of polish.’
Did you see a little girl get into the car?’ asked Henry. Jimmy smothered a yawn and Molly bit her lip. Boxing the little thug’s ears would probably prove counter-productive.
‘Yes, I saw her. They kind of dragged her into the back seat. Leather upholstery,’ he added unhelpfully. ‘Red leather.’
‘Did you notice the number?’
‘Some of it. There was mud on the number plate. I reckon it was KG 12 something. Couldn’t read the last digit. Sorry. Mum, when’s dinner? I’m starving.’
Henry Maldon took Molly’s arm before she could do something hasty and dropped a shilling into the boy’s ready palm.
‘Thanks, son,’ he said heavily. Jimmy yawned again.
CHAPTER FIVE
She speaks poniards and every word stabs
Shakespeare Much Ado About Nothing
‘How do you do. My name is Phryne Fisher. I undertake investigations and I have been retained by the McNaughton family to act for them in this matter.’
The policeman took up a commanding position at the mantlepiece and glanced quizzically at Phryne.
‘There is no room for amateurs in murder, Miss Fisher,’ said the policeman condescendingly. ‘But I am sure that you will be a comfort to the ladies.’
‘I hope that I shall,’ replied Phryne with all the sweetness of a chocolate-coated razor blade. ‘And I hope that you will allow a mere amateur to observe your methods. I am certain that I will learn a lot from your procedures. After all, it is seldom that I have the chance of getting so close to a famous detective like yourself.’ Amelia looked up. Surely the man was not going to be taken in by this load of old cobblers? It seemed that Phryne had not underestimated the receptiveness of the detective to a bit of the old oil. He softened and became positively polite.
‘Of course, I shall be delighted to instruct you, Miss Fisher,’ he purred. ‘But I came to tell Miss Amelia that she should get a lawyer for her brother. He’s coming up before the Magistrates tomorrow morning, and he should be represented.’
‘Thank you, I shall do that,’ said Amelia. ‘Are you certain that my brother killed my father, Detective-inspector?’
‘Well, Miss, he hasn’t admitted it. He says that he came home last night and intended to have a discussion with Mr McNaughton. He admits that he had continual arguments with his father, and that they became violent at times.’
‘Yes, that is true,’ sighed Amelia.
‘He wanted to drive his father to a meeting at the aerodrome so that the mother would not be upset by their argument,’ said the detective-inspector. ‘He says you suggested it, Miss Fisher. He waited for his father until four o’clock, then gave up on him and went for a walk in the park. He says he met no one except an old man with a sack over his shoulder, and a young woman, who ran past in a bathing suit.’
‘So have you found the girl or the old man?’ asked Phryne respectfully. ‘I’m sure that you are looking for them.’
‘Well, yes,’ the policeman paused. ‘Yes, so to speak, but we haven’t found them. And we won’t. I don’t for a moment believe that there was a man or a girl, or that he went for a walk in the valley. I am sure that he killed your father, Miss McNaughton.’
‘Why?’ asked Phryne artlessly.
‘Why? Well, such things are not nice for a young woman, Miss Fisher.’
‘Ah. Suppose you take me out to look at where it happened. I have always wanted to see the scene of the crime.’ Phryne wondered if she was laying it on too thick, but it seemed that, for this obtuse man, no flattery could be too gross.
‘Very well, Miss,’ agreed the detective-inspector. ‘Come along with me.’
‘You stay here, Amelia,’ instructed Phryne. ‘Have some more tea. I shall be quite safe with Detective-inspector Benton.’
Amelia, open-mouthed, smothered a giggle in her teacup.
Benton led Phryne out of the house and along a fine mossy path to the tennis-court. It was beautifully kept, with a grass surface as smooth as a bowling green. The lines were freshly painted and the net was not in evidence.
‘This grass will not hold footprints,’ commented Benton. ‘But here are the holes caused by Mrs McNaughton’s high heels. She ran off the path here, you see, stood for a moment where the heels have sunk in deep, then ran back to the house. The dog’s footprints aren’t heavy enough to make a mark except on the flowerbeds. The body lay here.’
Phryne could see that it had. There was a sanded puddle of blood and grey matter, indicating that a very heavy blow had killed Mr McNaughton.
Benton hovered at Phryne’s elbow, ready to catch her if she should faint. She did not, however, even pale.
‘A head wound,’ she said. ‘How bad? How heavy a blow?’
‘A very heavy blow, Miss. He was hit with a stone, a big rock.’
‘Were there any fingerprints on the rock?’
‘No, Miss, the surface was too rough to take prints.’
‘How do you know it was the murder weapon?’
‘Blood and brains all over it,’ said the policeman, aiming to shock this young woman out of her unnatural composure.
‘And why should Bill McNaughton have delivered it?’
‘It was a good, solid skull-cracking blow, Miss. Split the head almost in two. No woman could have delivered it.’
‘I see.’ Phryne scanned the garden. There was not a gap in the flowerbeds, which were in any case edged with wood.
‘Where did the rock come from?’ she asked.
Benton spluttered. ‘Where did the. .’
‘Yes, where did it come from? Look around. There’s not a stone in sight. In the opportunistic crime which you describe, the murderer would have snatched up anything to hit his father with and left him lying. You are assuming that Mr McNaughton followed his father out here to continue the argument and it developed into a fight? And that under the influence of fury, Bill McNaughton went berserk and just donged his father with whatever was to hand? Is that not the idea?’
‘Yes. I take your point, Miss. This must have been pre- meditated. He must have had the rock all ready, then lured his father out here and killed him.’
Phryne briefly wondered how anyone could cling to a theory with this intransigence, in the face of all the evidence.
Phryne had moved away to lean against the old oak, which had one branch overhanging the lawn. She patted it idly — she loved trees — and looked up into the branches.
‘There’s a scar on that branch,’ she observed. ‘Something hung here.’
‘Quite the little detective, aren’t you, Miss? That was a swing — a tyre. Miss McNaughton put it there for the neighbouring children. Very fond of children, Miss McNaughton,’ said the detective-inspector, evidently approving of this womanly passion. ‘The cook tells me she was always inviting them in for tea on Sundays, and playing games with them. We took the tyre away to be tested but there are no bloodstains on it. Miss McNaughton will be able to put the swing back, if she wants to. After the place has been cleaned up, of course. Nice young woman, pity she is so plain. Should have children of her own.’
Phryne agreed. Miss McNaughton would enjoy having children of her own. She withdrew her gaze from the tree.
‘So Mrs McNaughton came out here — why was Mr McNaughton here?’
‘He must have come out here to continue his argument with his son, of course. Then it developed into a fight — no, hang on, there’s the point about the stone. Bill McNaughton brought his father out here, and
had the rock ready, and asked his father to look at something, perhaps, and then. . bang, then he panics, leaves the stone and runs off down the valley to recover himself.’
‘Would he have had blood on him?’
‘I asked the police surgeon that, Miss. He says that if he hit him from behind, which is what he thinks happened, then he wouldn’t have to have any blood on him. I thought, like you, Miss,’ continued Benton, honouring Phryne by implying that they shared the same reasoning, ‘I thought that he was going down to the river to wash. But he still had the same clothes on when we apprehended him last night, and there ain’t no mark on them.’
‘I see. Well, watching your methods has been most illuminating, Detective-inspector. Thank you so much.’ Phryne took her leave and went back to the house. Danny the dog cried after her from where he was tied in the kitchen garden.
‘Amelia, I have to go and find a lawyer for Bill,’ she called into the Chinese room. ‘Give me my paintings and see what you can do about getting me a taxi.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ offered Amelia. Phryne shook her head.
‘I need you here, and so does your mother.’
The maid went off to telephone for a cab, and Amelia seized Phryne by the sleeve.
‘Do you think Bill did it?’ she breathed.
‘I don’t know. Tell me, the children who play in the garden, did your father know about them?’
‘Not until recently — he was always out during Sunday. He came home early last week and caught me with them, and threw them out, the brute. The poor little things haven’t anywhere else to play, and their mothers know that they are safe with me. I used to give them tea. And cakes. Bill likes children, too. He rigged up that swing with the tyre for them.’ Amelia shuddered suddenly, and all the colour drained out of her face.
Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher Page 23
