‘I’m not tired,’ snapped the young man. ‘And I’m not telling you anything. I don’t have to tell you what I was doing.’
‘No, sir, you don’t have to tell me, but if you don’t then I will have to find out, and it would be easier all round if you told me,’ said the detective easily. ‘That was the night of the murder, and I will be asking all of the persons involved what they were doing. Just for elimination, you understand. Were you at home?’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Alastair grudgingly. Detective-inspector Robinson made a laborious note.
‘I see, and was anyone with you?’
‘No. My room-mate was out. All night. I don’t know where he was, either. You’ll have to ask him.’
‘I don’t see what business it is of mine, as he isn’t involved with this matter at all.’
‘Oh, isn’t he? I tell you one thing, that female harpy has got her claws into him. She collected him like a parcel and he’s gone off with her in her big red car.’
‘Well, that’s not my affair either, is it? Or yours, sir.’ Robinson did not correct the young man, although he knew that harpies are always female. Robinson had been to a public school.
‘What were you doing, at home and all alone? Did anyone call?’
‘No. I was quite alone all night and I can’t prove it. So put that in your pipe and smoke it,’ added the young man fiercely. ‘I don’t have to answer to you! And unless you want to arrest me now, I’m going home.’
‘I’m not arresting you,’ said the policeman calmly, ‘yet.’
‘Then I’m going,’ said Alastair defiantly. He walked a few paces, stopped and glared, as if defying Robinson to make a move, then strode away.
‘Well, that may be the product of injured innocence, and it may not,’ mused the detective-inspector. ‘A little more inquiry should settle it. And Miss Fisher has taken the other one home with her, has she?’ he chuckled. ‘Pity I can’t use her methods of interrogation. I’m sure that they would be more fun.’ He went back to his police car and drove decorously back to Russell Street.
On arrival, he found a packet of photographs on the desk, with a note from Dot.
‘Dear Mr Robinson,’ he read. Dot still did not like policemen, but she did like Robinson, so she did not use his title. ‘Miss Fisher said to send these to you. She also wants me to tell you that the girl is five feet tall, weighs six stone, and has brown eyes and brown hair. She has no distinguishing—’Dot had taken several tries to manage this word—‘marks or scars except a brown mole on her right upper arm. She says that she has had the pictures taken in the old frock she wore on the train, and hopes that you can find out who lost her. Yours truly, Dorothy Williams (Miss).’
The photographs showed a thin, pale young woman with long hair. Anyone who knew the girl ought to recognise her from them. The detective-inspector called up his minions, sent out the negative plates to be copied and distributed, and also ordered a discreet watch on the angry medical student. ‘Just,’ he said to himself, ‘in case.’
Phryne arrived home, found that Dot and Jane had gone back with Dr MacMillan to the Queen Victoria Hospital to observe casualty, and Miss Henderson was ensconced for the day in her bed with a new novel. Mrs Butler was expecting the dairy-boy and the baker, and so was relieved of her anxieties in the matter of the milk. Phryne put in an order for hot chocolate and raisin toast, and led the bemused young man up the stairs to her private chambers.
These were decorated in her favourite shade of green; curtains and carpets were mossy, and even the sheets on her bed were leaf-coloured. It was a little like being in a tree, the young man thought, as he sank down onto a couch which yielded luxuriously to his weight and seemed to embrace his limbs.
Lindsay Herbert had seen many movies, and he was reminded forcibly of Theda Bara in Desire. She, however, had reclined on a tigerskin rug, and Miss Fisher had only common sheepskin.
The fire was lit, the room was warm, and Lindsay was alert, aroused and tense. Had she brought him here only to tease him, to raise him to an unbearable pitch of desire and then to disappoint him? He had known such women. He hoped that Phryne was not one of them, but he was neither sure nor certain, and sipped his hot chocolate suspiciously.
He began to realise that she was in earnest when she dismissed Mr Butler, told him that she was not to be disturbed, and threw the bolt on the door. Now these three rooms were cut off from the rest of the house, although household noises could be heard through the floor: the voice of Mrs Butler giving the dairy-man a piece of her mind in reference to the soured milk of yesterday, and the noise of Mr Butler using the new vacuum cleaner on the hall carpet.
Lindsay put down the cup and stood up, and Phryne put a record on the gramophone. She wound it up with some force and placed the needle on the spinning disc, and there was Bessie Smith, the thin, feline voice, lamenting, ‘He’s a woodpecker, and I just knock on wood. .’
Phryne slid into Lindsay’s arms and whispered, ‘Let’s dance.’ They began to foxtrot slowly to the woman’s lament. Lindsay was keenly alive to the scent of Miss Fisher’s hair, the smoothness of her bare arms, and when she raised her head, he laid his mouth to her throat and clutched her close.
‘Oh, Phryne,’ he breathed, and her voice came, cool and amused. ‘Do you want me?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Well, I want you, too,’ she returned, her hands dropping to the buttons of his shirt. The song ground to an end and the gramophone ran down. Phryne peeled off the young man’s shirt and caressed the shoulders and back, smooth and lithe and muscular, unblemished, young. Here were no hard lumps of football muscle, but the long sinews of a runner. Lindsay, striving to control hands that trembled, undid the hook at the back of Miss Fisher’s beautiful woollen dress, and then fumbled his way down until the dress dropped, and she was revealed in bust-band and petticoat and gartered stockings. He noticed that she had jazz garters, all colours, as she sat down on the couch and extended her legs for him to remove them. As he rolled the silk, trying not to snag it, he relished the smoothness of her naked skin, and saw that she, too, trembled at his touch.
The petticoat, it appeared, came off over her head, and the bust-band undid at the back.
Phryne took her lover by the hand and led him to her big bed, in the warm room, and lay down. Her body seemed almost luminous against the dark-green sheets, and Lindsay, for a moment, was overcome and thought that he might faint. Her scent was musky now, female and demanding, and he was afraid that he might hurt her.
She wriggled a little, and was underneath him; he was not sure how she had got there. He felt the delicate bones, overlaid with fine skin, at her hip and her chest; ran his hands down her sides as she thrust up her breasts to his mouth.
As the lips closed, Phryne gave a soft cry, and Lindsay was inside her, the strong but liquid, blood-heat tissue and muscle clutching and sucking, and Lindsay realised that she did not mean to cheat him.
All previous half-frightened, half-bold encounters in bushes, which had been the pitch of his sexual experience before, vanished before this bath of sensuality. The woman was strong and as lithe as a cat; she twisted and moved beneath and above him, stroking and kissing; she loved the touch of his hands and body in the same way as he loved the contact of her skin on his own. He detected the ripple of her desire as it reached its climax; he fell forward onto her body as she flexed and gasped and was clutched close in her arms.
Lindsay Herbert buried his face in Phryne’s shoulder and began to weep.
Phryne, assuaged, held him close, his tears pooling in the hollow of her collarbone, until he sniffed and shook his head, and then she said gently, ‘Are you regretting the loss of your innocence, my dear?’
The young man raised a glowing, wet face to hers and said, ‘Oh, no, no, it was just so lovely, so lovely, Phryne, I couldn’t bear it to end. . I mean. .’
Phryne released him and he rolled away to dry his eyes on the sheet. He laid a calloused hand on her thigh, and laug
hed. Phryne sat up.
‘If that is the joy of conquest, my sweet darling, then I can’t approve of it. Come and lie down again. I like the feel of your body, Lindsay — you are an intriguing mixture of smooth and strong.’
He stretched out beside her and yawned.
‘I thought that you were a vamp,’ he said artlessly, and was mildly offended when Phryne began to laugh. ‘No, don’t laugh at me. I mean, vamps always lead men on, and arouse them, and then abandon them.’
‘Well, I certainly aimed to arouse lust,’ agreed Phryne, gurgling with suppressed laughter, ‘but I had no intention of leaving you unsatisfied. And there’s no hurry, my sweet. We can stay here all day. Unless you have something else to do?’
Lindsay pulled a grim face. ‘You realise that you’ve made me miss three lectures,’ he reproved, and Phryne pulled him down into her arms again.
‘And I shall make you miss another three,’ she said, sealing his protesting mouth with her own. Lindsay knew when he had met a determined woman. He submitted.
Miss Henderson, on inquiring as to the whereabouts of Miss Fisher, was told by Mr Butler that she was in conference and could not be disturbed. Mr Butler’s face was perfectly straight. He was pleased that Miss Fisher had dropped the painter who had been her last lover. The painter had left partly-finished canvases all over the place and had washed his brushes in Mrs Butler’s pristine kitchen sink. A law student, Mr Butler reflected, was likely to be much cleaner around the house.
Awakening from a light sleep, Lindsay turned over with a muttered curse, loath to leave the most ravishing dream he had enjoyed for. . well, for all of his life. His face came into contact with Phryne’s sleeping breast and he woke, and kissed her.
‘Oh, Phryne, so you weren’t a dream!’
‘Quite real and indeed palpable,’ agreed Phryne. ‘But I must get up, Lindsay darling. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said the young man, holding her firmly and pinning her down with one knee. ‘Later.’
‘Later,’ Phryne succumbed, laughing.
Lindsay was in the bathroom, wondering which of the golden dolphin taps would yield hot water, when there was a thunderous banging at the front door, and he heard the admirable Mr Butler open it.
‘I must see Miss Henderson,’ he heard Alastair say, in a muted roar which meant that he was very angry indeed. Phryne pulled on a robe and joined him in listening.
‘Very well, sir, if you would care to wait I will ascertain if she is at home,’ Mr Butler replied.
Alastair yelled, ‘You know she’s at home!’
Mr Butler said crushingly, ‘I meant, sir, that I would find out if she is at home to you.’
There was a silence, during which they could hear feet pacing to and fro across the tiles of the landing. The door to Miss Henderson’s room opened and shut.
‘Miss Henderson will see you, sir.’
The feet ran down the hall. Phryne heard the door crash open.
‘Eunice, have you had the infernal nerve to call in the police?’ shouted Alastair, and Phryne swore.
‘Hell! Has the man no heart? What did I do with my clothes?’
She dragged on some garments and ran down the stairs, with the half-naked Lindsay close behind her.
‘Mr Thompson, I must ask you not to make such a noise!’ she said icily, and he turned on her a face white with fury.
‘You traitorous bitch! What have you done with my friend? All you women are alike — all betrayers and whores!’
He swung back his arm, meaning to slap Phryne across the face, and found himself on his knees with a terrible pain in his elbow. Miss Fisher’s face, calm and cold, was three inches from his own, and he could smell the scent of female sexuality exuding from her skin. It turned him sick.
‘Make one move and I’ll break your arm,’ said Miss Fisher flatly. ‘What do you mean, storming into my house like a bully? Call me a traitor, will you? Here is your friend. I haven’t hurt him. I have pleased him — and perhaps that’s more than you could have done, hmm? Go on. Try to hit me again.’
Lindsay, aghast, had stopped on the stairs when he realised that Phryne did not need any help. The fight was going out of Alastair. At the same time, Dot and Jane came to the front door, Miss Henderson started to cry, Mr Butler picked up the telephone to call the police and Mrs Butler appeared from the kitchen with the poker. Alastair stood up slowly, glared at Phryne, turned, and walked out of the house.
‘The fun’s over,’ said Phryne, pushing back her hair. ‘Come down, Lindsay. Mr B., shut the door, and serve some drinks. Don’t distress yourself, Miss Henderson, it’s just a brainstorm of some kind, he’ll be better tomorrow. Dot, Jane, how nice to see you. Come in and I think I will open a bottle of champagne, Mr B. It has been a very good day, otherwise.’
Phryne sank down on the couch and set about dispelling the sour aftertaste of Alastair’s violence with vivacity and Veuve Clicquot.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Although she managed to pick plenty of beautiful Rushes. . there was always a more lovely one that she couldn’t reach.’
Lewis Carroll Alice Through the Looking Glass
Phryne woke from an uncomfortable dream — not precisely a nightmare but certainly not a delightful reverie — and found that during the night she had pulled a pillow over her face, which probably accounted for it.
Next to her, sleeping like a baby, lay the beautiful Lindsay, as sleek as a seal, and utterly relaxed. Phryne picked up his hand, and dropped it. It fell limply.
‘Out to the world,’ she observed, and went to the bathroom to run herself a deep, hot, foaming bath, scented with Rose de Gueldy. Then she sat down on the big bed and looked at her lover, finding herself unexpectedly moved by his beauty and his gentleness. Her motives in seducing him had been mixed, to say the least; among them lust and the desire to hammer a wedge between him and his friend Alastair predominated. He had been an engrossing, untiring, eager lover and an apt pupil, and she almost envied the lucky young woman whom he would marry. Like Janet in the old ballad of Tam Lin, ‘she had gotten a stately groom’.
He sighed and turned over, revealing the ordered propriety of bone and muscle that was his back, and Phryne was about to slide down beside him again when she bethought herself of her bath, and went to take it, getting to the taps seconds before it overflowed.
She soaked herself thoroughly, and only rose from the foam like Aphrodite when Mr Butler tapped at the door with the early morning tea.
‘Good morning, Mr Butler,’ she said, accepting the loaded tray, and the houseman smiled at her.
‘Good morning, Miss Fisher, you are looking well, the young man has done you good. I’ve brought the papers, Miss Jane’s photograph is in them.’
‘Thank you, Mr Butler,’ and Phryne shut the door, woke Lindsay with a cup of tea, and sat down beside him to survey the news.
Jane’s photograph occupied a column of page three, with the caption, ‘Do you know this girl?’ Phryne thought that it had come out uncommonly well, and should produce results. Lindsay sat up sleepily and drank his tea, and Phryne settled back comfortably against his shoulder.
‘I don’t know if I dare go back to my digs,’ confessed the young man who had done Miss Fisher so much good. ‘How can I look old Alastair in the eye?’
‘Mmm?’ asked Phryne, and Lindsay tried to explain.
‘You see, we’ve known each other almost all our lives, and we’ve always done everything together — we used to climb together, but Alastair had an accident with another climber. He was killed by a falling rock, and Alastair thought that it was his fault, though it wasn’t, of course — rocks can happen to anyone. Then we were in the school play together — he was a good actor. I remember him doing Captain Hook, limping around waiting for the crocodile. . tick. . tick. . with his face all scarred.’
‘Oh? How did he do that?’ asked Phryne, who was not really listening.
‘Glue, Phryne — just glue. You must have noticed
how it puckers up your skin if you spill it. A line of glue on the face and there’s your scar. Perfect. Then we joined the glee club, and because we couldn’t climb anymore, he suggested that we take up rowing, and we’ve always done everything together, except. .’
‘Except this,’ said Phryne, kissing him on his swollen mouth. ‘But it was bound to happen, Lindsay. Didn’t you feel left out when he took up with Miss Henderson?’
‘Well, no, she never seduced him, and I always thought her a very dull girl, with that frightful mother. I could never understand what he saw in her, really. A very good girl, of course, but no conversation. She used to just sit there and adore him, and her mother would sit there and abuse him, and I refused to go there again, I just couldn’t see the amusement in it. But he seemed devoted, though he never talked about her. Then again, words could not express what I feel about you, so there it is. And I must get up and go to training,’ said the young man reluctantly. ‘Shall I see you again?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘More than anything else.’
‘Then you shall. But not tonight. I shall see you Friday at the glee club singalong, and you shall come home with me again, if you like. Today’s Wednesday. That should give you time to recover.’
‘I’ll never recover,’ declared Lindsay Herbert gallantly, and escorted Phryne down to breakfast.
Lindsay was just about to leave when the doorbell rang and Mr Butler allowed a crestfallen Alastair to enter. The student was bearing a huge bundle of out-of-season roses and did not even start when he came face to face with Lindsay and Phryne.
‘I came to say how sorry I was about that scene yesterday,’ he said in a low voice, thrusting the flowers at Phryne. She side-stepped neatly.
‘Take them to Miss Henderson, she’s the one you have hurt,’ Phryne’s voice was cold. ‘You didn’t do me any harm.’
‘Lindsay, old man, I’m sorry,’ said Alastair, and Lindsay took his hand and shook it warmly.
‘That’s all right, Alastair. I’ll wait for you and we shall go to training together.’
Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher Page 41
