Death at Victoria Dock (12 page)

‘Thanks, Mrs. B. We’ll all be out of your hair in a minute. I’m going to this address, Mr. Butler, can you look up the map? First we have to go back to the convent and get Reverend Mother. Better put in a blanket for her, too.’

‘Travelling rugs are in the car, Miss, and the brandy you ordered. Here’s your coffee, Miss. Have you found the little girl?’ asked Mrs. Butler, hopefully.

‘Yes, I have found her, but there are more problems. Mr. Bert and Mr. Cec are coming to take Mary Tachell home, then they will come back and look after the girls and you. Don’t leave the house without a guard. And keep all the windows locked.’

‘Good Lord, Miss, are you fighting a war?’

‘A small war, and soon over,’ soothed Phryne. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m not taking Dot with me. Probably nothing will happen. And if you get a phone call ostensibly from me to go to the docks in the dark, alone, do me a favour and disregard it, won’t you?’

Mrs. Butler promised.

The Waddington-Forsythe car arrived before Phryne had finished her coffee. Dot brought the letters into the house. Phryne broke the seals and read them.

‘One to Reverend Mother stating that Alicia can profess religion if she wishes. Good. It’s signed by Mr. W. And one to Dr. Honeycombe stating that Alicia is to be released into my custody, signed, by both father and stepmother. I wonder how she managed to get him to sign that? Has the whole thing been exposed? I bet it hasn’t. Another letter; addressed to me. Well. Scribbled on the ripped-out page of an exercise book by someone using indelible pencil and in a terrible hurry. “Miss Fisher I never knew, I never knew what happened to Alicia. She never told me. Tell Alicia I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Paul.” Hmm. Come on, Mr. B., we’re on the road.’

Bert and Cec drew up as the long red Hispano-Suiza manoeuvred itself into the street. Phryne had time to yell a greeting before Mr. Butler, enjoined to drive like the wind, put his foot down and the racing engines whined with delight. Phryne leaned back to enjoy the rush of air past her face.

Plenty Road unwound before her as the big car ate the miles. Phryne attempted a little meditation, failed to keep her mind on the Coué, ‘every day in every way I am getting better and better.’ analysed her objection to it as pure bad temper, and smoked her way through half a packet of Virginia gaspers until the car turned into the convent drive. The house struck Phryne afresh. What effect would all those gargoyles have on a young woman in shaky possession of her wits? Reverend Mother’s little helpers conducted her out of the house and into the big red car next to Phryne, whose black cloche with red hibiscus flowers attracted much whispering.

‘Reverend Mother.’

‘Miss Fisher.’ The tall woman smiled politely. ‘This is an adventure! Tell me all.’

Phryne handed her the purple-bound diary and said, ‘Read the last three pages, if you please. Off we go, Mr. B. The Sunshine Nursing Home, and step on it.’

Mr. Butler eased the Hispano-Suiza out of the convent drive and Reverend Mother leafed through the book.

‘Lord, Miss Fisher, the poor girl. What a history! No wonder her reason collapsed under it.’

‘Her reason didn’t collapse.’ Phryne was terse. ‘She was put away. Her stepmamma knew that no one would believe her. Her reason might have collapsed by now, of course, nothing like a few days of people telling you that you are mad and deluded when you know that you are telling the truth to turn the brain.’

‘Is this Dr. Honeycombe an…accomplice, then?’

‘Don’t know. Will you still accept her, now that you know her history?’

‘Accept her? Of course. She’s only a child. Her brother has abused her. Poor little thing.’

Mr. Butler stopped outside a large country house. It was an old farm house, with verandahs all around, and only the construction of a tall brick wall and the insertion of an imposing iron gate with a guard made it any different from its neighbours.

‘Miss Fisher to see Dr. Honeycombe,’ snapped Mr. Butler to the uniformed guard. Mr. Butler did not like loony-bins. The guard allowed the car to pass and latched the gate behind it.

‘I don’t like being locked in,’ commented Phryne. ‘To the house, please, Mr. B.’

Mr. Butler stopped the car, and doubled around to assist Miss Fisher and the nun. Phryne stalked up the steps onto the verandah, to be confronted by a large man clad in a hospital gown. He made a monkey noise, bounced a couple of times, and turned to reveal that his buttocks had been painted red, white and blue. Phryne presumed that the choice of colours was patriotic.

‘Very nice,’ she said into his gibbering face as he whisked around. ‘Let me pass.’

Reverend Mother was leaning on the verandah rail, white to the veils. Phryne plucked at her arm.

‘It’s only a man,’ she said. ‘Come along.’

At that moment the door banged open and a pair of very big men in white coats hurtled out, seized the ape man, and hauled him whimpering away.

‘What a
nice
place. Hello! Anyone there?’

A flustered nurse emerged and escorted them inside.

‘Oh, dear, ladies, I am sorry. He gets away, you know, and he’s that strong I couldn’t hold him! Who did you want to see, Miss?’

‘I’ve got a letter for the custody of Alicia Waddington-Forsythe,
’ said Phryne, supporting Reverend Mother. ‘Take me to her, if you please.’

‘I’ll do that, Miss, but you shall have to sign her out. Dr. Honeycombe will want to see you, Miss.’

‘I should like to see him, too. Now, Alicia Waddington-Forsythe, if you please, and look slippy about it!’

The nurse smoothed back her hair and led the way down a seagrass corridor to a small room.

‘She’s locked in, Miss, and she ain’t got no clothes, because she tried to kill herself.’

‘Mr. Butler, go back to the car and fetch a rug, please. Now, nurse, unlock that door and then bring me Dr. Honeycombe.’

The nurse unlocked the door. Phryne opened it. Sitting in the exact middle of the bare floor was Alicia Waddington-Forsythe. She was naked and her hair was tangled; she had scratches along her throat and a dark red ring around it. Reverend Mother stopped Phryne and said, ‘Listen.’

Drearily, hopelessly, Alicia Waddington-Forsythe was praying.

‘She’ll be all right,’ said the Reverend Mother, sweeping into the cell. She knelt down beside Alicia and they completed the prayer together.

‘
Ave Maria, pleni gratia…
’

Phryne was joined at the door by a dapper man with a Freudian beard, exuding the scent of expensive cologne. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

‘Religion! The girl has an Oedipal mania and they give her religion!’

‘Dr. Honeycombe, I presume. Read this, if you please.’

‘Are you Miss Fisher? But we are making progress with this patient. She has stopped denying her delusions. Another few days and she would be admitting that they are all fantasies. A well-marked complex. She believes that her brother and she were lovers, and that her brother has transferred his affections to her stepmother, of whom she is jealous.’

‘Oh? What treatment have you been giving her?’

‘The usual. Consultation, a low diet, and firmness. The patient must understand that her delusions are…well…delusory.’

‘And how have you been going with getting her to admit that they aren’t true?’

‘Well, I think, very well. After the first day she stopped asserting that they were true. We have not yet brought her to the point of healthily admitting that they are not true, and last night she tried self-destruction. You can see the marks. She tried to hang herself, so we have removed all cloth that could be used to make ropes. In another few days, perhaps weeks, she would have come to the realization that her family is like all other families and then she could have gone home.’

‘Tell me, Dr. Honeycombe, how does it feel to be a cretin?’ Dr. Honeycombe stepped back from Phryne’s furious face.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It’s all true, Doctor. Her family is not like any other. She was sleeping with her brother and he did transfer his attentions to her stepmother and the stepmother is presently pregnant with the brother’s child, and you made her deny it.’

‘She did not deny,’ admitted Dr. Honeycombe. ‘Are you sure?’ He was examining Phryne as if he wondered whether she was involved in a
folie à deux
with Alicia.

‘I am sure. And I am taking her away. Now. Get out of my way.’ Mr. Butler gave the rug to Reverend Mother, who wrapped Alicia in it. Dr. Honeycombe stepped back. Mr. Butler lifted Alicia and carried her down the corridor and out of the Sunshine Nursing Home and laid her in Reverend Mother’s lap in the back of the car. Phryne paused to sign the register with such vengeful force that she destroyed the nib, then ran down and jumped in.

‘Off we go, Mr. Butler, and if they close the gate just drive through it!’

The gate was open. Mr. Butler considered this fortunate.

‘Phew! What a place. How is Alicia?’

‘She has been doped, I think. I told her that I knew all about her history, and I was sure that God would forgive her. She said she still wants to be a nun.’

Phryne got her first look at Alicia in the flesh. A strong face, stubborn, determined. They had been able to make her stop asserting the truth, but they had not managed to make her deny it. She had tried to die rather than agree that she had told lies. This was the metal of which martyrs were forged. She was clutching Reverend Mother’s hand and her pectoral cross with similar fervour.

‘Do you want to be a nun, Alicia? You don’t have to go back to your revolting family.’ Phryne was firm. She needed an answer before she allowed the child to be delivered to another custodian. Alicia opened her eyes. Phryne gave her a sip of brandy.

‘I can be a nun?’ asked a voice weakened by screaming. ‘Even though…there was Paul? Even though…Christine…’

‘Even though,’ agreed Reverend Mother. ‘You can make your own choice. No one is pressing you, Alicia.’

‘In any case,’ she added to Phryne, ‘she cannot take her final vows for years yet. She can stay with us and she can leave, as well. Anglican sisters are not enclosed, you know, Miss Fisher.’

‘I want to be a nun.’ Alicia’s eyes became moist. ‘God has called me. He said that you would come, Reverend Mother. I knew you would come.’

‘All right, a nun you shall be. Here we are at the convent. Can you find my Mr. Butler a drink and a bite, Mother? And I would not say no to a bit of a sit down myself. It has been a busy morning.’

‘Yes, it is almost time for lunch. If your driver would carry Alicia again, we must get her to bed, and I shall call the convent doctor to have a look at her throat.’

‘No doctors!’ wailed Alicia, and the tall woman patted her.

‘I shall be there the whole time. Now, you are in no danger. No one can take you away from us. You are part of this religious community from now on and you are under obedience, Alicia.’ Alicia smiled.

Phryne accepted a cooling lemon drink (which would have been improved by the addition of ice and gin, she considered) after she had seen Alicia put to bed in the infirmary with a rosary to occupy her mind and the infirmarian, a plump and jolly nun, within call.

‘I think that she will do very well,’ remarked Reverend Mother. ‘She has firmness of mind. Will there be any trouble with her family? Her father, perhaps, who presumably does not know of all this, will he want her back?’

‘No. I don’t know what tale the adorable Christine has told him to get him to sign that custody agreement, but it won’t have been the true one. It means that Alicia is more-or-less an orphan, though. Have a look at this.’

‘The brother, Paul, he wrote this? Interesting. It appears that he did not know what had happened to Alicia. I suppose that even in such a criminal affection there may be some dregs of a real regard. May I keep this? I shall show it to Alicia—perhaps—when it seems expedient.’

‘By all means. If you receive any communications from that family, and I mean anything, please call me. You know my telephone number. If the poor girl has a chance of being happy, I do not want Papa to louse it up.’

Wincing somewhat at the slang, Reverend Mother nodded.

‘That lemon drink is a little insipid, isn’t it?’ she asked, reaching into her desk drawer. ‘A nip of gin may improve it. After all, it is not every day that the prodigal returns.’

Phryne held out her glass.

‘Bottoms up,’ she said, and Reverend Mother laughed.

Chapter Eleven

‘…and I
Play too, but so disgraced a part, whose issue
Will hiss me to my grave.’

William Shakespeare,
The Winter’s Tale

Cec tightened his belt around the British Bulldog .45 which he had brought home from Gallipoli (the present of an English officer, whom he and Bert had rescued from a collapsing trench) and said casually, ‘Reckon that the beach should be the safest, eh, mate?’

Bert surveyed the terrain with the eyes of the gunner he once had been. Undulating dunes, too low for cover, and a good view along the shore for half a mile.

‘Reckon,’ he agreed. ‘Come on, girls.’

Bert and Cec, although inexperienced at babysitting, were familiar with the role of guard. They crossed the road carefully, tiptoeing across the sand and scrub, Bert leading, Cec taking rearguard.

‘Do you really think we’ll be attacked?’ asked Ruth, breathlessly. She had a taste for adventure which her friend and adoptive sister did not share. Jane would have been content to stay at home behind an adequate number of locked doors.

‘Dunno,’ grunted Bert. ‘But Miss thinks that you might. No sense in taking chances with them anarchists. Here we are. No one on the beach and a nice day for swimming.’

‘Are you coming in, too?’ asked Jane, nervously. Bert grinned.

‘Not today. Too early in the year for me. I’ll just sit here and watch yer.’

Jane and Ruth disrobed, revealing decorous red and yellow costumes with backs and legs, and pulled on rubber bathing caps. They raced each other down to the shore and plunged in, squealing at the cold touch of the water.

‘You all right to see that way, mate?’

Behind him, Cec said, ‘Reckon,’ and Bert rolled a cigarette.

‘Beg pardon, Miss, do you mind?’ he asked Dot, who was sitting next to him on the sand and watching the swimmers.

‘Go ahead,’ said Dot. ‘I wonder if Miss Phryne’s got that Alicia back?’

‘She’s gone off to do that, has she? If the girl is there, you can bet Miss’ll get her. Very determined sheila, Miss Phryne is. Sing out when you want a smoke, Cec.’

‘All right, mate.’

The sun was warm, without the sting of summer, and Dot was sleepy. The girls called like birds in the embrace of the sea. Dot closed her eyes.

An hour later, Jane and Ruth were chilled and exhilarated and were racing each other up the sand when there was a noise like a motorcar backfire. A spurt of sand was kicked up.

‘Get down!’ roared Bert, and both girls dropped to the ground.

‘They’re shooting at us!’ exclaimed Ruth, indignantly.

‘Stay still!’ wailed Jane. ‘Oh, Lord, I wish I’d never come swimming.’

Cec sighted the gunman. He was standing in the scrub, wearing a grey hat. Cec caught sight of a pistol and knew that it did not have sufficient range to do any great harm.

‘He’s in the scrub, Bert, ten degrees west. Got a pistol.’

‘I’ll go back to the house,’ gasped Dot, and ran forward, eluding Bert’s grab at her arm.

‘No, Miss, don’t move…he hasn’t got the range without moving…he wants to flush us out. Dot!’ bellowed Bert, but Dot kept running.

‘What’ll we do, mate?’ asked Cec. ‘If we follow her we’ll leave the girls unguarded.’

‘You stay here and keep that sniper pinned down,’ decided Bert. ‘I’ll go after Dot, she’s lost her head.’ He drew his pistol and moved across the sand in the sideways scuttle learned on many excursions over the top.

Bert reached the road unscathed, just in time to see Dot being dragged into a black car. He yelled, and as the car gunned the engine and roared past him, fired a couple of shots at the tyres.

He knew that he had hit something as the car swerved, but the driver recovered and vanished. Bert swore, trousered his gun, and found a stub of pencil which he licked, then used to write down the car’s number on his far-from-white cuff.

The pistol shooter had stopped. Cec was beckoning from the bushes.

‘Look at this, mate,’ exclaimed Cec. ‘We’ve been set up.’ He reeled in yards of green fishing line.

‘Simple,’ snorted Bert. ‘Jam an automatic into this bush and pull the trigger with a bit of cutty hunk. Knew we couldn’t see good through these bloody branches. All they got to do is wait on the road.’

‘Where’s Dot?’ wailed Jane.

‘They got her,’ said Bert. ‘We’re going back to the house. What Miss Phryne’s gonna say to us I don’t like to think.’

Bert took the grey hat which perched insolently on a twig and threw it to the ground, stamping on it.

***

Dot sat huddled in the corner of the big car, swathed in a blanket which she gathered must have been used to wrap engine parts from the way it smelt, and shivered. She had not seen her attackers. She had skidded across the sand for the house even though Bert had told her not to move, and now she was caught like a rabbit in a trap. She was ashamed of herself, terrified of what Phryne would say, and horrified about what had happened on the beach. Were the others all right? Had they all been shot?

This left very little attention to be spared for worrying about herself. She strained her ears, but her captors were speaking in a foreign language. She was in the hands of foreigners!

Gradually, as she got used to not being able to see, her hearing sharpened and she began to pick out words. Then she allowed herself a small giggle.

They thought that they had Phryne Fisher.

What would they do when they found out that they were wrong?

Dot told herself sternly not to cry, but after the third rough turn which bruised her against unseen obstacles, she wept.

***

Phryne had an agreeable lunch with the Reverend Mother, bade Alicia farewell in the middle of the ‘Third Sorrowful Mystery,’ and preened herself all the way home on how well the adventure had gone. She tripped lightly up her steps and burst into the hall singing a little song about the flowers that bloom in the spring but the tra-la died on her lips.

Jane and Ruth were sitting on the sofa wearing bathing suits and weeping into each other’s hair. Cec and Bert were standing glumly in the hall, staring into space, like soldiers awaiting a court martial.

‘What has happened?’ asked Phryne. ‘Bert?’

‘We were attacked,’ began Bert. ‘And…they got Dot.’

‘What, hurt? Not dead?’ cried Phryne, supporting herself on the doorpost.

‘No, Miss, as far as we know she’s all right, but they snatched her. A big black car—Bentley. Here’s the number.’ Bert exhibited his shirt cuff.

‘Anarchists?’ asked Phryne grimly. ‘Of course. Tell me all about it, and how they managed to get around two such experienced diggers.’

Bert and Cec, interrupting each other, explained.

‘A trap! And a very good trap, too. Right. Everyone stop crying. I don’t blame you, Bert, Cec. They won’t have
hurt her. They
either think they have me, or they want someone to ensure that I do not interfere with their plots. We must find out where they are. Get out there and pull a few strings. Call in some favours. I want to know where their hide-out is. Get cracking. Ruth, Jane, do stop crying, you aren’t hurt. We will get Dot back. Pull yourselves together. I might need you. Oh, and your friend Alicia is all right. She’s back at the convent and will stay there. Now go and wash your faces, do. And put some clothes on. Mr. Butler!’

He appeared at her elbow.

‘Yes, Miss Fisher?’

‘Lock everything. No visitors. Though I doubt that they’d try again. It depends. We shall not risk it. Mrs. Butler, give the girls some lunch, will you? I’ve eaten. I have to think, so I’m going to my room and I don’t want to be disturbed unless it’s urgent.’

Phryne ran up the stairs, shut herself into her rooms, and threw herself into her padded chair. What to do?

After ten minutes’ hard cogitation she was forced to the conclusion that all she could do was wait.

Then she had a sudden inspiration, and rang Constable Collins to tell him that Dot would not be going to the Latvian Club with him that night.

The young man sounded resigned.

‘She’s changed her mind, Miss?’

‘No, she’s been kidnapped. Can you find a car registration for me?’

‘She’s been
what
?’

‘Kidnapped, aren’t you listening? The anarchists took her this morning. Can you find a car number for me?’

‘Miss, have you reported this to the police?’

‘No. I want her back alive, and I don’t want a lot of heavy-footed cops blundering around and getting her killed. For the third time, can you…’

‘Yes, Miss, what’s the number?’

Phryne read it out. The young voice said worriedly, ‘Can’t I help, Miss? I really like Miss Williams. I…I think she likes me.’

‘So do I. All right, but in a private capacity, and if you get caught then say farewell to the police force.’

‘I don’t mind, Miss.’

‘Good, then find me that address and ring back. I’ll use you, if I think that you can help.’

‘Deal,’ said Constable Collins promptly, and hung up. It was a trying afternoon. No one called. Peter Smith came to dinner. Phryne was in no mood for men, or even for food. There was still no word from the kidnappers.

However, here they both were, and Phryne was a social animal.

Mrs. Butler had provided French onion soup with black bread bought from the German bakery in Acland Street. There was a roast of veal with new potatoes and green salad to follow, and cheese and fruit for dessert. Peter Smith was still amiable and intelligent and might be in collusion with the anarchists, so had to be mollified. Phryne considered that she had made a good fist of it throughout dinner and she was about to propose that they adjourn to her boudoir when the phone rang.

‘Constable Collins, Miss. The address of that car is 168A Fitzroy Street, St. Kilda. Have you had any word?’

‘No. Call here after you have been to the Latvian Club, eh? I might know more by then. ’Bye.’

‘Peter, I need your help,’ she said as she came back into the salon. ‘Come upstairs with me.

‘Now, grab hold of this whisky and look me in the eye. Did you know that your anarchist mates have kidnapped my maid?’

Peter Smith did not flinch. ‘I did not know.’

‘Did you know that they are intending to rob the State Bank in the city on Thursday at two o’clock?’

‘I did not know.’

‘Do you know who lives at 168A Fitzroy Street, St. Kilda?’

‘Nina and Maria live there.’

‘The others?’

‘Smith Street, Collingwood. I can show you the house.’

‘Will you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you helping me?’

‘Because I love you. And because they have betrayed the Revolution, for which I would have died. They want to ruin Australia, as they have ruined America. There is no free thinking in the USA, now, thanks to anarchist outrages. Fools. Have you had word?’

‘Nothing.’

Peter reflected, sipping the whisky.

‘I wonder if they wanted you and have taken the wrong woman?’

‘What then?’

‘They may kill her. It depends on whether she has seen them.’

‘If they kill Dot, then they all die,’ said Phryne, with icy calm. ‘Why should they kill her?’

‘Because she is not you. But I do not expect that they will even hurt her. Where did you find out about the date and time of the robbery?’

‘From the medium, Jean Vassileva.’

‘Ah, Madame Stella—surely they don’t still believe in all that spiritualist nonsense?’

‘Most of it was nonsense,’ agreed Phryne. ‘But some of it was sense. I heard from an old friend, who produced the number of a plane I once flew.’

‘I’m not saying that the spirits don’t exist, Phryne, just that Madame Stella has only a passing acquaintance with them. So, they told you tomorrow at two, eh?’

‘Yes, that’s what Nina said. The conversation was in Latvian.’

‘I wonder if that’s exactly what Madame Stella said.’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Ah, you are not a revolutionary, madam. Add one day and subtract two hours, that’s what we always did with any assignation which could have been overheard by someone else. I wonder if they still use the old formula?’

‘Oh, Lord, so unless we know what their delay factor is, we don’t know when they are going to turn over the bank?’

‘That is why it matters if Nina told you what Madame Stella said, or the corrected time.’

‘We’ll have to find Nina. And we’ll have to rescue Dot.’

‘Quite. I suggest that we wait until the middle of the night. Then we will be in a position to surprise them.’

‘I don’t want them surprised,’ objected Phryne. ‘I want to sneak in, remove Dot and Nina, and then sneak out without waking the guard. I want them to rob this bank and be caught. Bank robbery is a hanging offence. I want them to hang. They killed an innocent boy and he died in my arms and they have kidnapped my friend. The argument does not convince you, Peter?’

Peter shrugged. His eyes were shadowed black in the dimming light, ‘So many innocent boys have died in my arms,’ he said, sadly. ‘I have long since stopped demanding that someone should avenge their deaths. There is not enough blood on the earth to wash out the offences committed. Let the dead one lie. He will not cry out from the ground.’

‘He cries out upon me,’ said Phryne fiercely, ‘and if not I, then Nina shall avenge him. What shall we do until midnight?’

Peter Smith held out his arms. ‘Come, Phryne, and let me comfort you as you comfort me,’ he suggested. ‘The flesh shall answer for blood.’

With a shiver that was not entirely lust, Phryne subsided into arms which had harboured dying men. Peter Smith found the anarchist tattoo on Phryne’s breast and kissed it gently.

There were worse ways to spend the time, Phryne thought, as her tense muscles unlocked under his practised hands.

***

After what seemed to be a journey of days, Dot was dragged out of the car and, still wrapped in the stifling blanket, forced to walk up two steps and into a house. She was shoved around a corner and into a space; she stumbled and fell to her knees.