Death at Victoria Dock (14 page)

‘Won’t she need help?’ asked the cane cutter. Bert laughed.

‘She ain’t never needed it while I’ve known her,’ he said, sardonically. ‘Come on, mate, you don’t want to queer her pitch. She’s a very bright lady indeed, is Miss Fisher. For a capitalist,’ he added.

‘What shall we do about her in there?’

‘She ain’t none of our business,’ said Bert. ‘Get a move on, eh? I’m perishing for a drink.’

Bill Cooper, bewildered, went quietly.

***

‘Are you sure that this’ll work?’ asked Collins. Phryne gave him a friendly push.

‘Of course I’m not sure. Off you go. I’ll try for a side window. Make a lot of noise and, if you can, get them all out of the house. Break a leg, Hugh.’

Phryne floated like a small black cloud over the fence, through the weeds, and down the side-way between two houses. She had a jemmy in her hand and was so silent that she jumped when Collins knocked his loud constabulary knock on the rickety front door.

‘Come on, open up!’ he said loudly. ‘Police here!’

Phryne gritted her teeth, waiting for a fusillade of shots through the night, but no answer came.

As she passed the side window, she saw that it alone of the windows had been boarded neatly.

‘Dot?’ she whispered.

Dot had awoken as soon as she heard hammering on the door. She heard the whisper and was at the window in a moment.

‘Miss Phryne?’

‘Yes. Wedge your door and I’ll rip off these boards. See what you can do about the inside.’

As quietly as she could, Phryne jemmied at the window. Fortunately the boards were not individually attached, the boarding being revealed as a pallet which had been carelessly nailed over the space. It dropped without much noise.

The anarchists had joined Collins at the door. He was sounding at his most official and pompous.

‘If you’d like to step out here, sir, you will see that the back tyre has been punctured. Now we have had a lot of hooliganism in the area, and we are most concerned that honest citizens like yourselves…’

Phryne stifled a laugh and Dot managed to tear off the board covering the window latch and undid it, completing the ruin of her fingernails.

The raising of the window seemed to make more noise than the forging of a whole set of horseshoes. They stopped with held breath. Someone tried the door, found it locked, and the footsteps moved away.

‘Now, Dot! Before your nice policeman runs out of arguments.’ Phryne hauled, Dot wriggled, and she was out of the window and crouching in the cold sour grass. Nina, who was plumper, had to remove another board before she could push herself free. Phryne leaned the pallet back against the window. She had no way of reattaching it, so the anarchists would know that the escaping prisoners had received outside help. At the door, Constable Collins, sounding rather hoarse, was allowing his interlocutors to return to the house. He bade them a polite good night and paced away slowly as the door shut, locked, and bolted. He stopped by the car, then went on.

He had not gone three paces before an arm was slipped through his own and Dot smiled up at him. She was greasy and dusty and had evidently been crying a good deal lately but her eyes were shining.

‘I said I’d go out with you tonight, didn’t I?’ she asked, and Hugh Collins felt his heart turn over. They were almost back to the pub, and the car, when lights went on in the house, and a howl went up. All four began to run.

‘I didn’t know it would be this exciting, though,’ added Dot, and took Hugh’s hand as they ran to the pub and piled into Miss Fisher’s car.

‘No hurry, Miss,’ said Hugh Collins, comfortably. He put one arm around Dot’s shoulders and produced something from his jacket pocket. Phryne saw it as she started the Hispano-Suiza and rolled decorously out into the road.

It was a rotor arm.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Liberté! O Liberté!

Que de crimes on commet en ton nom!’

(Liberty! O Liberty!

What crimes are committed in thy name!)

Madame Marie Roland, from the scaffold, 1793

Jane and Ruth waited until the door had slammed for the last time and Mr. and Mrs. Butler had retreated into their own quarters before creeping, soft-footed, into Phryne’s salon. There they found Peter Smith, sitting calmly on the sofa with a pistol within reach and a glass of beer in his hand.

‘Mr. Smith, we can’t sleep,’ began Ruth.

‘And since you’re awake,’ added Jane.

‘Perhaps you would talk to us,’ concluded Ruth. Peter Smith smiled slowly.

‘Come and sit next to me.’ He indicated his couch. ‘And I will tell you a story. It will be a while before they all get home, and waiting is nervous work. Quietly, now, girls. Have you slippers and gowns? Phryne will not be pleased if you catch cold.’

Both girls whisked into their room and pulled on their dressing-gowns of soft undyed wool and sheepskin slippers, though the night was not cold.

‘Tell us a story,’ begged Jane, throwing herself down next to Phryne’s lover. ‘A place we have never been.’

Peter cast about for a story suitable for maidenly ears as they settled either side of him. Putting down his glass, he began to speak softly, so that they had to strain their ears to hear him.

‘Once in Russia there was a witch called Baba Yaga. She lived in a hut on chicken’s legs, enormous chicken’s legs, so it could go anywhere. She rode through the sky in a storm in a pestle and mortar, grinding the heavens. A dreadful creature, Baba Yaga, conceived in hell, who ate her children—yes, Baba Yaga devoured all her children whole.’

Jane and Ruth looked at one another. They considered themselves too old for fairy stories but Peter Smith was no longer talking to them. Jane mouthed ‘allegory,’ a term which she had just learned. Ruth made a face at her.

‘Once a young girl was sent out by her wicked stepmother to Baba Yaga’s house to borrow a cup of flour. The stepmother wanted to get rid of the girl. Her name was Vasilissa. Her mother had died and her father had married again and her father’s wife hated her, because she was pretty and skilled and the father loved her. So Vasilissa was sent through the dark wood, alone, where the trees strangle with vines and the floor of the wood is pit-falled with traps.’

Ruth was leaning against Peter from one side, Jane on the other. His voice was low, but perfectly clear, and he felt their listening warmth like two little fires beside him.

‘Vasilissa got to Baba Yaga’s house on its chicken’s legs. The gate was made of the bones of men she had torn apart and eaten. The gateposts were topped with skulls and in them the shadow of eyes gleamed; the latch of the gate was of fingers, which writhed and knotted and would not let Vasilissa in. She was so frightened that she wanted to run away, then she heard a girl’s voice sigh and say pitifully, “Oh, I am so lonely, so lonely!” She told the lock “Open” and it opened. She told the hut “Stand” and it stood still on its chicken’s legs, each as big around as a tree. She commanded the door “Let me in” and the door let her in, for what can stand against the fearlessness of love?’

Ruth and Jane exchanged glances. They both thought of Phryne haring out to rescue Dot.

‘In the hut was a young girl, and she cried, “Oh, my sister, my darling, I was so lonely without you! I will give you rest and food, but you must flee before my mother comes, or she will eat you up!”

‘“Oh, my sister,” said Vasilissa, “I have been sent to beg a little flour and I am so lonely in my stepmother’s house!”

‘“Come in,” said Baba Yaga’s daughter. “And we will think what is to be done.”

‘So the two girls sat down by the fire in the hut with chicken’s legs, and they were very happy together. They sang and sewed and combed each other’s hair, when suddenly the trees outside thrashed and cracked under the lash of a dreadful wind, and Baba Yaga returned. Quick as a flash, Baba Yaga’s daughter turned Vasilissa into a needle and stuck her in the broom. “My darling, my daughter,” said Baba Yaga, “why can I smell human blood?” “An old man came past, Mama, but I did not make him stay. He was too old and stringy and you would not have found him toothsome.”

‘Wait,’ said Peter Smith, leaping to his feet. ‘Was that a noise?
’

He prowled out to the back door, pistol in hand, then returned and sat down again.

‘No, nothing. Are you not tired, girls? Would you not like to go back to bed?’ he asked, hopefully.

‘No. Tell us the rest of the story. It’s an allegory, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is an allegory,’ agreed Peter, sounding suddenly tired.

‘What of?’

Peter Smith did not answer and continued the story.

‘Baba Yaga slept and went out and her daughter magicked Vasilissa out of the broom and they sat all day talking and knitting and combing their hair, until Baba Yaga returned and the trees whined under the weight of her mortar and pestle. “Why do I smell human bones, daughter?” asked Baba Yaga. “There were two men, Mother, foresters. I tried to make them stay, but they would not.” “Next time set a trap for them,” growled Baba
Yaga, and slept. Then she went out, and her daughter retrieved Vasilissa from the broom and they sat all day by the fire, laughing and telling tales and drinking tea. They were so happy that this time they did not notice the branches snapping under Baba Yaga as she landed and flung open the door. “Daughter, darling daughter, what a morsel you have found for your mama. Into the oven with her!” “No,” cried Baba Yaga’s daughter, “this one you shall not eat,” and she gave Baba Yaga such a push as sent her into her own oven, then the two girls snatched up their knitting and their brush and comb and ran into the forest, taking one of the skull gateposts to show the way. Baba Yaga screamed as she dragged herself out of the oven, and flew after them like winter.’

‘Like winter?’

‘Do you know anything more merciless than winter?’

Jane nodded. She had linked hands with Ruth across Peter. The story seemed to have some personal application for them.

‘So Baba Yaga’s daughter flung the hairbrush behind her, and it grew into a dense thicket tangled with blackberries. It took Baba Yaga an age to struggle through it, but she came on, and the girl flung the comb behind them. It grew up into a forest of tall trees, and Baba Yaga had to tear them up with her teeth; it took a long time, but the girls were tired, and their strength was failing. Terror is very draining. They had not got very far before they heard the witch gnaw through the last of the trees and Vasilissa threw back the long strip of knitting, which turned into a deep wet bog. Baba Yaga was a fire-witch. Into the bog she flung herself, eager for human blood, and in that bog she sank, first to her knees, and then her hips, to her waist, her shoulders, and at last the mouth with snake’s venom drowned under the mud, and Baba Yaga was gone.’

‘Ooh,’ squeaked Jane. ‘Poor witch!’

This had evidently not been the effect which the teller had expected. He gave Jane a startled look, then continued, ‘The two girls came to the stepmother’s house, and she demanded, “Have you brought the flour?” and Vasilissa said, “No, but I have brought Baba Yaga’s daughter and light.” And the light from the skull’s eyes burnt the stepmother to cinders. Baba Yaga’s daughter and Vasilissa lived together in the house, combing each other’s hair, singing, and knitting forever after.’

‘Gosh! What a story. Thank you, Mr. Smith. Can I get you more beer? Do you think Miss Phryne will be all right?’ Jane prattled. She knew that she was doing so, but the story had made her uneasy. Peter Smith smiled at her. Although he seemed like an old man to Jane, she could see why Miss Phryne liked him. The smile on his lined face was a child’s smile, open and innocent and joyful. The effect was very endearing.

He had also instantly understood, without prompting, that Jane was frightened and babbling to cover up. Such intelligence, in Jane’s experience, was not often to be found in the male sex.

Ruth refilled Peter’s glass and asked, ‘Are you Russian, Mr. Smith? That’s a Russian story, isn’t it?’

‘Russian? No. I come from Latvia. It is on the shores of the Baltic. Do you know where that is?’

‘Yes, we had it in Geography,’ agreed Jane, knitting her brows. ‘Let’s see. With a warm water port, that’s why Russia wants it, and the capital is…is…I’ve got it! Riga.’

‘It is Riga.’

‘What’s it like, Latvia? Are there reindeer?’

‘No, Ruth, that’s Lapland,’ corrected Jane.

‘No reindeer, but trees. Dark forests of pine in the cold parts away from the sea; low forest of scrub on the shore, where I used to go with my brothers to pick up bits of amber from the tide line.’ Peter smiled again. ‘Are you not tired, ladies?’

‘No,’ they chorused. ‘There is someone at the door!’

Peter Smith got to his feet, gun in hand. The doorbell rang. With a gesture, he ordered the girls back into their room and they went without a word. Peter Smith put on all the lights in the hall and outside and waited.

‘Bert, Cec and Bill Cooper,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Let us in, mate, it’s starting to rain.’

Peter Smith unlocked and unbolted the main door and allowed the three men to come in; then he bolted and locked the door again.

‘How did it go?’

‘Not there, mate, so she must be at the other address. Give a man a beer, Ruthie,’ added Bert, who had sighted both girls lurking in their doorway. ‘Nothing’s happened yet. We come back to wait for Miss Phryne. What about you? All quiet?’

‘All quiet,’ said Peter. ‘We have been telling fairy stories. No one has called. Was there anyone in the Fitzroy Street house?’

‘Only some mad tart. Sitting at the kitchen table and crooning to herself. Off her rocker,’ concluded Bert, suppressing what Maria had said about Phryne being dead. ‘Thanks, Ruthie. You know the way to a man’s heart.’

Ruth did not repeat what Phryne had said about this path, as she did not want to shock the company. Jane perceived that they were in the position of hostesses, and found another glass of beer for Cec, and one for this massive individual called Bill. He was huge. He made Jane feel like a baby in comparison, but he had a nice smile. He was worried and trying not to show it.

‘You reckon Miss can get Nina out?’

‘If anyone can do it, she can. O’course, we don’t know what the resistance is like. Or whether they’ve limbered up their Lewis.’

‘They should have sufficient ammunition for it,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t, however, know how many drums they have managed to buy.’

‘I heard three,’ said Bert, sucking foam off his upper lip.

‘Three’d be enough for a massacre,’ said Cec.

They sat silent for several minutes. Peter, Cec and Bert all had very unpleasant memories of machine-guns.

Bill Cooper had never seen one. Where he came from, quarrels were settled with cane cutter’s machete or fists.

‘Never mind,’ he said resolutely. ‘Nothing we can do. How about a game of cards, eh? To pass the time.’

‘Gotta do something,’ said Bert. ‘You know where the cards are, Ruthie?’

‘No, but we’ve got some, I’ll find them.’

‘Poker?’ asked Peter Smith. Bert looked at him.

‘You play poker?’

‘I have played,’ said Peter, smiling the smile of the man who has made many transatlantic journeys.

‘All right then. That’s four. You want to play, girls?’

‘You’ll have to teach us,’ warned Jane. ‘We usually play pontoon.’

‘Come on, then.’ Bert took the cards, which were rather dog-eared, and counted them. ‘All right. You sit next to Cec, Jane, and Ruthie can sit next to me, and we’ll be jake.’

***

Two hours later, when Phryne escorted Dot and Collins carrying Nina to the house, Jane had cleaned out her opponents to the tune of fourteen shillings seven pence and a kopeck, two drachmas and a trouser button, which was all that Peter Smith had in his pockets.

‘Just a friendly game, Miss,’ said Bert, staring at Jane as if he wondered where she had inherited her gambling luck. ‘And little Janey here is a real shark. Any trouble, Miss?’

‘Not really. We’re a little battered, but still in one piece. Lay her down on the sofa, Hugh. She’s all right, Bill,’ she added, as the cane cutter gave a muted roar and fell to his knees beside Nina. ‘They beat her, but it’s not as bad as it looks.’

‘Mongrel bastards! Oh, Nina love, I told you not to go back to them! What have them dogs done to you?’

‘She’ll shock you less when we get her cleaned up a bit. Bert, was there anyone in the other house?’

‘Just a crazy woman, Miss. No one else. Not even the Lewis.’

‘That’s in the Collingwood house. Dot was locked up with it. What’s your pleasure, Dorothy? You have done very well, very well indeed. My house is yours. What would you like first?’

‘A cuppa tea.’ Dot sank down into a chair. ‘Hot. Then a bath. Hot. Oh, Miss, I was that scared!’

‘But brave. If you are not scared then there is no merit in being brave. Oh, Dot, I thought I’d lost you!’ Phryne embraced Dot, who was sitting dusty and smeared in the velvet chair with Hugh Collins’ arm around her waist.

‘Jane, run out to the kitchen and put the kettle on: try not to wake the Butlers, poor things, I don’t think that they like adventure all that much. Ruth, run upstairs and put on a bath. Fling in some pine bath salts, they’re on the dressing-table, and bring me the first-aid box on the way back. Peter, was there any trouble while we were away?’

‘Not a sign of it.’

‘He told us a fairy story,’ said Jane, in passing. ‘An allegory.’

‘Did you, Peter? An allegory of what?’

‘The Revolution,’ said Peter. ‘What else?’

‘What else indeed?’

Phryne poured herself a glass of rather good champagne, although only Peter showed a taste for it, which meant that she would have to drink half a bottle herself. She surveyed the hands of cards, laid down when she came in, and observed that Jane was about to make a Royal Flush. The child had a gift for gambling. Phryne picked up the King of Spades and felt a certain roughness on the back, where a thumbnail had marked it. The Queen of Spades was also marked. She caught Jane’s eye as that young woman descended the stairs with the first-aid box and smiled meaningfully. Jane blushed.