Death Before Wicket: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 10 (16 page)

‘It came from a dig near Luxor,’ said Bretherton. ‘It’s very old. Stone Age for Egypt was five thousand years ago. I bought it from a fellow on my staircase at Oxford who’d gone all Muscular Christian. An amulet to preserve the soul in the body, Miss Fisher. You might find it of use.’

‘But you don’t believe in magic,’ murmured Phryne.

‘But I do believe in belief,’ he answered. ‘And I would not like you to be, er, frightened off before you find my papyrus.’

‘Or injured?’

‘Marrin may well be capable of that, also.’

‘I hope it works on standover men.’ Phryne remembered her nightmare and shuddered slightly. ‘Thank you. Now, are you going to tell me what else is on that papyrus, and why you and the Crowleyites want to find it?’

‘No,’ he said slowly.

Phryne took his hand. ‘I really need to know,’ she told him. On impulse, she drew him to he down beside her. ‘But I’m not trying to seduce the answer out of you,’ she added. ‘I’d like to be hugged. I had a bad dream.’

‘I thought you might have,’ he replied. Phryne slid her arms under his coat and laid her head against his chest. He smelt agreeably of coffee and pipe tobacco. After a moment’s hesitation, he embraced her with comforting warmth.

‘What did Marrin do to you?’ she asked, her voice rising from his third shirt button.

‘He told my wife—he allowed my wife to infer, rather, that I had been involved with Madame.’

‘Was it true?’

‘Yes. Marrin obviously thought that Madame could, er, seduce the papyrus out of me. Well, she could seduce me easily enough, that wasn’t difficult at all. There may be upright, noble chaps out there who are proof against those Hungarian wiles, but I’m not one of them.’

‘You didn’t have a snowflake’s of avoiding it,’ said Phryne sleepily. His arms were strong and she had not slept again after waking with Marrin’s snarl in her ears. ‘She did a tarot reading for you. She gave you…The Chariot? The Emperor? The High Priest? as your significator. She told you that you were a strong man, a man before whom weak womanhood could only pay its devotions on its knees. Then she fell to
her
knees and started on your buttons. Don’t feel guilty. That method would work on anyone except John Knox and even John Knox would have had to beat his erection down with a stick.’ She felt him flinch, then subside, and knew that her guess had been correct. ‘But you didn’t give them what they wanted, even when you had been so comprehensively seduced? That indicates a strong will. She might have been right about your card after all. Which one was it?’

‘The Chariot.’ His voice quavered a little. Phryne realised he was on the edge of laughter.

‘Domination,’ said Phryne. ‘Strong over weak. Male over female. So then Marrin tried blackmail? Usually a reliable method.’

‘I’ve been married for twenty years,’ said Bretherton. ‘My wife knows me and my nature. She knows that I love her. It didn’t work, though there was the deuce of a row. But in the end she agreed that Hungarians can happen to anyone and forgave me. Then the papyrus went missing and I was sure that Marrin had it until he came sliming up my stairs to make me another offer to buy it. Now, I don’t know where the thing is. I can’t tell you any more about the papyrus, Phryne, I gave my word, my solemn oath, and I cannot break it. The only other person who knows about it is Ayers. You might talk to him. Are you feeling better now? You know, I used to hold my daughter Alice like this, when she had nightmares.’

‘Your daughter was fortunate,’ said Phryne, sitting up. ‘Thank you, I feel much better. Now, I’d better get dressed. Are you going to the cricket match?’

‘Even better, I’m playing in the cricket match,’ replied Professor Bretherton, withdrawing to the parlour.

As Phryne dressed in her cricket-going clothes, she handed the pebble to Dot.

‘Do me a favour, old thing,’ she said. ‘Sew this into that hankie I had last night—yes, I know that it is stained—and sling it on the rest of that white cord. I’ve been making amulets for other people, it might be time I made one for myself.’

The combination of the ancient Egyptian belief in the
ba
soul and Phryne’s own present belief in the flesh (represented by a semen-soaked cloth) might well, she thought, prove powerful. Dot did as requested and Phryne slung the amulet around her neck under the heliotrope cotton blouse. The little bundle nestled between her breasts and felt, still, oddly warm. It was an animal heat, like that generated by holding a sleeping dormouse in the hand. She clapped on her panama and joined Professor Bretherton at the door.

‘Back by five,’ she called to Dot, and went out.

Sydney was hot and grimy, and the green gardens of the

University were a relief to the eye and the nose. Someone had laboriously watered and rolled the pitch, and even the outfield was green. Phryne took her seat with the aged Professor Jones in a small wooden pavilion.

‘Nice day,’ he commented. ‘What a fortunate old crock I am! Cricket match to watch and beautiful lady to watch it with. Here’s your score card,’ he said, giving Phryne a folded sheet of cardboard with two lists of names, ‘and there’s Bretherton and young Joss Hart going out. Toss of the coin and—yes, Bretherton has won and decided to send the students in. Hope he wasn’t using that lucky Roman coin of his. The students have got a fine opening pair, too. Harcourt and Ottery. Of course, young Harcourt’s in disgrace, but I told Waterhouse to his face, I told him, Waterhouse, I said, that young fellow’s a fine bat and I don’t believe a word of the charges against him. And if the Senate has any sense they won’t send down a chap with such a beautiful cover drive. Quite a competent spinner and an excellent fielder, too. Such a good sportsman would never cheat! Preposterous, and so I told him. Wonderful thing about being retired: I can speak my mind for the first time in my whole academic life.’

Phryne smiled at the Emeritus professor. He patted her knee.

‘They told me you’re looking into it, m’dear. Kind of you. They tell me you’re an investigator. About time they had women investigators. That’s what women have always been good at. Never miss a thing, women. Recall m’own mother looking at me for only a moment before she knew that I’d been eating green apricots, and me protesting all the time that I hadn’t been near the tree. Knew from the green stains on m’shirt. Very acute, mothers. Well, stands to reason. No one tells them the truth about their misdeeds, and what difference is there between me and my stout denial about the apricots—I thought I was dashed convincing, too—and some murderer protesting that he didn’t kill his wife? None at all, as far as I can see. They tell me you’re brilliant, well, I could see that for myself as soon as I heard you talk about Tennyson. So you get to the bottom of this theft, m’dear. We can’t afford to lose an opening bat like Harcourt.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Phryne.

The old man continued, his eyes on the field. ‘And of course Ottery’s good enough to play for New South Wales except he don’t want to—can you imagine that? A possible Test place eventually and he don’t want it because he’s pursuing his studies!’

Professor Jones paused to snort. Phryne, a little overwhelmed by this academic vote of confidence, wondered how he had viewed such matters before he was Emeritus and decided that he would have been just the same. She began to feel that she might have enjoyed university.

The ground looked like a painting. The bulk of the University buildings shone with a ruddy glow on the right. The expanse of meadow sizzling gently with gnats in the warming sun. A few passing seagulls. The white-clad fielders spreading out across the green grass. The umpires settling down beside the wicket and at square leg. The captain and the bowler having the first argument of the day about field placings. Professor Jones observed this and chuckled.

‘You know what S.F. Barnes used to say? “When I’m bowling, there’s only one captain, me!” That’s Kirkpatrick. Slow left arm Chinaman. Odd thing for a Scotsman to bowl, but he’s effective. Though I don’t think he’ll get too far against Ottery and Harcourt.’

The captain waved an arm and some fielders moved. Then Kirkpatrick waved, and they moved back. Phryne saw Bretherton shrug and walk to his own position at mid on, where he could see the game and not be surprised by any fast deliveries.

‘Never argue with a Glasgow man,’ chuckled Professor Jones.

‘Play,’ called the umpire. The batsmen, who had been patiently leaning on their bats awaiting the outcome of the argument, straightened. Ottery took block.

The ball looped in, quite slowly, and after examining it for deviant tendencies, Ottery stepped out confidently and drove it to the boundary.

‘Pretty style he has, don’t you think?’ asked Professor Jones.

‘Very stylish,’ agreed Phryne. It was extremely pleasant to just sit in the shade and watch a cricket match. The word predictable didn’t really describe cricket, prone as it was to sudden changes and shocks, but the ritual of the game was as familiar and soothing as cream.

Kirkpatrick’s next ball seemed to be exactly the same. Ottery had taken a pace forward before he realised that the ball was turning, and managed only a flat batted swat which drove it into the ground. ‘That Kirkpatrick isn’t as innocuous as he seems,’ she commented, as the batsmen crossed.

‘Watch the next one,’ said Professor Jones.

Harcourt faced Kirkpatrick. The ball left the bowler’s hand and slipped through the air, hit and turned on a right angle which Harcourt tried and entirely failed to keep out of his stumps.

‘Very pretty,’ approved Professor Jones. At one wicket for five runs, Harcourt trudged back to the pavilion, noticeably cast down. There was a pause before Joss Hart emerged, limping a little. ‘Hart’s their best bat,’ Professor Jones told Phryne. ‘But Kirkpatrick’s motto is, “If you can’t blast ‘em out, niggle ‘em out.” If we had him in the Test team we wouldn’t have had to watch England make six hundred-odd. He might even make headway against Hammond. And we’ve got Bisset’s fast bowling to supply the blasting. But it’s a long way to the end of a cricket match, m’dear.’

‘So it is,’ said Phryne. ‘Three balls to go.’

Kirkpatrick retreated behind the crease, took two steps and the ball flew again. Joss Hart had watched the fall of Harcourt and was not going to take any risks. He waited until the ball reached him and struck it along the ground. The batsmen began to run. The ageing fielders raced after the ball. Phryne saw Joss Hart reach the other end, turn, then halfway down the wicket he suddenly winced, staggered a few steps and fell. Bisset threw in the ball and the bails were knocked off with a triumphant cry.

‘What’s wrong with the young chap?’ asked Professor Jones, getting arthritically to his feet.

‘Something very wrong,’ said Phryne, leaping from her bench. Joss Hart had gone down as though he had been shot and now lay unmoving on the pitch. Phryne ran out of the pavilion and onto the ground as the players gathered around. Bisset, who was kneeling beside Joss, gathered him up into his arms and Bretherton and two others lifted the young man.

His face was congested, Phryne saw. He was vainly struggling for breath. She had a sudden intuition. Why had he been limping? She grabbed at his foot and unlaced the cricket shoe, dragging off the sock. Bretherton, who had been about to demand what she thought she was about, almost dropped the body he was holding.

‘How could that have happened?’ asked Bisset. ‘Bring him into the shade. I’ve got a kit here in the gear, but I never saw one! Quick, Ottery, run back to the telephone and ring the infirmary. Tell them what’s wrong. I’ll do the first aid. Give me your knife, Kirkpatrick.’

He grabbed a bottle of lemonade from a lady spectator and drenched Joss’s skin, then cut deeply into the two punctures on the side of his foot. Joss Hart moaned.

‘“The snake be against him on land”,’ quoted Phryne to Professor Bretherton, who had gone as white as his hair. ‘Are you sure you haven’t any more to tell me?’

‘We’ll take care of this poor fellow,’ he said. ‘There’s Ayers, Miss Fisher. Take him away and make him tell you. I still can’t.’

‘Will Joss die?’ asked Phryne.

‘I don’t know. I don’t even know what sort of snake it was. No one’s seen one.’

Phryne picked up the shoe and, carrying it by the laces, homed in on Professor Ayers like a ranged five pounder. Behind her she heard Harcourt protesting, ‘But he wore my shoes, my bloody cheap shoes! They must have been thin enough for a snake to bite through! Oh, Joss, don’t die or I’ll never forgive myself.’

‘Professor Ayers?’ called Phryne to a slim man contemplating infinity at deep square leg. ‘A word.’

He saw her coming and ran.

Nine

Ainsi m’ont Amour abusé
Et pourmené de l’uys au pestle,
Je croy qu’homme n’est so rusé
Just fin comme argent de coepelle
Qui n’y laissant linge, drapelle
Mais qu’il fust ainsi manyé
Comme moy, qui parout m’apelle
L’amant remys et regnyé
.

Just so love misused me
Drew me out and locked the door
And no man exists clever enough
Even if he was subtle as silver
Who wouldn’t have lost his lingerie
If he’d been befooled like me.
And now everyone calls me
The duped and rejected lover
.

Francois Villon,
The Testament