Death Before Wicket: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 10 (19 page)

‘Go on,’ encouraged Phryne. ‘Begin with Saturday.’

‘You want the whole thing? Well, I came in first, like I always do, took off my hat, made the tea—there’s a little tea-room just along the passage—laid out the biscuits on a plate. They were ginger. Then I took the cover off my typewriter, opened the letters, sorted them, and then while I was doing that Mr Sykes came in. Poor Mr Sykes. Saturday’s a half holiday and he always wants to get to his garden club. Lovely flowers he grows. Then the Dean started on him, like he always does, about the books. Mr Sykes got flustered and dropped the ledgers. Then he got more flustered and dropped the Book of Hours of Juana, and Professor Bisset was upset. Then the Scotch professor had an argument with Mr Bisset about being annoyed with Mr Sykes. It wasn’t a nice day and everyone was cross. Finally Mr Sykes and Adam Harcourt shovelled everything into the safe, I closed up, and we went out.’

‘And you didn’t come back to the university until Monday?’

‘Why should I do that?’ demanded Dora. ‘I spend enough time here as it is. On Monday I got in as usual, laid out the biscuits and made the tea, when I heard shouting. I thought it was just the Dean ear-bashing Mr Sykes, but when I came back the money was gone and all the other things, jewellery and that. Terrible. Can I go now, Miss? The shops shut soon.’

‘Who do you think did it? I promise not to breathe a word,’ said Phryne.

Dora’s blue eyes flashed. ‘It can’t be any of our professors,’ she said firmly. ‘Mr Kirkpatrick’s real religious. Professor Bretherton wouldn’t steal anything but a kiss. Mr Sykes wouldn’t dare. Mr Brazell’s a nicely spoken chap. Mr Ayers never says boo to a goose. But the Dean’s a beast, I really hate him. It’d be bonzer if you could make it him,’ said Dora.

She drew the cover over the typewriter, grabbed a straw hat, preceded Phryne out of the office, locked the door and dived down the stairs.

Never stand between a lioness and her prey, a bear and her cubs, or a woman and a bargain, reflected Phryne. I believe that I may have a talent for aphorism. What a thoroughly unhelpful young woman! Dora had told Phryne everything she already knew.

Now to see whether she was investigating a murder, to find out if Joss Hart was alive or dead.

Ten

Everyone but narks, dogs, phiz-gigs and jacks

‘Guest List for Tillie Devine’s Birthday’, quoted in Butel and Thompson,
Kings Cross Album

Love is universal. It happens just the same in Darlinghurst as in Oodnadatta, only in Darlinghurst it happens at shorter intervals
.

‘Nothing Like Love’ in Lennie Lower,
Here’s Lower

T
he infirmary was a rather severe building, constructed when all illness was considered to be tantamount to sin and thus to be seriously discouraged among the student body. Phryne’s shoes slid on a floor polished to within an inch of extinction and a white-clad nurse materialised at her elbow.

‘Yes?’ she asked, with the unshakeable superiority which is given to one who knows the worst of human nature.

‘I want to see Joss Hart,’ said Phryne.

The nurse seemed about to argue. She stood for a moment and analysed Phryne: her clothes, her assurance, and probably her bank balance and the name of her hairdresser, then turned and bustled away. She stopped outside a half-open door.

‘His father is with him,’ said the starched figure. ‘Doctor will be back in an hour.’

‘What’s his condition?’

‘We’ve done all we can for the moment. He’s a strong young man. We shall have to see,’ said the nurse, and walked away.

That sounded bad, Phryne thought, sitting down on the one iron chair in the corridor. Voices came to her and she listened.

‘Joss, Jocelyn, I’m so sorry,’ mourned a deep male voice. ‘I’m so sorry, son.’

Phryne could hear no reply. Interesting. Why was Mr Hart apologising to Joss? How could Joss’s snake bite have had anything to do with his father? She heard the noise of a chair being pushed back and the elder Hart said, ‘I’ll be back in an hour, son, I have to arrange something.’

Phryne watched a large man in an exquisite suit plod slowly away, as though he was carrying a heavy weight. Harcourt and Clarence passed him and rushed to Phryne.

‘We had to leave for a moment,’ said Clarence. ‘How is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Phryne. ‘Come and see.’

Joss Hart was lying in a white bed. His leg was elevated and the tourniquet had been replaced with a tight bandage. His foot had swollen like a balloon of tightly stretched, purple skin. He was moaning very quietly, a terrible sound full of despair which set Phryne’s teeth on edge.

‘Joss,’ breathed Harcourt.

‘Joss,’ said Clarence, horrified.

‘Listen,’ said Joss, and they both fell silent. Hart did not speak again for some time. Phryne took his hand and sat down on the edge of the bed, a surface as hard as a porcelain bath. The hand was slack and cold.

‘What did you want to say, old chap?’ ventured Harcourt. ‘We’re here, both of us and Miss Fisher, you know.’

‘Phryne,’ said Joss. The cold hand flexed a little. Phryne leaned forward until her ear almost touched Joss’ lips. He breathed a phrase, choked, and spoke again.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Phryne clearly. ‘I’ll do as you say. It’s all right, Joss. Now all you have to do is get better,’ she said bracingly, not allowing any of the fear she felt ooze into her voice. She racked her brains for what she knew of snake venom, assuming it was snake venom in that diabolical machine. Presumably it was. She was striving not to remember the death of a small companion at a Sunday School picnic, bitten by a tiger snake in the long grass. That had been the same. The slow paralysis, the symptoms of suffocation, convulsions and then death.

The return of the doctor coincided with Mr Hart, and Phryne took both boys out into the corridor. When the doctor emerged alone, she tackled him. He was a man of good age with a competent air. Phryne judged him to be a man with a short way with hysterics but a basically compassionate nature, which by now ought to be immune to surprise.

‘Phryne Fisher.’ She held out a hand and the doctor took it. ‘I haven’t any standing at all in this matter and I want a brief lecture on snake venom.’

The doctor was on the point of dismissing this importunate female when he looked into Phryne’s eyes and decided not to. She was in deadly earnest.

‘Australian snakes have a colubrine type of venom, that is, akin to a cobra,’ he answered. ‘It’s a neurotoxin. It works by paralysis, eventually slowing down and stopping the heart and suppressing respiration. The victim gets cold and can’t breathe,’ he added, translating. ‘But I’ve injected 100 cc of Calmette’s Solution. It doesn’t seem to have been a huge dose, he’s still alive, and we shall see what we shall see. Don’t give up hope, Miss Fisher. Still a chance. If we knew what sort of snake bit him it would be a great help, but the gardeners can’t find it.’

‘I can provide you with a sample of venom; would that help?’ asked Phryne.

‘Yes,’ said the doctor, shelving a large number of questions, beginning with how, why, and what in the name of Moses?

‘I’ll send it along directly,’ said Phryne. ‘Come along, gentlemen. I need to talk to you. But I’ll just have a word with the chemist first.’

Phryne walked into the pharmacist’s room, leaving her escorts in the Quad. There she demanded a syringe, a clean phial, and a witness. The dispenser watched as she carefully inserted the needle into the rubber stopper in a partially dissected cricket shoe and extracted a clear fluid which looked like sugar syrup. She squirted it into the phial and dropped the syringe into the sink.

‘Snake venom,’ she told the white-coated woman. ‘Be careful of that syringe. Can you give this to the doctor who is looking after Joss Hart?’

‘You wouldn’t like to tell me what this is about, would you?’ asked the woman, fascinated. Phryne smiled at her and wrapped the damaged shoe.

‘No,’ she said sweetly, and went out.

‘Now, chaps, your undivided attention if you please,’ she observed to Clarence and Harcourt. ‘This is now an attempted murder and all bets are off, and that includes any delicacy you might have about telling on anyone else.’

‘Attempted murder?’ demanded Harcourt. ‘You mean Joss? Someone tried to kill him with a specially trained snake? That isn’t funny, Miss Fisher.’

‘No, wait.’ Clarence was watching Miss Fisher and she did not appear to be amused. Painfully learned sensitivity to female voices was causing all his alarm signals to go off. ‘You mean it, don’t you? This is an attempted murder. Someone did try to kill Joss. But why?’

‘That is what I am trying to ascertain, and you are going to help me, aren’t you?’

They both nodded, looking scared. Phryne glanced from face to face as she talked. Harcourt, chewing his thumbnail, was as white as a sheet. His curly hair was the most robust thing about him. Clarence was sleek, as always, but his mouth was set and he was, for perhaps the first time in his life, unconscious of his own beauty. He gave the appearance of someone who was thinking hard.

‘Where were you on the weekend? Start with Saturday morning. Clarence?’

‘I was at the University, looking for old Bisset, to ask him about the damnable mark he gave me for my French essay,’ said Clarence. ‘I went up to his office but he wasn’t there. I heard him in the faculty office yelling at Sykes, and he seemed to be in a wax so I didn’t want to approach him in that mood. I went away to find Joss and we went to collect Harcourt. We spent the afternoon wandering along the shoreline at Glebe and talking to the old fishermen. It was interesting,’ said Clarence dutifully. Phryne could not see the dapper and polished Clarence enjoying such an excursion, but was prepared to believe it. ‘Joss is really keen on the history of Sydney. He thinks there’s a treasure ship wrecked off Glebe Point. I suppose it’s possible.’

‘No, old chap, you’ve left out a bit,’ said Harcourt helpfully. ‘Joss went off on his own for a couple of hours and left us in the pub, remember?’

Clarence nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right, he did. Then we toddled off to dinner at a little Italian place and went to the ball, and there we stayed until it sort of died at about two o’clock. Bisset was there but he was having such a good time that I didn’t like to approach him about my French essay. I clicked immediately with a very pretty piece and rather lost the others but I found them again later. We sloped off at three or so and walked back to Harcourt’s room in John’s, and talked the rest of the night. Then on Sunday we slept in and went to lunch at the Coll. and I did my Anglo-Saxon essay. Sunday night I went back to my lodgings to have a wash and pick up a clean collar and we went to Theo’s. That’s about all, really.’

‘Adam, does that agree with your recollection?’

‘Yes, that’s it. I didn’t click with any pretty pieces, though. I spent some of the ball with Bisset—he was drinking like a fish and I was a bit worried about him. The punch wasn’t strong, but anything will have an effect if you drink three gallons of it. Christopher Brennan was there with his disciples, roaring drunk, and Anderson as well with the Andersonians. They had an awful argument about free will and the porters heaved them out at about eleven-thirty. Then…I can’t really remember what I did, Miss Fisher, but I was at the ball. Clarry and Joss and I went back to my room in John’s and talked, and then spent the Sunday as he says. Except I did my Theocritus and Joss did his Catullus. Theo’s was rather full and a bit sordid with all the girls from Tillie’s talking about the raid.’

‘Was Darlo Annie there?’ asked Phryne.

‘I don’t remember. Then we went to our several homes and woke up to the Monday, which shall always be marked with a black stone. That’s when my world all fell to bits around me. I’m facing a Senate hearing on Monday and they’ll expel me,’ said Harcourt, starting on another fingernail.

‘Never mind, old chap, don’t take it like that, you can find a job, chap with your skills.’ Clarence tried to console him.

Adam Harcourt’s thin face flushed with rage. ‘Second best, all my life I’ll be second best to what I could have been!’ he said with ferocious intensity. ‘Certainly I can find a job, Joss’ father might even give me one as he promised, but this is where I want to be, where I have always wanted to be. This—’ he waved a hand at the green lawns, the strolling scholars, the massive bulk of the buildings—’this is what I want. More than anything. And if they throw me out, it’ll break my heart,’ he said, and Phryne did not think that he was exaggerating at all. He meant exactly what he said. Jude the Obscure had the same outlook. Adam Harcourt’s spiritual home was the University.

For a moment she envied anyone who had found exactly what they wanted, had located exactly where they wanted to be until they died. Phryne was a wanderer. Like Kipling’s cat, all places were alike to her. As long as they were weatherproof, well-decorated and supplied with suitable furniture and adequate food and drink, of course.

‘What about you, Clarence? What do you want to do?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ drawled Clarence. ‘I mean just that. I have such a good time, just floating about, a few lectures here, Theo’s at night, going to a show or perhaps a little row on the river, that I don’t want an occupation. I just want to exist beautifully, as Walter Pater said, “To burn with a hard, gem-like flame”, if that didn’t sound far too energetic. That Joss, now, he always wanted to do well and impress his father, terrible hard the old man was on Joss. Called him effeminate, imagine, because he wasn’t doing hearty things with rocks. Mr Hart’s something of a mining magnate. Head of a big corporation. Not precisely born to the purple, between ourselves. Old man Hart worked his way up from being a simple mining engineer to head of Hart and Co., and
his
father was a prospector, I believe. Joss never gets a chance to forget that.’