Death Before Wicket: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 10 (32 page)

This Smith was cautious. He played forward rather than back and down rather than up, and after a couple of overs Bisset was beginning to pant and was replaced with Ayers, who wore his county cap and bowled left arm finger spin with occasionally amazing force and ingenuity.

‘Ayers can’t keep his mind on his game, or he would have been a Test player,’ grumbled Professor Jones, watching him run up with the grace of a large cat.

The oak tree Smith stood firm and Joss Hart played with great caution, picking off singles as they came. The serenity of a day’s cricket floated down on Phryne, and she suppressed a yawn.

‘The other thing I don’t understand,’ the aged man said, continuing the conversation where he had dropped it, ‘was that Brazell says that you knew it was the Dean from talking to his wife. How did you know? Did she tell you?’

‘No. Partly I was considering the house. It was clear that a once wealthy family had come down in the world. The furniture was good but it was too big for the rooms. If Gorman had just had a fancy to live in Glebe, there were houses in good repair which he could have bought—unless, of course, he couldn’t afford it. And it was not one of those strange relationships where both parties want to renovate an old house,’ said Phryne, to whom renovation was a signal to rent another house for six months. ‘Because Mrs Gorman didn’t know one end of a nail from the other. Also, she lied about her maid leaving. She had no servant. And she’d been used to having one. There was an appreciable delay while she remembered that there was no one else to answer the door. Poor woman. But it was not that she told me anything. All the other women knew that I was investigating the theft and tried to tell me that their husbands couldn’t have done it because they were dear good chaps, but all of them considered it. Mrs Gorman didn’t say anything of the sort. She knew that he was guilty, and she couldn’t think of a thing to say to exonerate him.’

‘And she was the cause of it, I should think,’ said Professor

Jones sharply. ‘Greedy woman, always nagging him about his social standing. He might have taken to gambling as the only way to get enough cash to satisfy her.’

‘He might,’ said Phryne. ‘Anyway, he’s gone.’

‘Good riddance,’ said Professor Jones. ‘No use as batsman or bowler and couldn’t field.’

They watched Hart and M. Smith patting back dangerous balls and occasionally making one or two until tea was brought for the academic staff and Phryne accepted a cup.

‘No, there he goes,’ she said to Mrs Sykes, as M. Smith followed his brother with an injudicious stroke worthy of T. Smith off Kirkpatrick, who was cashing in on the terror at the other end. The batsmen played Bisset with difficulty, and misjudged the slower spinner. He had two wickets to prove that this was unwise.

‘They take this so seriously,’ sighed Mrs Sykes. ‘But I suppose gentlemen must have their fancies. Who’s in next?’

‘Oberon,’ said Professor Jones. ‘A strong young man with no fear. Not a lot of judgment either. You watch him take on Bisset!’

Phryne watched. Oberon was a young giant and stood up to the bowlers, opening his chest and belting the cover off the ball. The faculty were leather-hunting, hot and unhappy. Oberon hit both Bisset and Kirkpatrick out of the attack, bringing on Ayers and Bretherton and finally Cummings of Physics, a quick but wild fast bowler. ‘What a fine analytical head you have on those pretty shoulders, Miss Fisher,’ commented Professor Jones in another interval caused by the ball having gone over the pavilion again. ‘Always said that they ought to make women detectives. You could rival that Sherlock Holmes chap. Are you travelling down to Melbourne by train, m’dear? I might be travelling with you. I’m going to the Melbourne Test.’

‘A triumph of hope over experience?’ asked Phryne. ‘We lost the Sydney Test almost as disgracefully as the Brisbane Test. I mean, can anyone make up a margin of six wickets?’

The old man’s eyes gleamed. ‘There’s a change coming,’ he prophesied, holding up one hand like someone from the cast of the Old Testament. ‘Only takes one man to change the whole team. You mark my words, Miss Fisher.’

Phryne nodded. Oberon, completely above himself, danced down the pitch and skied a ball which spun unexpectedly at the last moment. There was a scurry of fielders sorting themselves out. Edmund Brazell stood underneath. The moment stretched out. Then the ball slapped both palms, the fingers closed, and the crowd clapped Oberon as he returned, out for 31 made quickly.

‘Brazell says that Harcourt got young Ottery on the back of the head with a bottle,’ said the old man. ‘Hard things to throw straight, bottles. Always said he was a good cricketer.’

The tail departed rapidly under the renewed assault of Kirkpatrick and Bisset. Joss Hart was still there. Professor Jones was doing sums.

‘There, m’dear, we have them all out for 151, not a bad total at all, and Hart not out 35, having carried his bat. A good boy.’

At lunch, Phryne went for a walk around the grounds. The grass was green and littered with students, some of whom had bought picnics and girls. She spied Mrs Hart sitting on a rug. Dolly got up and walked with Phryne until they stood under the trees.

‘I’ve left Tillie,’ she said. ‘Bought myself out, all sweet, she even kissed me goodbye and hoped I’d do well. But I haven’t gone back to Viv. I’m not a fool! I’ve seen him in these moods before. Weep like a crocodile and within a month it’s back to the old ways. But I’ve accepted an annuity from him. All paid for, so he can’t change his mind. I can afford my little house with the money I’ve saved, and it will be all mine and in my name. I won’t need to work, and I was getting a bit sick of it to tell you the truth, Miss Fisher. I’ll have to find something to do with myself.’

‘Why did you agree to take money from Mr Hart?’ asked Phryne.

‘Well, dear, I’m not as young as I was,’ said Dolly. ‘I want my son back, and I can’t have him while I’m a working girl. Not that I mightn’t take a private client, just the one,’ she said, as Professor Bretherton saw them and waved. ‘Not for money. For…’

‘Love,’ said Phryne gently. ‘Why not see if you can help someone?’ she asked. ‘There are plenty of charities. Churches. Lots of people who could do with a listener, a cup of tea, maybe a salutary clip over the ear.’

‘Since your friend prayed my son back, I been thinking about that,’ said Mrs Hart. ‘I heard her, all night, the click of the beads and the murmur of the prayers. I’ll see,’ said Dolly.

She paused near Joss Hart and his father, who was saying, ‘I’m impressed, boy. That was a good innings, an innings for your team. I noticed you giving away the strike to Harcourt and Oberon, and farming it to try and protect the tail. I’m proud of you, Joss. Maybe this university lark isn’t so useless after all.’

Joss Hart smiled. Phryne strolled on. Joan was taking her sister Dot to a hairdresser. Phryne wondered if Dot would reappear shingled, and thought it unlikely. Professor Brazell was mopping his brow, looking like an Ancient Roman playing cricket. The white flannels suited his dark hair. Though the strange closeness which had come with the dark underground had not returned, he was a definite find as a lover and Phryne was trying to decide whether she would stay on in Sydney for awhile. The University Senate had cleansed itself of the Dean, accepting his resignation and packing him off. They had funded both Ayers’ Egyptian journey and Brazell’s outback trip. No mining lease had been registered for a copper mine in the Northern Territory. Mr Hart had apologised and endowed rather a large scholarship for the faculty of Arts. Joss Hart and Adam Harcourt had recovered. Nothing had been seen of Madame and Marrin in any of their usual haunts, though a landlady was pursuing them for unpaid rent. The police had investigated Clarence Ottery’s untimely death. The Coroner had said some severe words on the subject of student pranks, and the boy was safely buried. And just in case, Phryne was still wearing Bretherton’s amulet. Against her skin, it still felt warm.

The afternoon session began with the academic openers, Bretherton and the large Budgen. Jeoffry Bisset, relying on not being called for awhile—he batted at number five—climbed into the pavilion and sat down next to Phryne. Professor Jones was conferring with an even older colleague, doubtless discussing how far cricket had fallen from the good old days of the Hambledon men.

‘The Book of Hours of Juana the Mad is on display in the library in a glass case,’ said Bisset.

‘I’ve seen it. Lovely thing. I can understand why you stole it,’ replied Phryne, watching Budgen lumber down the wicket for a risky single. Harcourt flung the ball back and shattered the stumps, but the engineer was home. He leaned on his bat, panting. ‘There’s nothing like cricket, is there?’

‘“Pavilioned in splendour and girded with praise”,’ agreed Bisset, quoting a hymn in a manner which would have brought a sharp reproof from Professor Kirkpatrick. ‘Damn, Mike Smith really is the cleverest of the students! Look at that ball. Tweaked at the last moment and spun in completely the wrong direction. He’ll have Budgers if he doesn’t look sharp. Australians are good at wrist spin.’

A roar announced that Budgen had not looked sharp enough, and Ayers strode to the crease, bearing a resemblance to Lawrence of Arabia. He took guard as though he was about to command a regiment of Bedouin to attack, and scorned Mike Smith and his infidel wrist spin. He began to score freely.

‘It was nice of you not to mention…’ Bisset faltered.

‘No matter, dear boy,’ said Phryne. ‘Give my best regards to Dora.’

Bisset displayed shock. ‘How did you know it was Dora? I mean, I can understand how you knew I had been there with a woman, you must have seen my face when you suggested it, but how did you…’

‘From something she said.’

‘She didn’t give us away?’ gasped Bisset.

‘On the contrary. She told me about how all of them could have done it—except you. One can glean an awful lot from what women don’t say. I could discount her knowing the name of the Book of Hours, she would have heard it often enough.

But she left you out of the possibles, Jeoffry. Didn’t even mention your name. In fact…’ Phryne laughed suddenly.

Bisset stared at her. There was something uncanny about her intuition and he wondered what else she knew about him and Dora.

‘What?’

‘She asked me to make it the Dean,’ Phryne laughed again. ‘And I
have
.’

‘I’d better get back,’ said Bisset, as Bretherton hopped and grimaced. ‘He’s going to need a runner.’

Even with a runner, Bretherton was aware that he was failing. Deciding to go out with a bang if possible, he swung wildly at a fast medium cutter, which missed his stumps by a whisker, hit the next ball over cover for four, then holed out to backward point attempting to repeat the stroke.

Batsman followed batsman. Bisset misjudged the speed of a deceptively lazy Harcourt ball, strode down the pitch and heard the bails whipped off behind him by T. Smith. He liked Bisset, so he refrained from whooping too loudly. Besides, his French essay was overdue. Kirkpatrick applied his strong Presbyterian principles to dismiss the ball from his presence as though it was heretical, and made seventeen before his downfall was brought about. Professor Jones sniffed, ‘Should never underestimate Oberon. Rash, yes. But sometimes he has remarkable application. He’s been plugging away at Kirkpatrick all this time, waiting for him to play forwards, and the one time he does it, it tempts him out of his crease and that’s the end of him.’

‘He will have to call Christian resignation to his aid,’ agreed Phryne.

Ayers, stalwart and free from fear at last, held on heroically as the tail crumbled around him, managing a very creditable fifty-three, the highest score of the match. When he was finally devoid of partners, he walked off to cheers.

Professor Jones, Phryne saw, was adding up again as the last player left the field to quench their thirst in champagne cup. No one had told Professor Kirkpatrick that it had real champagne in it until he had drunk two glasses, and then he was feeling too elated to complain.

Phryne watched Professor Jones add a figure into the bottom of his scoresheet, total it, and rule a line underneath. She did not comment aloud, but pointed.

‘Oh, it’s a tie, dear girl. These matches are always a tie. This one was, too. Did you see how Ayers held up the side when all those ferrets were popping in and out?’

‘Heroic,’ said Phryne. Cricket really was a gentleman’s game.

The scene was positively ill with happy endings, and Phryne was trying to make up her mind when she should leave Sydney.

The city had its own magic, from the brawling Darlinghurst rabble to the heat, the steamy tropical excitation which made criminals bold and flowers huge and scents unsubtle, and above all the harbour and the salt smell, the glimpses of water at the bottom of age-old steps. She had still to extract some erotic poetry from the crowd at Theo’s. She might even start a literary magazine. She had a pressing invitation from Brazell to stay. The grass was lush, the day dreamy, and Phryne was walking around the picnic which marked the end of play waiting for a sign. Just a small omen to tip her decision either way.

She had only walked a little way further when a figure bustled up to her, panting.

‘Oh, Miss Fisher, I’m glad I caught you,’ said Sykes breathlessly. ‘It’s not the season for it but we managed to coax it into bloom. My wife’s very good at them and we wanted to thank you.’