‘Now, Miss, what would you like to know?’ asked Mr Harrison.
‘Your father was on the goldfields, it says in this very well written little book. I am interested in finding a relative. He was a doctor, at least, he trained as a doctor. He might have been an undertaker, perhaps, or a herbalist, even a showman of some sort. He was a rather eccentric gentleman with a fascination for the classics. The trouble is, I don’t know his name,’ said Phryne, deciding to unleash her simper again. ‘He was actually called Fisher, but we know that he was on the fields under an assumed name. Perhaps you can help me?’
Mr Harrison’s face fell.
‘I’d be real pleased to help you, Miss, but I’m not sure I can. There was some real strange people on the goldfields. Professors and bushrangers and gentlemen and thieves.’
‘And sometimes you could tell the difference,’ murmured Phryne.
He gave her a puzzled look and she mentally slapped her own wrist. That cynical murmur did not match the simper.
‘But doctors—my dad didn’t hold with doctors. He always said with a bottle of Dr Collis-Browne’s Chlorodyne, a turpentine poultice and a good belt of rum you could beat any disease.’
This was, Phryne thought, very likely true. If the chlorodyne and turpentine didn’t kill the germs, the rum would at least ensure that you died happy. In any case, people were tougher in the old days, the reason being, the weak children died as babies. Phryne thought of her own grandmother, who had boasted of raising nine of her sixteen children, and shuddered slightly.
‘But men were men in the roaring days,’ said Mr Harrison reverently.
‘Tell me of these men,’ breathed Phryne, seeing that by asking a direct question she had upset the old ruffian’s whole memory structure and hoping that she might be able to sieve some particles of ‘colour’ out of the Harrison bonce if she shut up and let him talk. In furtherance of this plan she suggested a remove to the lounge, ordered another bottle of wine and refills of beer for Mr Harrison, and allowed Young Billy, cocky’s crest erect with interest, to lead her to the only part of the Imperial prepared for the reception of ladies.
It was furnished in the usual plush, with the usual pictures and one gold-framed picture of an old man entitled ‘I Allus Has One at Eleven’ but the brass was polished and someone was in charge of fresh flowers, which lent the beery air a scent of refinement. Phryne stopped to sniff at one arrangement of gum tips and freesias, a fascinating combination of scents.
‘The flowers are from the nursery, and Smithy there trained at Buda, so he’s real good at roses and bulbs and all them old-fashioned flowers,’ Mr Harrison told Phryne. ‘Pity that we can’t show you around Buda, Miss Fisher. Beautiful house. But the old sisters, they don’t like visitors. Mind you, they do let the children play in the gardens on Sunday afternoons, though.’
‘Perhaps we can borrow a suitable child,’ said Phryne artlessly. ‘Now, do sit down in this nice well-stuffed chair and tell me all about the men of old.’
Mr Harrison was entirely hers. He waited gallantly until she sat down and Young Billy refilled her glass, took a swig of his own and began what was evidently a long recitation: ‘Men was men in them days . . .’
Phryne suppressed a sigh, drank her wine, and listened.
Mr Butler, opening a parcel in the garden, was relieved to find that it contained photographic reproductions of what seemed to be a blurred crest of some sort rather than the explosive device he had expected. The note accompanying these said ‘What fun, Phryne! Best we can do through the filters, but they are a lot clearer and my friend has tinted them to near an exact match of the colours we have. Keep me posted? Chin, chin’, and it was signed Mark Treasure. Dr Treasure was a gentleman of levity unbecoming to his profession, thought Mr Butler severely. He tucked the note in with the photographs and delivered them to Dot.
‘They’re ever so much better than that sketch,’ said Dot, examining them closely. Mrs Butler asked her to remove them immediately from her nice clean kitchen table which had just been scrubbed and let the cook get on with serving dinner. Li Pen was peeling potatoes. He gave Dot a shy look and returned to his peeling. He was going to do penance for the remarkable vegetarian dishes which Mrs Butler was concocting for him, but he was prepared to do that in a good cause. Soupe julienne had not previously come to his attention.
Dot gathered the insulted photographs to her bosom. ‘This is one thing which Miss Eliza could really help with,’ she said to Mr Butler. ‘If only I could get her to talk to me.’
‘Well, see what you can do,’ advised the butler. ‘She’s in the blue parlour. Dinner in a tick, and it’s those little rissoles. And everyone loves Mrs B’s shepherd’s pie. And I’ve opened a bottle of the good riesling. That ought to mellow Miss Eliza a bit.’
Dot sighed. The trouble with alcohol and Miss Eliza was that it seemed to make her shriller. Still, one could but try. Dot knocked at the blue parlour door.
‘Dinner, Miss Eliza,’ said Dot. Phryne’s sister put down her improving tome—what a book, thought Dot, it must have cost a fortune in excess baggage—and got up.
She was greatly improved, Dot considered. She had been crying but was now in a state Dot called ‘mopped-up’ and her smile was unforced. Her hair was loosely gathered at the nape of her neck rather than being wound into that tight, unbecoming bun. Her accent, when she spoke, had lost all of its Home Counties abrasiveness.
‘Good! I am quite hungry. What is Mrs Butler giving us?’
‘Leftovers, Miss Eliza, but they’ll be tasty,’ promised Dot. ‘Shepherd’s pie made with the cold roast and a lot of little vegetables and salad. Miss Phryne tells me that you’re a socialist,’ she added. Eliza stiffened.
‘Yes,’ she said bravely.
‘Lots of socialists in Australia,’ said Dot easily. She wanted this over with so Miss Eliza wouldn’t flinch every time someone mentioned socialism. ‘Perfectly respectable here. Miss Phryne has a lot of socialist friends. And there are Mr Bert and Mr Cec, they’re IWW—Industrial Workers of the World, you know. They’re nice, even if they are red raggers. You’ll fit right in, here.’
‘You know, Dorothy, I’m beginning to think that I might,’ confessed Miss Eliza.
Dinner was not so much leftovers as the more refined form of réchauffé known only in French cookbooks. The rissoles and shepherd’s pie were masterpieces of their type and the mixture of finely cut vegetables was heavenly. The girls tucked in heartily and Miss Eliza followed their example, knowing that there was apple and pear sorbet to follow.
Given a hint by Dot, Ruth and Miss Eliza discussed romance novels and found that they had a number of favourite authors in common. This left Jane to consider the mystery of Fermat’s Last Theorem, about which she had ideas, and Dot to wonder what Phryne was doing. Getting into hot water, in all probability, hell-raising being something of a Phryne specialty. Dot ate less and less until Jane, returning from a mathematical trance, nudged her.
‘It will be all right, Miss Phryne is a very capable person,’ she urged.
‘How did you know I was worrying about her?’ asked Dot. The girls were really coming out of their rescued-and-grateful shells; Jane would not have made this comment six months ago.
‘You get a little line between your brows, just there,’ said Jane, touching with the tip of a forefinger. ‘I don’t think we need to worry about her tonight, anyway,’ she added. ‘She just got to Castlemaine. She hasn’t had time to get into any trouble.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Dot, resuming her dinner and analysing her mouthful. Mrs Butler made the most beautiful shepherd’s pie. The potato was creamy and crisp on top. Was there, perhaps, a morsel of cheese in the crust? These were mysteries.
Miss Eliza allowed Mr Butler to pour her a second glass of the South Australian riesling and said soberly, ‘Ladies, I have to tell you about a man who is . . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, he’s . . .’ As Eliza seemed to have stalled and the household needed the information, Dot provided a translation.
‘Chasing you,’ said Dot. ‘Threatening you. And if we see him, we tell Li Pen, and that will be the end of the problem.’
‘Is Mr Li that good?’ asked Miss Eliza, hopefully.
Three plaits bobbed as three females nodded.
‘He is,’ said Dot. ‘You can trust him, Miss Eliza. Now, what is this man’s name, and what does he look like?’
‘His name is Roderick Cholmondeley, and he is . . . oh Lord, I am no good at this. He’s made like a bruiser, Father says, like a prize fighter. He’s about six feet tall and he has blue eyes and fair hair which is cut very short. He is . . . dangerous. He made . . . threats. My father wants me to marry him and I never shall.’
Ruth’s eyes were as round as marbles.
‘Gosh!’ she said. ‘Just like in
Lady Joan’s Secret
! I didn’t know there were fathers like that any more!’
‘Well, there are,’ said Miss Eliza. ‘Phryne was right when she told him to . . .’ There was a significant pause while Miss Eliza sought for another way to put this other than the coarse and biological phrase which Phryne had actually used. ‘She told him to keep his matrimonial plans to himself, because she would find her own mate. Furthermore, she was going to Australia, and he was at liberty to . . . er . . . make his own plans as long as they didn’t include her. She was always bold! I was so shocked at the time, you know, that she could do that—just tell Father no to his face and off and leave her family.’
‘And leave you,’ said Dot gently.
‘She asked me to come too,’ said Eliza, defending her sister for the first time since she had come to Australia. ‘I was too scared. She bought me a ticket and told me to meet her at the docks and I couldn’t, I just couldn’t run away without a word and I . . . let the boat go with the tide. I have regretted it ever since,’ she added. ‘Then I met Alice and we began our work in the East End and I was happy again until Father ordered me to marry either this brute, Roderick, or a horrible old man who is the Marquis of Shropshire and I really couldn’t so I told him . . .’
‘You told him?’prompted Ruth very softly. ‘You stood up to him?’
‘No,’ said Miss Eliza bitterly. ‘He caught me out in a lie about the East End and made enquiries as to what I had been doing and then he bellowed at me that unless I left everything I held dear, recanted socialism, abandoned Alice and married one of his candidates, he would send me to Australia to my worthless sister—that’s what he called Phryne—and we could both . . . well, we could both get on with it.’
‘You’re better off here,’ commented Dot. ‘I’ve heard about Miss Phryne’s father. He’s not a nice man and you don’t want to be anywhere near him.’
‘No, but I haven’t any money,’ said Miss Eliza. ‘Not until I am twenty-five.’
‘Stay here until then,’ advised Dot. ‘Li Pen will set this Roderick to the right abouts, even if he is a bruiser. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, my father used to say, but the size of the fight in the dog. Can you describe this Roderick Cholmondeley any better than big and blue eyes, Miss Eliza?’
‘I’ve got a picture of him,’ said Eliza. ‘He gave it to me. I’ll show you after dinner.’
‘Now, we’ve got our orders, girls,’ said Dot solemnly. ‘First sight, call Li Pen, raise the alarm. We don’t want to take any chances with this one. We may not have to go so far as Miss Phryne suggested and bury him under the hydrangeas—’
‘We haven’t got any hydrangeas,’ objected Jane, who botanised freely.
‘Miss Phryne ordered some from Mrs Lin,’ said Dot.
Miss Eliza was momentarily surprised, then joined in the laughter, and Dot had hopes of her recovery.
Miss Eliza went to her room and brought down a picture of a scowling, heavily muscled youth in very expensive clothes, and several books on heraldry.
‘Do you understand how precedence works?’ asked Miss Eliza. The girls looked blank.
‘The ranks go like this,’ explained Miss Eliza. ‘The highest is the King, of course, and then the princes and the royal dukes. Then ordinary dukes. Then we have marquess and marchioness, earl and countess, viscount and viscountess, baron and baroness, all of whom are addressed as my lord and my lady, then baronets and knights, called Sir, whose ladies are just called Lady. That is why my friend is called Lady Alice and Phryne and I are just Hons. Clear?’
Jane shook her head. ‘No, but do go on.’
The girls laid Phryne’s sketch and the photographic prints on the table and examined them under the strong magnifying glass.
‘Definitely a shield,’ said Ruth. ‘This is exciting! And do you think those things are mermen, Miss Eliza?’
‘Possibly, or mermaids. Or they may be dolphins—heraldic dolphins do not look like real ones. Now, here is a sample coat of arms. It consists of the shield, the helmet, the mantling, the crest and the supporters. The main body of the coat of arms is the shield—I am sure that this is a shield. Such a pity that the colours are so pale. The photographer has done his best with the tint but he can’t have been sure either. It was quartered, that’s for sure. And I’d say that quarter was red, that is gules, and that one was blue, that’s azure. This I believe was sable with, perhaps, a bend on it?’
‘Sable being black? Yes, two of the quarters are black, and both have this funny sort of bendy stripe on them,’ observed Ruth.
‘How keen your eyes are! Yes, I see what you mean. A chevron, argent, I do believe.’
‘Argent must be silver,’ said Jane. ‘And this is a star.’
‘A mullet of how many points?’
‘Six,’ said Ruth, who had the clearest sight. ‘So, we have two quarters with the chevron on them, and one with a gold star on a red field.’
‘A field gules with a mullet of six points, or,’ corrected Miss Eliza.
‘And this blue quarter seems to have a snake,’ said Dot. ‘Or a coil of rope, perhaps. That doesn’t sound very aristocratic.’
‘Can you see the snake, girls?’ asked Miss Eliza faintly.
‘Yes. The only other thing it could be is a spring, and that’s even less aristocratic,’ said Jane.
Eliza made a choking noise and groped for her bag. Dot was concerned.
‘Why, Miss Eliza, you look ill. Jane, pour her some more wine.’