Away With The Fairies (14 page)

‘“I also tend the garden. I am not paid for this. I like gardening. On the morning in question I was unable to sleep. I caught malaria in Italy some time ago and I usually dose myself with quinine in time to catch the attack before it gets bad. But I took too much and my digestion was disturbed. I spent most of the night, off and on, being ill. Towards dawn I began to feel better. I went out at about six to sit in the garden near the fish pond. It was a cool morning but it had stopped raining. There was no one else there and I didn’t hear anything except the birds waking up. At about seven I heard someone walking up the path to the Garden Apartment. I did not see the person. The wall is in the way. It could have been anyone. I heard a door open and close and a brief conversation. I could not hear what was said. I did not see the person leave. I went back to my apartment. I didn’t want any breakfast but I drank a pot of tea. Then I heard a scream …” and he went out to see what was happening, saw Keith, Opie and Miss Gallagher and Grigg there and Mercy Porter on the ground.

‘He goes on: “I had a difference of opinion with the deceased on the subject of her ideas about garden decoration. She liked garden gnomes. I don’t. The argument did become heated and I appealed to Mrs Needham who had given me permission to make my garden in the Italian manner. I wasn’t going to have it ruined by Miss Lavender’s mania for gnomes. Mrs Needham gave Miss Lavender permission to infest her garden with as many of the little stone abominations as she wished but told her to stay off my patch, and she did. Since then I have had no contact with the deceased at all. She wasn’t speaking to me. But she wasn’t a bad old stick. I believe she was very kind to Miss Gallagher when she was upset recently, and Mrs Opie. I did not kill her and don’t know why anyone should.”’

‘Miss Grigg, Dot, if you please? She’ll be less tiring than Miss Gallagher.’

‘If you say so, Miss. “My name is Immaculata Grigg and I live with my friend Miss Gallagher in apartment four, directly behind the Garden Apartment. I am employed by
Women’s
Choice
as a writer. That night I was worried about a personal matter so I couldn’t sleep. I gave up trying at about four. By the time I decided to get up and sit in the garden, I found that Mr Opie was there before me. I saw the glow of his cigarette end and there was enough moonlight to see by. Also, Miss Lavender’s cottage has fairy lights all round it. So I sat in my own garden under the vine. It started raining at five-thirty so I moved under the eaves. I like rain. I was smoking and thinking when I heard someone come up the path to Miss Lavender’s door. She opened it and I heard her exclaim “For me?” I didn’t hear a reply. The person went away down the path. I could not see who it was, there’s our apartment in the way. Then I went in to make coffee. Miss Gallagher got up at eight. She was still in her dressing gown when we heard a scream …” and went out, etc. Miss Mary Gallagher says that she slept like a baby all night and never heard a thing. She also says, “Miss Lavender was a very nice lady. She was very kind to me about a worry I had recently and I can’t imagine who’d want to kill her.”’

‘Recent worry, eh? I wonder if it was professional or marital? Miss Grigg wouldn’t like that, Dot, dear, not one bit. What does Miss Grigg say about Miss Lavender?’

‘“I knew the deceased only as a neighbour. I didn’t like her taste in decoration but that was none of my business. She seemed all right.”’ Dot put down the last statement.

‘Grudging praise,’ said Phryne. ‘Well, Miss Grigg supports Mr Opie. No one saw Mr Bell. There was a visitor who brought Miss Lavender a present, and one can only presume that it was a terminal one.’

‘Where next?’ asked Dot.

‘More investigations tomorrow,’ said Phryne. ‘But for tonight, I’m having a stiff cocktail and I’m going to bed. This journalism is a hard life. No wonder they drink so much.’

Dot fetched a brandy for Phryne and a small glass of port for herself and said, ‘Miss, we still don’t know anything about Miss Lavender.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Phryne, and drained the glass.

CHAPTER NINE

I indicates that, with firm correctness, there will
be good fortune. We must look at what we are
seeking to nourish, and by the exercise of our
thoughts seek for the proper aliment.

Hexagram 27: I
The I Ching Book of Changes

Morning found Phryne Fisher very willing to rise. She had dreamed again, a vivid, short dream, just a picture: Lin Chung with cockroaches crawling over his face. She showered vigorously in cold water and dressed in a bright red suit and a daring hat.

When she left for the city, she was carrying a paper bag containing a bronze milliner’s creation which she had never really liked, and a determination to find out who killed Miss Lavender. Until then, she could not hire a plane and start for China. Something was really wrong. One Celtic ancestor had not given Phryne reliable second sight but had given her a nose for trouble, and she could smell it on the wind as strongly as the tuberoses in Ireland’s Florist as she passed.

Jack Robinson had promised to deliver the dossier on Miss Lavender as soon as it was made up and the staff of
Women’s
Choice
were about to face an inquisition.

No one was in the office when she arrived. An old man with a mop let her in, grumbling his way up from step to step, informing Phryne that his rheumatics were something chronic and he’d been to the doc and he wasn’t no good. Phryne, that morning, was not a receptive audience.

‘Cheer up,’ she said brightly to the mop. ‘You can always die.’

She went into
Women’s Choice
and slammed the door on his ‘… it’s not as bad as that …’

Feeling that she had done her little bit to comfort the afflicted, Phryne surveyed the office. Covered typewriters lurked like sleeping beasts. Who cleared the post box? What was the answer to that steamed-open letter puzzle? What, indeed, was the drill when a letter came into
Women’s Choice
?

Miss Nelson probably collected the post. That’s what office girls did, along with making the tea, delivering proofs, answering the telephone and obeying instructions. It was unlikely she was acting on her own.

Now, a quick search. With one ear on alert, listening for steps on the stairs, Phryne began with Miss Herbert’s desk drawers. What a lot of clutter women kept! Apart from the tools of the trade like pens, ink, pencils and paper, there was a pair of laddered stockings and a patent object for fixing them, some hairpins, a tube of lipstick, three crumpled handkerchiefs, some private correspondence and five pennies. Phryne leafed through the letters. A Valentine’s Day card with red roses on it, a note from a woman called Gillian about a lunch date, Phryne’s own card, some advertising flyers and one of Madame Weigall’s paper patterns for underwear.

Miss Nelson’s table had no drawers. It bore a lot of layout work, a pot of paste and a brush, a grubby paper bag containing toffee, and several ledgers.

Phryne prowled. Miss Prout’s drawer was locked, which was interesting. She chewed her pencils. Miss Phillips hoarded charcoal sticks, matches, sevenpence ha’penny in change and a romance novel called
Night of the Sheik
. Miss Grigg had bits of wire and several cogwheels in her drawer, together with a small bottle of oil, a salami, a postcard of St Peters, Rome, and an envelope full of stamps. She also had a table of postal charges and a lot of string. The drawer was pungent with oil and garlic. The bottle was wrapped in a wisp of torn blue muslin.

Miss Gallagher’s desk contained, as might be expected, a full make-up kit, a flask of Nuit D’Amour, a comb in a case, and approximately three thousand recipe clippings. Mrs McAlpin’s desk contained a mass of photographs, one nice clean hanky, a purse containing one and sixpence, a diary and a lot of advertising material about cameras. On inspection it proved to contain nothing but notes on light and exposures.

Did Phryne dare to search Mrs Charlesworth’s room? Of course she dared.

She had her hand on the latch when she heard someone coming up the stairs. She quickly occupied herself with taking off her hat and finding a task. When Mrs Charlesworth came in, Phryne was arranging the Worth gown over the back of a tall chair. She turned with a look of keen innocence which Mrs Charlesworth instantly distrusted.

‘Good morning,’ said Phryne. ‘Mrs Charlesworth, I have grave news and perhaps you had better sit down.’

‘Miss Lavender was murdered?’ asked Mrs Charlesworth, sitting down in Miss Herbert’s chair.

‘Yes. Poisoned. By later today I should know more about her. But I’ve been allowed to ask your staff questions, on the grounds that I’m less likely to upset them.’

‘I can’t imagine why your policeman thought that,’ said Mrs Charlesworth. ‘You’re much more likely, I suppose, to get at the truth. Well, Miss Fisher, what do you want to know?’

‘Who was Artemis?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ said Mrs Charlesworth. She took off her hat and jabbed a hatpin clean through it.

‘Why not?’

‘We promise our readers confidentiality.’

‘Mrs Charlesworth, I can’t believe that you are as naive as that.’

‘Can’t you?’ asked the older woman. ‘Try.’

‘Not even someone who could believe six impossible things before breakfast could believe that,’ said Phryne firmly. Mrs Charlesworth surveyed the green eyes and the firm chin and gave up. Strong will recognised strong will. She shrugged.

‘Oh, well. Artemis wasn’t always one person. She used to be whoever had a spare moment, but Miss Lavender more or less took over because she had a lot of spare moments and needed a little extra income, poor soul. And when she was talking about anything other than fairies she was quite sensible. Did you ask about that box of letters?’

‘Yes. They won’t release them, I’m afraid. They’re evidence.’

‘Oh well, then we can use last month’s.’

‘Last month’s? I thought they were returned or destroyed.’

‘Most of them are, dear. We only keep the ones that don’t have a return envelope or address. In case they write again, you know, and demand to know what has happened to their letter. Every now and again someone throws them all into the fire. They never leave the building once Miss Lavender sends them back.’

‘Where are they?’

‘In my office. Why?’

‘Miss Lavender had five threatening letters. One of them came from someone called Anne. I also need to see “Desperate’s” letter.’

‘I don’t know …’

Phryne decided to discard the velvet glove.

‘Mrs Charlesworth, how do you think the directors would react to a big, stand-up, public scandal all over the front pages of every paper from the
Age
to the
Hawklet
?’

‘Is that what we are facing?’

‘Oh yes.’ said Phryne. ‘And, of course, Miss Lavender’s untimely decease. Murder, you know.’

Mrs Charlesworth had been galvanised by the threat to her magazine. She rushed Phryne into her office and shut the door. Then she produced a large cardboard box-file half-full of letters.

‘This is all that are left. What sort of scandal?’

‘I suspect that at least one letter has been stolen, and that others may have been answered … inappropriately. Who collects the post for Artemis?’

‘Miss Nelson. She is meant to rewrap the parcel at the post office and send it on to Miss Lavender. At least …’

‘At least?’

‘I have been wondering about Miss Nelson. We usually take the brightest girls straight out of school, you know, and she was very bright. Cheerful little thing. But lately she’s been a little down. I had been meaning to have a nice chat with her once we get this magazine to bed.’

‘What’s the procedure for recording what letters come in?’

‘Oh, they’re all in the letter book. Miss Nelson used to collect the Artemis letters, bring them back here, record them all, then parcel them up and walk back to the post office. But Miss Prout pointed out that she could save a trip by just taking parcel materials and the letter book to the post office and packing the parcel there.’

‘There’s your breach in security,’ said Phryne. ‘And how helpful of Miss Prout to think of saving Miss Nelson’s legs.’

‘Yes, it was, wasn’t it?’ observed Mrs Charlesworth. She was unhealthily pale and passed a hand over her forehead. ‘This is terrible,’ she said flatly.

‘Yes, it is, but we might be able to retrieve the situation without telling anyone, provided that the persons involved didn’t kill Miss Lavender.’

‘Might we?’ asked Mrs Charlesworth, a middle-aged, stout ringer for Burne-Jones’s ‘Hope Awakening’.

‘Possibly. But I need your cooperation.’

‘Save my magazine, and you have it.’

‘I’ll do my best. Now, I want you to lead the office in a reminiscence of Miss Lavender. I need to know what everyone thought about her. There will be an item in the paper today about the murder—don’t worry, it doesn’t mention
Women’s
Choice
. That might provide an opportunity for a little speech about not speaking to the press. Don’t talk to Miss Nelson yet. The poor girl’s riddled with guilt. She might actually come and confess, which would be better for her and then you can forgive her.’

‘Can I?’ asked Mrs Charlesworth, smouldering a little around the edges.

‘I don’t think it was her idea,’ said Phryne. ‘You should be allowed a little stupidity at sixteen.’

‘Fifteen. Perhaps. I was certainly foolish enough at that age. All right, Miss Fisher, amnesty for Miss Nelson if she confesses, but anyone else who has done this to me will be out on the street so fast they’ll think their camiknickers were on fire.’

‘An understandable reaction. Now, let’s make some tea and you can lead the congregation later.’

‘When the kitchen page is finished. And when Mr Bell finally deigns to bless us with his presence and we can get the gardening layout done. Mrs McAlpin has the photograph all ready, we just need the text. And, of course, drat, the “Your Child” feature isn’t finished. Miss Fisher, can I prevail on your good nature to take little Wendy out for an ice cream again when Mrs Opie comes in to complete the wretched thing? You seem to have a strange influence over that temperamental child. Then all we have to do is wait until the printer delivers the proofs.’