Phryne, inside her own house, looked around her sea-green parlour, drew a deep breath of pure pleasure, and climbed the stairs in search of copious hot water to wash the Weston house off her skin. She had been in houses which ran black with fleas.
She had been in rural cottages where the soot gloved the beams and the vulcanised grease on the kitchen walls had been classi-fied by the National Trust. But she had never felt quite this grimy, and she didn’t like it.
Mr James Murray to Mr Aaron Murray
25 January 1913
Dear Father
It is always at this time of the year that I think of home, the
dark and the cold, the peat fires and the tales, and me here in
this garish light which burns the skin and dazzles the eyes. It is
a good country, Australia, but I cannot bide here long. I and
my music are foreign and even exotic here. My voice strikes
strange on the Australian ear and I have to repeat myself. The
beer is good and the food is lavish but I need to be back with
my own folk. And how is that to be, you say, with herrings
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selling at threepence a pound? No man can get a living from
the sea in Orkney now, I hear. But I have an engagement on
a cruise ship. You were right to give me a fiddle when I was a
child, rather than the pipes. A good fiddler is always in demand
and although I am not the fabled one, I am good. Your teaching
supported me, Father dear, and now I would support you. This
cruise ship pays indecently well for a musician rather than a
sailor and the journey is leisurely and safe—no one would pay
to be made seasick and tippled into the cold sea. Seven Atlantic
runs and we should have the capital to start that school that you
always wanted. It will take me a few more years, Father, but it
will be done.
Rory McCrimmon has fallen desperately in love with our
landlady’s daughter, a good girl. He will likely stay here and
marry. Neil McLeod is pining to be home and can ship out on
any tramp—he has all his certificates. Might even get a Master’s
berth. And I will be playing a nice douce violin to the old ladies
at the thé dansants, Father dear, and dreaming of oatcakes and
whisky and puffins on the cliff. Orkney. And home.
Your loving son
James
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CHAPTER EIGHT
How sweet the answer Echo makes
To Music at night
Thomas Moore
‘Echoes’
Phryne waited until after dinner and beckoned Dot into her boudoir.
‘How are the girls?’ she asked.
‘All right,’ said Dot slowly. ‘Ruth’s a bit upset and no wonder. Her mother was a sad sight, Miss. Even if you never knew her you could see she wasn’t long for this world. A couple of weeks, maybe. I’ve said I’ll take them to the carnival later.
Perhaps you might like to come?’
‘A good notion. Poor Ruth! Does she want to find her father?’
‘I don’t know. How did you get on with the Westons, Miss?’
‘Remarkably like being inside the Castle of Otranto without the giant hand, though it might have put in an
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appearance later. Gothic, my dear Dot, and horribly inefficient. Old Mr Weston is a miser and grumpy with it. The house is a mess and Mr B and I contrived the escape of the last kitchen maid. It was almost comic, but not quite. Here I have Rose’s purse, her book and her note to her mother, and I would like your opinion of them. Take your time.’
‘This is an expensive purse,’ said Dot, turning it inside out and inspecting the stitching. ‘Ten quid in notes, that’s a lot of money. No coins. Looks like a gift, perhaps. A birthday present. Something like that. And this is a good bound book, maybe intended for a diary, though it isn’t marked in days.
Nice paper, cream laid. She’s written in it, Miss, but just as she fancied. A commonplace book, that’s what they used to call them. And this note says “When you read this I’ll be gone I can’t stand it anymore I’m going no matter what you say Rose”. Not a lot to go on. Not good paper this time, Woolworth’s lined block, tuppence a pad. Is this what you want me to say?’ asked Dot.
‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘Unusual choice of words for a final farewell, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose,’ said Dot, considering this. ‘And you wouldn’t have thought that . . .’
‘She’d leave ten quid behind,’ agreed Phryne. ‘We shall see. She must have somewhere else to put her things.
Madame Anatole said that Rose was wearing a dress with very little front and hardly any back and she must have had shoes to match. We must find Rose’s cache. Perhaps it is at school. I’ll check tomorrow. Now, let’s wander over to the carnival and perhaps we can find Dulcie. I wonder if any of my carny friends are there. I used to know a strong man and a snake handler and a rather delicious mechanic called Alan Lee. Unfortunately the circus is Wirth’s, so the only person
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QUEEN OF THE FLOWERS
I know there is Dulcie Fanshawe. Perhaps we can get an elephant ride.’
The carnival was magical after dark. In daylight it was tawdry, battered, and lacking in paint. The curvaceous ladies appeared shopworn and over forty and the fairground prizes did not glitter. But in the dark, with the scent of Turkey lolly, it was full of marvels.
The little canvas booths offered delights ranging from the Princess of the Amazon and her snake, genuine cultured pearls, penny-a-throw shooting galleries, fried fish and chips, infallible oyster openers, crayfish wrapped in newspaper as a late night snack and a Strong Man bending a poker between two fingers.
There were three fortune-tellers. Jane tugged at Phryne’s sleeve.
‘Miss Phryne? Can you advance me three sixpences on the nosegay job?’
Phryne had promised payment for the construction of nosegays for the Queen of the Flowers float on Saturday.
‘Certainly,’ said Phryne, unpouching one and six. ‘Why?’
‘I’m going to all three of the fortune-tellers,’ said Jane, the light of scientific enquiry in her eyes. ‘If all of them tell me the same thing, then I might have to look at the phenomenon of precognition more carefully instead of dismissing it out of hand.’
‘Never dismiss something out of hand just because it doesn’t fit your personal beliefs,’ chided Phryne. ‘Even Croesus tested the oracles.’
‘So he did,’ said Jane, who read Herodotus in bed. ‘The envoys asked “What is the King of Lydia doing at this moment?” And only Ephesus and Delphi got it right. Cooking a lamb and a tortoise in a bronze cauldron.’
‘And Croesus was not a credulous person,’ said Phryne.
‘He practically invented money.’
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‘But his oracles didn’t turn out too well,’ said Jane thoughtfully.
‘You have to examine oracles very carefully. Now, since this is a scientific experiment, I do not believe that it constitutes
“fun” and therefore you need not take it out of the nosegay money. Your research project is my treat. You won’t, of course, be rude to the fortune-telling ladies, will you, Jane? That is never a good plan. Or you might have to investigate the psychic phenomenon of ill-wishing. Which is not a fruitful field of research, I would add.’
‘Manners maketh the lady,’ said Jane, clearly quoting someone. She took the money and headed for the farthest tent, where Madame Sosostris proclaimed that she might learn the mysteries of Fate. Phryne chuckled at the thought of Madame Sosostris confronted with Jane’s eager scientific curiosity, and then said to Ruth, ‘Well, that’s one and six I owe you, Ruth dear. What would you like to do with it?’
‘Nothing scientific,’ said Ruth. ‘I like those strings of beads, though.’
‘No woman can ever have enough jewellery,’ agreed Phryne. ‘What about you, Dot?’
‘I’ll have one and six worth of wandering around,’ said Dot. ‘Let’s go and look at the beads.’
The stall was carefully lit from underneath so that the loops and festoons of common glass beads glittered and gleamed like Aladdin’s cave. Ruth ran them through her hands, consideringly.
Little rainbows flicked across her intent face like butterflies.
Phryne watched her. Ruth took everything so seriously. But there was no doubt that she was brave. She had cared for and supported Jane in a house fully as awful as the House of Weston, and she had never lost hope that one day she would fight her way out. Phryne realised that she did not know Ruth very well.
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Perhaps she would get another clue to the girl’s character by her choice of beads.
There were blue, green, yellow and red strings of unclear, slightly misshapen glass; there were imitation pearls, badly made rhinestones, ersatz Venetian glass with silver foil inside and millefiore with fewer than a thousand flowers. Ruth examined all of them and then found, hidden in a tangle, a length of pure violet, clear as amethyst. They were of much better quality than the others and might even have been real Venetian glass. Ruth held them out. The stall holder scowled.
‘They must have slipped in from the five bobs,’ she said, taking hold of the beads.
‘Well, that was a bit of luck for Ruth, wasn’t it?’ commented Phryne, stepping up beside the girl. ‘They’re in the one and sixes. One and six we have and the beads are ours. You don’t want any trouble, do you?’ asked Phryne amiably, and the stall holder glanced at Phryne’s good clothes and assured air and clearly decided that she didn’t. She looped the beads around Ruth’s neck and managed a creditable smile.
‘There,’ she said. ‘You look very pretty. Enjoy the carnival,’
she added as they wandered away towards the shooting galleries and the booths.
‘They were a good choice,’ said Phryne to Ruth. ‘You have a good eye.’
‘I just caught sight of them in the middle of a tangle and they shone clear,’ explained Ruth. ‘They’re so pretty! Thank you,’ she said, and gave Phryne a quick hug.
‘Ooh,’ murmured Dot, ‘look at the elephants!’
Wading slowly and majestically through the sea, three elephants manifested themselves. They seemed primeval in the darkness, bigger than any animal had a right to be. Phryne called
‘Dulcie!’ and waved. The lead elephant turned and stopped.
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‘Hullo-ullo-ullo!’ exclaimed Dulcie’s voice. ‘Want to come up? We’re just taking a little walk to settle our stomachs after the performance. Ladies, this is Phryne. And this is . . .?’
‘Ruth,’ said Ruth, a little disconcerted by the size of the slab-side and enormous feet which were approaching her.
‘And Dot,’ said Dot, excitedly. She had never been this close to an elephant before. Her childhood excursions had not extended to visits to the zoo to ride the elephants.
‘Better come up onto Kali, she’s wearing a saddle,’
suggested Miss Fanshawe, invisible in the darkness. ‘Kali, lift these two ladies, if you would be so kind?’
The huge black beast paused long enough to convey that she was complying with a reasonable request of her own free will, not taking orders like lesser beasts. Then her long trunk curled around Ruth and swung her up onto a broad saddle. Dot followed a moment later, clutching her hat. Dot and Ruth found that they were sitting side-saddle an awful long way off the ground and Kali was beginning to walk away with them.
‘Isn’t this fun?’ asked Phryne, perched on Flossie.
‘It’s lovely!’ said Dot. Kali’s trunk reached sideways and examined Dot, feeling gently over her face, testing the material of her hat and skirt, then moved on to Ruth, who giggled as the hay-scented breath woofled into her collar. Dot ventured to pat the trunk as it passed and was prepared to swear after-wards that Kali had squeezed her hand as affably as any Sunday afternoon clergyman.
‘Kali approves of you,’ observed Miss Fanshawe. ‘That’s good.’
Phryne wondered what would have happened if Kali had not approved of her riders and decided that she did not want to know. It was fine to be up so high on an animal which moved so smoothly. There was less bounce on Flossie’s back than there would have been on even a cantering horse.
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‘If you like, we can stop and you can buy them all a toffee apple. They only get one, and only after the performance.
Hello, Jack,’ she added.
‘Three apples, Miss Fanshawe?’ asked a respectful sweet-seller, touching his cap. Phryne considered that having charge of three animals of several tons’ weight and remarkable intelligence ready to obey your slightest whim would tend to command a certain respect.
‘Thank you, and Miss Fisher is paying,’ chuckled Dulcie.
‘Just hand one each to the riders, will you, Jack?’ Phryne handed down the money. ‘We’ll just walk along a bit,’ Miss Fanshawe told Flossie, and the elephants swayed through the carnival.
They were surrounded by people making noises, touching them, and the banging of the shooting galleries, and were as unperturbed as a cat entering a drawing room. The great feet were placed very carefully, printing the sand. The high strings of electric lights were just within reach from here, thought Ruth. This was as high as the top of a tram. It was wonderful.
‘Now, ladies,’ said Dulcie, as they came out on the bare shore again. ‘Your apples come to you tonight courtesy of Phryne for Flossie.’ Phryne allowed the clever trunk to pluck the toffee apple from her grasp. ‘Dot, for Rani,’ and Dot let her toffee apple drop into Rani’s grasp, ‘and Ruth for Kali,’ said Miss Fanshawe. Ruth put the toffee apple into Kali’s hold and the black trunk whipped away like a snake. Kali began making noises like a concrete mixer. A happy concrete mixer.