Taam Sze Pui (Tom See Poy), Palmer River, 187782 Mr Harrison was an old man and once he had been a giant. Shoulders fully two axe-handles across still strained his good shirt. Phryne knew it was his good shirt because someone, probably a sister, had darned it so meticulously. His corpora-tion was beautifully solid, a good belly which he had obviously been cultivating for many years. His hair had lost the battle to stay on his head and had slipped to the back. His eyes were a muddy blue and his complexion that of a ruined redhead. His gleaming teeth were masterpieces of the dentist's art. In his youth, Phryne suspected, Mr Harrison might have been a bit of a knut-possibly, even, a masher. He sat down at her table and engulfed her hand in a large, gnarled paw.

'Young Billy Gaskin said you wanted to talk to me,' he said in an unexpectedly low voice.

'I do indeed,' Phryne replied. 'I am interested in the history of this charming little town. Young Billy thought that you might be so kind as to share your memories with me.'

'Delighted,' said Mr Harrison. 'You might like to look at this while they bring me my tea. I never talk while I'm eating. My old mum taught me that.'

Phryne accepted a slim volume bound in blue cardboard. She averted her eyes from Mr Harrison getting bodily into his steak-his teeth were justifying their maker-and read Remi-niscences of the Gold Fields by his father Jim 'the Blacksmith' Harrison.

The volume was locally printed and bound and because this was, after all, Castlemaine, someone had made a good work-manlike job of it. It had been proofread by, Phryne guessed, an elderly schoolteacher and thus contained no mistakes. And Jim had an interesting story to tell, though his prose style was overelaborate and in need of a nice cup of senna tea and a good lie-down.

'You can't imagine what those times were like,' the text began. Phryne read on as Mr Harrison demolished his tea. He had sent back his plate for another steak and more vegetables as the first one had barely touched the sides.

They were the roaring days. They were the days when men were men. My dad walked off his job in a wholesale hay and feed store in Port Melbourne with his pick and shovel on his shoulder and took only two days to get to Castle-maine in 1851, when the field was fresh and there was still an abundance of 'the riches of the earth'. The government was down on miners and made every man pay thirty shillings for a miner's licence, whether he was going to dig or not. This made the shopkeepers and grog sellers wild.

It also meant that women could dig with impunity and some of the more abandoned and degraded females did, like the celebrated Five Women claim which some miners decided to knock over one night. Two men were shot but the constable did nothing about it and the Five Women left the field with their ill-gotten gains, never a licence between them and they were so proud of themselves. Black Douglas the Bushranger swore to teach them their place but never a sight did he get of them once they left the field, heading for Ballarat one morning in May 1855. My dad said three were young, good-looking women too, the others being half-castes, and there were plenty of miners who would have taken the white women to wife and provided a respectable state for them but these independent Misses did not care for the holy state of matrimony. Dad said they were Irish. He told me never to cross an Irish woman and he never did himself, Mum being from County Tipperary and she had a terrible temper when roused, G.o.d rest her soul.

There were remarkable finds in those days. Everyone in the world was going to the diggings to try their luck. Ships were becalmed because their crews had all jumped ash.o.r.e at Melbourne. One Captain Aubrey decided to do something about this. He left four men on board his ship, the Golden Fleece, and took seventeen crew to Castlemaine, agreed to share and share alike. They marched here and began to dig and struck it rich in a week. Then they marched back to sell their gold in Melbourne, where they got three pounds seven shillings an ounce, then they marched onto the ship and away. They didn't even stop for a celebration until Hong Kong. They say that there are inns called The Golden Fleece up and down the North Road in England, all financed by that one captain's disci-pline and ingenuity. He also got top rates for his cargo because everyone else had lost their crews.

My dad and his mate made friends with some of the miners. They came from all over the British Empire and some from outside. There were Californians who were very dirty on the Chinese and some lascars as black as your hat and of course the Celestials, the Chinese, who used up too much water, hogged the best sites and made Sundays hideous with their caterwauling music and opium smoking. There were various attempts to rid the goldfields of this plague and curse but none succeeded because the govern-ment was protecting them, and all we could do was drive them to the fringes, where they lived on the tailings, grew vegetables, and stayed out of a decent man's sight.

Dad's best mate was George Duncan, and next to George was an English new chum called Thomas-always Thomas, not Tommy-Beaconsfield, who was the son of a Marquis, or so he said. His mate was a pink-faced bloke called Chumley. Together they worked hard but never made a big strike, only enough 'colour' to act as encour-agement to keep trying. But you can't keep the British lad down. Thomas and Chumley left one night without a farewell, leaving their claim to Dad and George and then they did strike it pretty good, cleaned up and left the field. George went home to Hobart but Dad stayed here and established a blacksmith's. Dad told me lots of stories about the goldfields...

Phryne lifted her head and examined this rankly preju diced old hound more carefully as he patted his lips daintily and picked up a spoon to engulf the Imperial's very good apple pie and cream. He looked back. Phryne simpered. Old mashers were susceptible to simpering and she wanted to test her theory. She had perfected the simper in front of a mirror. It had taken weeks.

'Just let me get this pie inside me and I'm all yours,' gasped the old masher, confirming her hypothesis. Phryne thought about applying the simper again, but decided that Mr Harrison might self-combust if overheated, and rewarded him with a slight smile.

Phryne sipped at her gla.s.s of wine, Mr Harrison gulped down his first pot of beer, and the Imperial dining room began to empty. One of the two sisters gave Phryne a sympathetic smile as she gathered coat and handbag and left a tip for Young Billy. The sporting gentlemen went out, still shouting boasts about the croc they shot in the Palmer River-a likely story, thirty feet long, indeed, thought Phryne. They had probably shot a boat. The beer-drinking young men called for another round. An old waiter went across, presumably to suggest to them that they might remove into the bar, where the beer was fresher, being closer to the source.

'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 cla.s.sics. 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 a.s.sumed 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 turpen-tine poultice and a good belt of rum you could beat any disease.'

This was, Phryne thought, very likely true. If the chloro-dyne 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, c.o.c.ky'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 ent.i.tled 'I Allus Has One at Eleven' but the bra.s.s 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 gla.s.s, 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, unbe-coming 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 rechauffe 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, h.e.l.l-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 sh.e.l.ls; 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 a.n.a.lysing 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 gla.s.s 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 coa.r.s.e 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 gla.s.s.

'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.'

'I'll just get my salts . . .' Miss Eliza found her smelling salts and took such a deep sniff that the ammonia knocked her head back. 'What colour do you think the helmet is?'

At a loss for a safe answer, the girls inspected the pictures again.

'I think it's meant to be white,' said Jane. 'It's front on, Ruth, see, you can see the bars on the visor.'

'How many bars?' gasped Miss Eliza.

'Five, I think. Miss Dot, what do you think?' Ruth appealed for help.

'Five, certainly,' agreed Dot. 'And plumes, very pretty.'

'A helmet, argent, five bars, full face?'

'That's it,' said Dot. 'Miss Eliza, what's wrong?'

'The helmet signifies rank,' explained Miss Eliza, who had paled to the colour of milk. 'A duke or marquess has a silver helmet with five bars, full face. An earl, viscount or baron has silver with four bars, in profile.'

'I never knew there was so much information in a coat of arms,' marvelled Jane.

'I think it's meant to tell you a lot,' said Ruth. 'So that when you meet the person you know what rank they are and you don't make a mistake in addressing them. So this belonged to a marquess or a duke, and he had a quartered shield with a star, a couple of chevrons and a snake, though I bet they didn't call it a snake.'

'A serpent coiled to strike, or,' said Miss Eliza. 'Oh, dear Lord. What shall I do?'

'Tell us all about it, that's what,' said Dot. 'A trouble shared is a trouble halved-or maybe quartered. I'll ask Mr B for some strong coffee and then you can tell us all about it.'