'No!' Eliza jumped as if she had sat on an unexpected hairbrush. 'No, I just heard ...I just heard about it. In pa.s.sing. May I have another c.o.c.ktail, Mr Butler?' she asked in her county voice. 'They are most agreeable, are they not?'

Mr Burton, a little surprised, agreed that Mr Butler's c.o.c.ktails were marvels of their type and the conversation became general. Phryne cursed under her breath. Beth had almost emerged through Eliza then, and just as she was getting interesting Eliza had popped back like the Demon King in a pantomime. d.a.m.ning and blasting all sisters, Phryne led the way into her dining room, clinking a little as she walked and trailing her undersea clouds of glory.

Dinner was one of Mrs Butler's best efforts. After a very hard working life with a jovial gentleman, Mr and Mrs Butler had only agreed to oblige Miss Fisher if she did not entertain a great deal, so Phryne had given most of her dinner parties at the Windsor, a very superior hotel. She might have a few people for drinks, perhaps, or those little lunches at which Mrs Butler excelled, but Phryne did not like large parties cluttering up her small house and usually only invited close friends to share the Butler cuisine. This suited the Butlers.

Tonight, with the added spur of Miss Eliza's freely expressed views on Australia not being a patch on Europe, and St Kilda not even being a patch on Melbourne itself, Mrs Butler felt that she needed to make a point about the advantages of fresh vegetables, admirable dairy products, eggs which had only been s.n.a.t.c.hed from the hen an hour before and the sort of meat which even the famed farmers of the whole continent of Europe could not equal. Much less surpa.s.s.

Therefore, laid out on the buffet was the Cold Collation of the G.o.ds. Small cups of perfectly seasoned vichyssoise were gathered at one end of the white-draped buffet. Plump pink prawns studded the seafood aspic as thickly as daisies in a springtime meadow. A whole baron of beef squatted glistening in a bed of dark green bitter lettuce, rare, paper-thin slices rolling from its side. An entire salmon, sliced and decorated with radish flowers, lay shining in a silver dish. A nearby salver held oysters, freshly opened, with lemon juice in a jug beside. Little squares of rye-bread toast, sliced onions and hard boiled eggs accompanied the black pearls of the Beluga caviar, a gift from the Russian amba.s.sador, which were piled with a lavish hand into their silver dish bedded in crushed ice: the manner in which Phryne always served caviar. An aspic gallimaufry of poultry (the recipe a closely guarded secret which Mrs Butler had promised to her favourite niece, to be communicated on Mrs Butler's departure to the Grande Cuisine du Ciel) reposed on a broad salver, a golden jelly which trembled slightly. In it one could discern dark meat and white-duck, perhaps, chicken, maybe pigeon, perhaps quail?

With the beasts of the field and the fish of the sea and the fowls of the air went the fruits of the earth. A forest of crisp greenery decorated the salads: the potato salad creamy with mayonnaise which had no acquaintance whatsoever with condensed milk and mustard powder. The salade Russe which added an agreeable note of deep pink. The Caesar salad on which the egg had just set. Bunches of tiny carrots, crisp celery, the first tomatoes, asparagus in hollandaise sauce shiny with cream, sliced cuc.u.mbers bursting with vitamins and lettuce of several types completed the table. There were four sorts of chutney, three types of mustard, and mayonnaise with lemon for the fish and without for the salads, and also a perfect vinaigrette.

With the French windows open onto Phryne's small, enchanting garden where the wisteria and jasmine were just coming into bloom, it seemed to Mr Burton a vision of a gourmet's heaven.

'Did you always garden, Miss Fisher?' asked Mr Burton, trying not to salivate. The college kitchens were known for specialising in Edible Stodge, at which they excelled. He l.u.s.ted after fresh fish. Oysters. Caviar! But the admirable Miss Fisher, provider of this feast, was speaking. He dragged his attention away from the table.

'No, it isn't my doing at all. Lin's wife, Camellia, a most accomplished young woman, planned it and supervised the planting. It's very pretty, isn't it? The Chinese do the best gardens in small s.p.a.ces. Do have some caviar, Mr Burton.'

Overcome, Mr Burton pressed her unoccupied hand. The right was engaged in scooping caviar onto his plate.

'Miss Fisher, could I ask you to call me Josiah?'

'Certainly, and please call me Phryne.' Phryne was touched. Mr Burton was a complex, dignified man and it was a pleasure to be considered one of his friends. 'And more caviar, perhaps?'

'One can never have too much caviar, Phryne,' agreed Mr Burton. 'And some of that seafood aspic. Some salmon. A couple of oysters, perhaps.'

'Phryne, this is an amazing feast,' said Lin Chung. 'Please excuse me if I do not indulge in it too freely. I have already eaten one banquet today.'

'At Mr Hu's? Of course. You have solved your feud. How did it go?'

'Basically a no-score win,' said Lin. 'Perhaps just a few grains of caviar. And one slice of that roast beef.'

The guests sat down with loaded plates. Dot, Phryne noticed, favoured fresh vegetables with a big dollop of mayon-naise and roasted meat. Jane had discovered the gallimaufry and was dissecting it carefully, identifying each delicious sliver before she ate it. Ruth, who was a steady, patient eater with years of semi-starvation to avenge, had started with a spoonful of everything and was working her way through. So far all of it pleased her.

'Phryne, this is a banquet!' exclaimed Eliza. 'You could feed a hundred... no, of course, it is very nice. Very nice indeed. I believe I will have some salade Russe. And some salmon. I didn't know you got salmon here, except in tins.'

'Do try the gallimaufry,' said Phryne, intrigued. 'Mrs Butler is very proud of it.'

Mr Butler poured the wine, a straw-coloured hock from South Australia, where the vines had been tended in German, which made them pay attention and get on with growing and producing Rhine quality wine, alsbalt! It was refreshing and slightly lemony, with a good bite of tannin. No one said anything much for the next ten minutes, leaving Lin Chung to carry on a light conversation over the clatter of cutlery.

'The most surprising thing about settling the feud was how matter-of-fact it was,' he told Phryne, who was capturing the last Beluga pearls with a handy spoon. 'Mr Hu had his list and we had ours and we just went through them one by one. The missing woman, Lin Wan, and her children are coming to visit her mother tonight, so I'm rather glad to be out of the house-it will be full of noise. Also, Grandmother is displeased with my entirely accidental meeting with Mr Hu. She smells disobedience.'

'And the gold? Will they be bringing it around on a handcart?' asked Phryne, sipping her wine.

'No, it seems that it wasn't them. It wasn't the Hu family who killed those couriers. We were wrong. Now I must try and find out what happened in 1857, and that is not going to be easy. It might not even be possible. But I will begin by talking to Mr Hu's venerable great great grandmother, and my own even more venerable great great uncle, and see what they say. a.s.suming they can remember anything at all, of course.'

'Fascinating,' said Mr Burton, who had eaten as much caviar as was decent, and then a little more, and was starting on his oysters. 'The feud is settled, then, as though it was an ordinary business transaction?'

'Yes. We have a list of grievances and so have they and we make what Paris calls a "reglement des comptes".'

'And unlike Paris you do not settle it with machine guns,' commented Phryne. 'Mr Butler, do tell Mrs Butler that this is one of the most superb dinners of the year.'

'Of my life,' agreed Mr Burton. 'My college would get an Anti-Michelin Award, their speciality being "Unidentifiable Beast in Cold Lumpy Gravy".'

Mr Butler bowed gravely. He was delighted to see that Mr Burton had not only a healthy appet.i.te for his size, but a healthy appet.i.te for a six foot wharfie after a three day fast.

Mr Butler approved of gluttony. It was, he thought, a nice, comfortable vice. Never caused any noise or trouble and the sufferer just expired of an apoplexy, regretted by all those who had attended his excellent dinner parties. At his direction, Mr Butler placed a spoonful of each salad on Mr Burton's plate, on a bedding of lettuce and mayonnaise.

Phryne sent her plate back for more roast beef and said to Mr Burton, 'Josiah, if you would be so kind as to cast your mind back to your early days at the circus, I want to hear all about Carter's Travelling Miracles and Marvels Show,' said Phryne.

'Carter's?' Mr Burton swallowed his last oyster. Perfect. Very fresh, creamy, with just the right touch of lemon juice. 'They followed Farrell's for a while, many years ago. Before my time, really. But I did hear rather a lot about them, and some of their properties were knocking around for sale for years. Why do you want to know about Carter's? It was a very low, sensational carnie show, full of feejee mermaids and Jenny Hanivers.'

'Mr Burton, what is a Jenny Haniver?' asked Jane.

'It's a sort of shark, which can be configured (when dead and dried) to resemble any sort of monster. What I meant was, the show was as fake as it could possibly be, and not too scrupu-lous in its methods either. One of the reasons why it went broke. But before we get onto that, why on earth are you inter-ested in that piddling little raree show?'

'I think we will tell you that after dinner,' said Phryne. Lin, Jane, Ruth and Eliza murmured an agreement. Mr Burton decided to trust them, picked up an asparagus spear and used it to emphasise his points.

'Old Mr Carter started the show, late in the nineteenth century. He came from over Ballarat way, or perhaps it was Bendigo. Someone told me his father had been a gold-miner.

He had a tent show, with boxers, you know, and later added a freak show.'

'Mr Burton,' said Jane reprovingly.

'Who is better ent.i.tled to talk about freaks?' asked Mr Burton, smiling at Jane. 'It is a glorious t.i.tle. His freaks included, if my memory serves, a thin man, a Chinese who spoke in tongues (though perhaps he was just speaking in Chinese), a dwarf called General Thomas and a fat lady. Also some of those dried-up remnants of G.o.d knows what-Jenny Hanivers. Horrible things. I never look at them. Carter's show moved along the same circuit as all of the travelling shows, crisscrossing or following a circus depending on whom he had quarrelled with lately. He was a bad-tempered, cross-grained old man but basically honest. For a carnie. His son was a miser.'

Temptation overcame Mr Burton and he ate his pointer before the hollandaise dripped onto the tablecloth. Phryne supplied him with another one.

'A miser? How very unpleasant,' said Ruth. She a.s.sociated misers with the old woman who had almost worked her to death.

'So my father said. He joined the show after General Thomas, his father, left it to retire. Father lasted about two weeks with Carter. He told me that the show was doomed. Only a madman would starve his horses. And his performers. "How can he maintain a fat lady if the poor woman hasn't had a square meal in weeks?" he said. Grandfather had made a tidy sum and told my father to come home to Eltham and work in the orchard for a few months while he looked around for another position. As it happened, Father stayed. He had a natural talent for apple trees and we didn't have another son in the business until I found out that I couldn't prune trees but I could climb them-right up to the top.'

'Then Mr Carter died.'

'Starved himself to death,' said Mr Burton, eating his asparagus with relish. 'Then his wife tried to keep on going but the whole concern was so run-down by then that she sold it all and went into a convent. True,' he a.s.sured Ruth, who was staring at him with wide eyes. The convent was a Fate Worse Than Death in her romances. 'The Good Shepherd, in Eltham. She is a poor, thin, devout, trodden down and much tried woman and the nuns are very kind to her. Farrell calls in when we are pa.s.sing to bring her some Turkey lolly. Only thing she lacks, she says.'

'Very good choice,' said Dot. She could not imagine that poor Mrs Carter would want to try marriage again after Mr Carter. And at least the nuns would feed her regularly. Speaking of which, could Dot manage another bit of lettuce and a slice more of beef? Probably. And some asparagus before Mr Burton ate it all.

Dot had never met a dwarf before. Once one got used to his stature, it was just like talking to a well-spoken, intelligent and courtly man, and Dot was quite comfortable in his company, which was not what she had been expecting at all.

The pace of eating slowed to a stop. People put their elbows on the table and nibbled favourite foods. Mr Butler wheeled in a silver trolley on which reposed dessert. It consisted of a large and complex fruit salad sorbet: lemon ice studded with pineapple, mango, plum, peach, apricot, strawberry and pa.s.sionfruit. Coffee was already made and the diners tasted tiny, delicious mouthfuls of sorbet and sipped their coffee, and when Mr Burton said, very deliberately, 'You know, I am not sure that I deserve a dinner like that,' there was general agreement.

Phryne led her guests into the parlour, where there were soft chairs for those who wished to repose and more coffee and liqueurs for those who wished to stay awake. Mr Burton listened closely as Phryne explained her Ghost Train discovery and Jane explained the findings of the autopsy.

'But how very curious!' exclaimed the dwarf, looking at their exhibits. 'Yes, that's a Carter's ticket all right. That newspaper does look old enough to be 1857. Attempted expulsion at... could be anywhere. That was a rather turbulent year.'

'I know where it was,' said Lin Chung quietly.

'Where?' asked Phryne.

'I told you about it, Phryne. That's close to the date. The twenty-first of July 1857. That's when Constable Thomas Cooke stopped a riot against the Chinese. At Golden Point, near Castlemaine.'

'Yes, you told me. And that's when your gold went missing too. How very odd! But we haven't got the place, Lin dear. It could be a coincidence.'

'Of course it could,' said Lin.

'And can you make anything of this sketch, Eliza?' asked Phryne. Eliza, who had done herself well at the table and was feeling sleepy, roused herself to look.

'It's very vague, Phryne. Can't really see the quarterings. But there aren't many supporters with tails and fins-that defi-nitely looks like a fin. A merman, a mermaid, or maybe a heraldic dolphin. We could look it up.'

'So we could.' Phryne smiled at her sister for the first time since she had seen her get off the boat at Station Pier. Eliza almost returned the smile. Then she got up, murmured that she was very tired and the company should excuse her, and went out.

Phryne swore softly and went back to the puzzle.

'And it would be nice to find the rest of the newspaper,' said Lin. 'At home we have the report on that riot. And if not we can always enquire about the name of the local newspaper.'

'We will do that tomorrow,' said Phryne. 'After we have all been interviewed by the police again.'

'Mr Burton, do your family still grow apples?' asked Dot, deciding that it was time for a change of subject. Mr Burton evidently agreed.

'I am feeling far too complacent to talk about social conditions or about old murders, Phryne. Let's have a little music and some light conversation, eh, to aid digestion?'

Phryne went to the gramophone. She selected 'Danse Macabre'. She felt it was appropriate.

In the thirteenth year of the reign of the glorious Emperor Lord of the Dragon Throne Kwong Sui of the Ching Dynasty in the season of Frosts Descend.

The elder brother Sung Ma sends greetings to the younger sister Sung Mai.

It is a strange place, a ship. After a week it is the most uncom-fortable place in the world, so small, like a prison. After that it becomes familiar and comprises the whole world. Every morning we rise and wash and eat, the men play games or gamble or sing, the crew tend the ship, the cooks cook the meals, the doctor-that is me, most unworthy, but I am the only one-looks after the sick and we are all, from Dark Moon hunting rats to the shipmaster directing the course, perfectly fitted into our places. Sometimes we have storms, only small ones, sometimes we go fast or slow, sometimes we see dolphins or other ships, and yesterday we saw a

69.

whale. It was a vast ma.s.s of flesh, the largest animal I have ever seen. It surfaced and rolled, slapping the sea with a tail as big as the ship, then dived again and we were all afraid it would surface under the ship and sink us. But it did not. The G.o.ddess of the Sea called it away, perhaps, to save our lives. I am going to play chess with the captain. Good night, little sister. I hope all is well with you.

CHAPTER FIVE.

The year is drawing to an end The leaves are turning golden I want to go home I want to go home I have loitered around this mud flat far too long.

Su Tungpo, translated by Lin Yutang Phryne slept very well, a.s.sisted in her slumbers by an absence of Lin Chung, who was too indecently overfed to consider amorous dalliance, and the presence of Ember the black cat. Though a little more portly than the statue of Basht which decorated Phryne's mantelpiece-like his mistress, Ember was devoted to the pleasures of the table-he knew exactly where to sleep to provide himself with the most restful night. Ember's notion of restful did not include being either rolled on or ejected because he was sleeping in the exact centre of the bed, as thoughtless felines did. He occupied a position to the left of Phryne's head, in the hollow between her chin and her shoulder, or, on hotter nights like this night, removed himself a little way to the side where the curve and fall of her hip made a nice dent in the bedclothes and he could catch a refreshing breeze from her open window.

Phryne rose betimes. For Phryne, betimes was between nine and ten o'clock. Ember had risen earlier, exiting through his own door, at the rattle of milk cans which did not even cause his mistress to roll over. Unless Phryne had visitors, she preferred to breakfast in bed. But the morning was so warm and delightful that she descended to the breakfast parlour to partake of cafe au lait and a croissant from the French bakery in Acland Street. She was feeling rather lazy and French and disinclined to do anything more effortful than a short swim or a stroll. She again blessed the happy chance which had taken her to St Kilda, this slightly tatty city by the bay, where a walk along the plage was only a wish away, rather than a hot, gritty, expensive taxi ride away, arguing with a grumpy driver over centimes. Perhaps she did not feel so French today after all.

It was Monday. Jane and Ruth had gone to school. Dot, whose betimes was much earlier than Phryne's, was sewing something. She came to the table for another cup of tea and Phryne asked her what it was.

'A pillowcase. For my glory box. My last one. I've got all my bed-linen now,' announced Dot proudly.

'Congratulations,' said Phryne. 'Now you can get married.'

A pang struck her that Dot was going to leave.

'No, I can't,' said Dot, 'I have to make ten teacloths, three tablecloths, six damask napkins, twelve cotton napkins and the wedding dress. And the petticoats. And the underthings. And the nightie. And the negligee. Could take years.' She grinned. 'At least I've got the man. Hugh's in no hurry. He has to be promoted to Detective Sergeant before he can support a wife. And I'm in no hurry. I like it here. Miss, is there something wrong with your sister?'

'Yes,' said Phryne, comforted. 'And I'm wondering what on earth it can be. She came here in a fine flaring rage, determined to hate and despise everything, so it doesn't sound like she wanted to leave home. You know, Dot, I believe that Father has adopted the fine old family tradition of getting rid of inconvenient relatives by sending them to Australia. It worked with him.'

'She almost said as much,' agreed Dot.

'But she was always the good girl,' protested Phryne, allowing Mr Butler to pour her another cup of cafe au lait. 'She always did exactly as she was told. She stayed at school, whereas I ran away to France. She went from boarding school to a finishing school and then she went home like a good girl. She was presented at court, she went to all the dances, she had a season, or a modified post-war season...'

'And she didn't catch a husband,' said Dot. 'That's what the season is for, isn't it?'

'Yes. That's why I wouldn't do it. I stayed in France and, until they relented, I never replied to any of the telegrams or letters. Finally they gave up and said I needn't. The season is a stud, a saddling paddock, where all the young gels parade and all the mothers scheme to snare my Lord Brutal, Duke of Huntin' Shootin' and Fishin' or His Dryness the Earl of Tedium. But Beth-Eliza-seemed to like it. She told me all about it whenever I saw her. About her dances and her young men and her masquerades.' Phryne drank some coffee thoughtfully.

'Do you think it's a man? An unsuitable man, I mean?' asked Dot.

'Almost sure to be, wouldn't you say? And it must be serious. The aristocracy never really mind their daughters taking unsuitable casual lovers-I mean, that's what stable boys are for-but mesalliances, non. She must have threatened marriage and she must have stuck to it, otherwise Father would not have rusticated her. I didn't know she was so proof against being shouted at. My father gets his way most of the time because he is convinced that people only do as they are told when you shout at them. I remember him in Paris, the one time he came, shouting at those ignorant Frenchies for refusing to understand English.'

'What if they don't do as they are told?' asked Dot, who was familiar with the method.

'He shouts at them louder and for longer. Until they either run away or crack, generally. It works, for him. But Father is an unmitigated bully. Always has been. Beth used to be putty in his hands. Couldn't stand loud noises.'

'I wonder who he is?' asked Dot.

'Well, the mail is here,' said Phryne. 'Perhaps he's written.'

Mr Butler entered with the letters on a silver tray. He was ambushed at the breakfast parlour door by Eliza, who grabbed the letters, sorted swiftly through them, scattering some on the floor. She grabbed one, pressed it to her breast and ran away, all without a word. Phryne heard her footsteps on the stairs. Mr Butler looked staggered.

'My dear Mr Butler!' said Phryne. 'I do apologise for my mannerless family. Let me just pick up the letters, there, and you can give them to me and then I suggest that you go and have a sit-down and a little pick-me-up. You have had a shock. Well, Dot,' she observed, as Mr Butler tottered off to his pantry for a small gla.s.s of port, 'that would seem to be proof.'

'She certainly wanted that letter before you saw it,' agreed Dot.