'Simple et tranquille.

216.

*217 'Cette paisible rumeur-l 'Vient de la ville.

'Qu'as-tu fait, toi que voil 'Pleurant sans cesse 'Dis, qu'as-tu fait, toi que voil, 'De ta jeunesse?'

For a change, Sylvanus did not sneer, possibly because of what Phryne could have said about 'Abdul the Bul-Bul Amir'

as a poem for decent company. Or even Templar company.

There were murmurs of appreciation.

Then the Lady rose, supported by her acolytes.

'She doesn't often recite,' said Nicholas. 'That was very pretty, Phryne. All I know about Verlaine is scandal.'

'There is more to know,' Phryne informed him, as Isabella began her poem. Her voice was beautiful, sweet and clear. Her choice was 'The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn', by Andrew Marvell.

'The wanton Troopers riding by 'Have shot my Fawn, and it will dye.

'Ungentle men! they cannot thrive 'Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive 'Them any harm: alas! nor cou'd 'Thy Death yet do them any Good . . .'

One of the three American gentlemen sitting behind Phryne-she really must find out who they were when she had a moment-said, 'Wonderful.' The second said, 'Wonderful.'

And there was a pause while the third, presumably, nodded.

217.

*218 'Upon the Roses it would feed 'Until its lips ev'n seemed to Bleed 'And then to me 'twould boldly trip 'And print those Roses on my lip . . .'

Strong, sensuous images flooded through the company: the fawn kissing the nymph on her reddened mouth, the nymph with the snow white skin and flaxen hair of the Lady, her cool hands caressing it in death, blood on her white gauzy gown.

Phryne shook herself free of the spell. Wonder of wonders, now Gerald was going to recite. He stood up from his throne after the applause for his sister's recitation had died away and said conversationally: 'It was many and many a year ago, 'In a kingdom by the sea 'That a maiden there lived whom you may know 'By the name of Annabel Lee; 'And this maiden she lived with no other thought 'Than to love and be loved by me.

'I was a child and she was a child 'In this kingdom by the sea 'But we loved with a love that was more than love 'I and my Annabel Lee; 'With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 'Coveted her and me.'

Phryne saw his hand stretch out to his sister. They stood together, pale and paler, fair and fairer, while the golden voice continued the dreadful tale which had made Poe's readers shudder and throw the paper into the fire. For a while Phryne 218 *219 lost the thread of the poem, contemplating the Templars: so beautiful, so strange, as alien as if they had come from another time or another planet in one of Mr Wells' machines.

'But our love it was stronger by far than the love 'Of those who were older than we; 'Of many far wiser than we; 'And neither the angels in heaven above 'Nor the demons down under the sea 'Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

'For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 'Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 'And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 'Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 'So all the night tide I lie down by the side 'Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride, 'In her sepulchre there by the sea, 'In her tomb by the sounding sea.'

After that, there was no more poetry. There seemed, as Phryne remarked, nothing more to be said.

'Was I right or was I right?' asked the American gentleman, sounding very pleased, even smug.

'You're right,' said his second.

'Yes,' said the third, speaking for the first time. Then he nodded, just in case.

Arabic music broke out from a hidden corner (where there was probably a gramophone). Platters of sweets were carried in, and little bowls of sherbet and ice cream. Mrs Truebody's ice cream was good, though not as good as Mrs Butler's. Phryne 219 *220 leaned back and enjoyed it, and the strong aniseed tasting liqueurs which accompanied the dessert.

'Arak,' she told Nicholas.

'Tastes like licorice. I've got someone to meet,' he said, getting up. 'Will you excuse me?'

'Nerine?' asked Phryne.

'Nerine,' said Nicholas, and went, relieving Phryne of a difficult decision but leaving her a little disgruntled. She ate more ice cream. Ice cream was reliable. Young men were not.

Belly dancers romped in, all jingly bracelets and skin shining with sweat. The drums pounded. The dancers twirled and gyrated. Phryne was not in the mood. She slipped out of the tent and, after a phone call to Dot, put herself to bed relatively early. Saturday was ending in virtuous isolation, which might not have been what she'd had in mind but appeared to be all that was on offer. She closed her eyes resolutely. And slept.

Sunday, 30th December Phryne rose betimes, ate a solid breakfast, and sat down on the verandah to await the coming of the Hispano-Suiza and the heartening presence of her familiar friends. She was becoming keyed up: a hunting alertness was refining her eyesight and interfering with her digestion. Tonight, the Feast of Fools, would produce the assassin. He or she must be caught. Ted came and leaned in the doorway beside her. He was carrying a yard broom.

'No news?' he asked, speaking like a prisoner, not moving his lips. This also allowed him to retain his hand rolled cigarette in his mouth.

'None,' sighed Phryne. 'But the attack must be tonight.

This Joker is peculiar about killing people in the midst of their favourite activity, apparently. Tonight the Templars will be 220 *221 doing their favourite thing, at about eleven, and that is when he will strike. And we have to stop him.'

'We have to stop him,' repeated Ted.

'That's right.'

'When no one else has ever laid a glove on him?'

'Yes.'

'Jeez,' said Ted.

'Indeed.'

They said nothing for a while, looking out at the rolling green parkland and the men setting out the goals and the boundary rope on the polo ground.

'Reckon we've got our work cut out for us,' said Ted.

'We have,' said Phryne.

Silence fell again.

'I better get a move on,' said Ted, and went away.

The next visitor was Nicholas. He looked haggard. A night with Nerine really took it out of a man, Phryne knew. She had seen the pallid specimens on the morning after, gulping restora-tive coffee and whimpering at sudden noises. Some of this had to do with her consumption of Kentucky sour mash bourbon, which an Eastern Market wine merchant imported especially for her. The rest was all down to Nerine herself.

'Any coffee in your thermos?' he asked, sitting down suddenly. 'The stuff at breakfast tasted like dishwater.'

'Here,' Phryne supplied him. 'Keep out of the sun. Would you like some aspirin?'

'Yes,' he said weakly. 'About ten will do to start with.'

'There's a paper or two in my bag.'

He picked up the decorated Pierrot bag but seemed unable to work the catch. Phryne took it from him out of pure Christian pity and handed over the drug. He washed the powders down with more coffee.

221.

*222 'I feel awful,' he confessed.

'You look like the "before" picture in a Beecham's Pills advertisement.'

'That woman can drink,' he said. 'We drank a lot of drinks.

And she sang a lot of songs. It's all a bit of a blur, actually.'

'I can imagine. Sit quietly here in the shade and you'll feel better in half an hour. Not in mid season form,' she said, patting his hand, 'but better than you do at present.'

'Couldn't feel worse,' he groaned.

'Is this your very first hangover?' asked Phryne. 'What a sweet, sheltered life you have been leading, to be sure. Why not go and lie on my bed? It's nice and quiet there, better than your tent. Here's the key. I'll come and wake you presently.'

Nicholas had never been so grateful for any favour. Clutching the thermos and his head he staggered into the house to find the Iris Room where, with any luck, there might be blessed darkness and coolness and all the other things of which he stood in need.

Phryne did not chuckle until he was safely gone. First hangover. Poor boy. When had she first experienced a hangover? Ah, yes. At a schoolgirl festival of some sort. She and Bunji Ross had got into the sweet sherry. The next day she had been expelled again, but she would have welcomed being executed, she had felt so sick . . . and apart from an unfortunate encounter with some methylated raki in Paris, that was the last hangover she had had. Phryne didn't like pain. It hurt. She avoided it whenever she could. And if that meant not drinking that fifth cocktail, then there it was. It was an imperfect universe.

But a very pretty one, this morning. A little wind had picked up, just enough to take the edge off the heat. The grass was green. The sky was blue, just like Verlaine's sad little poem.

At least Phryne had no intention of weeping without cease 222 *223 over her misspent youth. She had not so much misspent it as invested it wisely, and she only regretted the bare minimum of it.

She sat basking in the early morning sun. Presently the big red car swished to a halt beside her. A young woman in a terra-cotta hat and jacket, carrying a suitcase, alighted.

'Hello, Dot,' said Phryne sleepily. 'Isn't it a lovely day?'

'Yes, it is,' said Dot, who was now enjoying her post breakfast drives with Mr Butler. 'I've been to early mass and that's why we're a little late. Here's your stuff, Miss,' she said, offering the suitcase.

Phryne stood up to go into the house and then remembered Nicholas.

'Oh dear, I just recalled that there is a young man in my bed, sleeping off a hangover. No, don't look shocked, he debauched himself in other company than mine. I just offered him a bed, not one with me in it. Never mind. We can tiptoe.

Any more information about the man we are thinking about, Dot?'

'No, Miss, just what I told you last night. Mr Bert and Mr Cec are real worried about you. And Mr Robinson.'

'I'll be careful. And I'm armed. And forewarned, as well.

Did you bring the extra ammunition?'

'Yes, Miss, it's in the case. You think this might come to shooting?'

'It might, then again, it might not,' temporised Phryne, not wanting to worry Dot unduly. 'I'm going to brief my accomplices this morning, before the polo match.'

'Well, I knew this was a Godless gathering, Miss, but that is too much!' exclaimed Dot, really offended.

'What?' asked Phryne. 'Keep your voice down, remember the afflicted.'

223.

*224 'The polo match!' said Dot.

'What about it? You consider polo anti-Christian? You might be right, at that. All those ball games strike me as having originated in some barbarian army, where the Mongol hordes played catch with enemy heads.'

Dot dismissed the Mongol hordes with a gesture. 'Miss, it's Sunday!'

'Oh,' said Phryne, who had not given the Sunday Observance Statutes a thought. 'So it is. One rather loses track of the days. Never mind, Dot dear. You can pray for the heathens and I'll try to keep the Templars alive, what about that? Now let's just put the case inside and collect the laundry really quietly.

You have never had a hangover, so you will not know the tortures that Nicholas is suffering.'

Dot subsided. Phryne put the case in the room, picked up the laundry bag, collected her empty thermos and closed the door. The young reprobate was snoring like an orchestra.

Another reason not to sleep with him, thought Phryne.

'Did you bring the money? I might have to pay my army,'

said Phryne.

Dot gave her a purse. It was satisfactorily heavy.

'Oh, and the chestnut blossom bath salts,' said Dot. 'Miss Steinbach sent them. From America,' Dot added, impressed.

'And those books you wanted. Is there anything else, Miss?'

'Sit with me for a while, until Mr Butler gets back from debriefing poor old Tom Ventura. I gather he isn't any happier.'

'No, Miss, but it's all gone well so far. Not even any injuries to mention. You haven't . . . you haven't found that poor little boy?'

'No, Dot, but I am at last seeing light at the end of the tunnel, and we must pray that it isn't an oncoming Cornish Express. What are the girls doing?'

224.

*225 'Drawing, Miss. Ruth found that paintbox she got for school and never needed, and now both of them are mad about watercolours. They're painting the sea today,' said Dot. 'Miss Eliza says that they can do whatever they like on Sunday, as long as it doesn't damage the house or wake her from her nap.'

'Another Godless heathen.' Phryne grinned at her worried companion. 'You're surrounded by them, Dot dear.'

'Actually I've been getting on with the mending,' confessed Dot. 'God forgive me, but those girls go through socks like a hot knife through butter.'

'And you like mending,' pressed Phryne.

Dot blushed as though confessing a grievous fault to a stern priest. 'I do,' she said. 'Oh, here's Mr Butler.'