'Hello,' Phryne greeted him. 'How is your Mr Ventura today?'

'Seems to be a bit more cheerful,' said the chauffeur, pushing back his cap. 'Mind you, couldn't have got any more doleful. But the party's nearly over, and nothing dreadful has happened. Yet, as he'd say.'

'All right. I'll keep in touch, Dot, and you have the phone number if you need to find me. Take care,' said Phryne as she watched Dot being handed into the red car. 'And I'll take care, too,' she promised. The Hispano-Suiza started with a roar and slid away, scattering gravel.

Presently Phryne roused herself and wandered down to the horse lines, where preparations for the polo match were feverish. She was just about to circumnavigate a huge elm when she heard a sentiment which made her stop, her hands on the rough grey bark.

'We'll pound 'em,' someone was saying in a fine upper-class accent. 'Pound 'em into the dust.'

'I say, steady on, Johnson!' murmured another voice.

'Brotherhood of the mallet, you know.'

225.

*226 'Brotherhood of the mallet my foot,' retorted Johnson.

'They've got girls on their team. It's an insult to the game.'

'They ride pretty well,' said Ralph Norton. 'I don't reckon there's any insult in them wanting to play our game. Trying to improve themselves. Hullo-ullo-ullo!' he carolled as Phryne came out from behind her tree. 'Hear you got on well with my Buttercup.'

'She's a darling,' said Phryne, as the little beast, hearing her name, tittupped forward to receive a carrot from her doting master.

'Isn't she though?' enthused Ralph. 'Johnson, this is Miss Fisher. Miss Fisher, this is Johnson.'

Johnson, a sleek lad with prominent teeth, evidently approved of girls who rode well but did not try to play polo.

He shook Phryne's hand.

'Delighted,' he said.

'So, you are going to beat the Tigers?' asked Phryne, caressing Buttercup's silky nose.

'Of course,' said Johnson airily. 'I only hope they don't fall apart too fast. They might just be able to give us a game.'

'I see,' said Phryne. She nodded to Ralph, and passed on.

She found Jill and Ann rinsing dust out of equine eyes and cleaning hoofs.

'Phryne! Good to see you! You haven't met our other mounts. This is Black Boy, named after King Charles,' said Jill.

'This is Rapide, and this is Ann's pony George.'

'Pleased to meet you,' said Phryne to the eager, questing noses, distributing some carrots which she had pinched from Ralph Norton's supply. He wouldn't miss them. 'Aren't you the pretty ones, though! No more now, neddies, you have to work hard today.'

'My old dad swears by a handful of sugar just before they 226 *227 go on,' said Jill. 'I reckon it works, too. How do they look?'

she asked with pardonable pride.

Compared to the Grammar ponies, these were unkempt and homely. But they were clean and cared for and practically dancing in their horseshoes.

'They do you credit,' she told Jill and Ann, and walked on towards the lake.

Phryne, unusually, had time to waste and nothing to do so, in a spirit of satisfaction after she had ascertained that certain of her hypotheses were correct, she sat down on a rustic bench under a spreading monkey puzzle and opened her book. The polo match was at eleven. Plenty of time to find out what Hercule Poirot would make of the strange death of Roger Ackroyd. She lit a Sobranie.

A bleat and a strong whiff of goat, and she knew that her old friends were with her again. This time there were three goats, being walked on halters by the Goat Lady.

'Sorry, I haven't a leaf on me,' she apologised to Mintie.

'But you could give your butt to Willie, here,' said the Goat Lady. 'This is Willie and this is Wayland,' she introduced two billy goats of fearsome aspect. 'Willie got a taste for tobacco, somehow. I'm going up to the house for the breakfast leftovers. Never ate so well in all my puff.'

Phryne could believe it. Madge the Goat Lady had certainly filled out since the Last Best Party had been going on.

'How are you going to manage when we've packed up and gone?' she asked, stubbing out the cigarette and allowing Willie to snuff it up from her hand. He chewed on it like an old sailor.

Mintie nudged Phryne and solicited a scratch between the ears.

'Oh, I manage, Miss, I manage like I always have. I've got my goats and milk and cheese, and I've got all the vegies that they don't eat, and I pick up some work here and there. I got my pension. This party is just a treat, that's all.'

227.

*228 'Yes, so it is,' said Phryne. 'What does Wayland like to eat?'

'Just about anything,' said the Goat Lady. 'Got to go,' she added, and led the goats around the lake, towards the house and the kitchen and a truly succulent breakfast. Phryne was pleased that Mintie had not scorned her because she had none of her favourite herb.

She returned to her book. Time passed. Phryne stowed the book and stretched. On the way to the polo ground, she detoured through the knot garden.

Fortunately, there was no one to explain the rules to Phryne as the two sides lined up. She already knew that the game was divided into chukkas of seven minutes each. The ponies danced and neighed. The riders, in the case of the Grammar Boys, glittered. Phryne put on a pair of smoked glasses. The sward was emerald green and well watered so perhaps falls might be soft. The umpires reported all was ready. Then the game began.

After a few minutes Phryne began to get the hang of it.

Inasmuch as she ever got the hang of games. The ponies darted across the lines, the riders clouted the ball with their mallets, and the game rushed, amazingly quickly, up and down the huge ground. The odd thing was that neither side seemed to be able to score. Just as the ball got within thudding distance of the Tigers' goal, a Grammar Boy would sneak it away. Just when the ball approached the Grammar goal, Dougie on Mongrel or Murph on Moke would sidle in and steal it.

Chukka after chukka passed and still no one managed to belt the ball through the goals. The Tigers were being run ragged.

The pristine Grammar Boys were sweating. And everyone, Phryne included, was barracking.

'They're good,' observed Albert Green, the elderly stableman, who was sharing Phryne's verdant bank.

'Who is?'

228.

*229 'Both of them. I reckon they're evenly matched. But the Tigers can't win,' he said.

'Why not?' asked Phryne. 'They're doing pretty well until now.'

'They got no remounts,' said Green. 'My young men can have a fresh horse every chukka if they want.'

'Ah,' said Phryne. But he was right. The Tigers were beginning to flag. Their ponies, willing as ever, were tiring. Still the Grammar Boys did not seem to be able to break through.

Whenever they set up a long run down the field, Jill would be there on Rapide, turning on a sixpence, or Ann on George, or the ever present Dougie on Mongrel.

'Half-time,' said the umpire, and the horses streamed off the field. The Tigers slumped to the ground while their mounts were watered sparingly and rubbed down. Valets and stablemen attended the Grammar Boys. Tired ponies were led away and fresh ones brought up from the lines. Phryne saw that Ralph was going to ride Buttercup. Housemaids from the manor were passing through the riders, distributing sandwiches, fruit cup and tea.

Phryne could hear the Grammar captain haranguing his team. 'Are we going to be beaten by these up-country rustics?'

he yelled.

Phryne did not hear any answer from the exhausted men.

The Wonnangatta Tigers were drinking tea as though there might be a world shortage, but they were not eating. Jill was lamenting Rapide's knee, which was swelling, while Ann was moving the saddle onto Black Boy's back. She fed him a handful of coarse brown sugar. Phryne could see the pony relishing the taste.

'Here we go again,' said Albert Green. He had managed to corner a whole box of unwanted sandwiches and had a huge tin mug of tea. 'You watch, Miss, they'll score this chukka.'

229.

*230 But they didn't. Faint and flagging the Tigers might have been, but their ponies were used to wheeling cattle in high country scrub. They were as tough as old tree roots, and so were their riders. They might have limped behind the action, but when the ball was there, so were the Tigers.

The Grammar Boys were wearying. This was not how the game was supposed to go. They decided on a rush and barrelled down the ground, only to be met with a resistance so fierce that the ponies must have wondered what had come over their riders.

The last chukka. The Tigers were exhausted. Their ponies'

sides were striped with foam. Albert Green, having mangled his way through all of his sandwiches, said, 'By God, they might do it, they might!' and Phryne found that against all inclination she was caught up in this contest.

But she did not see it when Johnson, maddened by this rustic and feminine defiance, decided to settle the matter by himself. Rushing beside Dougie when the play was elsewhere, he delivered a powerful blow to the pony's knees, and Mongrel went down. There was a howl of outrage.

'What happened?' demanded Phryne.

'The hound!' howled the old man. 'That's never sport! They ought to be ashamed! A foul, and no umpire could see it!'

'They cheated?' asked Phryne 'They did, by God,' swore Mr Green.

Phryne opened her bag, took something out and squeezed it hard.

Mongrel was led off the ground. His legs weren't broken, at least. But Dougie had no other pony and the Tigers were now one rider down. Surely the Grammar Boys must win.

Then, drawn irresistibly by her favourite scent in the whole world, along came Mintie the goat. She was inoffensive, as 230 *231 goats go. She tripped carefully through the people. She did not cross the sacred boundary onto the polo ground. She was merely heading for a source of mint.

The Grammar horses had seen cars and planes and trains and bicycles, but they had never seen goats. As one pony, they stopped and stared at Mintie as she made her way around the ground.

'Now!' yelled Jill, passing the ball to Ann, and they fled down the ground, skirting hysterical ponies who had found that they really couldn't stand goats until, with a resounding thwack, Ann hit the ball through the goals and rode off the field as the bell sounded for the end of the match.

There was a sudden, vast silence. Mintie had gone from their sight, seeking her herb. Fallen Grammar Boys got up from the turf, feeling their bruises. Ponies nuzzled riders, unable to explain what had come over them. Johnson scowled.

Wonnangatta Tigers stared at each other.

Then someone on the hill began to applaud and the air was filled with clapping and cheering. The captain of the Grammar Boys slapped the captain of the Wonnangatta Tigers on the shoulder as the umpire proclaimed them winners. Ralph Norton said 'Good show!' to Ann. Then, horses and all, they paraded back towards the house, arms around each other, Jill and Ann carried shoulder high by their peers.

And when they had all gone, Phryne Fisher fed a whole bunch of mint to an appreciative goat.

No one noticed her actions except Mr Green. He never said a word, but chuckled, at intervals, for the next three days.

'This is the festival of . . .' Dot began.

'I'm tired of all these saints,' said Ruth. 'Tell us a nice miracle.'

231.

*232 'All right,' said Dot, taken aback. 'One day Saint Elizabeth of Hungary was warned by her cruel husband that she could not give any more of his bread to the poor. He told her if he caught her giving any charity again, he would kill her.'

'They made husbands really nasty in the old days,' said Ruth, embracing Molly.

'But she was a kind lady and the poor were starving. So she went on feeding them. Then one day her husband stopped her at the door. She was carrying a basket of bread, one of those baskets with a lid. "What's in here?" he roared. And she said, inspired by God, "Roses." And he shoved her to her knees and tore open the basket and what do you think he found?'

'Bread,' said Jane, a practical thinker.

'Roses,' said Dot.

'I don't understand,' said Jane.

'Of course you don't,' replied Dot. 'It's a miracle.'

232.

*233

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

To kill two birds with one stone.

Trad Luncheon was hilarious, with polo players replaying the game, and notable for Mongrel hopping up onto the bar table for his champagne as if he hadn't been felled by a blow which would have broken the knees of a lesser beast. His action in kicking Johnson on the way out was charitably put down to the un-accustomed wine going to the pony's head. Phryne found Ralph Norton deep in conversation on pony rearing with Jill, Ann and several other Tigers. She attracted his attention long enough to collect on her bet.

Phryne sauntered back to the house to find that Nicholas had just woken up feeling like a human again.

'Bourbon,' he told her, shuddering strongly. 'Never touch the stuff. Or that peach brandy called Southern Comfort. It's lethal. Is it lunch time? I might be able to eat a bit. Thanks to you, Phryne. Ministering angel and all that.'

233.

*234 'I've brought our boxes,' said Phryne. 'You missed a rivet-ing game of polo. The Tigers won with the help of a passing goat. Have you got egg sandwiches?'

'No, ham.' Nicholas investigated further. 'And this one's tomato and lettuce and cheese and things.' He ate it. It stayed down. 'I am not going to die after all,' he announced.