*46 'Honey, y'all want to mash that mint real good,' she instructed.

The goat suddenly made her move. She nudged the woman aside and reared, so that her front hoofs were on the bar. Then she made a strong and loud bleating demand, right into the barman's face.

He jumped, retaining his hold on his cocktail shaker only by the barman's strict training and adherence to his code.

'I'm so sorry,' apologised Phryne, hauling on the rope. 'Do forgive me. Could I have a White Lady and a bunch of mint, please? When you have finished that julep.'

'Phryne?' asked the lady in the evening dress, tottering for a moment and then recovering her balance. 'Phryne, honey, is that you?'

'Nerine,' said Phryne, embracing her. 'How very nice to see you.' As always, hugging Nerine was a sensual experience not to be missed. 'Are you singing here?'

Phryne was not insulted that Nerine hadn't noticed her until now. It was well known that the singer was perfect of pitch, of heart-wringing Bessie Smith like talent, supple as a snake, shameless as Josephine Baker in her banana skirt and very acute of hearing, but only found her way to the front of the stage by feeling with one foot. She was, everyone agreed, as short-sighted as an owl.

'Sure am,' said Nerine. 'I'm with a new band, they're waiting for me outside.'

The barman had completed the julep and compounded Miss Fisher's White Lady, of gin, Cointreau and lemon juice with a dash of egg white, at record speed. He wasn't used to goats in his bar and this one, he feared, was giving him the evil eye.

Phryne took her drink and the mint and led Nerine out into the garden, where three young people were waiting to 46 *47 escort her to the jazz venue. They were well supplied with beer.

Jazz, Phryne knew, ran on beer.

'The band,' said Nerine proudly. 'Three T's-Thomas, Terence and Tab. That's Tabitha, she plays the clarinet real good for a li'l bitty mite, and Tommy-he blows a mean horn-and ol' Terry, that ol' boy he plays anythin' with strings, piano to banjo. This is my ol' fren' the Lady Phryne,' she told the band. 'She once-no, twice-got me out of the tightest spot I ever been in in all my natural born days. She's a fine lady.

We gonna play real good for her, y'hear?'

They heard. The band members were all about the same height, chestnut of hair and haggard of complexion, very young, perhaps skimming twenty-one, and they all grinned rather shyly at Phryne. She was not used to shy jazz musicians and was delighted.

'Y'all liquored up to last?' asked Nerine, extending a hand confidently. Terry took it and tucked it under his elbow. 'We gotta go find some rehearsal time. You come hear us tonight, Phryne, we'll play real good for you.'

'I promise,' said Phryne, and kissed Nerine's scented satiny cheek once again for the pleasure of it. Nerine always reminded Phryne of a big, plump cat-a leopard, perhaps. It would have been a pleasure and an honour to be stalked and eaten by her.

The band grinned again and led Nerine away, seeking whom she might devour. Provided she ran into it nose-first, of course.

Feeling a little bereft, Phryne wandered over to a garden seat to sip her drink and feed mint leaves to her goat. The goat sat down on her haunches like a dog. Mint was what she had gone out in quest of, mint was what she now had. The goat glowed with self righteousness.

Phryne sipped her White Lady and waited for events to overtake her. It was that sort of day.

47.

*48 Presently someone said, 'May I?' and Phryne waved a hand.

Breeches and a loose shirt-a young woman, it seemed, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a puzzled expression on her weatherworn face.

'That your goat?' she asked, in a strong Australian accent.

'For the moment,' said Phryne equably. 'Phryne,' she said, holding out a hand. The young woman shook it heartily.

'Ann,' she said. 'I like goats. But we're here with horses.

Polo, you know. Gunna show them la-di-da boys how to play the game.'

'And I'm sure you will,' said Phryne. She had never seen better riders than Australian stockmen, and that reminded her of the girl at the gate.

'Are all your team female?'

'Nah, just me and Jill. Y'see, not so many of the boys came back from the Great War, and when they needed a polo team they sort of had to let us play. We got big money on us,' said Ann, taking a swig of beer.

'I shall venture a small wager myself,' said Phryne. The goat nudged her for the last leaf of mint. Passing gentlemen laughed. Ann drank more beer. Then a rasping voice breathed in Phryne's ear, 'You got me goat!'

'I assure you, it was mutual,' said Phryne, considerably startled but suppressing her reaction. 'Who are you?'

'Call me Madge the Goat Lady', said the apparition, half emerging from the bush behind the wooden seat. She was dressed in cast-offs, with broken canvas bathing shoes on her bunioned feet and a wide hat which must have been straw, because why else would the goats have been chewing it? Phryne hauled her goat to her hoofs and presented the tether to the goat lady.

'Here you are. Large as life and twice as natural.'

48.

*49 'What you been feeding Mintie?' asked the old voice with intense suspicion.

'Mint. It was what she had in mind,' explained Phryne.

'Hmph,' said the goat lady, and woman and goat vanished abruptly, leaving but a gamy effluvium behind.

'Mad,' commented Ann, after a pause for thought. 'Oh, there's Jill. Can you talk to her for a moment, while I go get more beer? And can I get you another drink?'

'Thank you,' said Phryne, relieved to have respectably disposed of her goat. 'Get me another White Lady, if you please. Hello,' she said to the other young woman in moleskins and white shirt, 'I'm Phryne. Your friend Ann has gone for more beer.'

'Bonzer,' said Jill. She was taller, older and heavier than Ann and flushed with heat and exercise. 'Nice to meet yer. Drink'd go down good. We been eatin' dust all day. But they got the horse lines well arranged, say that for 'em.'

'When is the game?'

'Monday. We're playing an exhibition tomorrow, though.

You want to come and watch. We're not bad at all.'

'And your opponents?'

'They're some city team,' she said dismissively. 'Lots of money and four remounts. They could wear us down. We mostly only got one neddy each, though I've got two ponies.

But we're pretty tough,' she added.

'Where are you from?'

'High Plains, Gippsland,' said Jill. 'We're called the Wonnangatta Tigers.'

Ann returned with an armload of beer bottles and a White Lady for Phryne. Jill levered the tops off two of the bottles with her teeth and spat out the crown seals. Ann giggled. Phryne was impressed and reminded herself to put a wad of cash on 49 *50 the Tigers for the polo cup. She took a gulp of her drink.

It was delicious.

The crowds had been ebbing and flowing through the red tent, and now Phryne could see that the marquees were mostly occupied and a lot of the cars and conveyances had gone. Now the purple tent was buzzing with thirsty partygoers. She thought of proposing a walk to the riders. The area was getting very crowded.

'You Phryne Fisher?' asked a high voice. The method of address was so very impolite, especially coming from a younger person to an older one of higher estate, that Phryne did not speak. The demand came from a young boy, dressed in jerkin and hose of cloth of gold. He had a gold cap with wings on his curly dark head and little shoes with wings on his heels.

Eros, perhaps, or Hermes. His pretty face was curdled with contempt.

'And who is asking?' said Phryne curiously.

'Tarquin Southam,' snapped the boy. 'Only the master wants Phryne Fisher and he sent me out to find her. Is it you?'

he demanded again. 'Only they said you liked low company so I came here.'

Phryne grabbed Jill's wrist to forestall the clip over the ear that she was about to deliver to this pouting slipgibbet who was so clearly in need of just such personal attention. And might, indeed, be the better for it.

'My name is Phryne Fisher,' she said, getting up. 'When you address me again, Master Tarquin, you will add an Hon.

and a Miss to it. Clearly Gerald likes you mannerless or he would not employ you, but I don't. See to it.'

'Yes, Hon. Miss Fisher,' said Tarquin insolently.

'Better than nothing,' said Phryne. 'Good luck with the game, Jill, Ann. I'll see you there.'

50.

*51 Tarquin turned on his winged heel and she followed his stiff, offended, golden back through the throng to a tent of special magnificence. It had streamers all over it. It had hangings. It had decorations on its tasselled decorations and frescoes all along its sides.

Tarquin stood by the door and announced, 'The Hon.

Miss Phryne Fisher!'

Phryne pushed aside the hanging bamboo curtain and went in.

'Saint Stephen,' announced Dot, opening the book. The girls and Molly settled down obediently. Jane found the anatomi-cal details of martyrdom interesting. Ruth just liked stories, and Molly just liked company. 'Stephen had a revelation of the birth of the baby Jesus. He was Herod's serving man, and he said to Herod, "There is a child born in Bethlehem who will save us all." But Herod scorned him, saying, "That is just as likely as this cooked capon-"'

'What's a capon?' asked Jane.

'It's a chicken,' said Ruth, who didn't feel that she fully understood the term 'castrated cock' and that Miss Dot would definitely not want her to explain it if she did.

'As likely as this cooked chicken rising up and crowing.'

'And did it?' asked Ruth.

'It rose up in the dish and flapped its wings and crowed "Christus natus est! " Which means "Christ is born",' said Dot triumphantly. Jane was about to comment on the unlikelihood of this but Molly trod heavily on her lap in an endeavour to steal a biscuit and the moment passed.

'Then what happened to Stephen?' asked Ruth.

'They took him out and stoned him to death,' said Dot.

'And his soul ascended to join the Father in heavenly bliss.'

51.

*52 Ruth accepted this. Jane began to calculate. How many stones of, say, a pound each would you need to lethally disable an average saint?

Dot sighed. She feared that the girls were growing up to be heathens, like Miss Phryne.

52.

*53

CHAPTER FOUR.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep; Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright.