Away With The Fairies (13 page)

Phryne called out to Dot to search through the last few copies of
Women’s Choice
to find a letter from Anne. It might have been published. The trauma appeared to be recent. Whatever the cause, Anne was in distress and so was her husband. She needed to be found. The postmark on the envelope said GPO, which was not helpful.

The next was a sheet of plain bank paper on which was scrawled in easy, angry capitals ‘YOU BITCH YOU STUPID BITCH YOU DISSεRV TO DIε’. Phryne noted the Greek E and the inability to spell. This was Miss Lavender’s constant correspondent. His vocabulary was small but he employed it well. Phryne pondered on ‘disserv’. Was that the way a truly illiterate person would spell ‘deserve’? The hand was of someone used to writing in capitals. A mail clerk, perhaps, someone who addressed parcels? A tradesman used to marking bricks, tiles or planks? Interesting. She put it aside for comparison with the others.

The third envelope contained a page of ramblings so incoherent that it was hard to guess what the writer was trying to convey, except that he or she was angry. In several places the nib had ripped the paper. It was written in red ink which had dried to an unpleasant brown reminiscent of blood. ‘I did what you said and look what happened’, declared the writer. ‘I followed your instructions to the letter and now I am in worse trouble than before and you’re to blame Artemis I’m lost now lost lost and it’s all your fault I did like you said and it all went wrong and I don’t know what to do now you did this I’ll kill you like you killed me.’

There was no signature. It had been posted in Kew. Phryne read it again. It made sense, in a way, though there was no internal clue as to what Artemis had advised, so Phryne had no idea what had gone wrong. A dangerous trade, the giving of advice, thought Phryne, putting the letter aside. Even the best advice can be wrong and the mere asking for advice can precipitate unfortunate events. What sort of trouble? Did the writer mean the usual female problem—pregnancy? Had Artemis given her advice about an illegal operation? Out of the question. Artemis had maintained the sort of consistent, conventional righteousness which a Presbyterian might consider too strict. She had probably never heard of illegal operations and if she had, she would consider them contrary to the law of God. And she would have said so.

What had Miss Prout said about the letters to Artemis? Replete with scandal, divorce, molestation of children? Phryne had not found anything like that. Had someone weeded the letters before they got to Artemis, taking out the scandalous ones in case Artemis’s virgin rectitude might be outraged?

Now that was an intriguing thought. The letters went to a box at the General Post Office. Phryne made a note to find out who collected the mail and sent it on to Miss Lavender. Or did she come into the city and collect it herself? On the other hand, perhaps this was just a slow week in the scandal line.

Phryne opened the next letter on the A pile: ‘Artemis (I won’t call you dear Artemis)’, it began. ‘I took your advice. I did as you said. I had the walls stripped and painted. I used up all my housekeeping money on it. And now I have pale green walls and no husband. He took one look at it, shouted at me that I had wasted his money and I was a flapper with no taste and I’d mutilated his house and he left that night, taking all his possessions. I hate you. I hope you die. Moderne.’

‘Dot! See if you can find a letter from “Moderne”,’ shouted Phryne.

‘Right you are,’ Dot yelled back. ‘No luck with Anne, Miss.’

‘Keep trying. And can you find those interviews for me? The ones Jack Robinson left.’

‘They’re on the other side of the desk, on the tapestry chair,’ Dot called.

‘Oh yes, so they are. Thank you.’

Right at the bottom of the box was the usual detritus of a writer’s life. A bus ticket, a few scraps of shopping list, the cork from an ink bottle and three leads and a spring which had fallen out of a propelling pencil which no longer propelled. There was also a sealed advice letter which had ‘return to sender’ on the front. Underneath the address was written in angry capitals ‘addressee deceased’.

Unfortunately, the letter had originally been sent to a post office box in St Kilda, and to pseudonym, ‘Desperate’. Since the readers were required to send a stamped, self-addressed envelope, the handwriting on the envelope could be assumed to be ‘Desperate’s’. The envelope should have contained Artemis’s advice to ‘Desperate’, either a short letter for a shilling or a long letter for two and six. What it actually contained was a sheet of blank paper. Phryne held the envelope up to the light. Just along the edge she could see where the flap had been opened. Steaming melted glue into patches and when an envelope was resealed, a strong light would reveal whether the envelope had been tampered with.

But what an odd thing to do! If someone wanted to hide ‘Desperate’s’ existence, all they had to do was pinch the letter and bung it into the stove. What was the point of stealing the letter, steaming it open, removing the enclosure, substituting a blank and putting the letter back in the box—with its revealing post office box number? It made no sense.

Except as a false trail, perhaps, a means of leading an investigator on a hunt for mares’ nests. Well, Phryne could just put on her mares’ nest hunting hat and follow along. Even a false trail leads somewhere in the end. Jack Robinson could find out who owned the post box tomorrow and pursue the matter. ‘Desperate’ wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Miss? Here’s “Moderne”,’ said Dot, laying the magazine on the table. ‘I’ve been back all year and I can’t find Anne, though.’

‘Didn’t get published and the letter would have been returned or destroyed,’ Phryne told her. ‘Never mind. What was “Moderne’s” problem?’

‘“I live in a big house with Victorian furnishing, red plush wallpaper and heavy carpets”,’ Dot read. ‘“I want to make it look more modern and fresh. All that heavy material keeps out the light and collects dust. What do you advise?”’

‘Sounds like a safe enough topic,’ murmured Phryne. ‘Go on, Dot. What did Artemis say?’

‘“Consult your husband and decide on a decorating budget”,’ Dot read. ‘“Then you can have the wallpaper removed, the walls washed some light shade, the curtains rehung in a light jazz fabric and the carpets removed. The floorboards can be stained and varnished for a small sum and they make the house very cool and easy to clean.” Sounds nice.’

‘And look what a harvest poor “Moderne” reaped,’ said Phryne. ‘She probably did it to surprise her husband and threw out his cherished Oriental rugs and Chippendale with the rubbish.’

‘They can’t have been very comfortable together,’ Dot considered, laying the letter back on the pile. ‘If he just upped and went like that. Not what I’d expect in a husband,’ she added. Dot was fairly sure that she was indeed going to marry Hugh, a blameless policeman on whose profile she doted, but she wouldn’t put up with behaviour like that even in a man who looked like Douglas Fairbanks. ‘But she does sound upset, Miss.’

‘Yes, and we have to find her. What do you make of this one?’

Phryne handed over ‘Lost’s’ letter. Dot read it with concern. ‘Poor girl,’ she said.

‘And here is Anne, who sounds absolutely desperate, and “Desperate” herself, who is dead. Or so the envelope says.’

‘And so is Miss Lavender,’ said Dot. ‘Do you want those interviews? Perhaps we could go through them together. You look tired, Miss.’

‘Thank you, Dot, dear. I’m just not used to working for a living. Who’s first?’

‘The housemaid, Mercy Porter. “I am required to take around the breakfasts. This is part of my regular duties. At approximately ten past eight I arrived at the door of the Garden Apartment. I was a little late that day. I knocked at the door and no one answered. I pushed the door and found it open. This was unusual. Miss Lavender always kept her door locked. I have never found the door open before. I went inside and put the tray down on the table. Miss Lavender was sitting at the table, sort of slumped over. I thought she was asleep. I have never found her asleep before. She was always awake and at her desk when I brought the breakfasts. I touched her and she fell sideways. Her face was blue. I ran to the door and screamed for help. Then I must have fainted. I have never fainted before. She was a nice lady. She was strict about her meal times but she gave me a tip when I brought her extra tea or something. I have never had any disagreement with her.”’

‘Straightforward enough,’ said Phryne, lighting a cigarette, leaning back, and rubbing her eyes.

‘Then we’ve got Mr Carroll. “I occupy apartment five. I barely knew the deceased. I do not have any social intercourse with the other apartments. I have my own friends. On that night I had been out rather late with some chaps from the city and accepted their invitation to continue the party at a private club. I do not gamble. We were drinking and having a jolly time with a few girls we’d met earlier at the Green Mill. I did not get home until nine and then I walked into all this fuss. I know nothing else about this matter.”’

‘Scrub the jolly Mr Carroll,’ said Phryne. ‘Jack will have checked to see he was out carousing with witnesses. He doesn’t sound like Miss Lavender’s ideal man anyway. And the next, please?’

‘“My name is Amelia Gould. I am a widow. My husband arranged to rent the apartment when he knew he was ill, but he died before we moved in. I didn’t know what else to do so I came here after he died. We had already sold the big house and put the furniture into store. I’ve only been here a week. I never met the deceased. I don’t know if I will be staying here.”’

‘Considering that Mrs Gould is in possession of what Mr Bell thinks is a real Canaletto, she could go anywhere she liked,’ Phryne observed.

‘“My name is Mrs Robert Hewland. My Christian name is Alice. We live in apartment one. On Sunday my husband and I go to divine service at eight, and then again at two. We walk to the Presbyterian Church which is about half a mile from this apartment. Because I like to be early, we left at half past seven. When we returned we heard that Miss Lavender had passed on. I did not know her well, but she seemed to be respectable. It is a pity.”’

‘Damned with faint praise! And Mr Robert Hewland supports this story?’

‘Yes, Miss. Here’s one in different handwriting. “My name is John Keith. I am Emeritus Professor of Botany at Melbourne University. I am making this statement not of my own free will but because a damned fool policeman is inquiring into my movements and won’t go away unless I write it. So here goes. I loathed Miss Lavender. She was an interfering busybody, a nosy-parkering old maid with nothing else to occupy her time but to spy on her neighbours. Nevertheless, I didn’t kill the pestilential old besom. I live in apartment three. On the morning in question I was preparing to breakfast with my niece, Margery. She had made the coffee and we were waiting for the maid to bring the tray when we heard a god-awful screeching. We went out to investigate and found the maid collapsed on the path, gasping that Miss Lavender was dead. I looked inside the cottage. I did not touch anything. I saw Miss Lavender on the floor, dead as a doornail. I sent my niece inside and informed Mrs Needham that she had a vacancy. I know nothing else about the matter.”’ Dot giggled as she replaced the statement. Phryne laughed.

‘Fine line in invective the old gentleman has! I wonder what Miss Lavender interfered in? What does the niece say?’

‘Same thing,’ said Dot. ‘Heard the scream, saw the maid, was sent back by her uncle. Here’s Mrs Needham. “I am the proprietor of a set of serviced apartments. On the morning in question I was in the kitchen as usual, overseeing the preparation of the breakfasts. I was called away for perhaps ten minutes. I was called away by Mrs Opie, who needed milk for her daughter Wendy. When I returned I heard a scream and saw the maid Mercy Porter lying on the path outside Wee Nooke …” then the same story. She saw Professor Keith there and Mr Bell, also Miss Gallagher and Miss Grigg. “I always ask for references when I have a prospective tenant. Miss Lavender gave me the name of the editress of a respectable journal and the Commonwealth Bank. I enquired. Both were satisfactory. I allowed her to decorate the apartment as she fancied and also to take charge of one part of the garden. I am unaware of any quarrel with any of my other tenants, who are all very respectable ladies and gentlemen.” Who would you like next?’

‘Mr Opie,’ said Phryne. ‘A shadowy figure. All I know about him is that Wendy says he makes her mother cry and regret her lost Giovanni. They are reputed to quarrel.’

‘“My name is Stephen Opie. I am an architect by profession. On the morning in question I was awakened at four-thirty by my daughter Wendy screaming. I heard my wife get up to go to her. I found that I could not get back to sleep. I never can if my first sleep is interrupted. I got up and put on a dressing gown and went out of the apartment into the garden. It was not entirely dark. There was a full moon. I sat down on the seat under the awning and smoked a cigarette. My wife does not allow me to smoke in our apartment because of Wendy. It was very quiet in the garden. I sat there for about an hour and didn’t hear anything. About half past five it came on to rain so I went inside again. There didn’t seem to be a lot of point in going back to bed so I shaved and dressed and worked on some drawings I am making for a housing company. Mercy Porter delivered breakfast at seven-thirty, the usual time. We were just finishing when we heard a scream and I went out to investigate. There I found …” we know what he found. Mrs Opie says much the same “My daughter Wendy woke me at about half past four. She had had a nightmare. I sat up with her until she fell asleep again. I fell asleep too, in the chair next to her bed. At about eight she woke and asked for milk. We didn’t have any so I went to ask for some in the kitchen. I got some milk from Mrs Needham and we had breakfast …” then the usual story. Who would you like next?’

‘What does Mr Bell say?’

‘Hmm, the usual story—“My name is John Bell. I live in apartment six. I am a dealer in antiquities.”’

‘That’s interesting, Dot, dear. He told me he sold antiques. Antiquities is an entirely different solid marble kettle of Roman statuary. Well, well. Do go on.’