Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (47 page)

‘Yes?’ she asked, fumbling for the card tray which was kept on the hall table.

‘Miss Fisher,’ said Phryne. ‘The Hon. Miss Fisher. To see Mr. Grant.’ She put her most elegant card on the silver salver.

‘Come in, Miss,’ said the girl. ‘I’ll ask if you can see him.’

Phryne and Jane were led into a parlour. It was dusty, unused, and smelt stale. Phryne longed to pull back those heavy plush curtains and open a window. But she and Jane perched decorously on the least dusty chair and waited for the maid to come back.

They heard a voice roaring in another room. Soon the maid returned, hurrying slipshod in her kitchen shoes, and led them into a large room which did show signs of being inhabited. It had far too many stags heads on the wall—in fact there was also a lion, good Lord, and a thing with spiral horns which might be an ibex, perhaps, and a forest of antlers besides. This man had slaughtered his way around the world. Fond of wildlife in the same way as a cook is fond of guinea fowl, quail, chickens, cornish hens, pigeons and ortolans. Ah, yes, Phryne made a mental note. Must ask Mr. Featherstonehaugh about those ortolans en brochette.

‘Mr. Grant,’ said Phryne, holding out her gloved hand. ‘I am Phryne Fisher, and this is my daughter. She is doing a school holiday project on our great families, and she has chosen the Grant family and would like you to tell her about your father.’

‘The pater? He was a great man,’ said Mr. Grant.

My, he was big. Running to fat now that he was not exercising but six feet tall at least. Blue eyes, fair hair thinning at the temples, florid complexion ruined by the sun and probably whisky. Big hands, innocent of callus or blister. Nicely dressed in flannel bags and a sporting blazer, probably his old school, Scotch by the candy stripes. He held out a huge hand to Jane and crushed her fingers. He did the same to Phryne. She winced. Doesn’t know his own strength or doesn’t care. Not likely to be treating Polly well, if he had her.

‘Well, well, sit down, ladies, I’m on my own here,’ he said. ‘I’d be glad to tell you about my father. Where would you like to start?’

‘At the beginning,’ said Jane, taking up her pencil. She had three others and a sharpener in her pocket.

‘He came here from Home in 1891,’ Mr. Grant began.

Jane wrote busily.

***

Tinker liked dogs, but this one seemed to want to eat him rather than make friends with him. Dot put her back against the kitchen wall and prepared to kick. Ruth, however, sank down onto her heels and wreathed her arms around the mastiff’s thick neck.

‘Good dog!’ she cooed with complete conviction.

The dog stopped barking so fast it almost bit its tongue.

Dot watched the dog’s confusion. Good dog. Good dog? He knew that he had heard good dog before. Yes, good dog, good dog meant ears down, ruff down, open mouth to pant, wag tail. He did that. Ruth felt in her bag and brought out a packet of dog biscuits. She had wondered why Miss Phryne had added them to the equipment. ‘Here you are, there’s a good doggie then,’ said Ruth, patting all the expanse of massive canine that she could reach. ‘You don’t want to hurt us, do you?’ She fed him a biscuit, which vanished immediately into a fanged red maw. ‘Have another,’ said Ruth. The dog accompanied them to the kitchen door, which was open.

‘Hello?’ called Dot.

‘Yes?’ asked a skinny maid, turning from the stove. ‘He’s ordered tea, I can’t stop.’

‘No, you can take a day off,’ said Dot, holding out a pound note.

The maid examined Dot. Then she examined the pound note. ‘You robbers?’ she asked.

Tinker laughed. The dog nudged Ruth, suggesting another biscuit for the really extraordinarily good dog sitting next to her and leaning heavily on her knee. She obliged.

‘What’ve you done to Snap?’ asked the maid. ‘You’ve drugged him? He usually bites people who come to the back door without ringing the bell. He nearly tore the trousers off the postman yesterday, when he forgot.’

‘No, he just likes me,’ said Ruth. ‘Have another bikkie, Snap.’

Snap gulped and wagged.

‘You don’t mean Mr. Grant any harm?’ asked the maid. ‘He’s all right, really. He’s just not very bright. His stepmum and that other woman push him around. They wouldn’t do it if I was in charge,’ she added fiercely.

‘No,’ said Dot. ‘Miss Fisher wants to fix everything without scandal.’

‘You reckon she could? ’Cos I really like him,’ said the maid.

Ruth understood immediately. ‘You’re in love with him, aren’t you?’ she asked gently.

‘Ever since the agency sent me here,’ confessed the maid.

‘Dot, Tinker and Ruth,’ Dot introduced them.

‘Phoebe. But he never even looks at me,’ said Phoebe. ‘I cook his favourite dinners, make his bed, polish his boots. But he never sees me.’

‘Tell me about yourself,’ said Dot, as the tea making went on, and Ruth fed more biscuits to Snap.

***

Phryne was not surprised to see Dot bringing in the tea. But she received no signal from her as she handed and poured. Herbert Grant, meanwhile, hadn’t even noticed that there had been a change of maids.

Phryne was learning about Mr. Grant from his narrative. His father had been a loud, opinionated, moderately cruel bully. Had beaten his son every day and ‘made me what I am thus’, which was regrettably true. His mother had been pretty and sad and had pined away and died of consumption at an early age. Thereafter he had had nannies and then boarding school. Then a stepmother with whom he did not get along. His pater had taught him to shoot anything which stood still long enough or breathed heavily in the bushes. Not an unusual upbringing, but far from ideal for a not-very-bright boy. The only thing in which Mr. Grant had pleased his father was his football career, which had been cut short because of the knee injury.

Phryne began to feel sorry for Mr. Grant, which was absurd. He was rich. He had a house of his very own and a country estate. She kept listening, wondering what the rest of the minions were doing and wishing that they would get on with it. Jane’s hand must be getting tired and Phryne was bored.

***

The kitchen was silent as Phoebe considered Dot’s outrageous suggestion. Tinker beguiled the time by thinking about big ships. Ruth patted Snap and was ravished by the King Cophetua story unfolding in front of her eyes.

‘I’ll try it,’ said Phoebe. ‘And if he sends me away, I can always get another job.’ She sounded forlorn.

‘Come along,’ said Dot. ‘Upstairs.’

***

Phryne was just reaching screaming point when several people entered the den. One was Polly Kettle. She was clean and well dressed and well nourished, so her captivity had not been too stringent. She was, however, panting with stress and release. The others were Dot and a pretty woman in an old-fashioned tea-gown, flanked by Tinker and Ruth.

‘No!’ cried Mr. Grant, leaping to his feet.

‘Sit down,’ said Phryne, in that voice of female authority which promised tears before bedtime. ‘You knew you couldn’t keep her.’

‘She’s mine!’ he said. ‘They both said she was mine!’ But he sat down.

‘Yes, you might think that, but she doesn’t,’ explained Phryne patiently. ‘Now, I am here to resolve this situation neatly and quietly and without scandal. Shut up, Polly Kettle. You’ve caused me enough trouble as it is. Not a word. You can scream later. You can now consider yourself rescued. Also I have a scoop for you which will make your name. All right?’

‘All right,’ conceded Polly.

‘I traced you as far as Footscray,’ said Phryne. ‘Where did you go from there?’

‘I was on the way to the train when this…creature…pulled up and offered me a lift. Then he said he had to go to his house for some papers and would I mind coming along. I agreed. Then as soon as we got in the house he told me I had to marry him and he already had the licence. When I said that I wouldn’t ever marry him, he dragged me into a suite and locked the door.’

‘Window?’ asked Tinker.

‘Barred. It used to be the nursery. So it had a bathroom and so on. But no one could hear when I screamed out the window for help. I threw paper aeroplanes out but none of them landed anywhere useful.’

‘Neighours too far away,’ commented Phryne. ‘How did he press his suit?’

‘Came every day, talking, talking,’ said Polly bitterly. ‘Said my mother had agreed so I have to agree. He left food in the outer room. He kept saying that I had to marry him and now he couldn’t let me go because his stepmother would be cross with him. And my mother.’

‘Aha,’ said Tinker, then shut up.

‘Indeed,’ said Phryne. ‘I did notice that your mother was not worried about you, whereas your father was frantic.’

‘Oh, poor Dad, he must be really worried!’ exclaimed Polly. She glared at Mr. Grant. ‘Let me out of here!’

‘You’re mine,’ he said violently.

‘Sit still,’ Phryne advised him. ‘I am getting quite good at shooting people. Did he rape you, in which case he is going to jail?’ she asked Polly.

‘No. He tried to kiss me. I fought him off,’ said Polly proudly.

Phryne looked at her. Nine stone, perhaps, and fought off the fifteen stone of athletic Mr. Grant? Not likely. Not without special training. This man was simple. He had been told that Polly was his for the taking, and did not know what to do when she failed to cooperate.

‘Mr. Grant, who told you that you could have Polly?’ asked Phryne

‘Mrs. Kettle. And my stepmother. They agreed it would be a good match.’

‘I see. Mrs. Kettle has no right to give Polly away with a pound of cheese, Mr. Grant. She’s a person. And she doesn’t want to marry you. Therefore she doesn’t have to marry you. Isn’t there another girl?’

‘No!’ he roared. ‘Girls don’t like me. Girls laugh at me. They said…they said if I…’

‘If you raped her she’d have to marry to save her reputation?’ asked Phryne calmly.

He nodded. ‘But I couldn’t,’ he confessed.

‘You’re a good boy,’ said Phryne, in much the tone Ruth had used to calm Snap.

‘And we can find you a nice girl,’ said Dot, pushing Phoebe forward. ‘This is Miss Phoebe Taylor. Her father was the vicar in Castlemaine. She already loves you and is willing to marry you.’

Phryne looked at Dot in astonishment. Dot grinned. Phoebe had been quickly stripped, washed, and arrayed in one of Mr. Grant’s late mother’s dresses. It draped over her thin frame and reached to the ground, covering her stout boots. Dot had dragged her light brown hair out of its bun and combed it out so it fell gracefully over her thin shoulders. She looked very much like the illustration of the Beggar Maid in Ruth’s fairy book, as seen by Arthur Rackham.