Bound by Mystery Page 25

  ‘Both, I hope. And possibly to solve a mystery. I’m here to see Captain Spencer, and I’ll dine with him. Dot will be delighted to have dinner here, though.’

  ‘I might have an idea or two about this, if it’s what I think it is. So what did our cop want with you?’

  ‘He stopped me in the middle of the road in Daylesford. And when he found out I was staying here, he warned me off.’

  ‘He wouldn’t know if a tram was up his backside till the conductor rang the bell. And he’s got it in for my brother. But let’s talk about that later. You’ll want a rest, I’m sure.’

  Dulcie disappeared again, and Phryne made small talk with Alice. Dot admired the strong tea and had three cups. Then they retired to their rooms, and Phryne sat on the balcony, smoking a cigarette and admiring the quiet, elegant village below her. The room was tasteful, well-furnished, and unobtrusive in the right way. And the whole house smelled deliciously of lemon floor wax and lavender. She could hear the small river in the distance, buoyed by early spring rains. Phryne wondered if Dulcie’s brother might be Sergeant Offaly’s suspect for the girl’s disappearance. It seemed likely enough. She sighed, and went inside for forty winks. The bed was magnificent, and she was asleep in a moment.

  ***

  Dot and Phryne came downstairs shortly before dinner. Dot was dressed as before, but Phryne had attired herself in cream-coloured trousers, a white Russian blouson with pearl buttons on the left, and a French biretta stuck at a rakish angle. She considered that she looked not only beautiful, but also visible. Since she had noted the dearth of streetlighting, this might be advisable in Hepburn Springs by night. She found a distrait young man lamenting quietly to Dulcie. He looked gentle, but easily broken. His face was pale, and his dark eyes darted back and forth without rest. Dulcie sat him down. ‘A drink, Phryne? Dot?’

  ‘A gin and tonic, please.’ Phryne looked at Dot, who shook her head.

  ‘This is my brother, Aubrey, Phryne,’ announced Dulcie, shaking gin, ice, and tonic into a glass. ‘He’s one of Captain Spencer’s patients. And that Sergeant—’

  ‘He’s watching us!’ Aubrey’s hands clenched in his lap.

  ‘I’ve met him,’ said Phryne, patting his arm. Aubrey shied as if he had been stung like a wasp.

  ‘My girl is lost, and he thinks I killed her! I’d rather die than hurt her! We want to get married! And I don’t know what’s happened to her.’ Aubrey buried his head in his hands.

  ‘Tell me about her.’ Aubrey looked at her, and his sister.

  ‘Miss Fisher is a private detective, Aubrey. I’m sure she can help.’

  Aubrey laid both hands on his chair and seemed to calm down. ‘Helena is one of the masseuses at the spa. She’s only seventeen, but she loves me, and I love her.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘I’ve been taking the waters, and she was looking after me. Captain Spencer is doing really well with us. And the nurses—well, they’re not really nurses, but you get the idea—are so kind. When they massage you, and speak softly, and you feel the bubbling waters around you, then you can forget—the guns. And she started spending more time with me. I have shellshock, you know. I managed Gallipoli, but…the Western Front—we’re not cowards, no matter what they say. It’s just—’

  Aubrey’s lips started trembling, and Phryne spoke soothingly. ‘It’s all right, Aubrey. You don’t have to explain. I was there, driving an ambulance. I remember. It was the guns pounding for days on end. And one day you can’t bear it any longer.’

  Dulcie was at Aubrey’s side, hugging him. ‘Take your valerian drops, Aubrey. Come on.’

  Aubrey rummaged in his pocket and brought out a small bottle. Dulcie put a glass of water on the wooden table in front of him, and he shook several drops into it. He sipped carefully at it, and when it was finished he replaced it on the table. Then he leaned back in his chair and sighed. At that moment, a silver tabby cat entered the room, sniffing. ‘Hello, Tamsin,’ said Dulcie. ‘Come for your fix?’

  Tamsin flowed upwards and landed on the table without a sound. Her red-brick nose sniffed at the glass. Soon she was rubbing her head around the rim of the glass, purring in ecstasy. Finally the little cat put her head right inside the glass and began to roll around the table on her side. The glass rolled off the table, but Dulcie caught it dextrously in mid-air. Dot giggled, and Dulcie placed the glass on the floor. ‘Come on down, Tamsin.’

  The cat thought about this, and leapt down, resuming her love affair with the empty glass. ‘Not all cats like valerian,’ Phryne observed, ‘but she certainly does.’ Aubrey’s hunched shoulders began to relax, and he managed a smile. Phryne began to sing:

  ‘Take a sniff, take a sniff, take a sniff on me; I’ve got the Valerian Blues.’

  Aubrey laughed, and Phryne stood up. ‘Have fun, Dot. I am off to see Captain Spencer.’

  ‘You know the way?’ Dulcie asked. ‘You can’t miss it. Straight down the road to the bend. It’s on your right.’

  ‘Take care, Miss Phryne,’ Dot called after her.

  ‘I will.’ It was a cool twilight, but the walk to the spa was barely a hundred yards. Yellow lights shone from several houses, and there were small, cosy movements in the trees. Nocturnal possums were probably foraging already. And the sound of water was soothing. She knocked at the door of the red-brick building, and waited. Almost immediately the door opened, and soft light welled out into the valley. Phryne drew in her breath. Captain Spencer (or so she must assume) stood before her and shook her hand. ‘So good of you to come,’ he said. He was everything she could have wished for in a dining companion: taller than some, but slender-hipped, with firm shoulders; impeccable evening dress; steady hazel eyes; clear, slightly tanned complexion; and a friendly smile. His navy blue suit, white shirt, and starched cuffs were impeccable. He took her hand, led her inside, and conducted her into a small, carpeted alcove at the edge of a larger dining room. A silver(ish) candelabra with three beeswax candles stood in the centre of a spotless tablecloth. The table was set for two, with treble wineglasses on each side. ‘Please, sit down,’ he invited.

  It was indeed most inviting. But Herbert fixed Phryne with a steady eye. ‘I am afraid I have a confession to make. We are all vegetarians here. All of us have seen too much blood, and we cannot abide it. But humans do not require it. Legumes are an endless source of sustenance. And of course Australia has magnificent vegetables and fruit.’

  This promised to be a dreary meal: with everything boiled to extinction. Every remnant of taste and nourishment would be expelled from the sad remnants of whimpering vegetation, and the cadavers would be reanimated with bicarbonate of soda. She smiled brightly, but her heart sank. As soon as they were both seated, a youngish woman in a plain black dress with a spotless white apron appeared with a bottle. She filled two of the glasses, nodded to Phryne, and disappeared back into kitchen. Herbert grinned shyly. ‘I hope you like this. It is herbal wine, such as I give my patients.’ Seeing her eyes flicker with momentary dismay, he added hastily: ‘I have a Barossa valley red and a Taltarni dessert wine to follow.’

  Mollified, Phryne drank. It was unexpectedly sweet, and strongly flavoured with mint, thyme, sage, marjoram, basil, and some others that she could not identify.

  ‘There is a romantic story attached to this wine,’ Herbert expounded. ‘A monastery was in desperate straits, and a monk dreamed that a stranger would come and save them. Next day a shipwrecked sailor was cast ashore, and they took him in. They shared what little they had with him, and told him of their direst poverty. When they showed him their herb garden, the mariner laughed and showed them how to make this wine. They kept his secret, and sold most of what they made at a high enough price to pay their debts, and prosper ever afterwards.’

  Phryne drank a little more. ‘It is more subtle than I expected. Well done! I take it the recipe is a secret no more?’

  He
smiled. ‘I found it in The Gentle Art of Cookery. So I did not break any confidences. But my poor guests find it most restorative.’

  ‘Tell me about them,’ said Phryne, as the silent woman reappeared with two bowls of potage Lorraine. It smelt delicious, and was: onions, carrots, celery, and haricot beans in a fine stock.

  ‘Merci, Violette,’ said Herbert. As the woman disappeared again, Phryne lifted one eyebrow. ‘I found her in France, and brought her here. Her fiancé and all her family were killed in the war, and she wanted nothing more to do with Europe. Or men,’ he added.

  ‘But she likes you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But not in that way.’ He dropped his eyes for a moment, and resumed. ‘You know that shellshock is a disease, and not malingering?’

  ‘Indeed I do. I have seen brave men lying in their beds inert, unable to respond.’

  ‘The term is dissociation. They see without seeing, and hear without hearing. Sometimes they even lose the power of speech. It took a long while for anyone to understand. They are beaten down by blood, gunfire, and accumulating horror. And it can only be cured by prolonged rest and recuperation.’

  ‘Which you provide. I understand you use baths, massage, and quiet? Have you tried music?’

  Captain Spencer looked pleased. ‘Yes. We encourage them to sing, individually and together. You are staying at the Mooltan, I hear? Then perhaps you have met Aubrey? He has a fine tenor voice. I am encouraging him. Violette plays the piano and accompanies him.’

  ‘Yes, I have. Speaking of Aubrey and his beloved; could Helena have run away?’ she inquired. ‘Maybe she hitched a ride on a passing truck and ran off to Melbourne?’

  ‘No. She’s happy here. And her grandpa is very ill, and needs help. She wouldn’t run away. And Aubrey really does love her. They will do well together. If she can be found.’

  Violette cleared away the soup plates, and brought out a bottle of rich, red wine. Herbert drew the cork, poured little into his glass and sniffed it, nodded, and filled two glasses.

  The main course was laid before her. ‘And what do we have here?’ Phryne inquired.

  ‘Vegetarian loaf, potatoes Lyonnaise, glazed onions, épinards au sucre, and navets glacés,’ Herbert announced.

  ‘It looks wonderful,’ Phryne enthused, and stuck her fork into the épinards. If Violette could make spinach and turnips fit for a civilized dinner table, then she really was a cook in a thousand. Soon Phryne stared at her miraculously empty platter, and laid down her fork. A slow smile crossed Herbert’s manly features.

  ‘You are surprised?’

  ‘I am.’ Violette appeared again as if by sorcery. Phryne smiled at her. ‘Mille remerciements, Madame. C’etait magnifique.’ Violette smiled briefly, and exited. Phryne turned to the Captain. ‘What was in that vegetable loaf? ‘It was wonderful, but—’

  ‘Eggplant, celery, cottage cheese, breadcrumbs and—sundry other things.’ He gestured vaguely in the direction of Madame. In due course Violette brought out the dessert wine, crème chocolat, and surprisingly excellent coffee. They chatted easily of the sights of Paris. It seemed that he had met Violette there. The sweet, fruity wine was excellent. Herbert’s eyes began to shine, and Phryne noticed his eyes constantly upon her. This did not displease her at all. As Violette came to clear away the plates, Phryne spoke with her quickly in low voices; but as the conversation was in the patois of Montparnasse, Captain Spencer did not catch a word until Phryne’s smiling Bon, d’accord! and Violette’s Oueh! At length Herbert rose to his feet.

  ‘Phryne, that was wonderful. Thank you for your charming company.’ Phryne nodded, embraced Violette and kissed her in the French fashion. To Herbert she extended her gloveless hand for him to kiss, which he did with enthusiasm. At the same time Phryne leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Herbert. I would love to see more of the spa in the morning, if that it is convenient. Shall we say nine o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect. Shall I walk you home?’ He conducted her to the door, and Phryne shook her head.

  ‘It’s not far, but I’d like to listen to the forest for a little.’ By myself, she thought silently. Not that you aren’t extremely pleasant company.

  ***

  Next morning dawned bright, still, and cold. Phryne rose late. Over a splendid English breakfast she outlined her evening with Herbert, and Dot frowned.

  ‘Miss Phryne, I wonder about this tonic he’s been giving his patients.’

  Phryne speared a piece of bacon with her fork, and paused. ‘What about it, Dot?’

  ‘Miss, what about the licensing laws? You said it had alcohol.’ Phryne looked questioningly at her companion.

  ‘I never even thought about that, Dot.’

  Dot smiled faintly. ‘No, Miss. I suppose you wouldn’t. But it’s serious. He could go to prison for this, couldn’t he?’

  Phryne put down her fork and stared at her companion. ‘What are you suggesting, Dot?’

  Dot folded her napkin. ‘Miss, what if Helena threatened to tell on him, so he kidnapped her?’

  Phryne ate a little more eggs and bacon, considering this. ‘He certainly has a strong motive, in that case. I wonder? Can one smile, and smile, and yet be a villain? If so, why would he have dragged me into this?’

  ‘Well, Miss, maybe he likes Aubrey and hopes to put the blame on someone else.’

  ‘I suppose it had to happen one day. The villain calls in the detective, hoping to outwit her. But there is another problem. The only policeman around here is Sergeant Offaly. Can you see Helena wanting to tell him anything at all? And what’s her motive?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘It’s possible. We will have to bear your theory in mind, Dot.’ Phryne felt a shiver down her lower back. She had been sorely tempted by the Captain. Rule One of Detection: never get romantically involved with suspects. ‘All right, Dot. I’ll go and have a look at the spa by daylight. You scout around town, see what they think of Helena, if you can. And anything else you can find out.’

  Dot walked easily around the corner to the main shopping strip. She bought a pint of milk (twopence) from the general store, and received the information that Helena was a good girl who would never run away. She bought an apple from the greengrocer (a penny), who deplored the absence of Helena and what a good girl she was. The baker was more forthcoming. Mrs Simpson (for so the wooden sign proclaimed her) sold Dot a half-loaf of fresh bread and a meat pie (sixpence).

  ‘My pies are famous, you know,’ she volunteered. ‘I sell lots to Paddy the publican.’ As if giving away state secrets, Mrs Simpson leaned forward and divulged in a stage whisper, ‘Those poor soldiers live upstairs at the pub, you know. And that nice Captain Spencer won’t let them eat meat. But when they can’t stand any more of the Captain’s vegetables, Paddy lets them eat my pies!’

  ‘Have you heard anything about that missing girl?’ Dot ventured. Mrs Simpson looked downcast.

  ‘She’s so sweet. And I don’t believe that Aubrey had anything to do with it, either. He’s a good man, the poor soul!’ Dot hovered by a tray of cakes, since Mrs Simpson seemed inclined to talk. ‘Did you hear? Vern is going to stay at the pub in future!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m new here. Who is Vern?’

  Mrs Simpson looked maternal. ‘He’s a big man: a bit simple, but kind as anything. He lives with his brother at the bottling plant, you know; but he’ll be better off in the pub. That brother of his—that Sid—he’s a bad ’un: mean and spiteful.’ The baker leaned forward confidentially. ‘But I should tell you about Vern. You’ll know him when you see him. He likes looking at girls, so he’ll want to look at you. But mind: he won’t offer you offence. He’s gentle as they come, is Vern. Can I help you with one of those sponge cakes, Miss? They’re fresh this morning.’

  Dot declined politely, and took her purchases back to Mooltan for a cup of tea and a lie-do
wn.

  ***

  Captain Spencer met Phryne in the vestibule of the spa. It was red-brick—long, low, and exuding comfort from every cornice. Herbal scents filled the atmosphere, and Phryne inhaled deeply.

  ‘We use many different scents,’ expounded the Captain. ‘We discovered that lavender is very good for asthma. And others are sovereign for different ailments.’ Phryne looked steadily at him. He wore the same navy blue suit as he had worn the previous night. His face was steady, grave, but good-humoured. Was this kind philanthropist a kidnapper, and possible murderer? He showed her everything: the massage cubicles, the little bathrooms with their bathtubs, the big, heated pool in the centre.

  ‘Would you care for a bath and massage yourself?’ he concluded.

  Not even a hint of tension, Phryne considered. If he really is the culprit, then he is a dangerous adversary. She undressed in one of the cubicles and had a sumptuous bath, scented with lavender. The water was unlike anything she had ever encountered: warm and spritzig to the touch. She could feel the mineral salts gently scouring her skin, and smoothing away the tension in her limbs. She arose, threw her wrap around herself and was conducted by one of the masseuses into another alcove. ‘Hello,’ said a pretty girl in a white dressing gown. ‘I’m Sheila. Just lie down on the bed, Miss, and I’ll do the rest.’

  Phryne lay on her front in silence while strong hands kneaded her back, shoulders, arms, and legs. This would be the standard massage for the soldiers, she assumed: personal without being indecorous. ‘You’ve probably heard about Helena,’ Sheila volunteered. ‘A terrible business.’

  ‘Could she have run away, do you think?’

  Both Sheila’s hands began to drum on her back in a jazzy rhythm. Phryne considered that being treated as a percussion instrument was a little over the odds, but Sheila should be encouraged to talk.

  ‘Never, Miss. She couldn’t have been happier here.’