Death by Water

Author:Kerry Greenwood [Greenwood, Kerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: A Phyrne Fisher Mystery
Published: 2011-02-22T22:00:00+00:00

When she returned to the dancing the Melody Makers were in full swing and the room was thronged with costumed people.

‘Who,’ demanded Jo in her sweet tenor, ‘stole my heart away?

Who?’ Phryne sat down until the song was over, and before then Theodore Green found her. She was still the only woman he could dance with. All others retired lightly trampled. And Miss Fisher was only wearing slippers! He could really hurt her!

But she glided into his arms and it was all right again. He forgot what his errant feet were doing and he heard no cries of pain from his second waistcoat button, where her neat black head rested. ‘We’ll make hay while the sun shines,’ promised Jo. ‘We’ll make love when it rains.’ Navigation Officer Green danced and was happy.

Phryne liked dancing with the Navigation Officer. He didn’t mind her leading. Of course, given his level of terpsi-chorean skill, he might not have noticed she was leading . . .

‘I wonder why all the songs say that they can only be happy in a nice country cottage with Old Mister Moon shining in through the window?’ she asked. ‘Most people I know would be bored to tears in a week. The country is really quite crude, you know.’

‘I don’t know,’ he responded. ‘I’ve been at sea since I was thirteen. Before that I lived in an industrial slum. Not a lot of greenery there, unless you count the scum on the river. I might ask Mr Cahill,’ he said, as Mrs Cahill floated past in the experienced arms of the captain, who knew what he liked and was dancing with her.

‘He’d tell you that you needed ten thousand acres before 218

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you could even start,’ said Phryne. Mr Cahill was dancing with Mrs Singer and had even coaxed her into a laugh.

‘Miss Lemmon has taken a shine to that Mason boy,’ said Theodore Green as the rani and Death circled past. Phryne tried to look at the navigation officer’s face, which is hard to do while dancing a foxtrot.

‘I fancy she feels sisterly,’ she said, in case Miss Lemmon inclined towards a belief in the saying that every nice girl loves a sailor. ‘He needs a sister.’

‘He needs a straitjacket,’ said Mr Green with uncharacter-istic energy. ‘And that Thomas, he ought to be the boy’s keeper.

He doesn’t seem to be doing his job. He got drunk with three stokers this morning and I had to confine him to sickbay until he stopped carrying on.’

‘What was he saying?’ asked Phryne.

‘Oh, that he knew things, and people would see what it was to discard him, things like that. Just gibberish,’ said Theodore Green kindly. ‘It takes some people that way.’

‘So it does,’ agreed Phryne.

The evening went on. The band played. Phryne collected some champagne—that’s not the good champagne, Mam’selle, as Pierre the wine waiter had told her, slipping her a glass of Clicquot—and wandered over to greet the Melody Makers.

She observed Lizbet Yates take

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