Murder and Mendelssohn (Phryne Fisher Mystery) by Kerry Greenwood

Author:Kerry Greenwood
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Retail
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2013-09-15T14:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

How doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour,

And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower!

Isaac Watts

‘Against Idleness and Mischief’

Phryne lunched with Bert and Cec, then went for a fast thinking walk on the beach. She was rather counting on no Harley being able to sneak up on her, as she understood that motorbikes did not do well in deep sand. Then again, if they were like dispatch riders’ bikes, which continued to operate even in Somme mud, this might be optimistic. However, no riders careered across the dunes, and she and Molly had a pleasant walk, except for the moment that Molly sighted Mr Brown, she snarled and he ran away.

Which was rather invigorating than otherwise.

She returned to a light afternoon tea and the news that Dot was going to a dance with Hugh Collins, Tinker and Jane had started a marathon chess tournament, and Ruth was cooking dinner. Mrs Butler had allowed her free rein of her precious kitchen. Mrs Butler had a tendresse for Ronald Colman, and there was a new film.

So it was going to be a very quiet, studious sort of night. Phryne knew that she had to stay out of the kitchen, where Ruth would be touchy about visitors. She also knew that she had to stay out of the parlour, because Tinker needed to concentrate. Many skills have been acquired by men for love of woman, and chess looked to be Tinker’s love-offering.

Couldn’t hurt. But that left Phryne with her own rooms or the garden for the perusal of her plan to bring down Ratcliffe. She did not feel entirely secure from being seen in the garden, so she retired to her rooms until Jane should trounce Tinker and Ruth should announce dinner. Molly was on guard by the back gate and the front door was locked.

Phryne sat on her sofa, rolling a bullet round and round in her fingers. It had been extracted from the coachwork of the Hispano-Suiza. A .45, definitely. She wished there was some way to tell which gun a bullet had been fired from. She stared at the bullet. It remained uninformative.

She tossed it into a dish of hatpins and went down to the drawing room for a drink.

•

She had not heard from John Wilson all day. Phryne wondered if Rupert was keeping him close, or at least away from Phryne. A promising development, if so, but it left Phryne at rather a loose end.

She was just trying to decide on whether a gin and tonic—which would mean going into the kitchen for ice—or a glass of wine—which would mean going down to the cellar—would improve her mood more, when the doorbell rang and Phryne went to answer it, pistol in hand.

John Wilson seemed a little surprised by his reception. He put up both hands and dropped his stick with a clatter.

‘I surrender,’ he told her.

‘Come in,’ said Phryne, grabbing the cane and allowing him to lean on her shoulder. ‘And let me listen for a moment.

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