Phryne Fisher 08 - Urn Burial by Kerry Greenwood

Author:Kerry Greenwood [Greenwood, Kerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: crime
Published: 2012-06-10T00:19:07+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

For those two which are smooth, and of no beard, are

contrived to lie undermost, as without prominent

parts, and fit to be smoothly covered.

The Garden of Cyrus , Sir Thomas Browne, Chapter III.

IN THE blackest dark, Phryne awoke.

Someone was trying her doorhandle. It had a characteristic creak. Once, twice. Then the door squeaked as someone pushed against it.

Phryne leapt out of bed, seized the poker, and crept to the door. She could hear someone breathing on the other side.

She slipped the chair out from under the handle and pulled the door wide, poker raised.

She was confronted by a shocked young man who jumped back three paces as a naked, heavily armed and undeniably female fury occupied the doorway. Her teeth were bared in a snarl and she seemed perfectly capable of decapitating him with one swipe of the iron rod she was flourishing.

‘No, no, please.’ He raised his hands.

‘Jack Lucas, what are you about?’ demanded Phryne, lowering the poker to shoulder level.

‘I was looking . . .’ the young man blushed. ‘I was looking for Gerry.’

‘And he told you that he would be here?’

‘No, no, I just guessed that . . . I’m so sorry, Miss Fisher.’

He was staring at her. Her body was slim but muscular and with the raised weapon she looked like an Art Décoratif nymph lamp. Phryne was aware that she was naked but saw no reason to do anything about it. While she had her poker she was not in any danger from this utterly embarrassed young man.

‘I think you’d better go back to bed, don’t you?’ she snapped.

‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. Please forgive me . . .’ he said. Phryne did not reply and he made an awkward bow and hurried away.

Phryne shut the door, replaced the chair and went back to bed, laying the poker within easy reach on her pillow in case there were any more alarms in the night.

Phryne awoke as Dot placed her cup of tea on the bedside table.

‘Dot, one thing must be done today, and I mean must,’ she said, sipping the healing brew. ‘Ask one of the housemen to find a nice big heavy iron bolt, the sort you put on gates, and watch him as he fits it to the inside of that door. I had two visitors last night, one invited and one very much uninvited. You’d think this was Flinders Street Station.’

‘Yes, Miss. While he’s about it he can fit one to my door, too. I don’t feel safe here.’

‘Neither do I. You can put this poker back with the fire irons, Dot, and find my Beretta. I want some bargaining power with the next intruder. By the way, Dot, did you put that urn on my dressing-table?’

‘No, Miss, of course not.’

‘Not only a bolt,’ decided Phryne, ‘but a new lock with a key as well. And find that gun, too. I’m going to have my bath.’

Dot, who did not approve of guns, laid out Phryne’s clothes for a trip to the caves:

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