Part 6 (1/2)

'But did she really think I was going to forbid her to corre-spond? I am not the stuff of a Victorian father, Dot dear.'

'Perhaps she isn't thinking too clearly,' soothed Dot.

Phryne sorted through the letters. One pile was business. One pile was trivia-invitations, thank-you letters, cards for gallery viewings and at homes. The smallest pile was always personal letters. Phryne fanned them in one hand.

'One from Father, by the look of it. One from Mother. My, we are attracting attention! And one I do not recognise. Neat handwriting, posted in Melbourne.'

Phryne ran her letter opener under the flap and there was a bright flash. She had dropped the knife and retreated to the other side of the table before the bang; Phryne could move very fast when roused. The letter caught fire and Dot swatted it with a handy plate. Nothing could make Dot burn good linen.

'You all right, Dot?' Phryne stood up.

'Yes, you?' gasped Dot, fanning herself with the plate.

'Yes. That was flash powder. Magicians use it to cover up the subst.i.tution of the pretty lady with the donkey. Someone has a quirky sense of humour, Dot dear, and when I catch them I shall insert flash powder into various crevices on their person and light it. Anything written on that enclosure?'

'It's a bit singed,' said Dot. 'I think it says ”STAY AWAY FROM THE CORPSE OR BECOME ONE” but the edge has burned off.'

Mr Butler, Mrs Butler, Molly the dog and the butcher's boy all appeared from the kitchen, expostulating.

'Pithy,' said Phryne. 'No, no need to worry, Mr Butler- you are having a morning, aren't you? Someone sent me a joke which backfired rather literally. They will, in due course, be sorry. In future, Mr B, take the mail into the garden, in case we get any more little surprises. That will be all,' said Phryne, and the Butlers went back to their tea. Phryne lit a meditative Sobranie. Dot said nothing, grieved by the black soot on the breakfast cloth.

'Never mind about the cloth,' said Phryne, blowing a smoke ring. 'The Chinese laundry will get it out. Dot, this is a very interesting development.'

'It is?' Dot was cross. 'That could have blown your hand off! Not to mention the damage to the furnis.h.i.+ngs.'

'No, there wasn't enough powder to do any real harm. It's just a warning. But don't you see, Dot, if someone is trying to stop us, it means that the body in the Ghost Train is relevant to someone alive today. I thought it was just an old mystery.'

'Well, it isn't a new mystery,' objected Dot, still ruffled. Magician's tricks in a lady's parlour! The idea! 'That nice Dr Treasure says the man has been dead since about 1857.'

'Yes, and that long dead, who would care about him? But someone does.'

'Why on earth would they worry about a man who's been dead for seventy years?'

'There is the rub, I agree.' Phryne blew another smoke ring. 'Why indeed?'

When the doorbell rang Dot went herself. The Butlers were upset and if anyone had come to follow their trick with a real threat they would have Dot to deal with.

'Yes?' she said militantly.

'Detective Constable Laurence,' said the mountain of blue serge in front of her eyes. 'To see Miss Fisher.'

'Come in,' said Dot. As he pa.s.sed her the policeman sniffed. 'Gunpowder?' he asked mildly.

'Flash powder,' replied Phryne from the door. 'Come in, Detective Constable. We have a tale to unfold.'

While Phryne was talking, Dot was examining the policeman. Dot did not like cops per se, although she was engaged to marry one and she really liked Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. This was a large household supply policeman, mild of eye and benign of glance, without the impenetrable stupidity which had been so noticeable in the police constable at Luna Park. He was listening, he was making notes, and he wasn't interrupting Miss Phryne to ask her if she was sure. This was always irritating, because Phryne was always sure.

'Then someone sent me a letter which exploded,' she finished. 'I noticed that it was posted at the GPO, then it went bang. The letter just says ”Stay away from the corpse or become one”.'

'So someone is still interested in this old murder,' said Laurence. 'This does change things, Miss Fisher. I came here to tell you that as the coroner agrees with the police expert that the body is over fifty years old, that no further action would be taken. But it means more searching. If he was killed in 1857, I don't even know that we'd have records. I know the police force was different then. There was a special unit of goldfields police with their own commander. History is a bit of a hobby of mine,' he confessed quietly, as though admitting to a shameful vice.

'And 1857 is the Gold Rush, and if my friend Lin is right, this man died in Castlemaine or thereabouts, which must have been one frightful mess of men and mud and murder. I shall have to go there and see what I can see.'

'Miss?' asked the policeman and Dot, at exactly the same moment. Dot waved the policeman to go first.

'But, Miss Fisher, if someone is threatening you...'

'Pfui,' spat Phryne. 'What would you have me do, my dear police officer? Sit at home all day and take up tatting? That wouldn't stop anyone from killing me if they really wished to do so. And they don't, or they would have. That letter could have borne a fulminate charge strong enough to blow me up- but it didn't. So they don't really want to kill me. They just want to warn me off.'

'Yes,' said Dot. 'And the sensible thing is to be warned off. Who cares about a seventy year old dead body anyway?'

'The very question I was asking of myself, Dot dear. What a clear thinker you are! What importance could he have to anyone alive? Was he someone's grandfather, perhaps? He was a bit young to even be a father, though that is a biological skill which most boys pick up quite young. Mr Burton says that Carter's show was broken down and full of unidentifiable vaguely organic things which he didn't look at, being a man of delicacy. I wonder when they acquired the mummy, and from whom? Well, that takes care of today, Dot dear. We are going to Eltham, to interview Mrs Carter.'

'But she's a nun!' gasped Dot.

'And?'

'You can't just walk up to a convent and demand to see a nun. They're cloistered. You have to write to Reverend Mother and make an appointment.'

'What about emergencies?'

'Miss, the man is dead seventy years, one more day won't matter,' argued Dot, who felt strongly about the sanct.i.ty of convents.

'I suppose so. What enquiries will you be making, Detective Constable?'

'Er...well, Miss Fisher, we shall have to investigate... well, actually, I don't know.'

'Yes, it is difficult, isn't it? No scene of the crime, no suspects, no name. But we do have a clue. The newspaper. You can call the constable in Castlemaine and ask him to search for a local newspaper with the t.i.tle... Mail. And then turn to the paper for the period around the 27th of July 1857 and find out the rest of the heading. Attempted expulsion at . . . somewhere. That would be very useful. That would prove the origin of the newspaper. But it isn't significant for our man,' she added. 'He should look for any accounts of a murdered man. You have the description. Someone killed him and someone else must have missed him-because they are still missing him.'

'Yes, Miss Fisher,' said Laurence, scribbling in his notebook.

Lin Chung was sitting in the garden under an arbour of white star jasmine, watching a very old man make tea for an incred-ibly old man. This took time and the process could not be rushed.

Lin was nervous. Defying-even in a mild and roundabout way-the grandmother whom he had obeyed all his life was less pleasant than he had antic.i.p.ated. He was very fond of that alarming old lady and did not want to hurt her feelings. But Lin Wan and her children had been welcomed so delightedly by her old mother that he felt justified in solving the feud. Feuds! In the twentieth century! People would think that all Chinese were barbarians, nailed to their past.

Therefore watching the slow movement of old Uncle as he fanned the brazier and dropped the tea leaves into the pot was soothing. Great Great Uncle Lin Gan was sitting at his ease in a padded chair, sucking his teeth. Age had shrivelled him, burning off all fat and muscle and taking his hair with it. He still had a long beard of which he was inordinately proud and was otherwise a light armful of bones and bad temper. He reminded Lin uncomfortably of the mummy from the Ghost Train.

Lin, trained from childhood to be courteous to his elders, usually avoided Lin Gan because his only conversation consisted of (1) The Good Old Days coupled with (2) The Bad New Days when boys were not polite to their elders, food had no taste and the weather was cold enough to freeze his bones.

And now he didn't talk much, but sat in the sun when there was any, by the fire when there wasn't, and gazed into the past, where he had been young and strong and bold.

The tea was poured. Lin Gan tasted, spat, tasted again, and nodded to old Uncle w.a.n.g that he could go. When the uncle had gone, Lin produced a flask of Scotch whisky, which he knew the old man loved, and unscrewed the lid. The tortoise head came up and the black eyes bored into Lin's.

'Young men should not drink whisky,' he snapped.

'I know, Great Great Uncle. I brought it for you.'