Part 15 (2/2)

'Miss Fisher,' he said gloomily. Phryne could envisage his unremarkable countenance and smell the dank scent of police station tea, which in other places would have been cla.s.sified as 'drain cleaner' or 'tar derivative'.

'Jack dear,' Phryne began. 'I'm in Castlemaine. Just wondered if anything had turned up on that bit of newspaper found in the mummy.'

'Oh, yes, Miss Fisher, it was the Mount Alexander Mail all right.'

'Good. The man's name is, in all probability, the Lord Thomas Beaconsfield, son of the Marquess of Harborough. He vanished one night in 1857 from the goldfields along with his mate. All I know about the mate is that he was a pink-faced lad called Chumley.'

'And you found this by . . .?' he trailed the question. She could hear him making notes. Jack Robinson was always supplied with at least a dozen very sharp pencils.

'Listening for half the night to an amazing local bore. I have, however, his dad's reminiscences of the goldfields, which contain, among other things, this information. The dad in question, one Jim Harrison, moved into the abandoned Beaconsfield claim and struck it moderately rich.'

'How did Beaconsfield end up as an Egyptian mummy?' asked Jack Robinson, reflecting that it was a question he had never asked before in a lifetime of asking questions.

'One Professor Beecham, who embalmed unclaimed corpses, seems to have done it, and then the body was sold with his effects to Carter's Travelling Miracles and Marvels Show. He became the Wild Colonial Boy, to be sold later to Luna Park as a rather unconvincing cowboy. Come to think of it, the original moleskins had TB embroidered inside the waistband. You can check.'

'Good. Now, why is anyone interested in him in 1928?'

Phryne sighed.

'A very good question, and one to which I do not have the answer.'

'Hmm,' said Robinson.

'However, it is probable that a relative, Lady Alice Harbor-ough, is in Australia. And also that Roderick Cholmondeley, heir of the Duke of Dunstable, may be the person sending my household surprise packages.'

'I'll look into that,' said Robinson. 'Already found out a bit about the Roderick boy. He's been making enquiries up and down about an Amelia Gascoigne, who kept a boarding house in Port. Hired a private detective, who mentioned it to one of our blokes. Been looking up birth certificates, he has. Says it's a change from lurking outside hotel rooms. Ran advertis.e.m.e.nts in all the papers. Cholmondeley is staying at Scott's and we are keeping an eye on him. Luna Park wants to talk to him about sabotaging their mermaid to deliver bad fortunes. Funny sense of humour, the n.o.bility. We found the owner of that motor-cycle which nearly ran Miss Dot down. It was a hired bike. The hirer was described as a thin, darkish bloke with no identifying marks who might have been English. He paid a pound for a week's hire and brought it back after one day. Gave an address in Station Street, Port Melbourne which does not exist. According to the owner of the bike he gave his name as Thomas Atkins.'

'Oh, very funny,' said Phryne flatly.

'Might be a clue. He might have been a soldier. You staying in Castlemaine?'

'For the present. I'm at the Imperial. You can call me here and leave a message.'

'Very well, Miss Fisher. Nice little town. You can't get into too much trouble in Castlemaine.'

'I devoutly hope not,' Phryne told him, and hung up. She had just seen Lin Chung walk past and strolled out to fall in behind him.

He walked slowly, enjoying the air, and turned at the corner to go into the art gallery, housed in the post office until the splendid new gallery could be built. Since the arguments about it had gone on since 1913, and would probably continue, the paintings were safe enough where they were, in this staid stone building on the corner of Lyttleton and Barker Streets. There was something satisfying about a building with a bell tower. Especially when it was crammed with paintings.

'I have always thought Elioth Gruner underappreciated,' she remarked quietly to the elegant figure in the ca.s.sock. 'Australia is so suited to post impressionism.'

'The quality of the light,' agreed Lin, not looking around from his perusal of In the Orchard. 'This McCubbin is partic-ularly fine. You can feel the settling, peaceful chill as the sun goes down and the man returns to family and dinner and firelight.'

'I always thought of him as a swaggie, hoping for a bed in the cowshed and a handout,' said Phryne.

Lin smiled and did not reply.

'How are you getting on with your puzzle?' asked Phryne.

'I think I shall have some more pieces of the jigsaw in a few hours,' he said. 'I have been playing the bountiful young master and it is surprisingly pleasant. You?'

'I've got the mummy's name and when he died and who embalmed him and why, and how he got to Luna Park,' she said. 'But why someone is pursuing me now-not the faintest. This is a good collection, isn't it? Someone must have bought up bundles of post impressionists when the place still had some gold left over.'

'This has always been a prosperous place,' replied Lin. 'It has that comfortably wealthy feeling about it, as though it hasn't starved or been seriously threatened for a long time. Very hard to stay alert. Ah! Here is a map of the diggings.'

'What a mess,' said Phryne. 'Holes everywhere. I see that they closed the camp and made everyone move into their nice, well laid out town. A good idea. Did you find your Chinese people?'

'Yes, in Union Street. They are terribly poor. I have just bought a lot of furniture and goods and talked to Tonks about sending a builder to repair three of the cottages and build another one, demolis.h.i.+ng a bark shack in which a very old pros-t.i.tute was lying on the floor... but I have done better than just buying them presents. I have brought them Miss Fuchsia.'

He explained about Fuchsia. Phryne was impressed.

'I suppose she was restless and discontented because she had no scope to show what she could do,' she remarked, moving to look at a fine Rupert Bunny painting of a woman and child at the beach. 'She's probably another Grandmother Lin in training.'

'That is a frightening thought,' said Lin gravely. 'And you are probably right.'

'Do you think,' said Phryne, 'that someone would go to all this trouble, bombs and a.s.saults and so on, just for the honour of their family?'

'It is possible,' Lin replied. 'We would be looking for a very young, idealistic person to whom their family was very important, though. I don't know how many of them there are in this modern world.'

'Hmm,' she said. 'I believe that there may be one. But better I should look for a baser motive, I think.'

'Always wise,' agreed Lin. 'One can always rely on base motives.'

'Have a cup of coffee with me?'

'I had better get back to Union Street. But I will see you tonight,' said Lin. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, considering the Rupert Bunny, and Lin's hand moved very gently to touch the back of Phryne's hand. A thrill ran right through her, grounding in the base of her spine.

'Tonight,' she said.

In a nearby mirror she watched his slim back as he walked out of the post office. She sighed and continued her perusal of the gallery's collection.

When Lin returned to Union Street it had been transformed. The bark hut had been felled-one touch would have done it, Lin decided-and the remains removed, and a taciturn man and a boy in a straw hat were measuring for foundations. The s.p.a.ce under the pepper trees had been swept and sprinkled with water to lay the dust, and the trestle table had been erected. On it was a red tablecloth, for celebration, and all of the food which he had brought from Melbourne, with the addition of mounds of rice. He saw new dishes, chopsticks, plates, cups, and each setting had its own teapot. These were not new. They were clearly old and valued companions. A Chinese household may be bare of every comfort and down to its last brush and sewing needle, but it always has a teapot.

The residents, too, had been transformed. At one end of the table sat the priest, Ching Ta, his beard freshly combed, wearing a new s.h.i.+rt. Next to him were two very old ladies wearing art silk dresses patterned with hibiscus flowers; one blue, one yellow. Two old men, which must have been Mr Lo and his brother, were wearing their own clothes, and the third lady, Mrs Lo, had the red version of the hibiscus dress.

The greatest transformation of all was to be found in an old woman who had clearly once been very beautiful. Her abundant white hair had been washed and dressed in a chignon with a high comb. Old Lady Chang was dressed in an elaborate embroidered gown. She had been propped up with several pillows and while she might not have been able to endure sitting up for long, she was magnificent for the moment. Lin bowed to the table in general.

'Adoptive relatives,' he said, deciding that extreme formality would please them, 'I have provided a small and unpalatable dinner for you. Will it please you to taste it?'

'It pleases, Adoptive Grandson,' said Ching Ta, reaching for the lacquered duck. Ching Ta's view was that if you are going to break vows, you should break them hard and repent after-wards. 'And while we are eating, perhaps you will tell us what brings such a munificent benefactor to our unimportant hovels?'

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