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  Katherine Kovacic has written short stories, true crime and crime fiction. Her debut novel, The Portrait of Molly Dean, was shortlisted for the 2019 Ned Kelly Awards for Best First Fiction, and is the first of three books in the Alex Clayton art mystery series.

  Katherine frequently lives in her head with her characters but generally maintains a physical presence in Melbourne.

  ALSO BY KATHERINE KOVACIC

  TRUE CRIME

  The Schoolgirl Strangler

  THE ALEX CLAYTON ART MYSTERIES

  The Shifting Landscape

  Painting in the Shadows

  The Portrait of Molly Dean

  First published in 2021

  Copyright © Every Cloud Productions, 2021

  Written by Katherine Kovacic, based on Ms Fisher’s Modern Murder Mysteries television series episode 1, written by Deb Cox.

  The television series, Ms Fisher’s Modern Murder Mysteries, was created by Deb Cox and Fiona Eagger and inspired by Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, the TV series based on the Phryne Fisher mystery books by Kerry Greenwood. Produced by Every Cloud Productions for Seven Network Australia, in association with Screen Australia, Film Victoria and Fulcrum Media Finance © 2019.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100

  Email:[email protected]

  Web:www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76087 939 6

  eISBN 978 1 76106 244 5

  Set by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Cover design: Christabella Designs

  Cover photograph: Ben King

  FOR ADVENTURESSES EVERYWHERE

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Acknowledgements

  Adversity and challenge were nothing new to the members of the Adventuresses’ Club of the Antipodes, but disturbing events had plunged them deep into unfamiliar territory.

  That morning a package had been delivered. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, and nor was this particular package entirely unexpected. Unwanted, yes, but not unexpected.

  Samuel Birnside—honorary member and odd-job man—had answered the postman’s ring and met him at the solid iron gate set precisely halfway along the perimeter wall. Having intercepted the package, he’d intended to take it straight inside, but instead found himself unable to move, staring at the brown paper, the numerous stamps that identified its point of origin and the spidery black handwriting. The unfamiliar scrawl hit him like a punch to the stomach, and Samuel realised a part of him had been hoping to see the address written in the firm, flamboyant style he knew so well.

  But no.

  Giving himself a mental shake, Samuel pushed his glasses firmly up the bridge of his nose, rolled his shoulders, and tugged at the hem of his cardigan, settling it more comfortably. Then he turned towards the grandiose mansion and prepared to deliver the news.

  He had hoped to make it all the way to the Camelot Room, the nerve centre of the Adventuresses’ Club, but Birdie met him in the entry porch. Dressed in her customary jodhpurs and turtleneck, the club president’s face was pale, the lines radiating from the corners of her eyes more prominent than usual. Today she seemed just as weighed down as the statues that supported the arch above her head.

  She looked at the package and then at Samuel. ‘So it’s arrived.’

  Meeting her eye, Samuel could only nod.

  Without another word, she turned and preceded him into the house.

  Inside the Camelot Room, Birdie moved to stand behind her assigned chair, gripping the backrest upon which was affixed a small brass plaque that proclaimed it the rightful place of Adventuress Birnside.

  Samuel placed the package in front of her, then retrieved a pair of scissors from the bureau. ‘You’ll want to open it first.’ He passed her the scissors, and Birdie prodded the parcel with the tip of the blades, reluctant to discover its contents.

  ‘She only took that case because of me.’

  ‘Birdie! You can’t blame yourself. Since when did Phryne Fisher do anything she didn’t want to do?’

  Birdie shook her head slowly, eyes glistening. If it had been anyone else, Samuel would have called them tears. But crying was not something Birdie tended to indulge in. Nonetheless, he moved a little closer, standing behind his sister’s shoulder in silent solidarity.

  ‘Right.’ Birdie took a deep breath and slashed through the string in a single motion. The outer layers of brown paper fell away, revealing a battered tin of the type that usually contained an assortment of chocolates or sweet biscuits. Placing the scissors carefully to one side, she prised off the lid and pushed back the banana leaves that had been used as padding.

  Samuel and Birdie both leaned forward and peered at the contents of the tin. A revolver, its gilt barrel and pearl handle stained with mud.

  Birdie slammed the lid back down with a dull clunk. ‘Meeting. Here. Now,’ she said.

  Samuel nodded once and hurried from the room to summon the other Adventuresses.

  Founded in 1900, while women in most parts of Australia were still fighting for the right to vote, the Adventuresses’ Club of the Antipodes was variously home or home-away-from-home to a number of women from all walks of life: women of outstanding achievement, women of skill and talent, women whose courage and tenacity were beyond question. In short, women of vision—who pushed against the limits of 1964 society—found kindred spirits within the walls of the mansion on Greenwood Place.

  Samuel traced a path through the building, opening doors, knocking discreetly or raising his voice depending on the Adventuress he was trying to rouse. In the ballroom, two women were engaged in a fencing bout, almost dancing across the floor in a series of parries and ripostes. At the sight of Samuel they stopped and raised their masks.

  ‘Meeting. Camelot Room,’ he said.

  Leaning out a window, he spotted botanist Minnie Bell kneeling among the plants. ‘Dr Bell! Camelot Room.’

  As word spread, Adventuresses began to appear, alerted by their colleagues or by the atmosphere now filling the house: anxiety, anticipation, and a sense of foreboding.

  Samuel knocked on one last door, swinging it open without waiting for a reply. Inside, Violetta Fellini was engrossed in an experiment. Not wanting to interrupt, he paused and watched for a moment. Violetta was a study in contrasts: a classic beauty with a strict Italian upbringing who had never married, a warm and generous personality disguised by a severe hairstyle, and a shyness that at one time had tended to hide a brilliant scientific mind. It was only when she found the Adven
turesses’ Club that Violetta had begun to be comfortable in her own skin. Now, in her state-of-the-art laboratory, every movement was deft and assured and her face was continually lighting up with the joy of discovery.

  A beaker of blue liquid bubbled over a Bunsen burner. Violetta drew a minuscule quantity of something brown from a test tube and, using a long pipette, carefully added two drops to the beaker. There was a whoosh as the liquid turned clear, and her face was momentarily hidden by a cloud of smoke. When it dispersed she was smiling. But then she saw Samuel and the smile fell away.

  ‘Has it arrived then?’ she asked, replacing her safety goggles with a pair of glasses.

  ‘Just now. Birdie’s called a meeting.’

  Violetta removed her white coat, then together they made their way through the building.

  There were only two empty chairs remaining when they arrived in the Camelot Room. Violetta slid into the one bearing her name as Samuel softly closed the door and took up a position in the corner, shoulders resting against the gilt-embossed wall.

  ‘This is all they found.’ Birdie addressed the room as she lifted the mud-smeared gun from the box and placed it gently on the table in front of her.

  The air in the Camelot Room rippled with the collective sigh of the assembled women.

  ‘But surely …’ began one of the Adventuresses before subsiding, her question unasked.

  ‘So they’ve given up,’ Violetta said.

  Birdie held up a hand in a gesture that was half calming, half resigned. ‘Officially, the search for the crash site is over. However, Tribal Chief Kabui said he is eternally grateful that his son’s murder was solved and he assures us he will never stop searching the highlands of Papua New Guinea for Phryne Fisher.’

  ‘And if anyone could survive a plane crash in the jungle, it’s Phryne.’ Samuel’s consoling words did nothing to raise the spirits of the assembled women.

  ‘But without her gun …’ someone murmured.

  ‘Even without a gun—and regardless of the situation—Phryne Fisher would have plenty of resources at her disposal. And, above all, she has her ingenuity.’ Birdie placed both fists on the table and leaned forward.

  Around the room, heads nodded: there were murmurs of approval and even a faint, ‘Hear, hear’.

  Out in the hallway, the grandmother clock began to strike, and the gathering fell still as the Westminster Quarters rang out and the hours tolled. The ensuing silence was heavy with portent.

  Finally Violetta cleared her throat. ‘Has a letter already been sent?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Birdie replied. ‘Once six months had passed with no contact from Phryne, I spoke to her solicitor. She’d left detailed instructions in the event something should happen, and following her wishes a letter—worded in a suitably … enticing manner—was dispatched weeks ago.’ Birdie swallowed hard.

  ‘However’—Samuel came to her rescue—‘we could only send it to the last known address, and as you’re all aware, past attempts at communication have been unsuccessful.’

  ‘But even if we do get a response, what then? Without Phryne, who will expose the corrupt? Champion the underdog? Challenge the bullies and bigots? Who in this town will protect the vulnerable and fight for what is right?’ Violetta’s voice cracked with emotion.

  ‘As ever, each of us will have her part to play, but we also need to remain hopeful, Violetta,’ said Birdie. Her gaze travelled round the room, taking in every Adventuress. Then it fell on the single empty chair. A chair bearing the name Adventuress Fisher. She stared at it for a long moment. ‘We must remain hopeful, because, God knows, we could scour the earth from pole to pole and never find another woman like Phryne Fisher.’

  ‘Are you trying to kill me?’

  Peregrine’s attention snapped back to the woman sitting in front of her. Outside the sun was shining brightly, but in the hair salon, storm clouds were gathering.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Judd!’ As she loosened the perming rod, Peregrine risked a glance in the mirror. The manageress, Mrs Morgan, was staring straight back at her, lips pursed, one eye narrowed.

  ‘Everything all right over there?’ Mrs Morgan asked, scissors poised mid-snip.

  ‘Yes, thanks!’ Peregrine forced a smile at her client’s reflection, but Mrs Judd wasn’t fooled.

  ‘You’ve only been here a few months, haven’t you, dear? And before that it was … what were you doing before you started hairdressing?’

  Peregrine blew a stray lock of dark brown hair from her eyes. ‘Working at the bakery.’

  ‘I thought it was the pharmacy.’

  Peregrine had doused three-quarters of Mrs Judd’s head in perming solution, but now she paused. Suddenly the frilly smock she was wearing felt unbearably hot and constricting.

  ‘I’ve just been looking for the right job; somewhere I can express my creativity.’

  Mrs Judd opened her mouth to reply but her words were drowned out by the revving of a powerful engine.

  All heads turned towards the salon window. There was a station wagon idling just outside: a cream station wagon, trimmed with distinctive faux wood panels.

  Peregrine set a record applying the rest of the perming solution, then tucked a plastic cap on Mrs Judd’s head. ‘Do you have plenty of magazines there? This needs to process for a while.’ She started towards the door, peeling off her gloves and smock as she went. ‘Is it okay if I take my tea break now, Mrs Morgan?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, Peregrine!’ ordered the manageress, but all she got in response was the tinkle of the bell as the door closed on Peregrine’s retreating figure.

  In the car park, Eric Wild dangled an arm from the open window of his Ford Falcon Squire. Eric had been trying to look cool, but the moment he saw Peregrine a broad grin broke through the veneer of casual indifference, lighting up his handsome face.

  ‘Eric!’ Peregrine trailed a hand across the car’s bonnet, then leaned in and planted a lingering kiss on his lips.

  ‘Hop in.’ He cracked the door for her, sliding across the bench seat as Peregrine climbed behind the wheel.

  ‘I’ve only got fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You can do a lot in fifteen minutes.’

  Peregrine quirked an eyebrow at her boyfriend then floored it, squealing with delight as they peeled out onto the road. At the speed she was driving it only took them a couple of minutes to get to the beachfront car park, which—at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday—was delightfully deserted. Peregrine saw her chance and, with Eric shouting encouragement, she put the wagon through its paces, fishtailing through the gravel, accelerating and braking hard as dust billowed around them. Finally she brought the Ford to a stop overlooking the ocean. Switching off the engine, Peregrine sat for a moment, hands on the wheel, savouring the feeling of power and control. A girl could get used to this.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Eric’s arm slid along the backrest until the tips of his fingers rested lightly on the nape of Peregrine’s neck.

  ‘I love it. Where did—’

  His hand brushed the edge of her jaw, cutting off the rest of the question.

  ‘How much do you love it?’ he asked, eyes never leaving hers.

  Peregrine pressed her cheek into his palm and inhaled slowly, a feline smile curling the edges of her mouth.

  ‘This much,’ she said, pivoting towards him and pressing her lips hard against his.

  The next few minutes were a tangle of limbs that came to an abrupt end when one of Peregrine’s kitten heels, which had somehow come adrift from her foot, found its way to a point beneath Eric’s shoulder blades. He sat up suddenly and their foreheads collided.

  Peregrine put a hand to her temple, and the feel of her dishevelled hair reminded her of something.

  ‘Oh, no! What time is it?’ She straightened her top and began re-pinning her hair. ‘Drive! I have to get back!’

  ‘Peregrine …’ Eric implored, walking his fingers up her long, bare thigh to the cuff of her short shorts.

  Peregrine playfu
lly slapped Eric’s hand away and gave him a shove in the general direction of the steering wheel. ‘Come on!’

  Eric sighed heavily, but he knew when Peregrine meant business. Giving up, he got the car started and they drove back to the salon in comfortable silence.

  There was always a chance her extended absence would pass unnoticed, but as Peregrine hurried—with as much nonchalance as she could muster—through the door of the hair salon, she found the manageress waiting for her.

  ‘Peregrine Fisher!’

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late, Mrs Morgan.’ She ducked her head and tried to sidle past, but the manageress grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘Just how long was that perming solution left on Mrs Judd’s hair?’ Mrs Morgan hissed. Her face, inches from Peregrine’s, was white with fury.

  Peregrine’s eyes widened. ‘Well, that depends.’

  ‘On?’

  ‘On … when you rinsed it off and applied the neutraliser?’

  They both looked over at Mrs Judd, her head now wrapped in a towelling turban, idly flicking through a copy of the Women’s Weekly. Then Mrs Morgan marched across and slowly unravelled the towel. As it came away, Mrs Judd’s nearly-dry hair was revealed: it looked like she’d stuck her finger in a power socket. Mrs Judd glanced up and the smile of anticipation froze on her face, turning into a full-throated wail as she stared at the mirror in horror.

  Mrs Morgan rounded on Peregrine. ‘That’s it. Out!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. I gave you a chance—against advice, mind you—because of your mother. She had her troubles, but she was a good woman who helped me when I needed it. Giving you a leg up seemed the least I could do, but this is the last straw. Now get your bag and get out.’

  ‘I’m sorry!’

  ‘Sorry won’t fix this!’ Mrs Morgan gestured towards her client’s head and, in response, Mrs Judd let out another wail. ‘The trouble with you, Peregrine, is you don’t make an effort. How old are you now? Pushing thirty? You can’t expect other people to look after you forever. I know you’ve had a hard time since your mother died, but unless you wake up to yourself quick-smart, you’re going to end up just like her!’