Just Murdered Read online

  Stung by the words, Peregrine began to slowly gather her things. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d had someone to really look after her, least of all her mother.

  ‘And here.’ Mrs Morgan thrust a pile of envelopes towards her. ‘I won’t be holding post for you anymore either.’

  Peregrine took the pile of letters and crammed them into her tote bag. Mrs Morgan jerked her head in the direction of the door then turned back to her distraught client, soothing and clucking even as strands of hair drifted slowly to the floor.

  Squaring her shoulders, Peregrine left the salon for the last time, giving the door a defiant shove with her hip as she went. Needing something to boost her spirits, she stopped to buy a blue heaven milkshake before starting the slow walk home, the light breeze cool on her bare midriff. Her shorts and bikini top were far more suited to the beach than the centre of town, even if the entire business district was just a few sandy streets bookended by a petrol station and a fish-and-chip shop. But Peregrine was used to ignoring frowning shopkeepers and tutting matrons. She had never been one to play by the rules: at least, not unless they suited her.

  On the unfashionable edge of town, farthest from the seashore, Peregrine turned into the Paradise Caravan Park and slowly made her way past empty sites and deserted vans until she reached the section where the waifs and strays—the permanents—resided. The sun-bleached caravan she rented was hotter inside than out, so Peregrine took her milkshake and sat on the van’s step, the pile of letters in her lap.

  There were quite a few and Peregrine flicked through them, seeing on most her mother’s name and the familiar crossing out of one address after another. Annabelle had never liked to stay in one place for long and had been constantly on the move. Sometimes she had been fleeing a debt; at other times she’d expressed an urge to wake up to a different view. In hindsight, it seemed to Peregrine that Annabelle had in fact been trying to outrun her own personal demons. In the end the reasons didn’t matter, but growing up, Peregrine had come to dread the moment when her mother would appear, empty suitcase in hand, and tell her to start packing. It meant her schooling had suffered, but she’d learned a lot of other stuff along the way, the sort of things you could never find in a textbook. Peregrine knew that now, but back then the only thing she’d felt was the agony of leaving friends behind and having to start afresh in a new school, a new town.

  Her mother would have thrown most of the letters away unopened, and Peregrine was about to do the same when one at the bottom of the pile caught her eye. Addressed to her mother, it too had come via a roundabout route, crisscrossing Australia until finally someone had written, Try Budgiwah, and underlined the words heavily. But unlike the flimsy paper and onionskin of the others, this envelope was a thick, cream-coloured piece of stationery and there was an elaborate shield printed on the upper left-hand corner. It looked expensive—and important.

  Peregrine brought the envelope close to her face, trying to make out the tiny words on the shield.

  ‘Gloria in … Gloria in Con-spectus … Hominum?’ She wrinkled her nose and flipped the envelope over. The back was even more intriguing. A large blob of red wax sealed the envelope and there was also a return address: Greenwood Pl., Melbourne, Victoria, C1.

  Peregrine stuck her finger under the flap and pulled it loose, then extracted a single sheet of paper. There was no salutation or signature, just the same crest and address at the top of the page, but this time with a name: The Adventuresses’ Club of the Antipodes. Beneath that was a terse, handwritten message:

  Please attend urgent meeting regarding inheritance.

  ‘Inheritance? I wish!’ Peregrine snorted and was about to throw the note away, but there was something about the heavy paper and elaborate writing that made her hesitate. She read the message a second time, turned the paper over to check there was nothing on the back, then returned to the front and read it again.

  Peregrine dropped the letter into her lap and looked up, her gaze wandering over the faded and rusting caravans. Even if it was some sort of trick, what did she have to lose? And if it was real …

  She stood abruptly, sending the remnants of her milkshake flying, and hurried inside. There she pulled out a flimsy suitcase, the only one she owned. Peregrine didn’t really have much to pack, but the caravan rocked as she slammed drawers open and closed. The narrow wardrobe had room for just an armful of clothes, and she pulled them all out and dumped them straight into the case. Somehow Peregrine managed to make everything fit, although she did have to sit on the case to get it closed. Then she had to open it again and find something more suitable to wear. After some deliberation, she changed into pink stovepipe trousers and a patterned shirt, adding a mini-length coat to the outfit.

  Before wrestling the suitcase closed for the second time, Peregrine realised there was one more thing she had to pack. Reaching above the narrow bed, she unpinned a photograph from the wall. The small snapshot, bleached from the sun, showed Peregrine and her mother, arms around each other and heads tipped together as they laughed at the camera.

  ‘Time to move again, Mum,’ Peregrine whispered, touching a finger to the faded image. She tucked the photo carefully inside the suitcase and thumped the lid closed.

  Standing in the middle of the tiny space, Peregrine turned a slow circle. There was nothing left for her here, not in the caravan or in town. There was one last thing she had to do, however. Sitting down at the scratched Laminex table, she unfolded one of the envelopes from the day’s post and exposed its unmarked interior. Then she used the stub of a pencil to write a note to Eric.

  Five minutes later, Peregrine slammed the door of the caravan for the last time and tucked the note into the wire screen. She walked through the Paradise without a backward glance, tote bag slung over her shoulder, suitcase bumping against her thigh.

  Out on the main road, she felt her resolve waver and pulled the envelope from her bag. Peregrine read the message one more time and ran a finger across the crest before carefully tucking the letter away again.

  ‘The Adventuresses’ Club,’ she whispered.

  Then, turning south, Peregrine Fisher stuck her thumb out and began to walk.

  Some days later—her limbs stiff from nights spent sheltering in barns and churches—Peregrine Fisher stood outside the Queen Victoria Market in Melbourne, waving goodbye to the driver of the fruit truck who had brought her the last hundred miles to the city. Despite having an opinion on everything—and sharing them all with her throughout the drive—he’d never heard of the Adventuresses’ Club or Greenwood Place. They’d arrived in the city just as dawn was beginning to colour the horizon, so Peregrine spent several hours wandering the market sheds. She’d talked to numerous stallholders, gracefully accepted the occasional apple or orange, charmed her way to several cups of coffee and laughed off three light-hearted yet flamboyant proposals of marriage (all made by Greek and Italian gentlemen with an average age of sixty). Unfortunately, even though many of the market families had lived in Melbourne for two or three generations, each time Peregrine asked about the Adventuresses’ Club, she got the same answer. No one had heard of it.

  Once the sun was fully up, the trickle of customers rapidly became a flood, and the market soon rang with the shouts of competing greengrocers.

  ‘Broccoli! Best in the market!’

  ‘Potatoes! Seven pence a pound!’

  For a while Peregrine watched, entranced by the theatrics of both the vendors and the housewives who first feigned disdain at the sight of the fruit or vegetable on offer, only to capitulate when the price was right. Her new acquaintances cast the occasional smile in her direction, but the time for talking had passed, so, sketching a wave to anyone who might notice, Peregrine picked up her suitcase and made her way out of the market.

  On the street, she took a moment to orient herself, then began walking in the direction of the city centre, guided by the height of the buildings and the flow of pedestrians in their smart suits and demure dresses,
hurrying to begin another day in the office. Surely one of them could direct her to the Adventuresses’ Club.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Peregrine reached out a tentative hand as a man strode towards her, briefcase thrust forward purposefully.

  He brushed past.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Another one did the same, huffing with displeasure.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Peregrine stepped in front of a man in a brown suit, forcing him to stop and creating a near pile-up among the walkers behind him. ‘I’m looking for Greenwood Place.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ he snapped, stepping around her and away.

  She walked a little further, carried along by the crowd, before inspiration struck. Moving to the edge of the footpath, Peregrine watched the traffic then abruptly stuck out her arm.

  ‘Taxi!’

  A car screeched to a stop beside her.

  ‘Where to, love?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Oh, well, I don’t actually have any money, but I was hoping you could tell me how to get to Greenwood Place.’

  The taxi driver gave her an incredulous look. ‘Ya flamin’ kiddin’ me?’ he spluttered.

  Peregrine shrugged, smiled and waited, while the driver stared. Then he gave a snort of disbelief. ‘Top end o’ town. Collins Street.’ Still muttering and shaking his head, he wrenched the steering wheel and steered the taxi back into the stream of traffic.

  ‘I guess that means this must be the bottom,’ Peregrine said to herself. She pulled the envelope from her bag, more as a talisman than because of any need to check the address again, and struck out with renewed energy. At least she knew now that the street existed.

  Peregrine walked slowly up one of Melbourne’s main streets, thrilled by the energy and bustle, awed by the buildings, delighted by the trams and excited just to be alive in the city. She was in no hurry as she dawdled past boutiques with alluring displays of clothes and shoes, cafes filled with steam and the aroma of coffee, and hole-in-the-wall cobblers, their tiny rooms piled high with leather. The letter had been chasing her for weeks, after all, so what difference would an hour or two make? She stopped to watch a girl dressed in a red-and-white Mary Quant-style mini striding along on the other side of the street, her arms swinging freely. In each hand the girl carried several shopping bags, all adorned with a bright pattern and the name H.R. White. Peregrine couldn’t decide what was more attractive: the girl herself or the sight of those colourful bags, swaying back and forth. She kept looking until the girl disappeared around the next corner.

  Trailing slowly along the footpath, Peregrine came to a series of elaborate windows, each one emblazoned with the name Blair’s Emporium and all filled with a dazzling array of products. She lingered at each display and when she finally arrived at the door, Peregrine hesitated, tempted to dive inside and see if the store lived up to the promise of its windows. But she was on a mission and, besides, trying things on would be much more fun if she had an inheritance to buy them with. Peregrine stepped away from the door, squared her shoulders and, after asking a police officer for directions, made her way to Greenwood Place and the Adventuresses’ Club.

  Inside Blair’s Emporium, a fashion parade was underway. Today’s spectacle was the crowning glory of the season: a bridal extravaganza featuring the gowns of the brightest star in the Australian fashion and design scene, Florence Astor.

  Blair’s Mural Hall was a fitting venue for a presentation of such style and elegance. Sitting on the top floor of the emporium, the Mural Hall was a sumptuous ballroom, regularly used to host functions for the crème de la crème of Melbourne society. The ten murals that gave the grand room its name each had a different theme, from Opera Personalities to Sport Through the Ages, and, although men appeared in some scenes, they leaned heavily towards a celebration of women and their achievements. While most of the figures depicted were historic, an astute observer could find several familiar faces among the illustrious sisterhood, including soprano Dame Nellie Melba, novelist Katharine Susannah Prichard and Adventuress Phryne Fisher.

  At one end of the hall, a pair of staircases swept down from opposite sides of the room, the perfect setting for Florence Astor’s show. The landing where they converged was a few steps above the parquetry of the main floor, and today it had been extended out to create a catwalk where, one by one, the house models paraded. Just in front of the landing and suspended from the ceiling above, a ruched amethyst curtain hung in a perfect circle. It formed a dramatic backdrop for the cream, white and ivory tones of the gowns and, just as importantly, concealed behind its folds the breathtaking pièce de résistance of Florence’s show.

  The catwalk itself was flanked by several rows of small gilded chairs, the majority occupied by mothers and daughters. The more mature women were dressed for the occasion in well-cut suits, while the younger generation sported hemlines that were fashionably short. Or as short as their mothers would allow. All gazed with rapt attention at the catwalk as each creation made its debut.

  In the front row, Terence Blair, proprietor of Blair’s Emporium, smoothed the silver hair of his temple and discreetly glanced at his watch. The highlight of the store’s calendar of events, and they were late. He smiled as he caught the eye of a fashion columnist on the opposite side of the catwalk, but inside he was seething. Just as a burst of polite applause greeted the latest Florence creation—a tea-length dress with a boat neck and three-quarter lace sleeves—there was a murmured apology from Terence’s left and his wife and son appeared. Colin Blair, sharply suited and with his slicked, black hair shining in the light, was solicitous as he helped his mother into a chair and waited while she arranged herself carefully next to her husband. From her understated hat to the pointed toes of her colour-coordinated pumps, Maggie Blair was the epitome of elegance. Today, however, her classic features remained hidden behind large black-framed sunglasses.

  ‘Blair’s most important show, Maggie!’ Terence hissed, bending close to his wife’s ear. ‘I reminded you last night! Is it too much to ask you to conjure up a modicum of interest?’ He smiled broadly and clapped for the model currently gliding past.

  Leaning in from the other side, Colin placed a reassuring hand on his mother’s arm. ‘Not to worry. We’re here now, Mother, and it looks like Florence Astor has outdone herself.’

  Backstage, Florence herself was feeling far less confident. In honour of the occasion her bobbed hair had been styled to greater fullness, making her look like a blonde Jackie Kennedy. Her black shift—simple yet timeless—was, of course, one of her own designs. Florence had earned her fashion stripes in the ateliers of Paris and Milan before returning to Melbourne and launching her own eponymous label, so staging a fashion parade was something she’d done dozens of times before. But that didn’t stop the nerves or sleepless nights. Each collection was a gamble, requiring just the right mix of the familiar with the bold design innovation that had made Florence Astor a household name. Today’s bridal show in particular had to be perfect and, to her discerning audience, everything they had seen so far had exceeded expectations. But Florence knew illusion was everything, and behind the scenes tension was increasing as the finale drew close.

  ‘Keep it up, ladies. Remember, look triumphant! You’re getting married!’

  Florence sent the next model down the runway, watched for a moment to see how the bridal mini dress was received, then turned to the next girl, adjusting the ivory pillbox she was wearing to a more jaunty angle and fluffing out the bejewelled veil. Satisfied, Florence stepped away and surveyed the backstage area.

  ‘Has anyone seen Barbie? Has she even had the good grace to telephone?’ she asked.

  Lewis Knox appeared from behind a rack of gowns. Employed by Blair’s as a storeman and occasional window-dresser, Knox had made it his business to ensure everything—from shoes and stockings to hats and accessories—was where it should be for the fashion show. Now, slightly out of breath from his latest search for the missing model, he shook his head.

  ‘So
rry, Miss Astor,’ he said. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, but there’s no sign of her.’

  Florence threw up her hands. ‘I simply cannot believe this! So unprofessional. We’ve had to cover for her for the entire show. I’ll be damned if I let her ruin the finale! Pansy!’

  Pansy Wing emerged from the corner where she’d been perched on a stool, waiting for her last turn on the catwalk. Dramatic sweeps of heavy black eyeliner and long false lashes accentuated her already-stunning eyes, while cherry red lipstick enhanced the cupid’s bow of her pout. She hurried over to Florence, working every one of her natural assets, fully aware of the intensity of Lewis Knox’s gaze.

  ‘The showstopper, Pansy, the final gown—it’s yours. Hurry and get dressed,’ Florence said, one eye still on the catwalk.

  ‘Yes! At last!’ Pansy whooped, her cool facade slipping as she rushed away. She’d been one of Blair’s house models for several years, but, despite her poise and beauty, Pansy had always come second to Barbie Jones.

  Florence clapped her hands. ‘The rest of you ladies, find your places, check your teeth for lipstick and get ready to roll!’

  The models arranged themselves in order, straightening hems, tweaking veils and resettling bustlines as necessary. Florence gave Pansy as much time as she could before sending the line of women sashaying down the catwalk, accompanied by the rustling of fabric and the sighs of the audience. Even so, the last model had completed her turn and the dramatic pause was becoming slightly awkward before Pansy stepped around the amethyst backdrop.

  The dress was a triumph. Floor-length white silk with a full train, the strapless bodice and elegant straight line were transformed into something indescribably chic by the addition of an oversized bow, angling down from Pansy’s shoulder to her opposite hip. There were gasps of delight from the audience and the polite applause swelled into heartfelt admiration for a designer at her peak.