Just Murdered Page 5

  ‘I have been instructed by your aunt, Phryne Fisher, and her solicitor to distribute her estate to her next of kin. It would seem that’s you.’ Birdie forced a tight smile that failed to reach her eyes.

  ‘Aunt Phryne is dead?’ Peregrine exclaimed.

  ‘No!’ Birdie snapped. Then, more quietly, ‘No. She’s merely missing. We have no body, no witnesses to her hypothetical demise, nothing. So as things stand, Phryne Fisher is missing. However, she left explicit instructions that if six months passed with no contact and no signs of’—Birdie swallowed—‘life, I was to track down her heir.’

  ‘Me?’ Peregrine squeaked.

  ‘So it would seem,’ Birdie replied. She walked over to a small writing bureau and extracted a lacquered box from the top drawer. Lifting the lid, she pulled out a set of keys and handed them to Peregrine.

  ‘The keys to your house,’ Birdie said.

  ‘My house? I have an actual house?’ Peregrine’s mouth fell open.

  ‘You have use of your aunt’s house until such a time as she returns.’ Birdie looked as though she wanted to snatch the keys back, but instead she pulled another key from the box. ‘Your car keys.’

  ‘A car? It’s not a Hillman, is it?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What kind of car is it?’

  ‘Why? Will you be giving it back if it’s the wrong sort?’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Probably not,’ Peregrine mumbled, gripping the keys tightly.

  ‘And, finally, the keys to the safety deposit box at your aunt’s bank. There’s also a letter of introduction for the bank manager, but you’ll no doubt need me to accompany you there.’ Birdie looked into the box again and hesitated. Her hand seemed to hover for a moment and she glanced at Peregrine before slamming the lid closed.

  ‘Wow.’ Peregrine looked from one face to the other and stood. ‘Thank you.’ She extended her arms as if to embrace Birdie then thought better of it, converting the move into a sweeping gesture that took in the entire Camelot Room. ‘What about this place? Am I a member now? Do I get to sit in this chair?’ As she said it, Peregrine crossed the room and placed her hand on the shaped headrail of a Chippendale carver chair, her thumb brushing the brass Adventuress Fisher nameplate.

  A collective gasp went up and hands reached forward to stop her.

  ‘No!’ shouted Birdie.

  ‘Okay, jeepers!’ Peregrine held her hands up in surrender and backed away from the chair. ‘I just thought …’

  ‘Sorry, but that is still your aunt’s chair until … In any case, that’s not how the Adventuresses’ Club operates.’ Birdie’s face was white. ‘You have to earn a place. Every Adventuress is remarkable in her own right—her achievements outstanding.’ She looked around the room. ‘Ineke Horchner, the first woman to conquer Mount Kilimanjaro.’ Birdie pointed and a blonde woman inclined her head solemnly. ‘International fencing champion Michiko Sato. Minnie Bell, botanist, and the world’s foremost expert on the flora of the Northern Territory. Professor Violetta Fellini: chemist, microbiologist and the youngest-ever recipient of Melbourne University’s top science prize. Florence Astor, liberator of Australian women’s fashion, champion of the trouser suit and … Where’s Florence?’ Birdie looked around at the assembled women.

  ‘She’s late,’ Samuel said. ‘The bridal show would have finished a while ago, so it’s probably something to do with the line she’s designing exclusively for Saks in New York. She should be here soon.’

  ‘What about you two?’ Peregrine looked between Birdie and Samuel. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Samuel is our gadgets expert and he keeps the place running smoothly,’ Birdie said.

  ‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’ Peregrine raised her eyebrows at Samuel, causing a blush to spread from beneath his cravat and advance rapidly up his neck.

  ‘And my sister Birdie,’ he said. ‘During the Second World War she played a vital role in—’

  Birdie stopped him with a hand. ‘The point is, Ms Fisher—’

  ‘I get the point.’ It was Peregrine’s turn to interrupt. ‘What about my aunt? What did she do that was so amazing? Apart from being amazingly rich?’

  Birdie stared at her in shock.

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ Violetta asked, her surprise mirroring that of everyone in the room.

  Peregrine shrugged. ‘How would I? I never met my aunt and Mum never talked to me about that side of the family, except to say they’d all turned their backs on her and she wanted nothing to do with them. If I ever asked, Mum would just say they’d treated her badly then forgotten about her and I should act as though they don’t exist.’

  Birdie shook her head. ‘That’s so wrong—poor Annabelle! Your aunt, Phryne Fisher, did not forget your mother. She only discovered she had a sister five years ago, when her philandering father confessed on his deathbed. From that moment, she was desperate to find Annabelle, but every single letter she sent was returned unopened. Whenever she managed to track her down, your mother would disappear again. Phryne tried to respect Annabelle’s decision to live her own life, but she couldn’t let it go: she wanted to know her sister.’

  Birdie crossed back to the bureau and pulled open another drawer, this time extracting a thick stack of letters, tied together with a velvet ribbon. ‘Here.’ She thrust the bundle forward but Peregrine didn’t take it, simply looking from the pile of unopened envelopes to the sadness and hurt on Birdie’s face.

  ‘You mean … my aunt never even knew I existed?’ Peregrine’s voice was small and her lower lip quivered.

  Violetta put her arm around Peregrine’s shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. ‘If Phryne Fisher had known she had a niece, she would have combed every corner of the earth until she found you. And you know what? I’m fairly certain she would have liked you.’

  Peregrine suddenly felt exhausted. It had been a trying day and now the emotional impact of Birdie’s words was threatening to overwhelm her. ‘This is a lot to deal with. I really need some time to think about it all.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Birdie said, her voice filled with relief. ‘Samuel will organise a taxi to take you home.’

  It took Peregrine a moment to realise Birdie was talking about her aunt’s house, Peregrine’s new home. ‘Perhaps we could talk again tomorrow?’ she ventured.

  ‘Of course.’ Birdie waved a dismissive hand. ‘We still have a lot of details to square away, but nothing that can’t wait another day. Or two.’ She caught Samuel’s eye and nodded towards the hall, where the telephone sat.

  He hurried out of the room but came straight back again, a blonde woman in a black dress close on his heels. She shouldered past him and made straight for Birdie.

  ‘Birdie! Thank goodness you’re here! My bridal show was a complete disaster!’ the newcomer wailed.

  ‘Oh, come on, Florence, it can’t have been that bad! It’s only real weddings that are a disaster—for any right-thinking woman who has the misfortune to find herself walking down the aisle dressed as a bride.’

  ‘My star model was murdered! Barbie Jones is dead and she was laid out in a wedding dress and on display in front of the cream of the fashion industry and Melbourne society.’

  ‘Murdered?’ Birdie gasped.

  ‘How awful,’ Violetta murmured, crossing herself.

  A group of Adventuresses immediately surrounded Florence, ushering her to the sofa, fetching tea and water, and offering an assortment of soothing platitudes and outraged exclamations as the designer described what had happened. Peregrine, listening with undisguised interest, edged closer to Samuel and plucked at his sleeve. ‘Barbie Jones?’ she whispered. ‘Wasn’t she the model arrested last year wearing—or almost wearing—a teeny-tiny red bikini? The one kissing the lifeguards at Bondi?’

  Samuel swallowed and edged a finger under the knot of his cravat. ‘I’m sure I have no idea.’

  She rolled her eyes at him and moved closer to hear what the designer wa
s saying.

  ‘I just don’t understand why anyone would want to kill Barbie!’ Florence’s voice trembled. ‘She was young and beautiful; she had her whole life ahead of her!’

  ‘That would be plenty of reason for some people,’ Birdie said ominously. She sat down next to Florence, who regarded her with some consternation.

  ‘The police were everywhere,’ the designer continued, ‘asking all sorts of questions. And even when I arrived here there was a detective waiting out the front. Can you believe it? He told me they had more questions and I needed to present myself at headquarters!’

  ‘Maybe you’re a suspect!’ Peregrine had edged her way into the group and now all eyes turned to her.

  ‘Me? Why on earth would they think I did it?’ Florence frowned as she looked Peregrine up and down. ‘Who are you, anyway? Birdie’—she turned to the woman next to her—‘who is she?’

  Violetta stepped forward, pulling Peregrine with her. ‘This is Phryne Fisher’s niece. Florence Astor, meet Peregrine Fisher.’

  Florence regarded Peregrine again, this time with open fascination tinged with a hint of speculation. ‘Really? Phryne’s niece? Well, I never!’

  ‘Believe me, none of us have ever,’ Birdie said, folding her arms.

  ‘Now that I’m looking at you properly …’ Florence stood up and took Peregrine’s hands in her own. ‘Oh! You are so much like your aunt! I wish she was still here: God knows I could use a good detective right now!’

  ‘A detective! Is that what she was?’ Peregrine’s eyes lit up at the thought of her aunt wielding a large magnifying glass.

  ‘I don’t suppose it runs in the family does it?’ Florence’s tone was light, but her grip on Peregrine’s hands told a different story.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Peregrine shrugged. ‘But I’m happy to give it a red-hot go!’

  Florence sighed with relief and Peregrine beamed at her, but suddenly Birdie was on her feet, stepping into their space and forcing Florence to release her grip on Peregrine’s hands.

  ‘You’d be happy to give it a “red-hot go”, would you?’ Her voice was disdainful and the Adventuresses looked at her in shock. ‘This is not a game, Ms Fisher. We’re perfectly capable of looking after our own without your assistance. Perhaps you should just be satisfied with everything your aunt has already given you!’

  ‘Birdie …’ Violetta began.

  ‘I was only offering to help,’ Peregrine said, stung by Birdie’s tone.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m sure we can contrive to muddle along without you. If you ever do manage to prove yourself to be half the investigator your aunt was, feel free to come back and restate your offer then. Good day, Ms Fisher.’ Birdie pushed through the stunned Adventuresses and stalked from the room.

  ‘I might just do that!’ Peregrine called after the retreating figure.

  Somewhere deep in the house, a door slammed.

  There was a moment’s stunned silence.

  ‘She hates me,’ Peregrine said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Ah, it’s not you,’ Violetta said. ‘What she hates is the thought that Phryne Fisher might never return.’

  ‘Give Birdie some time,’ Samuel added. He extended an arm, ushering Peregrine towards the door. ‘Come on. Your shoes are here and I’ve got your suitcase just outside as well. I’ve called for a taxi—it’ll be at the gate in a few minutes—so here’s money for the fare. Oh, and I’ve also written down the address for you.’

  Peregrine could tell Violetta and Samuel believed what they were saying, but she wasn’t convinced. She put on her shoes, taking more time than necessary to settle them on her feet, then straightened up and took a deep breath.

  ‘Just make sure you keep my seat warm,’ she said, then walked from the room, collected her suitcase from the hall and kept going, out through the front door of the Adventuresses’ Club and straight down the path.

  Aware that Violetta and Samuel were watching, she kept her shoulders straight and strode confidently. It was only when she reached the gate that Peregrine looked back. The main door was closed now, but she could still see through the window of the well-lit Camelot Room. Birdie had returned and joined Violetta, Samuel and a group of Adventuresses clustered around Florence Astor. Care and compassion were evident in the tilt of Birdie’s head and the way she rubbed Florence’s hands between her own. In fact, Peregrine was struck by how close all the Adventuresses seemed. A tear welled in her eye and she dashed it away, but she couldn’t push aside the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that enveloped her and, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, Peregrine shivered.

  Beyond the high brick wall a car horn tooted impatiently and, after a final lingering look, Peregrine passed through the metal gate and let it slam behind her. She climbed into the waiting taxi and handed the driver the address, written in Samuel’s immaculate hand. She hadn’t bothered to look at it herself: she didn’t know her way around Melbourne, so it didn’t really matter. The only thing that mattered was that wherever she was going, it was away from here.

  In the back seat of the taxi, Peregrine turned her head away from the Adventuresses’ Club and closed her ears to the perky Doris Day song playing on the radio. Her eyes were open, but as they drove smoothly out of the vibrant city and into the more sedate suburbs, Peregrine registered none of it.

  After a short drive, the taxi cruised slowly down a quiet residential boulevard, swung into a wide concrete driveway and came to a stop. Peregrine was oblivious. The driver looked at her in the rear-view mirror, cleared his throat, jingled a pocketful of change and finally said, ‘We’re here, miss.’

  Peregrine started, then leaned forward and peered through the windscreen at the house in front of her.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  The driver shrugged. ‘This is the address you gave me.’

  Peregrine paid the fare with money Samuel had given her and got out. She thanked the driver for hauling her battered case from the taxi’s boot and watched as he reversed out into the street and pulled away. Then she simply stood and stared at the house. Peregrine didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Perhaps a nice Victorian house of red brick with iron scrolls, lacy curtains and tidy hedges, the sort of thing a maiden aunt would inhabit. But this …

  It was like nothing she’d ever seen. It must have been built in the 1950s—certainly not more than five or ten years ago—and it rose above her, two storeys of modernist glass and concrete balanced on a stone pedestal. A tarpaulin-draped car sheltered in the undercroft and Peregrine skirted past, keys in hand, to stand in front of a blue door. Through the clear glass panel to one side she could see open stairs leading to the house above. She closed her eyes, touched her fingertips lightly to the rough stone wall, then fitted the key into the lock. It turned smoothly.

  Suitcase in hand she climbed slowly and, as her head rose above the decorative planter at the top of the stairs, a sunken lounge came into view. Peregrine had to stop and catch her breath. The floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with sheer white curtains, allowing light to flood the room, casting shadows on the pale green walls. She took in the television, the pair of Danish teak chairs—upholstered in a nubbly yellow wool—and the curved white sofa, built into the edge of the sunken area.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ she whispered.

  Peregrine dropped her case, stepped out of her shoes and shed her cardigan, then descended the steps set between two sections of the sofa. She dug her toes into the thick carpet as she moved towards the main feature of the room: a white chimney suspended over an open concrete fireplace, the whole thing set against yet another stone feature wall. A bespoke drinks cabinet ran along one side of the room, modern paintings were dotted about, and every item she could see—from the lamp in the corner to the triangular coffee table—somehow blended with its companions, proclaiming the taste of the woman who had collected each piece.

  Peregrine wandered from room to room, running her hands over cushions, opening cupboards in the kitchen and turning on taps in
the mint-and-white powder room. The top of the vanity was bare, except for a cake of soap in a scallop-shaped soap dish. Peregrine lifted it to her nose and inhaled the scent of lily of the valley, then replaced it carefully. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and was surprised to see that the brown-eyed, brown-haired woman looking back at her was the same one she had seen yesterday and the day before. She didn’t feel the same.

  Opening the next door, Peregrine stepped into the main bedroom. It was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. Decorated in shades of pink and green, the space was dominated by a large four-poster bed, watermelon-pink curtains tied back at every corner and the pale pink brocade counterpane piled high with pillows and cushions. Off to one side, and separated from the main room by gauzy curtains of mint-green chiffon, stood a decadently deep bath, clearly designed for luxurious soaks, and beyond that she could see a dressing room with vast wardrobes, their doors firmly closed.

  Peregrine sat on the edge of the bath and rubbed her eyes, half expecting the magical room to vanish. But when she looked again it was all still there, waiting for her. Glancing down, something under the bed caught her eye. She dropped to her knees and, leaning forward, picked up a pair of black velvet slippers, delicate, narrow and embroidered in gold across the toes with a monogrammed PF. She stroked the nap of the velvet and hugged the slippers to her chest.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  In that moment, the aunt she had never met felt very, very close.

  Somewhere in the house, something hit the floor with a dull thud. Peregrine jumped to her feet, eyes wide, all her senses alert. There was a crash of breaking glass. She hurried from the bedroom, bare feet silent in the plush carpet. Back in the sunken lounge, Peregrine looked for anything she could use as a weapon. Her eyes fell on a small statue sitting on a corner of the cocktail cabinet: a figure of a woman with an elaborate headdress and flowing robes. Peregrine hefted it in her hand; it wasn’t as heavy as it looked, but there was enough weight to do damage if necessary. Gripping the statue tightly, she crept towards the rear of the house, following the sound of a series of muffled thumps and bangs.