Just Murdered Page 8

Peregrine continued to tease Steed until they were almost back at the main entrance to Blair’s Emporium. She took her head from his shoulder but kept her arm hooked through his.

  ‘Detective Steed …’ she began.

  He looked down at her face, so close, but didn’t answer.

  ‘How well did you know my aunt?’ Peregrine asked.

  Steed smiled wryly. ‘Well enough to get me into trouble with my boss. It seems like you two may have that in common.’

  Peregrine let go of Steed’s arm, spinning so she was in front of him, walking backwards. She scrutinised his face.

  ‘You helped her, didn’t you? With investigations?’ She pushed the door open with her back, smiling at Steed with incredulous delight.

  ‘If Inspector Sparrow finds out you’ve been interfering with my investigation, we’re both in serious trouble,’ Steed said.

  ‘That sounds like a yes to me!’ Peregrine said.

  ‘You—’

  ‘Relax! I’m leaving. But I think you should consider the possibility that Barbie was killed because she left White’s.’

  The detective turned to stare at White’s Department Store, assessing Peregrine’s theory. ‘But,’ he wondered aloud, ‘how would anyone from White’s get into the rival store before opening hours?’

  At that moment, Peregrine caught sight of the corner of a photograph protruding from the file Steed was still carrying. Deftly, she plucked it free and tucked it inside her cardigan, folding her arms and fixing a bland expression on her face.

  ‘It wouldn’t be that difficult,’ she said. ‘Someone on the inside.’

  Steed turned back to her. ‘Goodbye, Miss Fisher,’ he said firmly.

  Peregrine swung gracefully behind the steering wheel of her car and slipped on her sunglasses. ‘Come and see me when you get stuck, Detective.’

  As she watched Steed walk back through the doors of Blair’s Emporium, Peregrine considered her next move. If she was going to solve Barbie Jones’s murder, she had to figure out how to get back inside the store. Her aunt would probably have known what to do—but then, her aunt had the support of the Adventuresses’ Club. She reached under her cardigan and pulled out the photograph she’d purloined from Steed; it was a close-up of Barbie Jones on the wedding cake. For a moment, Peregrine closed her eyes and turned away, then she made herself look, moving the photograph back and forth so the sun hit it from different angles. Something jarred on her senses and she stopped, staring, trying to work out what it was. She brought the picture close to her eyes and studied Barbie’s legs.

  Peregrine’s lips curved in a triumphant smile. A clue. Now she really had to get back inside Blair’s—and perhaps once she’d done that the door to the Adventuresses’ Club would open naturally.

  Firing up the Austin-Healey, Peregrine pulled away from the kerb with a screech of tyres. She had to find a way in—to both organisations.

  It was late in the afternoon by the time Peregrine accelerated up the driveway of her new home and brought the convertible to a smooth stop in the undercroft. She’d barely stepped out of the car when Florence Astor appeared, walking in from the street.

  ‘Florence! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello, Peregrine. I’ve come to collect my things: some rolls of wallpaper and fabric samples,’ Florence explained as she crossed the last few feet of the drive. ‘Phryne gave me carte blanche to redecorate her spare room. We were just about to start when she left.’ She smiled sadly.

  ‘Come in! I haven’t had any guests yet,’ Peregrine said, then paused. ‘Well, no one I’ve invited and who I actually want in the house, anyway.’

  She was just about to unlock the door when there was a loud crash.

  Florence jumped. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Shh.’ Peregrine put a finger to her lips. ‘It came from in there.’ She pointed to a door set deep under the house—a door she’d assumed led to a storage area. Motioning for Florence to keep back, Peregrine reached into her bag and pulled out what looked like a lipstick. Removing the lid she twisted the base, but instead of a column of Shimmering Rose or Luminous Pink, a short but wicked-looking stiletto blade clicked into place.

  Florence’s eyes widened. ‘Where did you get that?’ she whispered.

  Peregrine nodded towards the car. ‘Glovebox.’

  The women crept closer, Florence a step behind Peregrine, who held the lipstick dagger out in front of her. The door was open a couple of inches and they could hear someone moving about and, by the sound of it, rummaging through things.

  Peregrine was still annoyed with herself for letting Sparrow walk away yesterday; there was no way today’s intruder was going to get off so lightly. Without warning she kicked the door open and burst into the room, blade pointed and ready for action.

  ‘Yaaaaaah!’ she shouted as loudly as she could.

  ‘Aaaaah!’ the panicked intruder yelled.

  Then everything stopped.

  ‘Samuel?’ Peregrine lowered her weapon in confusion.

  Samuel, keeping a careful eye on Peregrine, put the box he’d been carrying on the workbench that dominated the small room.

  ‘I just came to clean out my workshop,’ he said.

  ‘Workshop?’ Peregrine looked around at the bench and shelves, which contained a vast array of miscellaneous tools, electrical items, spare parts such as cogs, springs, glass lenses and cabling, and, disturbingly, something marked with a radiation hazard sign.

  ‘Your aunt said I could use this space for my workshop while she was away—as long as I didn’t use chemicals.’

  Florence stepped forward. ‘Samuel had a bit of trouble at the Adventuresses’ Club.’

  ‘A minor explosion in the kitchen. Barely a pop, really,’ Samuel said heartily.

  Florence cleared her throat and looked at Peregrine meaningfully. ‘Boom!’ she mouthed, demonstrating by splaying her fingers and expanding her hands away from each other. Then she looked at Samuel. ‘It was actually three not-so-minor explosions.’

  ‘Anyway, you don’t have to worry,’ Samuel told Peregrine, ‘because I’m concentrating on my electronics work for now. Although I’m not plugging anything I make into the mains; for some reason your aunt was quite adamant about that. I’ve also been tinkering with gadgets, inventing things … like that!’ He pointed to the lipstick stiletto in Peregrine’s hand.

  ‘You made this?’ Peregrine looked from the blade to Samuel.

  He nodded.

  ‘Very useful. I like it!’ she said, impressed. ‘So where are you setting up the new workshop?’

  ‘I, ah, I haven’t quite worked that out yet.’ Samuel reached up and fiddled with the arm of his glasses, realigning them although they were already perfectly straight.

  ‘So, why are you packing up then? That’s silly! You may as well stay here until you find somewhere.’ Peregrine smiled.

  ‘Really?’ Samuel seemed to grow a little taller. ‘Thank you! And you’ve no cause for concern—I figured out what was causing the explosions.’

  ‘That’s … good?’ Peregrine’s smile faded. ‘But maybe let’s keep my aunt’s no chemicals and no-plugging-in rules for now, shall we?’

  Florence turned her back to Samuel, who was happily removing things from the box and returning them to the shelves. ‘I’d still keep a fire extinguisher or two handy,’ she whispered to Peregrine. Then, more loudly, ‘I think this calls for a drink!’

  ‘Excellent idea!’ said Peregrine. ‘Samuel? Come on.’

  ‘Samuel is actually a bit of a genius with a cocktail shaker,’ Florence said. ‘Although if you’re not careful your head is likely to experience a different sort of explosion!’

  Samuel locked the workshop and they made their way upstairs, where Peregrine waved him to the cocktail cabinet.

  ‘It’s all yours,’ she said.

  Florence dropped onto the white sofa with a sigh.

  ‘Could you get some ice and three champagne glasses?’ Samuel asked as he rolled up his sleeves.
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  Peregrine, who’d been about to join Florence, instead made her way to the kitchen.

  ‘Champagne glasses?’ she called.

  ‘The chilled ones—in the freezer,’ came the reply.

  Peregrine returned to the lounge with the items Samuel had requested, plus some crackers and a jar of olives she’d found and tipped into a bowl. Seeing Samuel rummaging in the cocktail cabinet, she was aware of how at home both he and Florence were in the house, and although that was nothing to do with her it made Peregrine feel a little bit less alone, a little bit more as though she belonged somewhere.

  ‘Here you go.’ She put the ice bucket and glasses down and backed away: far enough to give Samuel room, but close enough to watch him work and see what was going into the concoction she was about to drink. Peregrine had already explored her aunt’s alcohol selection and had not been surprised to find there were at least half-a-dozen liqueurs and mixers she’d never heard of.

  Samuel’s awkwardness dropped away as he measured, sliced, swirled and strained, finally presenting Peregrine and Florence each with a deep red drink, garnished with lemon twists.

  ‘Behold La Tour Eiffel!’ he announced, taking the third glass for himself.

  ‘Pimm’s would have been a lot easier.’ Peregrine sipped cautiously and her eyes widened. She sipped again.

  ‘But not nearly as delicious!’ Florence raised her glass. ‘We should toast to your new abode, Peregrine! In fact, when are you going to have a house-warming party?’

  Peregrine shrugged and lowered her eyes as she moved to the sofa and sat down. ‘Who would I invite? I don’t know anyone in this city.’

  Florence flapped a dismissive hand at her. ‘That’s what parties are for! Your aunt knew everyone—it’s such a pity you never had the chance to meet. I can imagine the party she would have thrown to introduce you to her friends! Phryne would have adored you—especially your cheek.’

  ‘Cheek isn’t going to get me very far with Birdie,’ Peregrine said. She looked at Samuel. ‘I still think she doesn’t like me.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. The thing is, ever since your aunt disappeared, Birdie has been optimistic; she never stopped believing her best friend would turn up sooner or later. But handing things on to Phryne’s heir—you—feels like the end of hope. Not only that. Birdie has always had impossibly high expectations—of herself and everyone else—and most people never measure up.’

  Peregrine put her near-empty glass on the coffee table and reached for her bag. ‘I’m sorry for Birdie and I know I’m not my aunt, but I won’t give up. I’ve tried hard all my life to be someone or belong somewhere, but not every woman has the chance to go to university or climb Kilimanjaro. That doesn’t mean I’m not Adventuress material, and I’ve been working on Barbie Jones’s murder: look at this.’

  She pulled out the photograph of Barbie and dropped it in the middle of the table.

  Florence gasped.

  ‘Sorry, Florence, I should have warned you.’ Peregrine moved the bowl of olives to cover the upper half of Barbie’s body. ‘Don’t look at her face; just focus on her legs.’

  Florence and Samuel leaned in and stared at the picture. Seconds ticked past.

  ‘Wait …’ Samuel adjusted his glasses, looked again, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver compact. Opening it, he flipped the mirror, revealing a hidden magnifying glass.

  ‘Clearly designed for my aunt, but that is very, very cool.’ Peregrine nodded her head in appreciation as Samuel used the magnifying glass to examine the photograph.

  ‘I see what caught your eye, but I’m not sure what …’

  ‘Here.’ Peregrine put out her hand for the compact then held it so Florence could see a magnified version of Barbie’s legs. ‘Look at her stockings,’ Peregrine said.

  Florence squinted. ‘She should be wearing pantyhose with that short dress.’

  ‘Forget about that. Look at the weave and texture of the stockings.’

  ‘They’re different. One’s a heavier texture, a much denser weave. The other has an open, diamond pattern.’ Florence sat back.

  ‘But I don’t understand.’ Samuel looked at the photograph again. ‘Her stockings don’t match, but so what? Does that mean something?’

  ‘Well, for starters it proves there’s no way Florence had anything to do with Barbie’s murder,’ Peregrine said.

  ‘I’d never make a fashion faux pas like that—you’d have to kill me first!’ Florence exclaimed, then blushed, clearly horrified by what she’d just said.

  ‘But we already knew Florence was innocent.’ Peregrine patted the other woman’s knee. ‘Mismatched stockings are important because it suggests there’s one stocking missing from the original pair.’

  Samuel’s eyes widened as the implication dawned on him. ‘And you’re thinking …’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ Peregrine confirmed, ‘that a stocking is just the sort of thing you’d use to strangle someone.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Samuel asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Peregrine replied. ‘I mean, I’m determined to find out who murdered Barbie Jones, but I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to do it. Yet. Plus, there’s another mystery I have to solve. Why did that creep Sparrow break in here and steal one of my aunt’s notebooks? What was so important about that particular volume?’

  She jumped up from the sofa and hurried into the adjoining room, then reappeared in the doorway, brandishing one of the red books.

  ‘Oh, those,’ said Samuel. ‘Each one represents a separate investigation.’

  Peregrine nodded. ‘I worked that out when I read them last night, but why did Sparrow want to get his hands on number twenty? Number nineteen was an investigation into a corrupt politician, and number twenty-one dealt with a nurse pressuring unwed mothers and running a baby-stealing racket, but I have no idea what my aunt might have written about in number twenty.’

  Peregrine went to replace the book.

  ‘You could always check the microfilm copy,’ Samuel called after her retreating figure.

  She walked slowly back into the room, book still in her hand, and stared at him open-mouthed. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said you could check the microfilm copy. Your aunt was keen to have duplicate copies of everything, and I guess we know why now. I transferred the contents of all the books to microfilm a while ago when I was testing my new camera and machine. I have the full set.’

  Peregrine hurried over and hugged Samuel, causing him to blush furiously. ‘Of course you have the full set!’

  ‘Your aunt used to make Samuel blush just like that,’ said Florence approvingly. She got up and crossed to the stereo, where she flipped through the record rack, checking the sleeves of several 45s until she found the one she was looking for.

  ‘Maybe solving one mystery will help to convince Birdie I’m not so bad. Come on, Samuel, where’s this machine of yours?’ Peregrine tugged at his sleeve impatiently.

  Before he could answer, Florence dropped the needle into the groove, and Johnny O’Keefe’s ‘Move Baby Move’ blasted from the speakers. She danced her way over to Samuel and grabbed his hand. ‘Plenty of time, Peregrine! Right now Sammy has to dance with me!’

  ‘Not again,’ Samuel groaned, but he allowed Florence to pull him forward into an open space.

  ‘I need cheering up and you know I love this song. Besides, you poured the drinks; you knew what would happen. Dance!’ Florence swivelled her hips like she was dancing on Bandstand while Samuel hopped about awkwardly.

  ‘Next time I’ll cut back on the absinthe,’ he shouted, as trumpets blared between verses.

  Florence’s response was to add an exaggerated backstroke move to her dancing, while Peregrine smiled indulgently and went to make a large pot of coffee.

  By the time Peregrine returned, Samuel had set up his microfilm machine and Florence had disappeared.

  ‘She’s gone to bed in the spare room,’ Samuel ex
plained. ‘Your aunt …’

  Peregrine waved away his explanation. She was happy to have Florence use the spare bed—and, besides, the glowing screen of the microfilm reader was beckoning.

  ‘I’ve loaded the film and it’s really easy to operate, but I could help if you’d like,’ Samuel offered.

  ‘Thank you,’ Peregrine said as she sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee. ‘You’re welcome to stay and have coffee, but I can do this.’

  Samuel hesitated a moment, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘In that case, I’ll leave you to it.’

  Peregrine smiled distractedly, already intent on the pages scrolling past on the screen. ‘Goodnight, and thanks again.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re a bit of a natural at this.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Peregrine looked at him properly.

  ‘Detecting. You’re a fast learner.’

  ‘I haven’t solved anything yet! But when I do …’ She arched her eyebrows at him. ‘Birdie can keep on being as cool as a Frigidaire, but at least she’ll have to respect me.’

  ‘I think you’ll manage to defrost her heart. Goodnight, Peregrine.’

  Samuel started down the stairs, but Peregrine didn’t register the sound of the front door opening and closing. She was already engrossed in the microfilm copy of volume twenty of her aunt’s investigative notebook. After a moment of scanning through the flowing script, Peregrine pulled a notepad in front of her and began to transcribe:

  Our midnight visit to Madame Lyon’s establishment in Collins Street turned up a few surprises and caused quite a bit of consternation, especially for the Chief Commissioner of Police and some senior officers …

  Morning light filtered through the curtains, not yet bright enough to disturb Peregrine, who was sprawled facedown on the sofa, covered by a throw rug and with her head buried under a cushion. Pages of notes littered every surface around her. At some point after 1 a.m. she’d changed into pyjamas, intending to go to bed, but the pull of the notebook had been too strong and she’d ended up working through most of the night.

  ‘Rise and shine!’