Just Murdered Page 9

Peregrine groaned and one of her arms fell off the edge of the sofa. Florence bustled in from the kitchen, dressed in yesterday’s clothes and carrying a tray with fresh coffee and dry toast.

  ‘Your aunt wasn’t much of a morning person either,’ Florence said, stepping over Peregrine’s discarded shoes and carefully pushing pages aside to set the tray down on the coffee table. ‘How much of the notebook did you copy out?’

  Peregrine hauled herself into a sitting position, the hair on one side of her head sticking out at a crazy angle. She rubbed her knuckles, hard, into her eyes. ‘All of it.’

  Florence passed her a cup of coffee and Peregrine held it with both hands, inhaling the rich aroma.

  ‘Do you remember some sort of raid on Madame Lyon’s?’ Peregrine asked.

  Florence nodded, sipping from her own cup. ‘Vividly! That police raid was front-page news. Something went wrong, apparently, and the commissioner was shot.’

  ‘Not according to my aunt.’

  Florence frowned. ‘But he was taken away in an ambulance and nearly died. There was a huge fuss, but they never found the culprit.’

  ‘First of all, according to my aunt’s notebook it wasn’t the police raiding the joint, it was her! But there were several senior police officers already there in—shall we say—an unofficial capacity, and the commissioner was one of them. No one shot anybody, but the commissioner had a heart attack … in Madame Lyon’s arms, mind you! My aunt said the madam was like a goddess guarding secrets the way she protected and cared for him. Anyway, the whole thing was clearly covered up, but in the notebook Aunt Phryne wrote that she had proof not only of the relationship between the commissioner and the madam, but also of some other stuff to do with police and the brothel.’

  ‘That must be how she kept Sparrow at bay!’

  ‘And that must have been what he was after when he broke in,’ Peregrine said. ‘Except that the proof wasn’t recorded in the notebook he stole. Maybe Sparrow is hoping that now Aunt Phryne is gone, the evidence is lost as well. He might think he’s safe, but he’d better not get too comfortable; I’m going to find out what my aunt had on him and then …’ She picked up a triangle of toast and bit into it with a determined crunch.

  ‘You need to get dressed before you can bring down the police force.’ Florence tipped her head towards the other end of the house. ‘Come on.’

  Peregrine cast aside the throw rug, picked up her coffee and grabbed another piece of toast before following Florence through the house to the main bedroom. She found her in the adjoining dressing room, the doors of the wardrobes flung wide to reveal a collection of clothes so stylish, Peregrine felt as though she’d stepped into the pages of a fashion magazine.

  ‘Oh. My. God. I haven’t looked in here! What size was my aunt?’ She wanted to finger some of the rich fabrics, but was afraid of spilling coffee or dropping crumbs.

  Florence sized Peregrine up: the pink shortie pyjamas she was wearing left most of her tall, slender frame on display. ‘About your size. And virtually all her clothes are still here. The only thing missing is the little black dress she was wearing when she took off for New Guinea. Well, that and a swimsuit.’

  Peregrine looked at her disbelievingly. ‘She went to New Guinea in a little black dress?’

  ‘The language of style is universal. You can never go wrong in a little black dress. Here.’ Florence reached in and pulled out a bright orange day dress.

  Peregrine put down her cup, but before she could take the dress from Florence’s hand they were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. She looked at Florence and shrugged, then grabbed the first coat that came to hand—which happened to be an André Courrèges original—and slipped it on before going to see who was on her doorstep first thing in the morning.

  As Peregrine bounced down the stairs, she could see Detective Steed peering through the glass next to the front door. She twisted the latch.

  ‘This is a lovely surprise,’ she said. ‘Come on in!’

  Peregrine led the way back up to the lounge, giving Steed a good view of her long, bare legs in the process.

  He pulled off his hat as he mounted the last steps, a frown creating a deep line between his eyebrows.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ He stared pointedly at Peregrine’s coat.

  ‘Places you can only dream about! Coffee?’ She poured herself a fresh cup.

  ‘No, I don’t want coffee. I just want my photograph back.’

  ‘Photograph?’ Peregrine sipped her coffee, eyeing Steed over the cup’s rim.

  ‘Miss Fisher …’ He pointed his hat at her.

  Peregrine put a hand on her hip, causing the coat to gape open, revealing her pyjamas. ‘Okay, okay, I only borrowed it. You really should keep a closer eye on things, Detective.’

  She collected the photograph from the coffee table and handed it to him before curling up on the sofa with her coffee.

  ‘It was very helpful,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve worked out what the murder weapon was.’

  Detective Steed looked at the photo then back at Peregrine. ‘From this photo?’ he said disbelievingly.

  She nodded, smiling serenely. ‘It’s actually quite obvious.’

  Steed studied her face then inhaled sharply. ‘You’re really going to make me work for this, aren’t you? But how can you expect me to take you seriously when you’re sitting there, hardly wearing any … dressed in those pyjamas.’

  Peregrine wrapped the Courrèges coat more tightly around herself. ‘Look at Barbie’s legs. Closely.’

  Steed stared at the photograph for a minute then shrugged.

  ‘Her stockings don’t match—I think she was strangled with a stocking,’ Peregrine said triumphantly.

  Steed studied the photograph again and nodded slowly. Then he glanced over at Peregrine. ‘I checked our records last night to see if Harvey White had any sort of police record,’ he said in a low voice, as if he feared being overheard.

  ‘And?’ Peregrine leaned forward.

  Steed crossed the last few feet of carpet separating him from Peregrine and sat down beside her.

  ‘It seems Barbie Jones had him charged with assault.’

  ‘See? I told you there was more to the story of Barbie leaving White’s. Was he found guilty?’

  Steed shook his head. ‘The charges were dropped. Very quickly.’

  ‘Why? Who made that decision?’

  Steed stood and put his hat on. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Because you don’t know or because you won’t say? Covering for someone, perhaps?’

  ‘It’s more than my job’s worth.’

  Peregrine thumped back in the sofa, not bothering to see James Steed out. ‘Sparrow,’ she muttered.

  After the visit from Detective Steed, Peregrine had returned to her bedroom to find that Florence had been busy. She’d not only selected a lovely blue-and-white shift for Peregrine to wear, she’d come up with a plan to get the young Miss Fisher admitted as an Adventuress.

  Now it was early afternoon and Peregrine was back in the rarefied atmosphere of the Adventuresses’ Club. She stood in the hallway outside the Camelot Room, her ear pressed to the wood as she tried to eavesdrop on the meeting in progress. Florence had called the Adventuresses together without mentioning Peregrine’s name, which meant it had been hard to convince Birdie to let her stay in the building, let alone wait in the hall. As Peregrine listened, she heard the scrape of a chair and then Florence began to speak.

  ‘Adventuresses,’ she said sombrely, ‘now that Phryne Fisher isn’t here to buffer us from what passes for a police force in this town, I believe the Adventuresses’ Club is at great risk.’

  ‘We’re staring down the barrel of a one-way trip to purgatory, you mean.’ Birdie’s voice sounded bitter.

  ‘That’s putting it very bluntly, President Birnside, but you’re right. We’re in trouble and I know we all wish Phryne was here to keep us safe, but wishing won’t make it so. We need a plan.’

  Th
ere was a pause, and Peregrine, from her post in the hallway, pictured Florence meeting the gaze of each woman seated at the table.

  ‘These are desperate times and we need to protect ourselves with whatever resources we have—and it seems to me that one of the greatest resources at our disposal is Phryne Fisher’s legacy: her niece, Peregrine.’

  ‘We’re not that desperate!’ Birdie retorted. ‘Besides, if I were you I’d be more concerned about Sparrow painting a big bullseye on my back than wasting my time with—’

  Florence cut her off. ‘Sparrow gunning for me means he’s coming for all of us. If I’m arrested on trumped-up charges, don’t you think he’ll use that to discredit every woman sitting at this table? We need to be ready to fight.’

  ‘And you think we should let a failed hairdresser lead the offensive?’ Birdie sneered.

  ‘Peregrine Fisher is far more than that! And I think it’s fair to say that most of us here—despite our achievements—might also struggle to excel if a curling wand and a jar of Dippity-do hair gel were the only tools in our arsenal.’

  There were positive-sounding murmurs.

  ‘Whatever you want to call it, Birdie,’ Florence continued, forgetting formalities in the heat of the moment, ‘a curious mind or something in the blood, I think Peregrine has it!’

  ‘She worked out Barbie Jones was strangled with a stocking and why Inspector Sparrow stole that notebook!’ Samuel’s voice drifted through the door.

  Peregrine had forgotten that, unlike her, he’d been allowed to remain in the Camelot Room while the meeting was held. Despite being a man—and therefore not having a seat at the table—Samuel still had some status in the club. Ordinarily, Peregrine would be miffed by something like that, except now he was clearly on her side. ‘And she needs us. Her mother is dead, she has no family …’ It took Peregrine a moment to identify the soft voice as belonging to Violetta Fellini. ‘She never got to meet her wonderful aunt—how sad for both of them! And you’ve seen her. She’s not Phryne, but at the same time there is something … It almost feels like a little bit of Phryne is still with us.’

  ‘What do you think Phryne would say, Birdie? Would she want us to welcome her niece, to at least give Peregrine Fisher a chance?’ Florence’s question was so quiet Peregrine had to press her ear harder against the door.

  ‘Oh, good grief! Well played, Florence, well played,’ said Birdie begrudgingly.

  ‘In that case, as secretary of the Adventuresses’ Club of the Antipodes, I’d like to formally move that we allow Peregrine Fisher to follow in her esteemed aunt’s footsteps and become a fully-fledged Adventuress, specialising in investigation.’ Florence delivered the motion in a rush.

  There was a murmur of approval. Out in the hall, Peregrine clenched her fists and did a little victory dance. Then she heard Birdie’s voice rise above the hubbub and pressed her ear against the door’s mahogany panels once more.

  ‘Not so fast! Before she can become an Adventuress, there are certain tests Peregrine will have to pass,’ said Birdie. ‘We’ll have to arrange a day—’

  ‘Nonsense! I’m sure Violetta and I can get everything set up straight away. You always say there’s no time like the present, Birdie. Peregrine!’

  The door opened abruptly and Peregrine half fell into the room.

  ‘Yes! I’m great at tests! Are we doing it now? I’m ready!’ Peregrine cracked her knuckles and beamed at the assembled women.

  ‘Fine then, since Florence has so kindly offered to prepare the tests, we may as well get this over with.’ Birdie’s smile was overly wide. ‘But …’ She paused, and her eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘I propose Samuel as second candidate for the position of club investigator!’

  There was a shocked silence. The Adventuresses glanced at each other, clearly surprised by Birdie’s suggestion. Samuel looked like he wanted to say something but was too mortified to open his mouth.

  ‘But he’s a man!’ Peregrine exclaimed.

  Several women nodded and the tension in the room dropped a notch: someone had voiced what they were all thinking.

  ‘Which means he’s not eligible for full membership,’ Birdie conceded. ‘However, he’s discreet, he knows this town inside out and his surveillance skills are first-rate. At a time like this, we need the best person for the job to protect our interests. Plus, I trust him implicitly.’ She nodded her head once for emphasis.

  Ignoring the implied slight, Peregrine summed up the situation. ‘So you’re saying it’s him or me?’

  ‘Whichever one of you succeeds … Let me rephrase that. Whichever one of you most closely meets the exacting standards of the club will be declared our official investigator.’

  ‘Don’t you all need to vote on this?’ Peregrine asked. ‘Second the motion? Something like that?’

  ‘Let’s not waste any more time on formalities.’ Birdie stood. ‘Meeting adjourned. Florence, Violetta, shall we get started? I’ll outline the necessary tests.’

  Birdie sailed out of the room and, after a moment, Violetta, followed by Florence, hurried after her.

  Less than two hours later they reconvened in a large shed at the rear of the property. Peregrine was surprised to find a small shooting range was already set up, the targets placed in front of a thick bank of straw bales. While most of the Adventuresses hung back, Birdie laid out two guns on a table and gestured for Peregrine and Samuel to approach.

  ‘Choose a weapon,’ Birdie instructed. ‘Three shots each, the distance is twenty-seven yards.’

  Peregrine gestured for Samuel to go first and from the corner of her eye saw Birdie smile with satisfaction.

  Samuel took his time, picking up each gun and weighing it in his hand before finally making a choice. He squared up in front of his target, took up a double-handed stance, and fired off three careful shots. All hit the target well within the inner circles, although none actually made the bullseye.

  ‘Well done, Samuel!’ crowed Birdie.

  Peregrine picked up the remaining gun in one hand, sighted along the barrel and pulled the trigger four times in rapid succession.

  There was a moment’s stunned silence. The centre of the target had been obliterated: all four shots had hit the bullseye.

  Florence and Violetta smiled broadly and Violetta clapped silently. Birdie, however, gaped at Peregrine in astonishment.

  Peregrine shrugged nonchalantly as she engaged the safety catch and put the gun down. ‘Rabbit shooting,’ she said.

  ‘I said three shots. You need to follow directives,’ said Birdie irritably.

  They moved down to the other end of the shed, where two sets of sturdy wooden drawers stood side by side. Violetta stepped forward with a tray on which a number of small, strange tools were arranged. Each had the same flat handle, but the tips varied from single points curved at different angles to wavy lines and tight squiggles.

  Peregrine stared at them in confusion. ‘What’s the test? Do we have to perform some sort of weird medical procedure?’ She looked at Birdie.

  ‘They’re lock picks. Your next test is to pick the lock on the top drawer. It’s a race, but there are also points for finesse. Any scratches or damage will be penalised. After all, a good investigator should leave no trace.’ Birdie pulled out a stopwatch.

  ‘Ladies first,’ said Samuel, gesturing towards the tray.

  ‘Oh, I …’ Peregrine reached into her hair, pulled out a bobby pin and twisted it back and forth until she was happy with the shape. She held it up. ‘I’ve got my own, thanks.’

  Birdie snorted and muttered something that sounded like: ‘A hairdresser!’

  Peregrine ignored her and tested all the drawers on both pieces of furniture, just to make sure they were really locked; she wouldn’t put it past Birdie to pull some sort of trick. Satisfied everything was secure, she knelt in front of one set of drawers, bobby pin at the ready.

  Violetta held the tray out to Samuel. He looked into her eyes and paused, then collected himself and refocused on the array
of picks, his hand hovering for a moment before selecting one.

  ‘I think a raking pick will best suit the job,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Violetta.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Samuel.’ She smiled.

  ‘Are we doing this?’ Peregrine called from her place by the drawers. Samuel crouched next to her as the Adventuresses clustered around. Birdie held up the stopwatch. ‘Ready? And … go!’ Her thumb clamped down on the start button.

  Peregrine and Samuel both bent to the task, the only sound the ticking of Birdie’s timer. Less than thirty seconds later, Peregrine pulled open the drawer and held both hands in the air.

  ‘Done!’ she yelled.

  Everyone looked at Samuel.

  ‘Nearly, nearly,’ he muttered. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was, in reality, only another forty-two seconds, he opened the drawer.

  ‘Well done,’ he said to Peregrine, sitting back on his heels.

  ‘Just a moment.’ Birdie edged between them. ‘I need to inspect the locks for damage.’

  Peregrine rolled her eyes as she moved aside.

  There was silence as Birdie checked first one lock then the other, spending far longer examining Peregrine’s handiwork. ‘Well done both of you,’ she said at last. ‘Next test!’

  Violetta led the contenders to a table that held nothing but two identical cocktail glasses, each filled to the brim with a golden yellow liquid.

  ‘One of these is a normal cocktail,’ Birdie explained, ‘the other is a mickey finn.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Peregrine stared open-mouthed at Birdie.

  ‘Nothing deadly,’ said Violetta. ‘Just a little chloral hydrate. You might fall briefly unconscious.’

  ‘Your task is to identify the drink containing knockout drops—however, once you touch a glass, you must drink it!’ Birdie clapped her hands. ‘Begin!’

  Samuel and Peregrine circled the table, bending down to gaze at the fluids, leaning in to sniff, trying to see something that would identify the spiked drink.

  ‘Ha!’ Suddenly, Peregrine let out a yell of triumph and dove across the table towards a glass. Her fingers stretched for the stem but Samuel got there first, snatching it from beneath her hand. Peregrine smiled.