Authors: Kerry Greenwood
Tags: #Adult, #Mystery, #Historical, #cookie429, #Kat, #Extratorrents
Flying Too High (22 page)
‘What were these children doing when you saw them yesterday, Bert?’
‘Trying to wrap up an old girl’s cat as a mummy,’ chuckled Bert. ‘They had all the bandages but the cat wouldn’t play.’
‘Jim, tell us what you were playing here when Mr McNaughton caught you.’
‘Pyramids,’ whispered Jim. ‘We took the tyre down and Mickey was up the tree. We was hauling the stones up like the pictures said. It worked bonzer, too. We had four stones for each side of the square, and we almost finished it when…’
‘Exactly. Why was the deceased wearing street shoes? He saw from his drive a gaggle of street children desecrating his sacred turf. And after he had strictly forbidden his daughter to allow them on the property. What did he do? He strode across here and bellowed in his most terrifying voice that they should clear off. Mickey was up in the tree, holding the rope to which the top stone was attached. The deceased halted directly under him and Mickey was so terrified that he let the stone go. Then he fell off the tree and ran for his life. Is that right?’
Jim nodded. Mickey began to howl. Bert, who had been expecting this, thrust a huge toffee apple into the gaping maw.
‘The kids all ran away as fast as they could go. Eh, Jimmy?’
Jimmy grinned, remembering that flight over the fence and down the valley, into the safety of their favourite box-thorn.
‘So, you see, the blow was delivered by a more powerful force than man. It was gravity that murdered McNaughton. That pitcher weighs about twenty pounds and it fell some three feet. Enough to cave in any skull. So McNaughton dies as he had lived; a mean old cuss.’
‘How did the tyre get back, then?’
‘Ah. In the house, Miss Amelia is told that her brother has been pacing about uttering threats against her father before stamping off down the valley. She goes to look for him. There is her father, lying in the grass, perfectly dead. She does not understand the significance of the stones. She leaps to the conclusion that her brother has killed her father. She takes the bluestones and dumps them over the wall, with the tomb treasures. She unties the rope and throws it away. She is wearing soft house shoes so she leaves no footmark. Then she takes a new piece of rope and rehangs the tyre. The children’s pulley has fallen naturally into the groove carved in the bark by the swing, so there is no other sign of their presence. She intends to discover the body the next day, but Daniel the spaniel is not going to be denied. Danny knows a dead body when he sees one. So the death is revealed sooner than she expected. Is that what happened, Amelia?’
Paolo gave her an affectionate shake.
‘Why did you not tell me, foolish one? I would have helped you. You must not carry stones—you will spoil your fingers.’
Bill, congested with emotion, said, ‘Amelia! Is this true?’
‘Yes, Bill.’
‘Sporting of you, old girl,’ he mumbled. Amelia smiled. Mrs McNaughton, who was a little slow, finally reached her conclusion.
‘Then it was an accident.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Bill didn’t kill him.’
‘No, Mother.’
‘In fact, no one killed him!’
‘That is right, Mrs McNaughton,’ agreed Detective-inspector Benton. ‘Much as I hate to admit it.’
‘Good. I also have a witness to Bill’s walk. It can be confirmed by consulting the daybook in Kew police station. You should have checked. This is she—Miss Wilson.’
Margaret Wilson was a sturdy, tanned, straightforward young woman, who had clearly never lied in her life.
‘I passed Bill on that path at four,’ she stated. ‘He has met me before, but I must have made no impression on him, which is a pity.’
Bill protested incoherently. ‘No, Margaret, don’t think that. I had a lot on my mind. I was in a mood. Don’t think that I…’ He trailed off and blushed.
Miss Wilson took his arm.
‘Well. Is this the end of the game?’ asked Paolo.
‘Ask the detective-inspector,’ said Phryne.
‘Is it?’ Paolo hugged his fiancée close. ‘Are you going to arrest the girl for loyalty to her brother? Surely that would not be a good deed. And he died by his own act. Had he not ambushed these children he would be alive today, which would not be a good idea.’
‘No charges will be laid against Miss McNaughton or the kids,’ said the detective-inspector glumly.
‘Then I would like to announce that Miss McNaughton has agreed to be my wife and I trust that we shall see you all at the wedding, including you,
scugnizzi
. If you wash your faces first. Since my wife will not have any money from the estate of her father no aspersions can be cast at us.’
‘That’s what you think,’ commented Jillian. ‘That clause is invalid. Void for being contrary to public policy. She will get the money without the condition, as will Mrs McNaughton. I know the solicitor who drew up that will. Poor thing. He told the old man all about what would happen if it was challenged, but all he would say was, “They’d never dare”. Unpleasant person. So if I feel like casting the odd aspersion at you, Paolo, I shall cast them.’
‘Under the circumstances you are welcome,
Signorina Avvocata
. Shall we also invite this so-tedious policeman to our wedding,
cara
?’
‘Yes,’ said Amelia. ‘I want to paint him.’
They all went to lunch, well and truly satisfied.
‘Have another cocktail,’ suggested Phryne to the detective-inspector. ‘Theories are like that. At least I didn’t expose you through my old friend who works for “The Hawklet”, did I?’
The policeman paled, and gulped the cocktail.
The street children were seated at the buffet, with all their favourite foods within reach. Lucy had uncorked Mickey from his apple and was feeding him cream cake while she ate a fat chocolate bar in neat, mouselike nibbles. Jim and Elsie were up to their eyes in rainbow jelly. Janey was applying raspberry vinegar to her face and the front of her frock. The violent death of McNaughton did not seem to be haunting them.
Bert lifted his beer in a toast to Cec, who could not move because Amelia was sketching him and asking if he had a Scandinavian grandparent. Phryne had snared a lamington out of sheer nostalgia and was wondering if Margaret Wilson really wanted Bill McNaughton, in view of his lousy heredity.
Someone seized her arm in an iron grip.
‘Damn you, Phryne,’ hissed Jillian Henderson. ‘You’ve gone and lost me my murder!’
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