Ruddy Gore (2 page)

‘Very well,’ said Bunji, writing down her name and address in a silk-covered notebook which the girl held out. ‘But it was my pleasure, really,’ she said doubtfully. Closing the book, Annie reverted to her doll-like stillness, bowed to an exact degree and left.

Phryne looked at Bunji, who shrugged.

‘They’re Chinks, they’re aliens, what did you expect?’

‘Bunji, do stop calling them Chinks, it’s not polite.’

‘What else can I call them?’ asked Bunji reasonably. ‘That’s what they are. This is a nice robe, though.’ She smoothed the decorated material with a hard hand.

The elderly woman returned with the dress, invisibly mended and cleaned of stains, and Bunji 7

pulled it on and shoved her hat back onto her head, hiding her short hair.

‘Well, let’s go, it has been an exciting evening but I don’t want to miss seeing Bert again, though I don’t know about this opera, Phryne, I’ve never been a culture shark like you. Is it all fat ladies bellowing at each other?’

‘No, it’s very funny and you’ll like it,’ said Phryne firmly. She finished the cognac and put down the glass, wondering if they should just walk out. Bunji settled this by striding through the ante-chamber and into Little Bourke Street and Phryne followed. She had reached the door when the young man appeared, touched her arm and said,

‘Madame, we are in your debt. Can we know who you are?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Phryne, pausing at the door. ‘It was all my friend’s idea, I just cleaned up after her. She’s the valiant one.’

He smiled at her, an action which must have hurt.

‘I wish to come and express our family’s gratitude in some tangible form.’ The sensual suggestion was strong and Phryne was attracted. She found her card and held it up.

‘What will you give me, then, Mr Lin, to express your gratitude?’

‘I will sit at your feet and sing your praise all night, Silver Lady.’ The voice was soft and Phryne felt an answering smile curving the corners of her mouth. ‘Most beautiful lady,’ said Lin Chung, ‘I will do whatever would most please you.’

8

Phryne felt that this offer was agreeably unconditional. She allowed him to take the card, swept her velvet coat around her, and said, ‘Come on Thursday night, Mr Lin. To dinner at eight o’clock. I will think of something that you can do for me by then.’

By then, she reflected as she walked quickly away behind Bunji, his face will have healed. And she calculated that she would at least get a length of that absolutely exquisite silk for the trouble of hitting an assailant over the head with a hatchet.

Lin Chung gazed after the twinkle of her winged heels as the Honourable Phryne Fisher receded into the night.

His Majesty’s Theatre was ablaze with light as they walked up to the corner and turned into the main street. Expensive cars were stopping to allow expensive by-invitation-only patrons to alight.

There was a scent of French perfume so strong as to be almost a stench, and a flurry of coats and cloaks and glossy top hats.

‘There – ’ Bunji dragged Phryne through the ranks. ‘There’s Bill, and Captain Larkin – come on, Phryne.’

It was easy to find the flyers. They were gathered into a tight little group in one corner of the foyer, looking uncomfortable among the most shrill and glamorous of Melbourne Society.

‘What ho, Cap’n,’ Bunji hailed. ‘Is Bert here yet?’

9

‘No, he’s being smuggled in through the back. I say, Miss Fisher, you look spiffing! Mercury, ain’t you, like the Greek god? Remarkable, even down to the winged shoes.’ Phryne, who had been keeping her ensemble for just such an occasion, smiled warmly at the captain. Bunji nudged him.

‘Well, how’s poor Bert bearing up? He must be a nervous wreck by now.’

‘Oh, yes, the hero of the hour, poor chap,’

observed Captain Larkin, smoothing his moustache complacently. ‘Can’t bear publicity. I bet he’s wishing he was back up in the sky.’

‘Oh, why?’ asked Phryne, who had preserved her cloak uncrushed in her passage through the multitude by following exactly in the stouter Bunji’s wake.

‘Simple, it’s all predictable up in the air.’

‘Predictable?’ Phryne could not think of a less predictable pastime than flying.

‘Yes, only a certain number of things can go wrong, and only a few of those will kill you. Pity about Chubbie Miller and old Bill Lancaster breaking a wing, though. Otherwise they might have made it in before Hustlin’ Hinkler.’

‘Why is he called hustling?’ Phryne was shoved against Captain Larkin, who smelt delightfully of Floris’s stephanotis.

‘He leaves on time – every time. He arrives on time though Hell should bar the way. Most amazin’ chap. And he made the flight from Croydon to Darwin across all those islands and countries in fifteen and a half days. Remarkable 10

man. But he’ll be deeply embarrassed by all this adulation. Not one for the populace, Hinkler.’

‘No? Dislikes his fellow man?’

‘Hates crowds and doesn’t trust enthusiasm any more than a Presbyterian,’ rejoined Bunji. ‘Unsen-timental, perhaps that’s it. He really only likes a few people, his co-pilot and some flyers and his Mum. He hasn’t even given his plane a name.’

‘Now that is interesting,’ Phryne said, ‘I thought all planes had names.’

Bunji agreed. ‘Yes, well, there’s
Red Rose
, that’s the Miller/Lancaster Avro, and your
Rigel
and my
Tiger Cat
and Bill’s
Moonraker
and Lindbergh’s
Spirit of St Louis
and Kingsford Smith’s
Southern
Cross
. Yes. We all give the planes names – but he just calls his GE BOV, the call sign. Either he doesn’t want it to develop a personality, or . . . ’

‘He just doesn’t think like that,’ concluded Captain Larkin. ‘By the way, Bunji old girl –

someone took up a Tiger Moth and did some very pretty stuntin’ to welcome Hinkler. You wouldn’t happen to know who it was, would you?’

‘No,’ said Bunji, blushing the colour of her dress. ‘No, really? I can’t imagine how I missed it.’

‘I can’t imagine either,’ said Captain Larkin drily.

Bunji, desperate for a distraction, asked,

‘Phryne, who is that woman in the red dress? She’s been staring at us.’

‘Oh, that’s Diana Ffoulkes,’ said Phryne, returning the gaze of bright blue eyes with interest. ‘Terribly rich, terribly bored, with a penchant for 11

celebrities. Her last affair was with a flyer, I believe; her lovers never last. I wonder if she’s prospecting for a new one?’ She caught a glimpse of spun-silk hair and cupid’s bow mouth as Miss Ffoulkes bent her regard elsewhere. Phryne caught Captain Larkin smoothing his moustache complacently, a movement just short of preening, and grinned at him. He coughed and said quickly,

‘Come along, ladies, let’s go inside. There’s a surprise in the theatre.’

Phryne, who considered that she had had enough surprises for one night, took his arm and followed him up the steps into the dress circle.

Red plush was the dominant motif in His Majesty’s Theatre. That and gilt equal to the output of the Ballarat goldfields for at least three months.

Everything glittered and shone which wasn’t draped and soft. Phryne sat down and looked at the stage.

Over the proscenium was a large map of Hinkler’s epic journey, with the fuel stops picked out in red lamps. There were a lot of them, dotted across Europe and Asia.

‘Look up,’ invited Captain Larkin.

Phryne leaned back and stared up into the blue dome with gold stars which dominated the theatre and gasped.

There, circling on a hidden line, was a scale model of Hinkler’s Avro Avian, its propeller revolving slowly in the hot air.

‘I say!’ said Phryne. ‘That
is
impressive.’

‘It’s mine,’ said the captain modestly, ‘made it 12

this winter. Luckily both the contending flyers were in Avros. Brought it into the theatre this morning and spent most of the day riggin’ it up, to the groans of the stage hand chappies, by the way. Said it couldn’t be done without ruining the sight-lines, whatever they are. Said it would cast shadows on the stage – apparently there are banks of lights on the dress circle, can’t say I’ve ever noticed ’em. They insisted on hauling it up that high, don’t know why. But it looks good, don’t it?’

‘It does indeed.’ Phryne was impressed. ‘Very nice work, Captain. And the map over the stage, that’s Hinkler’s journey?’

‘Yes. Started at Croydon, see, then stopped for fuel all the way across. Through Lyons and Dijon to Rome and Naples, then Catania, Tripoli, Ben-ghazi, Sollum, Cairo, then Baghdad, Ur, Bushire, Bandar Abbas, Char, Karachi, Jodhpur, across India to Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Muntok – that’s where Miller and Lancaster came to grief – then Surabaja, Bima, Atambua and Darwin. Amazin’

journey. All on his own. Have to admire him.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Phryne. The model plane circled endlessly against the gold stars of the ceiling, and Phryne wondered what it would be like to set out on a cold night with real stars burning like lamps in the sky, nothing at all to mark your passing but the icy slipstream screaming past, and no one at all to notice if you fell out of the sky but a few startled fish as the pitiful wreckage of balsa wood and canvas floated on the uncaring waves . . .

13

She shook her head. Night, cold and solitude were too threatening in a plane.

People were leaping to their feet as a diffident figure was shoved to the front of a box.

‘There he is,’ observed Bunji. ‘Poor old Bert.’

He was dark, small, and dreadfully embarassed, as the captain had predicted. He waved valiantly to the assembled multitude and sat down hurriedly out of sight.

The orchestra came on and the crowd applauded the conductor, as their hero Hinkler was no longer in evidence. The sounds of the pianist’s ‘A’ being repeated on a variety of instruments sent the usual frisson of excitement down Phryne’s spine.

‘You’re sure that this isn’t going to be in German,’ said Bunji uneasily. ‘You promised, Phryne!’

‘No, I tell you, it’s in English and it’s funny.

Why do you think it’s going to be German? What have you got against Germans? The War’s over, you know.’

‘I went to a theatre in London when I was there with the Flying Circus,’ said Bunji, wounded, ‘and there was the most God-awful row going on, all these women in armour shrieking at each other and a bloke who I wouldn’t have cared to meet down an alley trying to hack an anvil in half. They wouldn’t let me out until interval and it went on for four hours. Four hours!’

‘Well, next time you see the word ‘‘Wagner’’ on a poster, don’t go in,’ said Phryne unsympathetically. ‘Now, hush, Bunji, there’s a dear.’

14

‘Tell me what’s going to happen,’ said Bunji.

Since her companion was showing signs of being ready to bolt at the flourish of a Valkyrie’s spear, Phryne drew a deep breath, consulted her programme, and said quickly, ‘It’s a parody of a bloodtub melodrama plot. Rose Maybud has to choose between a poor farmer called Robin Oakapple, a dashing Jack Tar called Dick Dauntless and the local wicked Squire, Sir Despard Murgatroyd. He belongs to a family that has a curse, they have to commit one bad deed a day or die horribly. She eventually decides to marry Robin. Then Dick and the Squire get together and reveal that Robin is actually Ruthven, Despard’s elder brother and therefore he gets the Lordship and the curse and Dick gets the girl.’

‘Phryne, that’s the silliest plot I ever heard.’

Giving silent thanks that she was not attempting to explain something truly silly, like
Il Trovatore
, Phryne went doggedly on. ‘But Rose still can’t make up her mind. So there is poor Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd who used to be Robin Oakapple making up his mind to do one bad deed every day.

And Mad Margaret who was spurned by Sir Despard is back with him and sane once he is relieved of his curse. Then . . . that’ll do for the moment. The curtain’s going up.’

The huge red curtain rose slowly on a scene of village life. Various maidens in bodices and print smocks were watching the entrance of a row of 15

bridesmaids, who were lamenting their under-employment. An older woman in widow’s gar-ments entered and began to sing of the Ruddigore curse.

‘That’s Agnes Gault playing Dame Hannah,’

observed Phryne, noticing that Bunji was getting interested in the play.

Each Lord of Ruddigore

Despite his best endeavour,

Shall do one crime or more,

Once, every day, for ever!

This doom he can’t defy,

However he may try,

For should he stay

His hand, that day

In torture he shall die!

sang the respectable Dame Hannah, outlining the dreadful fate of the Ruddigores. The audience were settling down to enjoy the unfolding of the ridiculous plot. Phryne looked across to Hinkler’s box but could not see the daring flyer. She hoped that he liked music, or that he could sleep through it.

A slender young woman in a pale green smock and a froth of petticoats, clutching an etiquette book, denied all intention of marrying.

‘That’s Rose Maybud,’ whispered Phryne to Bunji, ‘played by Leila Esperance.’

‘Nice voice,’ commented Bunji. ‘Pity about the clothes.’

16

It was true. Leila’s dark slender charm was entirely muffled in the wodge of drapes and gathers, and her celebrated profile was extin-guished by the frilled linen sunbonnet. Phryne reflected that Miss Esperance was credited with a truly volcanic temper and felt a pang of pity for the wardrobe mistress who had been required to insert the star into this regrettable costume.

Robin Oakapple sidled onto the stage, a shy young man in farmer’s clothes. He and Rose conducted a conversation remarkable for what it did not say. Robin was tall, blond, and moved with a grace that spoke of ballet training. Phryne consulted the programme.

‘Walter Copland,’ she said. ‘You remember him in
Hamlet
.’

‘He was the gabby old man who got himself spiked through the tapestry,’ agreed Bunji.

‘Washes up well, doesn’t he?’

‘Poor little man!’ sang Rose, and, ‘Poor little maid!’ sang Robin, both managing to avoid mentioning that they were in love with each other.