Castlemaine Murders Part 17

Leaving Second Cousin Kong to gather up Chang Gao's remains and dispose of them respectfully for the moment, Lin and Uncle Tao traversed the field as it began to get dark.

'To think it was there all along,' sighed Uncle Tao.

'The ways of heaven are most peculiar,' agreed Lin.

His mission was accomplished. The Lin gold was found at the cost of some merit-acquiring charity, a new wall and new pigsty. Only a few hours and a wedding feast stood between him and Miss Phryne Fisher, and he was full of the emotions of spring.

The family Sung wishes to announce that scholar Sung Ma, recently returned from the Second Gold Mountain, will marry Tsao Pan, daughter of retired scholar Tsao Mai-te. The wedding will take place at the home of Uncle Sung on the first auspicious day of the third month in the next year, as Sung Ma then completes his mourning for his mother.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

For a short parting, I can bear it well,But for a long parting, tears wet my breast.

Su Tungpo, translated by Lin Yutang It wasn't hard to find Bill Gaskin because he was looking for Phryne. As she strolled into the stable yard in the late afternoon sunlight he beckoned her into his shed and closed the door.

'Sorry to stop you, Miss, but I heard that you know something about Thomas Beaconsfield.'

Phryne leaned against the edge of a scarred workbench and stared at this gnarled and sooty member of the working cla.s.ses. Bill Gaskin reminded Phryne of that headline about sons of toil buried beneath tons of soil.

'Yes, I do,' she said. 'How on earth did you hear that?'

'Young Billy was pa.s.sing by the phone cabinet,' said Bill, mumbling a little. 'And he meant no harm, Miss, but he heard the name, and then, well, he listened.'

'All right,' said Phryne. 'I'll tell you all I know and then you can tell me why you know the name. I was in the Ghost Train at Luna Park,' she began. As the story progressed she noted that Bill Gaskin was becoming more and more emotional. Finally, when she had wound down to the remi-niscences of Jim Harrison and the bombs in the post, he rummaged under some sacks, produced a bottle of rum and a cash box. He gulped some of the spirit and then opened the cash box. It was full of letters.

'I dunno what to do,' he said.

'Start by telling me all,' suggested Phryne, waving away the offer of the bottle.

'My mum died this year,' said Bill.

'I'm sorry,' began Phryne, but he waved at her to stop.

'She wasn't, so you needn't be. My dad died years before, I can hardly remember him, and my stepfather was a good bloke. Mum kept a boarding house in Port, which she'd had from Dad's mother, old Mrs Gascoigne. We shortened the name a bit to make it sound less foreign. We knew there was some sort of mystery about Dad. Grandma Gascoigne said things like 'If only they knew . . .' about him and hinted that he had rich relatives in England which, if it weren't for her pride, she could have got money off. I never paid much attention and, anyway, she died not long after Dad.'

'With you so far,' said Phryne encouragingly, as Bill seemed to be drying up. He refreshed himself with another swig.

'I don't usually drink during the day,' he said, looking at the bottle. 'Well, when Mum died we were cleaning out her house. Me and Young Billy like it here in Castlemaine and we were going to sell it. Mum kept everything. All of Grandma's stuff and all her own-it took days. We sold the furniture and then Young Billy has to go fiddling with a desk and popped a secret drawer, and this was inside.'

'So you opened it,' said Phryne.

'So we opened it and there was a will. Made by this Thomas Beaconsfield, leaving everything to his beloved wife Amelia Gascoigne. There was a marriage certificate too. Didn't mean a thing to me but it's a legal doc.u.ment, and I thought there might be a quid in it even though it's so old. There was a letter marked "to be opened in the event of my untimely death". I didn't know what to make of it so we took it to a lawyer chap that the union said was a good bloke. He got all excited.'

'I bet he did,' said Phryne. Inheritance. She had been right. But why chase Phryne rather than the heir, which would be this grimy stableman and his son Young Billy? Possibly because the a.s.sailant was confident that Phryne would lead him or her to the heir?

And she had too. She just had. d.a.m.n.

'The lawyer said that we had a claim to be a marquess. And what's more, this Thomas Beaconsfield chap had left an accu-sation against his mate, one Cholmondeley, saying that if he turned up dead then this Cholmondeley bloke would have done it.'

'Chumley,' said Phryne absently. 'It's p.r.o.nounced Chumley. That matches with what Mr Harrison's father said too. They both vanished one night and he and his mate took over the claim. Thomas was shot and later embalmed by Professor Beecham. But the body remained unclaimed. So why didn't Amelia come looking for him?'

'I've got her letters here, to her sister. They explain what happened. Apparently they had a fight and she stormed off to Melbourne with half the gold and told him to come looking for her there if he wanted her. He didn't know she was expecting. She built a big house in Port and took in boarders. She got all the papers for safekeeping, I expect, or took them with her when she flounced off. Then Thomas didn't turn up and I suppose she thought...'

'That he'd gone back to England and forgotten her. Instead he was lying in a carnival show as the Wild Colonial Boy. Poor woman!'

'She was a proud woman,' Bill told Phryne. 'Never married again. Brought up her son to be a good man. My mum married again, after Dad died, said she'd never find another like him but she'd settle for some company. Stepdad and her got on all right and I really liked him. I've got two half-sisters. Mum and old Grandma Gascoigne got on like a house afire. My wife died a few years ago and we came to Castlemaine to live with my sister Madge. Got this job here, easy job, and Young Billy has the makings of a hotel manager. That's what he wants to do. I never wanted all the...the... outmoded trappings of a corrupt aristocracy to fall on me!'

'Hardly seems fair,' agreed Phryne. 'What did the lawyer do with these doc.u.ments?'

'He had a search made in London and found out that Thomas was the heir of this marquessate, or whatever the b.l.o.o.d.y thing is, and that the t.i.tle had gone to a collateral branch of the family when Thomas didn't come home. But he said that if we could prove that we were the legitimate direct descendants of the heir, we could still claim the t.i.tle. There might be a great fortune, he said.'

'And what did you say?' asked Phryne, agog.

'That I wouldn't have it as a gift,' spat Bill Gaskin, kicking at an inoffensive pa.s.sing woodlouse. 'I told him to forget about it, but he said he'd keep the doc.u.ments in his safe and I should go away and think about it. Talked it over with Young Billy. He said he didn't want a bar of it either, they probably wouldn't let him run a hotel if he was a lord. We've got the money from Mum's house and we've both got a job. To b.u.g.g.e.ry with the whole thing, I said. I was going to write a letter and tell the lawyer to send me my papers back and then I'll burn the b.l.o.o.d.y things. Sorry, shouldn't swear in front of a lady.'

'Bravo!' said Phryne. 'The right decision. You would not like the weather and you would certainly not like the company.'

'Sorry, Miss, you're one of 'em. I shouldn't have said that.'

'I'm not one of them,' said Phryne firmly. 'I never have been. Now, that being settled, I need your help. Have a look at this note. I suspect that it was sent by one of your distant relatives. This is a trap. Set presumably for me. However, in all probability, my dear Bill, you are in serious danger until you can tell someone that you do not want this...er... unwelcome honour. People have come to Australia to find you and either buy you out, or . . .'

'Kill me?' said Bill calmly. 'And Young Billy as well? We'll see about that.'

'I thought I could rely on you,' said Phryne. 'They were after me to dissuade me from continuing my investigation into the ident.i.ty of the mummy. Not much point in continuing with that now, of course, but they don't know that. We need to get their attention. What I would like to do, Bill dear, is this...'

'I am so sorry,' repeated Lady Alice.

'What are you sorry for?' demanded Dot, who had supplied a clean handkerchief and some of Mrs Butler's Nervine and was about to resort to the good cognac if Lady Alice didn't start making sense soon.

'Father got a letter a few months ago which said that enquiries were being made by a Melbourne lawyer about the descent of the t.i.tle to Grandfather. We were only a collateral branch of the Harboroughs, you know, before Thomas Beaconsfield vanished and was presumed to have died without issue in Australia. Grandfather inherited and he built a new house next to Dunstable. They were great friends. I believe they also had some secret in common. They used to get drunk together and behave badly-shooting out windows in pa.s.sing railway trains, for instance. That one got them into court, and they had to pay heavy compensation. And my father told me that I was destined to marry Roderick Cholmondeley because of my grandfather and his grandfather making some sort of pact. I never heard of such a thing and I refused immediately. Father was very angry but I took my little property and went off to London. I have a small income from a trust fund, you know, quite enough to live on. Especially when one considers the East End, eh, Beth?'

'Indeed,' murmured Eliza, who had not let her friend out of touching range since she had arrived.

'Anyway, this Melbourne lawyer said that Thomas Beacons-field had married in Castlemaine in a private house and his wife had borne him a son. This son had a son of his own who was living. Therefore the whole inheritance of the Harboroughs belonged to this unknown Beaconsfield. Except that he wasn't a Beaconsfield, his name was Gascoigne, his mother's name. Father swore that it was some imposture but he was so furious that I knew he wasn't sure. He offered me a ticket to Australia if I helped Roderick Cholmondeley in his enquiries-Roddy is almost illiterate and his idea of solving a problem is to hit someone until they solve it for him. Dunstable still hopes one of us will marry Roddy, you know, Beth dear.'

'As if we would,' said Eliza.

'Well, someone has to, this is Dunstable's view, because he won't cope in the world without someone to look after him and tame his wilder impulses,' said Lady Alice.

'The only way you could tame Roderick Cholmondeley is to geld him,' said Eliza indelicately. 'And I'm sure his father would not allow that since his primary use is to breed an heir- ugh, what a thought. I've seen your Roddy drunk at a Hunt Ball and he was beastlier than any beast. He bit the head off a chicken. It was disgusting. Even the county thinks he is too unstable for matrimony. Not even the most pushing of mothers is pushing her daughter onto Roddy.'

'Which is why he has come down to two such biddies as us, eh, Beth?' chuckled Lady Alice. 'Anyway, he has someone to look after him. His batman, before he was asked to leave the regiment. Thin, dark man. Wallace? Yes, Wallace, I think. He seems perfectly all right, but the fact that he has chosen to be a friend to Roddy puts a black mark against his sanity too. Anyway, I agreed, so that I could see you again. I took the ticket and came over on the Orient and stayed in my cabin most of the voyage to avoid those two. Then I found the lawyer's office for them and found them a private enquiry agent to conduct the searches and put advertis.e.m.e.nts in all the newspapers.'

'I saw them,' said Dot. 'Seemed to be in every paper I picked up. Must have cost a good deal.'

'That was irrelevant if the t.i.tle was in question. Then-of all unlucky things! I told them that I was going to Luna Park- you know how I love such places, Beth-and they insisted on coming too. They were suspicious of me. They were right! But that put us in the right place at the right time to...'

'See Miss Phryne find the mummy,' said Dot. 'They must have seen the crest on the forearm and known it instantly. For an idiot, your Roderick thinks real fast! Or p'raps it was this Wallace bloke. And since then they have been trying to frighten Miss Phryne off.'

'And to find the descendants of Amelia Gascoigne,' said Lady Alice. 'And they have, and he's living in Castlemaine, and they've burgled the lawyer's safe and burned the doc.u.ments, and gone to buy him off or to frighten him off or even...but surely even Roddy would not go that far... and your sister is there as well.'

'Miss Phryne is clever,' said Dot. 'And she's very hard to catch off guard. But I'll phone right away. What are you going to do now, Lady Alice?'

'Well, since I am not going to be welcome back in England, and since I am now just plain Miss Beaconsfield, I think I'll stay here,' said Lady Alice comfortably. 'I was never happy with being t.i.tled anyway. I'll have my small income and get a room somewhere cheap and continue with my work. Will you join me, Beth?'

'You know I will,' sobbed Eliza and fell into Miss Beacons-field's arms.

Dot went to the phone. Li Pen went with her.

Phryne listened carefully to the whole sorry tale.

'Well, that explains Eliza,' she commented. 'I can just imagine what Father would think of a Sapphic in the family. Better he has his apoplexy out of spitting distance from us. That only leaves Thos, our little brother, and Thos has always been a perfect little thug. I'm sure he will marry and breed. Very good-looking, Thos. Once he gets past the pimples and puppy-fat stage he'll be gorgeous, and Eton is teaching him to conceal the essential unpleasant ba.n.a.lity of his character. Go on, Dot dear.'

'Miss Phryne, that Roderick is in Castlemaine and Lady Alice says he's dangerous,' Dot yelled.

'So am I,' said Phryne, holding the earpiece a little further away. 'But he can't get up to too much in the stable yard of a respectable hotel. At least, I expect not. But I shall take care. I've talked to our Tichborne Claimant, Mr Bill Gaskin. He doesn't want the t.i.tle. He's a socialist. The place is positively rife with socialists lately. And I've got an a.s.signation later. This matter has taken up far too much of my holiday time. But at least I'll be able to bury the poor mummy properly, as I promised Sister Elizabeth. And under his own name. Call Jack Robinson for me, will you, Dot, and ask him to alert the local cops to anything odd happening to me. This Roddy and his valet Wallace sound unsightly and essentially harmless, but you never know. Never trust a man who bites the heads off chickens is probably a good sound rule of practice.'

'Mr Li wants to ask if Mr Lin is all right.' Dot gave up trying to tell Phryne to be careful.

'Perfectly, if a little overfed. He has every hope of finding the gold and he's been spreading good cheer amongst some old Chinese people here. He also looks gorgeous in a ca.s.sock, though Li Pen might not appreciate that comment, so don't tell him. I'll call you tomorrow, Dot dear. Not early. If anything happens, you can find me here.'

Phryne rang off, biting her lip. This Roderick Cholmondeley sounded like a dangerously unstable little petal. Even for a Hunt Ball, where perfectly respectable men performed a dance called 'the c.o.c.king of the legs' and exclaimed 'Och, aye!' while doing so without public reproof, mutilating animals-even chickens- was extreme. No wonder he was having trouble finding a t.i.tled wife. Mothers with daughters to sell might be desperate after the second unsuccessful season, but probably not that desperate. Someone had married Lord Greystoke, admittedly, but he was just a large ape, and Phryne had seen behaviour in Belgravia which would have drawn pursed lips and adverse comment in the worst conducted of baboon cages at the zoo.

Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all.

Still, the idiot Roderick had to be faced, and he had to be informed that Gaskins never never would be aristos, and how else was she going to catch him? If he was the pink-cheeked muscle man in the Imperial dining room last night, blond hair cut unbecomingly en brosse like a prize fighter, she might just catch him at dinner and tell him it was all off and he could go home. If he dined early.

And would he believe her?

Phryne went upstairs for her bath, lay for a long time dreamily splashing Floris Tea Rose bath oil with her fingers, and emerged boiled pink and strongly scented. She dressed carefully, including her petticoat pocket and her small gun in its garter holster, just in case. She had once been dropped into a deep pit by persons who were afterward very, very sorry, and the presence of that petticoat pocket, an invention of her grand-mother's time, had meant that she had not been without matches to make light or a soothing smoke while contem-plating escape.

Thus accoutred, she went down to the dining room at seven, but the large young man and his dark-haired friend were not apparent. Drat. That means we will have to do this the hard way, thought Phryne, and went into the stable yard.

It was getting towards dusk. Bill Gaskin, cleaned up to meet his new neighbour, was waiting for her in the shed. He was wearing a clean shirt and had combed his hair and Phryne saw with approval that he had that good solid Australian face, k.n.o.bbly around the nose with a chin you could break flints on. A face, she had thought, which had died out in Gallipoli and Pa.s.schendaele. And here it was, cleaned of cinders and very personable too, not to mention historic. He approved of her low-heeled shoes.

'Difficult walking in that old ruin,' he commented. 'Missus is about to have it pulled down so she can build a proper garage. Almost no one has horses any more.'

'What, even here? It's time, Bill. Come along,' said Phryne, and walked into the darkness. 'We need to tell them loudly that you don't want their t.i.tle. That will defuse them.'

She shut her eyes and when she opened them she could see. The late sun shot golden bolts of light through the holes in the galvanised iron roof. Not a creature was stirring, not even a pa.s.sing rat, and she was about to speak when a lot of things happened at once.

She was grabbed in arms which felt like they were made of iron, bound and wrapped in something like a sack, before she had time to react. A shout of dismay near her ear made her aware that Bill had been similarly treated. A huge engine roared. Phryne was lifted and flung, landing painfully on someone's knee or elbow. The car or truck roared and took the road at a dangerous speed. There was a shriek of tortured metal which told Phryne that part of the Imperial's decorative wrought iron gate had come too.

Around a corner, slung against the k.n.o.bby projections, around another corner, slung the other way. Phryne was dazed. First thing to do: think. Roddy had better have his wits about him when Phryne got out of this sack. She was seriously displeased.

The thing she was lying on was struggling. Phryne wriggled, trying to guess which end of this bundle was his head. 'Lie still!' she shrieked at what she thought might be a face. 'Try and get your hands free!'

Her only answer was an inarticulate growl which informed her that her guess was correct. That was the head end. Phryne sneezed. This sack had contained flour. Her nose started to run and she fought to get a hand free from the enclosing material. This never happens to s.e.xton Blake, she reflected, managing to slide a hand up inside the bag and scratch her nose. Bliss. Now to release the rest of her.

She could detect a change of light through the bag. The world appeared to be getting darker. Out of the street lights of Castlemaine into the gathering night. Where were they taking them? Towards Melbourne? Towards Bendigo? And what on earth did this Roderick think he was doing?

Probably not murder. Not in the first instance. If he had meant to murder both of them he could have shot them down in the stable where they stood artlessly outlined against the dusk. Phryne spent a useful minute castigating herself for breaking her own cardinal rules, viz, a.s.sume everyone is dangerous until proven otherwise and expect the unexpected. Then she forgave herself because she needed to think and plan, and kicking oneself is difficult inside a tight-fitting sack.

She had left notes and people would be looking for her. It was just a matter of surviving until rescued.

Phryne hated the idea of being rescued, but from the depths of her sack it had its attractions. The car swerved, turned, went around what was apparently a very tight corner on one wheel, squealed and fishtailed back onto the road again and drove on.

Breathing was not easy inside the bag and every time she took a breath she got a lungful of flour. Bill had ceased strug-gling and was making the complex, rhythmical movements of a man trying to work one hand out from underneath when he is stuffed down beside a car seat and is being lain upon by a small but inconvenient woman.

How long was this blighted journey going to take? Think, Phryne told herself. The journey will end somewhere and you have to be prepared. What is the best tactic to use on a bone-headed son of the n.o.bility? What, in fact, did Roderick Cholmondeley know about women?

Probably not a lot, if he thought that tricks with chickens were going to make the girls agog at his strength and skill. Boys' school, s.p.a.ce of time with the regiment-I wonder why he was asked to leave? Those regiments usually have quite strong stomachs; Roddy must be a cad as well, or that most d.a.m.ning of judgments, 'not quite a gentleman', even though he was quite definitely a lord.

Phryne was aware that the restricted air supply was making her woozy. She tried to focus. Pay attention, she told herself, breathe through the nose, you get less flour that way. How to tackle Roddy, that's the question. The batman may be the brains of the outfit, of course. But then, Roddy had spent a lot of his time slaughtering the beasts of the field and the pursuit of deer taught one patience. And exactly how heavy a fully grown stag is when you have had the good fortune to kill it, which would have built up the muscle, of course. Mind wandering again. Another howling turn. This must be a high-powered car. Probably a Bentley or one of the new Rolls Royces.

Now, he would only have met officers' wives and daughters, the available daughters of the aristocracy, and probably a few wh.o.r.es. The officers' wives would not have approved of this wild young subaltern, and the daughters would have been kept well away from him. The Misses of the season would have snubbed him, especially after the chicken incident, which would have taken fully ten minutes to run from mouth to ear the length and breadth of Polite Circles. That left only wh.o.r.es, and they were what their clients wanted. Roddy would know about wh.o.r.es, and so would his batman. That might be a useful piece of information.

A screech and the car shuddered to a halt. On, by the sound of it, gravel. Off the beaten track, then. Not that there were a lot of beaten tracks around here anyway. Hands were laid ungently on Phryne. She decided to collapse. With any luck she might give her captor a nice hernia. She was slung over someone's shoulder and carried ten paces into a house. She was dropped unceremoniously on a hard floor. She allowed herself to roll a little, getting her free hand on her garter and thus almost on her gun when she heard the footsteps coming back and relapsed into immobility. Let Roddy make the first move, so she could find out what he was planning.

Adrenalin poured into her bloodstream. In the sack, she bared her teeth.

The Elder Brother Sung Ma to the younger sister Li Mai, affec-tionate greetings.

I have been here in my own village for six months now. I have been setting up our jewellery workshop. We already have several commis-sions and I have secured the services of a famous enameller. Venerable Uncle has been very helpful. He a.s.sures me that my prospective wife is a pleasant person. I have seen some of her paintings, which are quite in the antique style, and her calligraphy is also very good. I cannot marry until my year's mourning for our mother is pa.s.sed. But when I do I am convinced that I shall be much happier than I deserve to be.

The Elder Brother sends some poor poems which might amuse the younger sister.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.