anything interesting happens. Stay home, I might need you. Do you have Bert’s number?’
‘Yes, Miss. Be careful, Miss.’
‘I’m not going flying again today, Dot, I promise. Have a nice cosy evening, and tell Mrs B. that I shall be dining out.’ Phryne sailed down the steps in a red cloth coat with an astrakhan collar which made her look as though she was wearing a sheep around her neck. Her hat was black felt and her boots Russian leather. Dr Fielding straightened up from depositing Mrs McNaughton in the car and came face-to-face with her. She smelt bewitchingly of ‘Jicky’.
‘Do not be offended, Doctor. One is prone to be sharp when one is upset. I beg your pardon, and I hope to see you again in a less clinical circumstance. Come to dinner on Thursday at seven.’
She gave him a dazzling smile and her strong, scented hand. He floated off down the street to his Austin in a strange state between insult and adoration. Phryne smiled after him, satisfied with the impression she had created, and hopped into the Bentley next to the sleeping woman.
Miss McNaughton was a good, if reckless driver, and Phryne had nothing to do during the drive but to cushion Mrs McNaughton against the bumps. Amelia McNaughton took corners as though they were a personal affront.
After about half-an-hour, during which Phryne sustained a number of bruises, the car turned and swept up the paved drive of a big, modern house. Miss Amelia leapt out of the car and ran into the house to find aid in carrying her mother. Phryne eased herself out of her position between Mrs McNaughton and the door and got out.
It was three o’clock on a fine, breezy winter’s day. The beech and elm trees that lined the drive had lost all of their foliage, but the house evidently kept a gardener, for there was not a leaf to be seen lying on the smooth lawns. The house was of a modern shape; cubist, with a mural consisting of slabs of rainbow colours over the front door. The mural was reminiscent of art deco jewellery, and Phryne liked it, especially against the smooth, flat planes of the building. Without the decoration the house would have been just a collection of different sized boxes in a cool grey brick.
The designer of this residence had decided that privacy was the keynote; and had placed the house in the very centre of the available space and surrounded it with a formal garden on one side, a kitchen garden at the back, and rolling park-like garden with tennis-court on the sides facing the road. No other houses could be seen. The house appeared as a little island of habitation in a wild and possibly dangerous wood. Even the traffic could not be heard, and at the bottom of the garden was the Studley Park rift. This was a deep valley with the river at the bottom and untouched forest occupying the slopes. It would be a very lonely place for the nervous. Phryne wondered how Mrs McNaughton liked living there and whether she had been consulted at all in the building of it.
Amelia returned with a gardener and a stout woman in an apron. Together they lifted Mrs McNaughton and bore her into the hall and up the stairs to a small room with a narrow bed.
‘Surely this isn’t her room?’ asked Phryne in surprise.
‘Yes, since she stopped sleeping with Father. He wouldn’t let her have another room. He said that she could stay with him in the big room or have this, so she chose this. She says it makes her feel safe; there are no windows, just the light from the stairwell. But she doesn’t have to lock herself in any more,’ said Miss McNaughton as she straightened her mother’s limbs and composed them for further slumber. ‘And here’s one door he won’t batter against again.’
She stepped out of the room, leaving the stout woman to sit by the bed, and pointed to dents and cracks in the wood. The door had done nobly in fending off the master of the house. The timbers had cracked a little, but they had not broken.
‘Ah,’ said Phryne, deeply
‘Yes, Miss. Be careful, Miss.’
‘I’m not going flying again today, Dot, I promise. Have a nice cosy evening, and tell Mrs B. that I shall be dining out.’ Phryne sailed down the steps in a red cloth coat with an astrakhan collar which made her look as though she was wearing a sheep around her neck. Her hat was black felt and her boots Russian leather. Dr Fielding straightened up from depositing Mrs McNaughton in the car and came face-to-face with her. She smelt bewitchingly of ‘Jicky’.
‘Do not be offended, Doctor. One is prone to be sharp when one is upset. I beg your pardon, and I hope to see you again in a less clinical circumstance. Come to dinner on Thursday at seven.’
She gave him a dazzling smile and her strong, scented hand. He floated off down the street to his Austin in a strange state between insult and adoration. Phryne smiled after him, satisfied with the impression she had created, and hopped into the Bentley next to the sleeping woman.
Miss McNaughton was a good, if reckless driver, and Phryne had nothing to do during the drive but to cushion Mrs McNaughton against the bumps. Amelia McNaughton took corners as though they were a personal affront.
After about half-an-hour, during which Phryne sustained a number of bruises, the car turned and swept up the paved drive of a big, modern house. Miss Amelia leapt out of the car and ran into the house to find aid in carrying her mother. Phryne eased herself out of her position between Mrs McNaughton and the door and got out.
It was three o’clock on a fine, breezy winter’s day. The beech and elm trees that lined the drive had lost all of their foliage, but the house evidently kept a gardener, for there was not a leaf to be seen lying on the smooth lawns. The house was of a modern shape; cubist, with a mural consisting of slabs of rainbow colours over the front door. The mural was reminiscent of art deco jewellery, and Phryne liked it, especially against the smooth, flat planes of the building. Without the decoration the house would have been just a collection of different sized boxes in a cool grey brick.
The designer of this residence had decided that privacy was the keynote; and had placed the house in the very centre of the available space and surrounded it with a formal garden on one side, a kitchen garden at the back, and rolling park-like garden with tennis-court on the sides facing the road. No other houses could be seen. The house appeared as a little island of habitation in a wild and possibly dangerous wood. Even the traffic could not be heard, and at the bottom of the garden was the Studley Park rift. This was a deep valley with the river at the bottom and untouched forest occupying the slopes. It would be a very lonely place for the nervous. Phryne wondered how Mrs McNaughton liked living there and whether she had been consulted at all in the building of it.
Amelia returned with a gardener and a stout woman in an apron. Together they lifted Mrs McNaughton and bore her into the hall and up the stairs to a small room with a narrow bed.
‘Surely this isn’t her room?’ asked Phryne in surprise.
‘Yes, since she stopped sleeping with Father. He wouldn’t let her have another room. He said that she could stay with him in the big room or have this, so she chose this. She says it makes her feel safe; there are no windows, just the light from the stairwell. But she doesn’t have to lock herself in any more,’ said Miss McNaughton as she straightened her mother’s limbs and composed them for further slumber. ‘And here’s one door he won’t batter against again.’
She stepped out of the room, leaving the stout woman to sit by the bed, and pointed to dents and cracks in the wood. The door had done nobly in fending off the master of the house. The timbers had cracked a little, but they had not broken.
‘Ah,’ said Phryne, deeply
Similar Books
