disgusted and wondering whether she wanted to find out who killed Mr McNaughton.
‘He used to hit her—and me, too,’ said Miss McNaughton matter-of-factly. ‘But he stopped hitting me because I said I’d leave and that I’d take Mother with me. That frightened him, he was terrified of scandal, and I could have made a very impressive one. He didn’t beat Mother while I was here, but I wasn’t here very often. I am at the Gallery School, you know.’
‘Yes, your brother told me you were an artist. And Bunji still has your watercolour of a plane on her wall.’ Phryne was fishing. In all this time Miss McNaughton had not mentioned her brother.
‘Bill didn’t think that I could paint. He has the artistic sensibilities of an ox. And he called Paolo a greasy little dago. But he didn’t kill my father,’ stated Miss McNaughton, stopping on the stairs with one hand on the bannister. ‘If Bill had killed Father he would have announced it to the world. He would not have run away. He takes after Father—everything he does has to be right. He and Father never made a mistake or offered an apology in their lives. Bill would have stood over the body and announced that he had a perfect right to kill his own father if he liked, and would anyone care to argue about it? I don’t know who killed Father, but it was not Bill. I don’t care if you don’t find who killed him. In fact I’d rather you did not. Father had thousands of people who rightly hated him and any one of them is more valuable than Father. I loathed him and I hated what he did to me and my mother; do you know, after he had pounded on Mother’s door and been refused, he used to come and make an attempt on me?’
‘Did he succeed?’ asked Phryne gently. Miss McNaughton stared through Phryne with her pale blue eyes.
‘When I was younger,’ she said quietly. ‘He managed to catch me in the bathroom. Twice. After that I put a chair under the handle. He used to stand outside and bellow at me to let him in. I considered it, because it might have calmed him down, but I couldn’t, I really couldn’t. That’s why Paolo is the only man I have ever loved—could ever love. He took such pains with me, he was so patient when I flinched and cried, and…and…’
‘I know,’ observed Phryne quietly. ‘But it happens to a lot of women. You and I are fortunate in that we have found lovers who could coax us out of our shells. Come down, Miss McNaughton, and let’s get warm. Then you can show me your work.’
‘Please call me Amelia,’ said Miss McNaughton suddenly. ‘You are the only person apart from Paolo that I have told…come and sit by the fire in the drawing room, and I’ll bring the stuff down. You might not like it,’ she warned, and ran upstairs again.
Phryne was shown into a fine big drawing room with Chinese furnishings. The ceiling was lacquered red and the walls were hung with scroll painting and embroideries. Several brocade garments decorated the chimney piece, and the chairs were pierced and decorated blackwood, with silk cushions and legs carved with lions and clouds.
On the mantleshelf stood one free-standing jade sculpture of a rather self-satisfied dragon devouring a deer. The deer’s eyes reminded Phryne uncomfortably of Mrs McNaughton’s and Phryne turned away from it to study the silk painting by the square, latticed window. She recognized it as a copy of a famous artist. It was ‘Two Gentlemen Discoursing Upon Fish’. ‘Look how the fish disport themselves in the clear water,’ enthused one gentleman. ‘That is how the Almighty gives pleasure to fish’. ‘You are not a fish,’ objected the other. ‘How do you know what gives pleasure to fish?’ ‘You are not I,’ replied the first. ‘How do you know that I do not know what gives pleasure to fish?’ And that, of course, was unanswerable.
What did any of us know about the other, mused Phryne. If she had met the late and entirely unlamented Mr McNaughton, would
‘He used to hit her—and me, too,’ said Miss McNaughton matter-of-factly. ‘But he stopped hitting me because I said I’d leave and that I’d take Mother with me. That frightened him, he was terrified of scandal, and I could have made a very impressive one. He didn’t beat Mother while I was here, but I wasn’t here very often. I am at the Gallery School, you know.’
‘Yes, your brother told me you were an artist. And Bunji still has your watercolour of a plane on her wall.’ Phryne was fishing. In all this time Miss McNaughton had not mentioned her brother.
‘Bill didn’t think that I could paint. He has the artistic sensibilities of an ox. And he called Paolo a greasy little dago. But he didn’t kill my father,’ stated Miss McNaughton, stopping on the stairs with one hand on the bannister. ‘If Bill had killed Father he would have announced it to the world. He would not have run away. He takes after Father—everything he does has to be right. He and Father never made a mistake or offered an apology in their lives. Bill would have stood over the body and announced that he had a perfect right to kill his own father if he liked, and would anyone care to argue about it? I don’t know who killed Father, but it was not Bill. I don’t care if you don’t find who killed him. In fact I’d rather you did not. Father had thousands of people who rightly hated him and any one of them is more valuable than Father. I loathed him and I hated what he did to me and my mother; do you know, after he had pounded on Mother’s door and been refused, he used to come and make an attempt on me?’
‘Did he succeed?’ asked Phryne gently. Miss McNaughton stared through Phryne with her pale blue eyes.
‘When I was younger,’ she said quietly. ‘He managed to catch me in the bathroom. Twice. After that I put a chair under the handle. He used to stand outside and bellow at me to let him in. I considered it, because it might have calmed him down, but I couldn’t, I really couldn’t. That’s why Paolo is the only man I have ever loved—could ever love. He took such pains with me, he was so patient when I flinched and cried, and…and…’
‘I know,’ observed Phryne quietly. ‘But it happens to a lot of women. You and I are fortunate in that we have found lovers who could coax us out of our shells. Come down, Miss McNaughton, and let’s get warm. Then you can show me your work.’
‘Please call me Amelia,’ said Miss McNaughton suddenly. ‘You are the only person apart from Paolo that I have told…come and sit by the fire in the drawing room, and I’ll bring the stuff down. You might not like it,’ she warned, and ran upstairs again.
Phryne was shown into a fine big drawing room with Chinese furnishings. The ceiling was lacquered red and the walls were hung with scroll painting and embroideries. Several brocade garments decorated the chimney piece, and the chairs were pierced and decorated blackwood, with silk cushions and legs carved with lions and clouds.
On the mantleshelf stood one free-standing jade sculpture of a rather self-satisfied dragon devouring a deer. The deer’s eyes reminded Phryne uncomfortably of Mrs McNaughton’s and Phryne turned away from it to study the silk painting by the square, latticed window. She recognized it as a copy of a famous artist. It was ‘Two Gentlemen Discoursing Upon Fish’. ‘Look how the fish disport themselves in the clear water,’ enthused one gentleman. ‘That is how the Almighty gives pleasure to fish’. ‘You are not a fish,’ objected the other. ‘How do you know what gives pleasure to fish?’ ‘You are not I,’ replied the first. ‘How do you know that I do not know what gives pleasure to fish?’ And that, of course, was unanswerable.
What did any of us know about the other, mused Phryne. If she had met the late and entirely unlamented Mr McNaughton, would
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