Flying Too High by Kerry Greenwood Page B

she have known that he was a domestic tyrant, who when refused by his wife had sexually assaulted his daughter?
    Amelia came in with a rush, and shoved a portfolio of impressive proportions into Phryne’s arms.
    ‘I’ll see about the tea,’ she muttered, and rushed out again. Phryne diagnosed artistic modesty. She emptied the folio onto the blackwood table and spread out the contents. There were watercolours, a few oil sketches, and charcoal and red chalk drawings. They were good, Phryne found with pleasure. It was always easier to genuinely praise than to try and find something nice to say about rubbish.
    There were three watercolours of aeroplanes, with a pale wash of sky behind them. There were sharp, clear pencil drawings of flowers and birds, exhibiting signs of a Chinese phase. There were several rather muddy landscapes and a clever cubist house; but Miss McNaughton’s real skill was in portraiture. With chalk or charcoal she could catch a likeness more clearly than a photograph. Here was Bill in flying togs, hulking and self-confident, but with a hint of reckless good-humour which Phryne had also seen. Here was her mother, in pastels, worn and lined, with the fluffy, harried look so familiar to Phryne. It was evident that Amelia’s skills were not yet perfect, she was prone to a certain lack of confidence in her lines and some of her colours might have been bolder. Phryne searched through the portraits with delight. Here was a group of children, somewhat after Murillo but none-the-less charming. Here were eleven studies of a cat; she had caught the creature’s elusive muscularity under the fur. Here was a swarthy man, thin and intense, with deep eyes and charming faun-like face; he had pointed ears, and the whole gave an impression of power and patience. Phryne was reminded of a Medici, and wondered if it was a copy of a Renaissance work. She turned the oil over. ‘Paolo’. Aha. Good looking, but not beautiful. Deep, and a strong personality. Such a man must have made a potent impression on Amelia, who was not familiar with any powerful man who did not brawl and rape. She looked forward to meeting him.
    There was a portrait of a woman. Phryne recognized her friend Isola di Fraoli, the ballad singer. She had caught her perfectly; the mass of black hair, the glint of earrings, the deep bosom and rounded arms and the wicked, penetrating half-smile. The last oil was a portrait of a man. Broad and tall but running to fat, he stood with legs straddled, dominating the artist with his presence. He had a jowled, big-boned face, mottled with red across the cheeks and nose. One hand was clenched and the mouth was open, as if in command. It was just a shade this side of caricature, and so carefully delineated that it was obvious that the artist hated every line in him. Being an artist, however, she had dealt honestly with him. Phryne did not need to turn it over. The resemblance to Bill was marked. This was Amelia’s father. Phryne regretted that she might have to discover who murdered him. He was the essence of everything she did not like about the male sex.
    Amelia and the tea entered simultaneously. Phryne took a cup and commented, ‘You have a great deal of skill, Amelia. Would you sell me some of these? I’ve just moved into a new house and I’m decorating.’
    ‘I can’t sell them—they are only sketches. Take what you want, Miss Fisher. I would like to have some of my work in your house.’
    ‘Call me Phryne, and I insist on paying. I wouldn’t have someone say that I exploited you, especially since I shall make a packet on them when you are famous.’
    ‘Take whichever you like,’ blushed Amelia. ‘Five pounds each—that’s what students usually charge. Do you really like them?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Phryne, sorting rapidly. ‘Your professors must have told you that you have an uncommon gift for portraiture. These sketches of the cat are good, too. Have you seen that page of drawings by Leonardo of the