mouths. No one had heard these blues in Melbourne before.
‘She’s amazing! Who is she?’ asked Phryne.
Tintagel sighed. ‘She’s Nerine, Rodger’s girl. God, she can sing like Bessie Smith. If only . . .’
‘If only? Come on, Ten, do tell me.’
‘You can ask her yourself,’ he evaded. ‘If she wants to tell you. But she’s pretty touchy.’
‘I bet she isn’t as touchy as good old Ben. But trumpeters . . .’
‘Are like that. You’re learning.’ Tintagel appeared pleased. ‘They are also crucial, though don’t let the others know I said that. The core of jazz is the trumpet. And Ben can play like the angel Gabriel himself.’
Phryne had always envisaged the angel playing a version of Handel’s ‘The Trumpet Shall Sound’ , but was willing to be convinced. What Ben Rodgers lacked to make him angelic was the temperament. However severe, the angel Gabriel would never have scowled like that.
‘So trumpeters are in great demand.’
‘Yes, especially reliable ones. And Ben is reliable. Not agreeable, but he always turns up when he says he will. That is unusual. And he is my old mate,’ he added. ‘At least he doesn’t insist on singing as well.’
‘Why?’
‘He can’t carry a note and he sounds like he’s singing from the bottom of a deep well.’ Tintagel laughed. A waiter came, and he ordered coffee.
‘You wouldn’t want to drink the tea they serve here,’ he commented. ‘Hey, Nerine! Come and meet a lady who has just become your fan.’
Nerine blinked, patted the trumpeter on the arm, and came down from the stage, carefully. Phryne realised that she was very short-sighted, and was steering by Tintagel’s voice.
‘Nerine, this is Phryne Fisher.’ The singer took the offered wooden chair and picked up Tintagel’s coffee.
‘You like it?’ she asked in a deep, honeyed Georgia voice. ‘I’m glad.’
She then seemed to run out of conversation. Ben Rodgers, stranded on stage in the middle of the next song, glared at Phryne. She smiled her sweetest smile at him. It had no effect.
‘Nerine, I’m looking for someone, and you might be able to help me. I’m a private detective,’ she began. Nerine put down the coffee cup, rummaged in her bag, and took out a pair of spectacles. She donned them. They were very strong, magnifying her brown eyes to Betty Boop dimensions.
‘You are?’ She seemed to reach a decision. ‘All right. I help you if’n you help me. I wanna find my no-good man and I wanna divorce him.’
‘You’re married?’ Tintagel Stone was shocked. ‘Sorry. But I thought that you and Ben . . .’
‘You got the truth, Ten. I wanna marry Ben, but I got hooked when I was sixteen by a low-down hound who left me flat, and where he went I don’t know.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Phryne. ‘You give me all the details and I’ll find him if I can, so you can marry Ben— although, have you reflected that he is a trumpeter?—and you will help me find the person I am looking for.’
‘Deal,’ said the singer. ‘Ten, honey, can you get me some lemonade? Then blow. Me and Miss . . .’
‘Fisher.’
‘Miss Fisher, we got things to talk about.’
Tintagel bore his dismissal well, producing the lemonade and then going off to join one of his invisible cronies somewhere in the smoke.
‘Well, Miss Fisher, the name of that man was Billy Simonds, and we got hitched on the 21st of January 1920, in Melbourne.’
‘What’s your full name?’ asked Phryne, writing busily.
‘Nerine Sinclair. I was born Nerine Mary Rodriguez. My mama liked flowers. That no-good Billy was born here and went to Sydney, I believe. No one’s seen him ’round here since December 1920. Can you find him?’
‘I’ll try. What did he do?’
‘He was a sailor. I always was a sucker when it came to sailors. I love them li’l bitty white hats.’ Nerine smiled reminiscently. ‘But I wanna marry Ben, he’s my man now.’
‘Of course. I’ll find him if I can, but it
‘She’s amazing! Who is she?’ asked Phryne.
Tintagel sighed. ‘She’s Nerine, Rodger’s girl. God, she can sing like Bessie Smith. If only . . .’
‘If only? Come on, Ten, do tell me.’
‘You can ask her yourself,’ he evaded. ‘If she wants to tell you. But she’s pretty touchy.’
‘I bet she isn’t as touchy as good old Ben. But trumpeters . . .’
‘Are like that. You’re learning.’ Tintagel appeared pleased. ‘They are also crucial, though don’t let the others know I said that. The core of jazz is the trumpet. And Ben can play like the angel Gabriel himself.’
Phryne had always envisaged the angel playing a version of Handel’s ‘The Trumpet Shall Sound’ , but was willing to be convinced. What Ben Rodgers lacked to make him angelic was the temperament. However severe, the angel Gabriel would never have scowled like that.
‘So trumpeters are in great demand.’
‘Yes, especially reliable ones. And Ben is reliable. Not agreeable, but he always turns up when he says he will. That is unusual. And he is my old mate,’ he added. ‘At least he doesn’t insist on singing as well.’
‘Why?’
‘He can’t carry a note and he sounds like he’s singing from the bottom of a deep well.’ Tintagel laughed. A waiter came, and he ordered coffee.
‘You wouldn’t want to drink the tea they serve here,’ he commented. ‘Hey, Nerine! Come and meet a lady who has just become your fan.’
Nerine blinked, patted the trumpeter on the arm, and came down from the stage, carefully. Phryne realised that she was very short-sighted, and was steering by Tintagel’s voice.
‘Nerine, this is Phryne Fisher.’ The singer took the offered wooden chair and picked up Tintagel’s coffee.
‘You like it?’ she asked in a deep, honeyed Georgia voice. ‘I’m glad.’
She then seemed to run out of conversation. Ben Rodgers, stranded on stage in the middle of the next song, glared at Phryne. She smiled her sweetest smile at him. It had no effect.
‘Nerine, I’m looking for someone, and you might be able to help me. I’m a private detective,’ she began. Nerine put down the coffee cup, rummaged in her bag, and took out a pair of spectacles. She donned them. They were very strong, magnifying her brown eyes to Betty Boop dimensions.
‘You are?’ She seemed to reach a decision. ‘All right. I help you if’n you help me. I wanna find my no-good man and I wanna divorce him.’
‘You’re married?’ Tintagel Stone was shocked. ‘Sorry. But I thought that you and Ben . . .’
‘You got the truth, Ten. I wanna marry Ben, but I got hooked when I was sixteen by a low-down hound who left me flat, and where he went I don’t know.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Phryne. ‘You give me all the details and I’ll find him if I can, so you can marry Ben— although, have you reflected that he is a trumpeter?—and you will help me find the person I am looking for.’
‘Deal,’ said the singer. ‘Ten, honey, can you get me some lemonade? Then blow. Me and Miss . . .’
‘Fisher.’
‘Miss Fisher, we got things to talk about.’
Tintagel bore his dismissal well, producing the lemonade and then going off to join one of his invisible cronies somewhere in the smoke.
‘Well, Miss Fisher, the name of that man was Billy Simonds, and we got hitched on the 21st of January 1920, in Melbourne.’
‘What’s your full name?’ asked Phryne, writing busily.
‘Nerine Sinclair. I was born Nerine Mary Rodriguez. My mama liked flowers. That no-good Billy was born here and went to Sydney, I believe. No one’s seen him ’round here since December 1920. Can you find him?’
‘I’ll try. What did he do?’
‘He was a sailor. I always was a sucker when it came to sailors. I love them li’l bitty white hats.’ Nerine smiled reminiscently. ‘But I wanna marry Ben, he’s my man now.’
‘Of course. I’ll find him if I can, but it
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