Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) by Kerry Greenwood

the Bible. They are forbidden to play or even move much in case they dirty their clothes. They argue and fight all the time. And the poor little maid—she’s only twelve, an orphan—they got her from the convent. She sleeps in the kitchen on a pile of rags. But they say that Annie left and never came back. They haven’t seen her again.’
‘But she has been seen,’ said Tinker, puffed up with triumph. ‘The kid next door said he saw her go in when no one was home and leave again with a suitcase.’
‘Aha,’ said Phryne. ‘Nice work, Tink.’
Tinker glowed.
‘Was anyone with her?’ asked Phryne.
Tinker was immediately dashed. ‘I didn’t ask,’ he muttered.
‘Never mind, you will next time,’ said Dot comfortingly.
Ruth frowned. ‘I talked to the kids on the other side,’ she said. ‘They hadn’t seen Ann. But they say that Mr. Prospect is a big bad-tempered bruiser and yells something chronic. They reckon that he beats his family. He drinks a lot.’
‘Ah, I suspected as much,’ said Dot.
‘Why?’ asked Phryne.
‘She was wearing a high collar—in this weather!—and long sleeves. To cover the bruises.’
‘God have mercy,’ said Phryne.
Dot chose to believe that this was a prayer and crossed herself.
‘Next address, Guv’nor,’ said Bert.
‘Ask about socialism if you can,’ Phryne said. ‘Ann Prospect was a socialist. Her mother disapproved, of course. Do you know anyone in the Manufacturing Workers’ Union, Bert?’
‘I can find someone,’ said Bert. ‘They’ll help when I tell them that a daughter of the working class has disappeared. They know a lot of people.’ He chewed his cigarette. ‘And there’s the sheilas, the militant women. You know about them, Miss.’
‘I read their magazine,’ said Phryne. ‘A good notion, Bert. Where are we now?’
‘Still in ’Wood,’ said Bert. ‘You watch yourself. This ain’t the nice bit. Not that Collingwood has a lot of nice bits.’
‘I rely on your vigilance,’ said Phryne sweetly.
‘I’ll be vigilant all right,’ Bert assured her. ‘Or they’ll have the wheels off the cab before you can kiss yer ’and.’
It wasn’t a nice bit of Collingwood, even among the available bits. The streets were unpaved, the dust endemic, and the smell indicated that the sewerage commissioners had not explored this far into the wastelands. It was poor, mean, dirty and overcrowded. The arrival of the car produced immediate interest. A scurry of grimy children appeared as if by magic, and their grimier elder brothers left the wall and bench where they had been slouching outside a barber’s shop and hulked across to ascertain whether this taxi might provide prey. Phryne wished she had brought her little gun. The situation looked ominous. But she had been in worse places. She got out of the car.
The emergence of Phryne was greeted with whistles and crude comments. The emergence of the driver, however, produced a profound silence which was only broken when a thin, tow-headed young man said meekly, ‘G’day, Bert.’
‘Fraternal greetings, Comrade Scott,’ said Bert. ‘How’s it goin’?’
‘There ain’t no work,’ said Comrade Scott. ‘No money, neither.’
‘Just as usual, eh?’ Bert smiled. ‘This is Miss Fisher. Friend of the workers, and not bad for a bloated capitalist. Now, we’re looking into the disappearance of one of the daughters of the working class. She used to live ’ere. Mary O’Hara. You know ’er?’
‘Nice little girl,’ said Comrade Scott. ‘Real quiet. Used to help her mum. We couldn’t credit it when she got into trouble. None of us got close to her. She’d shy away from any man. Like she was frightened.’
‘This true?’ demanded Bert of the assembly.
They all nodded.
‘What about the family?’ he asked.
‘The old man’s out of work,’ said Comrade Scott. ‘Took ill. Used to be a brickie. The old woman’s a cleaner and takes care of the children. Eleven of them—well, ten now that Mary’s gone.