Urn Burial by Kerry Greenwood

stroked one finger lightly along his cheek, which was flushed with the most delicate rose.
    ‘Tell me about Jack, and Dingo Harry, and everything about Cave House,’ she said.
    ‘I’ll show you around, may I?’ he asked eagerly.
    Phryne was feeling her injuries and was, besides, flooded with lust, an emotion which could not properly be transferred to such slender shoulders as Gerald’s, who might snap under the strain. She hoped that Lin Chung was enduring a really puni-tive game of tennis and turned to accompany Gerald back to Cave House.
    ‘Phryne,’ someone called. ‘Phryne, dear, there you are.’
    ‘Here I am,’ she agreed. ‘Hello, Tom.’
    ‘Been looking for you, old girl. Haven’t shown you my house. Sorry, Gerry,’ he said to the young man. ‘Got to cut you out. Prior acquaintance and all that.’
    Phryne gave Gerald a combustible smile and said, ‘Another time.’
    Gerald faded away in the direction of the stables and Phryne looked at Tom Reynolds.
    His clipped speech was not unusual. She put it down to the years of sub-editing he had been forced to do before he left newspapers and took to books. He still spoke in headlines. He took her arm and returned the inspection; a stout, red-faced and jolly man, now looking strained and tired. His 53
    scanty grey hair was rumpled and Phryne smoothed it down across his pink scalp with an affectionate caress. He always reminded her of a teddy bear.
    ‘Amazing house, Tom dear,’ she commented with perfect truth. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
    ‘Yes, it’s a bit of a mishmash, but the brewer who built it, old Mr Giles, built well. It’s got foundations down to the middle of the world and it’s all good material – mahogany and cedar and fine cut stone. Of course, he’d made several fortunes –
    always safe putting your money into beer. Odd cuss. You were sitting on his tomb.’
    ‘I was?’ asked Phryne, rather startled.
    ‘Yes, he planted several of his relatives around here. He’s in the knot garden, his wife is in the rose garden, under a lot of Mademoiselle Bichot teas, and the house is full of urns of his nearest and dearest. He sold the place to Evelyn’s father on the understanding that we take care of the urns, so we have. There’s a marble one on your mantelpiece, I think.’
    ‘Lord, Tom, you might have warned me! I thought it was a tobacco jar!’
    ‘Lucky you don’t smoke a pipe,’ he chuckled. ‘I was all for banishing them to the cellar but m’wife didn’t think that was right, and I’ve got used to them. How did you get on with Evelyn?’
    ‘Very well. She came to see me after I fell off Cuba.’
    ‘He’s a touchy one. Are you all right, Phryne?
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    Not like you to be thrown. Well, let’s have a look at the house.’
    ‘Tom, there’s something very wrong here,’ she said soberly as she limped across the lawn.
    ‘What, with the house?’ He laughed uncomfortably.
    ‘Pay attention, Tom. Look, you know me. You should know that you can trust me. You’ve been ignoring or playing down two nasty happenings lately. Now that suggests to my suspicious mind that you are either fully aware of the situation and want to deny it, or that you are constitutionally obtuse, and I’ve never known you to be obtuse, Tom. You’re in trouble.’
    The bright brown eyes blinked at her unladylike frankness. He began, ‘Now, Phryne, old fellow . . .’
    then sank under her cool green gaze. ‘Oh, well, what’s the use. You will have picked up all the gossip anyway by now, you’re such a sponge for atmosphere. Yes, there is something happening.
    I’ve had letters. Someone wants to kill me. It’s been going on for a while and I’m sick of it – but there’s nothing I could go to the police with, Phryne, just insinuations. I heard about the tarred wire that brought poor Cuba down and could have killed you. That must have been aimed at me.
    Oh, God, here’s Joan Fletcher.’
    ‘Tom,’ said Mrs Fletcher, pink with