Urn Burial by Kerry Greenwood Page B

don’t want to frowst about in the rotten old library all day.’
    ‘Yes I do,’ he said sweetly. ‘You’ve got a partner, Judy. Play with him, he’s much better than me. I’m a real duffer at tennis. No tea, thanks, Mrs Reynolds.’
    He wafted out again, and Judith declared to the company, ‘I believe he’s jealous!’
    There was a dead silence. Lin Chung rescued the situation.
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    ‘You promised me another game, Miss Fletcher,’
    he said, putting down his untouched cup and picking up his racket.
    Phryne gave him ten out of ten for gentlemanly behaviour.
    ‘Such a nice day,’ commented Miss Mead.
    ‘Though it looks like rain, I fear.’
    ‘Yes, and the river is rising. We shall be cut off if it comes up another foot. Nothing to worry about,’ said Mrs Reynolds. ‘We have a large store of food and the water never comes up beyond the knot garden or the stables. Just a matter of waiting it out. I hope that Jack and Cynthia will be all right, though. Sometimes the river cuts the road.’
    Phryne spared a few enjoyable moments wondering what Jack Lucas would do with the volup-tuous and predatory Miss Medenham if they were cut off by floodwater, decided that he would be equal to the challenge, and drank her tea. Miss Cray who had ostentatiously refused sugar said, ‘I never take sugar. I gave up during Lent some years ago. Austerity is my goal.’
    ‘Very fitting,’ murmured Miss Mead, getting out her crocheting.
    ‘Very,’ agreed her host. ‘It does you credit, Sapphira.’
    ‘How is that poor parlourmaid?’ asked Miss Mead of Miss Cray. ‘You were going to visit her.’
    ‘Yes, but that Doctor would not let me in. I left her a few tracts. At such times one must think of one’s soul.’
    ‘Indeed,’ agreed Miss Mead. ‘It was strange that 59
    she was attacked so far from the house. Still, I expect that it was a wandering madman, some tramp – poor girl. Do you like this new pattern, Miss Cray? It’s for my cousin’s child and I am a little doubtful about the edging.’ Miss Cray unbent enough to give an opinion on the delicate shell pattern. Mrs Fletcher joined in with reminiscences of Brussels and the lace she had bought there for Judith’s baby frocks, and Phryne drifted to Tom Reynolds’ side.
    ‘Come on, old thing, let’s escape,’ she murmured, and he put down his cup. They were just approaching the door when the Doctor came in.
    Doctor Franklin was a tall, slim man, with fashionably pale skin and slightly long dark hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead. His eyes were of an indeterminate shade between grey and blue and his profile was pure matinee idol; high-nosed, Roman and refined. He gave Phryne a smooth, well-tended hand and said, ‘Ah, Miss Fisher, how delightful to meet you. How do you do?’
    ‘Very well, thank you.’
    Now that she could see him close up, he was not as young as he looked, or as confident. The hand had a slight but definite tremor; the palm was damp. There were fine lines around his eyes, extending into grooves around his finely chiselled mouth. She seemed to remember hearing that he had taken a leave of absence from his booming Collins Street practice with ‘nervous exhaustion’, a portmanteau term which could cover everything 60
    from the occasional headache to a full-blown hysterical collapse.
    ‘Miss Cray, Miss Mead, good morning,’ he said, looking past Phryne and releasing her hand. ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Reynolds, I would like some tea.’
    Phryne and Tom escaped into the reception hall and Tom wiped his brow with a blue handkerchief.
    ‘Phew! What a collection. Come along, I want to show you the house.’
    ‘All right, Tom dear, but if you don’t like your guests, why on earth do you invite them?’
    ‘Reasons,’ said Tom obscurely. He led the way through a green baize door into a dark little hall.
    He knocked on a closed door which was lettered
    ‘Butler’s Pantry’ and called, ‘Hinchcliff, I’m taking Miss Fisher on a tour.