PRAISE FOR
DEATH IN DAYLESFORD

‘Told with Greenwood’s typical aplomb, the story moves smoothly through several twists, lots of fabulous fashion and interesting dollops of history. Enjoyable beach reading.’ —Canberra Weekly Magazine

‘Arch, witty, enchanting.’ —The Weekend Australian

‘This new book in the beloved series will be a welcome addition to your library.’ —Glam Adelaide

‘A rich mixture of historical detail, local colour, careful plotting and throwaway wit, as well as Phryne’s excellent taste in clothes, alcohol, food and men.’ —The Sydney Morning Herald

‘Fans of the sassy Miss Fisher will delight in her latest adventure . . . new readers who like a mix of crime and history will also be hooked.’ —The Courier-Mail

‘Kerry Greenwood has returned the indomitable Phryne Fisher to the pages with yet another well-planned series of murders to be solved.’ —Blue Wolf Reviews

‘Entertaining and clever, Death in Daylesford is a charming and satisfying read.’ —Book’d Out

‘A quintessential Australian story . . . there is no doubt Phryne is back at her best. Death in Daylesford is a perfect addition to the series.’ —The Book Muse

PRAISE FOR
THE PHRYNE FISHER SERIES

‘Miss Fisher is quicker, kinder, racier and more democratic than any character from Dame Agatha . . . if you haven’t fallen for her yet, prepare to be seduced.’ —The Australian Women’s Weekly

‘Always elegant, always sophisticated, always clever and damn it always right, Phryne is the finest detective to be found in the 1920s.’

—The Ballarat Courier

‘It’s Underbelly meets Miss Marple . . .’ —Emporium

‘Miss Fisher as usual powers through this newest case with grace, poise and unerring confidence, the sense of underlying tension is palpable . . .’ —The Age

‘Greenwood’s strength lies in her ability to create characters that are wholly satisfying: the bad guys are bad, and the good guys are great.’ —Vogue

‘Kerry Greenwood’s writing is always a joy.’ —Stiletto

‘Phryne . . . is a wonderful fantasy of how you could live your life if you had beauty, money, brains and superb self control.’ —The Age

‘Independent, wealthy, spirited and possessed of an uninhibited style that makes everyone move out of her way and stand gawking for a full five minutes after she walks by—Phryne Fisher is a woman who gets what she wants and has the good sense to enjoy every minute of it!’ —Geelong Times

‘Kerry Greenwood captures the 1920s style perfectly as she weaves crime and intrigue in the dark streets of Melbourne Town, together with the glamorous high life of the one and only Phryne Fisher . . . Step aside, Miss Marple. Kerry Greenwood has given us the most elegant and irrepressible sleuth ever.’ —The Toowoomba Chronicle

‘Fisher is a sexy, sassy and singularly modish character. Her 1920s Melbourne is racy, liberal and a city where crime occurs on its shadowy, largely unlit streets.’ —Canberra Times

‘Together with Greenwood’s witty and fluid, elegant prose, Phryne Fisher is a sheer delight.’ —The Toowoomba Chronicle

‘The presence of the inimitable Phryne Fisher makes this mystery a delightful, glamorous romp of a novel—a literary glass of champagne with a hint of debauchery.’ —Armidale Express

‘Impressive as she may be, Phryne Fisher, her activities and her world are never cloying thanks to Greenwood’s witty, slightly tongue-incheek prose. As usual, it’s a delightfully frothy, indulgent escape with an underlying bite.’ —Otago Daily Times

‘If you have not yet discovered this Melbourne author and her wonderful books featuring Phryne Fisher, I urge you to do so now . . . In a word: delightful.’ —Herald Sun

‘Elegant, fabulously wealthy and sharp as a tack, Phryne sleuths her way through these classical detective stories with customary panache . . . Greenwood’s character is irresistibly charming, and her stories benefit from research, worn lightly, into the Melbourne of the period.’ —The Age

PHRYNE FISHER MYSTERIES:

Cocaine Blues

Flying Too High

Murder on the Ballarat Train

Death at Victoria Dock

The Green Mill Murder

Blood and Circuses

Ruddy Gore

Urn Burial

Raisins and Almonds

Death Before Wicket

Away with the Fairies

Murder in Montparnasse

The Castlemaine Murders

Queen of the Flowers

Death by Water

Murder in the Dark

Murder on a Midsummer Night

Dead Man’s Chest

Unnatural Habits

Murder and Mendelssohn

Death in Daylesford

CONSTABLE

First published in Australia in 2022 by Allen & Unwin

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Constable

Copyright © Kerry Greenwood, 2022

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-408-71894-0

Constable

An imprint of

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

To my beloved Belladonna

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

About The Author

PROLOGUE

Little Bourke Street was silent. A few yellow lamplit windows showed where midnight oil was being burned in the interests of commerce, but the street was generally as black as a coal pit. Uniformed police flitted into position like wraiths in the darkness. Above the sloping pagoda-like roofs of Chinatown a waxing moon shone down upon them. Then came the sound of a wooden crate being dropped inside a warehouse, and a muffled exclamation in an Oriental tongue. In the brick alley, the uniforms exchanged looks. Detective Sergeant Fraser blew his whistle. The door burst inwards under the blows of a sledgehammer, and the police moved in. Fraser, standing outside in the alley, heard the frightened screams and grinned. He did not follow his men inside. The contraband would be there; he had no doubt of it. There was no need to sully his hands with the actual search.

The moon disappeared behind a cloud, and still he waited. What was taking them so long? They knew where to look: the stuff would be in the silk bales. They must have found it by now, surely. He cursed under his breath. If you want a job done properly, he grumbled to himself, then do it yourself. He raised his truncheon and entered the warehouse. Stabbing beams of torchlight crisscrossed in the darkness.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What are you all waiting for? Christmas?’

There was a breathless pause, and then an electric light was switched on. The warehouse smelled overpoweringly of raw silk and heathen cooking. His men stared at him, unmoving. And standing in the rear, the detective sergeant saw a sight that thrilled his racing senses. This must be the criminal mastermind! The Fu Manchu of Little Bourke Street! The man, dressed in some foreign silk nightrobe in light blue, with a dark blue cap on his head, was speaking in a low, soothing voice to his three pigtailed cronies. They looked terrified, as well they might; but Fraser was perplexed to realise that their leader looked affronted rather than frightened.

‘Hey, you! Chop Suey! You speak English?’

‘Rather better than you do, officer.’

To Fraser’s further astonishment, the man not only spoke English; he spoke it with a posh accent. And he was young for a criminal mastermind. Probably no more than thirty, if that.

Having calmed his associates, the robed man folded his arms in his sleeves and glared at Fraser. ‘Perhaps you can explain the reason for this unwelcome intrusion?’

‘Are these your premises?’ Fraser barked, attempting to seize the upper hand, which he seemed unaccountably to have lost.

‘They are,’ the man agreed.

‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Chop Suey? Looks like you’ve got yourself in a spot of bother.’

‘My name is not Chop Suey,’ the man replied with a hint of distaste. ‘It is Lin Chung. And I think you’ll find, officer, that you are in a great deal of trouble.’

CHAPTER 1

The Honourable Phryne Fisher sat at her Bechstein grand piano, a frown marring her Dutch-doll features.

Around her, all was as it should be. Green, purple and white walls formed the backdrop to her piano, its ebony polished to a high sheen. A sage-green sofa and two matching lounge chairs were arranged in a semicircle nearby. A tea table stood ready to bear champagne and canapés at a moment’s notice. A generous wood-panelled fireplace held court beneath its capacious chimney. The floor was covered in a new sculptured carpet (supplied by the Lin family) in blue, grey and crimson. Vases of red roses stood here and there in shapely arts décoratifs vases in improbable shades of blue, green and purple, filling the parlour with their fragrance. From outside the window, a warm afternoon sun shed its radiant beams on her score: a copy of Cole Porter’s ‘Let’s Misbehave’, which she had purchased in a music shop the previous week. She considered the sentiments apposite. It might well be that good girls went to heaven, but they had a dull enough time of it on earth.

She moved smoothly through the opening chords—G7, F9, G7, Cmaj7, C and Gaug5—and the furrows on her brow deepened. She paused, her fingers resting on the ivory keys. The fifth was by no means as augmented as it ought to be. The D sharp was as blunt as a butterknife, without the common courtesy to backslide to D natural; it had instead vanished into the tiny crack between the keys. And the bass notes seemed oddly unsure of themselves. For the present, there was nothing doing with the piano.

She closed the lid gently then rose from the stool and moved to recline on the sofa.

Mr Butler appeared without the necessity for Phryne to ring, and enquired if madam would be wanting anything.

‘A gin and tonic, if you would, Mr B.’

Mr B inclined his head very slightly, and melted away into the corridor, to be replaced by Dot, dressed in her customary shades of brown and with an expression of similarly glum hue.

Phryne waved her companion to a vacant chair. ‘Dot, you look as if you’ve lost a winning lottery ticket in the wash. What’s wrong?’

Dot blinked, sat herself down on the chair’s edge and placed her hands in her lap. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and clasped her hands together. ‘It’s nothing, Miss,’ she murmured.

Dorothy Williams had been Phryne’s lady’s maid, companion and assistant since Phryne’s arrival in Melbourne a year before. And what a year it had been! Dot had been kidnapped, terrorised and driven much too fast in her employer’s Hispano-Suiza. She did not regard herself as courageous, but she had bravely endured all these perils for the sake of Miss Fisher. She looked at her now with devotion. Phryne wore a stunningly beautiful emerald silk dress embroidered with a spray of multicoloured orchids, and Dot’s downcast demeanour brightened momentarily at the sight before lapsing once again into gloom.

Phryne fixed her with a look of unusual severity. ‘Come on, Dot, out with it. Something has upset you.’

Dot gazed at her employer solemnly. She reached into her reticule, drew out a piece of plain cardboard and handed it to Phryne without comment. The uppermost side was blank. Phryne turned it over to find a single word in block letters clearly cut from a newspaper had been glued onto the card with mucilage. Phryne sniffed at the offending object. The glue was not quite dry, indicating that it had been assembled that very day. The message was brief and to the point. REPENT!

‘Where did you find this, Dot?’

‘It was left in the letterbox today. I went to check the mail because I’m expecting a letter from my aunt. And . . .’ Dot gave an unhappy sigh and gestured to the card. Then she sat up. ‘Though it wasn’t addressed, Miss, so perhaps it was meant for a different house?’ She looked at her employer hopefully.

Phryne laughed lightly. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t. It is no doubt directed at me and my immoral habits. But never mind, Dot. Sticks and stones, you know.’ She leaned forward and patted Dot’s hand in what she hoped was a soothing manner. ‘If someone wants me to repent, with an exclamation mark thrown into the bargain, then they’ll just have to wait along with everybody else, for I have no intention of doing so.’ She put the card on the tea table, took the gin and tonic Mr B had deposited there wordlessly, and reclined once more. ‘If any more of them arrive, you just give them straight to me. If they become a nuisance, we can always ask Hugh Collins to look into it now that he’s been made a detective sergeant.’

‘Oh, Miss, please don’t tell Hugh!’

Phryne tilted her head. ‘Why on earth not, Dot?’

Dot gave another heavy sigh. ‘I think . . .’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I think Hugh might be going cold on the whole idea.’

Phryne looked at her in astonishment. ‘He doesn’t want to be a detective sergeant?’

‘Not that, Miss.’ Dot blushed with what looked like excruciating embarrassment. ‘The marriage.’

‘I remember the two of you had agreed that he should wait for a promotion before you married, Dot, but that was months ago now. Has something changed in the meantime?’

‘Well, Miss, at first he was talking about setting a date later this year. But lately . . .’ The corners of her mouth turned downwards. ‘Lately I’ve hardly seen him. Just last week we had tickets to the theatre but at the last moment he said he was busy with work and couldn’t come.’ Her brown eyes gleamed with a moistening dolour. ‘I’m wondering if perhaps I’m not good enough for him now that he’s a detective sergeant.’

‘Dot, look at me,’ Phryne commanded. Her companion raised her head to meet her employer’s green gaze with her glistening brown. ‘You are quite certainly good enough for Hugh Collins,’ she said firmly. ‘You must dismiss any thought to the contrary immediately.’

‘Yes, Miss,’ Dot replied obediently.

Phryne took a thoughtful sip from her glass. ‘But now that you mention it, Hugh has been making himself scarce lately. You haven’t argued, have you?’ An unwelcome thought suddenly struck Phryne between the eyes. ‘Dot, is he still insisting that you should give up working for me after your marriage?’

Dot nodded, but far from encouraging further waterworks her face was now registering resolute determination, with a side serving of mulish obstinacy. ‘He tried, Miss, but I’ve told him that I’m going to keep on with you. At least until . . .’ Dot coloured, as she generally did when corporeal matters obtruded into the conversation.

‘Even when you are Expecting, Dot, there’s no reason for you to give up working if you don’t want to,’ Phryne said briskly. ‘You are my right-hand woman. Hugh will have to learn to live with it. And I’m sure he will respect you more for sticking to your guns.’

‘That’s what I thought, Miss. Or rather, that’s what I hoped, because I will be—sticking to my guns, I mean.’

Phryne nodded approvingly. ‘Good for you, Dot! Now, don’t you worry any more about Hugh. He’s an honest and transparent young man, and I think you can safely assume that he is telling you the unvarnished truth when he says he’s busy with work. Anything else in the letterbox?’

‘Just this.’

It was a postcard from Phryne’s friend and fellow pilot Bunji Ross, who, it seemed, had flown her biplane to Bendigo. Phryne read the scrawled message with a smile.

Dear Phryne,

Jolly little place they have here. Not so little, actually. A spiffing ride up, though I ran into some rough weather around the hills. For a good minute I couldn’t see anything except rain, and rather too much of that. Did you know they have their own Chinatown here? Might be worth a visit, considering your interest. Anyway, pip-pip. Come for a spin with me some time?

Love,

Bunji

She turned the card over. The picture showed what was presumably the main street of Bendigo. A gigantic municipal edifice frowned in the centre, surrounded by gently rolling hills. Motor cars meandered along streets, and over all loomed a threatening sky. As a selling point for their township it seemed somewhat outré, but they were clearly very pleased with it. Phryne had never been to Bendigo, and it might well repay a visit.

‘And there was this,’ Dot continued, proffering a thick, creamy envelope that exuded expensive good taste. ‘I haven’t opened it, Miss, because it’s for Ruth and Jane.’

Phryne took it from her and saw that Misses Ruth and Jane Fisher, 221B The Esplanade, St Kilda was inscribed on the front in matchless black copperplate calligraphy. She turned it over, and revealed the sender to be Mrs M. Reynolds of 47 Banool Avenue, Kew. ‘I have a strong suspicion this is a party invitation, Dot—I can feel the crinkled edge of a card inside. It looks as though Ruth and Jane have been accepted into high society.’ She grinned at her companion. ‘Well, that is a turn-up, is it not? Whether they will want to sally forth into said society is another question, but it is pleasing to know they will have the choice.’ Phryne was exceedingly proud of her adoptive daughters, and the dazzling transformation they had undergone since she had extricated them from lives of dismal poverty and domestic servitude.

‘Just as you say, Miss.’

At that moment, the girls in question could be heard approaching the front door. They appeared to be arguing at a steady mezzo-forte, which was unusual enough to cause Phryne to raise an eyebrow, relations between the girls being generally harmonious. The door opened, and was slammed shut with unnecessary force.

‘Ruth? Jane?’ she called. ‘Come and say hello, if you would.’

The parlour door opened with commendable tranquillity and the girls stood on the carpet before her. Phryne regarded their immaculate school uniforms: box-pleated navy skirts, navy jackets, the finest silk stockings money could buy, gleaming black leather shoes and straw boater hats with silk ribbons around the brim. Not for the first time, Phryne wondered how many more children with miraculous talents laboured unseen and unappreciated in the slums. There was no doubt the girls had blossomed like rare orchids at Presbyterian Ladies’ College.

‘So how was school today, ladies? And what bone of contention has caused you to imperil the very fabric of my front portal?’

‘Sorry, Miss Phryne.’ Ruth was generally more forward in speech, and she took up the running at once. ‘But it’s our school! They’re sending us to the Blind Institute!’

Phryne regarded her daughters with some surprise. ‘So far as I am aware, you both possess excellent eyesight.’

Jane, standing a little to the rear, proceeded to expound further. ‘It’s the Good Works program, Miss Phryne. Ruth and I are being sent to the school for the blind. I think it will be most illuminating, if that isn’t a contradiction, but Ruth doesn’t agree.’

‘Neither of us can read braille,’ Ruth grumbled. ‘I just don’t see how we can be of any use there.’

‘You really won’t know until you go, Ruth,’ Phryne interposed.

‘And it’s only for four days over two weeks,’ Jane added.

‘Then it will soon be over,’ Phryne said consolingly. She patted the sofa. ‘Now, come sit down, girls—something came for you in the post.’

The girls sat, and Phryne held out the envelope.

Jane opened it, and then she and Ruth stared at the contents in mystified silence.

‘So?’ Phryne prompted.

‘It’s a party invitation. To Frances Reynolds’ sixteenth birthday.’ Ruth and Jane exchanged a meaningful look. ‘It’s in two weeks’ time.’

‘And who is Frances Reynolds?’ Phryne enquired. ‘Am I right in thinking that she is one of the fashionable girls at school?’

‘Yes, she is,’ Jane answered. ‘But I’m not sure we want anything to do with her. Ruthie? What do you think?’

Ruth coloured. ‘Miss Phryne, she was the girl who bullied Claire! She pretended to like her and then insulted her in front of all her friends!’ She shook her head. ‘If Claire hadn’t felt so isolated at school, she might never have got herself embroiled with Tom.’

Claire’s entanglement with Tom—a schoolmate of Tinker, the third of Phryne’s adopted children—had led to her accidental death, the mystery of which had been unravelled by Phryne’s charges.

‘I see,’ said Phryne. ‘So you consider this Frances to bear some responsibility for Claire’s death. Have you made your feelings known to her?’

‘Oh yes,’ Ruth answered. ‘I told her off. I called her a bully and a coward.’

Jane looked at her sister in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that, Ruth. That was very fine of you. Well done!’ Jane frowned. ‘It seems odd that she would then invite us to her party.’

‘I know,’ said Ruth, puzzlement writ large on her face. ‘Frances’s sixteenth is the party of the season. I never dreamed we’d be invited—and I’m not sure we should go. What do you think, Miss Phryne?’

‘Well, you must decide for yourselves what to do, but it seems to me that the invitation is an extension of an olive branch—perhaps even an admission that you were right, Ruth, and she was wrong.’

The girls looked at each other and nodded. ‘All right,’ Ruth conceded. ‘We’ll think it over.’

With that, the girls rose and exited the room in the direction of the kitchen, where Mrs Butler would have a jug of fresh lemonade and scones and jam ready for them.

‘Well, Dot,’ Phryne said, taking up the card urging her to repent, ‘the letterbox was certainly full of surprises today.’

Dot returned to her room and prayed for Miss Phryne. Early in her employment, Dot had been so troubled by Phryne’s amorous adventures that she had taken herself off to a distant church and confessed that she was labouring in a House of Sin. The anonymous priest had thereupon leaped to the conclusion that Dot was working in a brothel, and asked for further scandalising particulars. On receiving Dot’s exposition—she had taken care not to reveal Phryne’s name, as she had sworn never to reveal her employer’s secrets—the priest had assured her that her employer was clearly a remarkable woman, and doubtless a vessel for Divine Grace regardless of her sins; that the latter were certainly not Dot’s responsibility; and that Dot should pray for the salvation of Phryne’s soul. Dot, whose conscience had been eased by the exchange, had set about this task assiduously.

Phryne, meanwhile, lay on the bed in her luxurious bedroom and considered the anonymous missive again. REPENT! She wondered who could possibly be responsible. Her neighbours? It seemed unlikely. She had lived on the Esplanade for nearly a year and she barely knew them. They seemed to be shy, retiring folks who tended their small gardens and politely discouraged intimacy. They had exhibited no interest whatsoever in Phryne and her household.

She lay back on her pillow and accepted some caresses from Ember, who rubbed his furry black head against her hand and purred like a small, well-satisfied locomotive.

While she had been quick to allay her companion’s concerns, she would nonetheless be on the alert for any subsequent activity on the part of the unknown correspondent. She recalled Hugh Collins’s account of a crime which had begun with anonymous letters and ended up in full-blown assault.

‘I couldn’t get the sergeant to take it seriously!’ he had complained, his pink features alight with outrage. ‘It turned out it was a lonely bloke who was too terrified of the girl down the street to ask her out. So he started leaving notes for her in the letterbox.’

‘And she reported it to the police?’

‘Yes, Miss. She didn’t know who it was, but she was scared. I wanted to investigate, but the sergeant reckoned leaving notes wasn’t a crime and I shouldn’t waste my time on it. Then one day the fellow attacked the poor girl outside her house!’

‘Was she all right?’ Phryne asked, aghast.

‘She fought back, Miss, you’ll be pleased to hear, and her cries attracted some passers-by, who were able to detain him until we arrived. He was fined ten quid and given a stern warning to bring his toothbrush if he ever tried it again.’ Hugh had shaken his head in frustration. ‘If we’d only warned him off earlier, it could have nipped the whole thing in the bud.’

Phryne was only too aware that the police force as a rule took an indulgent view of lovesick young men and their unwanted attentions. Hugh’s outrage was all the more commendable. Hugh at least realised that these matters could escalate if allowed to proceed unchecked. Still, a single message was probably nothing to worry about . . . But even as she had the thought, she felt a distinct pricking in her thumbs. Phryne had learned to trust her thumbs. She stared down at them, and decided that what they really needed to hold was a cocktail. Preferably a sidecar. She rang the bell for Mr Butler.

In accepting her cocktail she had a sudden inspiration. ‘Mr B, have you received any impertinent anonymous messages lately?’

Mr Butler’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yes, Miss. It so happens that there was one in the letterbox yesterday. I didn’t want to trouble you with it.’

‘And do you have it still?’

The butler inclined his head. ‘I kept it, in case it might be needed as evidence.’

Phryne sipped from the glass and narrowed her eyes. ‘Do please bring it to me, Mr B.’

Mr Butler withdrew, and returned promptly with his gleaming salver, which he presented with eyes slightly averted, as if offering her a deceased rodent.

Phryne accepted the card. WHORE OF BABYLON indeed! ‘Thank you, Mr B. You did rightly.’

‘Have there been other similar communications, Miss?’

Phryne gave him a bright smile. ‘I’m afraid so. But I’m hoping the correspondence will prove fleeting.’

‘Very good, Miss. I will inform you if there are any further such offerings.’

He withdrew once more, leaving Phryne to move from sidecar into slumber.