'I know, but they haven't.' Phryne surveyed herself in the glass. The dress had an underslip of solid white silk, over which the delicate draperies of the overgown flowed. It was suggestive but not obscene.
'And how do we find someone who has just come into the Eastern Market on the off chance, they might be from anywhere,' continued Dot. 'They might have just come into the city for the day from—oh, I don't know, Bendigo—and might not read the papers.'
'Or they might have been run over by a tram just outside, or be deaf and dumb, or living in a cellar,' agreed Phryne. '\es, I know. It's going to be very difficult. But we need to find them. Also, can you call Bert and Cec for me? Ask them to lunch. The Eastern Market is full of carters and labourers. I need to know what happened to that rat poison, and I need someone on the inside. I have a feeling that this all centres on that market.'
'Why?' asked Dot.
'Just a feeling. Oh, and Dot dear, make sure that Mr Butler locks all the doors and windows tonight, will you?'
'Miss ...' said Dot, her brow creasing in a frown. 'Is this case dangerous?'
'No more than any of the others,' said Phryne airily. 'Now, how do I look?' She turned, watching the draped chiffon fall into place. 'Nice. Very nice. Tomorrow you can go and see Miss Lee again and extract from her memory every detail about her customers that morning, all right? And now I really must go,' she added, patting Dot on the cheek. 'Won't be late. This evening may be something of a trial, I fear. Mrs Abrahams cannot possibly approve of me.'
Phryne arrived at the Abrahams' East Kew mansion in her big red car and drove it neatly up the driveway to park next to the big Rolls. A driver, collar unbuttoned, leapt to his feet and dropped his newspaper and his cigarette at the sight of one slender leg revealed up to the thigh as she alighted. Phryne grinned at him.
'Mind her for me, will you?' she asked.
'Strewth,' said the driver. 'She's a beaut, ain't she? Lagonda?'
'Hispano-Suiza. Observe the stork on the radiator cap. You're the Abrahams' chauffeur?'
'Yes, Miss,' he said, self-consciously adjusting his jacket. He was a young man with curly fair hair like fleece and a rural drawl.
'Been here long?'
'Three years.'
'Good place?'
'Yes, Miss, fair bloke, the Boss, always extra if he keeps me out late, lashings of tucker but foreign, but I like foreign. The Missus is hard to please, but she's a good sort. I'm saving up for a farm, so it suits me to live in. You come for dinner? I'll ring the bell for you, Miss,' he said, escorting Phryne along a garden path and up several steps to an imposing front door.
Whoever had built this house, thought Phryne, had a lot of money and a burning desire to enrich the working stonemason. It was made of solid dark stone, with bow windows and heavy window ledges under a red tiled roof. Phryne had observed the gargoyles as she came in. The architect had evidently been inspired by a visit to Notre Dame de Paris. The front door was set with gems of coloured glass, complex and beautiful, through which light glowed.
A butler opened the door, and Phryne farewelled her escort and stepped inside.
'Miss Fisher? This way, Madam,' murmured the functionary from his starched height. He was perfect right down to the gold studs in his shirt and the sable solemnity of his bow tie, of such a perfect butterfly shape that it must have been either (unthinkably) stitched into place or the product of a long and devout apprenticeship.
The hall was high and painted in a pale cream to show off a treasury of paintings. Phryne exclaimed in delight, and went over to examine what she was sure was a little Renoir of a child with a cat. The small face smiled out of the canvas, creamy skin against tortoise-shell fur. She was aware of air moving and turned to find herself being examined by a pair of dark unreadable eyes.
'It is beautiful, yes?' asked the woman.
'It is,' said Phryne honestly. 'Quite lovely. My name's Phryne Fisher,' she held out her hand. 'Thank you for inviting me to dinner.'
'My son's friends are our friends,' replied Mrs Abrahams, barely touching Phryne's fingers. 'Do come in, Miss Fisher, we are having drinks in the library.'
She led the way. There was a faint trace of accent, Phryne thought, following her hostess' rigid back along the hall and through a solid oak door. But Mrs Abrahams was not what she had expected. She was dressed in expensive tailored clothes, certainly—a rich plum silk dress which set off her golden complexion and her black hair. Her legs were clad in silk stockings as fine as Phryne's own. They probably shared the same shoemaker and certainly the same couturiere. Mrs Abrahams was impeccably turned out and even with her black eyes and scraped-back shiny black hair had no flavour of the exotic at all. Mrs Abrahams, in fact, did not look any different from any one of Phryne's acquaintances, and she was oddly disappointed. All the verve and enthusiasm which characterized Mrs Grossman was flattened and quenched. In an attempt to fit in, Mrs Abrahams had lost her flair. But she was very beautiful, and Phryne wondered where she had found the interesting panache of diamonds and feathers which decorated the left side of her sleek head.
The library was lined with books which looked as though they had been read and contained a gasogene on a tray, an array of interesting bottles, and three male Abrahams. They sprang to their feet when Phryne entered and Simon came forward to take her hand, kissing it with a certain fervour which indicated that he remembered their encounter with pleasure.
Whatever difficulty Phryne was having with the mother, the son, uncle and husband were instantly explicable. Simon was the picture of a successful, well-loved and confident young man, chafing a little at the restrictions of his father's house and alight with some idealistic purpose. Chaim Abrahams was self-effacing and stout but a little rubbed at the edges, as though time had not treated him well, though his suit was first class and his corporation extensive. Benjamin Abrahams was thick set, strong, middle aged, and prosperous. Phryne looked for the phantom cigar that always hovered in his mouth when convention would not allow him a real one. His handclasp was firm and warm and he beamed on Miss Fisher.
'The Hon. Detective Lady!' he exclaimed. 'What can we fetch for you? A little sherry, maybe, or would you like a cocktail?'
'Sherry, if you please,' murmured Phryne. She tasted it with pleasure. It was amontillado, to be sipped with reverence. The company sat down in comfortable chairs which could have been real Chippendale and surveyed Phryne, who surveyed them back with perfect poise.
'The pictures in the hall are absolutely beautiful.' Phryne opened with a conventional remark. 'Have you been collecting for a long time, Mr Abrahams?'
'Since I arrived in Paris just after the war,' said Mr Abrahams. 'They are a good investment, and besides they are beautiful, nu? I have a big canvas in the drawing room you will like, I think, if you care for the later Impressionists. Of the earlier I have alas only a few pieces, they were too expensive for me then; now, they are worth thousands, then only hundreds, but I did not have the hundreds, eh? But Toulouse-Lautrec I could afford, the Pissaro and some Sisley, also some rare books and drawings, manuscripts. I brought them with me when we left and came here, also my dear Julia has exquisite taste and she ordered the decoration of this house to set them off.'
Mrs Abrahams waved off the compliment with a negligent hand. She was good, Phryne considered, a very finished product of some English finishing school, perhaps.
'Cream walls, yes,' agreed Phryne. 'With just touches of old gold and bronze. Very stylish. But what do you think of the art moderne, then?'
'Myself, I have no taste for it,' admitted Mr Abrahams. 'But Simon likes it. See, there on the mantelpiece: the bronze girl. Simon dotes on her.' He grinned and Mrs Abrahams stiffened and Phryne reflected that it was going to be a very trying evening if this continued. She got up and examined the bronze.