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book. Phryne held them up by the spine, one by one, and shook them, garnering a harvest of little cards, devotional stamps and pressed flowers. Nothing in the girl’s own writing but a copy of the Ten Commandments, which had been printed on a card, doubtless for easy reference. Next to ‘Honour thy Father and thy Mother’ she had written, ‘so difficult. I don’t want to fall into sin but I can’t ’. The can’t had been underscored so hard that the pencil had torn through the surface of the paper.
    No letters, no diary. Her school books revealed that she was a middle-of-the-road student with an interest in Latin and Music, and it appeared that she played chess. Some chess problems had been carefully copied out and solved, one with three exclamation marks.
    Her violin was still in its case. Phryne took it out and plucked a string: mellow, delicate, sad. It was an expensive instrument and she replaced it with care, having searched the case.
    She heard a thud in the corridor and opened the door. The exquisite Paul had heard the voice of the violin and had fainted. Phryne left him where he was and continued her search. She tapped the walls, looking for a hiding place. A girl of this religiosity would certainly have kept a diary, if only to remind herself of her righteous struggle against sin. The walls were solid Victorian panelling, the floor was covered by a carpet which had been nailed down all round, and there was no space in the windowseat, which was full of woollens. Phryne took each jumper out and shook it, but there was nothing there. She must have taken her diary with her. So. Paul should be recovering and she went out to see how he was.
    He was sitting groggily on the floor and she extended a strong hand to pull him to his feet. He came up swiftly into her arms and for a moment their faces were very close. The rosebud mouth opened and moistened; Phryne thought that he was going to kiss her, and wondered what she should do.
    Fortunately for her virtue, the moment passed. The body which had clung close released itself; Phryne wondered if she had been imagining things. Could there be such a depth of sensuality in a young boy?
    ‘There. A little overcome, eh? Were you very fond of your sister?’ Wrong question. He stiffened and pulled away from her embrace.
    ‘No. Interfering little busybody, always poking her nose in, with her damned religion. Thought she was better than anyone, she did. But I don’t like her being missing.’
    He led the way down the stairs, where Phyne conducted a brief conversation with Christine, who spoke in a weakening whisper.
    ‘She took her swimming bag and a change of clothes. That’s all that I could find missing.’
    ‘And you have no idea where she has gone?’
    ‘Not unless she is with the sisterhood. She had enough money to get to Eltham, but they say she isn’t there.’
    ‘Are you worried about her?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Was she the sort of girl who was, well, easily deceived? Would she get into a stranger’s car, for instance?’
    ‘No. Not if it was a man. She was very…shy.’
    ‘She didn’t like boys?’
    ‘Not at all.’
    ‘And who was her best friend at school?’
    ‘I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Fisher. She never confided in me.’
    ‘And what about her diary?’
    The gentle eyes, lids drooping with weariness, suddenly flashed. Phryne had Mrs. Waddington-Forsythe’s full attention.
    ‘Her diary? Oh yes. I suppose she took it with her. Now I really must go and lie down, Miss Fisher. My doctor says that I must rest for three hours every afternoon. If you will excuse me?’
    Phryne watched her glide listlessly away, and faced the old man and the boy. They were both staring after the retreating drapery.
    ‘I’ll report in a week,’ said Phryne. She walked out of the house, and was driven with care back to her own house.

Chapter Three
    ‘The boy by my side, shot through the head,
lay…soaking my shoulder, for half an hour…
can you photograph the