Murder on a Midsummer Night Read Online Free PDF

lanterns.
    ‘After we copped it at Roumani. You remember Bill the Bastard?’ asked Vern.
    ‘The horse that never galloped without bucking? Of course.’
    ‘He did after Roumani. He came out of the bloodbath carrying five men: two behind the rider and one on each stirrup. Never even tried to buck. ’Course, he must have been carrying half a ton in soldiers alone.’
    ‘Is that why he’s now my packhorse?’ asked the officer.
    ‘Yair. Poor bugger deserved a rest. But the yeomanry copped it worse than us.’
    ‘Yes, they copped it . . .’
    ‘It’d be beaut if our CIC was closer to the enemy than the front bar at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo,’ said Vern, without moving his lips. The hand-rolled cigarette stayed in the corner of his mouth as if glued.
    ‘I’m sure Sir Archibald Murray knows about being a commander-in-chief,’ said the officer with a toneless lack of conviction.
    ‘Yair, my flamin’ oath,’ agreed Vern.

CHAPTER THREE

Happy is the child whose father goes to the devil.

    Proverb

    Phryne took a taxi to the mansion of Mr Gerald Atkinson. She could have called home and had Mr Butler collect her but she was feeling, for some reason, pressed for time. This proved to be an error, because as she left the taxi and began walking up the garden path, one of those impromptu cloudbursts which made Melbourne weather the proverb it was fell upon her unprotected head. Within moments she was soaked to her French undergarments and partially deafened by thunder booming apparently some three or four feet above her and slightly to the right.
    ‘Thunder on the right is supposed to be a good omen,’ she said to herself as she completed her trek through a rather nice formal garden to the front door and rang the bell with some force. ‘This may prove to be an interesting interlude.’
    The door opened and a magisterial butlerine figure enquired as to the lady’s business. His tone indicated that Phryne had only merited the term ‘lady’ out of charity and she had better have a good story if she wanted to get over the threshold in that condition.
    Phryne was in no mood to be buttled at. Her shoes were full of water, her dress was behaving like a dishcloth, and her stylish cloche had wilted around her head and was acting like a cold compress. She walked in, straight past the black and white man, and beamed a sunny smile up into his face.
    ‘The Hon. Phryne Fisher to see Mr Atkinson. Before which I need a towel, a warm garment, and a telephone.’
    ‘Yes,’ said the butler, hypnotised. Only the really rich or really aristocratic had this kind of certainty. They knew that the world would unhesitatingly bend itself to their will, and it always did. ‘If your ladyship would follow me . . .’
    Squelching, Phryne followed him upstairs into a small bedroom, where the butler was supplanted by a fascinated housemaid, introduced as Gertrude. She supplied a towel and helped Phryne to remove her soaked dress, which was clinging like a corn plaster to her rapidly chilling limbs. When Phryne was dry, the maid helped her into a truly sumptuous gentleman’s lounging robe, of scarlet padded silk with damask collar and cuffs in a sprightly spring green. Phryne resolved not to look at herself in strong sunlight in case of self-combustion.
    The silk was luxurious and Phryne sat to allow the maid to dry her hair.
    ‘That’s Mr Gerald’s favourite robe,’ Gertrude told her. ‘Mr Nunn must really like you! Oops, sorry, Miss, I mean, m’lady. I’m not used to being a lady’s maid. Usually I do the parlour and the door but Mrs Patterson’s down with her leg again and the boy’s gone to the dentist and I’ve been helping Cook. Sorry.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ said Phryne, reflecting that the gossiping ladies at various tea parties were right, for once. Australians did not make good servants, thank God. There was something indefatigably democratic about them. But Gertrude was a nice girl who was trying hard and