Murder on a Midsummer Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

should be encouraged. ‘That’ll do for the hair,’ she said. ‘There’s a comb in my bag. How about my shoes?’
    ‘Soaked,’ said the maid. ‘I reckon they’ll dry out bonzer if I stuff them with newspapers and leave them near the stove.’
    ‘I’ll ring and get someone to bring me some more clothes,’ said Phryne. ‘Amazing how wet you can get in such a short time!’
    ‘Yes,’ said Gertrude. ‘And it’s stopping now, look—the sun’s coming out.’
    ‘So it is,’ said Phryne. ‘How long have you worked for Mr Atkinson?’
    ‘Six months,’ said Gertrude. ‘Six months more and I’ll marry my young man. He’s a baker. We’re saving up for a house. He’s got his own business.’
    ‘Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy. What’s Mr Atkinson like?’
    ‘All right,’ said the girl slowly, applying the comb to Phryne’s straight black hair. ‘Bit high-handed and Old Country and he has noisy friends and noisy parties. And the fits he throws if someone moves one of his precious bowls or statues! They’re a task to dust, I can tell you, not to mention his dirty bronzes and horrible carved lumps of rock. But I’m not here for fun, and he pays well enough. I go home every night. Mrs Patterson’s the housekeeper, I don’t see much of Mr Atkinson.’
    And that, clearly, was fine with Gertrude. Phryne smiled and shook her head.
    ‘Can you lend me a pair of slippers?’ she asked, holding out a folded note.
    Gertrude grinned. ‘For that, m’lady, you can have them,’ she replied.
    So it was that Phryne Fisher, trailing the skirts of her lounging robe like a ball dress, came down the stairs to meet Mr Gerald Atkinson. The first thing he noticed about her was a pair of very new bright pink slippers, with pompoms. The next thing was the upraised head on the slim neck rising from the green damask calyx like a lily. And the third was her jade green eyes.
    ‘Miss Fisher?’ he asked, holding out a hand.
    ‘Mr Atkinson,’ she replied, allowing him to take her hand and either shake it or kiss it as he felt inclined. He paused for a moment, then kissed. Phryne allowed him to conduct her to a parlour into which the riches of Europe appeared to have been sent, possibly for storage. Phryne noted a near-Bernini salt cellar, a miniature statue of Michelangelo’s David, a copy of a Tiepolo banquet, several faux Canalettos and shelves full of assorted bric-a-brac as she was led to a deep chair and allowed to sit.
    ‘As my cousin Sir Eldred always said, “bit of a wetting never hurt no one,”’ he told her.
    Gerald Atkinson was tall and skinny, with a haughty arch to the brows which might easily have been accentuated by skilled plucking and a rosebud mouth with just a trace of lip rouge. He was dressed in a very nice tweed suit which was just a bit too new and a cravat which was just a smidgen too bright, with a stickpin in which the diamond was just a soupçon too large. If he was not a friend of Dorothy, Phryne considered, he was a relative. This was no bar to Miss Fisher’s regard. She had many friends whose interest in young men was just as fervent as her own.
    ‘And as my father the baronet says, “What a man needs after a good soaking is a good whisky,”’ replied Phryne.
    ‘That can be managed,’ said Gerald Atkinson, brightening at the mention of Miss Fisher’s titled relatives. ‘Irish or Scotch?’
    ‘Mind you, he’d say the same after a good sunning,’ said Phryne. ‘Scotch, please, with water.’
    Mr Atkinson obliged, pouring a small glass for Phryne and a tumbler for himself. Miss Fisher sipped at her very good whisky and looked around the room, wriggling her toes into Gertrude’s pink slippers.
    ‘I know all about you, Miss Fisher!’ he exclaimed.
    Phryne privately considered this very unlikely, but was still trying to place Mr Atkinson, so she merely inclined her head and smiled.
    ‘And I know nothing about you,’ she said. ‘So you can start.’
    This