round.’
‘Yes, I think you will,’ said Phryne.
Mrs Reynolds led Phryne on. ‘It’s hard for her,’
she said sympathetically. ‘Her mother is . . . well, a womanly woman, and poor Judith is . . . well, not . . .’
‘A girlish girl?’ Phryne asked and her hostess shook her head.
Miss Cynthia Medenham was sitting on the bench under an ash tree, chewing the end of a pencil and staring blankly at the river. She had a silk-bound blank book on her knee, half filled with scribbled notes. She was consciously decorative, clad in a long flowing robe handpainted with pea-cocks, her blond hair carelessly caught at the nape of her neck with a jewelled clasp, her blue eyes abstracted and remote. Mrs Reynolds put a finger to her lips and tiptoed past.
Someone was sitting under the beech tree; a small figure crying softly into a handkerchief. Mrs Reynolds beckoned Phryne to walk on.
‘I don’t know what possessed a nice girl like Letty to marry the Major. He’s very brave, has lots of medals – I suppose that she was dazzled, and of course, her young man was killed on the Somme. But he’s got . . . an imperious nature, and poor Letty just can’t cope with him. Come along, it’s getting cold. There, see? The sun’s going in.
How about a nice cup of tea, Phryne?’
‘Thank you, Evelyn.’
29
The parlour contained, reading from right to left, Lin Chung looking impassive, which was a bad sign, and Tom Reynolds mopping his brow.
Evelyn rang the bell, ordered the tea and commented brightly, ‘The river’s still rising, Tom.’
‘Oh, God, the river as well. Everything is conspiring, Evelyn. I tell you, the whole world is spit-ting on its hands and getting on with making my life difficult.’
‘Now, Tom dear, don’t exaggerate.’
Tom rose to his feet and bellowed, ‘I’m not exaggerating! I’ve got a house full of guests, the housekeeping’s gone to pot, the kitchen is full of sobbing maids, I’ve just been condescended to for half an hour by a man who knows much more about everything than I do, and now the river’s rising and threatening to cut off the house so I’ll be trapped here.’
‘We’ll be trapped, too,’ said Phryne, sitting down next to Lin Chung and taking his hand.
‘What have you been doing to Tom, Lin darling?’
‘We were talking about porcelain,’ said Lin, seeming puzzled. ‘Then about ancient writings.’
‘He’s a little overwrought,’ Mrs Reynolds apologised. ‘Pay no attention. He’ll be all right when he has some tea. Tom, dear.’
The publisher sank down into a chair and rubbed his face.
‘Sorry, Lin, old man, I’m sure you’re right about the Tang vase. And doubtless all the other things will be fixed. But it’s too much, Evie, Mrs Hinchcliff has given her notice. That means we’ll lose Hinchcliff as 30
well as Lina, and what will we do for staff?’
Phryne nodded towards the door and she and Lin Chung left unobtrusively.
‘This is the strangest household,’ she commented. ‘Come for a walk?’
He followed her into the rose garden. It was too early for buds, but leaves were beginning to sprout.
‘You look very beautiful against that shiny background,’ he said. ‘It’s the same gloss as your hair –
like very fine silk floss, such as is ordered by clerics to embroider altarcloths. I fear that I have offended our host.’
‘No, he’s overwrought, as his wife says. Can you ride, Lin?’
‘Mostly without falling off.’
‘Come on, then. We’ll see what’s in the stable.’
The stable yielded two hacks, thoroughbreds, well-fed and under-exercised. Lin caught and saddled his choice, a docile-looking brown mare. Phryne slid a bridle over the proud nose of a touchy gelding who danced uncooperatively as the stableman saddled him.
‘He’s a tearaway is Cuba,’ advised the groom.
‘You watch his tricks, Miss.’
‘I’ll watch,’ she said, putting one toe into the stirrup and hopping as Cuba shifted. She feinted, he stood still, and
Jeffrey M. Schwartz, Sharon Begley