The murder mystery begins ... Please note: the next few chapters use language to describe a race of people that may be deemed offensive. I used these terms to be true to the language used at the time.

Thanks again, lovely readers, for taking the time to leave me a review.

-o0o-

Phryne drew to a stop and blew out a breath in relief. Big black letters on a rusty, bullet-riddled sign that hung over the entrance to the property declared they had reached Yarrowee Station. She turned to look at her aunt, who smiled at her and patted her knee. They had finally made it.

She stretched her aching back and neck before driving over the sheep grid into the property. The road was full of ruts and pot holes so she drove slowly, which allowed them to take in the countryside. The long, straight road that disappeared into the shimmering and dust-stained horizon divided two very different landscapes. To their right, a barbed-wire fence marked the southern limit of a dry, desolate plain that seemed to go on forever. Hundreds of freshly shorn sheep kicked up small puffs of dust as they pawed at the bare ground in search of something to nibble.

Phryne grimaced. She hoped the homestead wasn't surrounded by land like that. She knew the outback was dry, but didn't realise how bleak and barren it would be, a world away from the lush green countryside of her family's estate. She turned her attention to the unfenced land to the left, which was teeming with life. Small, grey shrubs with colourful flowers and clumps of what looked like spikey, grey grass grew from sand the colour of pale copper. The spindly gum trees she saw at Swan Hill were beautiful here: each tree had many small trunks that glowed, smooth and pale, in the afternoon light. In the distance, much larger trees snaked their way through the bush, tall and gnarly reminders that rivers and creeks once flowed through the land.

As they drove on, huge flocks of budgerigars erupted from the grass on the edge of the road. They circled in a tight flock, complaining loudly before eventually settling into the small gum trees like bright green, noisy leaves. A mile of two later, she rounded a bend to the left and they gasped in surprise at a family of emus that were pecking hopefully at the ground. Phryne and her aunt looked on in wonder as they quickly stood upright, standing taller than a man, before setting off at an ungainly trot. They spooked a small mob of red kangaroos lazing away the hot afternoon in the shade of the taller shrubs. They too stood quickly, hopped a few yards away and stopped to stand tall and alert to watch them drive by.

A little further down the road, a signpost on the left pointed to a woolshed and wharf. Phryne stopped the car so they could peer into the distance and admire the enormous wooden structure that had weathered to a beautiful silvery grey, not unlike the surrounding landscape.

After passing a small cluster of roughly built cottages, they rounded a grove of tall trees and saw the impressively large homestead on top of a distant hill. As they drew closer, Phryne stared in wonder at the size of it. It was built in the 1860s, her aunt informed her on the drive, was U-shaped and had enough rooms to sleep twenty people. The timber and daub cladding gave it a rustic feel, and she hoped it was more modern and comfortable on the inside than it looked on the outside.

They bounced over another sheep grid and continued to the end of the drive, parking under the shade of a huge peppercorn tree, just as her aunt's friend emerged from a breezeway and waved.

A tall, lean, handsome woman dressed in a plain, long skirt and blouse stepped off the deep verandah and strode towards them with outstretched arms as they got out of the car.

"Pru, darling! You made it!" she said with an accent that betrayed her wealthy, city upbringing. She embraced her friend warmly. "Are you quite well? You gave me such a fright with your news! And you must be Miss Fisher," she said, turning to take Phryne in. She smiled. "You are right," she said, turning back to Phryne's aunt, "she is very glamorous and beautiful!"

Phryne grinned at the unexpected compliment, despite feeling far from glamorous or beautiful after a very early start and several hours of driving. She walked towards her and held out her hand to greet her. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs Morecroft. And please, call me Phryne."

"I'm so very pleased to finally meet you, my dear," she said, shaking Phryne's hand with a no-nonsense grip. "And you must call me Cornelia. I'm so grateful to you for driving your poor aunt all the way up here to see me. You both must be exhausted!" She turned and motioned them to follow her. "Come in out of the heat and have some refreshments and we'll sort your bags later. I thought you might like to stay in the small guesthouse with a view of the lake, my dear," she said to Phryne. "I know you'll be comfortable there. Your dear aunt will stay in the homestead with me, so I can keep a close eye on her."

Just before they reached the verandah, a young man appeared. "Harold dear, perfect timing."

Mrs Stanley drew in a breath, "Goodness, how you've grown!"

He gave her a lopsided smile as he stepped off the verandah. "I should hope so," he said with a twang common to these parts. "I think I was fourteen last time you visited."

Mrs Stanley clicked her tongue. "Oh dear, has it really been that long?"

Phryne's eyes wandered over him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, tall and rangy, with a deeply tanned, heart-shaped face that sported high cheekbones. His mop of curly brown hair tumbled over large eyes the colour of chocolate. She could get lost in those eyes. And that smile.

Cornelia turned to Phryne. "This is my grandson, Harold. Harold, this is Miss Fisher, and I see you remember Mrs Stanley. Harold is our jack-of-all-trades and helps run the station. He'll take your luggage to your rooms."

Phryne self-consciously smoothed down her dusty hair and held out her hand, "Pleased to meet you, Harold."

He gave her hand a gentle shake. "Pleased to meet you, miss," he said, touching his wide-brimmed felt hat. "Call me Harry."

Phryne gave him a broad smile and nodded. "Harry it is then." She turned to look at her car, dug out the keys from her purse and dangled them enticingly in front of him. "Once you're finished with Mrs Stanley's bags, which are all in the boot, perhaps you'd be so kind to drive my car to the guesthouse to drop off my luggage. If it's not too far away, you can leave it there and I will walk over later to stretch my legs."

"The road's shorter," he said, dragging his eyes away from her car to look at her. "Fifteen minutes' walk down the road and the first on the left, but the sun's got a bit of bite, even at this time of day. It's an easy twenty if you take the shady path through the trees by the lake."

"Well then, that's settled. I will walk along the lake."

Cornelia led her guests through a covered breezeway that separated the main house from the wings and opened a door to an impressively large and cool sitting room. Phryne walked to the centre of the room and swivelled slowly to take it in. It was almost three times the size of her parlour and was generously furnished with clusters of lounges and chairs in the corners, several bookcases, an old upright piano, and an enormous fireplace. This was clearly a room for entertaining large numbers of people. She sighed in relief. It was charming, the perfect place to while away time.

She walked towards two glazed double doors flanked by narrow windows that ran from the floor to the ceiling. She drew back the lace curtain to see clusters of wicker chairs on a deep verandah and beyond that, a fenced, formal garden filled with roses and colourful perennials. The garden was surrounded by a lush, bright green lawn, which was a welcome contrast to the dull greens, browns and greys of the dry country beyond and she immediately felt more at home. The lawn stopped abruptly just before the land sloped down to tall trees that offered glimpses of the lake beyond.

Cornelia appeared by her side with a glass of lemonade. Phryne took it gratefully and moved to sit next to her aunt who had seated herself on one of the lounges by the window.

"Such a lovely room, Cornelia. Do you entertain here often?"

Cornelia offered her guests a plate of biscuits and sat down opposite them. "In my younger days, yes, when Mr Morecroft was still with us. I am hosting the annual thank you to the shearers here on Wednesday evening, and of course my party is Saturday. We still host the odd tennis tournament, which are more like tennis parties actually, I don't think anyone scores any more. And then there's the Bachelor and Spinsters Ball that we hold here after the shearing season is over. Young people come from all over for that, so we need to have that in the woolshed.

Phryne stopped listening after the mention of tennis as she relived the tug in her belly when she first saw Jack in crisp tennis whites that accentuated his narrow hips and broad shoulders. Her knees had almost buckled at all that exposed flesh thanks to his rolled-up sleeves and unbuttoned collar. She had tried to regain composure but wilted under the burn of his gaze as he strutted towards her, racquet in hand. He looked confident, cocky even, knowing he would have the upper hand in the game. When he reached her, he stood a little too close. Not that she minded. Her fingers twitched with the need to touch him as her eyes drifted down the full length of his throat to the hollow of his jugular notch. They locked eyes for a few seconds before adopting their usual air of indifference. He came alive in that game. She could still hear his chuckle, his teasing, the playful jibes at her serve when she hit the ball into the net …

"Phryne?"

Phryne jumped. "Hmm? Sorry Aunt P, I was miles away."

"Cornelia asked if you play tennis."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Cornelia," she said with a small smile. "I'm feeling a little vague after the long drive. I'm not much of a tennis player. My serve lets me down, apparently. I do love swimming though. Is the lake suitable for swimming?"

Cornelia shook her head and clicked her tongue. "Unfortunately, we are in the midst of a terrible drought, my dear, as I'm sure you noticed on the drive here. All the creeks are dry and the lake is half empty. When it's full, it's lovely for swimming and boating, but nowadays it's quite shallow so you'll have to wade through muck and reeds for a good thirty yards before you get to the water. Even then, it's quite muddy. Rain's forecast upstream I hear, so we may get some water soon, if it makes it this far down the river."

Phryne exhaled slowly, her shoulders slumping in disappointment. Her shimmering oasis was a quagmire. She sat quietly as her aunt and Cornelia chatted about their old friends. She couldn't remember the last time her aunt was so animated and she reminded herself that bringing her here was the right thing to do.

After half an hour or so, she excused herself so she could have a nap before dinner. She walked onto the verandah, shut the door behind her and sighed in relief at finally being alone. She stepped onto the lawn, stopping to scan the sky for a glimpse of anything that could block the searing sun or produce rain. Nothing, not even a wisp. Jack's words in her garden still haunted her and she wondered how he would feel here under a sky so big, so empty and so blue. She certainly wasn't in danger of drifting off into space. If anything, she was sinking, weighed down by the heaviness of the mess she had caused.

She wandered through the colourful garden and down into the shade of enormous, gnarled trees that grew on what was once the edge of a huge lake. Drawn closer by the glistening water, she stepped off the hard and cracked mud, stopping suddenly when she felt herself sink into the ground on the edge of an impenetrable barrier of sludge and reeds. Groaning, she turned right onto a small path that meandered through the trees and walked, lost in thought, until she emerged onto a grassy knoll with a bench that looked over the lake. It was too hot to stop now and take in the view of what little water there was. She would come back with her flask after dinner.

After walking a couple more minutes through scrubby bush, she emerged to see a quaint timber cottage that was raised a couple of feet off the ground. Several small dinghies lay under a verandah that housed a small table and two chairs, the perfect spot to watch the sun set on warm afternoons with a drink.

She opened the door and sighed in relief at the coolness of the small room. Closing the door behind her, she dumped her bag and hat on the lounge under the windows at the front of the cottage and drew back the curtains. A small fireplace on the wall next to the lounge was already set, and a coffee table and two armchairs sat opposite the lounge. A sideboard and small dining table were positioned up against the back wall. She poked her head into the small washroom off to the left before walking into the bedroom with a tall dresser and double bed under a window. Her luggage sat on the bed, ready to be unpacked. She smiled. It was cosy, well appointed, and charming; a perfect retreat from the heat and dust.

A decanter half full of whiskey sat on the sideboard, alongside an electric jug and tea caddy. After sniffing the whiskey to gauge its quality, she poured herself a generous glass and sat at the small table on the verandah. Distracted by the glistening water, she momentarily let down her guard, allowing Jack once again to sneak into her thoughts. What would he make of this strange land that was so foreign to her? She huffed out a wry laugh. She knew exactly how he'd feel here, or anywhere for that matter. After spending so long getting to know one another over the last couple of years, how could she not know what he liked and what drew his ire, what got him up in the mornings, and lately, what caused him grief. Their relationship had changed so much in the month or so before she left for England. When he stepped into her garden on a Sunday to share tea with her, he stopped being the guarded and serious police inspector who sought her help with his cases and became her close friend, a clever, warm and deeply introspective man that she had grown to know and …

No, she had to stop thinking of him in that way. She started to feel jittery and took an unladylike swig of whiskey in the hope of numbing the anxiety she felt when she thought of him. When she was in England, she had distracted herself by working to improve her father's finances, or travelling to London to meet with friends or acquaintances. She'd even taken to learning the names of the birds, flowers and trees that grew on the estate to keep her mind busy. But she couldn't put if off any longer. She needed to think about him. That was one of the reasons she was here, after all.

She tossed back the rest of the whiskey and nodded. She would set things right again by writing him a letter. She would be honest with him about how she felt in England, tell him exactly what happened at the ball, and admit she'd behaved deplorably in the hope he'd forgive her and rekindle their friendship, which she missed more than anything. She decided to do it first thing after breakfast. She was too tired to tackle that now.

-o0o-

A long hour had gone by since Phryne returned from the dining room. She was seated on one of the armchairs with her legs tucked under her and her chin in her hand, staring at the lace curtains that billowed in the warm breeze. She looked at the scrunched-up balls of paper and the half-written letter lying on the table in front of her and groaned. She normally loved writing letters. Her words seemed to have a mind of their own and would fly onto the page. But not this time.

She let out a frustrated grunt and leant forward to finish the damn thing when she heard the skid of bicycle wheels on gravel. Heavy footsteps on the verandah were quickly followed by thuds on the door.

"Miss Fisher! You in there? Miss Fisher?"

Phryne stood quickly and ran across the room, flinging open the door, her brow creased with worry. Harry was breathing heavily and staring at her with wide eyes. She looked over his shoulder at his bicycle that he had dropped on the ground, the back wheel still spinning.

"What is it?" she asked urgently, worried her aunt had been struck down again. "What's happened?"

"Murder, miss," he said in between deep breaths.

Phryne's eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. She blinked at him, her mouth still open in surprise. "What?"

"Been a murder."

"Who? Tell me!"

"Don't know 'im," he said. "Mrs Stanley sent me, said I was to fetch you."

She stared at him with her mouth open. "Goodness!" was all she could manage. How extraordinary, she thought. It was true after all, murder did indeed find her. She grabbed her hat and bag, slamming the door behind her before running down the steps and jumping over the bike on the way to her car.

Harry turned to her in the car. "She told me to tell you to come straight away. No detours." He looked at her with a frown. "Why would she say that?"

Phryne smiled and shrugged innocently as she started the engine. "Who found him?" she asked as she turned her car around.

"One of the greasies. Found him about an hour ago."

"Greasies?"

"Shearers."

"Oh, I see. Yes, that makes sense," she said, thinking back to Mac's taunt about lanolin-scented bodies. She put her foot down hard on the accelerator, sending a spray of gravel behind them.

"Where did he find the body?" she asked.

"Under the wharf at the woolshed."

"In the water?"

"Up on the bank."

"Goodness, how awful. Did he know him?"

Harry closed his eyes and ran his hand over his chin. "Nah, blackfella. The other blackfellas might know who he is."

Phryne clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Terrible! What makes you think he was murdered?"

"Stabbed in the neck, the butcher reckons.

"The butcher saw the body?"

"Well, we got him to help move 'im, being used to dead things 'n' all that. Plus, there's been a bit of that lately."

Phryne widened her eyes and turned to him. "Bit of what?"

"Murder of blacks."

Phryne's heart sunk. Murder was always horrid, but the ongoing persecution of Aboriginal people across the country affected her deeply, and no-one seemed to be doing a damn thing about it. She narrowed her eyes and gnashed her teeth as she pressed her foot on the accelerator. She took a deep breath to try and calm herself before talking.

"Why is this happening? Have they found who's doing it?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window. "Doubt it," he mumbled.

Phryne narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean?

He looked at her and frowned. "Nothin'. It's not important."

"Yes, it is, Harry! Are you saying the murders aren't being investigated properly?"

Harry huffed out a wry laugh and shook his head. "They aren't being investigated at all."

Phryne slammed her foot on the break and skidded the car to a stop. "What? Why would you say that?"

Harry removed his hand from her dashboard, which he had put there to brace himself when she slammed on the brakes, and waved away her questions. "Forget it, forget I said anything. There's nothing we can do anyway."

"But Harry, if this is true we must do something! I can—"

"I said forget it!"

Phryne jumped at his unexpected outburst. They sat quietly for a few moments and glared at each other. She opened her mouth to say something but closed it quickly. No-one got away with talking to her that way, but she went easy on him. She had already decided he was a decent and affable young man and he seemed genuinely perturbed by the murder. Plus, he had impressed her last night at dinner when the conversation turned to the history of her property. He had expressed regret at the enforced displacement of the tribe that lived on the land before it was gifted to his great-grandfather by the government, and cleared to run sheep. His family tried to make up for the sins of their forefathers, he had told her, by employing Aboriginal shearers and staff.

She worked her jaw as she thought about crooked cops and shoddy police work, two things that would always rile her. She took a deep breath and tried to control her anger as she set off again. "Where's the body now?"

Harry looked at her clenched jaw. He expected her to be flustered and worried, but her demeanour had changed from surprise to curiosity, eventually darkening to anger, presumably because he had raised his voice at her for being so nosy. "Cool room of the slaughter house. I've been told to stand guard. Dunno why, it's safe there I reckon. No-one likes the butchery and the greasies are hard at it all day."

"So where is this butchery?" she asked lightly, as if she were making normal holiday conversation rather than wanting to know where a dead man had been stashed.

"Down that road," he said, pointing at a small road that was off to the left just ahead of them.

Phryne narrowed her eyes, set her jaw, and tightened her grip on the wheel. She was done with injustice. She put her foot on the accelerator and hurtled along the road, jerking the wheel to the left at the turn and skidding the car on the gravel road in a cloud of dust and stones.

Harry cried out, his arms flailing as he tried to find something to grab on to. She quickly steadied the Hispano and accelerated down the road away from the dust and falling gravel, ignoring Harry's angry demands that she turn around. This was just what she needed: a chance to help right a wrong.

Harry placed his hand on the dash again to steady himself. "What the hell was that? Are you mad?" he yelled at her. "What are you doing? We need to go straight to the house. Come straight back, she said!"

He continued to rant at her as she hurtled down that road towards the butchery, but she wasn't listening. She wasn't one to celebrate murder, but she allowed herself a small smile. She was about to embark on a new adventure, one that would no doubt bring her face to face with deception and danger. As always, she thought, not knowing what she was in for, she was ready for that.