Chapter Four
"If this is your idea of devoting yourself to the welfare of the young and helpless, Miss Fisher, I dread to think what you look like when you're hindering them."
This sotto voce was all of Jack's salutation as he crouched opposite her over the body of the deceased.
"Don't be ungrateful, Jack," she admonished him. "I called you straight away, I've made sure everyone remains on the premises – no mean feat when the population consists of women who are rich enough to do precisely what they like, and usually do – and I've even preserved the victim's glass for you to test."
She unwrapped it from its napkin. "Here. There are some dregs in the bottom. I don't think there's much doubt about what you'll find, though."
He sniffed at it gingerly. "Almonds. Cyanide?"
She nodded briskly. "I believe so. Two of the cocktail choices were almond flavoured, which would have masked the smell of the poison perfectly."
Then she switched her gaze pensively to the glass.
"Which makes me wonder whether Miss Wellborn was the intended victim. It would surely be almost impossible to predict which glass a guest would pick up from the tray?"
Jack sighed. "Marvellous – so I have to sort through a room full of wealthy and powerful women to find the homicidal maniac who wants to kill purely for the joy of it. Collins!"
"Sir?" the Senior Constable came to join them from his position by the door.
"We need to question all of the guests. What they were drinking, where they were when the deceased collapsed, whether they saw anything introduced to the victim's glass, and whether they knew of anyone who would want her dead. You start with the waiting staff, I'll start with Mrs Stanley and we'll meet somewhere in the middle."
Collins sketched a salute and took himself off to the kitchens.
"You know most of those answers for my part, Jack – I was the one with her when she died, and I'd stuck to Negronis. As to the last question, I have absolutely no idea. I have no taste for that kind of oppressive do-gooder, but I struggle to believe that anyone wanted to kill her simply for helping out the underprivileged," mused Phryne.
"Then maybe it was the wrong victim after all," he replied. "Still, the only way we'll find out is by asking some questions." He straightened up and pulled out his notebook.
"Shall I come with you?" she offered.
"Better not," he decided. "You know them socially. It might not hurt for you to hear what Collins is getting from the staff, though? And keep an eye open for a bottle, or whatever the poison might have been carried in."
They separated in the hallway, and Phryne headed straight for the green baize door that led to the servants' quarters. She found Hugh Collins making heavy going of interviewing the temporary maid, hired to help the parlourmaid deal with the day's guests. Her chief refrain being "dunno", poor Hugh had yet to write anything but her name and address in his notebook. Hovering unnoticed near the threshold for a moment, Phryne listened and decided how best to Help Hugh.
She walked in and casually greeted him.
"Hello, Constable. Forgive me for interrupting – the Inspector asked me to come and let you know he only really wants to ask who was serving which drinks."
Hugh's brow cleared, and he turned back to the maid.
"So, Elsie, which drinks were you serving during the course of the afternoon?"
Faced with a question to which "Yes/No/Dunno" were clearly all going to be ineligible answers, the girl shifted her weight to the other foot, scowled and said, "Champagne."
Hugh was already telegraphing his relieved thanks to Phryne, but her attention was on the hapless waitress.
"But – Elsie, is it? I'm Phryne Fisher – nobody was drinking the champagne. Surely you weren't left holding a tray for all that time?"
This caused the girl's eyes to drop. After a brief pause, she admitted, "Nah. I was clearing up the empties after that."
"Thank you, Elsie, I'm sure that's all the Constable needs for now. Can she go, Constable?" she asked punctiliously.
Hugh took the hint. Phryne had long regarded Taking Hints as one of his major strengths, albeit they sometimes had to be painted in bright red on a sign held near his forehead to achieve the desired effect.
As Elsie stomped off, he muttered, "Thank you, Miss Fisher. I sometimes wonder if people realise how suspicious they make themselves just by not answering the simplest of questions."
"Quite right, Hugh," she agreed. "On the other hand, it might be worth just checking with Mrs Stanley's housekeeper, to see how she came by Elsie."
He took a moment to process the thought, and then nodded vigorously.
"I was going to speak to her next in any case ... er ..." he couldn't quite bring himself to venture onto controversial ground.
Phryne took pity on him. "It's all right, Hugh, the Inspector specifically asked me to come and see if I could help. I'll say nothing unless there's a need, because the rest of Aunt Pru's staff all know me well."
Thus reassured, he continued the remainder of the below-stairs interviews without incident. Elsie, it transpired, had applied directly to the housekeeper earlier that week for "any work that's going, if you please" and her references had been in order. The choice of cocktails had been Mrs Stanley's own, although the housekeeper clearly felt that gin was The Devil's Work, to which Phryne agreed with a completely straight face.
She had, after all, failed on more than one occasion to pass a useful day after a quiet evening spent imbibing the Devil's concoctions, In Moderation.
Of Course.
Hugh confessed himself more of a beer man, though Not On Duty.
Of Course.
At least one of the aforementioned statements was true.
