Chapter Seven

After a light lunch, Miss Fisher ensconced herself at the telephone. A first attempt to reach Ross McCafferty among the unreliably living saw no luck; but Mac was predictably discovered among the reliably deceased, and although she wasn't immediately available for conversation, sent a message that she would return the call promptly.

No sooner had Phryne replaced the handset than it rang again.

"Mac, that was quick! Oh, hello Dot. What? No, nothing yet," she crossed her fingers and continued. "I wasn't alerting Mac to an imminent arrival, but asking her about a recent departure. How are you? Elizabeth? No more excitable than usual, thank you. Oh, I'm sure she would adore it! You don't mind? When shall I send her over? Four? Super." After cheerful farewells, she replaced the handset and called up to the nursery.

A clattering of feet on the stairs told her that the toddler was On Her Way.

"Hello, poppet," her mother greeted her. "Your Aunt Dot wants to know if you'll come for tea and stay the night with Gid and Meggie tonight."

The bouncing and squealing that this question elicited made Miss Fisher wonder how soon 4pm could arrive, and she held out an imperious hand for calm, which was mostly observed. "Mary Lou, would you mind packing a complete change of clothes as well as Miss Elizabeth's night things?"

The nurse nodded. "Two changes, I think, to be on the safe side," she recommended. "That sand pit! I'll go with her in case Mrs Collins needs an extra pair of hands, and stay at my sister's, Ma'am."

Phryne agreed that this was sensible, and the nursery deputation departed to discuss wardrobe needs.

Before she had the chance to debate the advantages of moving to a more comfortable seat, the telephone rang once more, so she picked it up.

"St Kilda telephone exchange, I'm afraid all our operators are having a nice time at the beach so there's only me. Press Button A for champagne and Button B if you're feeling lucky."

"Phryne, one of these days you're going to get caught out."

"Never, Mac. Anyway, why shouldn't they have a nice time at the beach? The poor girls don't want to be languishing in an exchange in weather like this. But enough of this levity."

Mac refrained from pointing out who'd started it. "I take it you were calling about the man who died in the taxi yesterday?"

"Bert's cadaver, yes," said Phryne. "And also to ask you round for a glass of something later, to rescue me from a fate worse than death."

"Oh?" Mac sounded interested. "What's that, then?"

"Boredom," said Phryne. "The wretched infant kicks me awake all night and prevents me moving all day. It may only have been nine months, but it's currently feeling like nine years."

"Always happy to help with your whisky surplus," replied the doctor cheerfully. "In the meantime, you should know that I've sent my report across to Ross as requested."

"And …?"

"Very obvious dilated cardiomyopathy," announced Mac with satisfaction.

There was a resounding silence in St Kilda.

"A weak heart, Phryne," the doctor explained helpfully.

"Ah."

There was then a slightly shorter silence while Miss Fisher digested the new information and decided what to do with it. Mac waited patiently, because she had more sense than to think she would get away with that.

"So he could have dropped dead at any time?"

"We all could, Phryne-mine. If, however, you're asking whether he just upped and died for no reason, it's unlikely. It was a hot day yesterday. Did he decide to take himself for a marathon run before getting on the boat?"

"I don't think so …" Phryne thought for a moment. "But he did have to put his trunk on the Marella all by himself. It was half full of rocks, and Bert refused to lift it on his own. Could that have done it?"

"If Albert Johnson was prepared to admit defeat with a mere trunk, I'd say that was an unusual exertion unless Gillander was a circus strongman - and from his muscle tone, I'd say he was more than average healthy, but no freak."

"In that case, Mac, I need to try to persuade the Inspector to bring charges of Death by Wilful Racism," declared Phryne roundly. "That ship's captain knew perfectly well what he was about, and he's not going to get away with it."

"Hmm. I applaud the effort but doubt you'll see success."

"Come for a Scotch later on; and watch a master of her craft in action," was the dark response.

"Righto," was the cheery reply.