Cocaine Blues by Kerry Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page A

until I get back. We don’t want any trouble from your erst-while employer, do we? Here’s the money for the taxi; pay what’s on the meter and two shillings tip, no more, and don’t forget to pick up your bundle from the station. I say, that suit does things for you, Dorothy! You look quite stylish.’
    Dorothy blushed, accepted the money, which was more than she had seen in her life before, and gulped down the last of her tea. She stood up, smoothing the beige skirt, and said haltingly, ‘I’m ever so grateful, Miss…’
    ‘Consider whether you still think so after you’ve tackled the mess,’ Phryne said briskly. ‘Got everything? Good, off you go now.’
    Dorothy left, and Phryne smiled to herself, tossing up whether she would ever see the girl again, once set loose in possession of five pounds and a new dress. She mentally slapped herself for such cynical thoughts and reflected that it was indeed high time that she went to church.
    An hour and a half later, the strollers in Melbourne would have noted a slim, self-possessed and beautifully groomed young woman sauntering down Swanston Street to the cathedral. It was a crisp, cool morning, and she was wearing a severe dark blue silk suit, with a priceless lace collar, dark stockings and black shoes with a high heel. She had pulled a soft black cloche down over her hair, and the only note of eccentricity was her sapphire earrings, which glinted brighter than stained glass. She ascended the steps of the cathedral as if faintly surprised that the great west door had not been opened for her, and took her place in a back pew with economical grace. She accepted a service card and a hymn book from a jovial gentleman, and unbent sufficiently to smile her thanks. He looked familiar.
    He was stout, ruddy and pleasant looking, tailored to the nth degree, with a shirt whiter than snow. As the organ struck up the ‘Old Hundredth’, Phryne recognized him as the man who had smiled across the dining room last night.
    She stood up to sing, and heard at her side a thundering bass to her light soprano, easily rising over the sheep-like bleating which passes for singing in most Church of England congregations.
    All people that on Earth do dwell
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice…
    Her neighbour was certainly adding a cheerful and forceful voice to the anthem. Phryne approved. She saw no reason to sing in church unless one meant to really sing. By the end of the hymn they were attracting a certain amount of attention from the polite citizens in the front pews, and Phryne smiled at her neighbour.
    ‘I do love a good sing,’ he whispered. ‘Can’t stand all that moaning!’
    Phryne laughed softly and agreed. The gentleman slipped a card onto the open page of her hymn book, and she reciprocated with one of her own. It had been engraved, not printed, on heavy cream card, and merely said, ‘The Hon. Phryne Fisher, Colling Hall, Kent’. She knew it to be in the best of style. His card was also engraved, and stated that the rosy gentleman now listening devoutly to a reading by a clerical person with the snuffles was Mr Robert Sanderson, MP of Toorak. Phryne recalled that he was on her list of noteables and she slipped the card into her purse, giving her attention to the sermon.
    It was not long, which was a mercy, and dealt mostly with Christian duty. Phryne had heard so many sermons on Christian duty that she could almost predict each word, and amused herself for some time in doing just that, as well as admiring the stained glass, which was catching the morning sun and blazing like jewels. The sermon passed into the general confession, and Phryne admitted with perfect frankness that she had done those things which she ought not to have done and left undone those things which she ought to have done. The service went on as she reflected on her time in Paris, on the Rive Gauche, where she had done many things which she ought not to have done but which nevertheless proved very