Death Before Wicket: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 10 by Kerry Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page A

lovely lady?’
    ‘The Hon. Miss Fisher,’ replied the Professor abruptly. ‘Might I mention’—His tone was reluctant, but social forms constrained him to continue with the ritual; but he was cross, so this was not an introduction and neither could claim any acquaintance with Phryne afterwards—’Assistant Professor of Engineering George Budgen and Doctor Edmund Brazell.’
    ‘Anthropology,’ explained Dr Brazell. ‘Very interesting s-subject—are you at all drawn to anthropology, Miss Fisher?’
    Phryne noted that he did not make the common error and call her Lady Fisher, and that he had very bright eyes and a charming Cambridge stammer. She also noted that Assistant Professor George Budgen was gulping in the sight of her with an expression only previously seen on cod that had just met their maker unexpectedly, but she was tweaked through into another part of the crowd by Professor Kirkpatrick before she could comment further.
    There a very thin young man with the burning eyes of the consumptive was discussing the morality of ownership so intensely that he did not even notice the vision of loveliness at his side. She heard him say in a thick Lanarkshire accent, ‘One must consider whether all property is no’ theft,’ when Professor Kirkpatrick nudged a stout academic aside and Phryne was through to the Vice Chancellor, Charles Waterhouse.
    A nice man, she immediately thought on meeting his honest brown eyes. He was large, red-faced and balding and his suit was a poem in thin dark wool. Phryne diagnosed a wife with very good taste. The VC was not very bright, perhaps, and probably very conservative, but nice. He shook her hand heartily and bellowed ‘Sykes! The gown!’ and a flustered elderly man struggled to his side with an armload of serge.
    ‘Have to wear a gown, eh, Miss Fisher!’ puffed Waterhouse. Phryne could detect a quip approaching with elephantine tread and prepared a suitable giggle in advance. ‘Decided by unanimous vote to make you a Master of Arts, though you would always be a Mistress of Arts, and Hearts, too, eh, ha, ha!’
    Phryne giggled dutifully, the ring of sycophants around the VC chuckled lightly—clearly this was not even up to the usual Waterhouse standard—and Phryne allowed herself to be draped in a scholar’s gown, her hood a chaste blue. Phryne bowed experimentally and the VC tipped his Tudor bonnet, beaming approval. He liked a young woman with no pretensions to learning who would play along with a little harmless flirtation.
    Dashed decorative, too, and apparently of fabulous wealth.
    The gown, Phryne considered, was a wonderful garment. It dragged pleasurably from the shoulder, producing the academic stance which kept both hands on the bands. Its billowing folds would disguise the defects produced in the figure by far too many faculty dinners and it flowed gracefully as one moved. Making a mental note to borrow one and show it to her favourite dressmaker, Phryne accepted another glass of sherry and asked, ‘Who is that young man?’
    The VC stopped beaming. ‘Professor Anderson. Philosophy. Comes from Glasgow. Heard the accent, eh, Miss Fisher? Uncomfortable sort of chap. Now you’re one of us, Miss Fisher, expect to see you around the old place. What do you think of my Great Hall, hmm?’
    ‘It’s marvellous,’ said Phryne, without having to exaggerate.
    ‘More beautiful than the Guildhall, and I shall enjoy dining here a good deal more because it isn’t freezing.’
    She had said the right thing. The VC filled with pride as a balloon fills with helium. ‘Students complained about it being too dark to see in here on dull days,’ he said. ‘So I put in electricity, though my committee thought that it might be too harsh for the hall, remove the glamour, y’know, but I’m bucked about it. You can see the angels’ faces now. I like to see their faces.’
    Phryne looked up. Geometrica was smiling severely down on the gathering. Phryne took the VC’s arm when