Murder on a Midsummer Night by Unknown Read Free Book Online

the Church lately? Of course—the exceptionally reverend Daniel Mannix, in that strange affair of Jock McHale’s hat. Mr Adami was well connected. Phryne made a little bow.
    ‘I am honoured by his confidence,’ she said.
    ‘Indeed. He holds your skills in high regard,’ said Mr Adami carefully. Phryne appreciated the nuance. ‘He said that if anyone could help me, it would be you.’
    ‘Indeed. What is the problem?’
    ‘It’s an estate,’ he said, putting down the port glass with appropriate care. ‘The estate of a very old lady who died last week. Her name was Mrs Mario Bonnetti.’
    ‘She was Italian?’ Phryne sipped at her own port. It really was superb.
    ‘No, not at all. That being the problem, as I hope I shall explain. Let’s see . . .’ He unfolded a bundle of papers and scanned them. ‘She was born Kathleen Julia O’Brien on the twenty-fifth of May, 1848. In Melbourne. Her father was a lawyer, a propertied man who bought and sold land and built houses.’
    ‘Fairly oofy, then,’ observed Phryne.
    Mr Adami registered the slang, clearly did not approve of such levity on the serious matter of money, but went on without comment. ‘Yes, a wealthy man was Daniel O’Brien, and so was his wife, the former Miss Bridget Ryan. The family’s wealth was in land and manufacturing so it was not destroyed by the crash in 1880. However. Miss Kathleen Julia was a clever girl and her father sent her to school; not to a convent school, as was usual, but to a school run by some rather advanced ladies, where she showed a great talent for languages, mathematics and music.’
    Mr Butler shimmered into the parlour, refilled the port glasses, laid down a plate of cheese straws, green olives and black olives, and dematerialised in his own remarkable fashion. Mr Adami took an olive, tasted it, and said with more than common politeness, ‘The Archbishop said that you were a truly sophisticated lady, Miss Fisher, and I see that he was understating the matter. Real Sicilian olives! What a treat!’
    ‘Have several,’ urged Phryne. So far the story had not engaged her interest but she could not help liking this dapper Italian. Mr Adami obliged her by eating three olives then returned to his discourse, refreshed.
    ‘So, we have Miss Kathleen Julia at sixteen, accomplished and intelligent, in post gold rush Melbourne. She goes to suitable concerts with her sisters, properly escorted, of course. She visits the conservatorium. She attends suitable parties for young persons. Then there is a sudden break in her life. Abruptly and without explanation she is withdrawn from school and sent to stay with her Aunt Susan in the country. And there she stays until she is seventeen, a whole year. When she comes back she attends no parties and goes to no concerts, is not seen in public and her piano is given to her younger sister. Then, when she is twenty, in 1870, she marries Mr Mario Bonnetti, a gentleman forty years of age.’
    ‘Curious,’ said Phryne, who had an easy explanation for that rustication.
    ‘Significant,’ said Mr Adami. ‘But she made him a good wife, according to all accounts. He was an indulgent husband who allowed her to resume her music. He liked her playing, it is said. And she bore him many children, four of whom are still living. I have their names here, and a family tree.’
    Phryne looked. Giuseppe, known as Joseph, born 1872. Maria, born 1874. Patrick, born 1875—he died young—Sheila, born 1878, and Bernadette, born 1880. In between, the solicitor had recorded, were three babies dead before they were a year old and five stillbirths. Phryne sent up a brief but fervent prayer of thanksgiving to Marie Stopes.
    ‘And these four are still alive,’ she prompted.
    ‘Yes. Maria is now Sister Immaculata, and belongs to a teaching order. She inherited her mother’s talent for music. The others are all married with children of their own. I am instructed that it was a happy family.’
    Phryne noted the use