Urn Burial by Kerry Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page B

thanks, that would be lovely.’
    Phryne was susceptible to lavish eyelashes and modesty. She smiled on the young man. Lin Chung, declining to play the game, was neverthe-less paying close attention to the conversation.
    Phryne hoped that his principles were taking a battering.
    ‘Did you go to school in China, Mr Lin?’ asked Judith, too loudly.
    ‘Oxford, actually,’ he drawled. ‘I have been to China, of course. But I was born in England.’
    ‘Really?’ Judith was again on the verge of saying something unwise but Phryne was devoid of conversational gambits. The discourse at the table was as forced as the early woody peaches which the poet was peeling with a silver knife.
    ‘What do you do, Mr Lin? Are you a mission worker?’
    ‘No, I am a silk importer,’ he replied politely.
    ‘Silk to make gowns for beautiful ladies.’
    ‘Ah, silk,’ rhapsodised the poet. ‘Whenas in silks my Julia goes . . .’
    Mrs Reynolds obviously knew the rest of the poem and considered it indelicate, or at least unfit for the luncheon table. She rose in her place to mark the conclusion of the meal and the guests straggled out. Lin Chung was claimed by Judith, who grabbed him by the hand, insisting on tennis, and Phryne accompanied Gerald and Jack out 49
    through the french windows and on to the porch.
    ‘Do you care for a walk, Miss Fisher?’ asked Gerald.
    Phryne saw Lin Chung dragged away by Judith and smiled ironically. ‘Certainly,’ she said, tucking a hand under each elbow, ‘but only to the rose garden. I’m still sore from that fall.’
    ‘Just to the rose garden,’ agreed Jack.
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    CHAPTER FOUR
    The treasures of time lie high, in urns, coins and monuments, scarcely beneath the roots of some vegetables.
    Urn Burial, Sir Thomas Browne, Chapter I.
    THE ROSE garden already contained Miss Mead and Miss Cray, so Phryne and her companions kept walking. The original conceit of the builder of Cave House had stretched to a knot garden which might have been laid out by William Morris himself. It was wet and scented and Phryne sniffed with pleasure as she sat down on a Pre-Raphaelite box bench which could have supported a medieval King, with room left over for the rest of the court.
    ‘Here’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance,’
    quoted Gerald, laying a snippet of it in her lap. ‘I pray you, love, remember.’
    ‘I’ll remember,’ said Phryne. He knelt beside her, his brown eyes like a spaniel’s. He was very attractive in a dewy, fragile fashion. Phryne could not 51
    imagine a more unfitting mate for him than that rough, maladroit girl.
    ‘Beautiful Miss Fisher,’ he said, ‘I have a favour to ask.’
    ‘Gerry, get up, don’t be an ass,’ said Jack violently.
    ‘Go away, Jack,’ said Gerald, never removing his gaze. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be escorting Miss Cynthia to Bairnsdale about now?’
    Jack swore and kicked the bench. Then there was the sound of running feet as he retreated towards the house. Phryne ran a meditative hand through Gerald’s silky, curly hair. She knew when she was being charmed, but that didn’t make her dislike the process.
    ‘Get up, precious, sit beside me,’ she said. ‘You’ll plead just as well in that position and the damp will ruin your flannels.’
    A little disconcerted, the young man did as ordered and repossessed himself of Phryne’s hand.
    ‘You see, you’re one of Mr Reynolds’ oldest friends, he might listen to you. It’s about Jack.
    He’s my dearest chum, boyhood companion and all that. Tom Reynolds did his father out of a lot of money and won’t give him a bean.’
    Phryne cut him short. ‘I know all about it, Gerald, and I’ll try. But it may not work. And in return . . .’
    ‘In return?’ The spaniel-brown eyes loomed closer.
    ‘You can help me in my investigation,’ she said, and kissed him, decisively, on the mouth.
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    He tasted sweet, of early strawberries, perhaps.
    He kissed beautifully. Phryne finally dragged herself away and