Free The Castlemaine Murders by Kerry Greenwood

freshly opened, with lemon juice in a jug beside. Little squares of rye-bread toast, sliced onions and hard boiled eggs accompanied the black pearls of the Beluga caviar, a gift from the Russian ambassador, which were piled with a lavish hand into their silver dish bedded in crushed ice: the manner in which Phryne always served caviar. An aspic gallimaufry of poultry (the recipe a closely guarded secret which Mrs Butler had promised to her favourite niece, to be communicated on Mrs Butler’s departure to the Grande Cuisine du Ciel) reposed on a broad salver, a golden jelly which trembled slightly. In it one could discern dark meat and white—duck, perhaps, chicken, maybe pigeon, perhaps quail?
    With the beasts of the field and the fish of the sea and the fowls of the air went the fruits of the earth. A forest of crisp greenery decorated the salads: the potato salad creamy with mayonnaise which had no acquaintance whatsoever with condensed milk and mustard powder. The salade Russe which added an agreeable note of deep pink. The Caesar salad on which the egg had just set. Bunches of tiny carrots, crisp celery, the first tomatoes, asparagus in hollandaise sauce shiny with cream, sliced cucumbers bursting with vitamins and lettuce of several types completed the table. There were four sorts of chutney, three types of mustard, and mayonnaise with lemon for the fish and without for the salads, and also a perfect vinaigrette.
    With the French windows open onto Phryne’s small, enchanting garden where the wisteria and jasmine were just coming into bloom, it seemed to Mr Burton a vision of a gourmet’s heaven.
    ‘Did you always garden, Miss Fisher?’ asked Mr Burton, trying not to salivate. The college kitchens were known for specialising in Edible Stodge, at which they excelled. He lusted after fresh fish. Oysters. Caviar! But the admirable Miss Fisher, provider of this feast, was speaking. He dragged his attention away from the table.
    ‘No, it isn’t my doing at all. Lin’s wife, Camellia, a most accomplished young woman, planned it and supervised the planting. It’s very pretty, isn’t it? The Chinese do the best gardens in small spaces. Do have some caviar, Mr Burton.’
    Overcome, Mr Burton pressed her unoccupied hand. The right was engaged in scooping caviar onto his plate.
    ‘Miss Fisher, could I ask you to call me Josiah?’
    ‘Certainly, and please call me Phryne.’ Phryne was touched. Mr Burton was a complex, dignified man and it was a pleasure to be considered one of his friends. ‘And more caviar, perhaps?’
    ‘One can never have too much caviar, Phryne,’ agreed Mr Burton. ‘And some of that seafood aspic. Some salmon. A couple of oysters, perhaps.’
    ‘Phryne, this is an amazing feast,’ said Lin Chung. ‘Please excuse me if I do not indulge in it too freely. I have already eaten one banquet today.’
    ‘At Mr Hu’s? Of course. You have solved your feud. How did it go?’
    ‘Basically a no-score win,’ said Lin. ‘Perhaps just a few grains of caviar. And one slice of that roast beef.’
    The guests sat down with loaded plates. Dot, Phryne noticed, favoured fresh vegetables with a big dollop of mayonnaise and roasted meat. Jane had discovered the gallimaufry and was dissecting it carefully, identifying each delicious sliver before she ate it. Ruth, who was a steady, patient eater with years of semi-starvation to avenge, had started with a spoonful of everything and was working her way through. So far all of it pleased her.
    ‘Phryne, this is a banquet!’ exclaimed Eliza. ‘You could feed a hundred . . . no, of course, it is very nice. Very nice indeed. I believe I will have some salade Russe. And some salmon. I didn’t know you got salmon here, except in tins.’
    ‘Do try the gallimaufry,’ said Phryne, intrigued. ‘Mrs Butler is very proud of it.’
    Mr Butler poured the wine, a straw-coloured hock from South Australia, where the vines had been tended in German, which made them pay