Free Dead Man's Chest by Kerry Greenwood Page B

got a job because its the height of the season. Soon as Easter’s over, she’ll be goin’ back to Mother.’
    ‘And good riddance,’ murmured Dot. No one had ever allowed her to behave like that.
    ‘Still, any port in a storm, that’s what the fishos say.’ Tinker had cleared his plate and was now leaning back with the expression of a tiger shark who had ravened down a goodly portion of sperm whale and really couldn’t eat another toothful of that nice nourishing blubber. ‘Eh, Gaston?’
    The little dog had absorbed a solid meal of dog biscuits and leftovers and seemed replete. He was lying with his head on Tinker’s foot. Molly, still not too sure of Gaston, kept her distance and growled occasionally to remind him that he was unwelcome.
    ‘All right,’ said Ruth, getting up and handing him the kettle. ‘Refill that, will you, Tinker, and then can you water the herb garden? After that there’s a lot of peeling.’
    Tinker took the kettle. It was work, but the company was very pleasant, and for a breakfast like that every day Miss Fisher had his entire devotion.
    Phryne woke after a disturbed night in which she had been: 1) sacrificed to the Corn King, 2) shut in a dark hut and fed only on sago, and 3) thrown into a volcano. That’s what comes of too much anthropology late at night, she thought, then brightened. These dreams could not be omens of trouble ahead. All of the said sacrifices had to be virgins, and it was far, far too late for Phryne Fisher to qualify.
    She rose and bathed in the elegant bathroom. She wrapped herself in one of her flowing Chinese robes. There was no bell in the room so she went out in search of breakfast and met Dot on the landing. She was carrying a tray.
    ‘Coffee, Miss Phryne, and a nice new roll. I’ve found that apricot jam you like, too, and the Queenscliff butter is first rate. Shall I take the tray onto your balcony? There’s a nice little table and chair there.’
    ‘Thanks, Dot dear, that is really kind of you. How fares the household this morning?’
    Phryne seated herself at the iron table and Dot poured her a cup of the inky, dangerous Hellenic coffee which jolted Phryne into wakefulness.
    ‘Jane isn’t up yet,’ said Dot disapprovingly. ‘Ruth and Tinker are starting the peeling and so on.’
    ‘Ah, yes, a kitchen maid. We shall have to do something about that today. Did you sleep well, Dot?’
    ‘Yes, Miss, I could hear the sea. It’s really hard to keep awake if you can hear the waves.’
    ‘I stayed up reading those anthropology texts, Dot dear, and they were too, too dire. I strongly suspect the “naked savages” of having a little quiet fun at the expense of the enquirers.’
    ‘Well, why shouldn’t they?’ asked Dot. ‘Poor benighted heathens, why should they have to answer all them questions from a lot of white men? They’re likely to think it’s none of their business. You got all you want, Miss?’
    ‘Yes, thank you, I shall be down soon,’ Phryne assured her.
    To beguile her very good bread with excellent butter and superlative apricot jam, she read a few more pages of Dr Thorndyke. Phryne had been educated enough as to the beastly ways of the poor benighted heathens.
    When Phryne had assumed some summer garments, omitted stockings and found her sandals, she descended to the kitchen, where the household now seemed to gather, and found that the staff had been augmented, once more, by Lily. She was peeling oranges with a discontented air and seemed pleased to see Miss Fisher, who might be interested in the amazing news she had to impart.
    ‘There’s a movie being made in Queenscliff!’ she exclaimed, spraying orange juice into her immediate environs. Tinker, who was sitting next to her chopping dates, made a disgusted noise and moved his chopping board rather pointedly to the other end of the table. He had never had a clean shirt (and another to change into and one in the wash, making three shirts in all) before, and he objected to