Free Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher by Kerry Greenwood Page A

unlikelihood of her title, plus a generous admira- tion of Phryne, all without a word. Phryne’s answering smile deepened, and she pressed the small hand.
    ‘I cannot remove the cloak,’ whispered the Princesse in Phryne’s ear, ‘since I have no back to my gown. You must come and visit me. You are the first person in this godforsaken place with an interesting face.’
    ‘I will,’ agreed Phryne. She had no time to say more, for her hostess was waiting with manifest impatience to show her off to some other parvenu. Phryne went placidly, carrying her head high, and deriving a certain amusement from Mrs Cryer. That lady was expounding social theory, a subject for which she was not qualified.
    ‘All of these horrid communists,’ wailed Mrs Cryer. ‘I live in no fear, of course. All my servants love me,’ she declared. Phryne did not say a word.
    Faces and hands—the night was full of them. Phryne nodded and smiled and shook hands with so many people that they began to blur. She was becoming fatigued, and was longing to sit down, obtain a strong cocktail and light a cigar- ette, when her attention was recalled.
    ‘This is Lydia Andrews, and her husband John,’ Mrs Cryer was saying, and Phryne perked up and inspected her subject.
    Lydia Andrews was well-dressed and had been made up by an expert, but was so limp and lifeless that she might have been a doll. She had fluffy fair hair and pink ostrich feathers curled childishly over her brow. She wore a beautifully beaded gown in old rose and a long string of pink pearls that reached to her knees.
    It was only the momentarily sharp, penetrating glance that she gave Phryne as she was introduced that recalled the girl of the letters at all. This young woman could not be as languid as she seemed, not with a mind that could collect information on a grasping accountant. Phryne was wary. If this was the pose Mrs Andrews decided to affect, then who was she to interfere?
    Lydia exuded deep apathy, boredom and a strong desire not to be where she was, which Phryne found curious. This was said to be the social event of the season. Behind her, her husband loomed, a portly young man, his corpulence straining his well-made evening clothes. He had thinning dark hair, balding towards the crown, and a large, unpleasantly warm and damp handshake. His eyes were a particular pale shade of which Phryne had always been suspicious, and he urged his wife forward with a hidden but painful tweak of the upper arm. Even then, she did not particularly react, though a look of surprised hurt crept into her china-blue eyes. Phryne disliked them both at sight, particularly John Andrews, whom she recognised as a domestic tyrant. But that did not make him a poisoner.
    After the rest of the introductions had been completed and she had freed herself from her hostess, she found Lydia Andrews, according to her brief, and began assiduously to cultivate her, suppressing her private predeliction for Sanderson or the dancers.
    Lydia proved difficult to separate from her husband, to whom she clung with the perversity of a limpet attaching itself to an ocean liner, where it knows that it is both unwelcome and unsafe. John Andrews finally undid his wife’s fingers from their clutch on his arm with no great gentleness, saying abruptly, ‘Talk to Miss Fisher, there’s a good girl. I want to see Matthews, and you know you don’t like him!’ and then deserted Lydia, disregarding her little cry of pain. There was something very odd indeed in this relationship, thought Phryne, and possessed herself of Lydia’s hand and such of her wavering attention as she could command.
    ‘John’s right, I don’t like that Matthews boy,’ she said suddenly. Her voice was flat and stubborn. ‘I know that he has grand relatives in England, but I don’t like him and I don’t like John having any business dealings with him. I don’t care how plausible and charming he is.’
    Phryne could not help but agree, though she could see