Free Urn Burial by Kerry Greenwood

play, Miss Fisher?’
    ‘A little,’ Phryne said, knowing that Tom Reynolds had honed his billiards-playing skill to shark 70
    levels as a journalist and hoping that he would skin the Major of his entire worldly wealth. ‘Not up to your standard, Major, I’m sure. You’ll excuse me. Tom, I might go and have a nap until tea myself. It’s a sleepy day.’
    Dot was catching up the hem of Phryne’s broadcloth coat with tiny, skilled, invisible stitches when her mistress came in and let herself gently down onto her bed.
    ‘Well, Dot, I’ve been all over Cave House and my aesthetic sensibilities may never recover. How are you getting on?’
    ‘Very well, Miss. The food’s good and the company’s quite nice. That Mr Li knows a lot about the world. He’s been through the South China Sea with Mr Lin. And he was with him in Oxford. Did you talk to Mr Reynolds?’
    ‘Yes, after a fashion, but I don’t know if he was listening. Well, I’m going to have a rest.’ Phryne removed her outer garments and her shoes and lay down on her bed. Dot finished her seam, snapped the thread off, and hung the coat in the wardrobe.
    ‘I might go out for a walk, Miss,’ said Dot art-lessly. ‘If you don’t need me.’
    ‘Oh, yes? With whom?’
    ‘Mr Li,’ she replied, and Phryne suppressed a number of indiscreet warnings.
    ‘Good. Have a nice time,’ she said, yawning.
    71
    Phryne was asleep, snuggled into the eiderdown, when she heard the doorhandle turn. Without moving, she awoke fully. The person opened the door, letting in a streak of sunlight. It was still early, then. She had not slept long.
    One footstep sounded on the wooden floor, then was muffled in the carpet. It was heavier than Dot’s tread and sounded like a man.
    Phryne waited, breathing like a sleeper and wishing she had not tucked her head into her pillow so that she might be able to see who it was.
    Outside, she heard birds singing. The intruder took a deep breath.
    Phryne moved fast, flinging herself sideways and rolling off the bed, then leapt up and grabbed. She hooked his feet out from under him without difficulty.
    A slim, light body, putting up no resistance, was flung onto the bed with Phryne’s knees on his chest. Someone grunted, ‘Golly, Miss Fisher!’ and she recognised the voice.
    ‘Gerald, what are you doing, creeping into my room?’ she asked, exasperated, removing her weight from his torso, so the young man could sit up. This he showed no inclination to do, remaining sprawled across Phryne’s bed like an odalisque.
    ‘You’re strong,’ he cooed, stroking her shoulder and down to the arm and wrist.
    ‘Good thing too,’ observed Phryne.
    At this point the doorknob rattled as it was tried. Someone else was violating Miss Fisher’s siesta. For some reason, which she could not have 72
    explained, Phryne was suddenly very unwilling to be found by whoever was at the door.
    ‘Quick.’ Phryne dragged the young man down behind her bed, smothering his exclamation of surprise with her palm. After a second, he lay passively in her embrace, catching some of her disquiet.
    The door opened. A man came in. Phryne could not identify him in the half-dark. He stood still for a while, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Then he walked ten paces, saw that the bed was empty, turned and went out, shutting the door behind him.
    Phryne snorted, Gerald sighed. He was lying back in her arms. She replaced herself on her bed and said, ‘I wonder who that was? Did you recognise him, Gerald?’
    ‘No. Just a shape and a movement. A man, though.’
    ‘Yes. A man.’ She was sure that it was not Lin Chung, who walked like a cat, but otherwise it could have been any male person in the house.
    ‘Now, Gerald, you haven’t answered my question.
    What are you doing here?’
    ‘Well . . .’ The feather-light fingers processed up her arm again and lingered in the hollow of her collarbone.
    ‘Well indeed,’ said Phryne, observing his flushed face,