Free Death at Victoria Dock by Kerry Greenwood Page A

are worried.’
    Peter Smith cast Phryne an appreciative smile, took off his coat revealing a collarless white shirt, and sipped at the second whisky.
    He had dark-blue eyes and hollows under them that spoke of past privation. As he rolled up his sleeves she noticed several long-healed scars ringing his wrists. He smiled.
    ‘When they caught me, the Russians, they put me in shackles, because they thought that I was a dangerous revolutionary. Which, of course, I was,’ he added complacently. ‘And they did not take them off for three months. I was fixed to a wall and I slumped into the chains when I slept; thus I was galled.’
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘A long time ago.’ He sipped his drink. ‘And in another country. My past does not matter in this clean land, which has no heavy burden of history to deform the backs of its children. That is why I came here.’
    ‘When did you come here?’
    ‘In the year 10 or so, I believe. I have worked on the wharf since then, which is a good place to work, being well paid and independent. I do not wish to be any man’s serf.’
    ‘One thing you can say about wharfies, they are not serfs,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I have friends working there.’
    ‘Have you, indeed? Strange friends for a lady.’
    ‘I’m getting sick of this!’ exclaimed Phryne. ‘Listen, I was not born to the purple, you know. I lived in the streets and starved when I had to, and this aristocratic layer is mere overlay on an impeccable working-class base. Get that clear, if you please. I am rich, and I enjoy money but, like Queen Elizabeth, cast me out into any part of my realm in my petticoat and I would be what I am. Do I make myself clear?’
    She was expecting him to be affronted. She was not expecting him to put down his glass, drop to one knee, and kiss her hand with great respect.
    ‘Pardon, madam, pardon. I have been guilty of classisme . You are a unique phenomenon, Phryne. I have never met anyone like you before, and I have met princesses in my time.’
    ‘So have I.’ Phryne remembered the Princesse de Grasse and chuckled. She occasionally regretted the loss of the princesse, who had gone back to Paris, taking her grandson the beautiful Sasha with her, leaving Phryne without a lover for at least ten minutes. Phryne restored Peter Smith to his chair and asked if he had eaten.
    It appeared he had not. Phryne telephoned to Mrs. Butler for sandwiches and the leftovers from the girls’ high tea. A tray was delivered by Mr. Butler. Peter Smith ate as though he was famished.
    Poor, Phryne thought, though that might be from political conviction rather than lack of coin. He was not precisely thin, few wharfies were thin, because of the muscle they built up by carrying hundred-weights of wheat in an eight-hour shift, also the beer which they consumed in great quantities to dilute the dust. Peter Smith absorbed four sandwiches, eight little cakes and the remaining slice of chocolate cake, washed down with another whisky, then sat back and sighed. Some of the tension was gone from his face.
    He really was very good looking. High cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes with dark lashes, and finely drawn mouth and chin. His hair was cut brutally short, dark brown streaked with grey.
    ‘There. Isn’t that better? Being frightened is one thing; being hungry and frightened is another.’
    ‘Madam, all my life I seem to have been hungry and frightened.’ He settled deeper into the plush chair and stretched his legs. Phryne said nothing, and without cue, Peter Smith began to talk.
    ‘That is what is good about Australia. There is so little history. Regrettably we refuge-seekers have brought it with us. All our pain, all our grudges, all our atrocities. One does not forget murder, assassination, the death of children. It is impossible. And then, we clump together. It is sweet to hear your own language, your own idioms; to recall the old country. With this, however, comes the old feuds. It is ridiculous to continue our