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    Murder and Mendelssohn
    Murder and Mendelssohn
    Murder and Mendelssohn
    Ebook410 pages7 hours

    Murder and Mendelssohn

    By Kerry Greenwood

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    From the author of the bestselling Phryne Fisher Series comes Murder and Mendelssohn, the next murder mystery novel featuring the unstoppable, elegant amateur sleuth. To the accompaniment of heavenly choirs singing, the fearless Miss Fisher returns in her 20th adventure with musical score in hand.

    "Like her heroine, Greenwood has never been more confident and confronting..."—Sydney Morning Herald

    A master of Australian historical fiction, Kerry Greenwood's bestseller mystery books are:

    • Perfect for Fans of Rhys Bowen and Jacqueline Winspear
    • Inspired the Netflix show Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
    • Movie Miss Fisher and the Crypt of Tears Currently Streaming on Acorn TV

    An orchestral conductor has been found dead and Detective Inspector Jack Robinson needs the delightfully incisive and sophisticated Miss Fisher's assistance to enter a world in which he is truly lost. Hugh Tregennis, not much liked by anyone, has been murdered in a most flamboyant mode by a killer with a point to prove. But how many killers is Phryne really stalking?

    At the same time, the dark curls, disdainful air and the lavender eyes of mathematician and code-breaker Rupert Sheffield are taking Melbourne by storm. They've certainly taken the heart of Phryne's old friend from the trenches of WWI, John Wilson. Phryne recognizes Sheffield as a man who attracts danger and is determined to protect John from harm. Even with the faithful Dot, Mr. and Mrs. Butler, and all in her household ready to pull their weight, Phryne's task is complex. While Mendelssohn's Elijah, memories of the Great War, and the science of deduction ring in her head, Phryne's past must also play its part as MI6 become involved in the tangled web of murders.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateDec 4, 2018
    ISBN9781464210570
    Murder and Mendelssohn
    Author

    Kerry Greenwood

    Kerry Greenwood was born in the Melbourne suburb of Footscray and after wandering far and wide, she returned to live there. She has degrees in English and Law from Melbourne University and was admitted to the legal profession on the 1st April 1982, a day which she finds both soothing and significant. Kerry has written three series, a number of plays, including The Troubadours with Stephen D’Arcy, is an award-winning children’s writer and has edited and contributed to several anthologies. The Phryne Fisher series (pronounced Fry-knee, to rhyme with briny) began in 1989 with Cocaine Blues which was a great success. Kerry has written twenty books in this series with no sign yet of Miss Fisher hanging up her pearl-handled pistol. Kerry says that as long as people want to read them, she can keep writing them. In 2003 Kerry won the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Australian Association.

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    Reviews for Murder and Mendelssohn

    3.5/5

    129 ratings20 reviews

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    • 5/5
      Phryne joins the choir — to find out who murdered the choir director. She isn’t lacking for suspects as he wasn’t well liked by many, if not any. The method of murder was a bit bizarre.Inspector Jack Robinson has requested Phryne’s help, as musicians and the music world are not well-known to him. Phryne joins the choir and participates in the rehearsals for the upcoming performance of “Elijah” by Mendelssohn, in order to get closer to the choir members to solve the murder.Phryne is surprised to run into an old friend from the Great War, Dr. John Wilson. Phryne drove ambulance and Dr. Wilson patched up the wounded, as best he could. Wilson is touring as assistant with Rupert Sheffield, well-known mathematician and code-breaker, who is on a speaking tour about his systems of solving murders. His lavender eyes and appearance is enticing, but his lack of tact and self-centeredness leaves much lacking.The murder of the conductor isn’t the only case Phryne is working on. She is also on the hunt for another man — a violent and dangerous man who was part of the past of her, Wilson and a couple of others. It seems her past just won’t leave her along. Memories of the danger and violence she experienced keep haunting her mind. Meeting up with Wilson, the music “Elijah” and now this man, which means contacting MI6 for assistance — another link to her past.This book seemed a little long/slow in spots. Possibly due to the verses from the choir songs being part of the text, and I’m not familiar with Mendelssohn’s “Elijah”. That said, I still enjoyed the read and the time spent with Phryne. A great get-away…
    • 4/5
      Four and a half stars! The Hon Miss Fisher is back in a thrilling installment with very modern overtones. The human psyche is thoroughly examined in its capacity for love, pain, rage, and the need for revenge.
    • 2/5
      This, as far as I can ascertain, I’m currently the last Phryne Fisher mystery available. In which case, what a disappointing end to the series. So many continuity errors, a very poor love story, and by far the worst aspect, no appearance by Lin Chung! The strongest character other than Phryne herself, and he appears to her been written out. Come on Kerry, we need another story on par with Murder in Monparnasse.
    • 2/5
      I have greatly enjoyed the Phryne Fisher series but this was a tedious read. The Sheffield subplot was much more interesting than the choir mystery, which was a shame.
    • 2/5
      In the author's note at the end, Kerry Greenwood admits what I thought introduced around page 20 and thoroughly established by page 160, which is that this book is almost entirely Sherlock fan fiction. I'm glad she knows herself enough to acknowledge the obvious. But it's a strange and not very competent approach to end your own, separate, and unique detective series with a work that can only be categorized as Holmes/Watson/OFC.
    • 3/5
      Greenwood seems to have completely lost the plot with this one in places, and it really seems she has grown tired of writing mysteries at all, and Phryne seems to have grown tired of solving them. No wonder this is the last of the series, and quite a disappointing end.
    • 4/5
      Synopsis: Directors of the choir are being murdered. Meanwhile code-breaker Rupert Sheffield is giving public talks about how to be a detective, and for some reason people are trying to kill him. Phryne has to help solve both the murders and attempted murders to keep the peace.Review: This was a nicely twisted plot that also was a love story - sort of. It was fun to read and a made me wish there were more Phryne books to read.
    • 5/5
      Read this one as a proof (perks of working in a bookstore!) This is the first time I have read Kerry Greenwood. I really enjoyed the story which had a Sherlock Holmes type feel and a fast pace. The touch of sex and mystery was well done with out being too graphic although some people may have issues with the m/m action - its not graphic but still might be an ackward gift if you intend to give it to your super catholic Grandma!
    • 2/5
      Two stars only because I ? Phryne... otherwise I would give it one.....
      A semi-professional choral group is going to perform Elijah & other Mendelssohn pieces..... Their conductor is a Bloody Pain and he ends up dead at the hands of two different people..... Enter Phryne. Phryne joins the choir in order to investigate only to have to sort out another death of the replacement conductor (more odious than the first) and the near death of a well known & very much admired singer......
      In addition, an old friend/flame of Phryne's, Dr. John Wilson, from WWI shows up at the theater. He is accompanied by a very arrogant man, Rupert Sheffield, with whom he is madly in love. However, Rupert only cares about & sees Rupert. Everyone else is a mere inconvenience to be sneered at for their lesser intelligence.....
      Rupert is in town to lecture on the connection between mathematics and deduction. When several attempts are made on Rupert's life and John gets hurt saving Rupert, Phryne steps in to find out who wants Rupert dead and why.
      All the family & friends are involved and it was a mostly delightful, fast paced, easy to read story except for (scathing review upcoming):
      In this book I found that Kerry Greenwood is now becoming akin to James Doss, in the manner that she seems to be writing for herself in that "Oh read this... It is such a clever piece of writing, don't you agree? I'm so happy with myself". I HATE when authors write to please themselves & flaunt their cleverness.
      A portion of Phryne's conversations were in French and Italian (no translation), which I found to be annoyingly arrogant (but I understood them).
      A good portion of the story was told in Mendelssohn's lyrics; "Why how clever" and I found that annoying.
      And then there is the blatant semi-graphic homosexual love(?) scene between John & Rupert...... This completely ruined the story for me. I read these books because I ? Phryne & her mob and the mystery. I'm not a prude, I read erotica.... I don't give a crap about homosexuality, what they do, how they do it (I already know, I lived with it for 15 years), and I felt it was highly unnecessary and written in for "shock" value.
      With that said..... I was highly disappointed and depending on the happenings in the next book..... I may or may not continue reading this series....
    • 3/5
      I love Phryne - that being said I think Greenwood really pushed it with the shock value on this one. I know she is very liberal but in this book the sex was really gratuitous and the scene in the bedroom where they were all naked was ridiculous.
    • 4/5
      Phryne mixes it up yet again, this time with a group of choristers, a pair of lovers, and tantalizing echoes of her own Secret Service past. It all starts when the conductor of a choir is murdered, and Phryne sets out to solve the murder -- while joining the choir. Or does it start when our heroine runs into her very dear old friend John, who she knew (yes) in the hell of World War One? He's delightful, but not a long-run prospect for our girl, given his deep love for another man. -- a difficult character indeed, and the target of determined murder attempts. To make things right for her old friend, Phryne decides to put a stop to these. Between the choir and her old friend, Phryne is a busy girl indeed. This isn't in the top tier of Phyrne Fisher novels. There's a bit too much time devoted to the lovers and to the music, and a bit too little to the hints about Phryne's past. But the usual cast of characters is in full swing (Jane is particularly Jane) and a grand time is had by all. Main problem: this is the last of the series that has been published. Please, Ms. Greenwood, more more more!
    • 5/5
      The honourable Phryne Fisher rides again. Another delightful novel in the series, with Kerry Greenwood's witty dialogue and sharp social commentary adding to the fun.This time poor Inspector Robinson asks for help, he's dealing with arty folk again, musicians, and needs Phryne's unique skills. Phryne joins the choir to find out who murdered the conductor. She also helps an old friend with his love life and keeps him safe at the same time.Dear Phyrne is the female version of James Bond and lives almost every women's fantasy dream of a perfect life. Anyone looking for a delightful and escapist read will enjoy this novel.
    • 4/5
      So for those who have never heard of Phryne Fisher - where to start? A quick(ish) introduction I think. Phryne Fisher is fabulous. Intelligent, clever, strong, independent, confident, beautiful, rich. With a minor title (honorable). She is a bit like James Bond; well-educated, well-mannered, well-armed and very well-adventured. There isn't anything she can't do. Lethal if necessary, and with her own definition of morality. She doesn't think twice about taking any available man that strikes her fancy to her boudoir. Her wealth allows her the freedom to do as she pleases and what needs to be done. She has surrounded herself with a family of her own creation - all of them saved from fates worse than death. She is, in short, a variation of woman most women would be if they could choose to be. A note too, about the author, Kerry Greenwood. I've never met her and can only go by what I've read on her website, but she sounds like someone worth knowing. She painstakingly researches what she puts in her books. Indeed, her Phryne Fisher books are the only cozies in my library that come with bibliographies in the back. So, entertainment and historical/cultural education. She has chosen to frame all of the Phyrne adventures in 1929 with no chronological advancement and makes no apologies for it. She sounds as fabulous as her creation. Murder and Mendelssohn is the 20th Phryne Fisher mystery and, I think, the longest so far. As is usual in most of the later books (if not all of them), there are several plots/mysteries running simultaneously. The main one surrounds a choir's rehearsals for Elijah by Mendelssohn and their unfortunate difficulties in keeping a conductor. The plot/mystery running in parallel is the appearance of an old friend from the WWI Western Front (she drove an ambulance; he was a doctor). He's a companion now for a mathematician that is devoted to the science of deduction. The two of them are, by Ms. Greenwood's own admission, written with a nod to Sherlock Holmes and Watson. I could, honestly, go on forever about this book; it's rich in details, a lot of dialogue and things are always happening. But I'm still getting the hang of 'in-depth' reviews so suffice it to say I loved reading it. This series has been excellent from the word 'go' and Phryne's arrival on Australian shores. Reading about Phryne is energising; her ability to manage, well, everything, verges on inspirational. For me, she's the best kind of fictional character - a devastatingly capable, pragmatic heroine. A word for any of those orthodox-cozy-readers out there - Phryne is tolerant, liberal and non-judgemental. Her morals are not the morals of the conventional and neither are those of the people who find they need her help. So don't pick up this book only to be scandalised by the part about two homosexual men, assuming you've made it that far and haven't become hopelessly offended over having the bible turned against your own (possibly) conservative beliefs. You've been warned.
    • 3/5
      Of the Kerry Greenwood series, the Phryne Fisher is my favorite. Phryne does what she wants, but she is extremely generous with her time and money to those in need. In this novel, the reader learns about music and the performing of Mendelssohn's music. There are times when I feel that Greenwood presents too many sexual encounters. The scenes are done tastefully, but happen too often. Also, Phryne seems to be constantly taking a bath which seems a little reminiscent of Lady Macbeth washing her hands in Shakespeare. What is Phryne trying to rinse away? The characters are delicious and extremely distinct. The description of food and mixed drinks forces me to the kitchen in search of what cannot be found. Greenwood accosts all the senses with her books.
    • 4/5
      Miss Phryne Fisher is at again. The "it" meaning solving crimes and having sex. The latter seemed more on the author's mind in this installment than the former. There were, however, two murders plus one attempted murder for Phryne to solve. All involved the conductors of a choir preparing to sing Mendelssohn's Elijah. The identity of the murderer was fairly obvious to this reader so it was surprising that Phryne and Detective Robinson had so much troubling determining who done it. There is a considerable amount of gay sex described in this novel, so if potential readers find that offensive, you might want to skip it. It was not the best entry in the series, overall.
    • 4/5
      This was a sample ebook. I thought it was somewhat confusing at the start, as the characters were quickly introduced. If I had read the other novels in the series, I would have been familiar with them. I liked the musical setting. Phryne was somewhat annoying, although spirited and independent. Might read the rest of the book.
    • 4/5
      Phryne's latest adventure mixes a conductor with a Mendelssohn score stuffed in his cold, dead mouth with intrigue surrounding a mystery mathematician. Her whole family is involved in working towards a solution. To discover who murdered the choirmaster Phryne joins the choir, a most entertaining group. Much of the book concerns the members of the choir, a collection of misfits and oddballs who specialize in singing dirty songs when not at rehearsal. This motley group of amateurs is attempting to put on Mendelssohn's Elijah, and it quickly becomes clear that the choir is a dangerous place for conductors. Aside from her adventures with the choir Phryne plays matchmaker, attempting to solidify the relationship between an old friend and his beloved, who happens to be none other than the mystery mathematician. There's quite a bit of sex in this volume, more so than in some of Phryne's earlier mysteries. Phryne certainly embodies the sexual ethos of the New Woman, and in the midst of a scorching Australia summer, passions rise along with temperatures. As is sometimes the case in this series, we again see Phryne invested with extraordinary talents. In this book Phryne is suddenly an accomplished singer, who is fully familiar with a range of classical vocal scores. This is a quibble I can usually overlook, as the books are so much fun. We get more of Phryne's backstory in this book, specifically we find out what she did during the war, which will likely surprise none of the regular readers of this series. War wounds, physical and emotional, play a large part in this narrative. Overall, this book is fun, as the Phryne books always are. Phryne is just a bit too perfect, but it's still an enjoyable ride.
    • 5/5
      Phyrne's frolics once more intrigue!Just from Greenwood's opening line I could feel the 1929 summer Australian sunlight coming in through that St Kilda window warming me. Greenwood's highly evocative prose had me picturing Phryne 'sitting in her jasmine bower, drenched in scent.' All made even more delectable and real by the wonderful cover, the divine Phyrne in her equally divine 'green silk gown embroider in phoenixes.' I am transported back to that time and place instantly. Of course Phyne nibbles croissants and sips cafe au lait!I am smitten by these scenes before moving further! I have to pause to drink it all in.I have long been a fan of Kerry Greenwood and Phryne Fisher's marvellous exploits. She is a wonderful twenties woman.This episode does not disappoint. We have a murdered orchestra conductor on one hand and are renewing acquaintances with dear John Wilson from Phyrne's war days as an ambulance driver on the other. But John brings more murder attempts on a different front, John's friend Rupert Sheffield, mathematical genius, ex code breaker, beautiful to look at and without the slightest idea of how to win friends and influence people, is at risk. Phyrne's interesting menagerie, or rather 'family' and adherents are of course all there to lend a hand, including Molly the dog and Ember the cat (who is more autocratically decorative than anything else). Jane and Ruth are growing up, each in such a different way, and I'm quite delighted by Tinker, the ragamuffin fisher lad from Queenscliff. Every now and then I flash onto 'Auntie Mame' particularly when Phyrne and her family and friends are interacting, only Phyrne is just so much 'more' in every way.An enchanting read with the delectable, unpredictable Phynre.A NetGalley ARC
    • 3/5
      Phryne is as bold, smart, elegant, and entertaining as ever and she's surrounded by a bevy of interesting secondary characters. But the background for her 20th adventure - the murder of the director of a choral group preparing for a performance of Mendelssohn's 'Elijah' - is tedious and the side plot, which is also not terribly engaging, is completely unrelated. Phryne's attitudes are very liberal for the time period and this book contains a fair of amount of graphic heterosexual and homosexual relations. Phryne also launches into a lengthy criticism of the Book of Leviticus in order to defend the legitimacy of homosexual love, taking the reader out of the story and into the obvious opinions of the author. The motivation for murder is weak, though the method is clever. Stephanie Daniel narrates Phryne's voice perfectly but is not has adept at male characterization.
    • 4/5
      Followers of my blog will realise that it has taken me a bit longer to read this novel than is usual for me. Part of the reason is that I spent the weekend at a crime fiction convention, but it is also true to say that I found MURDER & MENDELSSOHN a little more challenging to read.It was partly due to the setting that surrounds the murder of the orchestral conductor of the Harmony Choir. The author uses her own experiences of singing choral music to explore how the conductor and choristers feel about Mendelssohn, including some scripts in detail.There are many possible murderers when first one conductor, then another is murdered. Neither of the conductors has many friends in the choir or the orchestra but murder seems rather extreme.There is also a sideplot where it appears someone is trying to kill ex-code-breaker Rupert Sheffield. We learn a few never-revealed-before facts about Phryne's role in intelligence gathering, and particularly about her connections with MI6.Greenwood also uses the novel as an opportunity to explore homosexuality and this side plot takes up quite a bit of space, detracting a little from the main murder plot. Phryne herself also seems a little more promiscuous, while her lover Lin Chung is overseas.I did enjoy the glimpses of the splendour of Melbourne's grand old dame, the Windsor Hotel, where some of the characters are staying, and where I have also stayed a couple of times.So this, the 20th in the Phryne Fisher series, didn't delight me as much as #19 UNNATURAL HABITS.But I'll be still lined up for #21.

    Book preview

    Murder and Mendelssohn - Kerry Greenwood

    Chapter One

    As from the pow’r of Sacred Lays

    The Spheres began to move;

    And sung the great Creator’s praise

    To all the bless’d above;

    So, when the last and dreadful Hour

    This crumbling Pageant shall devour,

    The TRUMPET shall be heard on high,

    The dead shall live, the living die,

    And MUSICK shall untune the Sky.

    John Dryden

    A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day

    It was a quiet St. Kilda morning in the summer of 1929. The Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher was sitting in her jasmine bower, drenched in scent. She was wearing a pale green silk gown embroidered with golden phoenixes, the symbol of the empress. Flaming pearls of longevity burned their way, comet-like, upon her fluttering sleeves. Her hair was as shiny as patent leather, cut in a neat bob which swung forward as she read. She was nibbling a croissant and drinking cafe au lait. With her pink cheeks and red lips and green eyes, she looked like a hand-coloured French fashion plate.

    Sitting on the table in a pose made famous by Basht, goddess of cats, was her black cat Ember. He was waiting for the tidbits that her fellow breakfaster would undoubtedly award such a beautiful cat who had not even ventured a paw toward that luscious stack of crispy bacon, though if a suitable offering wasn’t made fairly soon, was contemplating preemptive action.

    Phryne ought to have been reading Vogue, or perhaps some yellow-backed scandalous French novel, occasionally making arch comments to her lover, who would be exhausted from a night of passion. Instead, to ruin the picture, she was reading an autopsy report, and her companion was a tired-out police detective, eating one of Mrs. Butler’s breakfasts and absorbing very strong tea as a corrective to not getting any sleep.

    Dot, Phryne’s companion, was embroidering waratahs on her hope chest table linen. She fully intended to marry Detective Sergeant Hugh Collins in due course, and had no wish to be found unprepared for that happy event. Tinker and Jane were playing chess in the arbour. Ruth was in the kitchen with Mrs. Butler, cook to the household, shelling peas and discussing ways to cook pineapple. The black and white sheepdog Molly was lying under the table with her head on the inspector’s foot, confident that he would drop bacon rind before his toes went numb. This trick had always worked for Molly, and if it didn’t on this occasion, she had a way of laying her head confidingly in a male lap with just a hint of teeth that invariably produced results.

    A steady hum of useful activity serenaded Mr. Butler as he sat down on his comfortable chair and sipped his after-breakfast cup of coffee. Fortunately, he could not hear the topic of conversation.

    All right, said Phryne, putting down the report and pouring her favourite policeman another cup of the stewed licorice black tea. Just the way he liked it: enough tannic acid to dye a cauldron full of stockings. To which he then added milk and three lumps of sugar. Generations of tea aficionados rolled in their graves. "I’ve read it. Someone has stifled an orchestral conductor with really quite a lot of sheets of Mendelssohn’s Elijah stuffed down his throat."

    Right, said the detective inspector.

    Seems excessive, even as musical criticism, commented Phryne. Your doctor has done a competent examination. Taken samples of blood, urine, and stomach contents. Noted no signs of struggle, no scratches or bruises except those on his shoulders, which seem to mean that the murderer knelt on him while suffocating him. I think those are kneecap marks. And he didn’t struggle because he had a tummy full of— her eyebrows lifted —enough opiates to knock out a smallish rhinoceros. In fact, enough to kill him, which makes the added sheet music supererogatory. Baroque, verging on rococo. A flamboyant murderer, Jack dear, with a point to prove.

    Yes, said Jack. But what point? I don’t know anything about music. And I don’t know anything about these…these sort of people. I thought… His voice trailed off and he took a strengthening gulp of the tar-water tea.

    Phryne smiled. She knew how much Jack Robinson hated asking for her unofficial and potentially world-shattering help. She volunteered.

    I have always liked Mendelssohn, she told him. Who is performing it?

    The Melbourne Harmony Choir, with the Occasional Orchestra. Amateurs but with professional soloists and a professional conductor, Jack read from his notebook. The dead man was called Hedley Tregennis. Forty-five, born in Richmond, separated from his wife, no children. Bit of a reputation for being loud, insulting, and impatient.

    That applies to most conductors, said Phryne.

    See? I don’t know all this stuff. They’re having a rehearsal tonight at the Scots Church Assembly Hall, just before the lantern lecture. Can you come along with me? You’re sure to notice things that I won’t. Just as long, added Jack Robinson anxiously, noticing the bright interest in those green eyes, you don’t get the idea that it’s your case, or anything silly like that.

    Of course not, cooed Phryne. What time? Can I pick you up?

    Mr. Butler driving? asked Jack Robinson. Miss Fisher drove like a demon and he had to keep his eyes shut the whole journey, in case he saw how many breaches of the traffic laws she committed, and closing his eyes in a moving car made him queasy.

    Yes, there will be nowhere to leave the car on Collins Street.

    Right, then, five thirty at the police station, he told her.

    What’s the lantern lecture? she asked, as he dropped bacon rinds to Molly, fed Ember a large piece of the same, and wiped his mouth preparatory to facing the world again.

    Some bloke called Rupert Sheffield, he said. On the science of deduction. Ought to ask him to help, he added, and left, thanking Mrs. Butler on the way out through the kitchen.

    Phryne was unexpectedly stung. Science of deduction? What did any man called Rupert know about deduction that the Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher didn’t know?

    Ridiculous. She shook herself into order like an affronted cat and ate the rest of her croissant with a sharp snap of her white teeth.

    We got a case, Guv? asked Tinker. A Queenscliff fisher boy, he had attached himself at heel, like a small scruffy terrier, and Phryne had decided that he might be useful. As well as being endearingly intelligent. And devoted to Sexton Blake. He had fitted in well. Phryne’s adopted daughter Jane found him clever and was teaching him chess. Her other adopted daughter Ruth liked his appetite, which was reliably voracious, even for cooking experiments which had slightly failed. Mr. and Mrs. Butler appreciated the supply of fresh fish and Dot liked having someone sleeping in the back garden, which made her feel more secure. Molly liked accompanying him on fishing expeditions. Ember tolerated him with his usual amused disdain. Ember was utterly uninterested in any other humans apart from his own family (Phryne, Ruth, and Jane), whom he considered to be under his protecting paw. Others might be awarded some passing notice if they came bearing food. Possibly. Tinker was bearable, and pleasantly free with his fish.

    That meant that Tinker was enveloped in a glow of approval from the entire household, which in turn had meant that Tinker could be easy in their company. He adored Phryne with his whole heart. And, together with Dot, he worried about her. She was far too bold for someone who was only five-foot-two and weighed in at about seven stone in a wringing wet army overcoat.

    However, he thought, as he returned to Phryne’s briefing on this odd murder, even the Guv’nor couldn’t get into too much trouble at a choir rehearsal and a lantern lecture.

    Could she?

    As he often did, Tinker felt uneasy, and shared a glance with Dot. She was concerned, too.

    Any ideas? Phryne asked her household.

    Must be very angry, offered Jane.

    Why angry?

    Didn’t just want Mr. Tregennis dead, said Jane, who was destined to be a doctor. He would have died with that overdose. He was dying, in fact, wasn’t he, when the music was stuffed into his mouth?

    Probably, agreed Phryne.

    If the murderer just wanted to get rid of the bloke, then the morphine would have done the trick, said Tinker, with the callousness of fourteen. But that wasn’t enough.

    And if the murderer wanted him to suffer, he went the wrong way about it, said Dot. The poor man can’t have felt a thing.

    Yes, and isn’t that odd? commented Phryne. The music stuffed into the mouth is, as my learned colleague says, an act of rage. But the method of death, as my other learned colleague observes, is peaceful and painless. Not a mark on him, no struggle, no bruises. And from this we can surmise…

    Well, said Jane, either the murderer is mad, a person of moods…

    Yes, said Phryne. Or?

    Or the murderer is two people, said Dot. One who just wants him dead and one who’s real furious at him.

    Yes, said Phryne, or…?

    The murderer’s weak, said Tinker. Not strong enough to hold the bloke down and suffocate him without drugging him first.

    Phryne continued, reading from her notes. Jack had rather meanly taken his file with him. Now, stomach contents disclose that he had eaten a rather expensive snack just before he died. Half a dozen fresh oysters, a slice or two of smoked salmon, a small piece of stilton, and water biscuits.

    Expensive is right, commented Ruth. Stilton has to be specially imported, oysters are really unsafe to eat unless you buy the ones from select fishmongers, and smoked salmon comes from Scotland.

    Correct. As last meals go, it is a rather lavish one. He seems to have drunk…

    Champagne? suggested Ruth, who knew which wines were appropriate for shellfish. Mr. Butler was a mine of information on the subject.

    No, oddly enough, a sweet dessert wine. Muscat, perhaps, or Imperial Tokay, replied Phryne. Which is costly, but in my opinion has a tawdry taste and is far too sugary.

    But I bet it would cover up the taste of the poison, said Dot. Like putting bitter medicine into syrup.

    Never fooled me, said Phryne, brooding darkly on the cough medicines of her youth. She particularly had it in for Buckley’s Canadiol Mixture, which tasted like rendered-down pine trees. But a good notion, Dot dear. Presumably Mr. Tregennis had a sweet tooth, his poisoner knew that, and instead of providing a light dry sparkling wine with his after-rehearsal amuse-bouche, gave him a glass of some noxious wine which would hide the poison. Morphine is extremely bitter. Only other way to hide it would be in a naturally bitter drink or food. Keep that in mind next time you are contemplating murder.

    Six months ago, Miss, I would have been shocked at that comment, said Dot.

    Phryne beamed at her. See how you’ve been coming along, Dot dear? Well done!

    Dot was not sure whether this was a sign of growing sophistication or an indication of moral degeneracy, and decided to confess it to her local priest in due course. He was an old priest. He would cope.

    The body was found on the floor of the conductor’s room. He had been dead for some time. The cleaning lady found him when she came in to sweep at six this morning. He was last seen—by everyone else—retreating there and slamming the door after an unusually fraught rehearsal. He seems to have been a short-tempered bully, and one wonders if the entire choir—or perhaps only the basses—decided to remove him.

    She looked up to see if the joke had registered. No one smiled. She decided that she really must see to the musical education of her minions, and went on.

    No sign of any plates, glasses, or cutlery, she told them. Whoever brought the food took all evidence away with them. The usual police search found no suicide note, no useful calling cards, matchbooks, foreign coins, obscure words written on the walls, or scales of rare venomous reptiles.

    Oh. Tinker was disappointed.

    The choir departed in a body and caught the tram into Carlton, where they went to a sly-grog pub and sang very rude songs until at least three in the morning.

    But they can’t have been in full view all the time, objected Dot. Some of them must have, you know, visited the conveniences, gone out for a breath of air—any one of them could have come back to poison Mr. Tregennis.

    Yes, Dot, true, said Phryne. That is why Jack wanted me to come and look at his choristers. In case something leaps to mind.

    Where did the food come from? asked Ruth, who had been thinking deeply. That’s not ordinary pie cart stuff, that’s expensive hotel food.

    Another thing which the overworked constabulary are even now trying to ascertain. Phryne leafed through her notes. Questions?

    Any sign that he had…been with a lady? asked Dot, even more convinced of her eventual destination. No lipstick marks, things like that?

    I am not going to harrow your innocent ears with the ghastly details, Dot, but he certainly hadn’t had any close communion with anyone for some days, and only Jane can ask me how I know that, and only if she looks up the anatomy text first on seminal vesicles. And asks me in private. No lipstick, greasepaint, love bites, or other indelicate things, but long blonde hairs on his coat. Blondes are being asked pointed questions as we speak.

    "Because it is the sort of intimate supper they describe in Larousse Gastronomique, added Ruth. Oysters, smoked salmon, wine. Even though it’s the wrong wine." Ruth was aggrieved. Anyone who could afford smoked salmon ought to know that it went with champagne.

    It might have been a love affair gone wrong, said Jane.

    Then why stuff music down the poor bloke’s throat? asked Tinker.

    Phryne patted his shoulder.

    We need, as Sherlock Holmes would say, more data. So I shall go out this evening and get some, and I would rather go alone, darlings. Then I shall come back and we shall discuss it. All right?

    If you say so, Guv, said Tinker, on behalf of them all.

    Good. Very good, all of you. Phryne smiled general approval. You have all done very well. Science of deduction, indeed, she added, and swept into the house to bathe and dress.

    It’s just a choir rehearsal, said Jane to Tinker. How much trouble can she get into at a choir rehearsal?

    She’s Miss Phryne, said Dot. She could get into trouble in heaven. God forgive me, she added, and crossed herself.

    Chapter Two

    All things shall perish from under the sky,

    Music alone shall live, music alone shall live,

    Music alone shall live, never to die.

    —Traditional round

    Phryne remembered the stairs up to the Scots Church Assembly Hall. She put on a low-heeled pair of shoes, as she had slightly sprained her ankles dancing the Charleston two nights before. Not wishing to overawe the choir, she dressed in a decently quiet turquoise dress, jacket, and hat and took a large handbag. As usual her petticoat pocket contained emergency requisites: a spare lighter, a banknote, cigarettes, a pearl-handled .22 Beretta. One never knew what the exigencies of rehearsal might entail. Mr. Butler drove Phryne and her policeman with calm and dignity into the city, left them at the corner of Collins and Russell streets, and took the car to the garage where it had been built. He had instructions to come back at nine. Phryne had decided to watch the lantern lecture. It might even be instructive.

    She was making suggestions to Jack Robinson as she felt her way, a little gingerly, up the stairs. Hugh Collins waited at the door.

    You need to find out who brought that food, Jack dear, and I suggest you start with the hotel just across the road. That was, as Ruth pointed out, expensive provender, not available from just any soup kitchen. Then you need to find the conductor’s lover.

    His lover? asked Jack.

    Well, yes, that aphrodisiac little supper was an invitation of sorts. Then you need to talk to the choir’s librarian.

    Why? asked Jack.

    At that moment someone caught Phryne around the waist and dragged her into a close embrace. He never knew how close he was to a knee where it would not have been appreciated because, fortunately for him, Phryne recognised him and flung her arms around his neck.

    John! she exclaimed. John Wilson, how can you possibly be here? One moment. She turned in his arms and said to Jack Robinson, The librarian has all the scores, numbered. Get her to call them all in. That music had to come from somewhere. I’ll be in directly.

    Jack Robinson shook his head, collected his detective sergeant, and entered the hall. John Wilson chuckled.

    Still the same Phryne, eh? he asked. And it’s Dr. John, now.

    Oh, excellent, so you went back after…afterwards?

    John Wilson had been a medical student in 1918 when he had been dragged from his residency and dropped into the Battle of the Somme. He had run a forward casualty-clearing station, dipped deep in blood and death. Horrified, shell-shocked and twenty-two years old, he had met Phryne, bringing in the wounded. There, in her ambulance, under bombardment, he and Phryne had mutually ripped the clothes off each other and mated fiercely, deaf from shelling, desperate to find a warm living body to hang on to while the world bled and fractured and blew up around them. Thereafter Phryne had invited him into her ambulance frequently. He had always been delighted to accept her invitation, alone of the women in the world, for John Wilson’s heart was given to men. Phryne seemed to be in a different category. He had often puzzled about it. However, she was exceptional.

    And then, near the end of the war, in November, for God’s sake, a sniper had been amusing himself shooting at the red cross on John’s tent, and only Phryne jamming her ambulance into gear, forcing it up and over a trench and covering him, meant that he got a bullet in the leg, not a number of them in head and heart. He had been standing just behind the red cross. He had been carried off by his own stretcher-bearers, and somehow he had never seen Phryne again.

    She looked just the same, a little plumper than the starveling he had known, still the same black hair, red lips, and green eyes that cut through all pretence. She smelt bewitchingly of clean hair and Jicky. She was waiting for his reassurance so he gave it.

    It was just my leg, dear girl, not my hands. And it isn’t too bad. I can get along. And if it hadn’t been for you— he tightened his embrace —it wouldn’t be anything at all.

    Phryne kissed him on the cheek. He smelt the same as he had when she had last kissed him. Coffee, pipe tobacco, his own warm, earthy scent. No faint overscent of ether; not practising medicine, then. His kindly blue eyes were still the same, his skin more weathered, his military haircut greying a little at the temples. His body, under her hands, was muscular and stocky. She would not at all mind hauling John Wilson into her ambulance again—and this time she had a house and a comfortable bed. Definitely today’s Good Thought.

    What are you doing here, John darling? she asked. Can you dine with me?

    He smiled gently. He had always smiled at her like that. As though her energy amused him. He had always been quiet and kind, a stalwart presence, as the young soldiers died under his hands and he and Phryne wept in each other’s arms over the death of hope and innocence, kisses tainted with high-explosive smoke. How had she lost touch with this admirable John? He had gone back to university and she had stayed in Paris. She had heard that he was living with his young man, what was his name…Galahad? Lancelot? Something like that. And she had assumed he was happy. From the sad shadows under his eyes, she had been wrong. She patted his cheek with one scented hand. He took this as a cue.

    Do you mean here in Australia, Phryne love, or here on the steps of the assembly hall, where we are making exhibitions of ourselves?

    I always liked your voice, she said. So deep and pleasant, it made the poor boys feel better just to hear you. Here in all senses, please.

    I came to Australia with Rupert Sheffield, who was a code-breaker and mathematician. Did something very hush-hush. In Greece, you know. He’s a dear fellow but a tad accident-prone. We had barely arrived in your fine country when a whole net of cargo just missed flattening us. Careless. We are in Melbourne for him to give his mathematical wisdom to the masses. I’m here on the steps because he is giving a lecture tonight and wanted me to test the apparatus. It flickered too much last night.

    Sheffield the Science of Deduction man? Oh, and are you and he…?

    No, he said quickly. Not at all.

    And Arthur? She had remembered the name.

    Arthur died, he said steadily. A long time ago. Heart failure. Never knew he had anything wrong with him and even I didn’t diagnose it.

    John dear, she said softly. He leaned his forehead into her shoulder a moment, then she felt his spine straighten, the military manner reassumed like a coat. Or a mask.

    Now, I must go and see about that projector, he said. Are you helping the police with their enquiries, Phryne?

    Oh, yes, just with the choir. My policeman doesn’t know anything about these sorts of people and I do.

    Madame. He bowed her through the door.

    And dinner? Dr. MacMillan is here, too. She’d be delighted to see you again.

    I’d love to, Phryne, but I’d have to find out what Sheffield…

    All right, I see, said Phryne, who knew a case of raging unrequited love when she saw it, even if John ignored his own clinical indications. I’ll stay for the show, and you can talk to me afterwards.

    Thanks, he murmured, and kissed her cheek.

    Phryne went toward what sounded like a full-scale choral riot in a mixed frame of mind. On the one hand, her old friend Dr. Wilson was in Melbourne. On the other hand, her chances of resuming their former relations seemed increasingly unlikely.

    Drat, she murmured, and plunged into the fray.

    Approximately thirty singers were gathered around approximately one librarian, who was trying to order her scores by their accession numbers. She was not assisted by the voices, which were explaining that they’d left their score 1) at home, 2) in the dressing room, 3) on the bus, or 4) had never had one to begin with, despite that signature in the book; yes, it was their signature, but they couldn’t remember being issued a score and had been looking over Matt’s shoulder. Phryne had sung in many a chorus and saw this as situation normal, but Jack Robinson was disconcerted. Disconcerted policemen have a tendency to shout.

    Silence! he bellowed, in tones which had frozen spines in darkest Little Lon and compelled instant obedience from Fitzroy hooligans. The choir didn’t precisely fall silent, as any choir has been yelled at by experts, but the squabbling abated enough for him to make himself heard.

    Hedley Tregennis has been murdered, he announced. Show some respect. I need to talk to all of you. Who wants to be first?

    There was a noticeable lack of volunteers. Phryne had taken a seat on stage and was scanning faces in her usual manner. She nodded toward a stocky lad with blond hair and blue eyes. That was the leader of this group. The collection of singers were all keeping him in sight. Jack beckoned and he came forward, tripping over a piece of string and having to be helped to his feet by a large economy-size bass.

    Name? barked the policeman.

    Smith, he said. Matthew. Tenor.

    Collins, are you writing this down? demanded Robinson.

    Hugh licked his indelible pencil and nodded.

    When was the last time you saw Hedley Tregennis?

    Last night, said Matthew Smith. He slammed off stage in a filthy temper and told us to bugger off and not come back until today, so— he shrugged —we buggered off as requested.

    Where did you go from here?

    Most of us went to the pub, the young man answered. I went home. They stayed until quite late at the pub.

    More like early morning, observed the large bass. I didn’t get home till four. My landlady had locked me out and I had to sleep in the laundry. Lucky it’s summer.

    I got home at three thirty, but I live in Carlton; you must have had to walk home, commented another bass.

    Well, yes, Tom, I spent all my money at the Cr— said the bass, and shut up abruptly as a small fierce alto slapped a hand across his mouth.

    I am not interested in sly grog, said Jack Robinson with deteriorating patience. I am interested in the last time you saw Hedley Tregennis. And if you don’t tell me everything you know about it, I shall arrange a raid on the Criterion and you will have nowhere to drink. Line up and give names, addresses, and the time you last saw Hedley Tregennis to the constable at the table over there. Anyone who has something particular to say, talk to my sergeant. I’m going to sit over there and wait until someone tells me something interesting.

    He found a seat. Phryne stayed where she was, watching. Robinson admired the way she did not seem to watch; inspecting her nails, running a finger up her calf as though to check for a run in her stocking, fussing with her hair. She looked perfectly harmless, unless you caught her eye, in which case you felt that you were stripped down to component molecules, weighed in the balance, and found wanting. She examined the choir as they returned from giving their details and lined up on stage, beginning to sing rounds as a warm-up as soon as there were more than four of them. Led by Tom, the bass, they started the charming and absurd Life is But a Melancholy Flower to the tune of Frère Jacques and sang along quite tunefully until a soprano clutched her hands dramatically to her bosom and wailed, We shouldn’t be doing this! in a voice trained to carry. The singing died down.

    Why not, Julia? asked Matthew Smith. We’re a choir and we’re stuck here and the concert’s on in two weeks.

    But we should have some respect, like the policeman said, she declaimed.

    Why? asked a tall, affected tenor with sleek brown hair and a determined pair of spectacles. He didn’t have any respect for us. Or for the work. Poor old Mendelssohn, taken at a breakneck gallop like that.

    What about the poor old dead man? asked a redheaded alto.

    It’s all right for you, you’re a med student, Bones, protested Julia, who unlike the stereotype was thin, dark, and would be scraggy when she was forty. You’re used to dead people. He was just lying on the floor like a bundle of old…old music. That’s upsetting!

    Dead people are dead, said Bones, shrugging again.

    You’re disgusting! protested Julia.

    The interaction was interesting. Phryne listened carefully, then cut Julia out as she lined up for a cup of the choir’s thin tea.

    Talk to me, she said politely.

    Julia bridled. The temperament, however, was canonical. Why?

    Me or the cop, said Phryne.

    Julia tried a half-hearted flounce. Phryne had seen flounces before. She raised an eyebrow. Julia surrendered.

    Oh, all right, who are you?

    I’m Phryne Fisher, said Phryne. Come and sit down over here. Now, tell me how you knew what the deceased Hedley Tregennis looked like.

    I was guessing, said Julia.

    Like a bundle of old music, persisted Phryne. He could have been flat on his back or on his front or sitting in a chair, but he was, as it happens, lying curled up and there was music involved. How did you know that?

    Julia looked around wildly for rescue. No one interrupted.

    Woman’s intuition? she ventured.

    Phryne chuckled. Have a heart. When did you see the body?

    Oh, all right, said Julia crossly. I wasn’t going to the pub, I was going home, then when I was halfway there I remembered I had left my score behind. I knew the caretaker wouldn’t lock up until after ten because of the lantern lecture so I came back and went backstage to the conductor’s room.

    Why there? asked Phryne.

    It has a lock; the librarian stashes the scores there when someone leaves one behind. Scores are expensive. That’s why she carries on so much if someone loses one.

    Then how were you intending to retrieve your score? asked Phryne. Do you have a key?

    No, but there’s one hung up in the locker. In case we forget. No one knows it’s there.

    Except thirty singers, their friends and hangers-on, and the pianist, observed Phryne. Julia bit her lip.

    Oh, yes, them. Us. I suppose. I unlocked the door and he was lying on the floor all dead and I was so scared I just ran away.

    Locking the door behind you, said Phryne evenly.

    Yes, said Julia.

    And taking your score.

    Yes, well, it was just on the desk—I didn’t have to step over him or anything, explained Julia. And I needed to rehearse. I’ve got a quartet. It’s Holy, Holy, Holy. Everyone says I’m ready to sing it.

    Right, said Phryne. Singers. She had forgotten what they were like. I’m sure you’ll be good. Now, I want you to close your eyes. Think for me. You’re back in the conductor’s office. You’re not looking at the dead man. You’re looking at the room. Are you there?

    Yes, breathed Julia, who would have been an ideal hypnotic subject.

    Look around. What can you see? prompted Phryne in a soft, gentle voice.

    Desk, chair, scores on the desk, teapot, teacup. Coat hung behind the door. Wastepaper basket full of torn-up paper.

    Music paper? asked Phryne.

    "No, just writing paper, white, with black ink on it. That’s all, really. Dead

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