cleverly he has leafed the innocent conversation of the Queen and Polixenes with the King’s own jealous thoughts. It works very well onstage, I promise. We shall go to the next Shakespeare anyone puts on. You shall see.’
‘But they are like brothers, it’s explained in the first scene,’ objected Ruth. ‘How could he possibly get such a wrong idea?’
‘There is no sense in jealousy, pet, and no King or brotherhood is proof against a bee in the bonnet.’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Ruth, and kept reading.
Altogether it was a very agreeable evening and Phryne put herself to bed full of remembered love and poetry.
***
Tuesday dawned clear and cool with promise of sun to come, and Phryne remembered her tattoo in the nick of time and washed around it. She made an experimental dab with the sponge and no ink came off.
Phryne occupied her morning with an extensive telephone canvass of all the girls at the convent and the Presbyterian Ladies College to whom Alicia Waddington-Forsythe could possibly have fled. Reverend Mother provided the convent girls, and Jane the PLC. None of them had seen her, and most of them seemed relieved that they had not. She laid down the phone at eleven, found her bathing costume, and went out to the beach for a brief swim. She hoped the bracing water would help her think.
Phryne knew that bathing was tolerated, though strictly illegal, on St. Kilda beach during the hours between sunrise and sunset, and had bought her costume in Paris. It had no legs and very little back and she was somewhat disappointed that there was no one on the beach to be shocked by her semi-nakedness. This would test the tattoo, she thought, and plunged forward into the sea, which closed, salt and bitter, over her head.
It was while she was returning, glowing and shivering by turns, that a blanket was thrown over her head and she was seized by strong arms.
The blanket was sandy and she began to choke, kicked wildly, and felt one of her heels sink into something soft. Gaining her advantage, she shot out both hands and grabbed.
Although she could not see what she had seized, it was evidently a part which her assailant valued. She heard a howl, and the arms slackened their grip.
Phryne tightened her fingers. The arms fell away, and someone began flailing at her blanket-covered head, swearing in an unknown language. Phryne shook herself and the blanket slipped.
She had chosen her hold well. The parts of the man she had clawed into a bundle were those which gave him the designation, and he exhibited every sign of wanting them back.
Phryne let go, tripped him, and knelt on his chest as he wept hot tears and clutched at his organs.
‘You bastard, who are you? What do you want with me? Talk, or I’ll tear them off with my teeth!’ she hissed, red-faced and furious and spitting sand.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘I was only obeying orders!’
‘Whose orders?’
This, even at the threat to his manhood, he would not answer.
‘Tell your boss,’ said Phryne with measured loathing, ‘that I will speak to him or I will meet him, but the next fool he sends within my grasp I will castrate with a blunt knife. Repeat it.’ It took three attempts for the blubbering attacker to learn this threat off by heart and then Phryne jumped off him and backed three paces.
‘I’d go now, if I were you,’ she said, conversationally. He understood her quickly. He ran away down the beach, and Phryne walked back into the sea to wash his touch and the sand off her body.
Trembling with reaction, she found her beach pyjamas, re-clothed herself and walked back to her house. Not a young man, perhaps forty, heavy Slavic accent, greying hair, forgettable face. She had, in fact, not really looked at his face.
Perhaps I should not have let him go. Perhaps next time they will just shoot me. But he wanted me alive, that was a kidnapping attempt, thought Phryne, ringing her own doorbell. And what would I have done with him? What with Ember and
‘But they are like brothers, it’s explained in the first scene,’ objected Ruth. ‘How could he possibly get such a wrong idea?’
‘There is no sense in jealousy, pet, and no King or brotherhood is proof against a bee in the bonnet.’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Ruth, and kept reading.
Altogether it was a very agreeable evening and Phryne put herself to bed full of remembered love and poetry.
***
Tuesday dawned clear and cool with promise of sun to come, and Phryne remembered her tattoo in the nick of time and washed around it. She made an experimental dab with the sponge and no ink came off.
Phryne occupied her morning with an extensive telephone canvass of all the girls at the convent and the Presbyterian Ladies College to whom Alicia Waddington-Forsythe could possibly have fled. Reverend Mother provided the convent girls, and Jane the PLC. None of them had seen her, and most of them seemed relieved that they had not. She laid down the phone at eleven, found her bathing costume, and went out to the beach for a brief swim. She hoped the bracing water would help her think.
Phryne knew that bathing was tolerated, though strictly illegal, on St. Kilda beach during the hours between sunrise and sunset, and had bought her costume in Paris. It had no legs and very little back and she was somewhat disappointed that there was no one on the beach to be shocked by her semi-nakedness. This would test the tattoo, she thought, and plunged forward into the sea, which closed, salt and bitter, over her head.
It was while she was returning, glowing and shivering by turns, that a blanket was thrown over her head and she was seized by strong arms.
The blanket was sandy and she began to choke, kicked wildly, and felt one of her heels sink into something soft. Gaining her advantage, she shot out both hands and grabbed.
Although she could not see what she had seized, it was evidently a part which her assailant valued. She heard a howl, and the arms slackened their grip.
Phryne tightened her fingers. The arms fell away, and someone began flailing at her blanket-covered head, swearing in an unknown language. Phryne shook herself and the blanket slipped.
She had chosen her hold well. The parts of the man she had clawed into a bundle were those which gave him the designation, and he exhibited every sign of wanting them back.
Phryne let go, tripped him, and knelt on his chest as he wept hot tears and clutched at his organs.
‘You bastard, who are you? What do you want with me? Talk, or I’ll tear them off with my teeth!’ she hissed, red-faced and furious and spitting sand.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘I was only obeying orders!’
‘Whose orders?’
This, even at the threat to his manhood, he would not answer.
‘Tell your boss,’ said Phryne with measured loathing, ‘that I will speak to him or I will meet him, but the next fool he sends within my grasp I will castrate with a blunt knife. Repeat it.’ It took three attempts for the blubbering attacker to learn this threat off by heart and then Phryne jumped off him and backed three paces.
‘I’d go now, if I were you,’ she said, conversationally. He understood her quickly. He ran away down the beach, and Phryne walked back into the sea to wash his touch and the sand off her body.
Trembling with reaction, she found her beach pyjamas, re-clothed herself and walked back to her house. Not a young man, perhaps forty, heavy Slavic accent, greying hair, forgettable face. She had, in fact, not really looked at his face.
Perhaps I should not have let him go. Perhaps next time they will just shoot me. But he wanted me alive, that was a kidnapping attempt, thought Phryne, ringing her own doorbell. And what would I have done with him? What with Ember and
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