Murder on a Midsummer Night by Unknown Page B

crossed herself. ‘He was drowned in the bath,’ she said. ‘God have mercy on his soul.’

    The priest at St Mary’s was about to knock off for a cup of tea with maybe a whisker of the cratur, for it had been a long night confessing the lost and strayed, when he heard someone come into the confessional and pulled the stole back over his shoulders.
    ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ came the whisper through the grating.
    An elderly man, he diagnosed. Ragged-voiced with strain. Educated accent. Well, the middle class were as sinful as anyone else, God forgive them.
    ‘God bless you, my son. How long has it been since your last confession?’
    ‘Ten years, Father. I have just found out . . . found out something . . .’
    ‘Yes?’ asked the priest testily, longing for his tea and whisky, as he heard nothing for some time. He got up slowly and pulled the curtain aside.
    The confessional was empty.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet
   sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

    William Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet

    ‘Miss Phryne?’ Jane was looking concerned, her pale face white in the candle light.
    ‘Yes, Jane?’
    ‘Why does Dot think it’s better that Mr Augustine was murdered rather than it being a suicide?’
    ‘Ah, there you have me,’ Phryne temporised. What to say about this touchiest of all touchy topics? ‘Dot’s religion tells her that killing yourself is a mortal sin.’
    That was not going to be enough, Phryne could tell.
    ‘What do you think?’
    ‘Well, if you would have my plain answer, however brutal, Jane dear, I think that someone who has decided to die should be allowed to make their own choice. I stopped a suicide once, in Paris. Etienne. His father was making him leave his life in Montparnasse. He was going to have to work in a bank, marry a suitable lady, and be a bon bourgeois . He said he would rather die, and he took a lot of chloral, and I found him and called an ambulance and they pumped his stomach. The next day he went home to his father and married as required. I met him a few years later, walking his children in the park, and he gave me a look of such hatred that I can still feel the sting of it. So my advice is, try not to get involved.’
    ‘And if you can’t help getting involved?’ asked Jane keenly.
    ‘Then just do the best you can,’ said Phryne.
    Jane thought about this. She nodded. She collected Ruth, and they went to play an engrossing game of snap. Mr and Mrs Butler cleared and cleaned and retired for the evening. Phryne and Dot took a branch of candles into the small parlour and sat down at Phryne’s little table. Outside the storm had gone, and a cool wet wind swept in through all the windows, which Phryne had personally opened and would, in due course, personally close and lock. Dot had put on a cardigan and Phryne was enjoying the cool.
    ‘Whoever sealed this wanted it to stay sealed,’ said Phryne, slicing through another wad of wax with her sharp letter knife. ‘If the lady has left her daughter a letter which mentions the child and his or her fate this will make our job a lot easier, Dot.’
    ‘Things are never that easy,’ said Dot practically.
    ‘True. But I feel fine! The rain is over and done and I am expecting the voice of the turtle to make itself heard any moment now.’
    ‘I think I’ve got this corner undone,’ said Dot.
    She slipped the stout paper aside and turned the box around in her hands.
    ‘Pretty thing,’ she said admiringly.
    ‘It is a very pretty thing,’ agreed Phryne. ‘A jewellery box, I suspect. Rosewood, eighteenth century, inlaid with maple, oak and mother of pearl. Chinoiserie at its best. The Prince Regent would have swooned over it. Let’s get it open.’
    ‘Don’t wrench it, Miss Phryne, here’s the key.’ Dot applied a delicate little golden key to the golden lock. ‘There. What’s this?’
    ‘Draw it out carefully, it’s been there a long