The Green Mill Murder Read Online Free Page A

her.
    ‘Good night, Miss Fisher. Golly, what a motor!’ exclaimed Jim Hyde, staggering under the weight of his trombone and four beer bottles. Tintagel Stone, bearing a banjo and a bottle of red wine, winked as he went on. They all smiled, except Ben Rodgers, who was carrying two cases and must have drunk his drink, because he alone was unencumbered with alcoholic beverages. Rodgers snarled, but Phryne was getting used to trumpeters.
    ‘Had a good night, Miss?’ asked Mr Butler, waking up and pushing back his chauffeur’s hat. Phryne climbed into the big car and tore off her beaded cap, running her fingers through her short black hair.
    ‘Not precisely a good night, Mr B, but undeniably interesting. There was a murder at the Green Mill, didn’t you see everyone leaving early?’
    ‘No, Miss, I been asleep, didn’t notice a thing. What about the gentleman, Miss? Mr Freeman?’
    ‘Mr Freeman has run away, it appears.’
    ‘Oh.’ Mr Butler got out, swung the starting handle, and the racing engine turned over with a lion-like roar. He drove back to Miss Fisher’s bijou residence in St Kilda Road, casting the occasional sidelong look at his employer. She had been very upset by the last dead man, he remembered, but she seemed calm enough about this one. There was no accounting for women, he reflected, and swung the great car into its housing, cutting off the engine. Phryne leapt out, pulling her black evening cloak about her.
    ‘I need a drink,’ she said, and ran down the path to the back door, to be admitted by Mrs Butler on a wave of warmth and the scent of freshly ground coffee.
    ‘We’ve had another murder, Mrs B, at the Green Mill of all places, and Mr Freeman has done a bunk. So don’t bother about supper if you please. Is Dot still up?’
    ‘Yes, Miss,’ agreed Mrs Butler, who was proof against most domestic crises. ‘She’s in the drawing room, Miss, reading the new library books. A murder? Was there a fight, in a well-conducted place like the Green Mill?’
    ‘No, no fight, someone was stabbed. One of the contestants in that foul dance marathon.’
    ‘I’ve always said they was wicked things,’ said Mr Butler from the kitchen door. ‘You go in, Miss, and I’ll come and mix you one of my specials.’
    Phryne went into the drawing room, warmed by the thought of one of Mr Butler’s cocktails. He declined absolutely to divulge the recipe, and mixed them in secret in the kitchen, but they were smooth, fruity, and authoritative. Phryne suspected kirsch and lemon juice and ice, but was unable to diagnose further.
    ‘Miss! You’re home early!’
    Dot arose from the deep chair in which she had been reclining with three library books and a box of Hillier’s chocolates, which she was eating at a rationed four an evening. Phryne threw herself onto the couch, flinging aside her beaded cap and cloak. She looked upon her maid and companion with affection. No one could say that Dot was modern. Her long brown hair was restrained in one plait down her back; her face was innocent of powder and her mouth of lipstick. She displayed a deplorably old-fashioned taste which ran to a chenille dressing gown that looked like a bedspread, and sheepskin slippers. She was a disciplined soul, who would never eat a whole box of chocolates at one sitting and make herself sick. Phryne was very fond of Dot. She was infinitely to be relied upon.
    ‘A murder, Dot, they always interrupt one’s evening. And my escort has bolted, so wounding to a lady’s feelings. That reminds me, I had better ring Mrs Freeman before the cops get there. Back in a tick.’
    Phryne kicked off her shoes and padded out on the cool tiles of the hall floor. She obtained the number of Mr Freeman’s imposing mama.
    ‘This is Phryne Fisher, is Mrs Freeman still up? No? Well, has Mr Freeman returned? No again? Oh dear. Look, I really think that you had better call her. Yes, it is serious. Yes, I do know what I’m asking. Why? Well, there was a murder