Read Online Murder in Montparnasse by Kerry Greenwood - Free Book Online Page B

appointed, which had evidently suffered either hasty preparations for a dance or sack by a major Viking invasion. Clothes were tossed everywhere, most of the drawers in the large tallboy were pulled out, and a disembowelled shipping trunk spilled silky undergarments into shameless public view.
    ‘Has Miss Elizabeth a maid?’ asked Phryne, coming to the door.
    ‘Oh . . . well, yes, so to speak, one of the housemaids helped her with her clothes, but she . . .’
    ‘. . . has been dismissed by Mr Chambers?’ guessed Phryne.
    ‘Quit,’ said Mr Jenkins. ‘Yesterday. Said she wasn’t going to stay where her character was called into question every five minutes. Went off this morning with her wages and— why?’
    ‘I wondered if this is how Miss Elizabeth usually leaves her room,’ said Phryne, allowing Mr Jenkins to edge past her into the boudoir. He let his glasses drop to the end of their tape in surprise.
    ‘No, well, I don’t think so, she was a very neat child. I remember her lining up her dolls on the windowsill, every fold in place. And she liked the pretty clothes she bought in Paris. She wouldn’t leave them all strewn about like this.’
    He picked up a blue silk nightdress, cobwebbed with exquisite embroidery, as though he had never seen such a garment before, then blushed and dropped it onto a chair.
    ‘Girls get careless,’ Phryne told him, ‘as they get older.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ sighed Mr Jenkins. ‘But really—it looks like the room has been ransacked.’
    ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ agreed Phryne. ‘And no one to tell me if anything is missing since the maid is so conveniently gone. Well, I should know what constitutes a Parisian wardrobe. You can help me, Mr Jenkins. Stand that trunk up and we’ll put everything back into it.’
    Mr Jenkins blushed pink again and temporised. ‘Really, Miss Fisher, shouldn’t I go and get one of the maids?’
    ‘No, you’re here and you’ll do and the fewer people in here the better. Get on with it,’ she advised, kindly.
    Mr Jenkins, inured to long obedience of insane orders, obeyed. Phryne sorted clothes and piled them into his shrinking arms.
    ‘Ten pairs of camiknickers, nine present, six petticoats, six nightdresses, should be ten pairs of silk stockings, no, eight and a half, there’s a stocking missing.’
    ‘Three stockings,’ ventured Mr Jenkins. It might have been the first time he had ever said the word, but he was an accountant and figures were important to him.
    ‘She was wearing one pair when she vanished. Likewise one pair of camiknickers, saving your presence, Mr Jenkins. But the dress must have had its own underthings, because all six petticoats are here. Dinner dresses, two. Ball dress, one. Shawls and stoles, six. Pairs of shoes—nine. Dressing gowns, one warm, one light. Day dresses—the girl must have had such fun choosing these, they’re definitely made in one of the better studios. How tall is she, Mr Jenkins?’
    ‘Smaller than you, Miss Fisher. Five feet tall.’
    Mr Jenkins received a load of frilly garments and deposited them in the shipping trunk. The sweet, clean scent of the clothes was making him a little giddy.
    ‘Is that a French scent?’ he asked, greatly daring. Phryne paused and sniffed. ‘Lavande de Provence,’ she answered. ‘Very suitable. Trés jeune fille. Right. That’s the clothes. Let’s do the drawers next. I wish I had my maid here! She’d know what to make of all this. Toiletries—soap, washing things—all Lavande de Provence. Such a clean smell, is it not? Hmm. Nothing unusual here.’
    Phryne felt around the back of each drawer before she shut it.
    ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Mr Jenkins, emboldened. He had endured a quarter-hour in a lady’s bedroom and was feeling no end of the devil of a fellow.
    ‘Anything she might have hidden. And under or at the back of a drawer is a good place. No, nothing here.’ She shut the last drawer.
    ‘Purses,’ she said. She opened