The circus is in town, and St Kilda is having its first Flower Festival, which includes a parade. And who should be Queen of said Flowers but the Honourable Phryne Fisher? She has dresses to purchase, cinemas to visit, and agreeable cocktails to drink.

One of her flower maidens, however, is unstable and has vanished. Phryne investigates through the underworld with the help of Bert, Cec, and her little beretta. She is also assisted in this task by an old flame from Orkney, the owner of the most exclusive brothel in St Kilda, and several elephants.

But when her own adopted daughter Ruth goes missing, Phryne is determined that nothing will stand in the way of her retrieving her lost child.

Queen of the Flowers

A Phryne Fisher MysteryBy Kerry Greenwood

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2004 Kerry Greenwood
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59058-171-1

Chapter One

And how Horatius held the bridge In the brave days of yore. Thomas Babbington, Lord Macauley 'Horatius', Lays of Ancient Rome

The elephant was the last straw.

All day Mr. Butler, strangely resembling Cerberus except for the number of heads, had kept the world at bay. The Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher was engaged in a solemn ritual and all visitors were to be refused, all tradesmen redirected and all trespassers prosecuted. The bell was not to ring and disturb the votaries' concentration. A holy hush must be maintained.

The household had been dispersed for this special occasion. Miss Ruth and Miss Jane had been banished to the moving pictures to see an improving newsreel and a cowboy adventure, have lunch at a suitable caf and spend the afternoon blamelessly at the museum. The dog Molly had been muzzled with the femur of what must have been an ox, or possibly a mammoth. Mrs. Butler had put on her good coat and gone hat shopping in the city, leaving a cold collation under a mist of muslin on the dining room table. Dorothy, Miss Phryne's maid and inseparable companion, had naturally joined the rites in attendance, as had the cat Ember. Three times Dot had crept down the stairs to tell Mr. Butler that so far it was all going well.

And Mr. Butler had kept the door, valiantly turning aside three hawkers (of infallible washing powders, fly repellents and an ingenious new form of mouse-trap), seven society visitors and a worried representative from the mayor's office, calling about another minor detail in the forthcoming Flower Parade. All of these he had awed into leaving cards and departing quietly, closing the gate silently behind them. He was just allowing himself to lean a little into the porch, mopping his brow and wondering how long this could possibly go on, when an elephant stepped easily over the front fence and stood face to face with him.

It was surprisingly large. It had small, wise eyes set into deep wrinkles and for a moment Mr. Butler and the elephant stared at each other without moving or reacting. Mr. Butler was so astonished that he could not think of anything to say except 'Shoo!' and he did not think that wise, in view of the newly planted dahlias.

They stood there, an interesting tableau out of an Anglo-Indian painting. Then the elephant, obviously feeling that the first move in this new friendship was up to her, lifted her trunk and gently took the handkerchief out of Mr. Butler's nerveless hand. She patted delicately at his brow and made a small, absurd squeaking noise. It sounded sympathetic.

'Thank you,' said Mr. Butler, a broken man.

'Phryne in?' enquired a voice, and Mr. Butler looked up into the eyes of a raddled, middle-aged woman with fiery red hair, seated astride the elephant's neck. 'Flossie's taken to you, I see. She's the nicest elephant I've ever had, I'll say that for her.'

Mr. Butler gathered what wits he had left. 'Miss Fisher is engaged,' he said. 'She is not at home to visitors today.'

'Too bad,' said the woman. 'I'm Dulcie Fanshawe of Fanshawe's elephants. Well, you might have guessed, eh? Any chance of a bucket of water for Flossie? And a cup of tea for me? We've just got off the train and they're still setting up down by the beach.'

'If you can keep your animal ... er ... Flossie, quiet, madam, that can be arranged,' said Mr. Butler. Miss Dulcie Fanshawe's hair was definitely artificial and her trousers were scandalous but she had a genuine, charming smile. And Miss Phryne would never turn aside a person or even an elephant in need of sustenance.

'She won't give trouble,' said Dulcie. 'Elephants are very quiet beasts.'

'Just walk her along to the back, then,' said Mr. Butler. 'The kitchen door is open. I have to keep the door until Miss Fisher's at liberty to receive guests.'

'What is she doing?' asked Miss Fanshawe, permitting Flossie to lift her down and taking hold of one large, flapping ear.

Mr. Butler told her. Miss Fanshawe grinned. 'How long has she been at it, then?' she asked.

'Since nine this morning.' Mr. Butler finally did allow himself to lean into the porch and Flossie mopped his brow again. He observed the delicate, fingered ends of her trunk and the fine control she had over her grasp. She smelt strongly of hay.

'Lord, you poor man! Now, Floss, give the nice man back his hankie and we'll get you a drink.'

Flossie returned Mr. Butler's handkerchief, gave his hair a light caress, and followed Miss Fanshawe around the side of the house to the kitchen.

Mr. Butler resumed his vigil. Time was elapsing. The cold collation had been eaten on the run, standing, while discussing and arguing. The girls would be back soon, as would Mrs. Butler, who would need to get the dinner started and show Mr. Butler her new hat. Miss Phryne had better get a wriggle on or she was going to have disturbances which Mr. Butler could not prevent.

Just then he remembered that Molly and her dinosaur bone were in the back garden. How, he wondered, would the black and white mongrel react to Flossie?

Nothing he could do about it from here, he thought, and at last heard the long-anticipated sounds of women reassuming coats, platting on hats, packing up, and chattering their way down the hall to his closely guarded door. At last. He felt like a sentry who had been relieved of his post long after he had assumed himself forgotten.

The rite was concluded. Miss Fisher's new dress had been fitted. Mr. Butler bowed out Madame Fleuri, a grim devotee of the mode, her two assistants and her three seamstresses. Miss Fisher and Dot waved them goodbye.

And Mr. Butler shut the front door just as Molly, waking from a deep post-prandial nap in the asparagus bed, encountered her first elephant and entirely lost her poise. Howling, she fled into the house and dived under Miss Fisher's chair. After a while a small black nose stuck out from under the fringe, quivering.

Miss Phryne Fisher was dressed in a bright red house gown. She had put it on and taken it off eighteen times. She had listened to long lectures about fashion and stood unmoving as swatches of cloth were draped, pinned, whipped off and on and pinned again. For seven hours. She had gulped down her lunch and was feeling hungry, thirsty and frayed. She did not need an irruption of hysterical dogs into her now-quiet house.

'Molly?' asked Phryne wearily. 'What is the matter?'

'I think it was meeting Flossie,' said Miss Fanshawe, escorted in by Mr. Butler. 'All the circus dogs are used to elephants, I'd forgotten how a nice urban dog might react. Sorry to drop in on you like this when you've had such an exhausting day, Phryne, but I came looking for a drink for Flossie and remembered that you lived here.'

'Dulcie Fanshawe!' Phryne jumped up. Molly declined to move. Until someone came up with a reasonable explanation for elephants, she was staying where she was. 'Come in, sit down, have a drink, how are you? I haven't seen you since London!'

'Can't stop,' said Miss Fanshawe. 'Come and meet Flossie. I can't leave her in that pretty little garden for long. Far too many edible plants.'

Phryne followed Dulcie to the garden and found that Flossie had not fancied any of the vegetation on offer but was sucking up a lot of water from a bucket, continuously...