Murder on the Ballarat Train: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries #3

Murder on the Ballarat Train: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries #3

When the 1920s’ most glamorous lady detective, the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, arranges to go to Ballarat for the week, she eschews the excitement of her red Hispano-Suiza racing car ...

About The Author

Kerry Greenwood

Kerry Greenwood is the author of more than 40 novels and six non-fiction books. Among her many honors, Ms. Greenwood ...

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Chapter One

There was a beetle sitting next to the goat: (it was a very queer carriage full of passengers altogether) 

Alice Through the Looking Glass,

Lewis Carroll

Fortunately, the Hon. Phryne Fisher was a light sleeper. She had dozed for most of the journey, but when the nauseating odour of chloroform impinged on her senses, she had sufficient presence of mind to realize that something was happening while she still had wits enough to react.

Reaching over the slumbering form of her maid and companion, Dot, she groped for and found her handbag. She dragged it open, moving as though she were five fathoms under water. The clasp of the handbag seemed impossibly complex, and finally, swearing under her breath and gasping for air, she tore it open with her teeth, extracted her Beretta .32 with which she always travelled, and waveringly took aim. She squeezed off a shot that broke the window.

It shattered into a thousand shards, spattering Phryne and Dot with glass, and admitting a great gush of cold air.

Phryne choked, coughed, and staggered to her feet. She hung out of the window until she was quite certain of her sobriety, then hauled the other window open. The train was still moving. Smoke blew back into her face. What was happening? Phryne reached into the picnic basket, found the bottle of cold tea, and took a refreshing swig. Dot was out to the world, slumped over her travelling bag, her long hair coming loose from its plait. Phryne listened carefully at her maid’s mouth, with a cold fear in her heart. But Dot was breathing regularly and seemed only to be deeply asleep.

Phryne wet her handkerchief with the remains of the cold tea and opened the door of the compartment. A wave of chloroform struck her, and she had to duck back into her compartment, take a deep breath and hold it, before running into the corridor, tearing open a window and leaning through it. There was not a sound on the train; not a noise of human occupancy. She sucked in a breath and rushed to the next window, repeating the procedure until all the windows were as wide open as the railways allowed.

There were four compartments in this first-class carriage. She had noticed the occupants as she had sauntered along before supper; an elderly lady and her companion in the first, a harassed woman and three diabolical children in the second, and a young couple in the third. Phryne and Dot had occupied the fourth, and that probably explained their relative immunity, as the smell got thicker and harder to bear as Phryne neared the front of the train.

The engine halted; she heard the whistle, and an odd bumping noise at the front of the first-class carriage. There was a rush of steam, and the train began to move again, almost precipitating Phryne onto her knees, as she was still rather shaky. Still coughing and retching, she opened the window of the young couple, then the mother and the children. Finally she approached the first compartment, and the smell was strong enough to sting her eyes. She applied the wet handkerchief again, staining her face with tea, dived in and stood staring.

The companion lay flat on the floor with a spilt cup by her hand, but the window was already open and the old lady was gone.

Phryne then did something that she had always wanted to do.

She pulled the communication cord as hard as she could.

The train screeched to a satisfying halt, and a porter came running, slapping open the door to the dining-car and immediately beginning to cough.

‘Did you pull that cord, Miss?’ he asked. ‘For the love of Mike, what’s been happening here?’

‘Chloroform,’ said Phryne. ‘Help me get them out into the fresh air.’

The porter shouted, and several more liveried men crowded into the carriage, before they began to choke and tried to run out again.

‘Idiots!’ gasped Phryne. ‘Put a wet hanky over your silly faces and come and help me.’

‘I’ll handle it, Miss,’ said one rather tall and charming conductor. ‘You’d better come out too, until it clears a little. Give me your hand, Miss, and down we go.’ Phryne, who was feeling very unwell, allowed herself to be carried down the step and off the siding. She sat down unsteadily in cold wet grass and was delighted with the sensation. It seemed more real than the hot, thick darkness of the train.

The tall conductor laid Dot down beside Phryne, and the old woman’s companion beside her. Dot turned over in deep sleep, her face against Phryne’s neck, sniffed, croaked ‘Nuit D’Amour’, sneezed, and woke up.

‘Lie still, Dot dear, we’ve had a strange experience. We are quite all right, and will be even better in a minute. Ah. Someone with sense.’

Phryne accepted a cup of hot, sugared tea from an intelligent steward and held it to Dot’s lips.

‘Here you are, old dear, take a few sips and you’ll be as right as rain.’

‘Oh, Miss, I feel that sick! Did I faint?’ Dot supped some more tea, and recovered enough to sit up and take the cup.

‘In a way, Dot, we all did. Someone, for some unknown reason, has chloroformed us. We were in the end carriage and thus we inhaled the slightest dose, though it was quite enough, as I’m sure you will agree. And when I get hold of the person who has done this,’ continued Phryne, gulping her tea and getting to her feet, ‘they will be sorry that they were ever born. All right now, Dot? I mean, all right to be left? I want to scout around a bit.’

‘All right, Miss,’ agreed Dot, and lay down in the dank grass, wishing that her head would stop swimming.

The train had come to a halt in utter darkness somewhere on the way to Ballarat. All around the pastures were flat, cold, and wet; it was the middle of winter. She regained the train as the guards were carrying out the last of the children, a limp and pitiful bundle.

‘Well, this wasn’t on the timetable!’ she exclaimed to the nearest conductor. ‘What happened? And who caused it to happen?’

‘I thought that you might have seen something, Miss, since you were the only one awake. Though you seem to have caught a fair lungful of the stuff,’ he added. ‘You sure that you feel quite the thing, Miss?’

Phryne caught at the proffered arm thankfully.

‘I’m quite all right, just a little wobbly in the under-pinnings.

What are we going to do?’

‘Well, Miss, the train-conductor thinks that we’d better put everyone on board as soon as they have recovered a bit and take the train on to the next town. There’s a policeman there and they can send for a doctor. Some of them kids are in a bad way.’

‘Yes, I expect that will be the best plan. I’ll go and see if I can help. Give me an arm, will you? Do you know any artificial respiration?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ said the middle-aged man, glancing admiringly at the white face under the cloche hat. ‘I learned it for lifesaving.’

‘Come on, then, we’ve got lives to save. The children and the pregnant woman are the main risks.’

Phryne found, on examination, that the youngest child, a particularly devilish three year old on whom she had been wishing death all day was the worst affected. His face was flushed, and there seemed to be no breath in the little body. She caught the child up in her arms and squeezed him gently.

‘Breathe, little monster,’ she admonished him, ‘and you shall dance on all my hats, and push Dot’s shoes out the window. Breathe, pest, or I shall never forgive myself. Come on, child, breathe!’

In, out, the chest rose and fell. The child gulped air, choked, fell silent again, as Phryne jogged his chest and he dragged in another breath, with nerve-racking intervals in which she heard the other passengers groaning awake. The pregnant woman was retching violently, and abjuring her comatose husband to awake. A small hand clutched Phryne painfully by the nose and the child’s strong legs flexed and kicked. The whole child seemed to gather himself for some final effort. Phryne held her breath. Was this a death tremor? Johnnie took his first independent breath.

‘Waaaah!’ he screamed, and Phryne began to laugh.

‘Here, you take him,’ she said to the nearest guard. ‘But be careful, he’ll be sick in a moment.’

The guard was a family man, and took the resultant mess philosophically. They were all awake now; the woman and the children, the pregnant lady and her husband, and Dot. All except the companion to the elderly lady, and she was burned about the nose and mouth and very deeply drugged, though her heart pounded strongly under Phryne’s hand.

‘All back on the train,’ ordered the conductor. ‘This way, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ll soon have you comfortable. This is some sort of silly joke, and the Railways will be responsible for any damages. Might I offer you a hand, Miss er…’

‘Fisher. The Hon. Phryne Fisher,’ said Phryne, allowing herself to lean on the arm. ‘I really am not feeling at all well. How long to Ballan?’

‘About ten minutes, Miss, if you’ll excuse the guard’s van, there being no room in the rest of the train.’

Phryne and Dot sat side by side on the floor, next to a chained dog and a cage full of sleepy chickens. The lady-companion was laid beside them, and the rest of the first-class passengers sat around the walls, surveying each other with discomfort.

‘I say, old girl, you look as if you’d been pulled through the hedge backwards,’ opined the young husband in a feeble attempt at humour, and his pregnant lady rocketed into hysteria.

It took Phryne the ten minutes to Ballan to induce in the lady a reasonable frame of mind, and at the end of it Phryne was a rag.

‘If you have anything else to say that you think is funny, I’ll thank you to keep it to yourself,’ she snarled at the husband, catching him a nasty accidental-on-purpose crack on the shins. ‘I’ve got other things to do than calm the heeby-jeebies. Now we are at Ballan, Dot, I hope that we can get to the overnight things, for we really must have a hot bath and a change of clothes, or we shall catch our death.’

‘There’s a hotel in Ballan,’ said the mother, catching little Johnnie as, much recovered, he poked his fingers in among the chickens, ‘Come away, Johnnie, do!’

‘The Railways can pay for it, then,’ suggested the young man, with a wary eye on Phryne. ‘I haven’t got the cash for an overnight stay.’

‘I can advance you enough,’ said Phryne. ‘Not to worry. Here comes our nice conductor to release us from durance fairly vile.’

The conductor had clearly done wonders in a very short time.

‘If the ladies and gentlemen would care to break their journey for awhile, they may like to bathe and change at the hotel,’ he suggested. ‘The guards will bring your baggage. The hotel is about a hundred yards down the street, and we will carry the sick lady.’

Phryne took one child, Dot another, and they trailed wearily down the road to the Ballan Hotel, a guesthouse of some pretension. They were met at the door by a plump and distressed landlady who exclaimed over their condition and took charge of the children.

‘Room two, ladies, there’s a bath all ready for you. I’ll send the man with the baggage when he arrives. I shall have tea ready directly, and I’ve sent for the doctor, he should be here soon.’

Dot and Phryne gained their room and Phryne began to strip off her wet garments. Dot located the bath, and gestured to it. ‘You first—you were worse affected,’ insisted Phryne, and Dot recognized inflexibility when she saw it. She took off her clothes in the bathroom and sank into the tub, feeling the aching cold ease out of her bones. She heard the door open and close as she lay back and shut her eyes, and presently there was

Phryne’s voice.

‘Come on, old dear, you don’t want to fall asleep again! I’ve got the clothes and I’ve got some tea.’

‘In a minute,’ promised Dot, and exchanged places with her mistress.

They were dressed in clean clothes and thoroughly warmed when the conductor returned to advise them that the chloroform vapour was all gone and they could resume their journey, if they liked. Phryne was ready to go, and was called in to rouse the companion of the elderly lady.

The woman was much scorched or scalded about the nose and mouth, and the doctor seemed worried about her. She had not begun to rouse until the injection of camphor had been made. Then she opened her eyes all of a sudden, and hearing Phryne’s voice, asked, ‘Where’s Mother?’

And Mother was gone.

After that, there was no further chance of getting to Ballarat, and Phryne turned to the landlady.

‘There was another lady on the train, and she has definitely gone. We must call the police—perhaps she fell out the window. Is there a police station in Ballan?’

‘Yes, Miss, I’ll send the boy around now. What a terrible thing!

We’ll have to rouse out some of the men to go searching.’ ‘Dot, are you better?’ asked Phryne of her maid.

Dot replied, ‘I’m still a bit woozy, Miss. What do you want me to do?’

‘Go and make some tea.’

‘I can manage that,’ agreed Dot, and went out. The doctor was applying a soothing cream to the stricken woman’s face.

‘What burned her? Chloroform?’ asked Phryne, as she took the jar out of the doctor’s insecure hold and held it out for him to dip into. ‘Does it burn like that?’

‘Certainly. She has had a chloroform soaked cloth laid over her face, and if you hadn’t woken them all up and got her out of the train, she would now be dead, and even so there may be permanent damage to her liver.’

‘What about the rest of us? Would we have all been affected just by the chloroform in the first compartment?’

‘No. The gas is heavy, much heavier than air, and very volatile. Someone must have poured it into the ventilation system. Someone wanted you all asleep, Miss Fisher, but I have no idea why. There now, you may stopper the jar. Poor woman, a nasty awakening, but she’s slumped back into sleep again. Can you watch her for an hour? I should go and see how those children are getting along.’

‘By all means,’ agreed Phryne, her conscience still tender in the matter of little Johnnie. ‘I’ll stay here. If she wakes, can I give her tea?’

‘If she wakes, Miss Fisher, you can give her anything you like,’ said the doctor, and hefted his black bag in the direction of the children’s room.

An hour later, at three in the morning, the woman awoke. Phryne saw her stir and mutter, and lifted her to moisten her lips with water.

‘What happened? Where’s Mother?’ came the cracked voice, prevented only by bodily weakness from shrieking.

‘Hush, hush now, you’re safe, and they are out looking for your mother.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the woman dazedly. She saw Phryne’s expensive dressing-gown, edged in fox fur, her Russian leather boots of rusty hue, and an aloof, pale, delicate face, framed in neat, short black hair and with penetrating green eyes. Next to this vision of modish loveliness was a plain young woman with plaits, dressed in a chenille gown like a bedspread.

‘I’m Phryne Fisher and this is Dot Williams, my companion.

Who are you?’

‘Eunice Henderson,’ murmured the woman. ‘Pleased to meet you. Where is Mother? What is happening? And what’s wrong with me? I can’t have fainted. I never faint.’

‘No, you didn’t faint. We are in the Ballan hotel. Someone chloroformed us—the whole first-class carriage. I knew that I should have motored to Ballarat, but I do like trains, though I’m rapidly going off them at the moment. Luckily, I was in the last compartment, and I am a very light sleeper. I broke the window, and then opened all the others and dragged everyone out. You I found lying on the floor of the compartment, with a spilt glass near your hand, and there was no one else there, I can assure you. The window was open—could she have fallen out?’

‘I suppose so—she is a thin little thing, Mother. I can’t remem- ber much. I was asleep, then I heard this thump, and I felt ever so ill, so I got up to get some water, and…that’s all I can recall.’

‘Well, never mind for the moment. There’s nothing we can do until the searchers come back. They have roused the railway- men and they’ve all gone walking back along the track. They’ll find her if she is there. Why not go back to sleep? I’ll wake you if anything happens.’

Eunice Henderson closed her eyes.

‘Miss, she must have been the Eunice that the old lady was nagging all the time on the train,’ whispered Dot, and Phryne nodded. The journey had been made unpleasant not only by the children, but also by an old woman’s partially deaf whine in the forward compartment, as unceasing as a stream and as irritating as the mosquito which had caused Phryne’s sleep to be so light. She had reflected during the journey that the mosquito was the lesser hazard, because it could be silenced with a vigorous puff of Flit.

‘Eunice, the window is shut—you know that I hate stale air!’ ‘Eunice, the window is open—you know that I hate a draught!’ ‘Eunice, I want my tea!’ ‘Eunice, you are so slow!’ ‘Eunice, when do we get to Ballarat?’ ‘Eunice, are you listening?’ ‘Eunice, where’s my novel? No, not that novel, you stupid girl, the one I was reading yesterday. What do you mean, you didn’t bring it? What other mother has to endure such a stupid, graceless, uncaring daughter? At least you’ll never marry, Eunice, you’ll be with me until I die—and don’t think you’ll get all my money—don’t frown at me, girl! No one loves a poor, deserted old woman! Eunice! Where are you going?’

Phryne thought that if Eunice had finally tipped Mother out the train, she could understand it. But it did not look as though she had. Surely Eunice would not have drugged the whole train—or burned herself so badly.

Under the burns and the soothing cream, Eunice was rather good looking. She had strong, clean features, rather masculine but well-formed, and curly brown hair kept firmly controlled under bandeau and net. Her eyes, Phryne remembered, were a rich brown, and she was long limbed and athletic. Why should her mother have been so sure that Eunice would never marry? Admittedly, there was a shortage of young men, and a superfluity of women, the War to End All Wars having slaughtered the manhood of the Empire, but they were there if one tried. Perhaps Eunice had never had the chance to try. Mother was a full-time career.

Dot poured herself another cup of tea and began to twist her plait into a knot, which meant that she was thinking.

‘Miss, could she have…?’

‘I don’t think so, Dot, because of the burns. She didn’t need to go through all this pretense. All she had to do was boost Mother out of the window, wait a few minutes, then stagger out into the corridor and faint. The train would be miles away by the time she ‘recovered’ and then all she had to do was gasp that Mother was looking out of the window, lost her grip and fell, and that would be that. No old lady would survive a fall from a fast moving train, at least, its unlikely. No. Someone altogether other has contrived this, and a clumsy attempt it is. The previous theory at least has the virtue of simplicity. This one is too elaborate and should not prove too hard to solve, if it is murder.’

‘If it’s murder, Miss? What else could it be?’

‘Kidnapping? Some frolic that went wrong? I don’t know, Dot. Let’s wait until we see what develops. Would you like to take a short nap? I can watch for a while—I’m not sleepy.’

‘Neither am I,’ said Dot. ‘I don’t want to ever sleep again!’

# # #

They watched until four in the morning, when a respectful, soft-footed maid came to ask if the Hon. Phryne Fisher could spare Sergeant Wallace a word.

Miss Fisher could. She rose from her seat on the floor and wrapped her cream dressing-gown around her and followed the maid into what looked to be the hotel’s breakfast-room. Phryne was too tired to be hungry, but thought longingly of coffee.

Miraculously, the policeman had before him a full percolator and several cups. He poured one for Phryne and she sat sipping gratefully and breathing in the steam.

This sergeant was one of the large economy-sized policemen, being about six-and-a-half-feet tall and several axehandles across the shoulders. The Australian sun had scorched his milky Celtic complexion into the hue of council house brick. His light grey eyes, however, were bright and shrewd.

‘Well, Miss Fisher, I’m Sergeant Wallace and I’m pleased to meet you. Detective-inspector Robinson says to give you his best regards.’

Phryne looked at this country cop over the edge of her coffee cup. He grinned.

‘I telephoned the list of passengers to the central office an hour ago, Miss Fisher, and Robbo was on duty. He recognized the name. Thinks a great deal of you, he does. We went to school together,’ he added. ‘Geelong Grammar. I won a scholarship, however. How are you, Miss? Feeling more the thing?’

‘Yes. But Miss Henderson is still very unwell—and worried about her mother. Have you found her?’

‘Yes, Miss, we’ve found her all right.’ ‘Dead?’

‘As a doornail. We brought her into Ballan a few minutes ago. Did you see her, Miss? To identify, I mean?’

‘Yes, I saw her,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I would know her again.’ She thought of the tiny, wizened figure, her thinning white hair carefully combed and dressed in a bun, her fingers laden with many emeralds.

‘Would you do it, then, Miss? I’m only asking to spare Miss Henderson, and they have no near relations. And Robbo, I mean Detective-inspector Robinson, has a high opinion of your courage, Miss Fisher.’

‘Very well. Let’s get it over, then. Lead the way.’

The huge policeman shouldered his way out of the breakfast room into a cold yard, and thence into a stable smelling of dust and hay and horses.

‘We put her in here for the moment, Miss,’ he said solemnly. ‘We’ll take her into the Coroner’s later. But I want to make sure that it’s the right woman.’

He lifted the lamp high, casting a pool of soft golden light. ‘Is this her, Miss Fisher?’ he asked, and drew back the blanket from an untouched face.

‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘Poor woman! How did she die?’ As she spoke her hands touched the skull, and felt the terrible dent where consciousness had been crushed. The skin was clammy and chill in the way that only the dead are cold. The eyes were shut, and someone had bound up the jaw. Mrs. Henderson wore no expression now but peace and faint surprise. There was nothing here to shock Miss Henderson. Phryne said so.

‘Maybe not from the face,’ said the sergeant grimly. ‘But have a look at the rest.’

Phryne drew off the blanket and stepped back a pace, astonished and sick. Such a fury had fallen on the old woman that scarcely a bone was whole. She was covered in red clay. Her limbs were broken, even her fingers twisted out of true, though no part of her seemed to be missing. She laid the blanket back over the wreck of a human creature and shook her head.

‘What could have done that? Did a train run over her?’ ‘No, Miss. The doctor has a theory, but it’s not a nice one.’ ‘Tell me, while we go back to the hotel,’ she said, taking the

sergeant’s arm. He closed the stable door carefully and waited until Phryne was seated with a fresh cup of coffee before he said, ‘The doctor reckons she was stamped on.’

‘Stamped  on?’ ‘Yes, Miss, by feet.’

‘Ugh, Sergeant, I hope your doctor is wrong. What a dreadful thought! Who could have hated her that much?’

‘Ah, there you have me, Miss. I don’t know. Now tell me exactly what happened this night, from the time you got on the train.’

Phryne gathered her thoughts, and began.

‘I boarded the train at six o’clock at Flinders Street Station with my companion Miss Williams, a bunch of narcissus, a picnic basket, a trunk, a suitcase, a hatbox and three novels for railway reading, intending to go to Ballarat to visit some of my cousins—the Reverend Mr. Fisher and his sisters. I believe that they are well known in the city and they were expecting me, so you can check with them, and tell them that I shall be along  as soon as I can. We  were seated in the fourth compartment  of the first-class carriage. We saw to the baggage, then had a cup of tea and a biscuit from the dining car. There I made the acquaintance of Miss and Mrs. Henderson, and the woman with the children.’

‘Mrs. Agnes Lilley, that is, Miss, and Johnnie, Ernest, and George.’

‘Quite. Those children were the most pestilential set of little nuisances who ever afflicted a train. Mrs. Henderson found them particularly annoying, I thought. I had a few words with that poor old lady on the subject of modern children and how they should have all been drowned at birth, and then Dot and I went back to the compartment. We had some tea in the thermos and we didn’t need to stay in the dining car. I noticed that the couple—’

‘Mr. Alexander Cotton and his wife, Daisy,’ put in the sergeant helpfully.

‘Yes, she seemed ill and nervous, and he was bringing her a cup of tea. A clumsy young man. He spilled it all over a passing child and I refilled it from my flask so that he didn’t need to go back to the dining car and doubtless spill it all over again. That sort of young man can continue being clumsy all night, if pressed. I also noticed that his wife is very pregnant, because I find expectant women uncomfortable travelling companions. I hoped that she wasn’t going to deliver in the train, which I believe is not uncommon. Can I have some more coffee?’

‘There’s none left.’ The sergeant pressed a bell, and the land- lady came to the door.

‘Could we have some more coffee, Mrs. Johnson? Is Doctor Heron still here?’

‘Yes, Bill, the doctor’s watching over one of them kids. He’s worried about the youngest. I’ll get some more coffee in a tick—shall I fetch the doctor?’

‘No need at the moment, just catch him if he looks like going home. Thanks, Mrs. J.’

‘I was reading one of my novels and Dot was asleep, and I dozed off over the pages with my light on, then I smelt chloroform. I woke up, and broke the window.’

‘Why did you wake up, Miss Fisher? Everyone else just seems to have got sleepier.’

‘I hate the smell of chloroform,’ said Phryne, lighting a gasper to banish the remembrance. ‘That sweet, cloying stench—ugh! I must have inhaled quite a lot, though, I could hardly move.’

‘How did you break the window, Miss?’

‘I hit it with my shoe,’ lied Phryne, who was not going to disclose the presence of her pistol unless she had to. ‘And I dam- aged the heel, blast it. A new shoe, too.’

Should the sergeant search, he would find Phryne’s high-heeled shoe with window glass in the leather and glass damage to the heel. Phryne had carefully ruined the shoe on the way to Ballan. She believed in being just as truthful as was congruent with sense and convenience.

‘Yes, and then what happened?’ asked the sergeant.

‘I staggered out and opened all the windows, and I pulled the communication cord.’

‘Yes, Miss, that was at 7:20 p.m. The guard looked at his watch—Railways policy, evidently—and how long do you think that opening the windows took?’

‘Oh, about ten minutes. I felt the train stop for a while when I was letting in the air.’

‘Ah, yes, Miss, that times it. Water stop for three minutes at 7:15 p.m.’

‘There was some sort of bump—I thought it came from the front of the train—but I was getting very wobbly by then.’

‘I’m sure you acted very properly, Miss Fisher. If you hadn’t broken that window, the whole carriage would have been gassed, and the doctor says that some of them kids would have been dead before the train got to Ballarat. A terrible thing, and Mrs. Henderson dead, too.’

‘Can she have fallen out of the window, do you think?’ ‘Fallen or been dragged,’ said the sergeant grimly. ‘Here’s the coffee. Thank you, Mrs. J.’

Mrs. Johnson withdrew reluctantly—it was not often that anything interesting happened in Ballan—and the sergeant poured more coffee for Phryne.

‘What did you see, Miss, when you opened each compart- ment door?’

He got out his notebook and licked his pencil.

‘In the compartment nearest me were Mr. and Mrs. Cotton. They seemed to have fallen under the influence together, for he had his arms around her and she had her face buried in his shoulder. They were half-conscious. Then there was Mrs. Lilley and her frightful children—she was stirring and moaning, but the children were all dead to the world…what an unfortunate meta- phor, I beg your pardon. In the first compartment the window was open, Mrs. Henderson was gone, and Miss Henderson was lying on the floor, prone, with a cloth half-over her face.’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘A skirt and blouse, and a woolly shawl. She had a spilled cup near her hand, as though she had dropped it where she fell. The smell of chloroform in that confined place was awful, it stung my eyes until I could hardly see.’

‘And then what did you do, Miss?’

‘I pulled the communication cord and the guards came, and we got everyone out of the train. Where is the train, by the way? You can’t have left it sitting on the line all this time, not if you haven’t closed the rail link altogether.’

‘No, Miss, we haven’t closed the line, not now we’ve found the body. The rest of the train has gone on to Ballarat, but the first-class carriage is still here in the siding, in case we can find a clue. You didn’t happen to notice anyone you didn’t know walking through the train, did you, Miss? After you came back from the dining car.’

‘Only a rather good looking young guard, blond, he was, with a very nice smile.’

‘A young man, Miss? I saw all the guards on that train, and there was none of ’em under forty.’

‘Are you sure?’ demanded Phryne, who had a clear recollection of a rather ravishing young face under the cap; unlined, smooth, tanned, and certainly not more than twenty-two or-three years old.

‘Quite sure,’ responded the sergeant. ‘Would you know this man again, Miss?’

‘I think so,’ temporized Phryne. ‘Perhaps. But you’d better start looking for a blond young man, Sergeant, because I think that he might be your murderer.’

Reviews of

Murder on the Ballarat Train: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries #3

“The third Phryne Fisher mystery is one of the standouts of the series, effortlessly matching a compelling plot with its irresistible heroine.”

Publishers Weekly

“On the train to Ballarat, 1920s Australian feminist flapper and private investigator Phryne Fisher wakes up to the smell of chloroform. She saves all her fellow passengers, except an old, cantankerous woman whose body is found at the side of the train tracks. While investigating the murder for the woman’s daughter, Phryne also takes in an amnesiac waif on the train who has no knowledge of why she is traveling in the opposite direction of her ticket. Compared with other mysteries, Greenwood’s stories are brief, but she holds her own, writing well-thought-out plots starring the intelligent, sexy, liberated, and wealthy Phryne. Greenwood lives in Melbourne, Australia.”

Library Journal

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