Read Death Before Wicket: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 10 for Free Online Page B

add her own Gauloise Gitane fumes and a dash of Jicky to the ambiance.
    The car left George Street West, took a road which crossed a paddock and some building works indistinguishable in the half-dark and passed through large iron gates attended by a sweating keeper dressed in the standard Australian costume: boots, shorts and a dustcoat. He waved the car through and shut the gates again.
    ‘Excuse me, Miss? Miss Fisher?’ The driver, who had not spoken a word, allowed the car to slow a little as they climbed toward a massive Gothic pile on a hill.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Miss, can I ask you a favour?’
    ‘Ask,’ said Phryne.
    ‘Could you sort of not mention to the VC that the gatekeeper’s improperly dressed?’
    ‘Was he? I didn’t notice. It’s not likely to arise in conversation,’ she assured the driver.
    ‘Thanks, Miss.’ His voice was so heartfelt that Phryne was curious.
    ‘Could the gatekeeper really get into trouble for his costume? I mean, he’s only there to open and shut the gate. One wouldn’t think…’
    ‘Oh, no, Miss, he could lose his place, and it’s a good job. He ain’t been the same since he came back from Villers-Bretonneux. He got blown up. He’s married to my sister. He’s supposed to wear what they call livery, like what I’m wearing, but he says it was wearing a uniform which got him buried in mud and anyway it’s too flamin’ hot to wear a uniform on a night like this and I have to agree with him.’
    ‘Me too. But I gather that the VC wouldn’t. What’s he like, then? You ought to know him better than anyone.’
    ‘He’s all right,’ said the driver slowly, running the car along the frontage of what looked like one of the larger Gothic churches. ‘But he’s set in his ways and he’s mad on the dignity of the University. He wants us to be like Cambridge and Oxford, and he’s disgusted by these lax Aussie ways.’ A suspicion of a grin was seeping into the driver’s voice. Phryne smiled into the rear-vision mirror.
    ‘Not a word,’ she promised. ‘Lord, what a building! There’s miles of it!’
    ‘Built by Sir Edmund Blacket, Miss, pride of Sydney. He also nicked the best land. The VC’ll tell you all about it. I’ll escort you in, Miss,’ said the driver, ‘and I’ll be back here at eleven to pick you up.’
    ‘Any tips?’ asked Phryne, allowing herself to be helped out of the Daimler.
    ‘Drink the sherry, not the madeira,’ said the driver. He was a middle-aged man with a gentle smile. ‘Don’t touch the fish.’
    The entry of an unescorted, exceptionally stylish woman into the Great Hall attracted a gratifying amount of attention, and Phryne was immediately grabbed by two gentlemen eager to make her acquaintance. She smiled benignly at each.
    ‘Miss Fisher? I recognised you immediately. James Cobbett asked me to look after you, introduce you around and so on. My name’s Bisset. Jeoffry Bisset. Reader in European languages.’
    ‘And the Vice Chancellor asked me to look after you,’ snapped a sharp voice. ‘M’ name’s Kirkpatrick. Professor of English.’
    ‘Delighted,’ said Phryne, ‘and I shall shamelessly retain both of you.’
    ‘Sherry or madeira?’ asked Bisset, who had been well trained in what a young woman required of an escort. Professor Kirkpatrick, who hadn’t, snarled something under his breath. The server stood poised with his heavy silver tray of little glasses. It appeared that sherry or madeira comprised the only beverages on offer and Phryne, forewarned by the driver, chose sherry. It was dry and young but perfectly pleasant.
    ‘Glad you chose the sherry,’ said Bisset. He was a tall, shambling young man with shaggy pale hair and vague blue eyes. ‘We’ll be introducing you to the VC soon and he thinks that women who drink madeira are…’ He subsided into silence, horrified by what he had just heard himself say, and Professor Kirkpatrick took the advantage.
    ‘Let me point out some of the interesting aspects of the