The Green Mill Murder (Phryne Fisher Series #5) [NOOK Book]

Overview

Phryne Fisher is doing one of her favorite things —dancing at the Green Mill (Melbourne’s premier dance hall) to the music of Tintagel Stone’s Jazzmakers, the band who taught St Vitus how to dance. And she’s wearing a sparkling lobelia-coloured georgette dress. Nothing can flap the unflappable Phryne—especially on a dance floor with so many delectable partners. Nothing except death, that is. The dance competition is trailing into its last hours when suddenly, in the middle of “Bye Bye Blackbird” a figure slumps ...
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The Green Mill Murder (Phryne Fisher Series #5)

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Overview

Phryne Fisher is doing one of her favorite things —dancing at the Green Mill (Melbourne’s premier dance hall) to the music of Tintagel Stone’s Jazzmakers, the band who taught St Vitus how to dance. And she’s wearing a sparkling lobelia-coloured georgette dress. Nothing can flap the unflappable Phryne—especially on a dance floor with so many delectable partners. Nothing except death, that is. The dance competition is trailing into its last hours when suddenly, in the middle of “Bye Bye Blackbird” a figure slumps to the ground. No shot was heard. Phryne, conscious of how narrowly the missile missed her own bare shoulder, back, and dress, investigates. This leads her into the dark smoky jazz clubs of Fitzroy, into the arms of eloquent strangers, and finally into the the sky, as she follows a complicated family tragedy of the great War and the damaged men who came back from ANZAC cove. Phryne flies her Gypsy Moth Rigel into the Australian Alps, where she meets a hermit with a dog called Lucky and a wombat living under his bunk….and risks her life on the love between brothers.
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Editorial Reviews

Booklist - David Pitt
Greenwood’s series, thanks to its sparkling evocation of how the 1920s roared Down Under, manages to stand apart from the crowd. Anyone who hasn’t discovered Phryne Fisher by now should start making up for lost time.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781615953585
  • Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
  • Publication date: 1/16/2012
  • Series: Phryne Fisher Series, #5
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 209
  • Sales rank: 19,752
  • File size: 665 KB

Meet the Author

Kerry Greenwood is the author of more than 40 novels and six non-fiction books. Among her many honors, Ms. Greenwood has received the Ned Kelly Lifetime Achievement Award from the Crime Writers’ Association of Australia. When she is not writing she is an advocate in Magistrates’ Courts for the Legal Aid Commission. She is not married, has no children and lives with a registered Wizard.
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Read an Excerpt

The Green Mill Murder

A Phryne Fisher Mystery
By Kerry Greenwood

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 1993 Kerry Greenwood
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-61595-358-5


Chapter One

Make my bed and light the light I'll be home late tonight Black bird, bye bye. 'Bye Bye Blackbird,' Ray Henderson

It was eleven by the Green Mill's clock when the cornet player went into a muted reprise in 'Bye Bye Blackbird,' and one of the marathon dancers plunged heavily and finally to the floor at Phryne Fisher's feet. She stumbled over him. His partner dropped to her knees with a wail.

The cornet player stopped mid-note. The tall Amazon with the bass gave one final, mellow plunk. Tintagel Stone stood up. The three musicians came forward as Phryne turned the man over with her foot and recoiled, dragging her escort with her. The jazz players bent over the fallen man, and a high female voice, much affected by gin, screamed, 'The manager! Call the manager!'

'Come away, Charles,' said Phryne calmly. 'There is something seriously wrong with that man.'

'Why, you don't mean that he's ...?' began Charles, and Phryne nodded.

It had been such a promising evening up until now, Phryne reflected, feeling Charles begin to tremble in her grasp. The monumental ceiling of the Green Mill glittered with electric stars. She herself glittered in a lobelia georgette dress with paillettes of Chinese white and diamantés. She had been dancing a foxtrot with Charles Freeman, sole scion of an extremely rich family, who was a tedious but socially acceptable escort. The two remaining contenders for the dance marathon prize (one baby Austin car, value £190) had been dragging themselves drearily around in ever-decreasing circles, requiring Phryne to dance carefully around them. She had been pleased with the dress, delighted with her dancing skill, and satisfied with her partner, who had been sufficiently snubbed to make him stop talking about his dead father's wealth and his own importance. She had been a little elevated on Grand Marnier, a flask of which reposed in her garter. She had been warmed by the admiring regard of the eponymous banjo player of Tintagel Stone and the Jazz Makers. His acetylene-blue eyes had been on her all night; they had produced an agreeable frisson.

Now she was stone-cold sober, and unenchanted, as she always was in the presence of death.

The dance marathon's surviving couple sank down, still wreathed in each other's arms, crying with exhaustion and relief and possibly triumph. Dancers milled about in the half- dark. Faces lit and vanished as the stars glittered. The manager glided onto the dance floor. He was a tall, distinguished man in perfect evening costume, worn with an Italianate air, and he summed up the situation instantly.

Dragging the marathon couple to their feet he proclaimed, 'The winners!'

They smiled sketchily as he hauled them bodily off the floor. After dancing for what seemed like years, they were so limp Phryne wondered that they did not sag out of Signor Antonio's grasp and melt down into aching puddles of ruined muscle. Both their faces were white and drained and they trembled as they stood on agonized feet. Blood seeped slowly out of the girl's shoes and stained the Green Mill's celebrated sprung floor.

'Percy McPhee and Violet King are the winners of the baby Austin car! They have danced for forty-seven hours and twenty-one minutes! Show your appreciation ladies and gentlemen, if you please!'

The patrons clapped appreciatively, Tintagel Stone's drummer gave a roll and a sting, and two waiters assisted Miss King and Mr. McPhee off the floor and into an alcove, where they were at last allowed to collapse. Miss King had begun to cry uncontrollably and Mr. McPhee did not seem far off it. They were set down on a sofa and fell instantly asleep.

'Signor, Signor Antonio, what about him?' asked a nervous waiter, pointing at the man on the floor. The signor flapped a dismissive hand. He had no patience with losers.

'Take him outside and revive him,' he said. The fallen man's partner, a girl in pale blue worn to a frazzle, ran her hand over his chest, made the discovery that Phryne knew she would make, and screamed.

'He's dead! There's blood! He's murdered!' She fainted.

And after that, of course, there was no more dancing.

The lights came up, revealing the Green Mill's dainty Dutch murals, all milkmaids and trees. Pallid faces, over-rouged or under-coloured, blinked in the glare. Nothing looks worse, thought Phryne, than a brightly lit hall which should be dim. And by God, most of the patrons looked as if they had crawled out from under the Green Mill, rather than entered through the door with a two-shilling ticket.

The girl in the pale blue dress was carried by the band to a couch, where a waitress attempted to revive her. Three bandsmen remained staring down at the corpse, the cornet player still holding his instrument out in front of him as if he had never seen it before. Phryne's escort was not proving to be of that sterling mettle which is expected of a Gentleman in a Crisis. Normally cold and aloof, he had cracked. Knuckles between teeth, he backed away from the dead man until he stumbled on the lower step of the bandstand, dislodged a cymbal, and sat down with a thump.

'I've never, I've never seen ...' he whimpered. 'I've never seen a corpse before! I've never ...'

'Well, well, pet, don't take on. Corpses can happen to anyone, you know,' soothed Phryne. 'You sit there quietly and have a little tot of this, and you'll feel better.'

She produced the flask of liqueur and unscrewed the top, pouring a liberal measure into it. This Charles took, trembling so much that Phryne had to hold both his hands and tip the spirit into his mouth. He choked, his eyes bulging like a fish, and Phryne patted him impatiently. Corpses, per se, did not discompose her. The evening looked like being more interesting than she had expected when she had accepted Charles Freeman's invitation to dance at the Green Mill, and she was not minded to be distracted by her escort developing the vapours.

'Bear up, man, it is not the dead you have to be afraid of. The living are much more dangerous.'

This produced another sob.

The blue eyes which had been observing her so closely all night were fixed on her now, and she turned from Charles to face Tintagel Stone's intense gaze. A pretty man, she thought, smoothing down her decorative dress, very pretty. Midnight-black hair and pale skin and lapis-lazuli eyes. She smiled and held out the flask.

'Have some?' she offered, and Tintagel accepted gratefully. He poured out a drink, gulped it down, and went back to the bandstand, putting his banjo carefully on its stand before holding out a hand to the bass player, who looked shocked. Phryne nodded, and Grand Marnier was served all round. The band retreated to their dais and looked around helplessly at the hysterical throng. The patrons, primed with gin brought into the Green Mill in defiance of all the licensing laws, were shrieking like an aviary full of bad-tempered tropical birds.

'What happened, Miss?' asked Tintagel Stone gravely, returning the depleted flask. 'Is that chap dead?'

'Oh yes,' said Phryne evenly, suppressing Charles' next whimper with a firm hand on his shoulder. 'And he has been murdered. Therefore we shall have to stay here until the police come, all very inconvenient.'

She heard a gasp behind her, and wondered which member of the band found this surprising.

'My name is Phryne Fisher,' she added, surveying Tintagel Stone with appreciation. 'Are you Mr. Stone? We may as well get comfortable. It is going to be a long night. Not, may I add, the sort of long night I envisaged, but a long night nevertheless.'

Charles gave another, more pathetic, choke, and shoved Phryne aside as he leapt up and ran. She was minded to be offended until she saw that his destination was the gentlemen's cloakroom, and was pleased that he still retained sufficient social grace not to be sick in company.

Tintagel Stone caught and steadied her. His forearms were very strong. A consequence of being a banjo player, perhaps? She rested both palms lightly against a beautifully muscled chest. Close to, his eyes were not lapis but sky-blue, and the wide mouth curved humorously. He smelt of wilting starched collar and orange liqueur, a combination new to Phryne.

'I can stand up by myself, you know,' she commented. 'And here come the cops. Oh, super!'

'Super? What's super about the cops?' snarled the cornet player, voice rising in mockery.

'What's good about the cops?'

'It's a nice cop,' said Phryne. 'It's Detective Inspector Robinson.'

Detective Inspector John 'Call me Jack, Miss Fisher, everyone does' Robinson entered the Green Mill with three attendant constables and was struck deaf by the noise. Voices ranging from lowest bass to shrillest soprano were clashing in a discordant symphony worse than Schoenberg. The huge hall was blindingly bright with every possible jazz colour. His entry caused a brief silence, then the din broke out again, voices exclaiming and crying and babbling on the edge of hysteria.

'If I handle this wrong,' thought Robinson, preserving his calm with an effort unperceived by his constables, 'there will be a riot, and the chief will have my guts for garters.' He walked into the middle of the hall and raised his hands.

'Quiet!' he bellowed in a great voice, and silence fell. He swallowed to regain his hearing and continued.

'Ladies and gentlemen, would you all sit down. There's no danger. I won't keep you long. But we'll all get home earlier if I have your full cooperation and some quiet. Thank you.'

There was a brief flurry as the dancers left the floor and conversation began again, more softly, and without the presage of panic. The crowd had drawn away from the figure lying quite still on the floor in front of the bandstand, as though fearing contamination.

'They needn't worry,' Detective Inspector Robinson remarked as he approached the corpse, regulation boots thudding like hammers on the sprung floor. 'Diphtheria's catching, but death ain't. Now, Sir, are you the manager? What's happened here?'

Signor Antonio, shocked out of his Italian accent, was wringing his hands and almost weeping with chagrin.

'In my establishment!' he whispered. 'It is too much!' His voice rose to a shout. 'You must find out who did it at once!'

'Oh, woe, alas,' quoted Phryne, perched on the bandstand. 'What, in our house?'

'Put on thy gown, look not so pale,' capped Tintagel Stone unexpectedly. 'I tell thee, Duncan's dead, and cannot come out of 's grave.'

Phryne looked her surprise, and he smiled a devastating smile, showing white teeth. Tintagel Stone, Phryne thought, would bear watching.

Detective Inspector Robinson sighted Phryne, sighed, and beckoned to her.

He was an unmemorable policeman, with mid-brown hair and mid-brown eyes, and he looked worried.

'Well, well, Miss Fisher, I ought to run you in for complicity; corpses bloom like daisies wherever you go, don't they? Did you see this?'

'Hello Jack, nice to see you, too. Yes, I saw it. Well, I was next to him, but I didn't see anyone stab him. Unless you think that it was really me, in which case you'd better put the cuffs on, guv'nor.'

Jack Robinson did not smile. He did not like mysteries. He was not wild about sudden deaths either.

'Police surgeon is on his way,' he commented.

'Why?'

'To pronounce life extinct.'

'I can pronounce to you now, Jack, that life is as extinct as it can possibly get. Poor man.'

The dead man was comely, youngish, with dark wavy hair on a round, childish head; a high-bridged Roman nose; full, rather sensual lips, and a bluish chin. Phryne had noticed him sagging into his partner's embrace, his face a mask of exhaustion and pain. Now he lay on his back with his feet to the band, his hands open and lax, his face calm and empty like the faces of all human husks in which the enlivening light has been doused. The only sign of injury was the round red spot on his left shirt-front where some long blade, expertly wielded, had pierced his heart.

Phryne bit her lip. He looked different from the first time she had seen him dead, but she could not bring to the surface of her mind what fact told her this.

'Dead as a doornail,' agreed Jack Robinson. 'But it's the procedure. What killed him?'

'A thin knife, I think, unless he just died of exhaustion. These dance marathons are a scandal. More like the good old days of the Colosseum than anything worthy of the twentieth century. I wonder that Signor Antonio hasn't brought in the lions.'

'He was in the marathon?'

'Yes, Jack, there were only two couples left. They had been dancing for two days, two days and nights. Criminal, isn't it? They were next to each other, blundering round in a circle, poor things, and then he fell. I tripped over him, the other two realized that they had won and slumped to the floor, and the manager came and proclaimed them the winners. I saw that this one was dead; he had that look, Jack, but before I could do anything sensible the partner discovered he was dead and screamed the place down. And there was something ...'

'Something?'

'Something different about him, but I can't recall what. The band came down to see what was happening, and the girl collapsed and was borne off to a sofa. She's over there, in pale blue. Then we all stood about and waited for you to arrive.'

'Who could have stabbed him?'

'Anyone, really. They had the lights down for the foxtrot and we were all moving.'

'Ah, dear, this is going to be one of those cases,' said Detective Inspector Robinson resignedly. 'They always are when you are involved, Miss Fisher. I'll get my constable to take all the names and addresses of the patrons, and you rack your brains to remember who was near you, and we'll ask them to stay.'

'Only me and Charles, and the plump lady in puce with that stout gentleman, and the other marathon dancers. The band might have seen something.'

'All right, I'll speak to you later, Miss Fisher. Ladies and gentlemen!' he announced in his big, confident voice. A sigh of relief went up from the apprehensive crowd. At last, someone who could Take Charge and tell them what to do. 'I'm afraid that I'm going to have to cut short your evening's dancing. If you would all proceed in an orderly manner to the foyer. There's a policewoman to search the ladies. Then if you would leave your details with the constables, you can all go home. I would like a word, however, with anyone who saw this poor chap fall, or was near when he did.'

A swift sort and a scurry of footsteps, a flourish of robes and coats and furs—some chinking suggestively as though glass bottles might be concealed therein—and the throng in the Green Mill was reduced to a few witnesses, Phryne, some recumbent bodies, and Tintagel Stone and the Jazz Makers.

The foyer of the Green Mill was huge, as large as the great hall of the Exhibition Buildings. The patrons were recovering from their shock and beginning to speculate, gossip, go into hysterics, faint, laugh or feel quietly nauseous, according to temperament. The constables wrote busily, and Signor Antonio stood at the door handing out apologies and tickets for next week's dance with distracted generosity.

The main doors swung shut. The huge hollow space which was the inside of the mill made itself felt. Someone was stopping the sails, which turned when the hall was open, and their noise was also cut off.

Detective Constable North was suddenly and piercingly conscious of the squeak produced by his new boots every time he moved. He was an experienced and somewhat battle-scarred cop, recently transferred from Vice.

Phryne went back to sit with the band and for the first time remembered her escort.

'Where's Charles? He should have thrown up his heart and been back by now.'

'Is he your husband?' asked Mr. Stone, with every appearance of really wanting to know.

'He does not have that honour,' said Phryne absently. 'No one does. I promised his mother that I'd look after him and he is a passable dancer. Damn it, where can he be? Oh, Constable,' she called to Detective Constable North, whom she had met in one of her forays into Fitzroy brothels to search for lost girls. 'There's a gentleman in the ... er ... Gentlemen's who was a witness. He might still be sick, he has never seen a corpse before. Can you hale him out? He's been gone a long time.'

Detective Constable North flicked a glance at his superior, who waved a hand, and then padded off to the cloakroom, trying not to squeak.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from The Green Mill Murder by Kerry Greenwood Copyright © 1993 by Kerry Greenwood. Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 27 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 27 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 25, 2015

    The Miss Fisher novels are perfect for tv because of her clothes

    Unless you know fashions you cannot imagine those of the great paris fashion houses gives both sides of society here in aussieland i would not call this a cozy since the seamy side is a little more detailed but a classic with a well do amateur detective perfect period piece watch series and enjoy the books good supporting casts from one book to another when you like the people in a book you read more

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 16, 2014

    Cougar of the Moutains &starf to Lilywolf

    I am from the Tribe of Rushing Water. We were very active then we died out. I have decided to bring it back! I was wondering if we could be the tribe in the pact clans. Our new camp is located at 'frozen ocean'all reses. We are small beacause we just came back to life. I hope you will allow us to be a part of the pact clans~~Cougar of the Mountains,leader of Tribe of Rushing Water

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 7, 2014

    Help please!

    Where is Rainclan's camp?

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 3, 2014

    Deercloud to Lilywolf! Urgent!

    Camp is gone! Aaaaaahhhhhh!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 31, 2014

    Rosepetal

    Ungrounded but Lily, I'm going to get things set up nicely for Pandemonium in the coming days and then my story so don't expect me when you return! ~&real &hearts~

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 27, 2014

    MESSAGE FOR ALL

    PLEASE CHECK YOUR BORDERS AND SUCH! IM TRYING TO DO STUFF BUT NO ONE IS RESPONDING!! ~Mistpaw (not Mistypaw.)

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2014

    SeedStorm

    I don't think the prophecy should be based around a cat from the clans. Don't take this the wrong way, but some cats might think you're trying to make it all about you. I'm not saying that I think you would do that, I'm just warning you.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2014

    Wolftooth

    I like the Great Journey idea!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 8, 2014

    To Ahh

    Rainclan is at "edge of freedom" result one.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 25, 2014

    Flameclaw

    We should do a great journey kind of thing since the twolegs are moving in. They are heading towards Horseclan territory next - Ashclan

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 27, 2014

    Thistletail

    Fyi, the prophecy isn't about me at all. But maybe Dawn jus acts strange, and we assume it's the prophecy- but the prophecy turns out to be unreal.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 22, 2014

    To below

    The current tribe is rising out of the ashes. So do not expect to replace us anytime soon. ~tigernight

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 24, 2014

    Um...

    I don't know if this is the right place to ask...but where is the Tribe and the Rogue Group located? I REALLY want to join, but can't seem to find them anywhere. If anyone answers, can you PLEASE include book names? My results get mixed up. Thank you all so much. <p> ~A loyal Pact Clan RPer

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 22, 2014

    |Question/Discussion Box|

    Hello everyone and wel

    |Question/Discussion Box| <br />

    <br />

    Hello everyone and welcome to the Question/Discussion Box. This is a place that should only be used by those who rp in the pact clans. Here people can ask me or anyone else questions about the pact clans (be sure to look around for the answers in my other posts at the bottom of each pact clan book so you do not ask a question I have already addressed). They can also make suggestions for the future of the pact clans. These suggestions can range from things that only effect two clans such as battles to events that effect all the clans like a huge natural disaster or other catastrophe. Make sure that your idea is well thought out before posting it here to save time and prevent confusion. Clan leaders can coordinate attacks with other clans and people can suggest prophecies or other events that involve Starclan or The Dark Forest in this result. If the idea is big enough we will vote on it here to ensure that people want to go through with it. It is very important for the sake of us not becoming bored that we brainstorm new ideas regularly and plan them out so that as many people as possible can contribute. So come up with as many ideas as you can for battles, prophecies, betrayals, natural disasters, ect. as you can! Just remember they need to be realistic, agreed on by whoever is involved, and practical to rp. I will try to check this box daily but you can always find me at Horseclan's camp! Brainstorm away! <br />

    <br />

    ~ Question/Discussion Box: Lilywolf, Original Pact Clan Organizer.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2014

    Lilywolf

    Seedstorm has a point. I mean that's fine but just be prepared for not everyone to be as enthusiastic. But evil cats are interesting. ~ Lilywolf &hearts

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 20, 2014

    Very entertaining

    I read this novel aloud on a long card trip and it made the time speed by. I found it after watching the TV shows and it is different enough to make reading worthwhile.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 10, 2013

    Cozy British mystery

    Set in Australia. Flapper era. Not as good as the Maise Dobbs books. Cheap, quick read.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Excellent historical mystery

    The Honorable Phryne Fisher accompanies Charles Freeman to Green Mill, a dance hall that was very popular in Australia in the 1920¿s. She promised his mother that she would look after her son when one of the participants in a dance hall is knifed to death. He was behind Phryne who didn¿t see the actual stabbing but when her escort sees the bloody body, he gets sick and runs into the men¿s room. By the time the police arrive on the scene, Charles has disappeared. --- His mother, a cruel and hateful virago, asks Phryne, who moonlights as a private detective, to find him. She discovers Charles is gay and possesses pictures that could get him killed since at that time and place sodomy was against the law. When she finally finds Charles she hands him over to the police even though she doesn¿t think he is the killer. She also has to make a trip to the outback to find Victor, the brother who Charles believes is dead because his mother told him so. Mrs. Freeman wishes Victor was dead so she would inherit the house and money as her late husband left her with nothing. Phryne finds a confrontation between the two brothers is inevitable. --- THE GREEN MILL MURDER is so much more than a murder mystery, it is a journey into the heart of a family, a trip into the new musical world of jazz and it is the story of a woman who lives her life her way regardless what society thinks. 1920s Australia comes to glorious life in Kerry Greenwood¿s capable hands, but though the mystery is superb, the locale vivid, and the era descriptive, readers will continue reading this series because the heroine is such a fascinating character. --- Harriet Klausner

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 9, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 27, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

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