DEATH BEFORE WICKET - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

Death Before Wicket 1
‘Why would he want me out of the way?’
‘My dear Professor.’ Phryne leaned close and kissed Edmund
Brazell on the mouth. ‘He must have heard of your views. How
would you feel about the establishment of a great big copper
mine in the middle of your desert? The Aborigines, of course,
don’t matter. They aren’t citizens. Their views on having their
landscape demolished and desecrated are irrelevant. They can’t
effectively protest about Hart and Co. charging about, removing
their landscape and sending it away in large sacks. Not a
newspaper inch in the views of desert people—why should they
have views, just because they live there? However, you are in a
position to make a scandal, but only before the miner’s right
has been made. After that there would be nothing that you
could do. Twig?’ asked Phryne, and sipped from her third glass
of Chateau Petrus.
‘I’m unwilling to doubt your word, Phryne, but…’
‘Just wait.’ Phryne walked to the edge of the well.
‘Hello down there,’ she called. A stream of language replied,
tinging the air blue. The speaker was unhappy about his confinement
and was offering to do a number of biologically impossible
things to the person who had caused him to occupy this
blasted well.
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Phryne, ‘or I’ll just put the lid back
and I bet your knickers won’t burn like mine. Getting wetter
underfoot, is it? Happens in a well. Springs. But you’d know about
that, wouldn’t you? Being a geologist. Or are you a surveyor?’
‘I’m a miner, lady, and if you don’t get me out of here…’
threatened the voice.
‘What will you do?’ asked Phryne. ‘Tunnel?’
The reply could not have been printed in any reputable
newspaper and Phryne walked away, to resume her seat on the
butler’s chair.
‘I hope he comes around soon,’ she commented.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s got the key to the door,’ said Phryne. ‘Do you
reckon that pouring water on him might work?’