Phryne had had enough, she stormed out of the parlour and out to where Dot was resolutely beating the rugs. It looked like a good way to work off some of her anger.
"Miss," Dot spun round, "I thought you were with your father."
Miss Fisher balled her hands into fists, her whole frame stiffened, she held out her hand for the beater.
Dot could see she needed more than a stiff drink, something more ... physical. The atmosphere between the Lady Detective and her father had gone from cool to positively arctic over the two weeks he had been around. She had confided in her faithful companion that she was not on the best of terms with her father, that he had been a less than gentle and nurturing parent, locking her in a cupboard to try and control her and doling out beatings when he came home the worse for drink. Dot could not envisage such cruelty to a child and was rather glad locking her in a cupboard hadn't worked. She handed the carpet beater to her mistress and stood back.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Phryne was glowing with exertion, the rugs were dust free when Jack appeared at the kitchen door. He leant against the frame as she handed the beater back to Dot and turned on her heel. She stopped, mid step and grimaced.
Jack grinned, she was red of cheek, her normally sleek bob had been periodically pushed back with her fingers. He thought she looked adorable.
"Housework, Miss Fisher?" he teased.
"Temper, Inspector," she almost snapped, then sighed. "Sorry, father ..."
"Ah ..." he nodded, knowingly. "Would a murder help?"
"His?" she raised her eyebrows, hopefully.
"Er... no," he shook his head and looked down to hide his smirk. He understood. Henry Fisher had arrived in Melbourne, tried to charge his room at a hotel to Mrs Stanley, borrowed money off his daughter to keep a theatre troupe going and appeared every single time she had tried to have a quiet dinner with him. Truthfully, he was almost ready to strangle him, himself.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He waited patiently in the kitchen while she went to wash and change, dead men were never in a hurry to go anywhere. He didn't really need her help, but while she was venting her fury on the rugs Mr Butler had called to say his mistress could do with reason to be away from the house.
She appeared, hair brushed, make-up re-applied, wearing white silk trousers, a red blouse with wide white edging, matching coat and cloche - perfectly Phryne. She carried a small red handbag that he knew would hold her gold pistol, handkerchief and small purse.
Neither spoke as he opened the door for her and escorted her to his car, where he opened the passenger door and allowed her to settle herself comfortably before shutting the door quietly and nodding - as if he were her chauffeur.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"So, Jack," she breathed, "what have we got?"
"We have a dead body, Miss Fisher," he joined the traffic and set course for the hospital morgue, "a young man, apparently recovering well from an injury sustained while horse-riding. Found in his bed by the maid, who was bringing him his breakfast, stone cold."
"The breakfast?" she raised an eyebrow.
"The body, Miss Fisher," he kept his eyes on the road to avoid grinning at her.
"What was the injury?"
"He fell off, backwards, fractured skull, dislocated shoulders, unconscious for several hours ... not likely to be fatal, not even the skull fracture." He parked neatly in the hospital car park, "so his death is surprising."
"Any enemies?" she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, "anyone want him dead?"
"Not as far as I know," he allowed her to precede him through the door to the morgue, "I'll take you over to his house after this, if you like."
"You're being remarkably open about this case, Inspector, you don't usually ask for my help." She looked up at him and tipped her head.
"Yes, well ... Mr Butler phoned, and I'd rather not have to arrest you for patricide," he moved round to the opposite side of the table and picked up the clipboard with the doctor's findings on it. "Raymond Cross, thirty one years old ... ah, death was due to ... drowning?"
"I thought he was found in bed?" Phryne lifted the sheet covering the body. He was slightly built, some bruising on his shoulders from his fall, she assumed ... or were they? "Jack," she folded the sheet tidily across his chest, "these bruises ..."
He put the board down and went to look, "yes, from his fall."
"They look a bit fresh to me," she waved a gloved finger over the right one, "surely they should have started to go yellow or have even disappeared by now."
"Hm," he stood over the body and placed his hands lightly over the bruises, "hands, just here ..."
"That would be painful," she observed, "and look, here," she pointed to his nose, "finger bruises."
Jack picked up the board again and read down to the analysis of the liquid Mr Cross had in his lungs. "Tap water."
"So," she stood back, "hold him down, hold his nose and pour water, quickly into his open mouth ... he wouldn't be able to swallow fast enough."
"But where did it happen?" he covered the body again, "he was in bed, the linen and pillows were dry."
"How long has he been dead?" Phryne reached over for the report, "eight hours or so."
"Come on, Miss Fisher," he held the door open for her, "time for a little sleuthing."
She grinned, she could almost forget that her father was currently availing himself of her food and drink, laundry services and household in general.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Raymond Cross lived in a small bungalow in Malvern. It was a neat red brick building, surrounded by a small garden mainly laid to lawn.
"Does he live alone?" Phryne asked, as they walked up the short path, "any family, staff?"
"Just a maid, does everything for him, cooking, cleaning ... " he knocked smartly on the red door, newly painted from what she could make out. It was opened by the maid, who had obviously been crying.
"Hello, again, Miss Harris," Jack removed his hat, "this is Miss Fisher, she is a private detective I've asked to help in this matter."
"Oh," Miss Harris sniffed, "right." She stood aside and looked down as Phryne gave her a gentle smile.
Phryne looked around. The hall in which they stood was pristine, a small table housed the phone, over which hung a small oil painting, Rembrandt-esque in its style and technique. She raised an eyebrow, while admitting to herself that not all old masters were in galleries and museums, and there were bound to be some out in the big wide world that weren't attributed one way or another. It could be a student's work. She decided to reserve judgement, but,
"What was the source of Mr Cross's income?" she asked, conversationally.
"He had independent means, miss," the young woman whispered.
"I see," Phryne mused, "I see ..." she waved her hand at the painting, "... he had an interest in art."
"Oh, yes, miss," the girl brightened, "he was always looking out for something to hang in a spare corner. That's a copy, done by a student at the university, but he has some real antiques too."
"Has he acquired anything recently?" Jack stepped in, this could be the route they needed to go down.
"Yes, sir," she turned and smiled, "two Chinese vases, they're Ming, apparently. He's been teaching me about art history and antiques."
Phryne could see the girl was genuinely interested and at the same time wondered if it was just housekeeping she did for Raymond Cross.
"Where did he get them?"
Miss Harris showed them into the parlour where two Chinese style vases were displayed in a cabinet. Phryne went to look more closely, not that she knew much about Ming vases but she knew someone who could enlighten her.
"He bought them from a dealer, who imported them from an estate in England."
"May I?" Phryne put her hand on the catch.
"Oh, er, yes, I suppose so, I'll get the key." Miss Harris scuttled out of the room to fetch the key.
"Jack," Phryne pulled him to one side, "we had a pair identical to those, back in the house in Somerset. Only ours are Victorian copies, not worth much at all," she whispered.
"So..."
"I think that Lin would be the best to appraise these," she looked at him, for judgement.
Before he could comment Miss Harris returned with the key to the cabinet.
"I only put them in there this morning." she watched as Phryne picked one of the vases up and turned it around, "we unpacked them last week, Mr Cross looked at them and asked what I thought."
"And what do you think, Miss Harris?" Phryne looked closely at the base of the one she was holding.
"Well," she thought for a moment, "honestly?"
"Honestly ..." Phryne nodded seriously.
"I think they're fakes." It came out in a rush and she reddened at, what she considered, her audacity.
"What brings you to that conclusion?" Jack questioned.
"If you look at them the pattern is not clear enough, it blurs at the edges, the blue is lighter than it should be and the mark on the base is shaky."
"Mr Cross has taught you well," Phryne smiled, "I was going to suggest we get them appraised by a friend of mine, who would know, but I know where these came from."
"Really, Miss Fisher?" Miss Harris gasped, "how so?"
"There is a little chip, here, on the top," the Lady Detective pointed to a barely discernable variation in the line. "That's my fault. I knocked it over when I was younger. It was kept on a table in the hall and I was sliding down the banister ..." she grinned at the memory. "There is also a crack that runs down from it. Boots was in the hall and managed to stop further damage by catching it just as it hit the newel post."
"Did Mr Cross have the same opinion as you?"
"He did, he said he was going to speak to the importer and ask for his money back. He paid for genuine Ming," she folded her arms. "I placed a call to him and asked him to come over. Mr Cross cancelled the cheque so we expected him over quickly."
"And?" Jack looked at Phryne, she was obviously furious and he could guess why. It would appear her father was selling fakes as the real thing, indulging in a fraudulent practice.
"He came over last night, but I was going out, to a exhibition of Venetian glass at the museum. It was an invitation only, and as Mr Cross was unable to attend he asked me to go and then tell him what I thought."
"Did you speak to Mr Cross when you returned?" Jack asked, writing some notes in his pocket book.
"No," her lip trembled, "it was late, he asked me not to and ... oh god," she burst into fresh tears, "he killed him, didn't he, the importer? While I was out."
"His name, Miss Harris," Jack asked gently.
"I'll get his card."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
As they drove away Jack cast a sideways glance at her. She was stony faced, angry with her father for putting Cross in this position, all because he couldn't control his spending.
"Jack," she whispered, her voice shaky, "this, that father has done, is fraud. I need to speak to mother, to find out if it is the first time he has done this. It seems to have been done rather easily."
"Phryne," he pulled over, "first let's find the importer, this Grandison bloke, he's the one that has lost out, his fee for finding the vases, the money he would have spent shipping them out from England - unless your father brought them in, in his suitcase."
"Avoiding import duty," she muttered, setting her mouth in a thin line.
"Quite," he put his hand on her arm, "you can't protect him this time," he sighed.
"I have no intention of doing so," she huffed, angry tears filled her eyes.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Albert Grandison was not hard to find, or to admit what he had done. He was a rotten liar, according to Phryne, trying to blame Miss Harris, but eventually, after Phryne had assured him that the man who sold him the vases as genuine Ming was about to get the shock of his life, he admitted he had held the weaker man down and his partner poured the drinking water from the jug on Cross's nightstand into his throat while holding his nose. The partner, Abel Cain (his parents' idea of a joke, he huffed when Jack raised his eyebrows at the name) was in the warehouse and went quietly.
As Hugh Collins took both men away to the cells he passed the Inspector the post from that morning, pointing out one from England.
Jack sat in his chair while Phryne took her usual position on the corner of the desk and poured them both a whisky. He was about to apologise for having to go and arrest her father when he saw where the letter had come from - the Metropolitan Police, London.
He sat up and put his glass down. Opening the letter his brow furrowed, "oh bloody hell," he muttered.
Phryne gasped, she didn't remember Jack ever swearing, certainly not in front of her.
"Phryne," he looked up at her, sorrow all over his handsome features, "it's worse than just the vases." He passed her the letter.
She read down the page, her face growing darker and darker with rage.
"He had no right, they are mine!" she threw the letter down on the desk and the whisky down her throat.
"Which is why your mother has reported them stolen and why the police are searching for your father," he picked up the letter, "and, it would appear she has told them he is likely to be visiting you."
"Well, they can have him!" she snapped and slid off the desk.
"Wait!" he grabbed her arm. "Wait, Phryne, he won't go quietly, will he?"
Her shoulders sagged, he was right.
"So, how do we get him home, without him running off when the ship docks in a port, or the plane stops to refuel, Jack?" She couldn't think, it was all too hurtful, what he had done. Taken the paintings Sarcelle had done and gifted to her all those years ago, and while some of the memories were painful in the extreme, the paintings were the one good thing that had come out of her time in Paris.
"Go with him," he said, "you can hold on to his passport ..."
"Jack, really?" she groaned. The prospect of a month long sea journey or an eleven day flight with only her father for company made her heart sink. "Surely he needs a police escort."
The phone rang, interrupting their thoughts.
"Inspector Robinson, yes ... I see ... I suppose so." He appeared to be thinking while conversing with whoever was on the other end of the line. "Well, in that case, I'd better go ... no, sir, he won't get away." He put the phone down and leant back in his seat. "Would you go if you had someone else for company?" A twinkle appeared in his eye.
"Jack?" she drew the question out.
"That was the Chief Commissioner, the Met sent him a copy if this letter. He wants your father escorted to England on the first boat that is going that way. Said officer is to hand him over to the Met and return when the case is finished."
"So ..." she started to smile, "you've just volunteered, haven't you?"
"The state will pay my passage, though it won't be luxurious, and your father's equally as basic ..."
"Can I upgrade you?" she smirked, certain thoughts in her mind, and she had a feeling in his too, "perhaps a stateroom?"
"And your father?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, he can languish in the bilges," she shrugged, "or sort himself out."
"Only, it will be your money he uses, again," Jack reminded her.
"True, well," she returned to her perch on the corner of his desk and poured another whisky for them both, "he can have what the state will pay for, you can hold his passport, and, Jack ..." she grinned, "... perhaps we can have dinner together, just the two of us."
He grinned back and raised his glass.
"How do we get him on board, he'll go into hiding if we tell him what's going on?" she sighed.
"We don't," he sipped his drink, "we book the trip, first, then you load him into the taxi, the red raggers will help, Mr Butler can pack for him, and take him to the docks with you, no handcuffs, just a trip home with his daughter. I'll join you on board."
"Jack, you are sneaky," she smiled, "I rather like that."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They spent the next two hours arranging the passage to England: she booked a stateroom for herself, a smaller, but luxurious berth for Jack, which Phryne had no intentions he would be using, much, and what the state would pay for her father, second class, which she declared was more than he deserved.
"Well," Jack sighed, "I suppose I'd better take you home."
"I'd invite you for dinner, but it does mean ..." she heaved a sigh.
"No worries, I'll accept the invitation, knowing we will not be alone and able to discuss the trip."
She thought he was more than she deserved. Most men would have given up by now, and just dropped her off at the door, but Jack put up with Henry, just so he could spend some time in her company. It would be a week before they sailed, until then they had to keep up the pretence that everything was alright, make sure he didn't get any mail from his wife and continue to allow him to stay in Phryne's home.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They stood in the doorway, trying not to appear too annoyed as Henry smiled and greeted them as if it were his home. Phryne looked at Jack, he rolled his eyes and nodded.
"I'll just go and see what Mr Butler has decided on for dinner, Jack," she touched his arm, "let him know how many to set for. Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll change."
"Of course, Miss Fisher," he bowed his head politely, knowing he would have to spend at least an hour in the Baron's company.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Mr Butler was stirring something on the stove, it smelled delicious and Phryne's mouth watered.
"Good evening, Miss," he turned and smiled his gentle smile, "I wondered, perhaps, if the Inspector is dining tonight?"
"He is," she leant on the table, "for his sins."
"Perhaps, miss," Mr Butler moved the pot to the back of the stove, "as it's a warm night, a picnic on the foreshore?"
"Oh, Mr Butler," she sighed, "I think I'll propose you for sainthood."
"Most kind, miss," he inclined his head and lifted the picnic basket from beneath the table.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Phryne skipped up the back stairs to her room and into her bathroom. She didn't have time for a bath, so settled for a shower and a liberal coating of her favourite body lotion. She slipped her bathing costume on under a lilac silk dress, with a low round neck with wide collar attached, short sleeves and a pleated sash just above her hips, tied to hang to one side. The edges were decorated with a delicate white lace dotted with paste amethysts. She went bare legged and wore some light strappy sandals with a very low heel. Picking up a wide brimmed hat that she had tied a lilac scarf round, and a towel, she headed back down the back stairs to the kitchen.
The picnic basket was on the table, all she needed was someone to share it with.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Henry was going on and on about the theatre, how he had great plans to redecorate, new seats were needed, more modern lighting ...
Jack barely heard him. He sipped a whisky, slowly, not wanting to be even slightly tipsy when dinner was served. It was going to be a long voyage.
"Excuse me, Inspector," the imperturbable Mr Butler had entered the parlour without a sound, "but you are wanted ..."
"Thank you, Mr Butler," he put down his glass, "looks like duty calls, Lord Fisher," he bowed his head and followed the older man out of the room.
In the hall Mr Butler stopped him, before he opened the front door.
"No, sir, this way," he indicated he should follow him to the kitchen, "Miss Fisher is waiting in here."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Phryne was smirking at a parcel sitting next to the picnic basket. She had decided Mr Butler must be clairvoyant and was very much looking forward to seeing Jack in the bathers he had seen fit to procure for him.
"Ah, Jack," she grinned, "you're not dressed for this evening's activities, but thanks to Mr B you soon will be." She held up the costume, "can't go swimming in your suit, Inspector."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They had secreted the picnic basket under the pier, disrobed and run, laughing, into the water, splashing each other like children. Phryne swam away from him, or tried to, but Jack was a strong swimmer and caught her ankle, pulling her backwards and under. They surfaced, locked in an embrace, clinging on to each other. Jack was grateful for the chill of the water helping to keep his need under control. Locking her ankles behind him and just above his bottom she pushed her fingers through his hair and bent her head down, touching his lips with hers. They deepened the kiss until a wave knocked them over. She stood up first, throwing her head back and laughing with pure delight. He pulled her back down and they rolled in the surf until they both found the sand getting into places they'd rather it didn't. A quick dip in the sea to wash it away and they headed to the pier to see what Mr Butler had provided.
They shared small sandwiches, slices of pork pie and cold ham, pieces of cheese. Fresh, sweet tomatoes, crisp, sharp apples and succulent strawberries; all washed down with a perfectly chilled Chenin blanc. Jack leant against a convenient rock and sighed, it had been years since he had been so carefree, yet he wasn't. He had the responsibility of getting Lord Fisher back to England and handing him over to the Metropolitan Police in London, and the small matter of keeping the Honourable Phryne Fisher out of trouble, though that was his personal responsibility, nothing to do with the case. Still, it would make the journey more interesting, and easier than if he was on his own with his lordship.
"When do we tell your father what is going on?" he lifted his arm so she could nestle against his chest, "it's not as if we can keep it a secret, with him in second class."
"I suppose once we set sail," she settled herself comfortably just in the space below his collarbone, "as long as he doesn't get to see his berth, or you, until then."
"Well, I expect there will be a lot of waving people off," he rested his cheek on the top of her head, she smelt of sea and jasmine body lotion, "so that should keep him occupied until it's too late."
They sat in silence for a while. She felt comfortable there, against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.
"Come on, Miss Fisher," he patted her arm, "time to go home."
"I suppose so," she reluctantly pushed up from her position, "I need to talk to Mr B, and Dot ..." she sighed.
"... the red raggers?" he smiled and stood up, extending his hand to her.
"Yes, them too," she let him pull her to her feet, "I wonder if Aunt P would like some extra staff, she doesn't have a butler and Dot can turn her hand to most things."
"She and Collins are getting married, though," he slipped his trousers and shirt on, over his bathing costume, still slightly damp and waited while Phryne slipped her dress over hers.
"Mmm ... true," she picked up her shoes, hat and towel, "but she doesn't want to sit at home waiting for Hugh. They have agreed she will be a working wife."
"Really?" he lifted the basket and held out his hand, "I would have thought he would expect her to give up her job."
"He did, until she handed the ring back," she took his hand and they began their walk back to Wardlow, "Dot is not going to be a push over."
Jack laughed, some of Phryne was rubbing off on the young woman, he thought.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Phryne didn't see too much of Jack over the following week, he had paperwork to finish and the station to organise for his temporary replacement. She spoke to Mr Butler while her father was out, and Dot she took out to tea at the Windsor. But first she went to see her aunt.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Hello, Aunt P," she called, climbing out of the Hispano, "how's the decorating?" she grinned cheekily. Re-decorating was the excuse Mrs Stanley had given when her brother in law had tried to engineer a stay at her house.
"Phryne, dear," Prudence greeted her with a kiss to her cheek, "now, don't be naughty, child, you know it was the only thing I could think of to stop your father getting comfortable here." She looked around, "he isn't with you, is he?"
"Absolutely not, Aunt P, why on earth would I do that to you?" Phryne linked arms with her and they headed into the house.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"So, why the visit?" Prudence rang for tea, "not that I don't enjoy your visits ..."
"Just wanted to let you know I'm taking father back to England, by sea," Phryne and Jack had agreed she didn't need to know what he had been up to, "and wondered if you would like temporary use of Mr B and Dot. Though, as Dot is about to get married, you might just have to make do with her part-time."
"Oh, well ..." Prudence held Mr Butler in high regard, and thought Dot was sweet and an excellent seamstress.
"I shall continue to pay their wages," Phryne wondered if this was reason for her reticence.
"It's not that dear, of course, I can afford to pay them myself," Prudence brushed that aside, "I would certainly find Mr Butler useful, and Dorothy too, but are you sure?"
"Well, I can't really throw them out on the streets, can I?" Phryne smiled, "and Dot will want to be kept busy. I thought I might suggest she and Hugh stay at Wardlow, temporarily, until I get back. Dot can carry on detecting and helping Hugh and whoever is in charge at City South."
"City South?" Prudence sat up, "where will Inspector Robinson be?"
"He's going to England too," she and Jack had agreed Prudence was to know this much, "on a case."
"Well, perhaps he can help you keep your father in line," Mrs Stanley pursed her lips, "he can be rather a handful, dear, and I know you aren't exactly close."
"He drives me mad, Aunt Prudence," Phryne answered truthfully, "so yes, I suppose having Jack around will help. I'm not looking forward to it, I can tell you."
"Just make sure he doesn't spend all your money in the bars and at the card tables," Prudence warned.
"Perhaps I should make him an allowance, until we get home," Miss Fisher laughed, "treat him like an adolescent."
"A small one, dear," Prudence smiled.
So it was settled: Mr Butler would remove himself to Mrs Stanley's home the day after Phryne left for England, Dot would go over three times a week, unless she was needed more often, and Prudence refused to let Phryne pay their wages.
Only Jack and Phryne knew the true reason for Lord Fisher going home.