Brighter
Author: Firebird9
Rating: K+
For FoxFireside, in response to the prompts 'lipstick', 'buttons', and 'lightning'.
Title is a reference to the song 'Connect Five' by Sheryn Binks.
"Let's get this done quickly, Collins," Jack advised his constable as they arrived at the location of their murder victim of the day. The day was swelteringly hot, and ominous dark clouds were massing on the horizon. He didn't wait for Collins to reply but instead strode out across the lawn of the large country estate towards the knot of people gathered on the far side. Standing in their midst, distinctive even at a distance in a rose-coloured dress made of some sumptuously clinging fabric, was Phryne Fisher.
"Jack! How good of you to join us." She might as well have been greeting him at a party rather than acknowledging his arrival at the crime scene to which she herself had summoned him.
"The photographer will be here with the hearse," he told her without preamble, as she led him down the bank of an artful and artificially-perfect little gully to where the body of a young man lay with his neck twisted on an odd angle.
"Alex O'Grady, nineteen year old stable-hand," she informed him.
He nodded and ran a brief eye over the scene before turning back to her. "What makes you so sure this was a murder? From where I'm standing, it looks as though he could have fallen and broken his neck."
"Possibly," Phryne agreed, in the tone of voice that said she was about to refute him. "But it seems unlikely to me."
A distant rumble of thunder punctuated her words, and Jack thinned his lips. He did not want to be out here when that storm broke. "Collins, start taking statements from the other witnesses while Miss Fisher and I examine the scene. Where the hell is that photographer?" he added in a fierce mutter.
"There are no marks on the body to indicate a fall; no blood or bruising," Phryne continued, as they crouched by the corpse. "No marks on his hands where he might have tried to save himself. Don't you think that odd?"
Jack looked back up the bank, noting the broken scrub. "Has anyone apart from you and I been down here since you found the body?"
"No," Phryne shook her head. "And I didn't come down until you arrived." She returned his surprised look with a withering expression, waving one hand up the bank in the general direction of her companions. "I'm not a complete idiot, Jack. If I'd come down here to take a closer look half of them would have followed me, and there goes your crime scene. Although," she added, as a sudden chill breeze skittered over them, "if your photographer doesn't hurry up all my efforts will have been wasted. This gully'll very likely turn into a stream once that storm breaks."
"Mmm," he agreed. Now that he looked, he could see that the evidence did indeed point to a dumped body rather than a fall. "It looks as though he rolled down from up there. Look at the way the plants have been broken."
"Oh yes." The damage hadn't really been visible from above, but from this vantage point it was obvious that the body had broken a wide swathe consistant with being rolled down rather than slipping, and Phryne scrambled back up for a better look, heedless of her dress and shoes. Something fluttering on one of the broken branches caught her eye and she edged closer, trying not to slip. Reaching out, she snagged a piece of fabric. "Does this match anything the victim's wearing?" she asked as she brought it back to Jack.
Reasoning that at this rate the scene would be ruined before the photographer arrived anyway, Jack carefully eased the body over. "Yes, look. His waistcoat's torn at the back." He took the fabric from her and held it against the dead man's clothing. "A perfect match."
The photographer chose that moment to slide down the bank to their position, greeting his superior with the words "did I see you moving the body, Inspector?"
"Meriweather, good of you to join us," Jack responded tartly. "The weather's about to pack in, so get a move on with those photographs."
"Yes, sir."
The two detectives continued examining the scene while the photographer went about his work. As they did so the breeze built to a steady wind, and occasional rumbles of thunder could be heard, while the day grew ever darker.
"Collins!" Jack called, as the first heavy drops of rain smacked into the dusty ground. A moment later the constable's head appeared over the edge of the bank.
"Yes, sir?"
"Get all the witnesses back to the house and finish taking their statements there. Meriweather?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Are you done with those photographs?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then get that camera out of the rain. Hartley, Grebo?" This to the Coroner's two assistants, waiting at the top of the bank with a stretcher.
"Yes, sir?"
Get this body back to the morgue for post mortem. Miss Fisher?"
"I hope you're not expecting me to call you 'sir'?"
He couldn't suppress a smile of mingled amusement and resignation at that. "If I did, I think the sky would fall. And as it currently appears to be threatening to do precisely that, I won't presume to tempt fate. But unless you can think of a good reason to stay out here, may I suggest we head back to the house?" A sudden flash of lightning lit the sky, leaving eerie after-images dancing over their eyes as the two stretcher-bearers hastened down the bank.
"I hate to disappoint you, Jack, but I think we may need to stick around a little longer."
He left the attendants to their duties and made his way over to where she was gathering something off the ground a few yards further down the gully. "What have you found?"
"Scraps of paper. They look as though they could be from a letter of some sort. Here, help me pick them up before the storm ruins them."
Between the wind and the uncertain light, the isolated drops of rain were falling far closer together by the time they were finally finished collecting up the scraps. They turned to head back up the gully, noticing that the body was gone, on its way back to the morgue with Hartley and Grebo. At that moment there was another flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by an immense clap of thunder, and the heavens opened.
"Quickly, Miss Fisher." Jack offered her his hand, but the sudden inundation had turned the bank slippery, and it took them three tries to reach the top. By the time they did so they were both covered in mud and Phryne, clad only in a lightweight dress suitable for a morning stroll in a friend's garden, was soaked to the bone.
"Here." Jack fumbled with the buttons of his trenchcoat, throwing it around her shoulders. He would likely be drenched without it, but even wet the wool of his suit would offer him far more warmth than her dress provided her. There was another flash of lightning, and they exchanged nervous glances. The way back to the house lay over the long stretch of open lawn and neither of them were keen to cross it in this weather. After a moment's hesitation, Jack touched her arm. "Over here," he urged, and she followed him in under the spreading branches of some nearby trees.
"Are you sure this is wise?" she asked, as they withdrew into the darker, and somewhat less sodden, gloom beneath the branches.
"No, but I think it's a better option than trying to make it back to the house in this."
She nodded, then shivered, pulling his coat closer around her. It was still warm from his body and carried his scent, something which she found oddly comforting.
"Here." He reached out, taking hold of the lapels. "Put it on properly."
She complied, sliding her arms into sleeves long enough to cover her down to the very tips of her fingers. She fumbled with the buttons, pushing excess fabric out of the way until, with a chuckle and a glance to her face for permission, Jack reached over and did them up for her.
She smiled at him, grateful for the simple gallantry of his gestures. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
The coat was warm, but her clothing beneath it was wet, and as the storm continued and the wind drove in unremittingly her shivering became uncontrollable. She hunched in on herself, trying to conserve at least a little body heat, but eventually it became too much for her. "Jack?" she asked plaintively.
"What is it?" He had been watching the storm through a gap in the trees, preoccupied with the fact that his crime scene was effectively being washed away before his eyes, and only turned back to her when he heard his name. One look at her and he cursed his inattention. Huddled against a tree, eyes half-closed and pale skin even paler than usual, Phryne was clearly half-frozen. Acting on pure instinct he closed the gap between them and reached out, pulling her in against his chest. "Alright Phryne, you're alright," he told her as he began to rub warmth back into her arms and back. She leaned into him gratefully, and he felt some tension within him release, even as the awareness of her body against his caused a new alarm to sing through him.
Compared to her, Jack's wool-clad body was warm, very warm, and she leaned into him gratefully. It occurred to her, as his brisk rubbing began to restore some semblance of warmth to her own skin, that it had been a long time since she'd been embraced by a man in a manner other than the purely carnal. That thought set her heart to pounding but she forced herself to simply remain still and enjoy his ministrations.
...
Having completely destroyed their crime scene, the storm rolled away and they returned to the house, only to learn that their murder had been solved without them. The footman, Findlay, had confessed to killing O'Grady and dumping his body in the gully after discovering a love-letter he had written to Findlay's sweetheart, who was a maid in the household. In a jealous rage worthy of a Penny Dreadful, he had lain in wait for O'Grady the night before and broken his neck as he returned from a tryst with the maid in question. He had then dumped the body and the torn remains of the letter at the bottom of the gully, in the hopes that the death would appear accidental and the wind would blow the remains of the incriminating letter away.
Collins explained all this whilst trying very hard not to notice the smudges of Miss Fisher's lipstick lingering at the edges of Inspector Robinson's mouth.