Phryne Fisher's life was an open book. Anyone who cared to look could learn easily enough that before she had become fabulously wealthy, she had once been unabashedly deprived. Consequently, having learnt that one's station in life was no indication of their value as a person, she made friends easily and freely with those both above and below stairs. Her egalitarian viewpoint carried over into other aspects of her life as well and she felt herself enriched for going without the blinkers that constrained many of her less tumultuously-reared contemporaries. Because she had learnt the same hard lesson as many young men of her generation – life could be snuffed out without warning, there one moment and gone the next – she lived to the full; dancing, laughing and generally making merry, and made no secret of her enjoyment in doing so. Her only concession to propriety was to use a reasonable degree of circumspection in conducting her love affairs – if only to spare the feelings of her Aunt Prudence – and she was careful to choose men who were equally discreet. On the balance, it seemed to her to be a rather satisfactory way to conduct the business of living.

But not everyone was so secure in their choices, which was why she was in her parlour sitting across from a tall, handsome, and very agitated gentleman who clutched a white envelope in one perspiring hand whilst he pulled at his already crumpled shirt-collar nervously with the other. Patiently, Phryne sipped at an excellent cup of fragrant oolong tea, a gift from a dear and valued friend, and waited for her visitor, the Honourable Ezra Fitzwilliam, to screw his courage to the sticking place and lay out the facts of his dilemma before her.

"Perhaps you should look at this. You have a reputation as a woman of the world. I'm trusting because of that you won't find the contents overly shocking," he said, before thrusting the envelope forward.

Phryne set her cup aside and accepted the letter. She noted absently that the Honourable Ezra's once meticulously manicured fingernails had been recently bitten down to the quick. Despite his youth, he was known in local business circles as a man of cool nerve and steely resolve. The detail was a significant one.

The missive was dishearteningly familiar. It seemed if one had seen one blackmail demand, one had seen them all. Phryne read it a second time, making a mental note of the particulars for the desired exchange of cash for photographs, and examined the second item enclosed; a sample of the blackmailer's goods. The Honourable Ezra looked as good out of his clothes as he did in them. She raised a speculative eyebrow at the rather racy composition of the photograph, and at the equally edible looking second young man with whom the Honourable Ezra was occupied, and wondered if the blackmailer had chosen the most or the least compromising snapshot in his collection as a sample.

"It's not the money I mind so much," Fitzwilliam said. "It's the …. " He trailed off, blew out a frustrated exhalation, and started again. "I'm due to get married at the end of the month. If word of this got out..." he trailed off again, significantly.

"You believe they'd think less of you if they knew you enjoyed wearing a – " Phryne glanced down at the picture and tried to restrain an amused curl of her lips. "– chauffeur's cap?"

The Honourable Ezra could see no humour in the situation. "If this got out I could be ruined, Miss Fisher."

Time to get down to brass tacks then. Phryne slipped the distracting photograph and the letter back into their envelope. "The owner of the chauffeur's cap, is he the one blackmailing you?" she asked in her most deadly serious tone.

The Honourable Ezra shook his head adamantly. His already haggard expression became sickly, as if he was contemplating something awful. "He also received a letter in yesterday's post. One that threatened him with a different sort of ruin if I didn't comply. I suppose whomever is behind this reckoned the additional pressure he'd put to bear would be enough to make me cave in to this horrid demand. As if I wasn't in a vulnerable enough position as it was." He swallowed hard, stared down at his lap for a long moment, and finally looked up to meet Phryne's implacable gaze. "I made certain financial speculations based on the influx of capital my marriage will bring. On my inheritance," he hastened to add. "No wedding, no opening the sluice gates of my trust fund. I am behind the proverbial as it is. Please, help me, Miss Fisher."

The terms of the exchange were simple enough. Be in the appointed place at the appointed time. She would know her contact because they'd be wearing an orchid. The choice of the Royal Melbourne Hospital's fancy dress charity ball was cute, given that dress up played a significant role in the incriminating photograph. It was practical for the blackmailer because he or she might keep their identity concealed until the last moment and then afterwards, they could slip away into the crowd of revellers. Of course it was possible that they might also enlist the assistance of an intermediary, as an extra insurance against detection. It depended on how clever, or greedy, they were.

Phryne turned the envelope over to once again examine the handwriting on its face. The sender was either very bold or very stupid. Why else had they not used a typewriter? It was a strong, confident hand that had inscribed the Honourable Erza's address. There were no florid loops or precise crossing of t's to suggest whether its owner was a male or female. A very bold person then, whatever their sex.

There was no reason why she should feel a familiarity towards the person who had addressed the envelope – Phryne was only casually acquainted with the Honourable Ezra through one of Aunt P's many charitable endeavours – and yet she was positive there was something familiar about the writing. She wondered where she had seen it before.

She was peripherally aware of the Honourable Ezra sitting stiffly in his chair, his cup of tea grown cold on the table at his elbow as he laid bare his shame. Phryne felt a pang of sorrow for him and a wave of cold anger at his unknown tormentor. He had enjoyed the company of another. Foolishly, perhaps, but it was not a crime to be a fool. The spectre of disaster should not hang over his elegantly coiffed head.

"I'll take your case, Mr Fitzwilliam," Phryne said.

The lines in his face, the result of a sleepless night and an anxious morning, instantly dissolved, leaving the Honourable Ezra looking much younger. She felt an odd, sisterly-sort of affection tug at her heartstrings and the anger she had previously felt seemed to intensify. "Rest assured, by tomorrow night, this will all be behind you."

The Honourable Ezra's lip wobbled. For a second, it seemed as if he might cry, and then, with what appeared to be a tremendous effort, he schooled his features until they became appropriately placid. Rather self-consciously, he rose and reached for Phryne's hand.

"Thank you, Miss Fisher," he said with heartfelt warmth as he clasped her fingers with exactly the correct degree of pressure for the proper number of seconds before letting go again. "Thank you."

Phryne walked the Honourable Ezra to the door. She agreed to be at home in two hours time to receive a telegram that would confirm the necessary arrangements, and bid her visitor goodbye. She went to the telephone and lifted the handset. She would need an escort for the party. It was that sort of an affair. She smiled at the thought of Inspector Jack Robinson in a chauffeur's tunic and cap and put a call through to the police station. Perhaps some good might come out of this tawdry business after all.

/end