Chapter One

"Phryne?"

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily. The rain continued its gentle percussion on the windows of 221B The Esplanade.

The Honourable Phryne Fisher was utterly absorbed in the book on her lap; her husband, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson, was less captivated by his (Hemingway's views on bullfighting being eloquent but too much resonant of the irrational death of which Jack's life had seen a surfeit) and had been observing her surreptitiously for the last twenty minutes or so; which meant that something was wrong.

Not, of course, that there was anything wrong with the view of Mrs Robinson. Quite the contrary; as he sat in his armchair by their hearth, head propped on his fist, he could readily have spent another hour drinking in the vision before him. It wasn't as though she'd made any particular effort for a dinner à deux; or at least, not beyond the usual effort she made to please herself in her appearance.

This evening, the soft grey velvet of her gown almost melted into the alabaster tones of her skin, and hung with the deceptive ease of exquisite tailoring to a point just below her knees. That meant that, with her feet tucked under her on the couch, the eye was naturally drawn up to her face; perfectly made up and framed by a fashionable bob of sleek black hair, his eyes could happily rest on it for the foreseeable future.

Normally, though, she would have noticed – and probably teased him, and asked for more physical proof of affection with an upturned gaze and an inviting laugh.

This time, she appeared utterly oblivious to the presence of a spy; and she hadn't turned a page in all the time he'd been watching.

She also appeared to be suffering from deafness. He tried again.

"Phryne? What's the matter?"

She looked up with a little start.

"What?"

He tipped his head meaningfully at her lap.

"You've stopped reading. Is Captain Johns' book not as captivating as your mother hoped?"

She looked back down at the book, as though seeing it for the first time, and held a finger in her place while turning back to admire the cover.

"No, it's super. This Biggles chap reminds me of someone." She grinned, and he relaxed a little. "A few people, actually."

"Then what's wrong? What were you thinking about?"

She frowned again. "Lunch."

He blinked at that.

"We've only just finished dinner, and you're already planning lunch?" He was used to her hearty appetite, but this was remarkable.

She gave a quick, preoccupied smile. "No, I mean lunch today."

"I see." He saw a little bit more, anyway. Today's lunch appointment had been with her Aunt Prudence. Something to do with a new charity Mrs Stanley had in mind.

(Because obviously, none of the existing charities quite hit the mark.)

He waited, now confident that the rest of the story would unfold; and resumed perusal of possibly the most pleasing profile in the Southern Hemisphere.

True to form, after a moment's silence, she muttered a single word.

"I'm sorry?" he asked enquiringly.

"Criminals" she said, a little more loudly. "Aunt P's decided she wants to help criminals."

Jack considered the idea. Prudence Stanley had always been a benefactor of many charities, but she'd always taken her niece's (and her niece's husband's) activities on sufferance. This was definitely a step out of the ordinary. And, as far as he could tell, unprompted. Good point, Robinson, he agreed.

"Why?" he asked the question uppermost in his mind.

"Jack, I haven't the slightest idea," she shrugged. "All I said was that she could leave that dreadful oil from the drawing room near her front gate and let nature (and the inspiration of the light-fingered community) take its course, but she practically bit my nose off and said I didn't understand."

"Does she have a particular criminal in mind?"

She paused, then looked up at him mouth opening slightly as a new speculation was entertained. "Now, there's a thought. I don't know. I couldn't rule it out, though. Oh!" she exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder. "Mr Butler, I'm sorry, have you been there long?"

"Not at all, Miss," her factotum responded politely from his position in the doorway. "The Inspector is wanted on the telephone."

The Inspector groaned inwardly. Miss Fisher was less subtle. "Oh, no. At this time of night?"

Neither of the gentlemen present had the heart to answer, but it wasn't long before her worst fears were realised.

"Sorry," Jack said briefly as he returned to the room and bent to kiss her goodbye. "It's a murder."

She caught his hand and squeezed it, untucking her feet as though in preparation for flight. "Shall I come along?" In all honesty, she'd far rather remain by the fireside, but it wouldn't be the same without him. And if by coming along, she could help speed his return, she'd cheerfully sacrifice an evening's repose.

"No," his rejection was softened with a half-smile. "It's open-and-shut – the culprit's in custody."

"Then why do they need you?" she tried not to make it sound like a whine, and failed.

"Collins just wants to check a couple of things," he replied easily, heading to the coat stand in the hallway. "I shouldn't be long, but don't wait up."

She stood and shook out the folds of her dress. "Oh, don't you worry," she said, glancing at him under her lashes. "I'll go up … but I'll wait. I might even …" she turned to pick up Biggles of 266 "take a dashing pilot with me for company."

"I always worried I'd lose you to a younger man," he deadpanned, and set his hat at a rakish angle, touching the brim with a suave salute before turning to the door. That meant he missed the laughing smile that answered his words – which was just as well.

If he'd seen it, she was fairly confident he wouldn't have left after all; and having one responsible member of society in the household (staff notwithstanding) was probably a good idea.