Chapter One
The martini jug was a thing of beauty. Gently frosted with condensation … coloured by the slices of lime … and … just … out of … reach.
Studiously ignoring the rest of the occupants of the room, Elizabeth Jane Robinson edged along the cocktail table, rose to her toes and reached a questing hand towards the treasure that shone before her.
She was then summarily snatched up; when she saw who was responsible, she gurgled with laughter.
Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson grinned back at her, and slung her to his hip, picking up a glass from Mr Butler's tray in his other hand and joining the group in the bay window of the parlour at 221B The Esplanade.
He may have recognised that in doing so, he transformed himself from Awkward Policeman to Adorable Father in the eyes of the women gathered around Mrs Robinson – but probably not. One of Jack's especial charms, thought Phryne, was his complete inability to trade on his looks – and if anyone had suggested to him that the ease with which he adopted his persona of father to what was unquestionably the most beautiful baby girl in the State of Victoria, probably the whole of Australia and quite possibly the entire Southern Hemisphere was knee-weakeningly attractive to the Weaker Sex, he would just look a bit confused and try to put the child down.
Which would end, quite correctly, in tears.
So, she didn't say a word, but her eyes warmed with laughter as the ladies of the Indigent Womens' Support Committee, young and old, turned like sunflowers to the vision of parental perfection before them.
He did his level best, but no-one was going to deny the relief with which they both collapsed on the sofa an hour later as Mr Butler closed the door behind the final stragglers and Elizabeth's nanny took her away for her tea.
"Sorry, Jack."
"I thought you said it was a lunch?"
"It was. But then someone made a joke about a Dirty Martini."
"The Indigent Women Committee makes jokes?"
She raised an eyebrow. "We make many jokes, Jack. It's a good way to get around the rather horrible situations we're faced with."
He was silenced. He well knew that what had started out as the occasional basket of dry goods for women in straitened circumstances had morphed, via temporary accommodation for homeless women, into a safe house for battered wives.
"You were home early?" she commented into the pause.
He shifted gear. "Yes. The Chief hauled me over to Russell Street for a chat, and by the time we were finished, it didn't seem worth going back to City South."
She was all ears. "A Chat? Jack, Bill Cooper doesn't Chat."
He slid a sideways glance at her, and rose to his feet to top up both their glasses from the last of the martini jug. She was, as so often, unarguably right.
He took his seat again, and rubbed a thoughtful thumb across her knuckles.
"No. No, he doesn't. And I'm still not entirely sure what it was about."
Miss Fisher was, of course, eager to know more; but the Inspector was, for once, a bit lost for words.
"He wanted me to join him for dinner at the Melbourne Club. I had to give my apologies because I knew you had the Indigent Women coming round, but instead of taking offence, he said he didn't mind a bit."
"Odd," she said pensively. He gave her a half smile.
"Yes, odd. I'm glad you thought so too – that was my instinct."
"He must want something," she pronounced decisively.
"Yes, but what? What on earth could I possibly have that the Chief Commissioner of Police could want?"
Right on cue, the telephone rang. Phryne grimaced. "If he's ringing to ask for the Hispano, the answer's no, and I don't care if you end up on traffic duty. Sorry, Jack."
He grinned. "As long as you don't flatten me outside Flinders Street, Miss Fisher." Then looked round as Mr Butler opened the door with a grave expression.
"I'm sorry, sir – that was City South. You're needed at a crime scene. Constable Collins has said he will send a car."
Jack groaned. Phryne, however, perked up. "Mr B, do you think you could turn the roast into sandwiches for us to take with us?"
Us? Jack gave her A Look.
"Jack, you're having dinner with me. That's what married couples do – they keep commitments. Ours might just be an unorthodox dinner in the back seat of a police car. Forgive me if I dispense with the need for the candelabra, but I believe your police motors can be regrettably flammable."
"You're forgiven, Miss Fisher. If you could possibly avoid giving the impression when we reach the crime scene that you're an official member of the police force, that would be marvellous."
"As long as you don't cuff me in the back seat of your police car, Jack, you still won't get me into that uniform," she promised cheerfully.
He quirked an eyebrow.
She quirked one right back.
They both decided that they would take pity on their driver, and ate the sandwiches with every sign of decorum. Miss Fisher's suggestion that they could perhaps be spicier caused the Inspector to choke, but as they'd arrived in Armadale by that stage, he had to recover as quietly as possible.
