Chapter One
Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson sauntered down the stairs of His Majesty's Theatre.
Well, actually, no, to be fair, he didn't saunter.
He swaggered.
Jack hated dressing up. Everyone who knew him, knew that; and those who loved him, knew best of all. It was unfortunate that he wasn't allowed to wear his thoroughly disreputable Gardening Trousers to work, but he feared (correctly) that such a sartorial faux pas might be a career-limiting move.
On the other hand, he would occasionally admit the need to put on best bib and tucker for the sake of Appearances; he'd even been known to add a top hat, when the occasion demanded.
The Damascene Conversion to dressing up had taken place over a quiet cocktail with Mrs Robinson. At the time, she hadn't been Mrs Robinson; she'd been Miss Fisher. Still was, to all intents and purposes, when there was a felony to be solved.
Anyway, back to the cocktail. It had been a Negroni, mixed by Tobias Butler, their butler (obviously). Had there been a fire lit? He couldn't honestly remember. It was certainly autumn, which meant the weather conditions were, in true Melbourne fashion, changing every ten minutes or so.
Miss Fisher had stood to rearrange the ornaments on the mantelpiece - Mr Butler having been called away mid-dusting, the only possible explanation for a lack of attention to that particular detail. She halted for a moment, with a photograph in her hand. He registered the lack of movement and looked away from Zane Grey for a moment.
No question was necessary. She saw his head lift, and their eyes met. Warmly.
"It's this picture," she explained, waving it vaguely in his direction. The photograph had been taken on board the liner Strathaird, as they returned from England. Phryne glistened in ice blue, appearing silvery in the photographer's monochrome shot, and Jack stood aloof in black tie.
"What about it?"
"You, darling," she smiled. "Just you. Achingly smart."
"Achingly?" he teased. "That sounds painful."
"Perhaps not painful, but it was certainly inconvenient to have been quite so weak at the knees when you turned up at the theatre for Ruddigore," she reminisced.
From that day on, he was quite reconciled to wheeling out the stiff collar when the need presented itself. After all, if a man had the opportunity to render Miss Fisher weak at the knees, he'd be a fool to let it pass by, wouldn't he?
So, when asked by Mrs Robinson if he fancied An Ideal Husband, he paused briefly to ask whether it was to be a tutorial at which he would have to take notes (he was hastily and lustily reassured) and donned his evening garb quite willingly.
Mrs Robinson having been distracted from the action on stage with an ease which caused Mr Robinson immense satisfaction (though they both knew the play well and laughed together at the most caustically humorous lines) he was behind her as they left the theatre, having been caught for a moment by the evening's 'Lord Caversham', Bernard Tarrant. The 'moment' had been of the actorly variety, requiring the usual list of ecstatic notices he'd received, and then the immortal line, "but enough of me, Jack, let's talk about you. What did you think of my performance?" from which the Inspector eventually extricated himself without too much difficulty.
He then thrust his hands in his pockets, and, in full and certain knowledge that his partner-for-life found him irresistible in his current garb, swaggered down the steps of the theatre to look for her.
She wasn't in the crowd, chatting to one of her innumerable acquaintance.
She wasn't by the car, parked cheekily right outside the theatre. The Hispano-Suiza was shiny, beautiful, much admired, and lacking one P. Fisher.
Eventually he saw a flash of ice-blue out of the corner of his eye, and turned.
Of course. He should have guessed. She was engaged in learning a soft-shoe shuffle from a street urchin who'd opportunistically sprinkled some sand on the pavement and urged a friend to whistle a tune.
Beggars were a bit of a problem as the country's indebtedness escalated, and much as he ought to have brought his professional conscience to bear, he couldn't fault the entrepreneurial spirit that had drawn a natural performer to a natural performance space. (And then sign up Miss Fisher as a shill).
Too good-humoured to put a stop to her fun, he kept his distance, propping a foot on the Hispano's running-board and admiring the view. The show only stopped when a large gentleman of questionable goodwill appeared from the alleyway. When they caught sight of him, hoofer and whistler quailed, and hoofed it.
Miss Fisher straightened her seams and regarded the man curiously. He approached her, with an expression that lacked benevolence. She asked him a question. He ignored her, and picked up the flat cap filled with pennies that the boys had collected. She asked him another question. He continued to act as though she wasn't there, and stuffed the cap in his pocket, before following in the boys' general direction with unhurried strides.
By the time she'd taken a step after him, she found herself surrounded by warm and loving arms, encased in best-quality black wool.
"Don't, Phryne." He said it so quietly that only she would hear.
She turned a stormy gaze to his troubled one, and tried to jerk her arm away from his grasp. Rather than grip her arms more tightly, he shifted his hands to her shoulders.
"If I start something here, I'll have to finish it. We know mendicants are a problem. We're dealing with it as best we can. It's unfair, I know, but let me do it my way?"
Once upon a time, Miss Fisher would have told him to go to a very hot place, and marched off to raise Cain all by herself. He could see in her eyes the desire to do just that.
But she was also a woman of her word, and when he'd got the promotion he hadn't wanted, he'd opened his vulnerable spirit to her and asked for her help; she'd unquestioningly offered it, and recognised she was having to make good on the promise.
It wasn't going to come easily, though. She bit her lip, and looked down. Fists clenched and unclenched. He'd asked her to weigh her self-imposed responsibility to The Underdog against her promise to him.
Eventually, words failed her. She nodded, and allowed him to help her into the passenger seat of the Hispano; and they returned to 221B The Esplanade with every outward semblance of calm.
That was, until the lights had been extinguished in the parlour and the door closed to the boudoir. Then Jack was left in no doubt whatsoever that Miss Fisher was very, very angry indeed. No voices were raised, but no holds were barred. A nail which dug too deeply may have prompted a sharp intake of breath, but no remonstrance was uttered. By the time sleep overtook him, he was conscious of having been consumed by a Fury.
He should not, therefore, have been surprised when, waking early, he found the bed otherwise empty, and a hastily-scrawled note propped on the dressing table.
"Gone Fishing. Back soon. DON'T WORRY. P."
The adjuration Not to Worry was heavily underlined, because obviously that would make all the difference. Underneath, an afterthought. He could tell it was an afterthought, because it had been added at a slightly rakish angle.
"x"