Part 1
Chapter 1
"Father!"
Every night I wake, drenched in sweat—the last image of my father burned into my retinas, shimmering in my vision like a ghost.
It's been ten long years, but he visits me in my sleep wearing the same thing he always wore—a duster and work trousers of an indeterminate shade of grime, no matter how hard they were scrubbed on the washboard, heavy boots crusted with earth, and a sturdy cap with its carbide lamp that he would let me wear when I was especially good.
He was a kind-looking man, my father, possessing a square-ish face with a soft rounded nose, and wide narrow eyes that crinkled when he smiled. His ears perched high on his head, sticking out as if straining to capture every sound they could. But in the end, his awareness of the first fractures of a splintering support didn't make the slightest difference between life and death.
Every night I wake, gasping for breath as I imagine his terror—the rocks' weight crushing the air from his lungs, breaking his body. I feel that weight on my chest as if it is mine to bear. And, selfishly, I wonder if his last thoughts were of me.
Chapter 2
29 March, 1931
The splash of navy silk wicked like spilled ink against the blotter of an azure March sky. Its fashionable owner—who was walking along Lygon Street when a whip of wind unfurled it from her neck—was contemplating its gruesome demise, strangled by a chimney flue or perhaps under the tyres of a tram, until a thick-knuckled hand shot out to seize it.
"Damn it!" Detective Inspector Jack Robinson swore, clutching his right shoulder and drawing horrified looks from the passersby who scuttled to reach their Sunday morning services before the hallowed doors closed.
"Honestly, Jack," Phryne huffed, as a woman warily uncovered her child's ears. She herded him towards the relative safety of the nearest building, where Jack couldn't be jostled by the faithfully late.
She spun him around and ran her fingers along his shoulder, feeling for the raised knot of tendon and muscle that even his overcoat could not conceal. She forced the heel of her hand into the spot that had been mounting an angry protest against Jack for nearly a week. His breath released in a whoosh of agony and then relief as her manipulations eased the worst of it.
"Wrench it again and you'll be on desk duty for a week. Must you always do the noble thing?" The twinkle in her eye belied any pretense of irritation as she peeled the scarf from his fingers.
Jack's eyes darkened as he watched her wrap it more securely around the circumference of her throat—remembering the feel of it round his own wrists. "As I recall, nobility was rather thin on the ground when I sustained this injury."
Her scarlet lips gathered wickedly. "Entirely my fault Inspector," she simpered, stepping in to his body to flick the ends of the scarf against his chest. "I should have released you from custody a bit sooner."
"I should have been very sorry if you had, Miss Fisher."
A tinge of pink crept up his neck as he spoke, but he refused to look away. That he was complicit in their games was one of the many surprises she had come to cherish ever since he had taken her overture to heart. That he regularly battled his natural austerity to express his pleasure in them set fireworks alight in her belly.
She indulged the shimmering sensation by placing a chaste kiss to the corner of his lopsided mouth. "Now, let's get you sorted or we won't have a hope of continuing our interrogations anytime soon."
He pulled back from her teasing lips and cleared his throat, adjusting his tie in the way that meant that she had stirred his blood and there was currently nothing for it. They fell into their usual rhythm, her long, confident stride making up for their difference in height to match his more languid one.
"Are you certain this place is on the up and up?"
"Jack… Would I lure a man of the law into a house of disrepute?"
He cast her a sidelong glance and raised a demanding eyebrow.
"Alright, of course I would," she confessed readily, threading her arm tightly into his right to better brace him. "But not this time. Gustav is the best masseur this side of the Straits of Gibraltar. Works out all the top athletes."
"Not Abbotsford," he pouted stubbornly, unconvinced that a police detective should be witnessed seeking services in a massage parlour—legal or not.
"No offense, darling, but Abbotsford couldn't afford him." She swung out her hip so it knocked playfully into his thigh as they walked. The roll of his eyes was all the reward she required. "Stop worrying. He'll straighten out all your kinks."
Damn the delight that shone in her eyes. "Seems like something you should be worried about," he teased back, biting his lip against the urge to kiss her senseless in broad daylight.
"You're not his type, Jack," she growled protectively, "Gustav doesn't enjoy a challenge half as much as I do."
Losing the fight to the fact that the streets were all but deserted at this holy hour, Jack wrapped his arm around her waist, twisting her towards him. But as he closed in on her mouth, she halted him with a hand to his chest as a man stormed out of one of the government buildings.
The agitated figure spluttered as he traversed the steps, sweeping his briefcase through the air in front of him as he fished what turned out to be a packet of cigarettes from his suit pocket with his free hand.
"I thought the buildings were closed today."
Jack's eyes found the man cursing at a match that wouldn't catch flame. "Could be a special session?" He watched the scene with dispassion until something made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Phryne—"
A terrible sound cleaved the air. A treacherous, all too familiar sound to two veterans of the Great War. Instinct knocked them to the pavement.
By the time they stood, the man was inexorably engulfed in flames—the sphere around him a dark, hissing cloud of noxious smoke that did nothing to smother his screams.
Jack let his overcoat slip from his shoulders and began to remove his suit jacket knowing the wool would do a better job of suffocating the fire. "Go!" he yelled to Phryne over his shoulder. "Go for help!"
The stench made Jack's gut convulse. The acrid air forced tears from his eyes. Even as he scaled the pavers by twos, the scene and the memories it stirred threatened to overwhelm him.
"I'm not leaving you to this!" she insisted, following his example and tearing off her own coat to tamp it around the man who was thrashing on the steps.
For once, Jack was grateful for her bullheadedness. The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher had never accompanied him across No Man's Land, therefore he must be in Melbourne.
The cries of agony had ceased, not—as they discovered to their horror—due to a lack of pain, but to a lack of flesh capable of emitting sound. And in that instant, space and time lost all meaning as each was carried on waves of blood and grit and pain back to hell.
Tears swam in her eyes as she tried to claw her way back to the present, but nineteen thirty-one seemed a distant dream as she looked upon the horror before her. Until his hand closed around her wrist.
"There's nothing more we can do," Jack warned, pulling her hand back from where she had reached to feel for a heartbeat. He knew all too well how such an exploration would turn out. Reduced to a gruesome broth of skin and blood and sinew, the human form stood no chance against elemental fire. He felt certain she must know this, but he had no wish to be a witness to it.
They allowed long seconds to pass, shaky fingers still clasped together. This particular intimacy, while forged over whiskeys in her parlour and too-close calls, still felt heavy and strange in their hands.
Both battle-worn soldiers in war and in life, neither was accustomed to sharing their burdens—allowing another to see what they instinctively hid away in the recesses of their souls lest their momentary weakness be used against them. Yet as Jack read the tightness in her eyes and Phryne the pallor of his skin, they held on that much tighter, exchanging unspoken promises.
Behind them, a cry shook them apart.
"What the devil—" a man's voice boomed from the door.
The detectives turned as one to find an immaculately dressed man swaying on his feet, staring at the scene. Surely, was his hair not already devoid of pigment, the shock would have made it so.
The hard stone wouldn't make for an effective landing if their only witness lost consciousness. Jack leapt up and caught him around his chest, easing him down.
"Edward! My God," the man whispered, as he started to come round. His eyes slowly focused on the bedraggled figures before him. "Who are you? Please," he begged, fear creeping into his voice, "Call the authorities."
Jack stopped short of reaching for the credentials he kept in his suit coat pocket, casting an eye to where it lay, singed and crumpled across the body of the dead man. He had little desire to attempt to retrieve them. "Detective Inspector Jack Robinson," he stated in a voice that left no room for questions. "We are the authorities."
"Let's go back inside," Phryne suggested. "The Inspector can wait with Edward while we find a telephone to call for an ambulance. Come along, Mister…"
"Clapp," the man stated, seeming to find himself again as he took her outstretched hand. "Sir Harlan Clapp."
Jack sent her a warning glance as they cautiously stood, but she patted the pocket of her trousers to assure him that she was well-armed if it came to that.
She introduced herself while Mr. Clapp led her down a paneled hall towards an open door with an engraved brass nameplate that read, H.J. Clapp, Railway Commissioner. If he seemed surprised by her unusual occupation, he didn't show it. "The telephone is just there," he gestured to the corner of an ornately carved desk littered with objects.
After making the necessary calls, Phryne took in her surroundings. This was certainly no ordinary government office. The trophies in Jack's office bordered dangerously on pride—tempered just enough to intrigue her. Clapp's assortment of polished cups and obelisks spoke to an ego the size of the tapestry which hung behind his desk, taking up most of the wall and bearing some kind of crest.
She declined the drink that was offered to her, noting the fine leaded crystal and firming her opinion even more.
"Well, you won't mind if I do," Clapp said, his white moustache twitching as the spirit burned satisfyingly down his throat.
"Certainly not," Phryne agreed. "Did you know the man well?"
"He worked for me." Bitter tears threatened at the edges of his eyes. "For the Commission, I should say."
"Doing what?"
"He was our solicitor."
Chapter 3
Once the body was safely on its way to the morgue, Jack was free to make his way back to Phryne's side. He found her seated opposite Clapp and smoothly pulled up a chair to join her in the interview. Though, it was far more of a one-way conversation than he might have imagined given the nature of the accident.
Clapp was irritatingly well-versed in the politic of law himself, it seemed, politely refusing to answer pointed questions and declining the Inspector's request to search the offices without a warrant. If Jack had had a whisky for every time the phrase "client legal privilege" had been uttered he'd be well into his cups by now.
Possibly more infuriating to Jack was that they had no grounds on which to refute him. There was no reason to believe this was anything more than a freak accident beyond a niggling suspicion thanks to Commissioner Clapp's lack of answers and, quite frankly, Phryne Fisher's presence at the scene.
Mulishly, Jack nudged open an unlocked cupboard door on his way out and noted its contents. Not particularly interesting, a mop and pail, broom, rusted buckets of establishment-porridge coloured paint, one of those new-fangled vacuum cleaners that Miss Fisher had purchased to Dot's horror, and a crate of cleaning supplies. His eyes lingered on a tin of solvent—its label warning in bright red letters to keep away from flames.
Refusing to go home for a change of clothing, the Inspector proceeded to carry out his duties in singed shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The loss of his boss' woolen layers of armour seemed as nothing to the Senior Constable given the expression he bore as he entered City South. Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, Collins dutifully followed his DI's orders and took each of their statements individually.
By the time they made it back to Jack's office, a box of the deceased's effects had been delivered.
"Edward Tidmuth, Esquire. Solicitor." Jack murmured from his chair, attempting to gather his preliminary notes.
"Never a terribly popular vocation," Phryne mused, picking over the contents of Tidmuth's briefcase. "But a rather lucrative one. Here's a cheque from the Railway Commission." She handed it to Jack, whose mouth dipped down as he read the impressive figure.
"Looks like I picked the wrong profession," he said dryly.
Casting a fond look at him—terribly thankful that he had stuck to crime—she pulled out several annotated contracts and a large yellow pad jotted with handwritten notes. Her brow furrowed as she flipped though page after page but nothing stood out as particularly suspicious. "We need to have a look at his office."
"Not until the warrant comes through," he reminded her. Beyond what they could survey from the personal effects carried on the victim's body, his investigation into the death had been immobilized from the top. "Mr. Clapp appears to be very well-connected."
"What about a residence?" she hummed thoughtfully. "There are some keys here."
"My suspicious nature does come in handy on occasion, Miss Fisher." She looked up in time to catch the devilish glint in his eyes. "I had Collins run a check on Mr. Tidmuth just before the order came to desist."
"I always knew that the heart of a rebel beat beneath that three-piece suit, Jack," she purred.
He cleared his throat but couldn't suppress the pleased upward tick of his mouth, "White male, aged twenty-eight. Single. No children—"
"Small mercies."
He ignored her remark and continued. "Rents a room in Carlton. I know the neighbourhood. It's a bit beneath his means but decent enough."
"Hmm," she hummed thoughtfully, setting the box aside to pluck up a brown file. Two sheets of typed notes slid out.
The pages contained the statements Jack had insisted take as soon as they had returned. Her eyes swam as she read her words on the page—they were the unbiased, objective notations of a seasoned detective. But her hand trembled as the scene replayed itself in her mind. Her memory would not allow for objectivity as the metallic smells of blood and French earth filled her nostrils.
A glass was unceremoniously placed before her, holding a generous measure of the whisky Jack kept in the rolltop for just such occasions. When had he even gotten up?
He watched her cautiously from behind his own glass and remained silent as the colour slowly returned to her cheeks. Phryne Fisher did not take kindly to being coddled—a sentiment to which he could well relate. Nevertheless, it had taken him the better part of the last year to recognise when it was best to bite down on the urge. He settled for brushing her hand as he took the empty vessel from it. It was a subtle motion, but she noted it with softened eyes and an even softer offer of thanks.
More than anything else in that moment, he wanted to take her home. No matter that he still kept his own flat, home is how he thought of the place now, with its underwater parlour and sun-dappled kitchen, its bedrooms like Ali-Baba's cave—full of secrets and treasures and dark delights. Her bath which, like a holy river to the faithful, seemed to hold the power to lighten her soul. He wanted to draw forth the miracle of hot water and hold her as she was baptized. He longed to be swept into the circle of her grace.
A tap on the lettered glass found Jack leaping backwards—more to distance himself from his own intimate thoughts than anything a subordinate might have seen in their postures.
"Sorry to interrupt, sir," Collins atoned, eyes affixed firmly to the well-polished tops of his shoes. "Russell Street called. They want to know if we can spare a few men down to Flinders Street." The crook of his DI's eyebrow expedited Hugh's explanation. "Apparently one of the express lines isn't running tonight and they're having a time with the displaced passengers."
Jack huffed an irritated sigh. "Go on, then. No… better yet…" With sudden inspiration, he tossed a set of brass keys at his Senior Constable. "Send McElroy and Grifford. I want you to survey the victim's quarters."
"Sir—"
"The Railway Commissioner has no grounds to refute a search of the victim's residence. But even so… do it quietly. Use my name if you must—the landlord owes me a favour." His constable didn't budge. "Something else, Collins?"
"Yes, sir. There's a lady here asking for Miss Fisher."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Of course there is," he muttered with no real ill will. He looked towards Phryne and waited for her to grant her permission before nodding his own.
"Kas!" Phryne trilled, as Collins ushered the unexpected visitor into the DI's office. Her friend's stoic green eyes were rimmed with red. The tinge made them appear more emerald than their usual jade—fiercer and yet more vulnerable than she had ever seen them.
Jack had quickly learnt that Miss Fisher's circle of friends reflected the complicated facets of her personality much like a kaleidoscope would—scattering colours and shapes and textures of varying grit and shine until a dazzling image formed from the pattern. He studied the woman carefully.
Dressed in well-tailored silks and wools in shades of cream and tan, it was clear to his eye that she had a few pennies to rub together. Violet-red feathers swirled above her right ear, standing out against the caramel felt of her cloche, and echoed the colour of what Jack felt sure were priceless ruby earrings.
She was uncommonly attractive with soulful green eyes and a deep bronze complexion. In contrast to Phryne's refined features, her friend's beauty was rugged, and the streaks of her tears, forming tiny tributaries in her powder, did little to diminish it.
Phryne clasped the woman's hand between her own and didn't let go until her friend was seated safely in the chair that she herself had just vacated. "What's happened?"
"I ran into Elizabeth at the club. She said I might find you here." Her voice rasped with the strain of remaining steady. Looking up, she finally seemed to notice the other person standing in the room.
"Kas, this is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. Jack, Miss Kasi Ferguson, fellow adventuress."
"You're him, then," she said evenly, taking stock of the man who had managed to turn the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher's head. "I would have preferred to make your acquaintance under happier circumstances."
Kasi watched curiously as the olive tone of his cheeks deepened with mild embarrassment. His eyes, however, crinkled amicably and darted towards his lover. So unassuming was his expression that she found herself charmed, and momentarily distracted from her reason for being here.
"Likewise, Miss Ferguson."
Her smile was watery but sincere nevertheless. "I need your help, Phryne."
"I'll just leave you two in private," Jack offered, gesturing towards the door.
"Actually," said Miss Ferguson, stilling her fingers when she noticed them twisting in her lap. She had not traveled here with the intention of involving the police but something in the Inspector's deep register made her feel secure. "I'd like it if you stayed."
Jack assented with a nod and brought his own chair round for Miss Fisher, and stood ground a respectable distance from the two ladies. He braced his elbow against the cast iron safe.
Growing alarmed as her mind raced towards the multitude of horrifying scenarios that could befall a bright, successful, and fiercely independent woman, Miss Fisher leaned forward in her chair and stilled her friend's hands with her own. "Kas, are you… Did someone…?"
"No. Oh God! No," she said quickly, understanding the unfinished question. "This isn't about me, Phryne. It's… it's my brother."
"Neville?!" Phryne exclaimed, ignoring a sideways glance from the Inspector. "I haven't seen him in an age."
"You know, Mum used to say that so long as Neville had a book, a pen, and a cause, he was home—so the place he actually laid his head didn't matter all that much." A wistful smile played on Kasi Ferguson's lips. "I don't see him often… I remind him too much of our father." She cleared her throat softly, looking somewhat surprised by her own revelation.
"Your father's been gone some time now, hasn't he?" Phryne asked.
"Yes, but I don't think Neville's ever gotten over his death. Dad had gone down to perform an inspection. He had men to do that sort of thing, of course, but he was never one to hide behind a desk." There was a bittersweet pang of pride in her voice. "It was an accident but my brother still insists it could have been avoided. It's a sore spot between us. I prefer not to dwell on what I cannot change."
Kasi twisted stones the colour of pigeon's blood in her ears. "You can imagine my surprise when he rang me last week. Said he was coming to town for business and would I like to join him for supper."
"And did you?"
Her expression soured and her earrings seemed to flash in anger. "I forgot what he's like when he's on one of his crusades."
"As I recall, Neville was always rather passionate when he believed in something," Phryne sympathized, but the smoulder in her voice forced Jack to bite down hard on his tongue—his brows working furiously as he attempted to restrain the reflexive rolling of his eyes.
"He obviously hasn't changed in that regard," Kasi replied coolly. "It's been years since we last saw each other. Oh, we write of course… and telephone. But it isn't the same. He's all the family I have left."
"I presume it wasn't the reunion you had hoped for?" Phryne asked, knowing all too well—and too recently—that particular flavour of disappointment.
"I saw him for just long enough to get an earful about the 'arrogance of the capitalists' before he stood me up, insisting he needed to head back immediately." She huffed a mirthless laugh. "The cause was always more important."
Jack sympathized with the men who protested peacefully for a living wage but, in this case, what came to bear was the image of a privileged man-child, thumbing his nose at his parents by taking up with the Communists.
"And which cause is that?" Jack asked, struggling to keep the derision out of his voice.
"He represents a branch of the Australian Coal and Shale Employees' Federation."
"Forgive me Miss Ferguson," he said, weighing his words carefully, "You hardly strike me as the sort to open an investigation just because an evening did not go to plan." Jack took a step towards his desk and leaned heavily over it. "I still don't understand what's brought you here."
"I can see why Phryne likes you, Inspector," she pronounced approvingly. "You don't mince words." She alternated her penetrating gaze between them. "I need you to find him."
The two detectives goggled at her. "Find him?" Phryne finally replied. "Do you have reason to think your brother never made it back to—"
"Wonthaggi. That's just it, Phryne, I know he did. I was furious at the way Neville left. I said terrible things to him." She captured a lock of hair and curled it tensely around her finger. "I allowed myself to be carried away by resentments I had thought long dead and buried… But I couldn't leave things like that. He's the only family I have left."
Fresh tears spilled down her face and she waved off the Inspector's offer of a handkerchief, preferring to wear the stains as a penitence. "His boarding house doesn't have a telephone so I sent a telegram to the local post office asking him to ring me. I confirmed it… he signed for it Friday morning."
"Miss Ferguson—"
"I realize it's not much to go on, Inspector. The policeman in Wonthaggi said there was nothing he could do. But I have this terrible feeling—like a goose has walked over my grave. He's my brother. No matter what differences lie between us, we share the same blood." She leaned forward and reached for Miss Fisher's hands. "Neville's in trouble, I just know it. What if something happens and the last words we spoke to each other were in anger? Please, Phryne. I am fearing the worst."
Chapter 4
Collins returned sometime later, bearing a small box of items recovered from Tidmuth's rented room. A set of cufflinks, a bank ledger of his weekly expenses, a small stash of pound notes tucked under the mattress—probably for emergencies. But, to the detectives' surprise, there was nothing of any significance. Without the coroner's report on Edward Tidmuth, there would have been little they could do but brood about the morbid recollections of their morning.
The mystery of Neville Ferguson's disappearance provided a welcome distraction. With the remnants of a pie cart supper scattered over the desk, the two detectives were pacing about Jack's office as if every step might bring them closer to a plausible solution.
"There's no evidence to suggest that anything untoward happened. And, according to his sister, it's hardly the first time he's gone off without a forwarding address."
"It's in their blood, Jack," she replied, her fingers casting through the air as she considered what she knew of the family. "Their grandfather left England to seek adventure in the Antipodes and discovered diamonds for his trouble. When their father was of age, he journeyed to India and fell in love with their mother who, as I understand it, had quite the knack for ruby mining."
"That explains the earrings," Jack murmured under his breath. "According to Miss Ferguson, her brother doesn't seem to share a taste for the family business."
"No. Neville was always an idealist."
"Is that what you call it?" he snorted.
Phryne rolled her eyes at him and carried on. "He stayed in England after the war and took up campaigning for the miners' unions. When Ferguson senior died, it was Kasi who wanted to run the operation but, legally, she couldn't inherit it. The mines and all their holdings went to Neville." Phryne's sour expression said all there was to say about that.
"I imagine he was less than pleased with the notion of becoming a capitalist oppressor in an official capacity."
"That's an understatement, but Kasi saw it as an opportunity. She persuaded Neville to sell her the lion's share in exchange for her promise to make their mines the model of worker's rights."
Phryne handed him the collection of tattered newspaper clippings her friend had left them, all mentioning either Neville or the family mines by name.
"And he's been touting that model over the whole of Australia ever since," Jack concluded. "Everyone's happy. Miss Ferguson gets her business and Mister Ferguson can go on being an idealist." He thumbed through the album of clippings, his finger lingering over a small article that quoted Mr. Ferguson. "Not that he's had much success."
Phryne leaned over him, doing her best not to notice the hitch of his breath as her scarf accidentally brushed against his hand. "It says here he was in Sydney."
"Rothbury to be exact." Jack's lips spread into the thin grim line that meant nothing good could follow. "You were still in England," he said quietly. "The striking miners charged the gates of the Rothbury colliery when non-union labour was brought in. New South Wales police—" He scrubbed a palm over his face as if he considered himself somehow culpable for their actions because he shared their uniform.
"Jack?"
"The police shot into the crowd and an unarmed man was killed. The miners finally agreed to go back to work after months of near-starvation and living tough. Their demands were never met."
She frowned. "Perhaps the experience led Neville to a more radical line of thinking."
"Hmm." It was a noncommittal sound as he resumed his inspection of the scrapbook.
From what he could piece together, Neville Ferguson's crusade took him to mines across the Antipodes, sometimes staying on for a few weeks, other times only a day or two to give a speech or meet with union leaders. But the clippings from the past several months suggested a different story—despite what his sister had said about Neville's nomadic tendencies.
"Your old friend is certainly eloquent. Listen to this, 'I understand why the native people call this place home, for I have never experienced such a kinship among people as I have felt in this hamlet which would have never existed but for the labour borne on the backs of these men and women.'"
"Oh, that one's from Worker's Weekly—several months ago, if I recall. I didn't realize it was that Ferguson."
"You read Worker's Weekly?" Jack asked, his mouth going a bit dry. "Wait, what am I saying? Of course you do."
She sidled up next to him and fished the article from his hand. "Eloquent, yes. Sentimental, no. That's probably why I didn't connect it with Neville."
"Well, despite what his sister says of his nomadic tendencies, it appears Mr. Ferguson has been barracking the same union for quite some time now. Wonthaggi is—"
"The Aboriginal word for home," she finished neatly, biting her lip to keep it from twitching. She rather loved it when Jack reminded her how damned clever he was.
"And home to the State Coal Mine," he added, the spark of pride in her eyes flooding his chest with warmth. But he was tired and could sense the impending crash as the excitement ebbed away, leaving them with only the crushing weight of the day's horrors. The connections that were forming in the back of his mind could wait until morning. Jack looked at his watch—the last of his duty officers would have clocked out an hour ago.
Before he could even suggest it, Phryne read the worried lines of his face, the hunch of his spine. It was times like this in which he wondered if she could also read his mind. She cupped his jaw in her hands and kissed him tenderly. "Speaking of… Let's go home, Inspector."
Chapter 5
Jack peeled off his clothing—with the charred remains of his suit jacket were currently undergoing inspection at the morgue, he had little desire to see the remaining pieces ever again—and watched longingly as Phryne doused the steaming bathwater with sandalwood oil.
Most of the time, navigating the close quarters of her tub with Jack was a delightful proposition. With an eye to his shoulder however, Phryne thought it might do him more harm than good.
"Considering the circumstances," she said, placing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth and rubbing her palm over the twisted knot, "I think your injury would be better served by a hot shower."
Resentful that he had been buffered into the shower by Phryne—and even more so that she had probably been right—he toweled himself off roughly and pulled on his pyjamas with a determination that spoke of pure pigheadedness. To add another insult to that injury, he encountered Mrs. Collins as she was leaving the en suite bath. A flame of petty jealousy licked through him at the thought of Phryne's companion having the privilege of administering the sacrament of sponge and soap.
Jack watched Phryne rinse the last of the foam from her body and followed the tilt of her head to where a laden tray balanced on a small stool. He brought his mug of cocoa to his lips obediently and with unmitigated disdain.
"Dot believes in the power of cocoa to remedy life's ills," she reminded him.
"Only if it's mostly brandy," Jack grumbled.
"Mmm," Phryne mused as Jack spluttered in a coughing fit, the unexpected sear of alcohol burning its way down his gullet.
"Fortunately for us," she continued smoothly, "That's what Mister Butler believes."
He leaned against the sink top and finished his drink, the cut of his eyes promising retribution for her cheek. After all, there was quite a distance between the tub and the nearest towel to hand.
But before he had time to tease her with his threat, a sopping Phryne was out of the bath and kissing him, soaking his pyjamas through to his skin.
She had indeed missed his steadying presence alongside her in the water, despite—or perhaps in spite of—Dot's doting, chaste attention. As the rough sponge had been dragged across her tender skin, she had closed her eyes and imagined it was the heat of his mouth on her neck. Had dreamed of the tease of his hands as the rivulets of water had cascaded between her breasts. Phryne had longed to feel the curl of his feet around her ankles as he might have spread her legs apart, the tips of his fingers cresting up her thighs—slick with soapy water—intent on anointing her with her preferred brand of absolution.
She was wild-eyed and eager, moaning his name at his slightest touch. He knew this mood of hers. Sometimes, an overabundance of French champagne was the culprit. On other, enjoyable occasions, she had been the willing victim of his ruthlessly patient teasing. Like a fever, the concentration of her lust was a symptom—the harder her body fought the tension building inside her blood, the hotter it grew.
The cause this time, he thought darkly, was nothing to celebrate—death sending her reeling, headlong, to prove her own vitality.
"Phryne—"
"Jack…" she panted, tugging him closer by the scruff of his neck. "I need you." The heat of her body, flushed pink from the hot water, flooded his senses. The heat of her demand silenced his questions.
He wrapped her in his arms, absorbing the shiver that ran down her spine as her wet skin began to cool, and carried her to the bed. His hands wandered over her skin, tracing the curve of her breast, the jut of her hip until her legs were brushing restlessly against the thick pelt of fur beneath her.
Lowering his lips to hers and stroking his fingers through her thatch of dark curls, Jack recalled the first time she had ever uttered those words. The force had hit him like shellshock, stunning him still and dumb and terrified that she might try to outrun the force of the blast.
She needed him? Preposterous. Wanted, yes. She had often told him how much she wanted him, usually in a timbre of such passion and wickedness that his flesh felt liquefied. He could believe that readily enough—her desire was convincing. But needed? The way the sound of her laughter was more addictive to him than cocaine? The way the taste of her cunt on his tongue rendered oxygen all but immaterial?
He had dared not imagine such a thing. Phryne Fisher needed no one. But then she had smiled and dropped to her knees, wrapping her lips around his cock to devour him. In that fraction of a moment before his mind had been rendered a hot, white blur, he had realized that Phryne did nothing, said nothing, needed no one she didn't want to.
He wanted to wallow in the feeling of those words against his skin—to rub them in until his chest and lips and fingertips were burnished gold with their dust.
"Say it again," he murmured, teasing the ruffled edges of her velvet folds with deft fingers.
She tugged him down by his hair so they were eye to eye. "I need you, Jack Robinson."
His irises, fused by molten fire, darkened to disks of obsidian. He covered her mouth, swallowing her moan as his fingers sunk slowly inside her to curl towards his orbiting thumb—intent on giving her everything she needed and more.