"An entire day without leaving the house!" Mac exclaimed, half-mocking. "As I live and breathe, is the Honourable Miss Fisher finally showing her age?"
"Hardly. I was asleep until nearly two." Phryne held out her glass. "Top me up while you're there, will you?"
"Another late evening, I take it." Mac refreshed her friend's brandy, set her own back down on the gorgeous little carved table, and slung herself back across the armchair.
"Do you mean last night or tonight?" An impudent little bob of the head set Phryne's earrings sparkling. She was in full war-paint, the way she always was these days, and turned out in some sort of pale fluttering gossamer thing trimmed in blood-red feathers, with a little feathered hat to match. Rather a production for a day spent at home, Mac thought, even for Phryne. Then again, there was the home itself to consider: it was the sort of residence where one very well might turn out to the tips simply to lounge about and have drinks brought to one by household staff and obliging friends.
"Do I want to hear the details of this particular round of frolicking?"
"You know I don't make it a habit to keep secrets from you."
"'Course not," Mac returned mildly. "You're all too happy to catch me up on all your various brushes with death after the fact."
"Dear Mac, that's not quite fair. Who's getting old now? A little sprinkling of danger never used to ruffle you." Phryne smiled teasingly.
"All right, maybe not death as such, just the odd knife being flung at your…"
"Oh, that hardly counts. He was a trained professional." Phryne fluttered her eyes at the recollection. "And besides, you were my first call in that Zionist bookshop affair…"
"…Once you needed an expert chemist…" Mac put in.
"…And a great help, which is why you know I will always call you. And besides." Phryne set down her glass aimed at Mac an expression that would have sat equally well, if perhaps less disarmingly, on the countenance of a certain Mrs. Stanley. "It's not as if you have been a paragon of forthright disclosure, Doctor Macmillan."
Which was a fair and palpable hit, Mac supposed, in light of everything with Daisy. The girl had been dead more than two days, and Phryne investigating nearly that whole time, before Mac had resolved to make a clean breast of it, and in the end Dot had been the one to tell the tale. Phryne had been magnificent about the whole matter—that she should find Gaskin's murderer was practically to be expected, given her exploits of the past few months, but she had passed nearly all of her evenings of the following weeks at Mac's flat, a steady presence who asked no questions but took as they came whatever reminisces Mac discovered at the bottom of her glass.
It had been an affair to occupy the present, nothing more—Daisy had been a featherweight soul as long as Mac had known her, full of fun and determined not to let hardship teach her anything—but Mac had been excessively fond of the girl, and full of hopes for her. The effect was an odd, lopsided sort of grief, and a steadfast rock in that strange-burning storm was Phryne, who sat by with not a word of blame for Mac for never having opened her heart heretofore. This most mild admonition was the first she had laid at Mac's door, and Mac could hardly begrudge her. Still, it was good to know that the omission had nettled her friend, after all. After a passage of nearly three weeks, Mac had almost given up wondering.
"This was your circus friend you were out with last night?" No peace offering like a change of subject.
Phryne gave a blissful sigh. "Samson. Oh Mac, it was such a dazzling evening. He took me to this little dance hall he likes to visit when he's in Melbourne, it was utterly charming."
"Which one was it?" Mac drained her brandy, half-stood in pursuit of another, and quickly ruled against. The last one had apparently been half a drink too many, and the best course for the moment to call the armchair home for a bit longer.
"H'm, I don't think you would know it," said Phryne, who fortunately had been refreshing her own drink and had not observed her friend's failed campaign into the world of the vertical. "Caters to a very particular clientele."
"Circus people?"
"Not exactly." Phryne sipped her drink demurely. "Men who… prefer their own kind."
"Oh, I see." Mac grinned. "And how did you acquit yourself, in those rarefied environs?"
"Quite well, I think?" Phryne smiled back. "Richard certainly thought so."
Mac crowed out a laugh. "Well, if any woman could snare herself an evening's company at that sort of club, my money would be on you."
"Wise choice," Phryne replied, her voice a brandied sparkle.
"I'm surprised you're not back tonight for more."
"Oh, it was fun, but I wouldn't go without Sam." Mac tipped her head inquiringly. "They pushed off for Queenscliff this afternoon. He stopped in just…." Phryne trailed off mid-sentence and looked toward the entryway. "What is it, Mister Butler?"
"Inspector Jack Robinson to see you, ma'am," came that man's voice, and behind his figure in the entryway drew up the silhouette of another, composed all of crisp, closed lines.
"Jack!" said Phryne warmly, rising to her feet, as the silhouette passed into colour in the warm, dim light of the parlour. Mac stood too, and managed not to wobble.
"Miss Fisher." The Inspector bowed his head to Phryne, and then to Mac, in perfect courtesy. "Doctor Macmillan."
"Evening, Inspector," Mac replied, civilly enough, because she might be drunk but she wasn't a complete fool.
"Won't you please come in," Phryne said brightly, walking toward him with arms extended.
"Thank you," the Inspector said stiffly. "But I'm… I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Oh, it's not interruption, we're both delighted to see you." Phryne turned a radiant face back toward Mac. "Aren't we, Mac?"
"It's no trouble, Inspector, I was on my way out."
Phryne's smile flagged. "You're leaving? It's barely nine o'clock!" Behind her shoulder, the Inspector stood stiff as a board in the finely-cut suit some clever clerk had chosen for him, hat off and studying the rug.
"Nothing for it. Early morning at the hospital. Today and tomorrow." Her tone might have told more than she meant to allow, so Mac worked up a grin to season it with. "Besides, I think you'll find I've done a full evening's worth of damage to your decanter."
Phryne offered an affectionate half-frown. "I suppose I'll allow it. Saving lives can be exhausting."
"And you would know," Mac returned. Phryne nodded, a small smile blooming.
And there was the Inspector, still behind her, still staring at the rug. And well he might—it was an interesting pattern, he might learn a few things, Mac thought sourly.
"I'll see you soon, darling." Phryne brushed a kiss on her cheek as Mac turned for the door.
Mister Butler always knew, somehow, and he met her at the entry of the parlour with her hat. "Will you be all right getting home, Doctor Macmillan?"
"I'll be fine, thanks. Good night, Mister Butler."
"Good night, Doctor." He bowed and withdrew.
"Good night, Doctor." Mac turned back into the parlor and saw the Inspector, hat now perched on the table by the decanter, looking back after her. Mac wondered, for a vertiginous half-second, whether Mister Butler's words had conjured some sort of charm, unlocked an echo from this stiff cutout of a man too dull to produce words of his own. But the bright, serious eyes were the same as when they had talked chemical formulae in that poor young Jew's bedroom laboratory, and the same as when he had clapped her into the police station cell.
"Good night, Inspector," she replied, and opened the door.