Hi! It was some time since I last published a story here, but now I'm on it again! This is a multi-chapter fic exploring this alternate universe where Phryne is the doctor friend to The Honourable Miss MacMillan. Since both of these characters are strong, wonderful women with a similar approach to things like justice and how to care about other people, I thought the swap between them would be possible. The idea of Jack starting to work with this fun, lesbian lady detective, and then getting to know and fancy her cool and clever doctor friend really interested me. Hope you enjoy!
It was the last day of a more than month-long journey; the ship had been comfortable and provided some interesting people to talk to, but it was entirely too long for a restless woman like herself. Perhaps that had been a good thing as it forced her to be still and think about the choices she'd made—she had always been good at forging ahead, seeking out the next place, the next interest. There was so much to experience and so little time! Her extensive library was proof of that, as well as her broad range of friendships and adventures. But this journey had been long enough, and she longed to feel the ground beneath her feet again—the Melbourne ground she hadn't set foot in for years. Not since she was only a scruff of a girl with her red hair in long, slightly unkempt strands, before she was unexpectedly whisked away to a life of wealth and privilege in England, all because of a distant relative dying in the war.
"Ten more minutes, Miss," one of the fellow passengers said to her with a smile; she wasn't alone in anticipating the disembarking.
She stood on deck, watching the boat dock, feeling the bustling energy of the dock workers wash over her. Now she was here, in Melbourne. Was this another attempt at going away or was she actually going home? She had no idea, but she knew her life was in transition, and it made her feel thoroughly content.
Her fedora was placed in a rakish angle on her head, and to fit the naval theme of the day she had donned a navy-and-white cravat to her immaculately cut three-piece suit, the fine silk billowing slightly in the breeze. When the boat had finally settled, she strode down the landing to set foot in her home town again, more than ready for any adventure the city would hold.
To her delight, the first thing she saw was her best friend in the world come to meet her: Doctor Phryne Fisher, whom she affectionally called "Fish", although the rest of the world hadn't picked up that endearment. She scrutinized her elegantly dressed friend, the raven-coloured hair forming a perfect black bob beneath a beige beret with a red feather stuck jauntily on the side.
"If it isn't the Honourable Miss Elizabeth Macmillan!" Fish said with a large smile on her face. "About time, Lizzy!"
They embraced fiercely; the hug didn't seem to want to end, ever. Lizzy didn't mind in the least. They hadn't seen each other since Fish was last in Europe, years ago, and now they were together again Lizzy could hardly believe she'd survived so long without her. The familiar sound of Fish's English accent, almost without a trace of the Australian brouge although she'd been back home for a decade, was like a balm to Lizzy's soul. It amused her that for all the time she herself had been in Europe, she still had the Australian accent—despite, or perhaps rather because of, the tears and recriminations of half a dozen finishing school teachers.
They linked arms and headed for a taxi, falling into an easy pace together as they always did.
"How are the Antipodes?" Lizzy asked.
"They've missed you desperately," Fish answered, smiling, and Lizzy heard she really meant it.
"Well, so they damn well should," she retorted, squeezing Fish's arm as they made their way among the buzzing crowd.
"The Windsor. Of course," Fish said as they entered Lizzy's hotel, smiling at her long-lost friend and her predictable habits.
"Of course," Lizzy answered with a tilt of her head.
She had booked the most luxurious suite—what was the point in being an heiress if you didn't use it for comfort? This was a philosophy she had adopted shortly after the Great War—after having endured mud, blood, and fleas to last a life time, and then added to that her consecutive half year of poverty in Paris, where she and Fish had saved each other from starving more than once.
It had been a romantic life, living in the Sapphic circles of the city while occasionally modelling for the up-and-coming but still incredibly poor artists. She had learned there that it was possible to own her inclinations without hiding; showing to the world exactly how a woman who loves women behaves. Fish had been there too, even if she didn't really dabble in the Sapphic inclinations, preferring to explore the male bohemians.
At that time, Fish had had long, curly hair flowing over her shoulders, while Lizzy's own red had been chopped defiantly short to match her rebellious clothes. As the years passed, Lizzy had found her own style; slightly more subdued, but nevertheless rather obvious, and always exquisitely tailored. She was not here to apologise, and she had no intention of conforming to anyone's expectation of what a woman should be. She loved to wear beautiful men's wear but she kept her hair long these days—she loved the contrast and the contradiction it embodied. It kept people on their toes.
"Tea?" Lizzy asked.
"Well, if you don't have anything stronger," Fish retorted; it was such a typical Fish comment Lizzy laughed out loud and squeezed her friend's arm.
"It sure is good to be back, Fish."
For some years after Paris she had travelled, but for the last few she had been settled in London. No matter where she was, she had turned life into a celebration—of adventure, knowledge, and beauty. She loved to indulge others with it too. Regarding Fish, she predicted that would mostly meant plying her with the best whisky to be found in Australia. She wouldn't mind that.
"Why did you come back, Lizzy? What is there for you in Melbourne?" Fish said as she walked up to the window to admire the view. Then she turned to her friend with a challenging look in her eyes. "You've had months at sea to ponder, after all."
Straight to the point, then—so typically Fish. That was one of the ways they were rather alike. They might seem different: Lizzy a rich and slightly scandalous woman, almost always dressed in men's clothes, interested in everything, but never really stopping to dig too deep; Fish a hard-working doctor with multiple jobs and a singular interest in making the lives of the less fortunate a little bit better. But that was just the surface: they were both as loyal, generous, and caring as the other, and they were joined in a deep appreciation of sarcasm. Also, if you just scratched the surface of Fish, she turned out to be rather scandalous too. As respectable as she was in her work, she still led a life as a single woman, regularly taking lovers and with a spectacular disinterest in the conventional female roles of wife or mother. Her way of life was a potential bomb that could endanger her reputation, but so far it hadn't blown up in her face.
"Maybe I just needed something new?" Lizzy said.
"Melbourne is old and home and you know it." Fish paused and lowered her voice. "It's Janey, isn't it?"
She flicked her eyes away but nodded reluctantly; of course it was about Janey, as so much was. Janey, Lizzy's sister who had never seen her eleventh birthday, who had been abducted and never found; Janey, who cast a shadow over most of Lizzy's childhood—a shadow of guilt, and loss, and the burden of not knowing. Fish had seen it all, when it happened and in the aftermath, and she was not a woman easy to fool.
"Darling, you can't bring Janey back," Fish said.
"But I can make sure he never does it again." Lizzy's gaze was steady, this was not something she was unsure about. Then her features softened. "Also, I missed you, Fish. You hardly ever come to Europe." She paused for only a second before barging on, rolling her eyes. "And of course, it's always a good thing to keep away from my family."
"Trying to marry you off again, are they?" Fish smiled at the thought.
"They put up the pressure considerably this time around," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I think they fear I'm getting too old for anything."
"That sounds rather promising," Fish said. "Maybe you'll finally get some peace and quiet. Perhaps you'll even move out into the country side? Go fishing?"
Lizzy laughed. "Yes. Peace and quiet have always been at the top of my wish list, as you know."
They were disturbed by a message for Lizzy, inviting her to lunch. Fish almost looked like she could be enticed to join, until Lizzy revealed her Aunt Prudence would be there too. The Doctor looked at her and tilted her head.
"Such a shame I have to go and perform an urgent bowel operation."
It might very well be true, but if it wasn't, it was the best excuse ever. Clever Fish, who had managed to complete her physician's training after the war, despite their adventures in Paris, and who had helped start the much-needed women's hospital in Melbourne. Dear Fish, finding a way to both stimulate her voracious mind and make a difference for other people. Her knack already as they were kids, to keep a cool mind, had paid off splendidly. Lizzy found she envied her a little, even as she knew she craved more variety than that. But to have a place, a task, and a mission—to make a difference. Wasn't that exactly what Lizzy herself wanted too?
Curiously, it didn't take her particularly long to stumble upon a mission of her own. She had deigned to wear an ensemble of trousers and blouse in red and white that could more or less pass as feminine, so as not to shock Aunt Prudence's tender sensibilities too quickly. It didn't work, of course. Aunt P still pulled a face at Lizzy not wearing a dress and remarked that perhaps Lizzy hadn't realised it was supposed to be a social gathering today. But the luncheon turned out to be cancelled, as her friend Lydia's husband had died the same morning.
Lizzy knew she had an overly enquiring mind, but she couldn't resist checking out the crime scene. As she snuck into the bathroom where the body had been found, she realised all her instincts were on fire: her habit of noticing details, her proclivity to make deductions, her way of knowing a little bit about everything. This was interesting. This did not seem to be an innocuous death. This was a puzzle that needed to be solved.
"Police! Open up!" She was disturbed in her snooping by a knock at the door. Her tricking the young constable had obviously only bought her that much time. After a deliberate delay, Lizzy opened the door to see a man standing there together with the constable. He was very properly dressed, in a striped three-piece suit and a long coat, all of it in grey tones, and with properly pomaded hair. He gave her a cool look.
"This is a crime scene," he stated flatly. He looked dour, but there was something in his demeanour that made Lizzy think this was partly an act, that he wanted to be perceived as dour.
"Well, lucky for you, Inspector, I'm wearing gloves," she said and held up her hands with their white cotton gloves. She was rewarded with a piercing gaze. The gaze turned intrigued instead when she gave him her view of the murder—and clearly annoyed at the constable, who started to take notes of her findings. That was a very perceptive young man, knowing quality when he saw it, Lizzy couldn't help thinking.
The Inspector attempted to dismiss her from his crime scene, but even then, he was rather courteous and respectful; he also seemed brighter than the average man. Intelligence was not a quality Lizzy had come to expect from men, especially those in positions of authority, so it always came as a pleasant surprise when she found it. This, the Honourable Miss MacMillan decided, could get interesting.
She wasn't wrong. The coming days proved to be even more eventful.
She visited Fish at the women's hospital and snooped around to help a young girl who'd been treated to an illegal abortion. She befriended the two taxi drivers who had brought the girl in—she appreciated their toughness and their gentleness, their sense of justice and humour, and how they enjoyed her sharp wit and slightly scandalous behaviour. Bert and Cec were clearly worth their weight in gold, and she was certainly going to show them she appreciated that. Finally, she took Lydia's sweet and clever maid in—there was no way Lizzy could abandon her when she was falsely accused of murder and dismissed, and in the end, she realised Dot would make the perfect companion for her, as her opposite in almost every way imaginable.
At Lydia's charity soirée, she was challenged to dance tango with the stunning French-Russian dancer Ellie de Lisse—to a few raised eyebrows, not least her Aunt Prudence's, who wasn't prepared to see Lizzy dance in the male position. But a challenge was a challenge, and Lizzy was not a woman backing down from that. She later brought this beautiful and wonderfully agile woman home to her hotel room for a rather glorious night.
Surprisingly, after several turns, all the evidence of foul play in the case turned back to Lydia's husband. Or, as was slowly revealed, Lydia herself.
The first time Detective Inspector Jack Robinson saw Miss MacMillan—in a bathroom that was supposed to be off-limits for guests—he thought she was a bored socialite, flaunting convention for the sake of it.
As the bathroom door opened, he gazed into a pair of blue, curious eyes that seemed to immediately assess him, as if he was the trespasser and not her. She had a striking, decisive face—more handsome than beautiful perhaps, her jaw set, her quirked lips painted a deep burgundy and her neat red hair perfectly controlled by a black fedora, only a few strands peeking out on one side.
"You must be the Inspector. Apologies for my urgent call of nature," the woman said. She didn't sound like she was sorry, more like she found an inner amusement in seeing how he would react to a statement like that.
"This is the scene of a crime," he said sternly and moved into the room, followed by Constable Collins, and forcing her to take a step back. She leaned slightly on the door and watched him—her casual air only belied by the intense eyes following his movements.
He took in her appearance. She was dressed in a jacket with an upturned collar in a deep red that set off her hair spectacularly, a contrasting white blouse, and perfectly fitted white trousers that flowed from her hips and gave her a tomboy, almost androgynous, look. Jack noticed this as, even if it wasn't unheard of these days, he only rarely met women in trousers. He couldn't even imagine Rosie, his wife, wearing a pair; he suspected she would rather be caught dead. On Miss MacMillan, they looked like the most natural fashion choice in the world.
"Well," she answered his understated accusation of messing up his crime scene, "lucky for you, Inspector, I'm wearing gloves." He supposed that was rather well done, all things considered.
As soon as she'd held up her hands and showed him her white gloves, she pulled the right one off and held out her hand.
"Miss Elizabeth MacMillan." Her voice was friendly, with an edge of challenge. He took her hand and shook it—she had a strong handshake—before asking her a few questions about her relation to the deceased.
He regularly came across women that found his line of work "intriguing" and "fascinating", and who tried to make him tell exciting stories at social events. He knew the drill. But this woman wasn't anything like that; he quickly had to reassess her status as "just" a socialite. When she—completely unbidden, of course—summarised her conclusions, she noticed an impressive amount of details, and even Jack had to admit she captured it all in a few sentences. She also seemed to have a better grasp of the dead man's breakfast than he had himself, which rather annoyed him. He tried to censor her and make her leave the bathroom, but she evaded him. She was clearly used to being listened to—her voice was rather commanding, and she speculated with enough confidence to make young Collins write down her assessment as if they were words from a superior.
When he was about to throw her out, she asked for his card, claiming herself—with a sarcastic head tilt and a challenging smile that spoke against every word she said—to be "after all, a woman alone, newly arrived in a dangerous town." She emphasised the words far too much to be taken seriously and it made Jack want to laugh. The way she moved was certainly not demure and the way she assessed him anything but innocent. It was a perfect satire of a damsel in distress, and it was completely without flirtatious overtones. Jack didn't particularly feel like a target of her satire, more like being allowed to witness a spectacle of irony at play.
He pulled out one of his cards and gave it to her with a look he hoped conveyed that he understood her game.
The second time Jack Robinson saw Miss MacMillan—visiting his police station, in the company of two red raggers he knew from the docks—he thought she was anything but a bored socialite. It was not boredom that fuelled this woman, it was passion. She was very business-like, immediately getting to the heart of the matter with Butcher George, a man who clearly disgusted her. She questioned the logic of the law regarding abortions, and he could see a spark of righteous anger that could very well set fire to anyone who happened to pass by. He chose to acknowledge this by saluting her with the tea cup in hand.
"I am not the one who can change the laws, Miss MacMillan," he said, his voice a mixture of resigned and challenging—he was a simple copper, after all, and she was the one with the aristocratic connections.
Her eyes flashed when she retorted that if he couldn't, she would have to find a way around it instead.
He watched as she left the station with her two friends. He felt certain this wasn't the last he would see of her.
He was of course right. Only a day and a half later, he had to rush to her aid as she had been trapped in a steaming room in the Turkish bath. Lizzy wasn't afraid particularly often, but she had started to wonder if she wouldn't make it out in time, and if her idea to live in Melbourne would become very short-lived indeed. Her brain refused to give up—she still tried to come up with a plan to stop the heat from entering the room when she heard noises outside. Could it be the cavalry?
When the door was finally opened, she sat on her knees naked, and with an Ellie de Lisse—who had failed to confront the people responsible for her brother's death— in only a scanty towel behind her. She couldn't help but smile up into poor Inspector Robinson's face. The man was clearly not prepared for something like this being part of his nightshift. He took it rather quickly in his stride, though—joking with her and chivalrously offering his coat to cover her up. She hadn't expected that, but it pleased her immensely.
Lizzy thanked a god she didn't really believe in for Dot proving to be as loyal and steadfast as she had guessed, placing that call to the police and convincing them to come. Lizzy was sure she would not regret taking her in as a companion. Perhaps this had been an overly radical and daring test of the young girl's capacity, but it had turned out for the best.
Late morning the following day, she was brutally awoken by Fish, pulling the curtains and letting all the light into the hotel room. For good measure, Fish also threw her red cloche at her.
"Come on then, Lizzy. Tell me how clever you are. What made you think Lydia Andrews was the murderer?"
Lizzy yawned and started to explain while Dot served them tea. It had all been so obvious in the end. So, she continued by telling Fish of her new idea—to keep on doing this kind of work and become a lady detective. To her surprise, Fish didn't even blink.
"That sounds marvellous, darling," was all she said. "Let's go dancing tonight—I know a wonderful place—but lunch first! Who do you want me to call?"
In the end, Fish got hold of the two taxi drivers and Dot to join their celebration, and they were just about to drink to her new idea when two newcomers unexpectedly arrived.
Jack had searched for Miss Macmillan for a while—he needed to talk some sense into her; she couldn't just walk around and cause explosions like that. When he finally managed to get hold of her, she seemed to be in the middle of a small celebration. There were the red raggers she had brought to the station, and the young maid he had questioned about John Andrew's death. There was also a raven-haired woman mingling about and pouring champagne into their glasses. She was beautifully dressed in white and gold, and she had a confident air around her. He wondered if he ought to be able to place her, but he couldn't.
"Inspector Robinson and Constable Collins. What a nice surprise," Lizzy said, and turned to the black-haired woman. "These are the civil policemen I was talking about earlier, Fish."
Fish, he thought. That's a very odd name. It also seemed singularly ill-matched to the elegance of the woman it referred to. Who could she be, and what was her relation to Miss MacMillan?
"So you are the policeman who managed to both save Lizzy and protect her modesty?" the Fish woman asked, searching the senior officer's eyes with an—he couldn't help noticing—very elegantly raised eyebrow. "That's no small feat for a man."
Jack felt a slight emphasis on the last word of her utterance, but he wasn't sure what it was meant to imply. He held her gaze for a long moment, a small smile hiding in the corner of his lips as he tried to make sense of the woman in front of him. There was something in his gut that immediately reacted to the subtle challenge in her tone, the way her eyes seemed to assess him—she was evaluating him, and he had no idea if she found him wanting or not. He felt he needed to parry her, fight her, but he didn't have any leverage for that.
Fish. Who could be called Fish? Was that a short-form for something? Finally, his brain provided him with the answer that had eluded him.
"It's Doctor Fisher, isn't it?" he said, waiting for her small nod of acknowledgement before continuing. "I have heard good things about your line of work at the women's hospital."
He registered her crimson lips forming into a small smile, a smile that had no business affecting him the way it did. He had a fleeting memory that there might be rumours about this doctor, but he couldn't seem to remember any details.
He turned to Miss MacMillan.
"Your hat, Miss MacMillan. And when you're fully hydrated, I'd like a private word."
Miss MacMillan deflected that, challenging him to state his errand for all to hear. The tips of her ears did get slightly red when he told them of the explosion at the Turkish bath—although he didn't say aloud that he attributed it to her tinkering—but she quickly composed herself, assuring Jack she didn't see crime as a game. He clearly wasn't convinced, but she was about to prove it to him. Doctor Fisher handed out glasses of champagne to the two newcomers.
"Now, raise a glass to my new business," Miss MacMillan smiled.
"What kind of business?" Jack asked.
Doctor Fisher was the one to provide the answer.
"To my oldest friend's newest enterprise—the Honourable Miss Elizabeth MacMillan, lady detective."
Jack choked on his champagne at the moniker, and he was certain his surprise pleased Miss MacMillan immensely. He could see her smile turn full on radiant as she toasted him.
As Jack came home to his bungalow in Richmond in the evening, he poured himself a rather stiff drink. He needed it. The shock the previous evening, of realising he had almost failed to save Miss MacMillan from a death in heat—because of stubbornness, and policeman's pride, and because he had chosen the worst possible moment to try to teach her a lesson—and then the fury of fire as the Turkish bath exploded. It had all taken its toll. And today, seeking Miss MacMillan out just to find her going into the detective business, confidence written all over her face.
He didn't know what to feel. Even as he was annoyed—very reasonably so, he reminded himself—he couldn't help to also smile into the glass with the amber liquid. She was infuriating, confident, and clearly stubborn, but she was also rather a lot of fun; he supposed he could admit that to himself in his solitude. She had dealt with the illegal abortion ring and caught the notorious King of Snow—no one could take that away from her, even if she was an amateur. But she disregarded rules and seemed to find normal ways of approaching a case highly insufficient.
"Interesting". That was probably the word he was looking for. He grimaced to himself, recalling the old adage about living in "interesting times"—well, times certainly looked set to become interesting with this redhaired force of nature around.
He downed the last of his drink and contemplated a second one, but opted for bed instead.