Hello everyone, it's been absolutely ages - thanks to all of the people who continued to read, review or message during my absence, and I certainly don't intend to leave my open stories unfinished!

In the meantime, here's a little something that popped into my head and just wouldn't go away :)

xoxox

"Don't touch it, Collins!"

Jack sighed and modified his tone to one a little less harsh as the Constable's hand made a hasty retreat from the broken, shiny object. "It's close enough to our scene that we shouldn't discount its relevance, and we might be able to get a print off that surface…"

"Yes Sir!" Collins nodded enthusiastically at his boss. "Uh, Sir… I mean… it's too hot today, I don't have my gloves… Will a hanky do?... Uh, a clean one… of course! My mother does a fresh one for me every day when she starches my collar…"

Jack tried not to roll his eyes. "Yes, Constable, I'm sure that your clean hanky will do the trick…" He turned his head and raised an eyebrow expectantly at Hugh, who jumped to his feet beside him, and put his hands into his pockets.

After a few moments of rummaging in confusion he stammered, "Uh… sorry, Sir… I don't… uh… I must have dropped it somewhere, Sir…"

This time Jack did send his eyes skywards. "Not to worry, Collins, I'm sure we can make do with mine…"

His left hand held onto the lapel of his suit jacket as his right reached into the front inside pocket for his handkerchief.

As they closed around the material, his fingers registered that something was not quite right; but, unfortunately, his brain did not process the information before he had completed the action, and he removed it from his pocket with a flourish.

'It' not being his handkerchief.

'It', instead, being something black and silky, and although small, definitely an article of clothing.

Before he had even realised what he was doing, he had hooked each of his forefingers into the waistband and pulled the offending garment taut, revealing the scantiest pair of French knickers he had ever seen – which was saying something, given the number he had borne witness to during the last few months as Phryne's 'companion'.

And yet, he had never seen any like these – scraps of lace-edged silk, dark and shiny as a crow's feather, and trimmed with tiny red bows down each side.

If it had not already been obvious to whom they belonged, they had been embroidered, also in red, with a 'P' that would sit at the crease where the owner's right leg met her hip, and a 'J' for the left. Between and below them was the outline of a love heart, approximately an inch high.

It seemed unlikely that the heart was in that position by chance. If Jack were to place the pad of his thumb in that outline, he was sure that he would be pressing right against her–

That thought was cut short by Collins' shocked intake of breath – as he realised what (and whose) the article was – which then turned into a choking fit of sorts.

Jack balled the material up in his fist, hastily shoving it into his trouser pocket, and closing his eyes briefly; before clearing his throat and addressing his red-faced, spluttering colleague.

"Well, Collins… it would seem that neither of us is in possession of a handkerchief today… I'll just…" He gestured towards the car and turned quickly on his heel, giving each man an opportunity to compose themselves.

As he walked he breathed in and out deeply, and tried to wish away the tingling heat that had spread across his features and as far as the tips of his ears.

He had no doubt that she had never meant her prank to be played out in public – even *she* had more respect for their professional appearances than that… And although the incident was highly embarrassing, it was not as if Collins would understand the strategically placed heart…

Nonetheless, he was going to kill her…