Hi! I never heard of fanfiction until I watched this show. I am not generally a big TV watcher, but I am now obsessed with all things Miss Fisher (particularly the things that involve Jack Robinson).
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Lord Henry George Fisher, Baron of Richmond, sank into a deep leather chair in the Victoria Hotel and closed his eyes, happy to finally be earthbound after four days of air travel. He was not at all looking forward to leaving Darwin for the long transatlantic flight to England. Phryne assured him that a fellow just completed the whole trip safely in 11 days, but, as he took a sip from his glass, the Baron thought it was going to take a whole lot of whiskey to convince him that the rag-tag aeroplane was not going to fall from the sky.
"Henry!" said a familiar voice. "There you are!"
Henry Fisher sat up, straightened his cravat, and looked at the tall, distinguished gentlemen standing before him. Roddington Forrester, fellow peer and Member of Parliament. He blinked twice, trying to figure out how they both happened to be in a hotel on the remote tip of northern Australia.
"Roddy, old chap!" Henry said with a warm smile, rising to shake hands. "You are a long way off. Is this a coincidence?" They were from different backgrounds and different ends of the earth, but life had thrown them together in a number of ways over the years, and Roddy had been an invaluable steward though Henry's early days in the House of Lords. He also had a tendency to graciously lose at cards.
"I should say not," Roddy responded, signaling the barman for a second glass. "I've had a devil of a time tracking you over Australia this past week." Roddy nodded at the leather club chair opposite the Baron, and Henry gestured for him to sit down.
"I am in the Antipodes on official business, trade and whatnot. A few days ago, I received some cables from London. They have a situation over here with one of your lot. An Australian bloke found dead at Australia House. New Scotland Yard is keen to look in, but the Australian High Commission insists on bringing over one of their own." Roddy turned and sipped the whiskey that had just been discreetly put down next to him.
"One of their own?" Henry picked up his glass. "I'm not sure how I can be of help, Roddy. We are weeks from London. It would take months for anyone to get there."
"I think people are moving around quicker in these flying boats nowadays, Henry. I daresay that soon, months on ocean liners will be a thing of the past. In any event, Special Intelligence Services intervened, and believe it or not, SIS is less concerned about acting quickly than they are about having the right man." Roddy leaned forward, almost whispering at the Baron. "Apparently, the deceased is a suspected Bolshevik and spy for the German left. All kinds of questions," Roddy said, raising his eyebrows, "have been raised." He added, "Not that you heard that from me."
Henry swirled the remaining whiskey, staring at the bottom of the glass, still more concerned with savoring some precious time on solid ground before resuming his flight with Pharynx.
"Your service towards the end of the war, though unofficial, was certainly noticed by Sir George Mansfield-Cumming." Roddy pulled a folded onionskin telegram from his pocket and continued, reading the message. "And the fellow at issue has a birth certificate that says he was from Melbourne, Victoria. A place called Collingwood. Cumming asked for your recommendation specifically."
"So they want to send an Australian detective to London to investigate." The Baron thought on it for a moment as the two sat silent in the hotel lobby, the whirring and clack of the ceiling fans blowing around the early-season heat.
"Precisely," Roddy said. "And the Home Office is allowing the Australian High Commission to flex a bit of sovereignty here. The deceased was found, after all on Australian sovereign territory."
Henry jolted his head up with an idea. For once in his life, Henry Fisher was going to do the right thing for his daughter.
"Roddy, I think I may know just the man for the job."
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For the past four days, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson had been reflecting on just how he would "come after" Phryne Fisher. Certainly he had leave due. Certainly he lived frugally enough that he could pay for steamship passage. But looking down at the timetable for steamships from Melbourne to London, Jack realized that it would be at least another month before he could book passage to London. And perhaps another two months to London from then. It would be after Christmas before he could get there.
His thoughts drifted to Phryne, to her smile at him, to that kiss, to her body pressed against him and to his arm around her, and then, to her lips parted and eyes closed as they pulled away, to be replaced with a gleam in her eye. He closed his eyes for a moment and he could see her sauntering down the airfield, glancing back at him with a joyous look on her face. How could he not go after her?
That same thought had filled his head for these last four days. Jack knew that it took a lot for Phryne to make her "romantic overture," as she called it. And as he thought back, it occurred to him that maybe he had been misreading Phryne for some time. For weeks after the case with her adventurer's club, he had replayed her saying "I am who I am Jack, I can't give that up" over and over again, convinced that Phryne was telling him that she would never be able to commit to one man. Least of all to him. But now, as he thought about the times they shared after that, he recalled her singing in her parlour about her heart being true. He remembered his drunken rant in Miss Fisher's parlour months later and his declaration about not being "liberal minded" enough for her, and her quizzical response "What other men?" Jack realized that it was possible that he had misread her meaning. Is it possible that Phryne wasn't talking about giving up other men, but about feeling compelled to give up the thrill of adventure that she loved so dear.
The sharp ring of the City South telephone startled Jack from his thoughts. Seeing no one else in the station, he picked up the phone.
"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson speaking. Yes, Commissioner, we did just close the case." Jack cradled the phone in one ear as he felt around for the file on his latest investigation, certain the Commissioner was calling for details. "Yes, we got our man. Constable Martin is finishing up the paperwork now."
Jack then straightened up. "London? Immediately? But…I see. Australia House?" He switched the phone to his other hand, picked up a pencil and began taking notes.
"But won't that take a long time to get there?" Jack asked, already familiar with the most recently published time tables. "Yes, I see. Arrangements are already in order." Jack repeated nodding. "Yes, I can be ready tomorrow. No I've never flown in an aeroplane." Jack swallowed, and he could feel a brief sweat break out on his brow. He listened on for a minute as the Commissioner spoke about what a loss it would be to have Jack away for a few months, but that duty to the crown was paramount.
"Yes, sir," Jack said, still listening to the Commissioner continue. "No, sir, I am perfectly happy to fly halfway around the world with one of RAAF's finest. Who is my point of contact?"
The telephone receiver almost slid out of Jack's hands as he heard the Commission say, "Captain Lyle Compton."
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Also, some research into the history of Australian aviation revealed that the last stop in Australia for many early routes bound for London was Darwin, on the north coast. Also, it seems, the trans-ocean trip back to London was made by a few in the 1920s… . /about-australia/australian-story/early-austn-aviation, so maybe Phryne will make it all the way there! In early 1930, at least on aviator did it in 9 days, so I am guessing that as of the fall of 1929, someone must have done it in 11.
Please let me know what you think! Also, note three things: (1) – this has not been beta'ed (I'm not sure how you find someone to do that); (2) I am a bit tech challenged; and (3) I'm a slow writer. :)