Chapter Three

So far from expressing his delight at seeing his One True Love, Jack rolled his eyes, and ignored her, edging towards the dockside and shining his torch downwards.

"Jack? What's going on?"

In response she received only an indiscriminate curse at what he'd seen. Promisingly, though, her husband then started taking his clothes off.

"Jack, darling, I'm delighted to see you, too, but please let me at least switch off the headlights before you take off your trousers ... oh!"

This because (trousers intact, but overcoat, hat, coat, waistcoat and shoes all dispensed with) he ran to a nearby ladder and started to descend to water level. Peering over the edge of the dock, she saw him swimming towards a body, floating face down in the water in the gap between dock and ship. When he reached it, he flipped it onto its back and towed it to the ladder, before pausing for breath – both his own and one for his burden, which he then unceremoniously dragged across his shoulder and carried up the ladder.

Phryne had little else to do but admire the view of her husband demonstrating almost superhuman strength – so she grasped the opportunity dutifully, before also grasping the rug from the boot of the Hispano and spreading it on the dockside.

"Call – Mac – Ship To Shore" he muttered breathlessly, rolling the body on to the rug in a manner that made her recall, too late, that she'd rather liked that rug. Had fond memories of a certain picnic.

"Ship To …oh. Right oh. On it."

She raced up the gangplank, and after taking a moment to recall the layout of the ship, made her way to the bridge. Sure enough, the ship's radio was working rather better than anything on the dockside appeared to be, and with the assistance of a perplexed but willing officer on watch, the connection and communication were made briskly. Within minutes, she was back on the dockside, officer now in tow. The poor lad couldn't help himself, after all.

"She's on her way – but Jack, don't you want anyone from City South?"

"No," he said tersely. "This is to be kept quiet." He glanced up and met the young officer's eyes; the sailor nodded his understanding, and took a couple of steps back in tacit signal that he was already aware of the situation. "In any case, he's dead." Jack then looked around. "What made the lights go out?"

"I don't know," she replied. "Shall I go and try and find out?"

"Yes – but be careful," he warned.

"Why, Jack? Why have I to be careful? Or of whom?"

"I'll … tell you later. Possibly."

She stood, hands on hips and stared him down.

"Probably."

She nodded firmly, and spun on her heel, torch in hand, to seek out the janitor in the gatehouse. She had little hope of finding him there, given that his first duty must be to get the power back on. She had reckoned without Mr Sowerby, though.

After all, she knew Mr Sowerby of old. Mr Sowerby was the man who had suggested that the missing corpse on a previous occasion had been eaten by rats (in the space of about half an hour). Mr Sowerby (partly) made up in odour what he lacked in intelligence, and was still sitting dutifully at his post in the pitch darkness.

She decided to attempt the direct approach.

"Mr Sowerby, turn the lights back on."

"Eh?" He was clearly perplexed at being identified by name, and craned to see who was speaking; but as it seemed to be unaccountably dark, apart from the torchlight shining in his eyes, he was none the wiser.

"Now, if you please, Mr Sowerby," insisted his tormentor – politely, but in a tone which brooked no argument.

Grumbling, he eased himself out of his chair and laboriously unlatched the door to the gatehouse. Still peering unsuccessfully to see who was ordering him about, he walked unhurriedly to the nearest brick building and felt along it to find a door. This he opened, and tried the light switch beside it a few times – unsurprisingly, to no avail.

Undaunted, he then walked forward into the pitch darkness, his feet followed by torchlight, until he came to a large metal lever on the opposite wall, which the torchlight showed to be painted bright red.

"Ah!" he said, with the air of one who had solved one of world's last great conundrums.

Grasping the lever with both hands, he pushed it downwards.

All the lights came on.

He turned to receive his due approbation from the torch-bearer – but she appeared to have vanished. He searched the room exhaustively, and looked all around when he left the building, but he was once more alone. Shaking his head in disgust at the unreliability of nature – especially the female incarnation – he resumed his seat, with his back once more firmly pointed to the building he'd just exited. He did so just in time to do his level best to try, and ultimately fail, to refuse entrance to the Coroner in the person of one Dr Elizabeth Macmillan.

Jack, when Phryne returned to the dockside, was already a symphony in gooseflesh.

"Chief Inspector," she muttered, "no matter how serious and secret your task, you're not going to complete it successfully if you catch pneumonia. Can I suggest at the very least replacing your shirt with your jacket and coat? I'd offer you a blanket but it appears already to be regrettably bloodstained, and I don't think my sables would suit you."

He drew breath to contradict her, but the effect was rather spoiled by a violent sneeze. He glared at her.

"It's not my fault, Jack!" she exclaimed. Then, mindful of their dutiful but silent audience, she grinned up at the young officer. "The Honourable Phryne Fisher – also known as Mrs Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson. If you could persuade my husband that a dip in the briny is more healthily taken in appropriate clothing and followed by getting dry, I'd be awfully grateful. Even more so if you could get him a change of clothes?"

The young man showed every sign of departing on the mission assigned, until Jack called him back.

"No! I need you here." Grumbling, he turned his back on them both and went to do his best to exchange wet garments for dry ones.

By the time he'd returned, rather oddly attired in shoes without socks and coat without shirt, Mac was upon them. Terse greetings exchanged, the Inspector provided a brief outline of the events of the past half hour.

"Sorry, Mac – I'd hoped there might be a life to save, but if you look at the back of his head …" apologised Jack. She gave him a glance, and gingerly turned the head, revealing a deep gash in the back of the skull, so bloody as to make Phryne bite her lip and the young naval officer catch his breath.

"I only want to know why you called for me on my own – I'm going to need the whole team here," complained the doctor.

"No, you're not, Mac," said Jack quietly. He turned to the officer. "What's your name?"

"Glanville, sir."

"Right, Mr Glanville, go and get another officer and a stretcher. We're taking this body to the ship's sick bay." When Mac started to argue, he held up a hand.

"I'll explain, Mac, but suffice to say, it might be a good idea for this to have been a shipboard death." He turned to Phryne. "I suppose it's useless to ask you to return home, Miss Fisher?"

"Out of the question, Jack. You have my dinner guest on board that ship, and in any case, you promised me an explanation."

"I didn't …" he caught her look and gave up. "Come on, then."

The words were grudging. Were it not for the tight grip he took on her hand as he led the way up the gangplank, she might even have been fooled into thinking he wasn't glad she was there.