When Dot was a little girl, she lacked discipline and had a general disregard for rules. In a household run by an oftentimes absent father and a harried mother, she was left only with her curiosity for company, exploring the streets of Melbourne and observing the people and activity around her. Finally, at her wit's end with what to do with such an inquisitive child, Dot's mother enrolled her in catechism classes under the strict and watchful eye of Father Grogan. Little by little, Dot's unruly ways were tamed in an environment of incense, ritual, and incantation. Her religious instruction included the application of what Father Grogan called the "fruits of the Holy Spirit." One of these was patience.
Dot was made to exercise that very virtue that afternoon, for Hugh had apparently decided that it was Miss Fisher who had given them their wedding gift and would enlighten her no more until later that evening. Hugh had hastily dropped her and the cab back at the mansion, and half-running back to the station, called out behind him, "I'll explain later!"
Dot frowned as she sat in her room, and looked at the carriage clock on her dressing table that told her there was another half hour until Hugh finished his shift. Her bedroom was comfortably furnished, with heavy dark furniture, a great four-poster bed, and high windows that faced the front entrance. She stood up now, flinging the shirt she'd been trying to mend unsuccessfully, and peered through her drapes, eyes searching for Hugh's familiar gait and dark, brass-buttoned coat. He better not be working overtime, she muttered, and decided to go downstairs to ring him.
"Oh Mr. Butler!" Dot cried, almost running into him over as he was closing the door to Miss Fisher's office. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."
"No harm done, Dot," he smiled, and he hastily clasped his hands behind his back. "So…have you come any closer to figuring out who your guardian angel is?"
"I'm not really sure."
"Why, what happened this afternoon?"
"Mrs. Stanley vigorously denied giving us any money. The way she talked, she made it sound like she would never in a million years even think about giving us a wedding gift like that."
Mr. Butler nodded sagely. "I can see what you mean."
"So Hugh thinks it must be Miss Fisher for sure," Dot went on. "I tried to work out how he must have come to that conclusion. He told me he thinks Miss Fisher steered us towards her aunt Prudence, likely to get us off her scent."
"Ah. He thinks Miss Fisher might have typed the note herself. Well, the paper that was used could have come from Miss Fisher's own personal stationery, true."
"Right. And we know that the note wasn't posted—you said yourself that you found it. And Burt and Cec said they didn't see anyone but you that morning, so either the person delivered it very, very early that day, or…the note came from someone in this house."
"Mmhm," said Mr. Butler, and then eyed Dot squarely. "But you're not convinced it's Miss Fisher, are you?"
"I'm trying to come around to the idea, but something tells me it's not her. I can't put my finger on it, though." She wrung her hands helplessly. "What do you think?"
He hesitated, and then said, "Dot, may I give you a piece of advice?"
"Of course, Mr. Butler," she replied eagerly. "You know I have a high regard for whatever you have to say."
Mr. Butler smiled appreciatively. "I think it really doesn't matter where this money came from, or whose paper it's written on. Whether or not it had come from Miss Fisher, or your friends, or even your families getting together to come up with that sum, it's clear that someone just really cares about you and Hugh, and wants only to help you get started on your new life together. Just thank whoever it is by being faithful, loving, and respectful partners to one another. That's what I think."
"I guess you're right," she said sheepishly. "Well, I'll go down to the kitchen to set another dinner plate for Hugh. I suppose I ought to give my husband-to-be the satisfaction of explaining how he solved this case."
"I am curious myself to know how he cracked it wide open, so I will join you both." The twinkle in Mr. Butler's eye was unmistakable.
She giggled. "Thank you…for giving me some perspective."
Mr. Butler watched as Dot retreated down the hall and the staircase, and then wrapped the typewriter ribbon cartridge he was holding in his hands into a clean white handkerchief. He wiped the tips of his fingers on the handkerchief's edges as he made his way towards his own room. The corners of his mouth curled up and he started to whistle softly, "Here Comes the Bride." And, as much of a cliché it might be, Mr. Butler rather liked the idea that "the butler did it."