Chapter Four
"Miss Fisher, you are shameless."
Inspector Robinson had elected, rather than remaining to supervise the initial questioning of the Exchange staff with Collins, to drive his wife home. Her assertion that she was Absolutely Fine, Now, Jack, Really was studiously ignored.
She had the grace to look a little apologetic, but came out fighting.
"I stick by my argument, Jack. It was my case, and I generously called you in immediately. How you could have dreamed of leaving me out of it, I really don't know."
"Miss Fisher, what you call generous the rest of the population, apart from the more criminal elements, refer to as civic duty."
He glanced across at her.
"And I don't think there's a name for the way in which you subsequently inveigled your way into Rowlands' office. Not one that's used in polite society, anyway."
His severity didn't have the desired effect. She grinned, and shifted across the seat so that she could place a daring hand on his leg and her head on his shoulder.
"By all means, Jack, tell me the names you think might be appropriate. I promise not to repeat them in polite society."
He pulled the Hispano up outside 221B and put an arm around her shoulders. He then whispered several decidedly Shakespearean words in her ear that made her, respectively, smile, giggle and laugh out loud; then turn to him with a coquettish glance.
"Inspector, you know me so well."
Remaining angry with Miss Fisher for any length of time was a skill he'd yet to acquire, and they walked together up the path to the front door hand in hand. As he placed his hat on the hall stand, though, he sighed.
"I may know you, but I don't know about the business of the stock market at all. You're the one with the investments, Phryne – please explain it to me."
She only shrugged, though, as she led the way to the kitchen in search of some of Mr Butler's iced lemonade. "Oh, Jack, my investments have always been duller than the dullest thing you can imagine. I mostly lend money to the government, for which they very politely pay me a hefty chunk of interest once a year, and I persuaded my stockbroker to let me buy some gold, because it's pretty, so about a quarter of my money's in that. It didn't used to be as much as that but it's gone up rather a lot lately."
She poured them both a glass from the jug in the refrigerator and took a thirsty gulp. "But that's more or less it. Perce – that's Percival, my stockbroker – Perce and I have a lovely lunch every year, just after Christmas, when he tells me about the exciting new things he wants to buy and I say no. I don't need to, you see – I've got plenty, and the government's awfully nice about paying me interest on the money I've lent them. Perce wanted me to do something called Selling Short last year, but I told him that the only things I like to be short are goodbyes, my hemlines and the sermon on Sunday."
Jack grinned appreciatively and thanked his stars that his job didn't entail trying to make Miss Fisher do something she didn't like.
(Well, not very often).
Just then there was a clatter at the front door. Followed by a slam. A clunk as a bag of something heavy was dropped on the floor.
It didn't take a sleuth to work out that Jane had come home from the library.
She hurried into the kitchen, barely acknowledging those present. "Miss Phryne. Uncle Jack." The jug of lemonade was retrieved again and the remains drained into a glass, before being drained into Jane.
Phryne cleared her throat meaningfully as the door of the refrigerator was re-opened to put the empty jug back inside.
"Oh. Sorry."
Jane carried the jug to the sink and washed it up carefully, placing it to dry on the draining board.
Phryne was never sure whether Jane's mind was on Higher Things. It was usually on higher things than Phryne's own, that much was certain.
"Jane, do you understand the stock market?" asked Jack idly.
"Oh yes," she smiled. "It's really not that complicated. It's a way for businesses to raise money to help them do more business, and then for the people who've invested to find out how much their investment's worth. We had a trip to the Stock Exchange when I was at Warley. It was fun."
That, at least, the sleuths could get their heads around. Possibly the fact that a juvenile had explained it made them assume they could understand. Said juvenile then, however, excused herself and left the grown-ups to wrestle with the problem.
"So, why would anyone kill a stockbroker?" mused Phryne.
"It might not have been anything to do with his job," Jack pointed out.
"True. But it was at his place of work, which surely has to mean it's more likely."
"Maybe he lost a client a lot of money – although on the basis of Rowlands' words, that doesn't seem likely."
Phryne shrugged. "We'll just have to ask Hugh in the morning what he got from the initial statements."
"We?" asked Jack witheringly.
Phryne grinned. "It's either that or I get Dot to grill him over his dinner, Jack. You might as well accept it – Fisher & Williams are involved in the case."
Mr Butler returned from his shopping trip at that point to discover Mr & Mrs Robinson facing off over the kitchen table. Emergency measures were called for.
"Dinner will be ready in half an hour – can I pour anyone a glass of champagne in the meantime?"
Mrs Robinson accepted champagne. Knowing it no longer agreed with her, Mr Robinson maliciously opted for heavily chilled, neat gin.
As revenges went for yet another argument lost, it wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
