Mac was in surgery when the Constable called, and she took the message as she was wiping blood off of her hands. No small matter it was to leave the ward mid-morning—and for some unknown police business, no less—but Sister Constance assured her that she could be spared for a few hours to assist the police, and that the heavy work of the day had already left its traces on her surgical apron.

Quite naturally, it was Inspector Robinson who emerged when Mac rang the desk bell in the empty station hall.

"I'm here to see Constable Collins," she said, in a brisk attempt at hauteur. Well enough resigned she was to seeing him at Phryne's house, or at the morgue when he and Phryne called on her professional skills. But to see him in the very building where he had kept her prisoner, in the very aftermath of Daisy's murder, was quite another matter.

"You're here for me, actually," the Inspector returned. "We've got a suspect in lockup for another case, and Collins—" he pointed a thumb behind him in an all-too-familiar direction "—is on guard duty."

"And you were hoping to guard my cell yourself," Mac said dryly.

"I'm afraid the position of murder suspect has been filled for the moment," Inspector Robinson replied. "Besides, you seem a better fit for the role of doctor-chemist."

Mac folded her arms. "I'm listening."

The Inspector inclined his head toward the back hallway. Mac nodded, and he lifted the counter flap to let her back behind the desk. She followed him to his office, a predictably barren and shipshape square of space, and seated herself at the chair in front of the desk.

Inspector Robinson remained standing. His hands were in the pockets of his camel coat, disturbing its lines not a whit, which was a keen trick: Mac wondered what sort of fabric it was.

"A gentleman died last night after drinking a concoction called 'virgins' tears.'"

Mac blinked. "That's not a vintage I'm familiar with."

"Nor am I, which is why it seemed best to consult an expert. We recovered the phial he drank from, which still contains some of the so-called virgins' tears, and we're hoping you can help us determine what it is and whether it played a role in his death."

"This is becoming a familiar story," Mac said.

The Inspector's back went minutely taut. "Sorry to trouble you," he said stiffly.

"No trouble," Mac returned mildly. "That's not a no. I'm happy to help. Chemical analysis is certainly easier than an autopsy." The inspector's impassive mask stayed in place, but she could feel him relax. An impressive equanimity. "Still, it seems like you need this sort of work on a fairly regular basis, is all. It might not be a bad idea to keep somebody on retainer."

"I'll talk to the Commissioner about arranging for some kind of status or compensation," Inspector said. "In the meantime, please accept the official gratitude of the Melbourne Police Department."

Not a trace of a smile, even in his eyes, yet somehow Mac caught the glimmer of it. "I'll save that for the scrapbook," she said, likewise sombre, testing.

"Front page, I would imagine." He nodded minutely, as if this were only just, and all in a rush Mac liked him very much.

"Don't get ahead of yourself. What makes you think you know the half of it?"

The Inspector nodded again, curtly. "Fair point. I stand corrected. I'm sure a doctor and an all-around exemplary citizen has many honours to boast of."

Mac cracked first—a small, sideways grin—but it was an honourable defeat. "No need to call names, Inspector. Just the ordinary dissolute article—" she leaned back in her chair "—but I can occasionally be dragooned into doing my bit. Now where is this phial? I presume you want me to run chemical tests on it, not drink it myself."

Inspector Robinson released a small shade of a smile in return and sat down at his desk. "Just the lab tests, please. I prefer to stay in Miss Fisher's good graces."

"And keep your office neat," Mac added.

"That should go without saying."

"Just making sure. I'm not one to begrudge a dedicated public servant a bit of above and beyond."

"That role has been filled by Miss Fisher, I'm afraid," Inspector Robinson said.

"That is her style," replied Mac, chuckling, as the Inspector opened his desk drawer. He paused, hand still in the drawer, and Mac wondered whether he had misplaced the evidence—though that hardly seemed to match the well-turned corners on everything this man touched.

The Inspector opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. The laughter had never been out loud, but its absence was suddenly resounding. "Our current suspect doesn't deny that he was the one who gave the virgins' tears to the victim," he said at last. "But Miss Fisher remains convinced that he is innocent."

Mac could feel the space where the missing piece of information should go. "All right."

Inspector Robinson stared at the spic-and-span surface of his desk. "She did… extensive field work."

Mac sat back in her chair, nodding. "Oh, I see."

He stared at her evenly, and she stared back. Neither was smiling, and Mac couldn't be sure what sort of not-smiling it was. He couldn't, couldn't possibly be surprised that Phryne would have disported herself with a murder suspect, either in spite of her own suspicions or because of them. Perhaps the occasion of his discomfiture was simpler still: the mere knowledge that Phryne might take to bed a man she had barely met, gloriously heedless of whom else she might wound. But no, that was impossible. Even a fool must know who Phryne was after so many months' acquaintance, and whatever else he might be, Jack Robinson was no fool. But knowledge was rarely an anaesthetic, as Mac well knew.

"You must understand," Mac declared, her voice a deliberate knife through the gathering silence. "Miss Phryne Fisher would never do anything indelicate purely in pursuit of information." The Inspector frowned at her, evidently perplexed. "She simply prefers to kill several birds with a single stone."

Inspector Robinson seemed to absorb this without moving a hair, and even his intensity struck Mac as well-tailored. So this is what it looks like from the outside, she thought. This is what it looks like on you, instead of on me. The sensation was less pleasant than she would have expected it to be.

"Thank you for the information, Doctor Macmillan," he said at last, and you could balance an egg on the edge of something so even as that calm voice. "Now if you could perhaps see about those virgins' tears." He pulled the phial from the drawer and held it pressed between his forefingers.

Mac nodded. "Of course. I'll need to take the sample to the lab, but I can 'phone you once I have the results."

"Thank you." Inspector Robinson handed over the phial, and Mac held it up to the light. The phial was nearly empty, barely a single drop sliding along the length of it as she tilted it back and forth.

"No need for a lab, actually," she said. "I'm afraid there isn't enough here for a proper sample. Given the viscosity, whatever it was that killed your victim was pretty well diluted. There won't be enough to capture here." She rose to her feet and set the phial down on the edge of the desk.

Stoicism settled back into the lines of the Inspector's face, though in truth it had never vanished. "Back to the drawing board, I suppose." He put the phial back into the desk drawer and shut it. "Thank you for coming down."

"It's no trouble. I'll see myself out."

Pausing in the doorway, Mac turned back toward the Inspector, who remained standing at his desk, staring at his own hand on the drawer. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help."

Inspector Robinson met her eyes and gave a small nod. "A minor disappointment, is all." He shook his head slightly. "They're part of the job."

"Yes," Mac returned. "They are."

She gave a final nod and pulled the office door shut behind her.