Chapter Four
Having had something of a shock the previous evening – he hadn't really believed the Inspector wanted his badge, but to be offered the chance to give it up had rather created a bottomless pit in Hugh Collins' stomach – the sergeant was understandably diffident when he attended his appointment with the Coroner the following morning. The Inspector was, on the whole, cheerful; and beyond double checking whether the crowbar had been used to gain access to the property (it had), a detail he admitted he should have checked the previous evening, he was content to be driven to the Morgue in silence.
(He'd had some of the first round of pancakes, and while misshapen, they were made with a loving hand that he appreciated very much, no matter that it was very small and had forced him to go and change his tie after it came into contact during the waitressing process. The offender smiled broadly, said Sorry, Daddy, and the deed was instantly forgiven).
The child's godmother was presiding over the corpse, and hadn't started the day with pancakes, which might have accounted for her ill humour.
"If a crowbar did this, I'm going to marry His Holiness the Pope," announced Mac.
"April's a lovely time for a wedding," remarked Jack chirpily, and earned a withering look from one of Melbourne's most confirmed atheist spinsters.
"On the assumption that you want my help …" she began pointedly. He, equally pointedly, pursed his lips and put on his most attentive expression.
At the same time, Hugh Collins looked worriedly from the Inspector to the Coroner.
"I'm sorry. It was my idea. I probably made a mistake …"
Mac intercepted a black look from Jack and relented. She, too, had seen Hugh's potential.
"You didn't," she assured him. "In a nutshell, the crowbar would either have made a stabbing wound, like a knife; or a deep, blunt bruise from the curved side. What you wouldn't get is the blow that killed this man: not two points, as on the crowbar cleft, but one."
She lifted the sheet from the corpse's head, and pointed to the temple.
"This is what killed him. This, single blow."
There was a silence while the policemen absorbed that information. Collins was the first to speak.
"Then what …?"
He wasn't allowed to finish his sentence. Nodding approvingly, Mac moved to the other side of the cadaver and lifted it slightly, tipping the head to the other side.
"What happened to the blow the accused struck? Just this."
There was a long bruise at the base of the neck, running from the Adam's apple to just under the ear.
"Debilitating? Definitely. Deadly? Afraid not."
"Then …" Jack was forming the words as he formed the thought. "Why did Lacey insist he'd killed him?"
"Can't help you with that, Inspector," Mac shrugged, already covering up the corpse again and turning to wash her hands.
Feeling dismissed, Jack turned to his sergeant. "Let's have that chat with Lacey."
In the car on the way back to the station, a question occurred to Jack.
"How did you catch him so quickly?"
Collins executed a neat turn before answering.
"He hadn't actually tried to escape, sir. That was part of the reason I wasn't happy with the arrest."
"Oh? Who reported it, then?"
"Next door neighbour." Collins pulled up outside City South and dragged up the handbrake, but didn't move from his seat, so the Inspector stayed put too. "He came home from work and saw the front door wide open. It wasn't like the vicar to be so careless, so he wandered up the path and shouted to see if anyone was home. Then he saw Lacey sitting on the floor in the hallway, with the crowbar in his hand, and he realised the door had been forced. He couldn't get a response out of Lacey, so he went into the parlour, switched on the light – and went to the telephone."
"Was Lacey violent?"
"Not with the witness, or with us, sir. Answered everything we asked him, nice as pie."
"A polite murderer?" mused Jack. He'd known a few of those. Murdoch Foyle was a particularly memorable example. "All right, let's see if we can find out why he didn't run."
He stepped out of the car, and almost regretted doing so. The only mitigating factor was that the car which nearly took off his big toe was red, shiny, sounded fabulous in its final rev, and was driven by the Hon Phryne Fisher.
"Hello, Jack," she said crisply. "A word, please."
"Phryne," he said courteously, walking round to open her door for her. "I am a little busy. With the whole, you know, being a policeman thing."
"I'm sure you are, and this won't take a moment," she replied. She looked firmly at Hugh Collins, who took the hint and preceded them both into the station, leaving Mr & Mrs Robinson to have an intimate chat on the pavement.
Jack shoved his hands in his pockets, inclined his head and waited.
"It's Aunt Prudence," said Phryne quietly. "She's in love, and this time it's serious."
Jack raised a hand to his forehead, tipping his hat back to massage his eyes in an effort to dispel disbelief.
"Phryne, this really needs to wait."
"No, Jack, it doesn't. She's in love with a former criminal, and he's about to up and leave her."
He blinked. "But if he's going, isn't that a good thing?"
"No, it's a very bad thing. He needs to stay."
He tried to turn and start walking into the station, but she grabbed his arm.
"Jack, you don't understand."
He gave up, and turned back raising both hands resignedly. "All right, so I don't understand. Who is the low-down who's managed to pull the wool over Prudence's eyes this time, and why haven't we to be delighted that he's leaving?"
"Because she needs him, and he needs her, and it's Mitton."