Chapter Four
It was almost midday, and the household was once more assembled around the kitchen table. Mr Butler was holding up well, but he made no attempt to hide his reddened eyes.
"Who would do such a thing?" he asked repeatedly, of no-one in particular.
Despite Mrs Robinson's ministrations (or perhaps because of them), Jack had achieved a solid five hours' sleep, and while he'd had better days, he definitely felt sufficiently human to explore Mr Butler's bridge club a little more closely.
"That's what we hope to find out," he said succinctly, "and even if you don't have any particular enemies, Mr B, you might well hold the key."
"Well, quite," agreed Phryne, taking another sip of the Turkish coffee that got her through most mornings. "Where did you all meet, for a start?"
Mr B had to pause and think. "I suppose it was the agency. The one where you found me, Miss Fisher," he clarified. "We would all go along there two or three times a week, waiting for something to come up. There are so many former batmen, you see. Anyone who'd had to take care of an officer during the war could do a decent job as a valet or butler in peacetime."
He smiled reminiscently. "We would sit and play cards while we waited. Just whist, because then it didn't matter if you got called away. Mr Wallace went first. A house in Toorak, very grand, I believe. He lived out, though."
"Is that not quite unusual?" asked Jack.
"Yes, but not unknown. Often the priority for rooms would be the cook or the housekeeper, or the kitchen maid who had to be up at all hours. The rooms would be a box room in the attic, too, like as not – better to have a little travel at the start and end of your day and be able to sleep in a proper room. Edgar lives out too, you know, although that was more because of his daughter. Mrs Barton died – oh, it must be about five years ago now – and Edgar's employers said he should stay at home with his daughter, who was still quite young at the time."
Phryne thought for a moment of the comfortable quarters her staff inhabited, and felt rather pleased with herself; then recalled the hours they probably worked, and reined her smugness in a little.
Jack stood up. "I think a trip to the agency is in order. Care to show me the way, Miss Fisher?"
"Of course, Inspector," she said obligingly, for all the world as though any attempt on his part to leave the house without her wouldn't have incited a scene of domestic violence. "Now, Mr Butler, you know the rules. You do not stir out of this house, and I don't care what for. War may break out on The Esplanade, but you will sit comfortably in your armchair and keep score through your binoculars. Soo, it is your job to make sure he obeys."
Dandenong Road was soon reached, although Miss Fisher first spent a short time crossly examining the hole in the Hispano's bodywork, and using words to describe the gunman that made even the Inspector raise his eyebrows.
Miss Fisher was welcomed warmly at the agency. Her generosity in Mr Butler's salary had, after all, been reflected in their percentage, and they had yet to see members of the Robinson household discompose one of their most prized assets – admittedly, also they hadn't the slightest idea about the trials Mr B had had to face, or the shenanigans to which he had been forced to turn either a benevolent or an altogether blind eye.
They were horrified, though, at the news of Wallace and Dornoch's deaths. Miss Agatha, the elder of the two sisters, clasped a liver-spotted hand to her mouth; while Miss Martha, the younger, plumper and homelier, burst into tears outright. They had little to add by way of detail, though, to what Mr Butler had already told the sleuths; addresses for Wallace's and Barton's employers were supplied. Phryne thought she recognised in Miss Agatha the signs of a woman already scanning her mental filing cabinet for replacement servants to offer to the bereaved houses, and tried not to think too harshly of her professionalism.
Returning to the car, they debated briefly before setting off for Toorak. Phryne reasoned that Barton was on the mend, so priority should be given to Wallace and Dornoch; and Jack had already interviewed Dornoch's household, albeit sketchily, the previous evening while the coroner's team were cleaning up the mess on the kitchen steps. They therefore set a heading for Kooyong Road, and pulled up outside one of the area's typically imposing residences.
"Not going to put the car in the driveway, Miss Fisher?" asked Jack, surprised.
"I think not, Inspector," she replied caustically. "I'd quite like to get it out again."
He glanced at the drive in question and saw what she meant. The gravel had been allowed to wear thin and scatter, leaving bare spots of mud, which had in turn developed into some fairly promising potholes.
"The poor old Hispano's had quite enough to put up with lately," remarked Phryne. "I wonder what the state of the driveway says about the state of the house?"
As they picked their way up the drive, some clues to that question were answered. The windows were beautifully large, but the paintwork peeled; the stonework was pleasingly symmetrical but badly needed repointing. They were too close to the house by this time to get a look at the roof, but a crack underfoot drew Jack's attention to a slate which had become dislodged and fallen to the ground.
They exchanged expressive glances; and the Inspector stepped forward to pull on the doorbell somewhat gingerly, half-expecting it to come away in his hand.