The rest of the voyage continued in a bland and uneventful way. Phryne and Jack saw the Milton's occasionally but left them to begin their married life in peace. Henry was allowed out of his cabin for the final leg of the journey, from Gibraltar to London and John Swithin had been told to leave his sister alone, that she would deal with their father when they finally got to Bristol.
"We weren't going to go," Esme confided in Phryne one afternoon over tea, "but, Godfrey says we should go and see him, that he should be introduced to him, and we have to see the solicitor."
"I believe Godfrey is right," Phryne smiled, "no point in hiding from him, and anyway, don't you think it might smooth the way if he knows he is to become a grandfather?"
"I doubt it," she hummed, "he's not the kind and warm type, no sense of humour. Your father is much more the grandfatherly type."
Phryne spluttered into her tea, "my father!" she put the cup down and wiped her hands, "lord help us! He's a rogue, Esme, all smiles and charm."
"Better than grim and grumpy," Esme laughed. "What would your father say, if you told him you were to provide him with a grandchild?"
"He'd laugh himself silly," Phryne shook her head, "he knows I'd make a dreadful mother. Consider my lifestyle, Esme, attending crime scenes with Jack, whether he wants me to or not, not good for a child. Honestly, I've never seen the attraction of parenthood."
"Nanny," Esme stated, simply and raised her eyebrows.
"Stop it." Phryne giggled, "no nanny would put up with me as an employer."
Esme decided to drop the subject, she didn't want to back her new friend into a corner, but, privately, Phryne Fisher would make an excellent, if unorthodox, mother.
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They docked on a chilly, dull morning. Remembering what England could be like in November, Phryne had brought a sensible warm, fur coat and reminded Jack that he would need something to keep out the chill. They said good bye to the Milton's wishing them well in their dealings with the solicitor and Esme's father. John had decided to go straight to Bristol and tell his father that Esme was on the way. Jack had had a good long talk to him, when he had left Phryne to talk with Esme over tea and biscuits. John had listened, and while Jack had not told him about the inheritance he understood that Esme was not a possession to be used at will, but a human being with feelings and a mind of her own.
"She's a sister any man should be proud of," he finished with, "and it would be nice if you two could at least remain friends."
"I'd be careful, if I were you," Esme took him aside, "don't tell him I married Godfrey, if you can help it. Wait for us to get there. We are staying in London for a couple of days, Miss Fisher and the Inspector have kindly arranged for us to have some time in a hotel and a visit to the theatre, as a wedding present."
"Oh, right," John scratched his head. "Esme?" he sighed, "what's going on? I mean I have no problem with you getting married, good luck to you, I say. He insisted I get you back still single. Sorry for the ass I made of myself, over your ..." he cleared his throat, "accommodation."
"I'll tell you when we meet up," she patted his arm, he always was a bit of a twit, she thought, "don't worry about it, just keep your head down."
John wandered off with his small suitcase and wondered if it might be an idea if he could bunk down at a friend's house rather than go and see his father, until Esme and Godfrey arrived in Bristol. His father could be volatile if things didn't go well.
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Phryne, Jack and Lord Fisher stood outside Paddington Green Police Station. Henry had his suitcase with him, Phryne's and Jack's luggage had been sent on to their hotel. Until this moment Henry didn't actually think Phryne would let Jack take him in, he thought he would be sent home, with a flea in his ear but, now he was here and he realised, that, for once, he hadn't got away with it.
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The desk sergeant looked up. He didn't usually get persons of quality in his station, and this lady was certainly a person of quality, the bloke with her was not that far off either, he thought. The man standing next to her; he noticed her hand was on his arm holding tight; looked like the archetypical upper class society chap.
"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, Victoria State Police, to see Inspector Cranston," Jack passed the charge sheet over and his warrant card.
Sergeant Crosby had been told to expect him, and Lord Fisher, but nothing had been said about a woman.
"The Honourable Phryne Fisher," Jack introduced her, "the owner of the paintings."
"Right, er," he read through the document quickly and looked at the warrant card, handing it back to Jack, "take a seat, I'll find 'im."
They sat on a wooden bench, much like the one a City South.
"Just like home, Jack," Phryne leaned close and whispered.
"He's no Collins," he nodded in the direction Crosby had gone.
She grinned, thinking how Hugh would have nervously scuttled off to see if the Inspector was receiving visitors, or had Miss Fisher with him.
Inspector Cranston came through the desk-gate, his hand extended to greet his Antipodean colleague.
"Good to meet you, at last," he beamed. A youngish man, tall and broad, as fair as Jack was dark, "heard a lot about you, wife's sister lives in Melbourne."
"Oh, right," Jack raised his eyebrows, "I see."
"All good," he grinned back, "and Miss Fisher, I didn't know you would be along as well," he held out his hand. "Well, come on through, and we shall look at how things are, shall we?"
He stood aside for them to pass through, glaring at Lord Fisher who he knew, from the paperwork and photograph he had been sent, was the man they wanted in regard to the fraudulent sale of fake Ming vases and the theft and sale of certain artworks belonging to the lady here present.
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Armed with tea and biscuits, made by Inspector Cranston's wife, they discussed the first part of the case, that of the Ming vases.
"Now, this case," he looked at Jack, "I believe has been processed in Melbourne, in that his Lordship has been found to be guilty of trying to pass off two vases as genuine Ming, and that sale resulted in the death of one young collector, though not by your hand," looked over at Henry, who looked down.
"The murderers were apprehended and sent to trial. Lord Fisher was not found to be complicit in Raymond Cross' death, in that he was not at the house at the time and was just trying to raise money." Jack sighed, "Miss Fisher has seen to the disposal of the vases."
"I see," Cranston flicked his eyes across to her and noticed the totally innocent expression on her face, "and how, may I ask, Miss Fisher, did you dispose of the vases."
"I smashed them," she replied, simply.
"Smashed evidence?" his eyebrows hit his hairline.
"They belonged to the family," she nodded, "they used to stand at the foot of the stairs, I chipped them, years ago, sliding down the banister, I just finished the job." She raised an impeccably plucked eyebrow and smiled.
"Now, to the paintings," Cranston thought he'd leave that, he had trouble imagining this elegantly dressed lady sliding down a banister rail, even if it had been as a child. Jack had no difficulty, in fact he wouldn't be surprised if she showed him exactly how she had done it, when they eventually got to the family home.
"They belong to me," Phryne inhaled, "gifted to me by the artist, when I was his model."
"Oh, right," Cranston coughed, "do you wish to proceed with charges?"
"Just because he is my father doesn't mean he can get away with this," she huffed, "I want my paintings back, they weren't his to sell. He has refused to tell me who he sold them to, I suppose he thinks I will go and demand them back."
Jack coughed, that was just what he thought she would do.
"Well," Cranston cleared his throat, "I've done some digging, through the auction houses, but it would seem it was a private sale." He turned to Henry, "so, who did you sell them to? The sale of stolen goods is a criminal act."
Henry remained tight-lipped, he didn't know which was worse, telling Phryne he had sold the paintings to a aristocrat that he had tried to marry her off to or whatever the law would throw at him, for selling on her paintings.
"Not speaking, my lord," Cranston all but sneered, "well, perhaps you need time to think." He got up and opened the door, "Crosby!" he yelled, "private room for Lord Fisher, he needs time to think!"
Crosby, obviously the strong silent type, Phryne thought, took Henry, not too gently, out of the interview room and down the corridor to the cells.
"Perhaps," Cranston sighed, "he will come to his senses, overnight ... meanwhile ..."
"We have a hotel booked," Jack shifted in his chair, a little nervous at intimating he and the Honourable Miss Fisher may be staying at the same establishment.
"Good, good," Cranston observed, absent-mindedly, " pop by tomorrow, say, ten thirty-ish, should have something out of him then."
Jack stood and offered Miss Fisher his hand. She looked up, sadness in her eyes, "thank you, Inspector," she sighed, "I suppose we shall have to wait."
"He'll come round, one way or the other," Jack gave a little smile, "he knows the consequences."
Phryne didn't comment, she was rather sorry her father wouldn't tell her who he had sold the paintings to, wondering why he was so closed on the subject.
Leaving contact details at the desk, they hailed a taxi and headed to the hotel.
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Jack asked for tea to be sent up to their suite, Phryne looked just about done in and though coming by sea they had slowly worked through the time zones, he was feeling somewhat jaded himself.
She flung her coat over the back of a couch and flopped down on it, sighing heavily.
"Suppose I'd better ring mother," she accepted the tea from Jack and started to make a mental list of things she had to do. "At least let her know we've docked and I didn't throw father in the drink."
"It would be a good idea," he nodded sitting next to her, "and see if she has any idea who he would sell the paintings to."
"I don't think she will know," she hummed.
"Have they ever been where visitors could see them?" he asked, "or always in your rooms?"
"A couple were hung in my private sitting room," she wriggled to get more comfortable, "I would ring the changes every now and then, the others were kept in a crate in an empty room at the top of the house."
"May I ask ... I know you were the model for them ...?"
"Nudes and semi-nudes," she watched for a reaction, "you can see why I didn't want them on public display at home. Believe it or not Jack," she put her cup down, "I do mind who sees me naked."
"You did a fan dance ... in a club," he pointed out.
"Yes, I did, didn't I," she mused, "well, it was for a purpose, wasn't it? Nobody knew me, apart from you, Cec, Bert, Hugh and poor Dot."
"Dorothy couldn't get the raggers out fast enough," he recalled, grinning. Dot had been like a school ma'am chivvying and chiding Cec and Bert, who had been told to stay outside.
"I'll bet," a slow smile spread over her lovely face, "still, if I didn't care one jot, I'd never bother with my robe, would I?"
"S'pose not," he agreed.
"Anyway, the paintings can be viewed over and over again," she kicked off her shoes and curled her feet under her, "I was far enough away, on that stage, that not every inch of me could be ogled at, and those at the back of the room, or a little bit tipsy, would not have seen much, beyond a female with her top off."
"You don't have to justify yourself to me, Phryne," he patted her knee, "not about past cases."
"Thank you, Jack," she smiled and stretched. "I think I'll have a nap," she uncurled, "care to join me?"
"A nap, Miss Fisher?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, Jack, a nap." He knew she meant it, and nodded, taking her hand and giving her a quick hug and kiss.
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After a relaxing snooze and a leisurely bath, in which the water slopped over the side, Jack and Phryne decided that dinner and some form of entertainment would be just the thing to banish the blues she was feeling. If only her father would give up the name of the man he had sold the paintings to they could stop the case. Of course she would probably have to buy them back, a fact that irked her.
She rang her mother, just to let her know she was in England, that as soon as she had finished the business in London she and her travelling companion; no don't make up a guest room, mother; and her father would head over to the estate.
Margaret, Lady Fisher, hummed resignedly, and said she had set the Dower house up for her husband and she had the details of the separation.
"Oh dear, mother," Phryne sighed, "I'm sorry."
"So am I dear," Margaret murmured, "and while you're here could you give me an idea how I go on with the house. It's too big for me, on my own, and even if I let your father come back to me, it's too big for the two of us."
"I'll give it some thought," her daughter agreed, "hopefully we'll be over soon."
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Dinner was light and well cooked; a consommé, followed by salmon mousse. The main course was beef wellington with green vegetables and dessert - a rich chocolate fondant and cream. It was accompanied by a delicate hock, a robust claret and a sweet sauternes in order.
Phryne heaved a satisfied sigh and leant back in her seat, "I think I shall have to walk some of that off, Jack," she smiled.
"Good job it's a clear night," he agreed with her, "cold, though."
"Well, we'll just have to wrap up warm, then," she reached across and took his hand, "keep close," she winked.
"I shall endeavour to ensure you are kept warm at all times, Miss Fisher," he smirked.
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In spite of the biting cold air the streets were busy. People were falling out of bars, tripping along the pavements, damp from earlier rain, the theatres were disgorging their patrons and a few were staggering along from or to parties - neither Jack not Phryne could tell - waving half empty bottles of champagne or wine and stopping every time they needed to take a swig. Phryne had done may things in her life, been to many parties, reputable and disreputable, but she had never drunk out of a bottle in the street. Watching it happen reminded her why, it wasn't exactly a pretty sight. Jack steered her round one particularly drunken couple before the man draped himself over her and poured the remains of the cheap bottle of red wine down her back. He tripped, let go of his young lady who was his support and draped himself over the bonnet of a parked car and vomited into the gutter. Phryne and his young lady skipped out of the way to avoid being splashed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took another swig,
"God awful grog," he grunted, "want some?" he waved the bottle at his girl.
"Put it down, Sammy," she suppressed a belch, "you're blotto, let's go home."
"Nonsense, old girl," he hiccupped, "onto the club, come on," he tried to grab her hand but missed and swung round landing around a lamppost.
"Taxi?" Jack murmured in her ear.
"No taxi would take them," she shook her head, "come on, I think she's less gone than he is."
"Onward!" the man shouted, raising the bottle above his head, "the club!"
"This way, you idiot," his girl good-naturedly, if a little unsteadily, steered him further down the road.
"Oh Jack," Phryne sighed, slipping her hand through the crook in his arm, "I must be getting old, that behaviour ..."
"Not very good," he agreed, "and it's nothing to do with age," he turned and smiled, "it's just a question of being able to hold ones liquor. I don't suppose, even in your heady days in Paris ..."
"Never drunk so much I was sick," she shrugged her fur clad shoulders, "may have had the odd headache in the morning ..."
"Haven't we all," he patted her arm, "now, where to?"
"I suggest if we don't find a club or some music in the next fifteen minutes we go back to the hotel," she fell into step beside him, "I'm sure we can amuse ourselves until bedtime."
"I didn't notice a draughts set," he teased.
She tugged his arm and laughed.
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They did find a small club, with a jazz band and passable whisky. The band were good, from America, according to the bartender, and Phryne encouraged Jack onto the dance floor. She knew he could waltz, but was pleasantly surprised he could dance freestyle, Charleston and tango - rather too well. Her hitherto rather buttoned up Inspector had hidden depths she was willing to plunder.
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It was very late, or early, when they arrived back at the hotel, tired, and Phryne was ready to remove her shoes, which she did as soon as they stepped onto the carpet on the stairs, hanging onto Jack's arm and getting a stormy stare from the concierge at the front desk.
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"Well, Inspector," she teased as he helped her out of her coat, "you are a dark horse." She turned round and draped her arms over his shoulders, linking her hands behind his head.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Miss Fisher," he put his arms round her waist and leant forward to kiss her.
Their undressing of each other and subsequent love making was languorous, Jack's fingers were light and dextrous, as he explored her with gentle touches, lazy kisses before he entered her slowly and fully, and set up a rhythm strong, yet leisurely, gradually increasing in line with Phryne's need for fulfilment, as she urged him on to a heart stopping climax that left her breathless and seeing stars. He fell to one side, kissing her shoulder until she let him go and sighed with satisfaction. She snuggled under him and returned the kisses to his torso, sleepily.
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Jack was one of those people who could set his body clock so that he woke when he needed to. As they were to get to the Police Station around ten-thirty he deduced that eight-thirty would be a good time to open his eyes, and possible nudge Phryne into opening one eye, at the very least. He reckoned she would like a soak in the bath and breakfast at leisure, before heading over to Paddington Green. Good coffee was a must, if she was to face her father.
She mumbled incoherently, and turned to bury her face in the pillow.
"Phryne," he whispered, drawing little circles on her naked shoulder, "I'm going to ring for coffee and run your bath." He slid out of bed and smiled as she pulled the covers over her and blew out in frustration, she had her own ideas of how the day should start.
She was actually grateful for his way of getting started that morning. He had a shower and shaved before he ran her a bath of the perfect temperature and tipped in the preferred jasmine bath salts, then left her to soak and wake up in her own time. By the time she had bathed and dried herself and donned her robe, the coffee had arrived, set on a pretty tray, together with some pastries, breads and preserves.
"I thought a leisurely breakfast," he poured her a second cup of coffee, "rather than a full hot meal. We could stop for something after seeing your father," he watched for a reaction, but given that her mouth was full of croissant at the time, got none, "you may need something ... fortifying."
She nodded and swallowed, wherever they got the croissants and pastries from she needed to congratulate them. They were superb, buttery and light and not filling and heavy.
Satisfied with the coffee which was almost at Mr Butler's standard, and the pastries, Phryne dressed soberly for her; black pleated skirt, cream long line blouse with a soft collar and black silk scarf, covered with a black wool coat, of the most perfect cut, topped off with a black cloche hat with cream band and flower.
She adjusted Jack's tie, slate grey, to match his suit and tiptoed up to kiss his cheek. Really, all she wanted to do was curl up in his arms and let the world, or her father, go away.
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Another damp November morning did nothing to brighten her mood. Jack hoped that Lord Fisher would have seen sense and decided to say who had bought the pictures, then they could do something about getting them back.
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Crosby was on the front desk again and nodded pleasantly when they entered. He let them through to Inspector Cranston who was reviewing the paperwork and notes he had made.
"Good morning," he stood up and smiled, holding out his hand, "please ..." he indicated the seats. "Well, Lord Fisher has finally given up the name of the person he sold our paintings to," he looked at Phryne.
"Really?" she opened her eyes wide, "who?"
"A Lord Hunter Tockington," he checked a piece of paper, "lives in Dickleburgh."
"I know," she set her lips in a thin line, "and I know Lord Tockington."
"R i i ght," Jack drew the word out, sensing it was not in an ordinary society gathering way she knew him.
"Father tried to marry me off to him, years ago," she looked over and above Cranston's head, "needless to say, it didn't go well. He's a lot older than me, and at the time I was only about seventeen."
"I see," Jack mused, instantly imagining a feisty teenager throwing back her head and telling her father something along the lines of 'not on your life!' and storming off.
"Hunter is perfectly sweet, Jack," she continued, "and as a friend, one of the best. When I turned him down, after cooling off," she grinned, "he just took my hand and kissed it and said he wasn't surprised and that any man who caught me would be a very lucky man indeed."
"So, he wasn't upset?"
"I don't think so," she tipped her head to one side, "I think he realised I was too young to even consider marriage, I think it was more my father trying to marry me off to another wealthy aristocrat, rather than he actively chasing a young wife."
"But he bought the paintings," Jack reminded her.
"Yes, he did, didn't he," she nodded, "Hunter Tockington is a very wealthy man, Jack," she turned to look at him, "and father has spent rather a lot of the family money, apart from getting funds from the sale of the paintings I think he is probably trying to start the same negotiations over again."
"Phryne," Jack hissed, "you are not a commodity to be bought and sold, no woman is."
She put her hand on his arm, smiling that he would use her first name in front of the Inspector, "don't worry Jack, Hunter would probably agree with you."
"Now, the question is, Miss Fisher, Inspector," Cranston sat back and observed the two, "how do you want to proceed?"
"Well, I suppose I can't leave father to enjoy your hospitality, but I'm not going to send him home, on his own," Phryne mused, "I'm afraid I don't trust him to get there without finding some kind of gambling den. However, I do think I should go over to see Hunter, apologise and see if he will give me the paintings back."
"He has no right to them, in law," Jack pointed out, "but he does have the right to sue for compensation, from Lord Fisher, if he gives them back to you."
Phryne rolled her eyes, she would end up paying for her own goods. Damn!
"Well, perhaps I can come to some arrangement with Hunter," she made to get up, "father certainly hasn't the money to pay him back."
"So," Cranston stood up, as did Jack, "you propose to take your father with you?"
"Unless you have a better idea?" she shrugged.
"How long do you think you'll be gone?" he asked.
"Well, overnight, I would say," she accepted Jack's hand and stood, "there is a train?"
"Crosby!" Cranston yelled out of the office, "trains to Dickleburgh, times!"
"Sir!"
Crosby returned quickly with the timetables in his hand, "er, yep," he nodded, "from Paddington, takes a couple of hours, runs every hour."
"Lovely," Phryne bestowed her sweetest smile.
"Leave him here," Cranston huffed, "one more night won't hurt."
"Are you sure?" Jack raised his eyebrows, "it's not a hotel."
"Quiet at the moment," Cranston shrugged his shoulders, "he'll be alright."
Phryne declined the offer of seeing her father, and headed back to the hotel to phone Hunter Tockington and arrange to hold the suite over for them while they headed to Norfolk.
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"Lord Tockington, please," she smiled down the phone, "the Honourable Phryne Fisher," in answer to "may I tell him who's calling?"
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In his study at Tockington Hall, Hunter was most surprised to get a phone call from the subject of his paintings.
"Miss Fisher," his surprise came through in his voice, "what can I do for you?"
"Lord Tockington," she sighed, "I believe you have some property of mine, paintings ..." she found herself unsure as to say they had not been her father's to sell.
"I bought them off your father," he frowned, "he said that you lived abroad and had no use for them, though I did wonder if that was true. Oh dear, Miss Fisher, what has the silly old fool done this time?"
"I see word has got round," she sighed.
"Oh he's well known for his gambling, and his debts, I'm afraid," Tockington could see there was no point in trying to fob her off. "Come over, dear girl," he smiled, "let's talk."
"Can I bring a friend?" she asked, "he's a Detective Inspector, from Melbourne."
"Well, as I have an old friend of yours here, I don't see why not," he chuckled to himself.
"Bless you, Hunter," she smiled, "we shall be over by teatime."
"Lovely," he looked up and smiled at the other person in the room, "one room or two."
"Ooh, you cheeky devil," she laughed, "one, please."
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Phryne explained, during the train journey, that Hunter Tockington had bore he no malice at all when she turned him down.
"He was very sweet about it, told me to enjoy myself before settling down, it was why he had not married, not got round to it, with travelling and bolstering the family business of farming and the stud," she obviously quite liked the man, as a friend, "he made it into the place to go to for racing thoroughbreds, winners come out of his stables, Jack, and he is widely known at Ascot and Epsom."
Jack was pleased it seemed they weren't going to have to battle some disgruntled suitor she had thrown over. Lord Tockington sounded like a man they could deal with, amicably.
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Tockington had sent a Governess cart for them, large enough to transport two people and a smallish suitcase. The groom was also one of the training jockeys, given his slight build and bow legs. He cheerfully touched his forelock and helped Miss Fisher into the cart and waited until they were both settled before closing the half door and setting off at a trot.
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The door was opened by a short, broadly built man who informed them, in a strong, but musical, Italian accent, that His Lordship was in the drawing room and would meet them when they had freshened up from their journey.
They were shown to a suite of rooms, with its own adjoining bathroom. The bedroom had an old fashioned four-poster in dark oak, with deep red velvet curtains round it. There was a fireplace with a fire crackling away in it, a couch and side table. The wardrobe was so big and deep Phryne thought it might lead to another realm. It was elaborately carved with trees and fauns, lions and other fantasy animals. There was a dressing table with a mirror and stool in front of it. The floor was scattered with rugs of all kinds, oriental and Turkish, Phryne thought.
They removed their coats and washed faces and hands. Phryne changed into lighter weight mary janes, standing her boots to the side of the fireplace. She brushed her hair and repaired her make-up before taking Jack's arm and heading down to the drawing room to meet Lord Tockington.
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His Lordship was standing with his back to the door talking to a woman. She was dressed in a smart dark green wool dress, her fair hair waved and set in an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck. The woman was neither short nor tall, slender - but this was the back view. Phryne wondered if this was Lady Tockington, and she had missed something in the news, the dress was too good to be the housekeeper's. It could be the friend he had spoken of, she supposed, but she didn't recognise her, not from the back, anyway.
"The Honourable Miss Fisher and guest, my lord," the butler intoned. Lord Tockington turned round and smiled, holding out his hand.
"Phryne, my dear," he shook her hand and stood back, "well, you have grown up," he smiled and turned to Jack, "Detective Inspector ..?"
"Robinson, Jack Robinson," Jack nodded and held out his hand, "good to meet you, Lord Tockington."
"Hunter, please," he grinned, taking Jack's hand in a firm grip, "dreadful name to get lumbered with," he laughed, "welcome , welcome ... whisky, sherry?"
"Er whisky, thank you," Jack smiled.
"Phryne?"
"Same, please," she grinned.
"Marvellous," he turned to the butler, "off you pop, Vincente."
Vincente obligingly 'popped off', to do his master's bidding.
"Met him in Italy," Hunter grinned, "waiting on in a hotel, far too good for that, brought him home, knows what I'm thinking before I do." He turned to the woman who still faced the fireplace, "now, Phryne m'dear," he indicated the stranger, "bet you can't guess who's currently warming herself?"
"I'm going to be hugely embarrassed aren't I, Hunter?" she laughed.
The woman turned round, "hullo, fellow angler," she grinned, casting an imaginary line and drawing Phryne over.
"Enid?" Phryne gasped, "Enid Fairbrother, what on earth ?" They wrapped their arms around each other and kissed cheeks before standing holding hands at arms lengths and looking each other up and down.
"Here more than at home," Enid laughed, "Tockey's an old friend of the family."
"You look very well, Enid," Phryne grinned, "what have you been up to?"
"Heaps," she replied, "but who's your catch?" she eyed Jack up and down.
"Meet Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of the Victoria State Police," Phryne pulled him over, "Jack, Enid Fairbrother, we were at school together."
"Miss Fairbrother," he took her hand with old fashioned courtesy and kissed it.
"Lord, he's lovely," Enid whispered.
"Hands off, Enid," Miss Fisher warned in a whisper, "he's spoken for."
"You always did have good taste."
Jack managed not to blush too much as he overheard the two ladies appraisal, though he did like the idea that he was 'spoken for', by the Honourable Lady. He noticed Hunter watching with approval, he thought, and something more. Enid was an attractive girl, he had to admit, not in the same way as Phryne, she was, in his mind, heart stoppingly beautiful, but Enid was not what he would think of as a country girl, not 'hearty' enough. Slim built, elegantly dressed and lightly made up. There was more to the two than just 'friendship'. When Phryne had described Hunter as being a lot older than she was he expected a doddery old man, with sparse white hair, bent with age and myopic. He was, in point of fact, upright in stance, elegant, slim but not too slim, his hair still thick and salt and pepper, rather than pure white, clear dark eyes and a neat moustache, Jack put him at, perhaps, ten years older than himself.
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"It would appear the girls have much to talk about, Jack," Hunter passed him a glass of whisky from the tray Vincente had brought in, "so," he waved his hand in the direction of a couple of chairs by the fire, opposite Phryne and Enid who were chattering away ten to the dozen, "how did you meet Phryne, you didn't arrest her, did you?"
"Nearly," Jack smiled, "for interfering in a police investigation."
"Was she?"
"She was," Jack sipped his whisky, a malt he recognised from Phryne's cellar, "and still does."
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While Jack and Hunter got to know each other Phryne and Enid giggled their way through what they were doing with themselves nowadays.
"No," Enid shook her head in answer to the oft asked question on her marital status, "you?" she rolled her eyes towards Jack.
"Nope," Phryne sipped the whisky, "it's complicated."
"So, when you left school, you were heading to finishing school, if I recall correctly."
"Ended up driving ambulances and nursing," Phryne sighed, "bloody awful, never forgotten it."
"Not surprised," Enid touched her arm sympathetically, "we used the house for injured servicemen. Terrible."
"Indeed."
"So, you came home?"
"No, stayed in Paris, did a stint as an artist's model ..."
"Ah yes, the paintings,"
"They were gifted to me by the artist," Phryne pursed her lips, "they are the best thing to come out of that time. I had an experience, with another painter - let's just say it didn't end well. I live in Melbourne, took the trust fund, and now I'm a Lady Detective."
"Fabulous, darling," Enid grinned, "and Jack? I suppose he figures in this venture of yours."
"It's how we met, but," Phryne wanted to stop talking about herself, "you and Hunter, you're not telling me ... come on Enid, 'Tockey'?" she raised an eyebrow.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Enid winked.
While Phryne still regarded Hunter as too old for her, some girls like an older man, and Enid and Hunter were right, together.
"Of course you don't," Phryne laughed. "How did you meet, you said the families are old friends?"
"Yes, but we really met at the races." Enid sipped her drink, "I bet on one of his horses, first time. Father said it was only polite, neighbours, you know."
"Well, bearing in mind you taught me to ride ..." Phryne reminded her.
"Quite, well I started coming over, just to see how the horses were going," she replied, "he would tell me which ones were running in any races, I bet, I won, rather a lot, then he needed someone to run the place, do the books and so forth, his man died, and well there you go ..." she raised her glass and downed the rest in one, "... he is such a sweetheart, Phryne, I'm dreadfully fond of him," she added the last in a whisper.
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Phryne wanted to broach the subject of the paintings, but everyone was getting along rather well, she worried it would spoil the happy atmosphere. Hunter knew why she had come to see him and, before they changed for dinner he suggested he have a private word with her, in his study.
"Now then, my dear," he indicated she should sit by the desk, "about these paintings."
"I'm sorry, Hunter, really," she sighed, "but they weren't his to sell."
"Funnily enough I wasn't looking to buy, at the time," he leant back in his chair. "I bumped into him, at a club, he was looking for a buyer for some art work and when he saw me I suppose he thought he had a captive audience, being as how he had tried to marry you off to me," he laughed. "He had arranged a private viewing in one of the upstairs rooms and when I saw them I had to buy them, all of them, though I'm afraid I didn't pay anything near what they are worth."
"Oh, I didn't realise he put them on show to all and sundry," she pouted, "I might just have well done a fan dance for them and be done with it."
"Yes well," he cleared his throat, "I wanted to spare your blushes, though if you are in the habit of doing fan dances in clubs ... I bought them so they wouldn't be on show. I found the idea rather distasteful, that a lot of men who should know better were, for want of a better word, salivating over you, my dear. Beautiful as you are, that, to me, wasn't at all acceptable."
"Oh, Hunter," she breathed, "you are such a sweet man, I now feel rather guilty for wanting them back."
"You can have them, dear girl," he leant forward, elbows on the desk, "all except one, in return for a favour."
"And that would be?" she eyed him warily, "remember Hunter, I am with a Detective ..."
"Nothing like that," he smiled, "I assure you; it's Enid ..."
"Enid? what about her?" Phryne leant forward, elbows on her knees.
"Well, she's rather ... I am well, taken with her, and, well ..."
"You want to marry her," she said simply, it was a plain as a pikestaff, he adored her.
"I'm not getting any younger ..."
"Who is."
"... she's quite a bit younger than me, as you know, it's just that ..." he ran his hand over his head, "... well, do you think she'll accept me? I'd hate to lose her, just by asking the wrong question."
"Just ask her, Hunter," Phryne reached over and squeezed his hand, "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."
"Really, you think so?" his face lit up and years fell away.
"I do," she nodded, "now which painting is this going to cost me?"
"This one," he went over to a stack of paintings by a filing cabinet, "as you can see I haven't hung any of them, knowing you would come for them." He held up a simple head portrait, one Pierre had done in a quiet moment, it was never fully finished, more of a sketch, really.
"Oh, well," she was surprised, then maybe not so, "I suppose that is fair exchange, at least you can leave it up in front of the in-laws."
Hunter laughed and agreed.
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The rest of the evening was spent on stories to fill in the missing years over a wonderful dinner accompanied by excellent wines. Neither Phryne nor Hunter would say what kind of arrangement they had come to as regards the paintings, save it was acceptable to them both.
Jack had just finished recalling another case that Phryne had, in his words, "trampled all over" when she suppressed a 'yawn'.
"Sorry," she apologised, "long day."
Jack stood up and offered her his hand, "perhaps it's time for bed, Phryne," he turned to Lord Tockington and Enid, "thank you for a lovely evening."
"I'm so glad you came," Hunter stood and smiled, "sleep well."
"I think I'll head up, too," Enid stood, "busy day tomorrow."
"A word, before you do, Enid," Hunter had just about gathered enough courage to propose, and he was going to act on Phryne's advice, strike while the iron was hot.
Phryne tugged Jack's hand and they left them.
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"Phryne, is something going on?" Jack started to undress, "you were a bit quick to pull me out of the drawing room."
"Hunter wanted my advice," she shimmied out of her dress and hung it on a hanger, "about Enid."
He raised an eyebrow, it was rare for her to be asked for advice over matters of the heart.
"You didn't notice?" she returned the look.
"That they adore each other?" he smiled, "plain as the nose on your beautiful face."
"Flatterer," she teased, heading into the bathroom.
She returned wearing a pink silk nightdress and matching robe, her face devoid of make-up. He had his pyjama trousers over his arm and passed her, giving her a quick kiss on the way.
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"So," he slipped into bed beside her, "he's going to propose, then?"
"Before he loses his nerve," she affirmed, "she'll say yes, of course."
"You sure?"
"She told me she's rather fond of him, but it's more than that," she cuddled close and wriggled against him.
"Good."
"Oh Jack," she breathed ...
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"Mornin' Hunter," Phryne helped herself to coffee from the side and filled her plate with eggs and bacon, tomatoes and toast.
"Good morning, dear girl," he beamed back, over the top of his newspaper, "sleep well," he arched an eyebrow.
"Like a top," she grinned, "lovely room."
"Before anyone else comes down," he put the paper to one side, "can I just thank you ... she said yes."
"Told you so," she smiled over her cup of coffee, hot and strong, Vincente's influence she was sure, "so when's the big day?"
"We didn't get that far, last night," he went a little pink, "got side tracked."
"You old devil" she laughed. "Seriously, though, I'm pleased for you, Hunter, and Enid, she will be much better for you than me."
"I think you have found the one for you," he reached over and patted her hand, "whichever way you decide to pursue the relationship, you will always be you, a one off."
"Thanks, Hunter," she smiled, grateful that he wasn't going to suggest they make it a double wedding or something equally sickly.
Jack had dutifully held back as she had asked, hoping to finding out if he had managed to propose, and Enid's answer. He wandered in, nonchalantly, and greeted his host.
"Help yourself, Jack," Hunter smiled, "paper's there, if you're interested."
"Thank you," Jack loaded his plate with a good breakfast, and sat down. He lifted the paper and scanned the headlines and finding nothing about an escaped Baron, left it to one side.
They chatted about nothing in particular until Enid appeared. Phryne stood up and hugged her, "Congratulations, Enid," she kissed her cheek, "Hunter has told us you are to be married."
"Thanks, Phryne," she returned the hug, "Jack. We have to tell my parents, but I think, if we can get away with it, a small affair," she looked over at her new fiancé, "what say you, Hunter, dear."
"Absolutely, my love," he raised his tea cup, "whatever you want."
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After breakfast Phryne and Hunter crated up the paintings. They would be sent to her mother and when Phryne and Jack got there she would put them back in her suite or in the empty room until she and her mother decided what to do with the house.
They said their goodbyes, Enid promised to let her know when the wedding was, hoping she would still be in the country and that both she and Jack would be able to attend.
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The journey on the train gave Phryne time to think, about the house, about her father and the flippant remark she had made to Jack when she was telling him about the estate, that it would make a rather nice hotel. With her father in the Dower House maybe she and her mother could move into the Coach House, and set the main building up as a hotel, and have the staff become waiters, chambermaids and whatever else. Nobody would need to lose their jobs, she smiled to herself.
"What's got you?" Jack asked, softly, "you've been deep in thought since we got on the train, now you're smiling."
"Oh, well ..." she told him her idea, to keep the estate in the family and for it to make it pay for itself.
"It sounds a reasonable idea, Phryne," he tipped his head in thought, "you do need to talk it over with your parents, but ..." he wanted to offer his support, but was worried she would take it the wrong way.
"Thank you, Jack," she reached over and squeezed his hand, "just having you around will help, me, if no one else."
He pulled her across onto his knee and kissed her firmly.