Chapter Seven
Miss Fisher wasn't very good at mornings as a rule. Providing breakfast for Miss Robinson was about the only thing that made being awake at such an unconscionable hour bearable. However, Miss Robinson was becoming a bit of a dab hand at getting her mother to smile, despite her (Mrs Robinson's, that is) bad temper at that time of day. It was therefore with reasonably good grace that Miss Fisher was not only awake, but subsequently bathed, dressed in something suitably sedate laid out by Lin Soo, breakfasted and being ceremonially driven by her favourite Detective Inspector to Our Lady of the Seas, at an hour carefully timed to coincide with the end of morning Mass.
They sat in the car for a little while, watching the trickle of early-morning faithful disperse. When the priest had farewelled his final parishioner, the Inspector got out and walked around the Hispano to let Miss Fisher very properly out of the vehicle, for all the world as though she wasn't fairly practiced at diving out of its windows if the need arose, let alone opening the door all by her poor, frail self.
This was going to be an interview where they needed to be as far above reproach as it was possible for a Protestant to be in such company, and they were both giving it their best shot.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
"Father?" asked Jack, as they crossed the road towards him. He had the impression they were meeting a receptive audience – or at least, Miss Fisher's car was.
"God is truly a masterful designer," remarked the priest. "Yes, I'm Father Connor."
Phryne bit her lip, but couldn't quite bring herself to let that one pass.
"To be fair, the Spanish and the Swiss surely deserve most of the credit for the aerodynamic design, Father Connor?" She extended her hand. "The Honourable Phryne Fisher."
"Ah, yes, but who designed the wind, Miss Fisher?" he asked gently, taking her hand in both of his in a practiced gesture of blessing. Father Connor, she realised, had a charisma that many of his peers sadly lacked, and the spark of humour in his eyes had her take to him instantly.
Acknowledging the point with a corresponding twinkle, she introduced the Inspector, who had watched the interplay appreciatively and thanked his stars that this was one situation where he could almost certainly shelve any twinges of jealousy.
"Could we go inside, Father?" he asked politely. "I am afraid we have some bad news to impart, and we also need your help."
They sat in the pews at the rear of the church, and any humour in Father Connor's expression was quickly dispelled at the news they had to impart.
"Jeremiah Wallace? Oh, may the Lord bless his soul," the priest crossed himself automatically. "That's truly awful news. Such a gentle man, and such clarity of purpose."
Phryne had been wondering how a man of the cloth would describe a person who would relentlessly pray for his opponents.
Jack took the initiative of raising their thorny issue.
"Father, I'm sorry to have to ask this. I'm sure you understand that we are embarked upon a murder investigation; and that not only Jeremiah Wallace, but also a friend of his, Winston Dornoch, was murdered that night; and two other men had their lives threatened, one of whom is still in hospital. We need to do everything we can to track down the person who did this, before …"
"…before someone else is harmed," interrupted Connor. "I do see, Inspector. You must also see that my position is difficult. Tell me what it is you want to know, and I will see if I can help."
"What we need to know, Father, is as much as you can possibly tell us about anything that was troubling Mr Wallace. Any arguments he might have had, or fights he got into?" asked Phryne.
Connor was silent for such a long time that the sleuths worried that they'd caused offence. Phryne's patience snapped first.
"Father?" she asked, not quite managing to keep the testy note out of her voice. Jack kept his face straight, but she knew the scowl was there. Patience, Miss Fisher!
The priest turned back to her a few seconds later, though, entirely unhurried.
"Forgive me. I was praying."
They both looked at him in confusion, and he smiled a little.
"Inspector, Miss Fisher, prayer isn't all 'God bless Mummy, God bless Daddy and please make Venice the capital of Italy'."
Jack wondered how on earth this man who was younger than him could possibly have eavesdropped on what sounded like a very familiar litany from his eight year old self.
"Sometimes it's just taking a good look at God, and letting God take a good look at you."
Phryne shifted uncomfortably before she remembered that her conscience had been completely clear for at least … oh, it had to be twenty minutes. But Connor was speaking again, so she left her conscience to fend for itself.
"I can tell you what Jeremiah told me of himself, when he was in the confessional. He is with his Maker now, and there are no more secrets for him. I cannot tell you what he told me of others, although I am sure that if you wish to, you can force such confidences from me with the power of the law. I hope you will not need to resort to such lengths."
Jack and Phryne exchanged a long glance, and Jack spoke for The Law.
"Tell us what you can, Father, and we will do our best. In any event, hearsay would have as poor a standing in our courts as it does in yours."
This garnered an appreciative nod from the priest. "Jeremiah was concerned that he had witnessed a crime; not just a single crime, but a continuing act of fraud. However, he also felt that he should not report the perpetrator to the authorities; he did not say why."
Jack pressed his lips together in frustration, but Phryne leaned forward, interested.
"Are you able to tell us how you responded to his dilemma, Father?"
Connor eyed her with new respect.
"Indeed, that was my challenge." He paused, and examined his own hands, folded on his lap. He was, Phryne thought, unhappy with the decision he had made. "I decided that I should have faith in the undoubted strength of Jeremiah's own moral compass, and allow him to make a report to the authorities when he judged it right."
Phryne pressed his hand in sympathy, but Jack could no longer hold his peace.
"And Mr Wallace and Mr Dornoch are now dead, Father. Thanks to your faith in Mr Wallace's moral compass." Jaw clenched, he turned on his heel and left the church.
Connor snatched his hands from under Phryne's grasp, his previously animated expression now a bloodless blank. He said no more, but stood, and bowed a sketchy farewell to her; then walked slowly to the front of the church, crossed himself once more, and knelt on the altar steps.
Phryne crept from the building, and climbed back into the Hispano. Wordlessly, Jack, whose knuckles showed white on the steering wheel, started the engine and let in the clutch.
"Where are we going, Jack?"
"Back to the Ralphs'," he said shortly. "I'm looking for a bicycle."
