Chapter Seven

The following morning, Phryne was taking a relaxed attitude to starting the day (well, second time around – Jack's approach to starting the day had been more vigorous in several respects, she recalled happily). Reclining in bed in her boudoir with coffee and some tiny but delicious pastries, she was surveying the morning post and trying to decide whether she was sufficiently interested in a vanished Lalique vase, photograph album or aunt (she'd never liked Lalique much, but she was reasonably fond of her own aunt most of the time, and had high hopes of the photograph album) to take on the commissions, when Mr Butler tapped on the door.

"Mrs Collins to see you, Miss."

"Bring her in and provide a cup of tea, Mr B. Dot! Lovely to see you, how are you getting on with the Inspector's correspondence?"

"Morning Miss. It's that I was wanting to see you about, actually." Dot was clearly upset, and Phryne set everything to one side and patted the mattress beside her. Her assistant had become remarkably resilient since coming to work for her all those months ago, and for Dorothy to be so woebegone there must be Something Up.

"What is it, Dot. Has one of the Inspector's fans become a bit too biblical?"

"Oh no, Miss, nothing like that. Well, a bit. Miss, do you still have the other letters that you took away with you?"

Phryne was alert. "Yes, Dot, they're in the bottom of the wardrobe. I thought about putting them in my underwear drawer but decided they were a bit too incendiary, and I'm fond of my smalls."

Gathering her robe more firmly about her, she hopped out of bed and retrieved the envelope.

"Anything in particular you're after?"

"Yes, Miss. Wasn't there one in a yellow envelope? Canary yellow? I think I'd like to have another look. Because … this one was in the latest batch."

She handed over a yellow envelope with a hand that was equally as shaky as her voice. Phryne studied her face closely, and then opened the letter. Neither Boswell nor Johnson had any competition from this author.

Get rid of the whore.

"Succinct," remarked Phryne. "That's the reward for failing to notify the press of your nuptials, I gather – I can only assume they mean me. I take it this hadn't been opened by Russell Street?"

"No, Miss. There was only one which had been, and all the ones they sent were fan letters – they're getting better at sorting them, I think." Dot's voice was a little gruff, and Phryne glanced up at her, to see reddened eyes. Casting the letter aside, she gathered her assistant in an energetic hug.

"Darling Dorothy, don't let it upset you. This isn't a fan letter, this is a mad person finding an outlet for madness. If it hadn't been the Inspector, it might have been the Mayor, or the man who delivers the milk. I'm just sorry you had to find it – and so very pleased that you had the thought of looking for the other letter. Here, have my hanky, and then we'll both look."

After a good blow of her nose, and a sip from the sustaining cup of tea that Mr Butler had brought, Dot pronounced herself Much Better and they delved into the package of letters together. The envelope in question was swiftly found, and Phryne commandeered it, instructing her assistant to Have More Tea, Dot.

"Hmm. Same paper, good quality. Not scented like the others. No return address, of course. What does it say?

You're going to be mine.

Good handwriting – not the usual block capitals of the poison pen letter writer." She laid the letter down and looked at Dot.

"Miss, are you going to tell the Inspector?"

Phryne pursed her lips. "Not yet, Dot," she decided. "It's not as though these letters are being hand delivered to Russell St, so there's nothing they can do differently. I think the first thing we do is try to track down the paper – it is quite unusual. How long have you got before you have to go back to your babies?"

"Ages, Miss. Miss Stubbs has taken them out for the day." Once again, Phryne blessed the good fortune that had thrown the angelic Evangeline Stubbs in their path; Dorothy's life had been transformed by the help with her twin babies, and Phryne had her assistant back, at least part of the time.

"In that case, Dot, that's your job. Leave the letters but take one of the matching envelopes and see if you can find the stationer that supplies them." She flung the covers aside. "And if you could lay me out the jade velvet and associated accoutrements, you'd be an angel. I have a charity lunch at Aunt Pru's. I'm off for a bath, and then I need a word with Bert and Cec."

Her two tame cabbies were dutifully waiting at the kitchen table nursing mugs of tea when she came downstairs.

She sat down the end of the table and fixed them with a cool gaze.

"I have a job for you two, and I can tell you two things at the outset – you won't like it, and you're going to have to do it anyway."

They exchanged glances, and Bert spoke up.

"It's not as though it'll be the first time, Miss Fisher. What's the job?"

"Orrie Duke," said Phryne flatly. The air definitely became a degree or two chillier, but she ploughed on.

"All the Inspector needs to know is whether he was on his own at the time of his death. There could be any number of reasons why he had that fall, and I'm prepared to believe that quite a lot of them are innocent, but if this thing isn't going to get out of hand, the Inspector needs to know what happened. By all means present me as the primary agent if it makes the task easier.

"And on the subject of the Inspector – someone took a pot-shot at us yesterday. You'll understand that, much as I applaud the finessing of firearms skills through practice, I resent being used as a target; and I want to make it quite clear that if Jack Robinson is hurt as a result of the current investigation into Duke's death, the person harming him will wish they had never been born. My Sinophile tendencies have been finessed in the art of making someone's life so unpleasant that the alternative is preferable."

Two former wharfie cab drivers were remarkably efficiently no longer in the room.