Chapter Seven
Better informed but not noticeably chastised, the pair of sleuths started making their way back to Phryne's cabin, with a short detour via the bridge to leave a message to be passed to the galley about the doctor's breakfast requirements. As they were descending, though, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman came along the companionway below, and stopped short when he saw them.
"Chief Inspector, I'm glad I've found you. A word ple … PHRYNE?"
"Hello, Dom, dear," she smiled, edging past Jack to plant a polite kiss on the Duke's cheek. Jack worked out quite rapidly what the Other Thing was that Phryne had had to tell him.
"Phryne," the Duke was nonplussed, which expression suited his face very well. "What … how … why …"
"Helping, by sneaking on board, because I was there when your man was killed, your Grace – to answer your questions in the order presented. Are you holding up all right, Dom?" she asked gently.
"Er – yes. Yes, I suppose so. So – you know the Inspector?"
Phryne grinned. "In every sense of the word. He's my husband."
"Oh!"
At this, Phryne took pity on him and, taking him by the hand, dragged him into the bar. "Come on, old thing, you need a stiff drink. Jack, can you fig out some whisky?"
Jack could and did, even without the benefit of a white-coated steward to wait on them. Settled in wing chairs around a small table, his Grace scrambled together enough wits to toast his never-was inamorata and the very businesslike policeman whose expression seemed to become decidedly unbusinesslike when it landed on the Honourable Phryne Fisher. His Grace's good wishes were just as graciously accepted.
"So, your Grace, what was it you wanted to ask me?" prompted Jack.
"Please – I know we need a chain of command and all that," complained Albemarle hastily, "but I can't have Phryne's husband 'your-Grace'-ing me all over the place. Call me Dominic." This drew a doubtful look from the Chief Inspector. "Oh, very well then – Albemarle? The chaps call me Ally, but that wouldn't be right."
"Then I'm Robinson, and thank you. But you had something to ask me?"
"Well, yes," the Duke admitted, and sat back in his chair, glass in hand. "I'm just not clear how on earth the protestors could have got word that we were here. We've been so careful."
The Chief Inspector relaxed into his wing chair and sipped gratefully at the whisky that, coincidentally, happened to be one of his all-time favourites. At long last, he was in an environment where he was being given the chance to mull the problem instead of searching for a way forward in (sometimes literally) pitch darkness.
"As I see it, Albemarle, you have only three possibilities. The evidence Miss Fisher and I have amassed suggests that there were two people involved in the killing of Clarence Fitzhugh: one on the ship, and one on the dock who extinguished the lights at the key moment. So, either you have someone wishing to attack your people, who managed to sneak an assassin on to the ship …"
"Or," Phryne took up the exposition, "there are people on the ship who want to scupper the reconnaissance mission, who sent someone down to the dock to switch off the lights and cause confusion?"
"Or there's someone on the ship who's in cahoots with the anti-Royalists," said Jack finally. "But that would need them to be in contact with someone on land, and that's difficult."
For a moment, silence reigned and the brain processes were enhanced by the heavenly result of combining malted barley with water.
"Jack?"
"Mmm?"
"You know who we should ask?"
He paused, and then looked at her in disbelief.
"Phryne, this isn't about race fixing or hooch smuggling. You can't ask Bert and Cec."
"But if anyone has an in …?"
Jack put his glass down and hid his face in his hands.
"Er, Phryne?" The Peer of the Realm had recognised that there was a conversation going on, but for him conversation would generally involve topics such as The Weather and Everybody's Health, so there were gaps he was struggling to fill and he was relying on Miss Fisher to get out a nice bright red crayon for him.
She pulled a face. "I have a couple of friends who would hate to meet you, Dom. Or at least, they'd love to meet you, on condition that they'd be at liberty to string you up from the nearest lamp post and ask questions later."
"Oh dear," he said. "Well, if you think I should?"
She then realised why he was Going Places in politics. He might not have revolutionary ideas, but he was prepared to talk to anyone at all if it was for The Good Of The Nation. Even if it might hurt in the neck department. She resolved there and then to find him a nice, conformable wife who would know precisely where to seat a Baron compared to a Deacon at a dinner table and still have time left over to tell him he was Terribly Clever and make sure his undergarments were freshly pressed.
As it were.
"Hopefully it won't come to that. I think that Jack or I should have the conversation. I do feel, though, that it wouldn't be unreasonable to have someone checking more closely who's coming and going on that gangway," remarked Phryne. "Jack, do you think James Hollister could spare an officer? Or do we need to rope in that Sergeant of yours?"
Jack nodded. "I'll get Collins detailed. With Fitzhugh dead, I won't even have to argue about the need for more security, and one good officer will make the world of difference." He stood and excused himself to head for the ship's radio.
Phryne watched him leave, and the Duke watched Phryne.
"It was never me, was it, my dear?"
She glanced back at him, momentarily startled. Then smiled. "No, Dominic. Sorry. It wouldn't ever have been you." She looked back at the closed door, as though the Chief Inspector would suddenly materialise on the threshold. "It wasn't supposed to have been anyone. I was going to be resolutely free and single and absurdly happy. It was only when the first two conditions started fighting with the last one in earnest that I had to have a rethink."
She turned back to him, and tipped her head in thought. "I'd have been wrong for you anyway." He started making polite demur. "No, shush, Dom, don't talk nonsense. There's a girl out there who ..." she narrowed her eyes as she formed the strategy, "… doesn't know you that well – you've probably only danced with her a couple of times at the Caledonian Ball – or something," she added vaguely. "She'll be doing a dutiful Season but would rather be doing dinners at the family estate, because she loves to cook." Phryne was warming to the theme now. "A girl who can scale a fish, skin a hare, dance the 51st and still have energy left over for charades and a sing-song round the piano."
"Gosh." His Grace was struck by the thought. "D'you know, it's funny?"
"What's funny?"
"There was this lovely girl last year – not at the Caledonian Ball, but up in Oban."
"Really?" Phryne smiled with mild interest. Arabella, Dom. Her name is Arabella Egerton.
"Yes. Very jolly. Araminta?"
"I don't think I know ..." said Phryne doubtfully.
"No! Arabella. I'm almost sure it was Arabella."
"Now you mention it, don't the Egertons have a daughter of that name?"
"Egerton! That's it. Arabella Egerton. Delightful girl. Very sensible."
Her work done, Phryne dispensed with her whisky, her glass and her companion as soon as was feasible in the scope of good manners, and escaped as quickly as she could to her cabin.
