Chapter Eight

The door in Alma St was opened by a heavy-set man in shirt sleeves.

"Yes?" he asked abruptly.

Jack showed his badge. "Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, sir. Are you Martin Ryan?"

"I am." Phryne reflected that, if this was an example of Ryan's conversational style, the interview was going to take a while. She moved to Jack's shoulder, and introduced herself.

"May we come in, Mr Ryan? I'm afraid we have some bad news," asked Jack, wondering what he would do if the man refused. Fortunately, after only a moment's hesitation, he stepped back and gestured them to enter the house.

"Thank you," Jack removed his hat and essayed, "you have a cousin, Father John Ryan?"

"I do," Words four and five from the next of kin. Even Hugh Collins' note-taking would have coped with this speed of dictation.

"I'm very sorry to have to inform you that he has been found dead, Mr Ryan. In fact, it appears he was murdered."

"Murdered?" Ryan's expression was blank. "You must have the wrong man. My cousin's a priest."

Deciding that it would at this stage be insensitive to point out the use of the title "Father" in his previous statement, Jack swallowed awkwardly and confirmed, "Yes, that's right. The incumbent at St Peter's, in South Melbourne."

Ryan sat down suddenly.

"Mr Ryan, I'm sorry, but there are some more questions we need to ask," Jack continued. "We have reason to believe that your cousin was under some kind of threat. Had he appeared in any way worried? Was there anyone he'd talked about?"

Ryan was still in a daze.

"What? Threat? No. I can't believe it. No, he'd not said anything. I only saw him the other day. We had a drink."

Phryne decided to take a gentle approach. In her most honeyed tones, she asked, "He'd only been in Melbourne for quite a short time, is that right?"

Ryan looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. "Yes … yes, that's right." He visibly collected his thoughts, and gave them his full attention.

"We're the only two left now, of the family. He decided he wanted to come and join me here, and came over on the boat about six months ago." He looked out of the window, clearly struggling a little. "He felt he was really lucky to get St Peter's – there's quite a young congregation, and there's loads going on …" his voice died away as realisation dawned of the severing of his own link with that church.

He looked up at them. "Do you have any ideas at all?"

Jack gave him the standard "we're-pursuing-all-leads-at-this-stage" and could tell it didn't cut much ice with Ryan.

"If you think of anything, sir," Jack hurried to finish up the increasingly uncomfortable interview, "could you let us know?"

Ryan agreed that he would. They let themselves out; it didn't appear to occur to him to get up from his chair. Or perhaps his legs still weren't working. They were both prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Returning to the Hispano, they got in and sat for a moment, debating next moves.

"What about the stiletto?" asked Phryne.

Jack grimaced. "The trouble is, they're more common than you'd think. Trying to isolate the source of a single, fairly indistinguishable knife is proving almost impossible."

"So what does that leave?"

He shrugged. "All we can really do is work our way through the interviewing the congregation, trying to find any hint of someone with an argument against Father Ryan. Collins is doing his best, but so far, there's nothing."

She laid a hand on his knee. "Let me know if you need my interrogation skills, Inspector."

His lips twitched. "I think we can spare the congregation that penance at this stage, Miss Fisher." He traced her cheekbone with his finger. "In any case, I'm rather enjoying your skills and don't feel particularly inclined to share them …"