Chapter Nine

The telephone at the Stanley house rang out several times before Aunt P remembered that the reason they were eating a cold collation was that the staff were having an afternoon off. Tutting mildly, she rose to her feet and bustled to the hallway.

"Hello? Are you there?" Prudence had never really trusted the telephone, though her distrust was more of a scientific than superstitious nature – she had never worried that she'd be struck down by a flame from the earth's core, a fear that still haunted Dot. "Inspector, hello. We're in the middle of luncheon," she said testily. "Can't it wait? Oh."

To give her her due, once Aunt P had decided you were the Right Sort of person, the decision remained unassailable; and the man who'd rescued her scandalous niece from social ruin (a phrase that made Phryne roll her eyes and Jack bite his cheek) and helpedprovide a beautiful great-niece would have had to struggle to put a foot wrong.

(Jack being a Chief Inspector these days didn't hurt, either. Aunt P had Deputy Chief Commissioner in her sights for him, or her name wasn't Prudence Stanley).

It took all her fortitude to get through the next few minutes, though. With time not on his side, Jack was succinct, which meant Brutal.

Aunt P's side of the conversation continued to consist (apart from a single instance each of 'how' and 'when') of the word Oh. It took many forms. There was the interested one, when news was shared about her Intended; then the sceptical one when she heard the case against the accused. Then the rather quiet one when she heard the evidence. Then the abrupt one when she heard about the Motive. The next three were in a steadily rising crescendo as the fact that this out-and-out cad apparently had the temerity to run to her after he'd been found out. After, in the end, nine or ten "oh"s, she thanked the Inspector politely, assured him that she and Elizabeth would be able to handle the situation perfectly well until they got there, and that they shouldn't feel the need to hurry because she wanted to make sure Mr Chilton had heard absolutely everything she currently felt the need to communicate to him.

He would be hearing about himself; about his conduct; about his presumption; about his morals; about his treatment of the Fairer Sex; and just as she was getting warmed up on the subject, the Inspector interrupted as politely as possible to ask that he be allowed to telephone for Mr Johnson and Mr Yates.

She graciously allowed him to do so, and then turned to her great-niece, who had trundled after her out into the hall and was now experimenting with the hem of her dress and looking up at Aunt P enquiringly.

"Come, Elizabeth!" commanded Prudence firmly. "We have work to do! Now, where is the step-ladder kept?" she finished pensively, setting course for the kitchen.

Fortunately, the step-ladder, as well as the various other accoutrements Mr Chilton's Nemesis decided she might need were exactly where they were supposed to be. After a moment's thought, the back door was left a little ajar, and the rest of the downstairs doors and windows secured. With only one or two other preparations, Elizabeth and Aunt P retreated to the first floor, just in time to hear the sound of an approaching vehicle.

A minute later, the doorbell rang. Prudence placed a finger over her lips for hush, and Elizabeth covered her giggle with her hand.

The doorbell sounded again. Then a voice was raised.

"Prudence? Prudence, darling? Are you there?"

Impatient pacing back and forth on the gravel was heard, at which point Prudence threw up the sash window and leaned out.

"Who is it?" she asked disingenuously.

He took a couple of steps back. "There you are!" he called with relief. "Do come down, dear."

"I'm afraid I can't," she said firmly. "Let me send you something else down instead."

She judged the angle carefully, and managed to cover her unsuspecting inamorata with three-day old water from the flower vase on the upstairs landing. Her young lieutenant helpfully held the associated flowers in her small fist.

"Prudence!"

Never had the word been uttered with such venom or – let's face it – imprudence.

The Gloves were Off. Muttering, the victim scooted an ineffectual hand across his sodden and stinking brow and shoulders and tried the front door. Finding it secured, he set off around the building trying every door and window he came across. There were many such, and his fury built with every failure.

By the time he'd reached the kitchen door, he was incandescent, and contemplating breaking a window; but he saw at a glance the very slight gap that showed this opening had been missed. His Prudence was, of course, too genteel to have thought of venturing to the kitchens.

There was still a hint of caution as he peered through the glass, but the room was deserted. Quelling his feeling of triumph, he pushed the door open.

The tin bucket balanced on top of it hurt his head considerably when it landed; the flour it contained hurt his ego considerably more.

Once a Warley girl, always a Warley girl.

With a roar of anger, he stumbled through the kitchens and on to the hallway, where the stairs would lead him to his quarry.

He was so intent on the stairs that he didn't spot the shine on the wood at their foot, and with both feet landing almost simultaneously in a slick of treacle, it was hardly surprising that the first part of his body with which the stairs came into contact was – his nose.

He was, nonetheless, surprised; and it took a few minutes, and the application of some crisp linen to his bloodied proboscis, and the odd groan, before he could summon the impetus to continue his soggy, sticky progress up the stairs.

When he got to the top, he turned immediately for the guest room above the front door, and he was rewarded by the sight in its doorway of a small child with bright green eyes under a neat black bob gazing at him solemnly. She had her thumb in her mouth and was sucking it.

"Hello … Elizabeth, isn't it?"

She carried on sucking her thumb.

"How long have you been there?"

She stopped sucking her thumb, took it out and held it up to him. It was shrivelled up. Rather like a prune.

Quite a long time, then. She had something behind her back, and he felt, suddenly, unaccountably nervous.

"What do you have there, Elizabeth?" He edged towards her. Prudence was in that room, he was sure; and where Prudence was, there was money.

The child tipped her head, as though debating a question; then pulled out her weapon, brandishing it threateningly under his nose.

As every horticulturalist knows, some allergies just can't face blooming tigerlilies.

Chilton's eyes stung, and he began sneezing uncontrollably. Thus rendered temporarily incapacitated, he was scarcely aware of the approaching blow, delivered by Prudence Stanley with the third best lampstand to his head as he collapsed in a heap on the floor. He was still there when Detective Chief Inspector Robinson and the Honourable Phryne Fisher turned up a few minutes later.

Mr and Mrs Robinson knew they should probably whisk their daughter away from such a dubious presence, but neither quite had the heart to ask Aunt P to release the hand of her Second In Command who had performed such sterling work. Furthermore, it meant that Elizabeth was there to hear a very important statement, spat out as soon as the handcuffed prisoner had come round from his stupor.

"No-one – least of all a worm like you, Ambrose – will ever be permitted to make Mrs Edward Stanley look a fool."