Chapter Nine

The Conway house was more of a mansion, and as Jack drew the car to a halt, a maid was already opening the door to them. Introducing himself, Jack asked for Henry Conway; they were promptly shown into a tastefully-appointed drawing room and requested to wait.

Conway, when he arrived, was understandably edgy, and chose to cover his nerves with belligerence.

"What do you want?"

"Just to ask you a few question, Mr Conway," replied Jack coolly.

"I don't know why. Is this about the Prof's death? I don't know anything."

"Then it won't take long, Mr Conway," remarked Phryne.

Jack took over.

"We actually want to ask about one of the other members of the department – a Mr Anthony Chorley."

Conway sneered. "Chorley? What about him?"

"We understand he was a regular feature at your tutuorials."

"For a while, yes – he would sit at the back and ask fatuous questions – then pretend to be a swot, and spend the whole tutorial scribbling notes that he'd hand straight in to the Prof at the end of the session." He paused, smirking. "At least, they might have been notes."

Jack didn't miss a beat.

"If they weren't notes, what were they?"

"Letters, I should think. Certainly, the Prof never read them then and there, he'd fold them and put them in his coat pocket."

Phryne glanced at Jack, and he nodded slightly. So, the documents they were after were probably letters. Love letters? It seemed possible.

"Did you speak to Chorley yourself much?"

"No, never. Not my type, Inspector, if you know what I mean." The sneer was back, and even more pronounced.

"And I understand he recently stopped attending tutorials?" pressed Jack.

"Yes, a couple of weeks ago. I don't think it was because he'd learned everything there was to know – perhaps he'd had some other reason for attending," smirked Conway.

"Thank you, Mr Conway, that will be all for now." Phryne could tell from the deadpan delivery that Jack was trying hard not to let his disgust for Conway show.

As they rose to leave, the door opened and a stout, florid man came into the room – clearly Conway senior.

"What's this? Henry, who are these people?"

Jack and Phryne introduced themselves once more.

"Mr Conway has been trying to help us fathom out what could have happened to his Professor, sir," said Jack politely.

"Oh yes, he's a smart lad, my Henry," said Mr Conway senior proudly. "He'll be a self-made man like me one day, Inspector." He began escorting them down the hall to the front door.

"But surely, it can't hurt to have such a comfortable setting – he's a lucky lad, your son," said Jack smilingly.

"Oh, he gets his bed and board, Inspector, but that's all. My children aren't going to learn how to make a fortune if they get given allowances and all that nonsense. No, they have to make their own way, just like I did."

Phryne and Jack expressed admiration for his approach, and shook hands with both Conways before departing.

Again, Jack drove, and they were out of the drive and into the street before Phryne glanced at him and inquired as to their destination.

"Back to the University," he said baldly. "I want another look at Gervase's room, now I think I know what we're looking for.

The porters again supplied keys, and they re-entered Gervase's room, which had been returned to a semblance of order. This time, they stood still for a while and thought. Then Jack went to sit at the desk, and started pulling out drawers – but instead of checking their contents, checked their undersides.

Phryne nodded approvingly, and started to wander the sides of the room. The books had been returned to the shelves, albeit in no kind of order. She ran a pensive finger along their spines and moved along the bookshelf. At the end was the mantelpiece. Looking up, she admired the picture – a print of a Rembrandt.

"Bingo," she breathed. Jack looked up sharply.

She moved to the painting, and carefully lifted it away from the wall to peer behind it. Smiling, she let it rest against the wall.

"Behold, Jack." He looked at the painting, trying to decipher the subject matter. A turbaned figure was in the centre, embracing a young warrior with flowing golden locks.

"Rembrandt," she said with satisfaction. "'David and Jonathan'. And unless I'm much mistaken, the complete works of Anthony Chorley to Gervase Carstairs taped carefully to the back."

Between them, they lifted the picture off the wall and carefully removed a dozen sheets of paper written in green ink and a florid hand. Phryne glanced at one or two of them and blinked.

"You might want to avoid showing these to Senior Constable Collins, Inspector – he's perhaps slightly too easily shocked."

Jack looked over her shoulder, swallowed and blushed charmingly.

"Thank you for the advice, Miss Fisher – I think Collins may not be alone in that."

Noting his reaction, she grinned delightedly, and whispered a suggestion in his ear that made him blush even more.