The voyage started out fairly smoothly. Phryne and Jack, initially, found it rather strange that they were not having to ensure her father was behaving himself. Phryne kept expecting him to appear round a corner, swinging his cane and asking for a little cash for a card game.
"I hope he doesn't start on mother," she sighed, wrapping a thick coat round her shoulders.
"I don't think she will be a push over, though," he pulled her close, "the Dower House is unoccupied, at the moment." He kissed the top of her head, "shall we go inside, it's a bit ... shall we say ... bracing, out here."
"I could do with warming up," she smirked, "any suggestions?"
He just winked and allowed her to precede him towards their stateroom.
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He woke up to an empty bed. It was most unlike Phryne to rise before him so it was a little worrying, especially as he couldn't see her anywhere else. He sat up and rubbed his eyes and listened. He cocked his head, and listened. There was a small sound coming from the bathroom, or so it seemed, a cough, a groan then the sound of the toilet flushing. He waited. He didn't want to embarrass her if she was unwell, it was a little rough, now. They were skirting the Bay of Biscay which was known to be a little choppy, though he didn't think she was the type to suffer from mal de mer.
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In the bathroom she pushed herself up from the kneeling position in front of the toilet and looked in the mirror. The contrast between the black of her hair and the pallor of her skin was almost frightening. She was as white as a sheet and there were little beads of sweat on her forehead. Phryne rinsed her mouth out with cooling water and cleaned her teeth, wiped her face with a flannel and groaned, again. She had never been seasick before so perhaps it was that time, again. But ... when did she last ...? She thought back, when she was on her way out to England, since then ... she'd missed! She was absolutely sure she had missed a cycle ... so ... not seasickness? She straightened her back and sighed, Jack would have to know what she suspected, had even wondered before they set sail, because if she was going to be ill ...
She dry-heaved and swallowed another mouthful of water.
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Jack looked up as she opened the bathroom door and his mouth dropped open. She looked so pale, so fragile, and was using the door jamb to hold herself up. He leapt out of bed and was beside her in an instant.
Phryne didn't usually like being cosseted when she was ill but she felt so dreadfully weak that she accepted his gentle hold as he guided her back to the bed.
"Sweetheart," he breathed, "what's wrong?"
"Sorry, Jack," she tried a small smile, "I think we may need to find a registrar. I'm never seasick, not even in the worst storms ..."
"Oh," he hummed, "Oh, yes," he brightened, "goodness me, that was quick."
"It only takes once, Jack, darling," she smiled a little more, "but we don't have to stop 'misbehaving', not yet, or at all, I believe."
"Can I get you something?" he pushed all thoughts of intimacy away for a moment, more concerned about her wellbeing, "tea?"
"Um," she settled back into the bed, "I don't know, I could do with something ... I'm empty, not surprisingly."
"Right," he stood up, "will you be alright, while I go and see what I can rustle up?"
"I'll probably just doze a bit," she smiled, "it was a bit of a rude awakening."
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Concerned that Phryne was more than suffering from morning sickness and seasickness, Jack headed for the infirmary. As he walked, lurching occasionally from one side of the walkway to the other as a swell hit the ship, he mused on how he could phrase his question. He couldn't refer to Phryne as his wife, because she wasn't, or his friend, because she was a heck of a lot more than that, so, by the time he reached the door he decided to refer to her by name - Phryne - and refer to the problem as seasickness. He knocked and entered when called to do so. A pleasant looking nurse was sitting at a desk reading a magazine. Business was slow, he surmised.
"Hello," she smiled, "how can I help you?"
"Erm, Phryne, that is, Miss Fisher, seems to have seasickness," he felt the colour rise in his cheeks, "I was wondering if there was something that would help her."
"She must keep her fluid levels up, plenty of water," she put the magazine down, "ginger's quite good, settles the tummy, perhaps some weak tea - anything she feels she can keep down, really."
"Oh, right ..." he scratched his head.
"Try asking a steward for tea and ginger biscuits," she linked her fingers on the desk, "they usually have a never ending supply," she gave a little laugh, "it's nothing to worry about, unless she can't keep anything down, then it's a drip to keep her hydrated."
Jack didn't think Phryne would be happy about that, at all, so thanked her and went in search of a steward to place his order.
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Phryne had dozed but her dozing had been fitful. Was she doing the right thing? She didn't actually like babies, they seemed to be red and noisy, if Mary's was anything to go by, though he was growing into a little person and her aunt doted on him. Jack had suggested a nanny, so some things would be taken care of for her - and what if she was careless, lost it when she was out, got distracted like she did with Janey. She started to cry. Thoughts of Janey brought tears flooding down her cheeks, something that had not happened since they had found her and had her remains interred in the family vault. It was how Jack found her, when he returned having placed an order for tea and ginger biscuits with a passing steward - sobbing into her pillow.
"Oh Phryne," he sighed, sitting on the bed and lifting her up so she could cry into his shoulder, "what on earth is the matter?" He didn't think being sick was something she would break her heart over.
"I don't know," she gulped, "I started wondering if we are doing the right thing, and then Janey and what if I did the same again ... Jack ... I'm scared, I've never felt this way before ..."
"We'll be fine, love," he soothed, stroking his hand over her head and down her back, "you aren't alone in this, and you won't lose him."
"How can you be so sure?" she sniffed and looked up into his eyes, soft and full of love.
"Because I know you, Phryne," he kissed the tip of her nose, "because you have made that mistake and you won't again."
"I don't trust myself."
"I trust you," he held her close, "I love you, Phryne Fisher, and I won't let any harm come to you or our child."
The steward chose that moment to bring the tea and biscuits so any more talk about her inability to parent ended, for the time being.
After she had drunk some tea, nibbled a couple of biscuits, she felt a bit better.
"Sorry, Jack," she mumbled.
"For what?" he raised his eyebrows, "you couldn't help being sick."
"Not that, for being such a wet blanket," she reached over and took his hand, "I don't usually deal in self pity, not these days."
"I believe it is allowed, even expected, that you be a little more emotional than usual," he smiled gently, "being pregnant, I hear it comes with the territory."
"And you know this, how?" she huffed.
"I have a sister, she wept all the way through her first," he tipped his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh lor'!" her eyebrows shot up, "please god I'm not that bad."
"Well, I'm sure you won't be, as long as you stop worrying about how bad, or otherwise, a mother you will be. Try imagining the looks on your parents' faces when you tell them they are to be grandparents."
She looked up at the ceiling and thought, then smiled and then laughed at her imaginings. Her mother would shake her head in disbelief even though she seemed to know how she and Jack felt about each other, but her father's face would be a picture, one of horror and amazement.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you," she nodded, "I think I'll have a bath, perhaps a wander on deck would be nice, the sea seems to have calmed down."
"No deep thinking," he warned as she wrapped her robe round her and headed to the bathroom.
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Not every morning started as badly. For the most part Phryne just felt a little off colour but after tea and ginger biscuits, a bath and reassurance from Jack that everything would be alright, she would be ready to face the day. The fresh air on deck helped and if she was careful what she ate she was happy to play deck quoits or swim in the pool.
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She lay, naked, staring up at the ceiling while Jack trailed his fingers over her stomach.
"Do you think we can get away with marrying when we get home, before I start to show?" she wriggled under his hands. They had just made love, though she had said she was a little tired and wanted a nap, but that nap had turned into something else and now she was wide awake.
"I'm sure Dorothy can come up with a dress that draws the eye away from your stomach, or Madame Fleuri, perhaps," he didn't like being asked about her clothes, or if what she wore was to his taste. Whatever she wore was beautiful on her, but he'd give it his best shot.
"I think Dot is my best bet, Madame Fleuri likes a little more time," she shifted and turned on her side, "by the time she has designed, fitted and finished a gown it shall be rather obvious."
He supposed that even for Phryne an obvious 'baby bump' would be a step too far, and Mrs Stanley, well she would blame him and there would be an almighty row.
"So, you are waiting until we are legally wed until you announce the increase in the population?" he let his eyes roam upwards to her breasts then her face.
"I think that's best, don't you?" she nodded and yawned.
"That, my darling," he pulled her over to him, "is something I shall leave entirely in your court." But by the time he had finished the sentence she was fast asleep, which pleased him, it meant she was becoming accepting and happy with the situation they now found themselves in.
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A shriek went up in the salon, puncturing the piano recital like a pistol shot. Heads shot round to the back of the room where a young woman was standing, shaking and staring down at the passenger next to her, slumped over in his seat.
Jack leapt up and made his way along the rows of patrons, excusing himself as he bumped people or even trod on toes.
"Detective Inspector Robinson, Victoria State Police," he waved his warrant card, "what appears to be the trouble?"
"He ... he ... he's dead!" the girl stuttered and gulped, her hand going to her mouth in realisation of what she had just said.
Jack checked his pulse while Phryne, who had followed him more elegantly, took the young lady aside and helped her into a chair out of sight of the corpse. She saw Jack shake his head and look at his watch, no doubt noting the time of death. He lifted the edge of the jacket to see if there was any form of identification on him, then in the trouser pockets, but he found nothing.
He looked round and saw a small glass that appeared to have rolled under the chair. He picked it up with his handkerchief and sniffed the inside. Almonds ... hm ... could be a liqueur or, the only other thing he could think of was cyanide. What was it now? 'Bitter almonds, run and hide, that's the smell of cyanide.' Amaretto was made of almonds, a good way to hide the poison, if, indeed he was poisoned.
There didn't appear to be an injury, there had been no sound of gunshot, the man was simply dead.
The captain appeared by his side and asked what was happening. Jack introduced himself and they shook hands.
"I expect you have people on board to deal with this," Jack handed him the glass, still wrapped in his handkerchief, "I think this may be the instrument of his death, cyanide, hidden in Amaretto."
"You seem to be most capable, Inspector," Captain Wilson mused, "I do have security on board but they are just able to lock miscreants in the brig, not investigate a murder. Would you ...?"
Jack thought for a moment, it would take Phryne's mind off the pregnancy, she may even forget to be sick, he nodded.
"Alright, my fiancée will assist, if you don't mind," he held his hand out to Phryne who patted the shocked woman on the shoulder and stepped over to him.
"Jack?"
"Captain Wilson would like me to investigate this case, I expect you would like to be involved," he raised an eyebrow but otherwise his expression remained quite impassive.
"You know if I can help, Jack," she smiled at the Captain, "I will."
"Captain Wilson, my fiancée, The Honourable Phryne Fisher," he watched him take her hand and bow over it.
"Charmed," he muttered, surprised on both counts; that an Australian Detective Inspector would have a titled English lady for a fiancée and that she seemed to be perfectly happy around murder victims.
"Miss Fisher is a Lady Detective, back home in Melbourne," Jack explained.
"Aah," he looked up at her, "I see," he stammered.
"Perhaps, Inspector," Phryne turned to Jack, "we should move this unfortunate chap to the hospital, or morgue, if you have one," she turned back to the Captain.
"We do have the facility to store a couple of bodies," he agreed, "never had to use 'em, but with it being a long voyage ..."
"Quite," Phryne nodded.
"And will your doctor be able to perform an autopsy?"
"I suppose so, he can perform surgery so I expect he can."
"Good," Jack hummed, "and I need to speak to everybody here, find out if anybody knows him, perhaps locate his cabin ..."
"Of course, anything you need, I'll be happy to see you get it, doesn't look good, you know, Inspector," the Captain sighed, "to have a murder on board a cruise ship."
"I understand," Jack nodded, "perhaps you would like to address those here."
Captain Wilson went to stand by the piano, all eyes turned towards him and the muttering stopped.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he grunted and turned to the pianist, "and Mr Heatley, it would appear we have a problem, not insurmountable if we all answer the questions from Inspector Robinson here. One of our number has passed away and we need to know if anyone knows him or his family."
Jack strode to the front with Phryne, "I will need everyone's name and cabin number, please and the reason for your voyage." He turned to Wilson, "paper, please, a note pad or just some sheets ..."
Wilson raised his hand and a steward came scurrying over. After a brief whisper the steward scurried off again.
"Miss Fisher acts as a consultant to the Melbourne police and she will be assisting me in this investigation, so if any of the ladies would prefer to speak to her I'm sure she will be happy to listen," he smiled, hoping she would understand what he was trying to do.
"Absolutely, Inspector," she stepped to his side, "it would be my pleasure."
He tried not to sigh too audibly that she had caught his drift but she was standing close enough that the audience did not see her trail her hand over his backside and gently squeeze. He kept his face straight, just ... this was one of those times when he preferred Hugh to be assisting him - he didn't go in for squeezing his boss' bum!
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There was a general disgruntled air among some of the passengers. Those that thought it was beneath them to answer the questions were difficult and obtuse. Any that were of the titled class Jack passed on to Phryne who put them in their places politely but firmly - mentioning her connection to certain high level police officers in London and, if that didn't work, to member of the House of Lords who may be a little grumpy at them bringing their social class to the notice of a police officer investigating a murder.
"You see," she tapped her pencil against her teeth, "Inspector Robinson always gets his man and he hates to be given the run around. Now, you are travelling because?..."
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They repaired to their stateroom where the captain had ordered light refreshments to be sent. They had had dinner, before the recital, but it was now very late and he thought they would need something as they went through the passenger statements.
"I can't see anything in these statements," Phryne swallowed a mouthful of tea, "they were all just listening to the recital, all on their way home or to visit friends or relations. Nobody seems to have known him, or even seen him before."
"It's a big ship," Jack sat back on the chaise longue, "easy to go unnoticed ... would you have noticed him, Phryne, would you have singled him out in a crowd?"
She thought back to the man, blonde hair, no skin blemishes - that she remembered - nothing special about his features ...
"I don't think I would," she admitted.
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They gave up trying to make sense of what was going on in the early hours. Phryne was yawning and Jack was blinking and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Let's see what the doctor has to say in the morning, I mean later," he suggested, leading her to the bed, "with clear heads. We also need to find out who he was."
"Perhaps the stewards will know, we didn't speak to them," she stood while he undid the clips of her dress then shimmied it to the floor.
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Captain Wilson had much the same idea, about the stewards, and before the two detectives were finished breakfast he had had them go to the sick bay, take a look at the body then report back to him.
"Nobody," he sighed, "I can't believe not one of the stewards recognised him." Jack and Phryne had been to see the doctor and he had confirmed it was cyanide poisoning.
"He was a bit well dressed for a stowaway," Jack observed, "Phryne?"
"His dinner suit was well cut, but not expensive," she joined the conversation, "his hands were well manicured and the pomade on his hair was from the upper end of the range. If he wasn't in the first class staterooms, he may have been in one of the second class cabins."
"So how do we find out?" Captain Wilson leant forward in his chair.
"Can you have everyone go back to their cabins?" Phryne gazed upwards, thinking, "then, have the stewards go round each and everyone, check they are all occupied."
"We can cross some off," he thought this was a good idea, "not all cabins are occupied."
"Really?" Jack sat up, "well, how about we start with those?"
"Empty ones, Jack?" Phryne shot a look at him then smiled, "of course, perhaps not all of them were 'empty'."
"The only way that could happen would be if one of the stewards had snuck someone on board. They have keys to all cabins and staterooms," Wilson nodded. "Here," he pulled the passenger list out of the desk drawer, "let's have a look."
They made a note of all the unoccupied cabins, there were ten or so, and discussed how they should go about.
"Could we have a steward each?" Jack asked.
"Divide and conquer, Inspector?" Phryne purred.
Wilson wondered how close their relationship was, and under pretence of checking for more unoccupied cabins, found out. No matter, she wore an engagement ring, perhaps they were off to get married in Australia, it was not for him to police his passenger's morals.
"Exactly, Miss Fisher," Jack nodded, "Captain?"
"Sound good to me," he pushed the list away, and sent for three stewards.
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It took all of the morning and the best part of the afternoon to search ten cabins and one stateroom. They paused for lunch, in the Captain's cabin, and discussed their findings, so far - nothing.
"Well, Captain," Phryne blinked, obviously tired, obvious to Jack, that is, "all the cabins I looked at, and searched, were completely devoid of any human, or non-human, habitation. No sign at all."
"Same here," Jack passed her a cup of, happily, strong coffee, "how many do we have left?"
"Four," Captain Wilson looked at his list, "the stateroom, on your deck, and three second class."
"Right," Jack pursed his lips, then continued, "why don't Miss Fisher and I search the stateroom and one of the second class cabins and you and a steward do two others. We'll convene in ours in a couple of hours, yes?"
"Perfect," Phryne swallowed the last of the coffee. She knew what Jack intended. The second class cabin first, then the stateroom, and with a bit of luck she might be able to get a short nap in before they met up again.
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Jack didn't know if it was luck, or fate or the wishes of some higher being, but the second class cabin they looked at was the one they wanted. It had been used, the bed was rumpled, there were gentlemen's toiletries on the nightstand, and a book by the lamp. In the wardrobe Jack found two day suits, three shirts, white, two ties, and a pair of brown brogues, size seven. In the chest Phryne found underwear and socks. She checked the laundry labels and found each one had a different name.
"Jack," she looked over at him, examining one of the suits, checking the pockets for identification, "Jack, check the laundry labels."
"What?" he turned, "oh right." He remembered writing his name and cabin number in his clothes as Phryne did for hers, so they could make use of the ship board laundry. "Hey, they're different, each one. This," he held up a shirt, "labelled Harmon, Cbn 2-9," that's level two cabin nine, right?"
"Right," she agreed, "and these," she help up a singlet, "Grossman Cbn 2-4."
"Well, I'll be blowed," he whistled, "Robinson Strm 1-8, I didn't know I was missing a shirt."
"Cheeky sod," she hummed, "but it gets us nowhere with the identification."
"Stewards, then?" he suggested, "laundry staff?"
"Precisely, but," she yawned, "can we leave it until we have met the Captain, I'd like a little nap."
"I know," he took the shirt and went over to her, "I'll take my shirt back, you bring that singlet."
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With Phryne settled in her slip underneath the blanket, Jack sat writing up his notes and possible explanations as to why the mystery man had other people's clothing and was bunking in an 'unoccupied' cabin. Was he on the run? If so, why? Was it that he just couldn't afford any fare and had preyed on the soft heart of a steward? Further searching of the cabin had revealed nothing, no wallet, passport or driving licence to give identity to the man. It was most frustrating, without his identity how were they to find his murderer, or was it suicide? He sighed and scratched his head. Oh for Constable Collins!
He closed his eyes and subsequently dozed off, still wondering what the heck was going on.
A sharp rap on the door made him jump and Phryne sit up, half asleep, which, she discovered rather abruptly, was not a good idea. She retched, and covered her mouth with her hand.
Jack's first thought was for her. He was at the bedside before the second rap and supported her to the bathroom.
"You ok?" he worried.
"Uh huh," she mumbled, "just need to ..."
"Yes, of course," he understood immediately, "I'll forestall them."
"Thanks," she knelt in front of the toilet and voided to contents of her stomach.
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With the bathroom door closed and the bed swiftly tidied, Jack felt he could invite the guests in, which he was sure was the Captain and his stewards.
He was right.
Wilson bustled in followed by two stewards, he looked harried, was turning his cap round in his hands.
"Inspector, oh thank goodness, you're here," he gasped, "really, it's too much, I don't understand ..."
"Sit down, Captain," Jack guided the overwrought man to a chair and poured him a large whisky, which he gulped down without thinking, "now, tell me what's going on."
"What's going on? I have no idea," he held out the glass for a refill, "all I know is there is another body in one of the cabins."
"Another one?" Jack scratched his head and gaped, "well, this just gets stranger."
Captain Wilson just nodded.
"Right," Jack turned to the steward, "could you organise some tea and biscuits, please, then we shall get down to business."
As the steward nodded and headed to the door Jack caught his arm, "ginger biscuits, please," he whispered, "Miss Fisher ..."
"Of course, Sir."
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In the bathroom Phryne set about composing herself. She rinsed her mouth out and cleaned her teeth. Her make-up needed repairing, but she could hear the Captain in the stateroom. She thought, and decided that she could quickly grab enough to make herself presentable and sneak it back into the bathroom.
The captain was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice her slip out of the bathroom and back again, the swish of her black satin robe and the flash of colours on the embroidery on the back, did not attract his attention, though the steward noticed.
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Wilson looked up as Phryne made her much understated entrance, in full make-up and the dress Jack had left over the dressing table stool.
"Ah, Miss Fisher," he stood up, "well, I don't know if you heard ..?"
"No, have you found something?" she sat down and gave him one of her most disarming smiles.
"Another body," Jack touched her shoulder, "in one of the other cabins that was supposed to be unoccupied."
"Another one," her voice rose a pitch, "do we know him?"
"We've sent his body to the doc," the steward entered, with the tray of tea and biscuits, "but no sign of any ID."
"Check the laundry labels," the Captain suggested.
"Unlikely," Jack held up his shirt and the singlet Phryne and he had found in the cabin they had searched, "it looks like the first chap helped himself to some of the passengers' clothing, my shirt and a singlet belonging to a ..." he re-read the mark, "Mr Grossman, Cbn 2-4."
"Well, I'll be ..." Wilson ran his hand through his red hair, making it stand on end, "I suppose we need to interview the laundry folk, now?"
"What's the betting they will say there are always mix-ups," Phryne mumbled through a ginger biscuit, "there is always that chance, but surely the garments would easily be re-acquainted with their owners."
"Well, if Mr Grossman's singlet had ended up with my things I would have popped along to his cabin and handed it over," Jack agreed.
"Yes, well you're an honourable man, Inspector," Miss Fisher grinned.
"So kind of you to say so, Miss Fisher," he laughed back.
"Is the second body as ... nondescript as the first?" Phryne asked, "I only ask, because the first man had no distinguishing facial features, he wouldn't have stood out in a crowd."
"Well, I, er ..."
"Shall I take a look?" she smiled, "as a woman, perhaps I could tell you if I would have noticed him in a crowd, it certainly wouldn't the first one. I'm sure he was a perfectly nice young man, but ..."
"Why don't you do that while I go down to the laundry?" Jack suggested, thinking the steam and heat might be a little much for her in her current 'delicate' condition.
"First rate idea, Inspector," she nodded, "then we can swap notes afterwards."
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Phryne stood and looked down at the head. Mouse brown hair this time, no facial hair, no moles or distinguishing marks, square-ish jaw, aquiline nose straight brows, she might have noticed him, there was more strength to his face than the other man. She hadn't seen him around the pool or the quoits, she was sure of that, not in the dining rooms either. He was taller and broader than the first man, who, she had murmured to Jack, would get blown over in a strong wind.
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In the laundry Jack was having better luck. The launderers, the pressers seemed to be working overtime and he had to talk to them while they worked. The sketches one of the stewards had done were good enough to use for the purposes of identifying the men in the sick bay fridges.
"Sorry mate," a presser folded, with amazing dexterity, a dress shirt and put it on a pile, "we work shifts see. But it could be the next shift, there was a lot not done overnight., means we're behind hand."
It was the same story throughout the rooms, they had more to do because somebody had not pulled their weight the night before, and the shirts and chemises were piling up.
However, he was beginning to form a picture of who the men were, but, sadly, not why they had been killed, for he was sure it was murder and not suicide.
He headed to the Captain's cabin to obtain a list of laundry staff, particularly those who worked the night shift, then down to where they would be resting, and, as they shared a large bunkroom it should be easy to find who was missing, should be, but wasn't.
He did a roll call, which was greeted with groans and moans and "give it a rest mate, we're sleeping!"
Everybody was there.
He took a deep breath and headed back to the stateroom for a large whisky and a sit down.
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He found his love languishing in a warm and sensuously perfumed bath and her invitation to join her was rapidly accepted. Bathing together and discussing a case had become a no-no, so he contented himself, and it had to be said, her, in lovingly massaging her back and then her front and all points in between before making love to her deeply and thoroughly.
"Mmm..." she sighed, lying over his chest, "hello, Jack."
"Hello, Miss Fisher," he bent forward and kissed the top of her head, "feeling better?"
"Much," she lifted her head and smiled, "very much so."
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Wrapped in their robes and sipping hot chocolate they perused his notes and her observations.
"I still think it is a launderer," she nestled against him, "access to clothing, access to cabins ...hang on," she pushed herself up, "what about the laundry stewards, the ones who actually collect and deliver the laundry? Could it be one of them?"
"I suppose so, but why are the night shift not keeping up with the load? According to the shift that's on now, they had left a lot undone, as it were."
"Laziness?"
"I think I'll get Captain Wilson to do a crew roll call in the morning," he sighed, "it's not as if they can escape, we're not docking anywhere for another two, three days, are we?"
"No."
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But it wasn't that simple, Captain Wilson had no missing crew.