Where on Earth is Jones?


On a road just outside Richmond-Upon-Thames Detective Inspector Lancelot Jones scowled into the dark. It was late. It was cold. And it had started to rain: a thin, icy drizzle that chilled the spirit as well as the body. Four miles away a murderer was drinking champagne and dancing with attractive ladies in a nice warm ballroom, and here he was listening to two of his constables grunting and straining as they changed a blown tire. It had taken all four of them half an hour to push the bloody car back out of the ditch it had ended up in when it skidded after the wheel went, and now it looked as though it might very well be another half hour before they were able to get underway again.

"Should we proceed on foot, sir?" Constable Gosling asked.

"Not unless you fancy the idea of trying to march a nob back to the pub in this, Constable," Jones replied. "Not to mention listening to the stink the landlord'll kick up if we try to keep him there overnight."

"Maybe we could commandeer one of the nob's cars, sir?"

Jones turned and regarded his constable wearily. "Gosling, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but believe me when I say the nobs are going to be quite upset enough over this without us trying to take one of their shiny toys away." He smiled slightly, recalling his last conversation with the Australians. "Besides, Miss Fisher was confident that she could keep Mr. Mortimer there, and if Inspector Robinson trusts her then I'm confident we can to."

Robinson had indeed seemed to trust Miss Fisher to keep the murderer where they wanted him, although a little anxious about her methodology. 'I'm sure I'll think of something,' Miss Fisher had said airily, to which Robinson had replied, 'let's just stick to dancing, if possible, Miss Fisher.' Her response had left Jones more than a tad bemused: 'But Jack, I left my fans back in Melbourne.'

...

As Phryne had predicted, the evening was getting difficult. It was close to supper time, and the first set of dancing had given way to incidental music and conversation. Conversation which was, in some cases, conducted with all the disinhibition that several hours of quite impressive champagne consumption could bestow. Worse, Jack had made the mistake of entering the smoking room, primarily to check on the Baron, and therefore separating himself from the restraining influence of Phryne and Lady Margaret's presence.

"So, I hear you just upped sticks and sailed all the way from Australia to see her?" The Right Honourable Something asked, puffing cigar smoke in Jack's general direction before he took another hearty swig of champagne.

"I did," Jack confirmed, wondering just how rude it would be to simply shoulder the Right Honourable out of the way and make a break for the door. Very, probably.

"Rum thing for a man of your station, if you don't mind my saying-" he was going to say it whether Jack minded or not, so he didn't bother respond. "-Must have cost damn near every penny you had."

Well, it hadn't been quite that bad, but Jack had certainly considered working his passage home to be a real probability if Phryne had rejected his suit. "She's worth more," he responded sincerely.

"Even so. What on Earth made you decide to do such a damn fool thing as that?"

It had been a bank robbery. The robber had burst from the bank, shooting wildly, just as he and Constable Meyers exited their car. He had found himself staring down the barrel of a gun and had whirled for cover, feeling searing pain strike him in the arm as he did so. It had been a long time since he had experienced the piercing clarity that came with the conviction that he was about to die and as he slammed heavily to the pavement Phryne had flashed before his mind's eye: not just her image, but the sound of her laugh, the scent of her perfume, the taste of her whisky, the moist heat of her mouth against his, the sense of completeness when he was working a case with her by his side, the way she made him feel alive inside... an overwhelming impression of Phryneness. It had lasted only an instant before he rolled over and fired the shot that would incapacitate the robber and put him in hospital, and then Jack's conscious mind had been fully back on the case. But deep in his subconscious Phryne's voice had exclaimed 'you know what it's like when life is fleeting and it feels as though you might die at any moment!', and the next time he had the chance to think about it (while his arm was being painfully cleaned and bandaged in the same hospital where the bank robber was now shackled to a hospital bed) his mind had already been made up. If Phryne's name was to be the last word on his lips, then dammit, he would speak it without regret. He had sailed for England within a week.

Phryne knew that story, but he was damned if The Right Honourable would ever hear it from his lips. He shrugged. "I'm a fool."

The Right Honourable had nothing to say to that and simply blinked at him in bemusement for a moment before downing the last of his drink and going in search of another. Jack, breathing a quiet sigh of relief, nodded to several other men who glanced in his direction, and returned to the ballroom.

Phryne was speaking in tones of restrained archness to a small group by a window and he felt no compunction at touching her elbow, nodding briefly to the remainder of said group, and drawing her away.

"Everything alright?" She rolled her eyes.

"They wanted to know whether it was true that your father was a transport."

Jack rolled his eyes in turn. "Of course not. It was my grandfather, and only the one." He saw Phryne's eyes light up with interest. "He was just a kid. Got caught picking pockets. Very Oliver Twist. The judge was lenient on account of his age."

"Jack! You never told me that."

"It isn't exactly something I was raised to advertise. Any sign of Jones yet?"

"None whatsoever. I've been keeping an eye on George-" she nodded to where Mortimer was talking to several other gentlemen "-but I'm starting to worry. It'll be supper soon."

"And at a pinch a supper table can furnish quite a handy arsenal for a desperate man," Jack finished her thought for her. Thrown plates, scalding hot liquids, sharp knives, broken wine bottles... At this stage Mortimer would fear the noose as well as disgrace and could resort to almost anything in an effort to escape, including taking a supper companion hostage. He sincerely hoped it wouldn't come to that.

...

The policemen had finally made it to Norfolk House. A man in a footman's uniform, no doubt stationed by the door in order to turn away undesirables, opened his mouth as they entered, the constables flanking their Inspector. Jones held out his badge, and the footman's mouth closed again with an audible snap.

"Right, now, how many entrances to this ballroom?" Jones asked.

...

"...Well, naturally I told her to dismiss the girl. You have to, or they'll all be at it. The Bible, of course, but if you let them go about reading just anything who knows what ideas they might get into their heads."

Jack nudged Phryne to distract her from this riveting discussion of the dangers of permitting the pursuit of self-improvement among one's domestic workforce, and nodded towards the door. Jones had finally arrived. Phryne caught Jones' eye and tilted her head towards Mortimer. He followed the direction she had indicated, and gave a nod of his own in reply. He had seen him, and moved towards him like a shark cutting towards its prey.

"Mr. George Mortimer?" Jones called as he approached, in the unmistakable accent of a working-class London boy. Mortimer turned, and his eyes widened in comprehension. For a moment he gazed at the policeman in shock, then turned and made as though to run out through the open doors leading onto the terrace. He had covered only two steps when Gosling stepped into the light.

"Going somewhere sir?" he asked.

Jones clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Mr. George Mortimer, I am arresting you for the murder of Mademoiselle Yvette Benot, also known as Miss Evie Bennet, of Poplar." Mortimer opened his mouth to protest as gasps of shock ran around the suddenly-silent room, and Jones leaned closer. "I wouldn't make a fuss, if I were you, sir. Better to walk out with a little dignity."

Mortimer went very stiff, but as Jones escorted him past Phryne he turned his head and, catching the unmistakable gleam of triumph in her eyes, broke his silence.

"She was just a stupid little French slut. How could you turn on one of your own for someone like her?"

"She was one of my own," Phryne answered, in tones of cold loathing. "And you will never be."