Part 2
Chapter 6
I pledged my life to the cause. To the Union. To the workers.
Every day I write articles, lobby politicians, feed the abandoned families of the tent towns with whatever I can get my hands on. I want a world where kids could grow up knowing their fathers. If that sounds naïve then so be it. The war had taken so many… Thirteen years, the war is over.
But the mines keep taking them. They are greedy.
Four more miners dead and the circulating rumours of layoffs are frightening the men even more than descending into the dark, dank Number 20.
Every day I stand beside my brothers in protest of the conditions as they starve on their reduced pay. But protests don't seem to matter. The message falls on deaf ears. Perhaps it's time to change that.
Chapter 7
On most days, Jack does his level best not to think about the war. Or, when he does have to, he finds it easier to synthesize it into dates and facts and geography. But there were always cases that brought the visions back—a discovery of machine-gun ammunition, interviewing a shell-shocked man.
Like a pebble thrown into a pond, the encounter—having broken the surface—caused a ripple effect, darkening the edges, tinging his thoughts with an unpleasant, prickly haze. So, later, when he awoke bolting upright and shivering in a cold sweat, an impotent scream dying in the back of his throat, he was not surprised.
This time it was the memory of an exploding shell—Private Cavendish's charred body twisting in the air like a grotesque ragdoll—as the rest of his unit had continued to storm over the top. The lad had been from Carlton, quick with a joke, and always with a spare fag to share. Deep in the caverns of Jack's mind images of Cavendish warred for dominance—the boy's easy smile morphing and melting like bubbling wax from his bones.
He spread his hands flat on either side of his hips, letting them sink into the satin bedclothes—tethering himself to heaven rather than hell. After long minutes spent orienting himself to his surroundings—the glint of her silver hairbrush on the vanity, the last reddened embers of the fire in the grate—his breathing slowly began to return to normal.
"They never leave, do they?" she said softly, the tenor of her voice reminding him that she was no stranger to the darkness.
He reached for her, moulding his damp chest to her naked back. He needed her warmth to dispel the chill, the death that still clung to him like vapour. During his years as a single pillar, he had used books to fight the frigid creep of memories like ice water in his veins. Favorite stories, read again and again like old friends, helped keep the worst at bay. But as Phryne curled her body to better press every possible inch of skin against him, he thought he might never be able to express what it meant to him that she wielded the strength of her body not just for his pleasure but also his comfort. He inhaled the scent of her KoKo for the hair, inviting it to settle into his lungs like a balm.
"Truly the universe is full of ghosts," he quoted, his voice wry and tinged with sadness.
Jack no longer believed in the god of his youth, but neither did he subscribe to the idea that the finality of death spelled the finality of existence. Most nights, he brushed away these thoughts—the speculation too painful to consider. But tonight, with his arms wrapped around her, there was no hiding from them.
His chin crested her shoulder to nestle into the hollow of her collarbone as he considered the transfiguration of the human soul.
Science had taught him that energy cannot be destroyed; it merely changes form. It was an appealing theorem, that upon death one simply became another part of the ever-expanding universe. Yet without a heaven to reward and a hell to punish, there was no justice in it. Jack's moral compass would not allow him to consider the possibility that the forevermore existence of murderers, rapists, and child slavers was the equivalent to that of their fallen victims.
He gazed down at Phryne's figure, darker in its substance than the surrounding night. Did she not live her life, in part, as proxy for her sister? And in that way, wasn't Janey Fisher transformed and transformed again?
Private Cavendish continued to endure—if only because he was alive in Jack's mind. And what of the countless soldiers and victims who vied for a moment of recognition in his dreams? He thought of his mother and father and took comfort in the fact that he breathed the same air that had once held space in their chests. In the chambers of his heart, he carried the torch of their legacy—memories he treasured.
Perhaps it was both—energy that was elemental and memorial. But what happened when there was no legacy… when there was no one left to remember?
Four times Rosie had fallen pregnant, once before the war and thrice after. Four times he had watched on, helpless, as their future was ripped from Rosie's womb, their hearts growing harder with each failure and the act of physical love—the one connection they had left when Jack had returned—felt like a cruel trick God had played on them.
To their faces, their families had offered advice, prayers, and even the occasional packet of herbs or bottle of tincture—but there were always whispers about who was at fault. Jack, for himself, had never blamed Rosie—they had been in it together, after all—but it did little to diminish the pain.
As Cavendish's commanding officer, he had taken it upon himself to write to the private's family. With no remains to bury, they had purchased a memorial—a modest white marble plaque, always with a fresh flower that spoke of their frequent visits.
Jack had denounced any such hopes for himself the moment Rosie had left for her sister's. The Robinson line ended with him. Jack thought that he had long accepted this fact, but the small quiet voice remained—the one that whispers and cries silent tears about what could have been as it takes its place, a formless, shapeless presence amidst the faces of the dead. Acceptance and endurance, as it turned out, were not the same thing.
Despite being the happiest he has been in more than a decade, the feeling—cold and damp and impossibly familiar—draped itself over him and refused to be dislodged.
She sensed his mood and reached behind her to stroke his cheek. "You don't believe in ghosts."
"No." He turned his head to dot her palm with a kiss. "Not that kind, anyway."
"Jack—"
She tried to twist in his arms but he tightened his embrace, holding her still. Phryne would see the fear in his eyes and he did not think himself capable of answering her questions. He worried she might think he still longed for a child. That may have been true, once, but no longer. It was his legacy for which he mourned, and it sounded petulant and selfish even to his ears.
Phryne would never be concerned with such a thing. But then, why would she? Phryne Fisher was the sort of woman people wrote books about. Endowments and scholarships bore her name. She had Jane.
"Mind if we stay like this for a while?" he whispered into the unsettled silence.
Chapter 8
"Inspector, at last," Mac greeted with a lilt of her tea cup, perfectly at ease in their kitchen—the morning's Argus spread out in front of her: Authorities Still Investigating Cause of Jolt in Melbourne City-Centre. "Five more minutes and I would have led a search party," the doctor teased with a wink.
Mr. Butler tossed the Inspector a knowing smile over his shoulder that ensured, Not on my watch. He had borne witness to the detectives' worry and exhaustion last night and had vowed to let them sleep as late as possible. Judging from the tired man's face, however, it did not appear that it had been restful.
"You've looked better yourself," he volleyed back, pulling out a chair and joining her.
Unless he was sharing a private supper with Phryne, Jack nearly always preferred the comfortable informality of the kitchen table. He looked up into Mr. Butler's face with eternal thanks as a stream of strong, fragrant coffee flowed from the long spout of a polished silver urn and into his cup.
"With all due respect to your faith in my abilities, Jack, I'd prefer not to examine another corpse like that in a hurry."
From her leather satchel, Dr. MacMillan pulled a file and swept her crystalline eyes between the policeman and the domestic. After Jack's almost imperceptible nod, she opened it.
"I wanted you to see the results before I processed the paperwork officially." There was an edge in her voice that reminded of a well-honed blade being pressed to the skin but not breaking it. She patiently waited until his eyes reached the bottom of the page.
"Coal dust?" he asked in surprise. The Inspector's mind was turning.
The doctor nodded. "All over what's left of his clothing. Highly ignitable. You said he lit a cigarette?"
"That's it…" a voice alighted from the threshold, as silky as its possessor's chocolate-coloured kimono.
Everyone turned to find Miss Fisher, eyes shut tight, her arm gesticulating wildly in front of her as she tucked the hand into the collar of her dressing robe—reenacting the victim's last moments.
"…he was reaching for his cigarettes but he was clearing the air in front of him. He might have even coughed." Phryne's voice rang clearly through the still kitchen air as she reached back into her mind.
"Any theories on where it could have come from?" Mac asked pointedly.
"He must have been doused with the stuff just as he exited the building." Jack frowned. "I don't recall anyone passing us on the steps."
"No," Phryne agreed. "And Harlan Clapp didn't have a spot on him. But in the time it took, there was ample opportunity for him to change clothing."
"Or for someone to slip out the back." Jack said. "We need to have another look."
During his sleepless night, the Inspector had quite a bit of time to think. He had turned the pieces of information over and over in his mind until they had begun to form a picture.
"I don't suppose you've been following the inquest in the papers?" he asked the room at large.
"In fact, I have," Mac admitted darkly. "I'm a great believer in freedom of information, Inspector. But under the circumstances, I'm wondering if we shouldn't seal this case."
"Inquest?"
"Into the explosion at a coal mine in Wonthaggi, Miss," Mr. Butler said smoothly, not missing a beat. The man's ability to disappear into the background was uncanny. Jack shut his eyes briefly and hoped, once more, that the unnerving sensation would ease with time.
"Four men died as a result of a gas explosion in one of the newer shafts. Another was severely injured," the butler continued, handing her a cup of the stout Turkish brew that was his mistress' preference.
"I presume from your faces that a verdict was returned?" she asked, blowing lightly on her coffee before succumbing to the first sip.
"Right in one," Mac said grimly, sharing a pointed glance with the Inspector.
"Last Wednesday, to be precise," he affirmed. "The jury found that the workers didn't take the proper precautions. The deaths were ruled accidental therefore no charges were levied against the State."
"Hmm. Remind me who controls the Wonthaggi mine." Phryne was already connecting the dots as she paced the length of the kitchen.
Jack answered her anyway, "The Railway Commission."
"Someone wanted to send a message." Phryne's voice had taken on the telltale trill that meant she had found the right thread to pull to begin unravelling the mystery. "And who better to deliver it than the solicitor who represented them?"
"I suppose you'll be needing these sooner than later," Mac said, passing him the recovered contents of his billfold and, thankfully, his credentials—only slightly worse for wear.
Mr. B. looked between the faces of the doctor, policeman and detective. "A murder, then?"
"Looks that way," Jack sighed. It had certainly not escaped his attention that Kasi Ferguson's missing crusader brother was tied to the very same colliery. He scrubbed his face with his hand and tried desperately to ignore his deep-seated doubt of coincidences.
Chapter 9
Tucked into the small telephone table in the hall, Jack nodded as if the man on the other end of the line could see him. "No, sir. I'm not inclined to release any information to the press or anyone else… I've just met with the Coroner. Have the warrants come through?" He fiddled with his fountain pen as his boss underscored the implications. "... I understand, Commissioner. About my request, I know it's unorthodox but…" His eyes shut tightly for a moment, his posture rigid against the hard, wooden seat. "Yes sir. Thank you. I'll keep you informed."
He replaced the receiver on its cradle as though it were made of lead.
"Well?" Mac asked impatiently, her hands crossed over her chest.
"Seal the report, Doctor MacMillan." The order rolled decisively off his tongue. "No one has access to it or the body of the unfortunate Mr. Tidmuth save the two of us. Not even the Premier is to have access without my accompaniment."
"Understood," she replied without batting an auburn eyelash. "Who's in charge of keeping this quiet?" she asked.
"The Chief Commissioner implied that he would be handling it personally." The arch in his brow informed that he neither needed nor wanted to know how that was to be accomplished—but was assured it would be.
"Right, then." Mac had seen too much in her forty-odd years for this to be a surprise. With a swift tug of salute to the brim of her hat, she was off, snapping the door closed behind her.
He found Phryne perched on her vanity settee, her eyes meeting his in the gilded mirror to draw him—as always—into her orbit.
He took his customary place behind her and smoothed his palms up her bare arms. She was daubing Scandal—her latest French acquisition—behind her ears in preparation for the day ahead. His mouth turned down in a wry smile before descending to her shoulder.
"Apt choice," he murmured into her warm scented skin, wishing he had time to lose himself in a cloud of incense and opulence.
"Is it as bad as you thought?" She watched him carefully in the mirror. The particular modus operandi of this murder—and it was murder, of that she knew he was certain right down to his bones—was brutal and spoke to a calculating and vengeful mind. The details, if they got out, could lead to full-scale riots or a tidal wave of political reprisal. Neither was an option she cared to ponder for very long.
"Worse," he replied, removing his lips from her with obvious regret and moving to sit on the edge of the bed so she could continue to dress. "Technically, this ought to be Russell Street's case. It's their jurisdiction."
She could hear the words he had left unspoken—that he didn't want the case, didn't want it to stir up the ghosts with whom he had forged, if not peace then at least a truce. But of course, it was too late for that.
"But you were there. And your Chief trusts you."
"Yes," he admitted heavily. His service on the force had not been an easy one. Beyond the dangers he faced, there was the police strike, his marriage and subsequent divorce of his superior's daughter, the insinuation of a socialite into his cases, the arrest and exposure of the former police commissioner.
After everything that had transpired, that trust was a prize—hard won after long years of proving himself, of taking on the toughest cases—and he felt proud to have earned it. But at times, he could not escape the feeling that it was just as equally a burden.
"And it seems, he was successful in persuading Mister Clapp that it's in his best interest to cooperate."
"So the warrants—"
"Would attract far too much attention," he confirmed. "And we don't know what we're dealing with yet."
"Does he suspect revenge, an inside job, or a political protest?"
"I'm the lucky sod who gets to work that out," he sighed.
She stood before him and wove her fingers into his hair. "Good thing you have me to help you, then."
"This case, Phryne…" he seemed to have to steady himself. "You're not going to be allowed to consult as a private detective..."
Her expression told him that he might as well have slapped her.
"Well," she said turning on the spot. "I suppose after you've searched the railway offices, you'll be on the next train to Wonthaggi."
"As soon as possible, yes. Chief's orders."
Unable to ensure that the wobble in her throat wouldn't betray her, she addressed herself to her wardrobe instead of her partner—trusting to the muffling powers of silk chiffon to keep her secrets. "Just as well. I do have my own case to solve."
In another time, he might have accepted her words as the cocky dismissal she purported them to be. But things were different now—she had let him in and there was no going back. He considered the fervor of her touch, how she demanded more than he had ever thought himself capable of giving. And yet, even in this he thought she surpassed him in her generosity, holding him tight into the wee hours while he battled his demons. The comfort he found in her arms was unimaginable, even to him.
The very thought of having to return to that scene without her was enough to make him weep—had been enough to propel him down the staircase just before dawn in nothing but his smallclothes and call to beg the Chief Commissioner for a favour.
"Actually, Miss Fisher," he rose and took a tentative step towards her. "If you have no objection to being a servant of the law, I thought we might go together."
Phryne released the breath she was holding in a long, dizzying ribbon and quickly donned the playful mask of sinister seduction to balance the worry that still plucked at her nerves.
"It's always my pleasure to serve the law, Inspector."
Jack bit down on a sheepish grin as his eyelids fluttered in consternation at her double entendre. Despite the permission he now had to act on it if he chose to, her teasing had not lost its flustering effect on him. But he understood it better now, the way her coy words shifted something in his spine—a pillowing sensation that made it easier to bend.
"In an official capacity, Miss Fisher."
"I think I could see my way clear to assist the Victoria Police Force once more." This time, her smile beamed genuinely bright as she strode over to her jewel box. "It's been far too long since we took Buffalo Bill out for an adventure." She proffered the left side of her body, holding the treasured tin star out to him. "When do we leave?"
Jack's gaze fell to her fingers. She had once told him that she was on his team; but the gift of that badge had marked his awareness that there was no one he wanted there more. The lump in his throat reminded him that there still wasn't. And so, there was no decision to be made. No weighing of duty. Her tiny gasp of delighted surprise tugged achingly on his heart.
He lassoed her 'round the waist, pulling her closer, his lips hungry as he mumbled into her warm, willing mouth, "A bit later than I'd intended."
Chapter 10
The Commissioner had arranged for the building in question to remain closed—even summoning the gas company to test the area for nonexistent leaks, a twist of irony that Jack could not find amusing in the least. It was, however, believable and should keep the truth out of the papers for a few more days.
With a flash of Jack's singed credentials, the two detectives moved past the crew, finding themselves traversing the same set of steps up which they had galloped just twenty-four hours earlier. A heavy overnight rain had ensured they were in far cleaner condition.
"You with the gas comp'ny too?" the building's caretaker asked Phryne with an appreciative, cheeky stare. "Sheilahs comin' up in the world."
Not exactly undercover, Jack was under express orders not to raise suspicions and opted to evade the question than lie outright. "We're investigating the cause of the explosion. You must be Mr. Wells."
"That's me," he answered with an easy smile. "We ain't due for an inspection fer a month. But I s'pose it's better safe than sorry. Lucky no one was hurt."
"Uh-huh," Jack hummed noncommittally. "Were you here yesterday, Mr. Wells?"
"Mister Clapp was. He's got his own set of keys—keepin' all hours like he does. I get Sundays off."
"If you weren't here," Phryne asked, her tone deceptively innocent, "How do you know someone was in the building?"
Mr. Wells fidgeted in his pocket for a moment during which Jack instinctively placed his hand on his hip, feeling for the handle of his revolver. What Wells revealed was not a weapon, but a pair of wire spectacles.
"I clean the building every Saturday, top t' bottom. I was missin' m'glasses afterward. An' I needed 'em for church," he admitted.
"So you came back Sunday morning to retrieve them?" Jack led.
"Yeah. Me and the missus. An' they was right where I musta left 'em—on the shelf in m'cupboard."
"Did you or your wife notice anything unusual, Mr. Wells?"
"Weren't here long. Still had to walk the four blocks to church an' Mr. Clapp was carryin' on a right fuss as usual. Thought it best to skedaddle 'fore he had a go at me. Never smelled no gas. That what I told them blokes." Wells pointed his thumb towards the door to indicate the gas workers outside.
"I'll make a note of it," promised the Inspector.
The detectives sized up the man in front of them, coming to the same conclusion.
"Thank you, Mr. Wells. We'll take it from here."
The Inspector's words were heard as the polite dismissal that they were meant to be.
"Suit yerselves," Wells shrugged. "Offices on this floor. They keep the records upstairs an' the boiler room's down below. I'll be here if ya need me—already turned away half a dozen folks. Not supposed ter let anyone else in the building." He eyed the marks the two had left on the marble floor. "I ought t' make myself useful an' clean up that mess."
Out of nothing more than a well-honed sense of curiosity, Phryne's head whipped around and saw the sunlight shining in the bank of windows and illuminating the outlines of their shoes in wet, white smudges where they had tread in from the door.
"Jack," she whispered, tucking into his side, "Our shoes didn't leave the debris—"
"They removed it," he finished, tilting his head to view the effect at a better angle.
From her handbag, she extracted a pristine white handkerchief—one of several she now carried for the impromptu collection of evidence—and, crouching down, swept a path near one of Jack's footprints. The cloth was coated in grey dust. "There's our weapon, Jack."
"But how did the killer administer it without drawing suspicion?"
From the maintenance cupboard, the caretaker muttered an oath under his breath. "Bloody contraption… bran' new an' it's already got a bloody hole in it."
They looked at each other at exactly the same time and shouted, "Mr. Wells! No!"