Part 5

Chapter 22

Phryne accepted Jack's hand down from the police motor car, threading her wrist through his arm as they walked up to the neat white clapboard structure where Neville Ferguson boarded. Spring House lived up to its name, with its grass-green shutters and tidy window boxes. On her knees in the small front garden, a woman in a wide straw hat was digging in the earth with her bare hands.

"Good morning," Phryne called, announcing their presence.

"It is," the woman called back without taking her eyes off her work. She managed at last to free the dandelion greens and tossed them into her basket to lay alongside the freshly pulled carrots, salads, and cut flowers. She got to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. "Some people would look at 'em and only see weeds..." Her skin was the colour of cacao and she regarded her visitors with keen, black, and seemingly bottomless eyes. "…Not you, eh Inspector?"

Nonplussed, Jack's gaze shifted to Phryne who mouthed the words, blue wool suit.

"I suppose I should have tidied meself up before your arrival but I don't let much get between me and my gardening." She ignored their quizzical looks and picked up her basket, then lead them in through the front door with little in the way of formality. "Come in," she beckoned. "Reckon you'd prefer tea to a proper greeting, anyhow."

She smiled beatifically and gestured to the porcelain service being laid out on the table by a young kitchen maid.

"Ah, thank you," Jack stammered.

"Go on," she said, hanging her hat on one of the hooks just inside the vestibule. "We don't stand on ceremony here. I can see you missed breakfast. I'll just wash up and join you in a moment, shall I?"

Not used to being lost for words, Miss Fisher took her seat gingerly and allowed the maid to pour her a cup of steaming tea—but she did not drink it. She stared at Jack, who chose a biscuit from the tray and applied himself readily to it, and then another.

"What are you thinking, Jack?" Phryne hissed.

He swallowed with difficulty, his chagrin souring the mouthful. "That… I did miss breakfast."

"Family recipe." From behind them came the throaty voice of the mysterious woman from the garden. In her time away, she had discarded the apron and tucked a bright orange bloom into her plait. "And last I checked, it didn't call for any known poisons."

She took a seat at the head of the table and snatched a biscuit with a freshly-scrubbed hand, crunching into it appreciatively. It was followed with a hearty gulp of tea, and after dotting the corners of her mouth with her serviette, she introduced herself at last. "Mary Briggs. I own the place."

"Detective Inspector Robinson," Jack managed at last. "…Victoria Police. And this is the Honourable Miss Fisher. She's a private detective."

The two women regarded each other carefully and, having come to some unspoken accord, exchanged a nod.

"My grandmother was Yallock-Bullock, of the Boon Wurrong, Miss Fisher. She had the true gift of sight." Mary poured out more tea for all of them. "But that didn't save her from bein' ripped from her family and her land. She made peace with her fate by takin' in every stray, waif, and orphan without thought or prejudice. I named Spring House after her favourite season. She used to say that people are like gardens, that if you tended 'em careful, bounty would follow… But plantin' the seed required a leap of faith."

"She sounds like a very wise woman," Phryne offered, considering the faith she had placed in her own unique varietals.

"Aye. Grandmother knew my calling before I did. I enjoy taking care of people. I'm good at it—makin' folks feel at home. But I was never interested in love… Too much work to be gettin' on with." Mary's dark eyes grew heavy with the burden of her thoughts.

"Miss Briggs," the Inspector said in a voice that was firm but kind. "We need to ask you some questions."

"I expect so… if you're going to find my Neville."

"Neville Ferguson?" Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the feeling of wrong-footedness pervading his senses. "I didn't realize the police had contacted you, Miss Briggs."

"They didn't…" Mary Briggs held his gaze as if it were tethered, an invisible string of a kite she could tug into the wild wind. "Neville told me you were comin' for him."

"When was this?"

"Last night," she said solemnly. "He came to me in a dream."

"In… a dream?" Jack lost his composure and gaped openly.

It was too much—too surreal—dreams and ghosts and spirits haunting the living. It felt like an insult, a slap in the face, that he now had to contend with this woman's vision in addition to his own. Long moments passed, or perhaps no time at all when Phryne's hand on his knee, her warmth seeping through the wool flannel, brought him back. She was asking the woman a question.

"You said your Neville, Miss Briggs. So… Mr. Ferguson is more than just a boarder here?"

"Aye. Much more."

"Do you know where he's gone?" Phryne asked.

She shook her head. "I wish I did." Mary studied the pale woman with interest. "You knew him, Miss Fisher." It wasn't a question.

"That was a long time ago."

"What is time to the earth beneath our feet? 'A woman from his past, a man from her future,' that's what he said." Mary Briggs looked between them, smiling her enigmatic smile. "And here you are. To bring him home."

The Inspector cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Miss Briggs, when was the last time you saw Mr. Ferguson in his… er… corporeal form?"

"At breakfast Friday. He said he was off to the mine to take care of some business."

"That was four days ago," Jack reminded her.

"Neville's prone to walkabout. It's not unusual for him to disappear for a few days at a time," she explained. "Might seem odd to you, Inspector… I can see you're a man of routine. But Neville said he was off to take care of some business and I didn't have any reason to think differently."

"Until last night," Phryne finished. "If you thought he was in danger, why didn't you call the authorities?"

"And say what? That I had a vision? That somethin's happ'ned but I don't know what or where?" Mary's lips wavered, equally sad as fond. "Come now, Miss Fisher. Not everyone shares your appreciation for the unknown."

The Inspector couldn't help but notice the way Mary's eyes lingered over him as she spoke the last words. He ignored it and pressed on. "Is there anybody you can think of that would have a grudge against Mr. Ferguson?"

"Neville's well respected," she replied with no small amount of pride in her voice. "He fights for the workers and holds the State to their promises. But he does it without a lot of dust-up. Appeals to their better nature. He's helped keep this place open which is more 'n most expected—especially when the mine o'er in New South Wales open'd back up last year."

"Do you have any theories on what might have happened to him?" Phryne asked.

"I wish I did. I could show you his room?" Mary offered. "Considerin' the circumstances, I don't think he'd mind."

Mary Briggs led them down a long corridor with a series of closed doors on either side and withdrew a keyring from her pocket. "I haven't touched anythin', Inspector. Jus' so you know."

"I don't recall accusing you of any such thing, Miss Briggs," Jack replied evenly.

"I could feel ya thinkin' it."

Miss Fisher bit down on a smirk and began to sort through her old friend's belongings. The wardrobe was packed so tightly, she doubted another shirt would fit. From the chest at the foot of the bed, she extracted a large valise embossed with gold initials. If he had scarpered, he was traveling light.

Meanwhile in his personal papers, the Inspector found Kasi Ferguson's telegram. The gentleman's bank ledger had debits for room and board, train fare, the local bookshop. There were also deposits lodged, presumably from his shares of the ruby mine, and a sizeable figure noted as NSW Shale.

"Did Mr. Ferguson ever discuss his finances with you?" the Inspector asked. "Mention any investments?"

"All my boarders have to show proof of employment. It's house policy. The Wonthaggi Union employs him to represent their interests. Beyond that, I know he comes from minin' stock. Might still have some holdin's." She straightened her spine at the sidelong glance she received. "I'm not interested in his money, if that's what you're implyin' Inspector Robinson.

"What about your other boarders?" Miss Fisher redirected, thinking of possible accomplices or estrangements. "How many are there?"

"Five at the moment. Two teachers at the school, a blacksmith, the foreman overseein' the new bank building… and… Neville, of course. My room's upstairs and my girls share the servant's quarters off the back of the house."

"You have children, Miss Briggs?" the lady detective inquired.

"What? No. Well, I've come to think of 'em as my girls. They got no one else to look after 'em. Catherine, timid thing—you met her downstairs—works in the kitchen, and Penny sorts the laundry. Helps me run the place when she's not busy trying to save the world… one union protest at a time."

Phryne plucked a photograph up from the nightstand. Kasi Ferguson smiled out of it, flanked by a tall, olive-skinned man with the same almond-shaped eyes. "An idealist, then."

"We were all young once," Mary said, "Impatient for change and justice. She's a good girl… bright. I showed her some book work and she took to it straightaway—started takin' classes through the mail so she could do more for the cause. It keeps her busy."

"Out of trouble, you mean," Phryne observed.

Mary sighed heavily. "Penny was orphaned when she was just a girl. Lost her mum in childbirth and her father died in a minin' accident. It's a heavy burden for a young woman to bear. Might have been easier if she'd been a boy—no one thinks twice if a boy goes lookin' for a fight. When Neville came along, I thought he'd be a good influence on her… it helps to have someone with life experience temper the wildness of youth."

"And was he?" Jack asked. His limited experience with wayward teenage girls hadn't much changed his opinions.

"In the beginnin'. They both subscribe to the Communist philosophy. But Neville understands both sides of the coin because of his upbringin'. Sometimes the debates over supper would get… heated, but they took it in stride—each is as stubborn as the other." Hanging limply off the back of a chair was a man's cardigan. Mary fingered the ivory knit thoughtfully. "But Penny's been keepin' to herself lately."

"Since those four miners died from that explosion." Phryne said knowingly.

"Aye. Penny thought Neville was bein' too soft with the Commission—she wanted to take a stand against the working conditions. Tried to organize a workers' strike without goin' through the proper protocol. Neville wasn't happy about that… She ain't givin' up, though. They argued about it again on Friday."

Phryne and Jack traded a loaded expression. "Perhaps she might know where Neville was headed. Where is she now?"

Jack rapped briskly on the door to the old servants' quarters, in hope that the girl might be able to shed some light on Ferguson's whereabouts. "Police," he announced—rather unnecessarily to Phryne's thinking—no one who had ever heard the sound of a policeman's knock would forget it in a hurry.

No answer. He knocked again.

"Penny?" Mary called. When it was clear no answer would come, she reached for the door handle and the Inspector stood aside to allow her to lead them in. "She's been practically livin' down at the mine since they ruled that the state held no fault in that accident. She asked me if I wouldn't mind sparin' a bit of food. Takin' it to the widows, I expect."

The quarters were sparse but well-appointed, and large enough to comfortably accommodate two young women who longed for some independence. Phryne thought of the room, barely bigger than the cupboard she had shared with her sister growing up. This place would have seemed palatial to the child she had been. Two wood-framed mirrors hung over two chests of drawers, the tops of which bore each girl's trinkets and toilette according to her tastes. A porcelain washing basin and pitcher balanced on a table between two neatly made beds dressed in matching clothes dotted with pink rosebuds. Perched upon a pillow, a well-loved quilted hare stared back at them with black button eyes.

"That's Catherine's," Mary said softly. "Penny sleeps over here." She gestured towards the hare-less side of the room. "She says she's too growny for that sort of thing… Just hurts her to be reminded, is all."

There was nothing remarkable about the plain bed save the ache in Jack's toe as his shoe collided with the heavy suitcase tucked beneath it.

Miss Fisher's eyes wandered over Penny's dresser. There was a small glass bottle of rosewater from the pharmacy, a hairbrush with a sleek wooden handle polished with use, and an embroidered patch with the crest of the miner's federation. She picked it up with curious fingers. United in Socialism, it read at the bottom, and to it was stitched a holed coin.

"Miner's token," Jack breathed, brushing the pad of his thumb across the numbers stamped into the metal. "To keep track of who's working at any given time." His eyes sought out Mary. "Her father's?"

"I believe so."

The detectives soon took their leave of Mary Briggs who, with her sad, knowing smile, bade them to bring Neville home to her. She ran fingertips over the two calling cards—one with its official Commonwealth Coat of Arms and block type, the other bearing flourishes in the corners and elegant script—so vastly different and yet complementary. Yes, they would bring her Neville home.

Chapter 23

"You think she's telling the truth," he said, once they were tucked into the car and out of earshot.

"So do you."

His jaw tensed, throwing his profile into relief. "I think she believes it, whether it's true or not."

"The connection between two people can be very strong, Jack." Phryne couldn't help but bat her lashes at him. "After all, how else would you have been able to find me all those times I needed rescuing?"

"Firstly, it was only the one time," Jack said, ignoring her flirtations in favor of throwing the handgear, "Which you are well aware of… but I appreciate the sentiment all the same. Secondly, I'm always able to find you because you are always exactly where you should not be." To his satisfaction, the demure fluttering of her eyes gave way to a full-blown roll.

"Then how do you explain what she said? How Mary knew that I was from Neville's past? Knew what we are to each other? That you were a policeman?"

He snorted in derision. "Telepathy, Miss Fisher? You, yourself, blamed the way I'm dressed!" Indignity coloured his voice—a welcome cover for the disappointment that he didn't precisely know what they were to each other. "I don't share your leaps of faith where the paranormal is concerned. It's far more likely the product of keen observation and a guilty conscience."

"The cases have been well documented," she said, crossing her arms across her chest—whether in self-defense or self-preservation was anyone's guess. "There are more things in heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Jack."

The Inspector maneuvered the car along the dirt high street, past the stately brick post office and state savings bank that hailed of more prosperous times.

"It's no good trying to distract me with Shakespeare," he clucked. "Ferguson's sister could have easily tipped Miss Briggs off to our arrival. For all we know, they could be in it together to protect him."

"I suppose anything's possible," Phryne murmured, looking out her window at the Powlett River coal fields.

Leads of barbed wire fencing lined the rocky path and offset a shallow man-made dam, its trench snaking malevolently through the tall grass. They passed hills of splintered shale and limestone which grew into miniature mountain ranges as they drew closer to the mine shafts. In the distance, the timber towers of the poppet heads soared eerily into the sky while smoke stacks belched clouds of dark dust.

Jack was still talking… something about false alibis… but she wasn't really listening anymore. The ominous landscape bore an uncanny resemblance to scorched battlefields and Phryne was trying hard to vanquish the memories that were swirling around her like the dust of fractured stones.

The ride had grown rough as rubble found its way beneath their tires. Her wrists tightened reflexively as if she still were commanding her ambulance brigade.

"Miss Fisher?"

She didn't look at him, just stared out the windscreen at the tangled mass of railroad tracks that traversed the broken earth. Just visible in the distance was a long trestle bridge that plunged her into a past that would never leave her.

"Phryne?"

He tore his eyes from the road just long enough to see that her complexion had turned to chalk. If Jack had had his wish, he would have pulled the vehicle over and held her close. But they were approaching a sentry box and he suspected that their day would not improve with the firing of a warning shot. He settled for taking her hand in a firm squeeze.

"Stay with me, Miss Fisher," he ordered. Beneath the authoritative veneer, his voice was etched with worry.

The guard waved them through without incident, directing them to the largest in a cluster of huts situated just beyond the rigging. But the checkpoint had a sobering effect upon Phryne—it reminded her that they were in the middle of an investigation. She had removed her hand from the and straightened her spine against the bench seat. By the time he had cut the motor, she was touching up her powder in a small handheld mirror.

His brow furrowing beneath the brim of his fedora, he watched her snap the compact shut and tuck it into her bag. There was an insistence, a falseness, to her movements that he did not like. "What did you see back there?" he asked at last.

"Nothing." Her voice was pitched too high to be convincing to anyone who knew her as well as Jack did.

"Phryne, please." He reached for her fingers. They were icy cold and tugged out of his closing grasp at the last possible moment. His empty hand dropped to the expanse of seat that separated them. "I know what you're doing." It was more confession than accusation. His middle finger tapped out a staccato as he measured his thoughts. "I mastered it… at the expense of my marriage."

She swallowed heavily, and with a vice-like grip, strangled the urge to simply fling herself into his arms. But it wouldn't do to allow him to rescue her now. Not like this, not when there wasn't a revolver pointed at her temple, or a knife at her throat. Her childhood taught her that the only constant in life was change and that she had to depend on her own wiles to survive it. To let herself fall to pieces now meant that she might come to rely on him to help put them back together.

She had learnt to trust more than she had thought herself able. But even her most trusted friends never got all of her. There was too much Collingwood in her, perhaps too much of her father—transferred by blood and influence. Jack was the only one who had ever gotten this close. He loved her—this was not a surprise to her. What was a surprise was the fact that he had said it. And now he was talking about his relationship with Rosie.

It was rare for Jack to bring up the subject of his failed marriage. She had been very curious at first, restraining herself from prying out of respect for him, but it wasn't difficult to imagine how it had happened. Jack had told her as much he could after the Saul Michaels case—the war had turned him into a different man. Since then, she had learnt that he possessed quite the dramatic streak, could out-stubborn an ass and be just as much of one when the mood struck, and was habitually independent to a fault. Phryne did not want to dwell on the familiarity of those qualities when she had seen her own reflection in the compact mirror.

What that meant for them, she could not say. Mary Briggs had called him her future. Jack was most certainly her present—the space Phryne preferred to enjoy. He had come after her when she had to leave. And she had gone after him when he had to return. But the grandness of a romantic overture does not determine its longevity, and she was frightened of depending upon anyone—even Jack Robinson—that much. What would happen if she got used to him always being there… and then he wasn't?

"I'm fine, Jack," Phryne lied.

He wanted to bark at her, shake her, beg her if he had to—Don't do this…Don't shut me out—but remonstration would only drive her further away. He knew this from experience, and because he was just as guilty as she.

Their relationship was a complicated, multi-layered thing. In its core glowed a molten ball of desire—desire for justice, for challenge—that pointed his moral compass to due north and fueled the heat of her convictions. A bubbling mantle flowed around them that erupted in spouts of temper or jealousy or wildly erotic encounters that left them dizzy and dazed, but with new ground. But the bedrock was their partnership, fused by heat and time and pressure into a solid foundation of respect and friendship which they had spent the last year exploring to unearth its hidden treasures. Together, they had discovered rich seams of joy and bords of unimaginable pleasure. But amidst them were still pockets too dangerous to tread for the ghosts harboured there, and one or both might be crushed in a fall of stone if they were uncareful.

"You were right when you said I don't have to do this alone…" His voice was tight and his eyes were pools of thunderhead grey, mirroring the chaos swirling within. "…But, then, neither do you."

Jack did not push the subject any further. It would be the height of hypocrisy, and utterly arrogant, to demand that she expose her fears when he, himself, was still secreting his own.

Chapter 24

His overcoat flapped wildly in the heavy wind, and Phryne took comfort in its rust-red lining which beat like a pulse against the desolate greys and browns of the structures and the men that surrounded them. Empty skips disappeared on tracks into the deep dark caverns, with their openings like hungry mouths. The cars would eventually emerge on the other side loaded with round coal to power the vast Victoria rails. Above, the headwheels loomed at the ready to lower men into the bowels of the earth to toil at the end of a pick, their future uncertain, their sacrifice well out of sight. Phryne caught Jack up and they strode up to the mine office together.

They were shown into the office of a ruddy-cheeked man behind a very large desk, who waved them in. Except for a window, the space was wallpapered with maps and hand-drawn plans. "You the detectives from Melbourne?"

Jack was scandalized. "Is everyone in this town psychic?" he whispered bitterly, producing his warrant card for proof.

"Mr. Clapp said to expect you." He nodded at the credentials and accepted a small white calling card from the lady, smoothing what was left of his thinning blond hair as he read it. What a lady detective—and an Honourable at that—had to do with this business, he could not fathom, but the look on her face told him plainly that she was not to be trifled with. "Richard Moppe," he said cordially, shaking each of their hands in turn. "Welcome to the State Coal Mine. The new regs are all in place, Inspector. I can take you through if you like but the lady'll—"

"Regs?" Phryne interrupted.

"Safety regs, miss. Since Number Twenty..." The man's mouth took on a pained grimace. "We got enough Davy Lamps for every shaft and bench now." Phryne followed his gesture to a long cylindrical mesh lantern that hung on a hook in the corner of the office. "Deputies test for gas each shift."

She walked over to examine it more closely. Up the side was a metal aperture with notches cut at odd intervals and measurements beside each. "I take it that the height of the flame indicates the safety of the environment."

"Er…yes." If Moppe's expression was bemused, it was only because he couldn't help being a little impressed. "If there's flammable gas in the chamber, the flame burns higher up that sleeve and takes on a bluish colour. And if you place it on the ground and the flame goes out, it means there's bad air… not enough oxygen."

"Carbon dioxide is denser than air," the Inspector mused, unable to help himself. "So, it sinks."

"That's right… but the lamps are finicky. A broken wire or a bit of rust and they're finished. Most of the men still carry canaries to check for blackdamp… they trust 'em. Birds can only do so much to prevent an explosion but they sure as hell can keep a man from suffocating… and I'll take any precautions I can get. Talked my wife into breeding 'em—"

Phryne's shudder was nearly imperceptible but it was enough for Jack to imagine her donning the heavy rubber-coated mask issued to protect against an incoming plume of poison. He quickly redirected the line of questioning. "We're not here to verify new safety protocols, Mr. Moppe. We're looking for Neville Ferguson."

"Where's he gone this time?"

"We were hoping you might be able to tell us. His sister has reported him missing," Miss Fisher said, carefully replacing the lamp on its hook and working equally hard to keep the tremor out of her voice. "She believes it's more than just his usual penchant for walkabout. When was the last time you saw him?"

"That'd be last week… Wednesday night. He was down at the Workman's Club. Good thing he was, too. Otherwise, a dozen of my men would have been decorating Daughtry's cells instead of on their morning shift."

"There was an altercation?" Jack probed, thinking this might be just the lead they needed.

"Spirits were running pretty high after they said the explosion was the men's own faults… but Nev broke it up before anyone got hurt. Made 'em all shake hands and then sent 'em home."

"Mr. Ferguson gets on well with the workers, then?" Phryne prompted.

"Who do you think got us them lamps? Most of the men probably owe Nev their lives for that."

"What kind of relationship did Mr. Ferguson have with Railway Commissioner Clapp?" Inspector Robinson asked, finding it difficult to believe anyone but Neville Ferguson could have sent such a specific message to Clapp and expect it to be translated and understood. Jack felt that Ferguson was counting on the Commissioner's position and pride to keep silent, to protect him. "Were they on good terms?"

"Better than I would have expected," Moppe admitted. "Neville don't have a hair-trigger like most of those commos. When the accident happened, he wrote Clapp straightaway, angling for more precautions, better safety equipment… convinced him it would make the State seem like a noble benefactor."

"And what about after the inquest?" Phryne interrupted, tearing her eyes away from a map detailing the tunnels surrounding Shaft Number 20, where the explosion had taken place. "Did Neville still think them noble?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Fisher." He would not look her in the eye, choosing instead to roll a pencil between his nail-bitten fingers. "But I'm not supposed to talk about the case."

"I'm not asking about the case. I'm asking if Neville seemed different after the ruling."

Moppe was quiet for a long moment before sighing heavily. "He was angry—but so were a lot of folks. Four men dead and if that weren't enough, three widows left behind with little ones to feed… and no pension."

"The 'accidental' verdict means the State won't have to pay death benefits to the families." Jack said shrewdly.

"Nev was headed up to Melbourne to discuss it. But the federation's been raising money ever since the accident happened. And Penny started banging the tambourine straightaway… sooner die herself than let them kids starve. She was a mine orphan, too."

Phryne was just about to inquire more about Penny when a stout young man rapped on the doorjamb.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir. But your guests are wanted on the telephone." He consulted a slip of paper and read, "A Constable Collins… and a Mrs. Collins. Mrs. Collins was, er, rather insistent that she speak to you first, miss." He scratched his head thoughtfully. "Funny both callers havin' the same name."

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've no idea."

Moppe directed the messenger to patch the call into his line, offering the detectives some privacy. "I've got to check after some repair work, anyhow. You can meet me out on the decking when you're through." The telephone on Moppe's disheveled desk rang just as the office door had clicked shut.

Phryne plucked up the receiver and nudged it between her ear and Jack's, tipping the hat from his head. "Dot!" she said excitedly, "What have you found?"

"Miss Fisher!" Dottie trilled from the other end, "You won't believe it…" As ever, Dorothy Collins was right. Whatever they had been expecting, it was not the news they had received.

"Penny was Edward Tidmuth's secretary," she said as soon as the call had ended. "I'd wager the Hispano on it."

"I won't take that bet," the Inspector retorted in dark tones. He carded a hand through his hair and replaced his fedora. "And I doubt she and Ferguson were arguing about a miner's strike the morning he disappeared."

"If Penny found out about his plans and confronted him, why would he let her go? She might have turned him in."

Jack did not need to consider this for long. "He wouldn't be much of a negotiator if he wasn't persuasive. And according to your red-raggers, Miss Mitchell has radical leanings if her nom de guerre is any indication. Perhaps she went along with it after he explained his reasons."

Phryne's mouth pursed into a thin line. She did not relish the possibility of a young girl getting wrapped up in Neville's scheme—especially not one who had already been put through the wringer. "He could have convinced her she was mistaken. Hugh said she hadn't reported to work… that makes sense with the train still out of commission. Penny may still be unaware of Tidmuth's death."

"For her sake, Miss Fisher, I hope you're right."

Outside, Moppe was giving orders to a group of men. At the sight of the detectives, he excused himself, but his party seemed to be waiting for his return. "Couple of my engineers and the mine inspector," he said with a tilt of his head towards the group. "We finally got the work orders to cut in some more ventilation. Still waiting on the go ahead for Number Nineteen though. It's been off the coal for more than a week. The bords are running way too hot for anyone to risk their neck down there."

"I'm well-acquainted with government bureaucracy, Mr. Moppe," the Inspector said dryly. "You mentioned someone by the name of Penny earlier. That wouldn't happen to be Penny Mitchell, would it?"

Moppe extracted a dust-coloured rag from his pocket and wiped his brow. "Thought you were interested in Ferguson."

"We are. She was overheard having an argument with him on the morning he was last seen."

"That's not unusual. I told you she's a mine orphan. Penny tries to get the workers all stirred up at the meetings. She and Neville didn't see eye-to-eye. I wasn't always the management, you know, I've done my time in the pits. And I learned there's a time and a place for everything. You can't threaten to strike every fortnight and expect to be taken seriously."

Jack considered this information carefully. It seemed to line up with Mary Briggs' account. "We've heard she goes by the name Red Penny… and that it has little to do with the colour of her hair. What can you tell us about that?"

Moppe laughed derisively. "I think the Union gave her that nickname. They use her as a kind of a mascot—a symbol when it suits 'em—but Penny don't have that kind of clout. She's just trying to find her way in the world. 'Bout a year ago, she asked me if I'd let her help out around the office… wanted to practice on the typewriter, you know, to improve herself."

"And you allowed it."

"Inspector, if I've run her off the benches once, I've run her off a thousand times. I keep telling her that she's going to do herself an injury one of these days—even gone so far as threaten to have her arrested for trespassing. But she thinks it's her birthright to be here. If she's in the office, I know she's safe."

Miss Fisher was intrigued—the world needed nice girls, too, but there was something about an independent spirit. "We'd like to ask her some questions about Neville Ferguson," she said. "Perhaps she knows where he's gone and we can put his sister's mind at ease."

He weighed detectives with a calculating eye, used to separating round coal from slack. "Hey Frank!" he finally called, "You seen Penny afoot?"