Part 6
Chapter 25
It was no surprise to Moppe that the girl had last been seen heading towards the northern fields, home to the ill-fated Number 20 shaft. "Fastest way to get there is to hop on the mine rail… direct route as the crow flies. You could take your vehicle but you'd have to circle the entire perimeter."
Moppe watched the loaded skips from the north headed for Dudley Brace, where the coal was sorted and relieved of its dirt bands by the mine's youngest workers. On a parallel rail, a steam locomotive monitored the operation and provided transport between the mine's three precincts. He removed his handkerchief again and waved it in the air, flagging the train down to a walking pace.
"All aboard," the operator said with a mocking grin, just polite enough not to earn himself a reprimand. He'd seen it before… influential city folk come down to have a look at the quaint country mine. The gent in the overcoat didn't look like a politician but he was certain his missus could sell sand to a Turk.
In less than five minutes' time, they had reached the northern precinct and disembarked, the railman waving them off with a derisive little salute, and they scanned the scene in carefully in search of Penny Mitchell.
The grounds surrounding Shaft 20 were a flurry of activity. Field maneuvers, Jack thought. There were no other words for it. Each man moved in an orchestrated harmony dependent on his rank and station.
A small battalion of clippers uncoupled the tonnage from the ponies and tied them off to the long ropes in a well-practised offensive known as the endless haulage. In another area, stone was unloaded from bins using a portable winch and still more men rushed about carrying clipboards and taking tallies of everything. A Davy Lamp swung off a man's arm, bound for one of the pits.
In the shadows of the hulking structures, a corral of hardy pit ponies was being fed while their wheelers looked on fondly. Shifts done for the day, the men—filthy from top to toe—waited until after the animals had their hose down before taking a shower of their own, and prayed there would be some hot water left over. A melancholy smile drifted across Phryne's face as she remembered how a French soldier had fitted his collie with an M2 before donning his own.
"The day our unit got a ratter was one of the happiest of my life," Jack sighed into her ear, reading her mind and startling her out of her reverie. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, as if he wasn't certain he had spoken the words aloud. His eyes were apologetic disks of slate. "I didn't mean to—"
"No harm done, Jack," she said quietly.
Moppe escorted them around the field, checking in with his men and asking after Penny. More than one had confirmed that she had been there earlier—stocking medicine in the small infirmary and feed in the barn. There was a rumour she had been helping break in one of the new pit ponies. "If she were a boy, I would have hired her outright as soon as she turned fourteen," Moppe said regretfully. "She's got a way with the horses. Woulda made a fine wheeler. But the law's the law… eh, Inspector?"
Striding just a few feet away from him was living breathing proof that a woman was every bit as capable as a man, if not more so. Yet, the Inspector knew all too well the high price of that equality, and understood why other men were not willing to entertain it. He would never admit it to Phryne but a piece of him turned to ash every time he watched her step in front of an assailant's weapon—as if was his sacrifice to bear, not hers. Were she a less magnificent woman, he doubted he could have withstood it.
Jack dug his hands deep into his overcoat pockets. "We should check inside."
There was no flaming tangle of Penny's red hair within the long low building which, Moppe explained, housed the communication center for the northern precinct, relaying messages to his office in central, and his counterpart's in the east. Phryne spotted the small infirmary that one of the miners had mentioned, thinking it seemed better equipped than some of her outposts had been.
At the last corridor, Moppe made a halting motion with his hands. "All that's beyond here is the way to the washing stations. Sorry, Miss Fisher, but I can't allow you past."
She shot the Inspector a look that clearly said, "Shall I tell him about the Abbotsford locker rooms or would you prefer to?"
"I doubt very much Miss Mitchell could be hiding in there without the entire precinct knowing about it," Jack agreed, trying to encourage Phryne around with a firm grasp at her elbow.
She slipped easily out of her coat, leaving Jack with nothing but an armful of wool and white fox, and turned defiantly down the forbidden hallway. It was a matter of only a few steps to catch up with her, though, because she stood mesmerized by a large wooden board upon which dozens of tiny nails formed a precise network of rows and columns.
From roughly half of the nails hung the same sort of brass tokens as they had seen in Penny Mitchell's bedroom. Each was stamped with a unique number. Beneath each of the bare nails, the number of the missing token was tattooed on the board. Phryne ran the tip of her gloved forefinger down a line of odd coins and the light winked off their surfaces… counting them off… eeny, meeny, miny, mo.
Noticing Phryne shiver, Jack replaced her coat about her shoulders. "She's not here," he said quietly. "We should head back to town, talk to some of the men down at the Workmen's Club. Moppe can ring us there if she turns up—"
She was on the verge of nodding agreement when the doors burst open. "Call for the ambo!" a man yelled to the room at large. His shirtfront was mottled with blood. "Make yerself useful or get out the way!" he snarled at Jack, who scurried to hold back one of the doors so the procession could file in.
Nestled in the center of the human caravan was a young man—a kid, Jack thought—no more than twenty, who was cradling what was remained of his left hand to his chest and howling, spittle foaming in the corners of his mouth.
Moppe grabbed one of the men by the yoke of his shirt and demanded information. "Joe Duffern, sir. A clip broke loose and pinned his hand 'tween the skips." The worker's eyes followed Joe as he was carried through on a stretcher. He could see the medic was already filling a syringe with morphine. "The ambulance—"
"Is on its way," Moppe assured him, before catching the curve of a white felt cloche amidst the sea of earth-coloured men. "Miss Fisher!" he bellowed.
"I was a combat nurse," she called over her shoulder, her feet never faltering as she made her way towards the medical station, peeling off her gloves.
Titled or not, he had no more time for her games or any further distractions. "You are forbidden to enter the infirmary."
Phryne spun on the spot, eyes blazing, "That young man has sustained serious trauma! I can help… I've seen this before. If we don't treat him properly now—"
"It's not up for debate." Moppe straightened his back and swept the front of his clothes with his hands, his patience scattering like the dust motes. "I'm sure you're a capable woman but the medic can handle it until he's transported to hospital."
"But—"
"I'm sorry, Miss Fisher. But despite the latitude you're used to, you don't get a say here."
Chapter 26
Phryne had managed to put quite a distance between herself and Number 20 in her anger. When Jack caught up to her, she was pacing through the low scrub and cursing Moppe—and most of the unfairer sex—through gritted teeth. At the sound of tyres spitting rocks from their treads, her head turned towards the structure. The mine's ambulance had arrived for Duffern at last.
"Stupid man!" she spat. Jack wouldn't have been surprised if the paint on the building had blistered under the intensity of her stare. "I could have helped! I could have—"
"I know you would have tried, Phryne." He succeeded in stilling her, partly by the low intimate sound of her name on his lips, partly by the gentle but firm grip of his palms on her shoulders. "But neither of us can know the outcome. I'm not defending him, but Moppe has his protocol to follow."
She gave him a withering look.
"I said I'm not defending him."
"And yet," her tongue clucked against the roof of her mouth, "You are." She twisted out of his grasp and crossed her arms firmly, turning her back on him and the godforsaken mineshaft.
"No. I'm saying that some rules cannot be broken."
She bowed her head and hugged herself tighter. "That boy could die."
"He could," Jack admitted, splaying his hands wide in supplication. That she could not see the gesture was irrelevant considering the soft, steady solemnity of his voice.
"And if it happened under your care instead of theirs, there would be a lot to answer for. Phryne, in the presence of licensed medical personnel, you will not be acknowledged as the most qualified person in the room." His shadow stretched over the low grass towards hers as he moved to shield her from the wind. "Even if I think so."
"The Riqueval Bridge… that's what I saw, Jack." She did not turn around. It was far easier to speak into the air, allowing the current to buoy them as she could not.
It was barely a whisper, and it made him freeze where he stood.
He had considered, from time to time when he allowed himself such larks, what it might have been like to have met Phryne during the war. He fancied that he would have noticed such a spark alighting within a wounded but fiercely determined young woman. That he, even with a lock of Rosie's hair pinned to the inside of his uniform, would have remembered her.
Based on what she had shared, the possibility of their paths crossing had been remote at best… Until this moment.
Stunned as he was by the revelation, his mind still reeled for its connection to Wonthaggi. It finally came to him with sudden clarity. The trestle bridge—they had passed it driving into the coal fields. While they weren't twins, the two structures did bear a certain resemblance, which only grew stronger silhouetted against the desolate scenery.
He licked at his lips, a self-conscious tell that materialized whenever presented with some deep truth. "You never mentioned Saint Quentin," he said tightly.
"It was long before you were there." Her words brimmed over with apologetic regret and an absurd longing. No one—not even a dashing Lieutenant Robinson from Australia's 2nd Division—could have shielded her from that hell.
"It was a mercy mission," she explained. "The French Army had already withdrawn but the Germans held the line and wouldn't allow the ambulances through… I could see them, Jack. Worse, they could see us… and there was nothing we could do—"
He gently encouraged her to turn around. When she met his eyes at last, there was no pity in them—only a lingering sadness that told her just how much he understood that particular feeling of helplessness. His strength, his warmth, they were precious treasures that he offered her freely and, so, were truly priceless.
Phryne doffed her hat. Clasping its brim tightly in her fist, she ground herself in the familiar scratch of wool against her cheek and breathed him in, allowing him to bear her weight against his chest. Allowed him to hold her up in the circle of his arms. Allowed herself to take comfort there.
He dipped his head and pressed kisses to her hair, smoothing his hand along its windblown length. "You're not responsible for saving everyone, Phryne."
"I know," she lied. Her fingers toyed absently with the buttons of his waistcoat. "Do you believe in fate, Jack?"
"As in pre-destination?"
The top of her head knocked slowly against his chin as she nodded against him. How easy that would make it, he thought darkly, to chalk the lot up to something out of his control.
He thought, as he often did, of the dead—of the countless faces, friend and foe, stranger and beloved, that he watched grow cold before his eyes. Of how some went willingly and some fought until the bitter end—each a credit to its own brand of courage. He took a deep steadying breath and she could feel the rumble in her own chest.
"I believe in the choices we make. And those choices carry consequences."
He brushed his lips against the shell of her ear, giving himself a moment to swallow around the weight of his words, heavy in his throat. "Some are felt more deeply than others. Those men weren't fated to die, Phryne, it was the choice of some Oberstleutnant to not let you pass. Even still, some might have survived, because what's left over is a concoction of skill, nerve, and sheer, dumb luck."
She grew very still and very quiet and, for a moment, Jack worried that he might have overstepped… until he felt the heat of her lips on his throat seeping through his skin.
"Is that what got us here?" she whispered against his pulse, "Sheer, dumb luck?"
"I think you're underestimating my stubbornness, Miss Fisher."
His mouth quirked amusedly but there was a wonderment in his eyes that took her breath away. Tilting up on her toes, she kissed him softly and slowly, savouring his hum of surprise as it vibrated down her sternum. Jack generally frowned upon such public displays while they were working a case, preferring to abide by the rules of professional decorum. But there was no censure in the press of his mouth or the tension in his fingertips against her spine… and Phryne never did have much use for rules.
She slipped her tongue between his parted lips to fully dissolve into the enveloping sensation of him. Like sinking into a hot bath, the kiss sent wave after rolling wave of warmth through her to penetrate the chilled, brittle recesses of her body. Each undulation fortified her nerves until they unfurled, supple and revived and glowing—the same fiery shade as the silken lining of his overcoat—with a heat of their own.
His eyes remained closed when she pulled back at last, and he pressed his lips together as if he could capture the feeling and tuck it away in a pocket as easily as the snowy handkerchief he used to remove her lipstick from his mouth. When his lids fluttered softly open, he was greeted by her guileless smile, spreading slow and wide and ruining him with every passing second.
"Jack," she breathed. It was overwhelming—the intention of telling him what he meant to her, what he did to her, how her knees turned to pudding watching him when he thought she wasn't looking. Suddenly nervous, her eyes darted aimlessly, finally settling on a faraway point just over his shoulder.
She dropped to the ground in an elegant heap. "Get down!"
"I admire your enthusiasm, Phryne, but this is hardly the time or the place—"
"It's not an overture, Jack…" Her foot caught the back of his knee causing it to buckle, and he landed in the scrub with an oof, hands splayed beneath his shoulders to catch his weight.
With a hand to his cheek, Phryne directed his irritated glare aware towards a distant opening in the earth by which a short, squatty horse had emerged. "There! Look."
With a grumble, he squinted and tilted his hat to ward off the glare. "Could be an escapement tunnel. It's about the right distance from the main shaft."
"But Jack, the escape route for this shaft heads south of here. She fished a small silver spyglass out of her handbag and tracked the distance and degrees from the distant headframe that stood against the horizon. "That's the route used for Shaft Nineteen. I saw it on the map."
"But Nineteen—"
She looked at him squarely. "Is supposed to be closed."
The pony's ears pricked up and it lifted its head from where it had been grazing, only to head back into the mouth of the tunnel and out of sight.
"Unusual behavior," Phryne observed. "I can't imagine it would return below ground without a command or a palm full of feed to entice it. So, tell me, who would risk their life to hide in a place so dangerous?"
"Ferguson," Jack hissed.
"Unusual behavior," she repeated, closing her eyes. "Why would he come back here, Jack? Why didn't he simply leave the state after killing Tidmuth?"
Remembering the suitcase beneath Penny's bed, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow complicit in all this. "Perhaps he didn't want to leave the girl behind. Mary Briggs implied that Miss Mitchell and Ferguson were close. He could have come back to collect her and gotten waylaid when the Wonthaggi rail shut down."
"Neville and Penny Mitchell… lovers, Jack? While he was in a sexual relationship with his land lady… the same woman who happens to look after the girl like she's her own?" Phryne seemed rather impressed. "That sounds like the plot of a lurid novel."
"Stranger things have happened," he shrugged. "Or maybe he always intended to return and counted on Clapp to understand his message and keep it a secret to protect his own reputation. Just to be safe, he's laying low until Tidmuth's death is ruled an ironic accident."
With a flick of her wrist, Phryne replaced her hat upon on her head. "All very interesting theories, Jack," she said, trading the spyglass for her pearl-handled pistol. "Shall we go and find out?"
Chapter 27
They approached the tunnel cautiously from the eastern flank, covered by the limited visual range of the opening. But with only one way in and out, there was little they could do to maintain the element of surprise.
"If Ferguson's in there, he'll be close to the surface where the oxygen levels are higher. But if he feels threatened…"
"All the more reason I should go in first," Phryne insisted, tucking her gun into the pocket of her coat. "Then you can cover me."
"Phryne." Jack hesitated. Asking her to be careful wasn't the kind of request to be made lightly. "If he runs towards the shaft, promise me you won't follow him."
"That sort of asphyxiation isn't my idea of fun, Jack." She placed a hand to Jack's chest, rubbing the silk of his tie between her fingers with a sultry bravado. "You know that."
There was only one thing for it. He agreed, then kissed her, swift and hard. "And I'd prefer the opportunity to deepen that education… So be safe."
He glanced at his watch, feeling like his heart might beat clear out of his chest the way she was smiling at him with all her teeth. "You've got precisely two minutes."
Choosing her light grey kid heels this morning seemed an unforgivable mistake to Phryne as she took the first step into the dark tunnel. Loose ground skidded beneath her feet and she reached out to steady herself against the earthen wall.
She extracted a torch from her décolletage and shone it up at the dirt ceiling just ahead of her. It had the effect of illuminating the path as well as her face. "Neville?" she called. The pony whinnied somewhere close by and the titter of a small bird reverberated through the cavern. "Neville Ferguson?"
"Who's there?" a scared voice huffed. Phryne recognised the tinny British accent immediately.
"It's Phryne Fisher, Neville. From London… do you remember?" She hoped the fond memories would buy her a small reprieve.
He sounded confused and small, though he couldn't have been more than a few yards away. Ferguson mumbled something that might have resembled, Honourable. "Ph… Phryne?"
Slowly angling the beam of light, she caught sight of a boot sticking out from beneath a pile of blankets. Next to it on the ground was a tiny wire cage in which a bright yellow bird seemed to be assessing her. A gust of frigid air crept down the back of Phryne's neck as she stepped closer, and she tugged her coat tighter around her body, feeling the butt of her gun press against her hip.
"Are you alright, Neville? Can you come into the light?" Her tone was light and soothing, as if she were comforting a child. Phryne began to suspect that something was not right—and she needed to figure out what it was before Jack endangered himself.
"Can't," he wheezed.
Swathed in blankets, Neville was tucked into a shallow bend in the tunnel. His once handsomely tan face was grey in pallor and, despite the chill, pearls of sweat beaded and fell from the crown of his head. She scanned the surroundings for weapons, finding none. Even if he had killed Edward Tidmuth, Phryne considered, he was no danger to anyone like this. The Angel of Death stood over Neville Ferguson as surely as she did.
"How…" With pupils the size of pinpricks in the accosting light of her torch, he gazed raptly at her. "…I thought it was only a dream." His outstretched hand met the side of her face as she crouched down beside him, and his eyes went slowly out of focus.
Divining his fever with a wrist to his forehead, she was loath to remove the blankets from him. But needed to know what she was dealing with. There was an unnatural bulge just above his knee and heat seeped through the fabric of his trousers. "We need to get you out of here," Phryne mumbled, knowing she would never be able to move him on her own.
Behind her, the sound of careful footfalls padded closer. "Help me get him up," she called over her shoulder, refusing to take her eyes off the man dying in front of her. "Once we're out of the tunnel, we can use the horse."
The terse voice which replied was distinctly not Jack's. "You're the woman he's been mumbling about in his sleep... Franny."
"This isn't at all how I imagined making your acquaintance," Phryne sung in a half-whisper, slowly coming to her feet to take in the sight of the red-haired young woman dressed in a boy's rough clothing. Her stance was aggressive—a lantern in one hand, a gun in the other. Jack had been right in thinking the girl complicit. "Penelope Mitchell, I presume."
"Penny," the young woman corrected, her mouth forming a hard, thin line. "No one calls me Penelope but my father. Drop that torch."
Phryne complied readily, but the young woman didn't seem satisfied. "Where's Mary?"
"Who?"
"Mary Briggs," the girl demanded. "Neville said his past and his future were coming for him…" Penny released the safety latch and the tiny click ricocheted off the walls as though she had fired a shot. "And you were just talking to someone else. Don't play dumb."
"Oh!" Phryne trilled in a falsetto, cottoning on at last. Penny had misheard Neville's fever dreams about and thought he was referring to his new love when he spoke about the future. "She was… supposed to… wait outside the tunnel."
A flash of relief bloomed across the girl's face. "I don't want to have to hurt you… or her… But I can't let you take him away."
"You've been taking care of him," Phryne sympathized. "The plates of food you took from Mary Briggs weren't for the miners' widows at all… they were for Neville."
Penny nodded, looking suddenly very much like a child in clothes and trouble too large for her to maneuver in.
"I know you want to protect him, but look at him." Phryne spared a glance back towards the man and noticed that his breathing had gone shallow. "None of that will matter unless he gets medical attention right away."
In the shadows, Jack removed his hat and pressed his back closer to the wall of the tunnel. Revolver in hand, he edged his way along the sloping path towards the dim light, straining to hear the words Phryne was speaking. Instead, a shrill, unfamiliar voice cut through the darkness and made its way to his ears.
"But he'll be taken in for murder!" the girl sobbed.
"He'll be taken in for questioning," he heard Miss Fisher counter. "There's a difference. I know you believe justice has been done—"
"What would you know about it?" Penny snapped, staring at the perfectly coiffed socialite—unable to imagine her suffering anything more than a broken fingernail.
"I'm sure it doesn't look it," Phryne said shrewdly, "But I know exactly what it tastes like to crave justice… the dry, salty burn… the bitterness."
Jack peered breathlessly past the halo of red hair to find Phryne's crystalline eyes glittering with pain in the lamplight.
"I spent most of my life hunting down the man who abducted and murdered my sister," she continued, "And believe me, I would have gladly taken his life had it not been exactly the escape he wanted."
Shuffling out from the darkness, the speckled pony snuffled Phryne's sleeve and allowed her to scratch, if somewhat absentmindedly, between its ears.
"Solomon trusts you," Penny observed, eyes wide with astonishment.
"Solomon," Phryne repeated. "Regal, if a bit ironic."
"He's got a rebellious streak. Makes working with him a dangerous prospect."
"A trait we all seem to have in common." She rubbed down the length of Solomon's muzzle and it closed its eyes for a brief moment, enjoying the gentle attention. As if mirroring the horse, the girl's posture seemed to relax, and Phryne seized the opportunity. "Is that why you decided to work for the Railway Commission?"
"Someone had to keep an eye on them while Neville was busy writing his letters." Penny's gaze fell to the man in question shivering beneath his blankets, and her heart gave a pang of regret. The gun quivered in her hand as she began to shake and her lantern threw wild patterns around the cavern.
The light caught on a familiar upturned nose just as Phryne became suddenly aware of a third set of breaths. With a halting gesture, Miss Fisher raised her hands—as much to stop the intrusion of the Inspector as to reassure the girl, who had tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
"Neville had lost his father to a mining accident just as you had. He knew your pain, was a friend to you… At last, you had an ally in the cause," Phryne pressed. "Neville convinced you that he killed Edward Tidmuth in the name of justice, didn't he Penny? That's why you're protecting him."
"Strikes don't matter. Protests don't matter." The young woman gripped her gun tighter in her shaking hand. "Neville thought he could talk his way to better conditions. But they don't listen. It was time for a message that would get their attention."
"It was you," Phryne breathed, her spine straightening as the pieces suddenly fell into place. "You had access to Tidmuth's schedule. You knew he'd been called in for a meeting Sunday morning. But how did you get in?"
Mitchell snorted scornfully. "Tidmuth had as much respect for labour laws as you might expect. He had a spare key made so I could work into the night without Clapp ever knowing. It was easy enough to slip in and wait."
"Neville found out the truth—"
Penny nodded. "He saw me with Tidmuth and grew suspicious. I tried to reason with him… Told him all about how Tidmuth had bribed the jury. We argued about it and I knew he would try to stop me—" She was crying in earnest now, howls of pain escaping with each release of her breath. "But I wasn't going to let that bastard get away with it!"
"So, you incapacitated Ferguson and went ahead with your plan."
"He fell backwards into an air shaft and broke his leg. I had to use Solomon to pull him out and bring him someplace one would come looking. I only intended to keep him here until I could get away." She fumbled awkwardly, and was forced to set the lantern down in order to extract a note from her trouser pocket and hand it to Phryne.
Phryne scanned the letter which detailed Neville's location and known injuries.
"But then the train went out and— Please… I never meant to hurt him."
"I believe you," Phryne said softly, edging closer while keeping an eye on the gun trained at her. "There's still a chance to save him but I need your help. Give me the gun, Penny."
"No! If they find out what happened, they'll shut the place down! And it will be all my fault!" The girl's eyes darted toward the dark tunnel, where the lack of oxygen would surely be a better respite than living with the guilt of knowing she was responsible for the largest scandal the State Coal Mine had ever known. That she had cost thousands of men their livelihood, of mothers and babies their suppers. No! She couldn't—wouldn't—let that happen.
"You can't know that. Give me the gun."
With a stubborn shake of her head, Penny refused.
"Now, Jack!" Phryne shouted, bringing her heel down on the lantern and plunging them into darkness.
The Inspector lunged.
Chapter 28
An unusual sight greeted Moppe as he surveyed the minefields looking for his missing visitors. Penny Mitchell—her bright hair a beacon even at this distance—led the group with her arms held oddly in front of her. She was flanked by the two Melbourne detectives, and large pit pony followed, pulling a load on a makeshift sled.
As they grew closer, he could see that Penny was holding a canary cage in her outstretched hands. Not as apparent was the compromise Miss Fisher had instigated to keep the terrified girl out of handcuffs.
By the time their motley crew approached the gaping maw of Number Twenty, they had attracted quite a bit of attention. The canary chirped brightly from its pen held in Penny's hands, and men crowded around releasing Solomon from his burden, shouting for an ambulance…
…And then shouting to clear off.
In the chaos that ensued, the Inspector's vision narrowed to only the full skip of coal careening towards where Neville Ferguson lay unconscious on the ground.
After that, it was a blur of medics and mine inspectors. Jack recounted the events as best he could with sensational touchstones etched across his memory, obscuring the facts… The ground quivering beneath his feet as men ran for their lives… The raucous whinny of the pony as it reared on its back legs… The sear in his shoulder as he tried to pull the man clear of the deadly path… The panic in Phryne's voice as she called his name.
At some point, he recalled seeing Sergeant Daughtry's astounded face. But when the coroner arrived, it was Jack who led them to the body.
Red Penny, he thought ruefully, had lived up to her nickname in the most gruesome way imaginable. That Neville Ferguson still drew breath was due entirely to her sacrifice. She had launched herself towards Ferguson's limp body, rolling it out of the way of the oncoming cart… replacing it with her own. The force of nearly a tonne of coal had killed her instantly.
Exhausted, he walked around in circles—knowing that if he rested for even a moment, he would be unable to move again. His foot knocked into something metal on the ground.
The canary cage had fallen where Penny had last stood before breaking loose of Phryne's grasp. The impact had caused its hinges to swing open. Looking for the bird, Jack turned instead to find Mary Briggs standing behind him.
How she had come to be there, he could not begin to guess, but he was little surprised that she knew where to find them. In her cupped brown hands, the rescued canary sat quietly—as if in a daze.
"Precious bird," she crooned, stroking its golden feathers with a fingertip. "Keepin' 'em safe. Can't take you for granted."
Unshed tears shone in her eyes as she gazed up at the policeman. "You found him," Mary said, a watery smile breaking over her face. "You found my Neville and brought him home. Just as I knew you would."
"It wasn't me who saved him. It was Miss Mit—"
"Don't speak to me of the dead, Inspector," Mary Briggs said firmly. "Her name tethers her to this world… keeps her from movin' beyond. No matter what other sins she may have committed, she don't deserve that fate."
The canary began to titter, taking a tentative hop in the woman's hands—it seemed to have woken up at last and realised it was free.
"Fly away, then, if yer ready," Mary whispered, lifting her hands high into the air as the tiny bird flapped its wings and took flight.
"Away," Mary laughed, her hands dancing in front of her like ocean waves, her falling tears their spray. "Fly far, far away from this pain, precious one." She watched until it was nothing more than a bright yellow dot in the horizon, winking against the grey clouds.
"I owe you a great debt, Inspector," she finally said, tearing her eyes from the darkening sky.
"Ah, no," Jack coughed. "That's not necessary."
She lifted her outstretched hands to him. "Oh, but I insist."
His eyes darted around for Phryne, but she was nowhere in sight to rescue him from Mary Briggs' mysterious smile and waggling fingers.
Reluctantly, Jack braced himself and placed his fingertips in the bowls of her palms to feel her hands close snugly around them.
"Thank you, Inspector Robinson."
"Of course, Miss Briggs."
"I will always remember you for what you've done for Neville an' me."
"Er, thank you," he stumbled over her expectant gaze. Not knowing what more to say, he smiled politely at her.
"You ain't listenin'!" she scolded, refusing to let go of his hands. "You hear the words but not the meanin'. How many cases have you solved, Inspector?"
"Sorry… what?"
"Cases. How many? It don't have to be exact… give us a round number."
"I…I'm not sure. Around five hundred. Give or take."
"Five hundred!" she said in astonishment. "Five hundred times, you got t' speak for someone who can't speak fer themselves? Five hundred times, you gave someone peace... maybe even justice?"
Jack tried to avert his eyes but her piercing stare would not allow it. "I suppose... that's one way of looking at it. Ah… yes."
"Five hundred times, you been the most important person in someone's life. Today, that someone is me." Feeling his hands begin to tremble, Mary gripped them even tighter. "Children aren't the only path to a legacy, Inspector," she whispered, her eyes softening kindly. "You've left your mark in more ways than you realize."
"Mary! I'm glad you're here!" Phryne's voice cut through the maelstrom as she strode purposefully towards them. "They've just taken Neville straight to the operating theatre at Wonthaggi Hospital."
Mary allowed one of the Inspector's hands to untangle from her grasp so she could take hold of Miss Fisher's. "Thank you! I was jus' telling the Inspector how grateful I am t' you both."
She kissed the lady on both cheeks and bestowed a warm, knowing smile on the Inspector. It wasn't until after she had gone that the detectives noticed Mary Briggs had intertwined their hands.
"What was that all about?" Phryne asked, tucking herself into Jack's side—where the pressure of her head on his shoulder made him flinch. "You're in pain."
"Not in any way that matters."
This time when the whistle blew, Jack had no illusions of being bound by a French quagmire, sinking up to his thighbones in mud and shit and decay, guilt borne on his shoulders like his rucksack. Its piercing cry did not herald the onslaught of incoming shells or nerve gas, was never meant to mobilize infantry to action.
Nor did it signal the change in shifts, still two hours away.
On the ground where he stood—where Man looted the Earth and faced her reprisal—the mine whistle's steam, intangible as a phantasm, traversed its chambers and wailed to mourn the dead.
This time when the mine whistle blew to mark the death of Penny Mitchell, Jack took Phryne into his arms and considered himself the most fortunate of men to have found his way home.
Chapter 29
Their return to Melbourne had been marked with confidential de-briefings and classified statements taken separately, then together, then separately again. Chief Tate had traveled to Wonthaggi himself to speak with Neville Ferguson.
"Well?" she asked.
"The charges will never see the light of day," Jack confirmed, hanging his hat and coat on their pegs, and mumbling thanks to Mr. Butler for the whisky that had found its way into his hand. "Justice has been served and the Victoria Police has been ordered to stand down."
"Hmph. So much for Harlan Clapp's moral high ground."
"I doubt the decision was left solely to him. Chief Tate was called to Spencer Street this morning, and it was rumoured that Premiere Hogan was in attendance."
"But what about the bribery?" Phryne insisted. "Surely there should be—"
"The evidence was circumstantial at best," he sighed, claiming the mantelpiece with his drink. "As I've been reminded repeatedly. Not even Neville Ferguson thinks it wise to risk the future of the mine in order to pursue it. Apparently, he's agreed not to disclose Miss Mitchell's crimes."
"I find that hard to believe." Her eyebrow arched in a silent dare.
He merely shrugged. "Ask him yourself, but that's what Tate said… Right before he burned all the files."
"Jack! You can't be serious."
"It's true," he remarked, his tone suddenly mysterious. "Just as I've been forbidden to have this very conversation. But as I'm already disobeying a directive…"
Slowly stroking her crossed leg up and down the other, Phryne watched as her noble policeman dipped his fingers into his waistcoat and extracted a thick brown envelope. "What is that?" she whispered breathlessly.
"The only surviving copy of the Tidmuth case file," he purred with a fire in his eyes and a smirk about his lips. "I was hoping you'd see your way clear to keep it in your private vault."
It was the work of a moment to squirrel the envelope safely inside. Giddy with lust and pride and mutiny, Phryne sponged the edge of her upper lip with her tongue as she replaced the edge of the painting's gilded frame.
"You know I can't resist a rebel, Jack." She grabbed for his hand, determined to drag him upstairs where she could have him in private.
Evading her grasp, he pressed her back against the mantle and stretched her arms across its length like wings. His breath tickled her thighs as he disappeared beneath her skirt. "I'm counting on it, Miss Fisher."