Chapter Three

After a couple of hours, the detectives felt they had done their duty and went to find Mr Butler. They both sank with differing degrees of relief into the back of the Hispano, and automatically linked hands on the seat between them. Their thumbs performed an idle dance.

"Straight home, ma'am?" enquired Mr B, whose ability to switch between his domestic and professional duties was flawless.

"Yes please, Mr B – unless, Jack, should we take you to the station?"

He battled with his conscience, but not for long.

"Collins is there and knows where to find me – and you both know I would infinitely have preferred to be at my desk this afternoon. Home is fine, Mr Butler."

"Jack ..." she whispered. "Am I finally managing to be a bad influence?"

"Miss Fisher," he whispered back, "you were a bad influence the moment I let you duck under my arm to get into a crime scene."

"Tricky party, ma'am?" asked Mr Butler, glancing into the mirror. Decorum was restored – one did not treat Mr B as Part Of The Furniture.

"Not at all, Mr B, lovely party – tricky guest of honour. I'm not sure what Sir Andrew Pallister did in the war but his efforts to maintain peaceful relations between England and Australia leave a bit to be desired. MR BUTLER! "

This was in response to the nearest thing the Hispano had ever experienced to an Actual Crash – which given that Miss Fisher was the person most often at the wheel was saying something. It was certainly unusual for Mr Butler to have driven straight on to a junction without so much as a weather eye for other vehicles, even in this relatively quiet part of Toorak.

To his credit, he reacted not in the slightest to the screech from the back seat, immediately to the threat from the vehicle approaching from his off side, and appropriately for the circumstances.

It helped that the people in the back seat were already well acquainted with one another and didn't mind a bit being forced into a close embrace.

Nothing further was said until the handbrake had been applied outside 221B The Esplanade, but at that stage, Miss Fisher felt entitled to explore the possibility that all was not well with Mr Butler. Mr Butler politely disclaimed any issue, helped her out of the car and quietly drove it away to garage it for the night.

Mr and Mrs Robinson were left on the pavement, looking at one another, perplexed.

"What brought that on, Jack?"

"It could only have been the mention of Pallister. But why on earth the name should be so dreadful to our Mr Butler as to cause him to lose all sense of place and time … given what you've thrown at him since he came to work for you …" Jack shook his head in disbelief and, to give her her due, Phryne didn't argue. If anything, she took pride in being a caring-but-difficult employer. She took his hand and led him to her – no, their – front door. Still getting used to that. Silly, really.

As he reached for his key, she murmured in his ear, "He's clearly decided not to tell us, so I don't see the point in pressing the poor man."

As the door swung wide, and they heard the kitchen door opening, she said in normal tones, "I think what I'd like most of all is for you to play the piano, Mr Robinson, if you would. Something calming and sensible after such a strange afternoon."

He hung his hat and coat and moved, as instructed to the piano – but instead of the jazz number she'd expected, picked carefully through Bach's C major Prelude, easy enough to do from memory.

It was probably his imagination that a shadow appeared in the hallway. It definitely wouldn't have been the presence of a very intelligent man appreciating Thinking Music.