Thank you for the warm welcome! Small warning-this fic will have a rating change to M in the near future; I rated it T, because it is similar to episodes in terms of content, but on a reread it is probably best to rate it M to cover myself.
PiousSavant, thanks for your insights-when I initially wrote this story a year and a half ago or so I did a lot of research into PTSD and RAD after trauma in children Anthony's age, along with more anecdotal evidence, and I'm satisfied that this fic falls within the bounds of acceptable levels of fiction. I hope you'll agree.
Phryne was woken up by a trail of kisses down her arm.
"Mmm, darling?" she said, shifting to give him better access. "What did I do to deserve this?"
"Oh, you know," he murmured, moving to her breast. "Just the usual."
"You never did tell me what you thought about the lingerie," she teased, gasping as his tongue flicked against her nipple in response.
He stopped, looking at where it had fallen on the floor the night before.
"I like it. It should stay there."
His wry smile sent a shiver through her, and he raised an eyebrow. It certainly didn't help matters.
"Don't you have work?" she asked.
"I do," he confirmed. "I was just taking a few minutes to appreciate the beautiful woman in my bed before getting out and facing it."
"About that..." she trailed off as he began to move downwards, his early morning stubble rough against her skin.
He chuckled at her low moan.
"Were you saying something, Phryne?"
She touched his cheek; it paused him in his movements, his eyes meeting hers. He was still slightly disturbed by the events of the day before, she could see it; she motioned him upwards so she could kiss him properly. He obliged, meeting her tongue with his, then pulled back reluctantly.
"I really do have work," he said. "I'll bring the boy in with me. Next of kin should be here this morning, if she caught the overnight train. I assume you'll be by this afternoon?"
Phryne nodded. "It's Sunday morning. Not even murder can get me out of bed before lunch."
"What about an invitation to join me in the shower?" he asked, his hand trailing up her leg to rest on her hip.
"Tempting," she replied, cocking her head as if considering the offer. "But not tempting enough. Now off with you; a woman needs her beauty sleep."
He kissed her again, far more thoroughly than was fair, and headed out to bathe. Phryne rolled over and tried to fall back asleep. It was no use—she was firmly awake and rather wishing she had joined him in the shower after all.
Half an hour later, having given up entirely, Phryne padded downstairs, tying her silk robe as she did. Jack probably hadn't left yet, and she had some serious words to have with him. Waking her up this early on a Sunday morning was not to be borne, especially if he was going to go harrying off after a murderer instead of taking care of the situation he had created. She could tolerate the ostensible monogamy (though it was an option, she'd not yet found a man diverting enough to entice her into bed), and the Mrs. Fisher-Robinson from most of the population of Melbourne, and the fact that she'd become surprisingly sentimental. But ruining her ability to sleep in? Some things were beyond the pale.
He was in the kitchen, where he always took his breakfast on mornings she didn't join him; the dear man still wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of staff, and eating in the kitchen was a compromise. Or possibly he just enjoyed the view of the garden better, which was the explanation he always gave.
She stopped at the doorway; Jack was sipping his tea, as usual, but instead of perusing the newspaper he was chatting with the boy—Anthony, she remembered after a moment—as he helped him eat his breakfast. Her heart clenched and she backed away from the door.
It was an unexpected glimpse into a life she had never wanted.
She had never given it a second thought, once she'd procured the termination the year before. Well, no, that wasn't completely true; it had crossed her mind from time to time, in the idle way that such thoughts did. She had never doubted it had been the right choice, and Jack had never hinted otherwise; had, in fact, been in complete agreement. And she believed him to be sincere.
But now he was sitting at their kitchen table with a child and a smile that seemed so natural on him, and she couldn't help but remember how very much he had given up to be with her. An unfortunately early Sunday wasn't all that bad, in comparison. And the kissing had been delightful, even if he'd failed to follow through.
—
Jack took a bite of his toast, handing the second slice over to Anthony. The boy had been awake when he'd come downstairs, sitting upright in the bed and still eerily quiet. He'd come to Jack's extended arms without a fuss, allowing Jack to change his nappy—a skill Jack had assumed he'd forgotten years before—and bring him to the kitchen. Now he was eating but still nearly unresponsive; Jack began to talk, and Mr. Butler even paused in his duties to sit at the table for a few minutes, both men trying to draw him out. Twenty years of police interrogations had not prepared Jack for this particular experience, and he was just about to give up entirely when Mr. Butler produced a spoon from the pocket of his apron and promptly balanced it on his nose.
Anthony's giggle was quiet, but still a victory. The two men exchanged a look that could best be described as relieved—Jack had no doubt Mr. Butler was aware of every detail of the circumstances—and continued their attempts to engage the boy. He didn't talk very much, but he seemed to be listening and occasionally laughing. Mr. Butler resumed his weekly bread kneading, and Jack told Anthony the plan for the day—he would come in to the station with lots of policemen in uniforms and then a nice man would come to take him home.
"Mumma?" the boy asked, and Jack shook his head. It had been the wrong thing to say; he wasn't usually so involved in the victim's family, not when they were this young.
"No," he said. "Your mumma has had to go away. But Ed is very nice and will help you."
The boy began to whip his head back and forth, conveying the strength of his objections with the speed.
"No! Mumma! Mumma 'ome."
"Mumma's not at home," Jack said, feeling his jaw clench. There was no way he'd allow this case to go unsolved, not that it would do a damned thing for the poor boy. "Your mumma can't come home. I'm sorry."
He was saved from making matters worse by Mr. Butler producing more toast; the butler gave him a sympathetic smile before turning his attentions to Anthony.
"How does young sir like his toast?" he asked, waving a napkin with a dramatic flourish that temporarily distracted the child. "Butter? Jam? Kumquat marmalade?"
"'Lade!" the boy exclaimed, as if it were a luxury. "'Lade toas. Peese?"
"Marmalade toast it is," said Mr. Butler, selecting the correct jar and spreading a generous portion.
Anthony munched on the toast, hands and face becoming sticky, while Jack talked to him about anything to keep him mind off his mother. The boy continued to be mostly contemplative, but would occasionally nod or repeat a word as if agreeing with what Jack had said, or laugh, or answer a question. They were discussing balls (which was apparently of great interest to Anthony, who even mimed throwing one) when Phryne came into the kitchen, clearly irritable.
"Good morning, love," Jack said, trying not to laugh. Phryne was most adamantly not a morning person. "Not staying in bed?"
"I intended to," she said scathingly, slumping into the nearest chair. Mr. Butler managed to produce a hot cup of coffee and place it before her as she sat. "But someone woke me up this morning."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I really didn't mean to. Usually you sleep like the—"
It was not an expression he should be using in front of the child, actually. Phryne winced and lifted to the cup of coffee to her mouth.
"It's fine," she said quietly. "Just, next time, only do it if you have the day off?"
"I think I can manage that," he said, offering the last slice of toast to her with a smile. She snatched the one off of his plate instead, and made a production of eating it.
"Mmm," she moaned. "Positively decadent."
Jack laughed, motioning her to lean across the table towards him and then giving her a gentle kiss. Her eyes were soft and affectionate and full of love as she looked at him; it stole his breath every time.
"You've got some jam, just here," he whispered, brushing the fleck from the corner of her mouth with his thumb.
"You are going to spoil me, Jack," she whispered back.
"Every time, Phryne love, and every way."
He sat back in his seat, and she grinned at him.
"Makes it difficult to stay mad," she admitted, taking another sip of her coffee.
"So, will you be coming into the station with me?" he asked. "Might be easier if one of us drives and the other keeps Anthony from climbing. Not that he's shown any inclination to so far."
He looked at the boy again. It wasn't right. He was too quiet, too compliant. Too scared, Jack assumed.
"When are you due in?" she asked.
Jack stole a look at the clock; there was only fifteen minutes before he would have to leave, which wasn't nearly enough time.
"Eight," he said. "So I suppose I'll just have to meet you there."
She groaned.
"It's not that disappointing," Jack said with a laugh. "You'll escape my reprimands about your driving, for starters."
"No, we told Ed that Anthony was here, not the station. With the change of plans and keeping him overnight, I didn't even think..."
"So we telephone him," Jack said, half turning to the sticky faced child. Mr. Butler, bless him, produced a damp cloth as if on cue.
"Do you really have time to telephone, change his clothes—and yours, darling, there's a rather conspicuous chunk of marmalade on your shirtsleeve—and still leave on time?"
That seemed unlikely.
"The other option is?"
"If the paperwork has this as the address for foster custody and Ed is coming here in, what, forty five minutes or so?" she asked, glancing at the clock. "Mr. Butler?"
"I'm sure we could keep the child clean and safe that long, miss," the butler said without missing a beat.
It was the most reasonable course of action.
"I really couldn't ask that of you, Mr. Butler," Jack said.
"Nonsense, sir. I'm sure the young master would be amenable to helping me with the bread, so long as Miss Fisher would distract him while I'm moving things in and out of the oven?"
Phryne nodded, then rolled her eyes at Jack's doubtful gaze.
"I don't do children, Jack, but even I can manage that."
"Of course you can," he said. "I'm just surprised that you're offering."
"Well I can hardly let my police source get accused of dereliction of duty, can I?" she winked at him."Just think of how much trouble it would be to train up another one."
Snorting, Jack took the last sip of his tea and stood.
"Be at the station by nine," he said, rounding the table to give her a brief hug before heading upstairs to change. "Mac said she should have the autopsy report by then."
—
After a scandalously short bath—an occasional necessity in their line of work and not something she could solely lay at the feet of the toddler in her kitchen—and a change of outfit, Phryne found herself back in the kitchen and regretting her offer. Anthony wasn't a bad child, as far as children went; he was quiet and sat in the chair without complaint, but she was utterly perplexed about what she was supposed to do with him. If it had been Aggie, Phryne would have been chasing her out of cupboards and shelves, but Anthony was too...compliant for that. There were glimmers of a personality on occasion—he giggled and tried to follow Mr. Butler's lead when it came to kneading a small hunk of dough—but he was mostly just...there.
"Miss," Mr. Butler said, giving her a small smile and motioning her towards the sink. "Perhaps a storybook would lift his spirits? I really must get the first batch of buns out without small fingers."
"Of course, Mr. B," she said. There were a selection of children's books in the nursery; they were rather insipid things, for the most part, but she could take five minutes out of her day to grit her teeth and read one. "Anthony?"
The boy looked up.
"Do you like storybooks?" she asked, trying to adopt the cutesy tone that Dot deployed on children of that age. It was no use; she could do sensual and light and flirty and stern, but cutesy was not in her range.
There was a slight...alertness to him at the question, though he didn't move. Phryne extended her hand in offer; he took it hesitantly after a moment, allowing her to remove him from the chair and begin to walk towards the nursery. Once there she motioned towards the bookshelf; he moved towards it without releasing her hand.
"Book?" he asked; his eyes were large and a very dark brown, and actually appearing curious. That was workable. Ed should be along soon enough.
"Of course. Any book on that shelf," replied Phryne, casting her eye around the room. "Then we can sit on that chair in the corner and read it together?"
Anthony released her hand to take the last few steps to the bookshelf and pulled one of the books from the shelf.
"Book!"
He moved back towards her, holding it up.
"Yes, it is. It's—" she forced a smile as she glanced at the title. "Snugglepot and Cuddlepie? Oh, good g—that sounds lovely!"
Well, that was what she got for allowing Dot to select the items for the nursery. She was going to have to reread Erotica of the Far East just forget about this. She picked him up and carried him to the chair; he was surprisingly heavy, and even though he was now clean he still smelled vaguely of marmalade. She settled him into her lap so he could see the illustrations—she had a notion that they were aimed at the children and not the poor unwitting adult left reading it to them—and began the tale of the gumnut brothers. It was exactly as absurd as she expected; when Phryne reached the part about Mrs. Fantail being a gadabout who conned the boys into minding her eggs, she had to admit that she had a feeling of solidarity with the bird.
About halfway through Anthony seemed to relax slightly, nestling against her and his small hand reaching up to stroke the edge of her silk scarf. It was harmless, and almost (but not quite) endearing as he praised her reading skills.
"Goo'. Goo'. Goo' book," he repeated soothingly.
"Was it?" she asked, managing to sound almost enthusiastic as she finished. "Have you read that book before?"
"Goo' book."
"Did you like it?"
"Yeh. Goo' book."
The child was a stunning conversationalist. He was also...not sweet, but surprisingly warm in her lap. He might even be one of those children who didn't annoy her overly much when she met them, though it was hard to say under the current circumstances.
"Why don't we see if Mr. Butler is done with the buns?" she said cheerfully; anything to avoid reading another one of those books.
She stood, putting Snugglepot and Cuddlepie back on the shelf (if there had been an open fire, she wasn't sure she could have resisted the urge to shove it into the flames) and taking Anthony's hand. The boy seemed slightly less...absent? than he had before the book, and she felt awful for him. Less than twenty four hours earlier he had been left in a room with the body of his murdered mother; she'd seen grown men catatonic at scenes like that, and while he understood less—a two year old was not intellectually capable of understanding death or violence—he was also utterly innocent and left without the only parent he knew. She picked him up, and when he leaned against her she gave him a tender kiss on his cheek.
"Come along, Anthony. Mr. Prentice should be here soon."
—
Back in the kitchen, Phryne stole a look at the clock. Ed was late; it wasn't surprising, really, but she had a murder to investigate and it was damned inconvenient. She sighed. Anthony was back in the kitchen chair and watching Mr. Butler, who had moved on to shelling peas. Bert and Cec had come around as well, ostensibly to see if Miss Fisher had any requests but really to secure some freshly baked buns.
"Mr. B," Phryne said. "I'm just going to telephone Welfare and see what ridiculous excuse Ed has this time."
"Master Anthony and I will remain here, won't we?" replied Mr. Butler, winking at the boy.
Anthony giggled, and even continued smiling when he was done.
"Excellent!" she said airily. "Right back, then."
She had just reached the telephone when the doorbell rang. Finally, thought Phryne, rolling her eyes. Enid Prentice was an organisational marvel, but she probably developed the skill wrangling her blasted husband. Still, he was there now and she would have time to meet Jack by nine.
She opened the door, expecting to find a tiny man with a pencil thin mustache and a tacky suit. Instead it was a large woman; she was tall and broad and just… large. Phryne could think of no other word to describe how the woman took up so much space. Her grey-streaked hair was tucked into a neat bun beneath a large straw hat and her floral print dress was faded but well-kept; it gave the clear impression of a country woman come to the city in her sartorial best.
"Hullo," said the woman, her accent broad. "I'm Connie Wilkes. I'm here to collect Anthony."
Recognising the name as that of the child's aunt, Phryne stepped aside to let her in and motioned to the parlour. The woman entered, taking a seat in an armchair.
"He's just in the kitchen," Phryne said, standing in the doorway. "I'll fetch—Oh! Mr. Butler, you are a wonder."
Her butler had emerged from the kitchen with the boy. Phryne met them halfway and took Anthony's hand, leading him to the parlour while Mr. Butler no doubt set off to make tea for the guest. Phryne's eyes drifted towards the clock on the mantelpiece as she entered the room—she could just manage a quick cup before sending them off and getting to the station—and didn't immediately notice the boy stiffen.
There was no ignoring his sudden wail and frantic attempt to climb up Phryne's leg.
"Nonononononono!" he cried, grasping at Phryne's blouse for leverage.
Phryne looked towards the aunt. She remembered Dot talking about Aggie's seemingly random acceptance or rejection of strangers and how violent the reaction could be, and she meant to flash the woman a vaguely amused smile. Connie Wilkes was watching, and for a split second there was a look in her eyes. Pure, hard possession. Phryne picked the boy up without realising she would, holding him close.
"I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?" Phryne said, only a few steps through the door. Anthony had buried his face against her and was continuing to wail.
"Connie Wilkes," the woman said. The look in her eyes was gone, replaced by a cool though perfectly acceptable smile, but Phryne couldn't shake the memory. "Helen was my sister's girl; we took her in when she was nine."
"It must have been a shock. Did Ed give you the address?"
"Ed?"
"Edgar Prentice. From Welfare?"
"Oh, yes," the woman said, fidgeting with her handbag. "Yes, Mr. Prentice was very understanding. We just want to take little Anthony home. Such unpleasant business."
"And catch your niece's killer, I presume?" Phryne said, shifting the boy to her hip. Every detective instinct she had was screaming that there was something else going on.
"Of course," the woman smiled. "But I think that's best left to the police. My job will be caring for this little darling."
She stood as if to take him, and even though she was halfway across the room Phryne flinched and turned away. She recovered quickly, pretending she was looking through the door for Mr. Butler.
"Tea?" she asked, smiling. She needed to stall for time until she could figure out what was going on. "I think my butler will be hideously offended if we don't try some of his lavender shortbreads."
"Oh, I couldn't impose."
"I insist," Phryne said.
"No, no. You've already been so kind to take care of Anthony while I came in from Ballarat."
Mr. Butler came through as if on cue, and Phryne gave him a deliberate look as he placed the tray of tea things and biscuits on the table.
"Thank you," she said.
"Shall I stay close in case you need anything else?" he asked—thank heavens the man was a mind reader—and Phryne nodded.
"Yes, please. In fact, could you bring Anthony and retrieve his jumper? I believe it was left in the kitchen."
She needed Anthony out of the room if she was going to make any progress. Thankfully the child went to Mr. Butler without too much fuss, and Phryne attempted to clean her shoulder of the boy's tears. There was nothing for it; she'd have to change. It was rather repulsive, but she'd done worse for a case and smiled as if it didn't bother her.
"Little ones," she said, taking a seat across from Connie Wilkes and pouring out the tea. "They are so funny with people at that age, aren't they?"
Except he hadn't had that reaction to anybody else; he'd complacently gone off with Jack and Dot and Mr. Butler and herself, he'd accepted the stream of police officers and Bert and Cec. Still, perhaps it was something as simple as the woman's hat that had set him off.
Phryne made small talk for several minutes, and Mrs. Wilkes grew increasingly uncomfortable.
"Where has that man gotten to with my Anthony?" she asked, straining as she looked towards the door again.
"I'm sure the jumper has just been misplaced," soothed Phryne. "Have you spoken with the police yet?"
The woman jumped. It was a guilty action, and Phryne grew even more suspicious.
"What? Why would I speak with them?"
"Well, they would need to speak with you. See if you have any information that could help us—"
"Us?"
"Them. I misspoke," Phryne said, feeling that identifying herself as a private investigator would be a hindrance to her inquiry. "Any information that could help the police identify Helen's killer."
"Don't know why I would," the woman grumbled. "She headed off to Melbourne and never so much as wrote."
"That sounds difficult," replied Phryne. It made the displayed possessiveness even odder. "It can be very difficult to take in girls of that age. Several years ago I took in one, and now I rarely see her."
Jane would forgive her the little lie. Thankfully she was spending the weekend away with a friend's family and wasn't due back until dinnertime.
"Ungrateful is what she was. But I loved her anyway."
"Of course, of course. But the police will need to speak with you; the tiniest detail might be of use."
The conversation was interrupted by the ringing telephone and Mr. Butler answering it.
"Telephone for you, miss," he said from the parlour doorway, then turned to Mrs. Wilkes. "I'm afraid young Anthony has been sidetracked by a drink and biscuits, but will rejoin you shortly."
The woman smiled a false smile, and Phryne was glad the child wasn't in the room. She was missing something obvious, she knew it. She stood and headed into the hall.
"Phryne Fisher-Robinson," she said, knowing Mr. Butler would have said if the person on the line was Jack or someone else close enough that the obfuscation was unneeded.
It was still a rather odd way to introduce herself, but it also didn't bother her nearly as much as she had expected. It had solved their co-habiting dilemma rather nicely, and it was only a tiny white lie; they were as good as married, at least, without any of the unpleasant rules and restrictions. Aunt P had thrown a fit, but you couldn't have everything.
"Ahh, Phryne!" It was Ed Prentice. "I'm so sorry to be running late, but there was a fire at one of the homes early this morning and it's taken hours to make any headway at all."
She dropped her voice, hoping not to be overheard. Perhaps Ed knew more about the odd Mrs. Wilkes.
"There's no need to worry, Ed." she said. "Anthony's aunt has arrived to collect him."
"His aunt?"
"Yes. Connie Wilkes? She said you gave her the address."
"Phryne," Ed said slowly. "I haven't spoken to a Connie Wilkes. I haven't spoken to anyone about this case, actually. I've been dealing with the fire brigade and a dozen displaced children since 3 am."
