Finishing her conversation with Ed, Phryne finally had an inkling of what was wrong and how to approach it. She looked up to find Mr. Butler hovering; no doubt he suspected that there was something amiss. The man was positively prescient at times.
"Are Cec and Bert still here?" she asked as quietly as possible.
"Yes, miss."
"Good. In a moment I'll need you to send them into the parlour with Anthony, and they'll drive us to the station."
"Of course, miss. Shall I tell Mr. Johnson to play along?"
Bert would definitely be the weak link in the plan.
"Your forethought never ceases to amaze me. Please do," Phryne said, smoothing her bob and attempting once more to clean the worst evidence of Anthony's snivels from her shirt. It was no use. Thank heavens Dot had plenty of experience in that particular damage. "Right. Wish me luck, Mr. Butler."
"You don't need luck, miss, when you have skill."
"Oh, I'll definitely need luck. I'm not entirely sure my theatrical skills are up for this one."
Mr. Butler inclined his head and retreated back to the kitchen. Phryne pasted on her biggest smile and returned to the parlour.
"Mrs. Wilkes!" she said, trying to sound jovial. "That was the police officer handling Helen's murder. I've told him about your arrival, which he is very relieved about. Anthony's such a charming child, he had all the investigators worried. Inspector Robinson thought that it might be best if I were to accompany you to the station."
"Oh no, I couldn't—"
"Nonsense! I can mind him while you give your statement, then we can handle all the paperwork to transfer custody to you. If we head off now I'm sure you can be on a train back home by dinnertime!"
Her cheeks were already aching from the falseness of her smile, but it gave Connie Wilkes no room to argue.
"Yes, yes. I suppose that is the easiest solution."
"Oh, absolutely! And it will give me a little longer with Anthony!" Phryne exclaimed. "He's just such a darling little boy, and I haven't any of my own."
"No children?"
"Well, we have the girl we took in. But that hardly counts," Phryne said brightly, and vowed to buy Jane half a bookstore in recompense. "Not at all like a child of blood. My husband and I were never blessed. But Anthony… oh, he's just so sweet. I can hardly bear to part with him; if he wasn't going to family I'm not certain I could."
Good heavens above, this was exhausting. If Cec and Bert didn't come soon... Thankfully they did, Cec carrying the child, and part two of the plan could be set into motion.
"Mrs. Wilkes, this is Mr. Yates and Mr. Johnson."
The two red raggers tipped their hats and muttered hellos. Mrs. Wilkes returned the greeting stiffly, her attention more focused on the toddler in Cec's arms.
"These two gentleman will drive us to the police station," Phryne said, reaching out to take Anthony. He was trembling but no longer crying, which was an improvement; he was rather limpet-like as he clung to her though, and she shifted him to a more secure position. Next time Jack called her out to a crime scene she was going to take a long, hot bath instead. "Right, shall we go?"
—
The ride was quiet. Phryne forced herself to smile at every sniffle and shifting of the toddler in her lap, determined to sell her role as a doting, maternal woman. It might be nothing; Anthony's aunt might just be a slightly unpleasant person and Phryne's intuition skewed by the presence of a child. But growing up in Collingwood had honed Phryne's instincts razor sharp and Connie Wilkes left all of them on alert. Bert caught her eye during one of her gushing moments, and Phryne tried not to laugh at his look of consternation.
"You sure do like the little ones," he grumbled.
The man would not be terribly useful undercover, Phryne decided, but rose to the comment with an enthused response. It was the thought that counted, after all.
"Oh, look Anthony! We've arrived at the police station! Shall we go see Inspector Robinson again?" Phryne asked, waving towards the station, then turned to Mrs. Wilkes. "He was so fond of the inspector yesterday. So very sweet to see a man fond of children."
Though she would have been happy to see Jack a little less enthused. Still, it would cover for any familiarity Jack displayed before she could tip him off, and it wasn't untrue. She led the way into the station; Jack came out of the office when he heard her, and she caught his eye. The last thing they needed was for him to contradict her and warn Mrs. Wilkes.
"Inspector Robinson! It's so nice to see you again; I've brought Anthony's aunt in like we discussed."
"Ahh, yes, thank you," he said; only someone who knew him very well would have caught the moment of hesitation. He regained his composure and smiled. "Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Wilkes. I'll just need to ask you some questions about Helen's life. Constable Mitchell, if you could bring her through to the interview room?"
The woman glanced at Anthony before moving through the gate to follow Mitchell. When she was out of sight, Jack's reserve broke. Phryne put Anthony down, relieved not to be carrying him any longer, and told him not to wander.
"What's going on?" Jack asked, leaning against the desk with teacup in hand.
"There's something...off about this whole thing," she said quietly. "Mrs. Wilkes came to collect Anthony from our place, and I cannot figure out where she got the address. And he was completely inconsolable when he saw her."
"It was probably Ed—"
"No, she said it was but he wasn't in the office."
"Then it was someone else at Welfare."
It was the logical explanation, but it didn't sit right with her.
"What about his reaction?" she countered.
"Kids are odd. One of Rosie's nieces wouldn't accept her own father when he shaved off his beard. Took her six weeks before she'd talk to him."
"Jack, I'm serious. There's something I can't put my finger on."
He nodded. "Alright, Miss Fisher. If there's one thing I've learnt during our acquaintance, it's that your intuition is almost always right."
"Almost?" she asked archly.
His knowing smile was all her playful Jack.
"I seem to recall an incident with a—"
"Fair enough!" she laughed. "But in this matter, trust me darling."
"Darling?" he asked, and he actually reached out to touch her arm. "You really are unsettled by this, aren't you?"
"Enough that I faked an absolutely dire affection for the poor boy," she said, giving him a small smile."It will pass soon enough."
"Are you coming in for the interview?"
She shook her head. "I don't want to tip her off that I'm a private detective. And someone has to watch him; Constable Mitchell needs the experience and earned it by staying last night, so I won't interfere there. I don't see any other obvious minders; you really do need a budget for more men. I'll take him through to the office and hope you're quick."
"Alright," Jack nodded, then leaned across to give her a quick kiss on her cheek. "Thank you for this, love."
"Thank me later," she purred, and smirked at his eyeroll. She was worried, not dead. "You still owe me for this morning."
—
Jack wasn't certain he would have picked up the early, subtle clues if it hadn't been for Phryne's warning. He liked to think he would—he was a good police officer, despite his occasional foray into humourous self-deprecation—but the first signs were so subtle they could have been easily dismissed. He had been warned though, and so he took the interview slow, lowering Mrs. Wilkes's defenses, placating her with tea and biscuits, drawing her out, circling back around to check for inconsistencies. It took almost three hours before Mrs. Wilkes seemed to realise that it was not a routine taking of a statement—the dumb criminals who thought themselves clever were always a pleasant surprise—and by then she had given up too many small details to create a lie out of whole cloth. It was, he thought with pride, one of his most successful interrogations and was glad that Constable Mitchell was quietly taking it in without interference.
It took another hour, Jack picking away at every tiny detail with a steady calm that flustered her more and more, to make Connie Wilkes crack. Crack she did though, spilling out the whole lurid story.
Helen had gone to live with them after the death of her parents. She had then proceeded to spend the next eight years attempting to run away from the so-called discipline and attentions of her lecherous uncle; the denial of Mrs. Wilkes about the abuse made it hard to say how far the latter had gone, but considering Jack had spoken with the registrar and discovered Helen Fox had never been married and gave birth seven months after her last, successful attempt to flee, he had his suspicions.
Connie Wilkes had clearly had the same suspicions, as she had finally managed to track Helen down. She had shown up at her door that Friday night, demanding care of Anthony be given to her immediately.
"He is my blood," she hissed, eyes unapologetic. "He deserves better than that shameless harlot for a mother."
"And how did she react to these demands?" Jack asked.
"That bitch told me to get out of her home," she spat. "Her home, like she'd even be alive without us taking her in."
"And Anthony?"
"He saw it. She turned him against me, saying those awful things. But it's fine; I have him now."
Behind him, Constable Mitchell exhaled sharply. The pure hatred on the woman's face was disturbing, even to Jack; the boy was nothing more than a piece of property. If that was what Phryne had seen, no wonder she had been so unnerved. Jack motioned to Mitchell to remove the tea things; he sat across from Connie Wilkes while his constable left the room and returned, not speaking but merely toying with his pen while he watched her.
When Mitchell was back in the room, Jack placed the pen on the table—in the silence of the room it could be heard hitting the wood—and said, quietly, "What did you do to Helen Fox yesterday morning?"
She confessed, so convinced that she was in the right that she held nothing back. She had gone back early Saturday morning, pushing through the door and demanding Anthony once more. Helen had refused, and when Mrs. Wilkes had tried to go past and retrieve the boy from the cot Helen had fought her. Connie laughed as she showed Jack the bruise on her upper arm, calling it her war wound; standing behind her, Mitchell looked as if he would be ill. Jack couldn't blame the man.
"That wasn't enough to stop me," Connie Wilkes said, pride making her blue eyes glitter. "But she just kept coming until I hit her back. And I'm bigger and stronger, just like I always was."
"And you killed her."
The woman shrugged insolently. "She died. Can't say it was a big loss."
Everyone they had spoken to the day before had spoken warmly of Helen; nobody deserved to die like that, but there was something particularly unfair about this case. To have escaped abuse, managing to survive and raise a child everyone close to her adored? It was an enormous loss.
Jack asked a few more questions to tie up loose ends—yes, her husband did know she was in Melbourne and what she had done. Jack would have to make a telephone call to arrange his arrest; she had watched them remove Anthony from the scene the day before and bring him to Wardlow, and growing nervous she had taken a chance to retrieve him; the whole thing had been surprisingly quick and quiet, and she wasn't the least surprised that the neighbours hadn't heard—then motioned for Mitchell to handcuff her and bring her down to the cells.
"Why did you leave the child?" he asked as she was almost through the door. It wouldn't make a difference in the case, but he'd dreamed of the scene, of the clumps of hair still in the boy's fists pulled out in his distress.
"If I'd taken him, you would have looked. This way I get him, all nice and legal like."
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
"Get her out of my sight, constable."
—
Exhausted, Jack sat in the interview room with his head in his hands. What a waste. After several minutes he stood up, cataloguing all the things he would need to do. Telephone Welfare again. Type up the statement. Get it signed. Stage perhaps the only sort of rescue Phryne would ever appreciate. Check in with Mitchell—he'd only been with City South for a week, and it was his first posting; not the sort of case that was pleasant to cut your teeth on, but he had handled himself admirably. Try to finish up before dinner; Jane would be back from her weekend away and his niece Ivy was coming as well. He sighed as he opened the door to his office, then froze.
Phryne was in his chair, feet propped on his desk, eyes closed, Anthony fast asleep on her chest. The boy was too big for it to look remotely comfortable, but as that was the least unexpected aspect the of tableau he filed it away to contemplate later. Just the sight of her was enough to lift some of his exhaustion.
"Jack, darling, if you speak loud enough to wake him I will not be held responsible for your death," she whispered, eyes still closed but a smirk ghosting across her lips.
He came closer and smoothed her hair, desperate to touch her but not interested in testing the veracity of her threat.
"I got a confession," he said, and she must have heard the weight of it in his voice because her free hand caught his and brought it to her lips to brush kisses across his knuckles.
"Three hours?"
"Four."
Her eyes shot open. "I only closed my eyes a minute—"
"Four hours. Believe me, I can feel every one of them."
She moved, shifting the boy beside her so she could stand. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his neck; he held her, feeling her strength fortify his, though it would look to an outsider as if he were comforting her. After a minute she stepped back, giving him a final sad smile before resuming her professional demeanour; they didn't often allow their romantic entanglement to cross the threshold of the station.
"Drink?"
"I'm still on duty."
"Well," she said wryly, grabbing his decanter from the side and pouring herself a measure. "I've earned one. The first hour was almost pleasant, but it went downhill from there rather quickly..."
Jack looked towards the toddler, now sprawled face down on the seat of his chair, legs dangling over the side and still fast asleep. Well, that explained how he'd slept through the murder. Deciding against waking him to reclaim his chair, Jack leaned against his desk. Phryne reclined in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk; whiskey tumbler in hand, some sort of toddler-induced mess on her shoulder, and a look ironic bemusement on her face.
"So..." she drawled out. "Care to tell me how the infamous Phryne Fisher still managed to solve your case while doing her best to pass as the very definition of maternal perfection?"
"I imagine being Phryne Fisher played a rather large role in it," he said dryly, and she raised her glass in a toast.
"Touché, inspector."
He brought her up to speed on the events; her lips tightened when he got to the motive, as he knew they would. She was—for understandable reasons—not particularly fond of people asserting ownership over others, and in that matter children were people first.
"That poor woman," Phryne said, shaking her head. "She escaped, carved out a life for herself, and her family still took it away from her."
"Yes," agreed Jack. "And if it hadn't been for you, we may very well have sent her son to the same fate."
He spared a glance for Anthony, still asleep with his lips pursed and a flush to his cheeks, before smiling at her. She was not, as she said, the model of maternal perfection; she had impeccable instincts and the deepest heart he'd ever known though, and he loved her for it.
"You did most of the work," she replied, eyeing him tenderly. "You look exhausted."
"I am."
"Do you want me to telephone Mr. Butler, tell him to cancel dinner and just make something less...?" she waved her empty hand to encapsulate the idea. "Ivy won't mind coming next Sunday instead."
"No. No use retreating; if I finish up here and leave as soon as my shift is done, I can manage a nap before the meal is served."
She drained the last of her drink, placing the glass on the desk, and smiled up at him.
"How can I help?"
It was mostly paperwork. There was one loose end though.
"I almost hate to ask—"
"Oh no," she said, following his eyes to the sleeping boy. "He cried for his mother for an hour straight earlier, before he finally fell asleep. And I was understanding enough, given the circumstances, but I am not continuing to mind him. There are limits, Jack."
"It's a ten minute drive to the Welfare offices. That's all I'd be asking; drop him off to Ed and save me waiting. You've already done more than enough, Phryne, and I'm grateful. No is a perfectly acceptable answer."
She sighed and rolled her eyes, standing. "Ask me nicely."
It was a game she was fond of; he would ask, she would pretend to be reluctant, he'd ask again, she'd demurely capitulate—it had unsettled him the first time, until he learnt the rules—and then return the request at a later time. They had become very good at identifying the boundaries, and if he refused now she would still do as he asked. He stepped closer, close enough to see every eyelash framing her sultry eyes.
"Will you please take Anthony to the Welfare offices?" he asked again.
"Well," she breathed, the warmth caressing his face. "If you're going to ask me like that, I suppose I could."
"A noble sacrifice on your part, Miss Fisher."
"My intentions are most definitely not noble, darling. So get your work done and come home soon."
She trailed one finger down the length of his tie, hooking a finger beneath the top of his vest and pulling him closer, then grinned wickedly and darted away. She picked Anthony off of the chair—the child made a low grumble and began to wake up—and waved cheerfully as she left his office.
