Early the next week, Phryne finally received a telephone call with the lead she had been waiting for. One of Betty Dixon's foster mothers had kept in touch until the last few years, more recently than the decade-old address Phryne had been working from. The woman remembered that she had married a man named Thomas Mulroney, and they'd moved to a small town called Paringa on the Murray River. Phryne could not find any record of such a marriage in Victoria or South Australia, but she did find a reference to a Thomas Mulroney living in the area; it wasn't an uncommon name, but enough to pique her interest. A telephone call to the local post office was less than helpful, and Phryne decided that the best thing to do would be to go to Paringa herself. If Betty Dixon was there, arrangements could be made for her to take Squirrel by the weekend.
There was a train station in the town, but Phryne quickly calculated that flying there was by far the more efficient option and informed Jack of her plans in the parlour before dinner.
"It should only be for a couple of days," she said, prepared for him to point out that he had to work and it would be a logistical nightmare to cover Anthony's care.
"Will you be back for Sunday dinner?" he asked instead. "Mum's coming into town and she'd hate to miss you."
"She'll be here for three weeks, Jack. I'm sure she can survive my absence at a single meal."
"Mmm," he said. "That might even be for the best. She's been hinting that she wants to see you more than she wants to see me, and that never bodes well."
Well, that sounded… oh, he was smirking. That utter tease.
"Well, I was going to be back—when I say a couple of days I do literally mean a couple; I will probably fly out tomorrow morning and be back by dinner the next day—but just for that I might stay away. Book into a spa."
"I doubt Paringa has a spa, but you are more then welcome to. I'd never stop you," he said, unexpectedly—or perhaps expectedly—sombre. Well, there was no standing for that.
"As if you could," she replied with a laugh, moving onto his lap. "But I'm sure I could be persuaded to come back."
As much as she appreciated the openness of his smiles and laughter, there was something in the tiny, secretive upturn of his lips—so reminiscent of their early interactions and moments when they were alone in a room full of people, that thrill of newness and understanding—that sent a shiver of anticipation right through her.
"How, exactly, do you propose I persuade you, Miss Fisher?"
She leaned close, allowing her fingers to trace the shell of his ear before following it with her tongue, then catching the lobe with a gentle tug of her teeth. He shuddered.
"Convince me," she exhaled, smiling when his eyes closed at the sensation. "Use those delightful hands, and your words, and any other… instrument at your disposal and make me want you so badly that when I climb into that airplane all I can think about is flying it home."
His eyes closed tighter as he tried to breathe, and a tendon on his neck appeared at the tension. She licked it, a quick little flick of her tongue that provoked an involuntary thrust of his hips.
"God, Phryne," he pleaded. "You cannot do that to me and then leave. Please."
"You want me to stay?" she asked, toying with the starched collar of his shirt.
"No. No, by all means fly away. Just don't torture me first."
"You have a funny definition of torture."
"Oh yes. Forty-eight hours of thinking about you and wanting you and not getting to have you. Absolute torture."
"You've lasted longer."
"I have."
"And I'm an unapologetic wanderer, which means you will again."
"I will."
"And yet?"
His eyes opened for the first time, so piercing she found herself as breathless as she had left him.
"Forty. Eight. Hours."
"Silly man," she said, kissing him. "I'll do it in thirty-six."
"That's not much better."
"You'll just have to make the evening memorable then," she purred, shifting against him. His hand slid up her thigh, his thumb brushing against her silk knickers; she arched into his touch with a moan.
And then it hit her.
"Oh, Jack, darling, we can't—"
"Dinner, right."
"Yes. And Squirrel. He was helping Mr. Butler do…something, but he's still awake."
Jack groaned. "I cannot wait until we have this house to ourselves again."
"Just a little while longer, darling," she said, kissing him lightly. "And it's not all bad."
"I would agree with you under other circumstances, but not right now," he muttered. "Do you know how long it's been since we fucked on this chaise? And now I have you on my lap, wet and eager and about to abandon me for the wilds of South Australia for weeks on end…"
"Two days, Jack," she laughed.
"The point remains, this is insufferable."
There was a knock on the parlour door, then Mr. Butler's voice calling through.
"Miss? I've fed Master Anthony and taken him off to bed, because he was looking rather peakish. Dinner is ready to serve—"
"Actually, Mr. Butler, I think we'll just help ourselves later," Phryne called out, flashing Jack a victorious smile. He shook his head in bemusement. "We're in the middle of a very sensitive investigation."
"Wicked woman," he mouthed, leaning forward to press a kiss against her neck.
"Of course, Miss," came the butler's voice through the door. "Will that be all for this evening? I rather thought I'd take in a show at the cinema if you could spare me."
"That sounds marvelous. Enjoy yourself, Mr. B! I'll see you in the morning—I'll have an early start, so coffee will be in order."
"Of course, Miss Fisher."
They heard Mr. Butler retreating—a deliberate act, she suspected, because he was usually silent—and exchanged a look.
"I do not know where you found that man," Jack said with a shake of his head, "but I am increasing my contributions to his salary effective immediately."
—
Phryne arrived in Paringa in the early afternoon and checked into the only hotel. Looking up Thomas Mulroney's address and arranging a ride to the farm several miles out of town for the next morning took only a few minutes, and once it was done she quickly scoped the small town for a likely place to eat. Satisfied that the small Italian restaurant would suffice, she returned to the hotel, sprawled on the bed, and did absolutely nothing for two hours. Her intentions to nap—the flight had been rougher than anticipated and the combination of late night and early morning had left her tired—were derailed rather thoroughly by what she would face the following day.
The options were simple enough: It could be the wrong Thomas Mulroney, leaving her no further ahead; it could be the correct Thomas Mulroney but Betty Dixon was no longer with him, giving her a longer trail to follow; or she could find Betty Dixon on the farm, ideally lovely and eager to take in her great-nephew but either way providing an answer. And yet it did not sit quite as well as she expected. Irritated, she rose and dressed for an early dinner.
Dinner itself was pleasant; a young man—sandy blond hair, a burly build, and an impressive smile—invited her to join him at his table. He was charming and flirtatious and Phryne appreciated the distraction and the aesthetic benefits of the company. When he invited her back to his home she declined without hesitation, citing a marriage; Jack had only ever asked that she be discreet and inform him so he was not blindsided during an investigation, but having that option somehow meant that she'd never felt the need to take it. She returned to the hotel instead, stopping to use the communal telephone.
Mr. Butler answered.
"Fisher-Robinson residence," he said, and Phryne felt herself smile. It was nice to be away, but it was also nice to know that her home was running much as it ever did even without her there.
"Mr. Butler, could I speak with Jack please?"
"I will see if he's available, Miss Fisher," he replied.
There was the sound of the receiver being placed on the table, then Mr. Butler walking away. After a minute she could hear another set of footsteps—Jack's, naturally, she'd know that stride anywhere—and finally his voice through the line.
"Phryne?"
"Hello Jack! I thought I would telephone, see if you are missing me yet," she teased.
"I doubt you were even at the airfield by the time I started missing you," he replied. "Found a murder already, have you? My authority doesn't cross state borders, so you're well and truly on your own this time."
She laughed. "Not so much as a missing cat, I'm afraid."
"Pity," said Jack. "I was almost enjoying the peace."
"Mm-hm," Phryne replied doubtfully. "Glass of warm milk and a book?"
"Yes, actually."
"Anything interesting?"
"Uh, Snow White," Jack said, sounding almost sheepish.
She glanced at the clock—nearly half past nine.
"It's awfully late for fairy tales."
"Ant's having a bit of a rough night," he confessed. "He was rather insistent that we read it. It's better than that blasted gumnut baby one, at least."
She groaned at the memory. Perhaps she'd send the thing off with him when he left.
"Is he…?"
"It's nothing serious," Jack said. "He's just having a rough night."
It was a rare day indeed when Jack was not painstakingly honest, determined never to shut her out of his life the way he had his wife. Ex-wife. First wife, really, in the ways that mattered though they so rarely used the term between them.
"What aren't you telling me?" asked Phryne.
"He asked for you," he admitted. "I think he's still reeling a little from losing his mother, and he didn't see you this morning or tonight and thought he'd lost a new constant."
"Oh," Phryne said, uncertain how to take such a discovery.
"He's fine, Phryne. He's just a little off-kilter. It will have to happen soon enough."
In the next few days, quite possibly.
"Is he still awake?"
"Just drifted off," Jack assured her.
She nodded, knowing Jack would not see it but unsure how else to respond. There was nothing she could have done from Paringa, after all. There probably wasn't a thing she could have done if she was in Melbourne. That this seemed almost a failure rather than a natural state of things though, that was new.
"I've found the Mulroney address," she said after a moment. "I should be back at the airfield by six."
"I'll be waiting," Jack replied. "Telephone me if that changes?"
"Of course. I'll see you tomorrow, darling."
"Fly safe, love."
Phryne returned the receiver to the cradle and headed back to her room. There was no nightlife to speak of in the town, so she curled up with book—an anthology of women poets that had arrived from America the week before—and enjoyed the evening before turning in early. Her ride to the farm was arranged for nine the next morning, so she rose earlier than usual in order to bathe, dress in a sedate and eminently respectable suit—somehow she could not imagine the conversation going half so well if she chose furs and frippery—and eat breakfast at the small cafe down the street.
The farm was mostly orchards, a sign at the end of the drive advertising cherries for sale. Well, that was rather serendipitous; Jack was exceptionally fond of cherries, and it would give her an opportunity to test the waters without revealing the purpose of her visit.
"Please come back in an hour," she told the cab driver, paying double the actual fare to ensure he would.
The man nodded agreement and Phryne made her way towards the house. Her approach was not quiet, and she was met by a man coming around the back of the house.
"Hello! I'm here for some cherries?" Phryne called out with a wave. "I'm Phryne Fisher."
"Tom," said the man, wiping dirt from his hands. "Tom Mulroney."
Phryne gave him an appraising look as she approached: he was of a similar age to the elusive Betty Dixon, tall and lean, and with a sickening sort of honesty pouring from him. Probably not well-educated, but the kind of man who worked hard and knew his job. Not, she thought, a bad sort to leave Squirrel with.
They chatted lightly for several minutes while he selected her cherries, and Phryne decided that she rather liked the man.
"Tell me, Tom, are you married?"
He flinched.
"Ahh, no," he replied, and Phryne felt the letdown of another promising lead turning to dust before her. "Betty—that's my wife, or was—she died three years ago."
Oh. That was… not good.
"Betty Dixon?" Phryne asked.
Tom nodded, then looked at her. "What's it to you?"
"Born in Ballarat in 1883?"
"Whatcha asking for?"
"I'm a private detective from Melbourne," Phryne said, extracting a card from her large handbag. "I've been looking for her. Her niece, Helen, was murdered two months ago and she is next of kin for Helen's little boy."
"What about her sisters?" Tom asked. "Helen's mum, or Connie."
"Helen's parents both died when Helen was a child," Phryne said. "Helen went to live with Connie."
Tom let out a low whistle. "That's no good. Connie's mean as a brown snake, and her husband's worse."
"Considering both of them were arrested for Helen's murder, I think it's fair enough to say I agree."
"We never knew," Tom said with a shake of his head. "Betty and I couldn't handle it, cut off the whole side of the family. Connie was so vicious, and Helen's parents looked down at us because we weren't married, not legally—my first wife ran off and I couldn't bring myself to file for divorce—so we just stopped speaking with them when Helen was only wee. If we hadn't…."
"I'm sorry," Phryne said, reaching out to lay her hand upon his arm. "The whole thing must be quite a shock."
"And you said Helen had a little boy?"
"Yes," Phryne said. "His name's Anthony. He's two years old and exceptionally fond of hats, of all things."
Tom nodded. "What'll happen to him?"
"Welfare, if we can't find a relative from Helen's paternal family. Betty would have a claim, but not you. Especially since you weren't legally married."
"I couldn't take a little one in by myself even if I did," Tom said. "But Welfare?"
"I'm working very closely with them," Phryne assured him. "He's in a foster home for now, and they think it will be easy enough to find him an adoptive family given his age."
Tom nodded again. "And would you… keep me informed? I'd like to know he went somewhere loving."
"Of course," Phryne said. "I can even encourage them to write to you, if you'd like. There's no guarantee they would, of course, but I can ask."
Tom murmured an agreement, then seemed to realise he was still holding her cherries in his hand.
"These are on me," he said, passing them over.
"Oh no, I couldn't," Phryne insisted. "I was just doing my job."
"I insist. Do you need a ride back into town? I didn't see a car."
"I rather think I do," Phryne smiled. "And perhaps you could tell me more about Betty? I've been keeping a record of Anthony's family for him; I don't know if he'll ever read it, but I thought he might like to know about them, and it was only a few extra minutes of work as I did my investigations."
Tom nodded again. "Wait here. I have a photograph of Betty with Helen as a little girl. I think Anthony would need it more than I do."
He loped into the small farmhouse, coming out with a photo in a glass frame. Phryne looked at it; Anthony strongly resembled his mother, it seemed—the same upturned nose and chubby hands, though her hair seemed much lighter than his.
"Thank you," she said, extracting a scarf from her purse to wrap it carefully. "Shall we go?"
She made notes of Tom's stories on the journey into town; it had been a silly little impulse early on, to fill a notebook with the details of Helen Fox as relayed by neighbours and colleagues as she copied out the details for her own records. She remembered when Ivy had returned to Melbourne, uncertain what she would find but desperate to know something of her father's family; it had been difficult for everyone. This, at least, would give Anthony some answers, small though they may be.
When they arrived back at the hotel, Phryne gave her thanks and promised to be in touch when she knew Anthony's fate. Then she headed into the reception to telephone Ed Prentice and bring him up to date with the latest developments.
"Miss Fisher!" he greeted her jovially. "It's been, what, a week since you last telephoned to harangue me about a foster place?"
"I'm sure it's not been quite as long as that," Phryne said. In truth she hadn't thought of it; if a place had opened Ed would have telephoned, and since he had not the status quo had remained. "I've tracked down Anthony's great-aunt. She passed away several years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Ed said. "Is that the only family?"
"I'm waiting to hear from my solicitor in England regarding family of Helen Fox's father, and I cannot see that taking much longer. I imagine we'll have answers one way or another by the new year."
"I really am sorry that this arrangement has become so prolonged. If I had known—"
"Ed, it's fine. Nobody expected this to be as long as it has been," Phryne interjected, realising that she genuinely did not mind. "We're all just doing our best with what we have. Now I really must dash, I still have to fly back to Melbourne."
—
Jack pulled the picnic basket and blanket from the back seat of his motor car—Phyne would have no doubt preferred the Hispano, but his was enclosed and therefore much more practical for transporting impulsive children—spreading the blanket across the grass before turning his attentions back to the vehicle.
"Come along then, Ant," he called. "I believe Mr. Butler packed some sandwiches for while we wait."
Boy (and stuffed dog, as if there had been any doubt) tumbled out of the door and ran over, taking a seat beside him. They were early, but not excessively so. Jack passed the time pointing out objects in the sky, steadfastly avoiding the fact that one of those objects would soon enough be Miss Fisher. Ant had been quite distressed by her absence the night before, and Jack could only hope that Phryne found his aunt before the attachment grew any stronger.
"Dack! Dack!" Anthony said, suddenly enthused as he grasped Jack's face and directed it towards the sky. "Dack! Da mooooon."
Sure enough the gibbous moon was visible even in the daylight, and this discovery seemed to enthrall Anthony. He was, Jack had to admit, a very charming child. No. No, that was not quite right. He had charmed Jack, all heavy limbs and quiet words and vivacity in unexpected moments. Hands seeking his for comfort, curiosity and contemplation and silly little giggles over the strangest things. The possibilities had snuck up on him, Jack realised, and it ached to have it so near.
"Moooooooooooonnnn, Dack! Da moooooon!"
"Yes, I can see the moon," Jack said, pulling his face away. No amount of charm could make the facial manipulations pleasant. "Would you like a sandwich?"
"No, da moon."
He was back, immediately in front of Jack with his tiny fists grabbing Jack's face once again and pushing him towards the sky.
"Unfortunately, you cannot eat the moon even if it is made of cheese."
Anthony pulled away and cocked his head. "Cheese?"
"Oh yes," Jack said solemnly. "The moon is made of green cheese and wishes."
"Moon cheese?"
"Absolutely, Ant. Moon cheese. Now come eat a sandwich."
They spent the next twenty minutes or so in much the same way; Ant would point out some object in the sky—usually the moon, which he seemed particularly pleased by—and Jack would reply. At some point he managed to secure Jack's hat and place it on his own head, giggling when it tipped over his eyes. Eventually Jack spotted a familiar silhouette in the distance and pointed it out to Ant.
"Can you see that?" he asked when it began the descent. "That's an airplane."
Anthony watched it, sidling closer to Jack as the sound and size of the machine became clearer. By the time Phryne had touched down he was sitting on Jack's lap and wrapping himself under Jack's arms. The place coasted to a stop and Phryne leapt from the seat as she always did, waving at them from the distance; Jack somehow doubted that he would ever grow tired of seeing her return, wild and refreshed and in her element. A moment later Anthony recognised the figure, because he let out the most ear-piercing shriek Jack had ever heard and slipped from his arms before he could react.
"Mims! Mims! Miiiiiiims!" he yelled as he ran; Jack scrambled to his feet to catch him, but it was too late. "Mims! Da moon! Look da moon!"
He collided with Phryne's legs, Phryne reaching down to keep him from falling; she said something with a shake of her head—a reprimand, Jack assumed—but smiled as she did so. Jack stopped his chase, halfway between a picnic blanket and Phryne and unable to move. Unable to breathe. He suddenly found that he did not want to hear the outcome of her trip and chided himself for it; he'd known that it had become too familiar, but until that moment he had not realised the implications.
Phryne came to him instead—there was something comforting in knowing that she would meet him as often as he would meet her, a delicate dance they had created—Anthony in her arms because he refused to release his grip.
"Hullo, Jack!" she called as she drew nearer. "I see you've misplaced your hat again."
"I see you've grown another appendage," he countered. "Ant, please release Miss Fisher."
"No."
Ant's arms tightened around her neck.
"He's fine, Jack," she assured him, close enough that she could kiss him briefly in greeting. "I was just telling him that I flew to the moon last night."
Jack gave her a doubtful look. "I think all those children's stories have gone to your head, love."
Rolling her eyes, she shifted Anthony into a more comfortable position. "Oh, believe me, I find them as insipid as I always have. But since 'I just discovered that your only living family, well, isn't' is a little above his head, a bit of whimsy seemed more appropriate."
"I'm sorry," Jack said, certain she would be frustrated. To his surprise, she merely shrugged.
"I've done my job. It's not the ideal outcome, but now we wait for my solicitor to get back to me about the potential family in England and go from there."
Jack gave her a small smile, his mind still grappling with his sudden insights, and wondered how much longer he could last without giving the game away. Not, he feared, long enough.
"I'll fetch the picnic basket," he said. "I have a feeling that I'll be driving us back, unless you can convince young Anthony there to release you."
Given how tightly the boy clung to her, he doubted very much that she would dislodge him any time soon. It would make the drive home easier, at least, though how Phryne intended to get the plane back in the hangar was less certain.
—
The next day, Dot seemed overly distracted and contemplative. They had gone to interview a man about one of their cases, and on the way home had stopped the Hispano in a quiet spot near the foreshore. Dot left to purchase fish and chips and returned, her nose scrunching up at the smell of the vinegar. In her absence, Phryne had laid out a spare blanket and they sat, looking out to the water.
"Is there something you wanted to speak with me about?" Phryne asked gently, suspecting that the newest addition to the Collins family was on the way.
Dot opened her mouth, then shook her head.
"Nothing, miss."
"Alright, but you do know that you can speak to me about anything? Even if it is a matter you think is not of interest," Phryne said, leaning in to nudge Dot's shoulder gently as she took another chip. "You are my friend, Dot, and I want to hear about your life."
To her surprise, Dot leapt off of the blanket and began to walk down to the water. The younger woman was clearly upset, and Phryne was uncertain what she had done. When she showed no signs of stopping as she approached the water, kicking off her shoes and paying no heed to her stockings, Phryne sprung up to follow her.
"Dot!" she called, hurrying across the sand.
Her friend turned, and Phryne realised there were tears in her eyes. She tried vainly to smile through it, but Phryne kicked off her own shoes and followed her into the water.
"Dot? What's wrong?"
Dot shook her head, wiping furiously at the tears that had escaped, and turned back to look to the horizon.
"I… it's nothing."
"It's certainly not nothing, if it's upset you this much," Phryne pointed out.
"I was…there was…"
"A baby?"
Dot nodded mutely, and Phryne realised what had happened.
"And now there's not," she concluded. "Oh, Dot, darling."
She reached out, and Dot shied away from her touch. Phryne pulled back.
"Come back to the blanket," she said. "You don't need to talk about it, but I will listen. For as long as you need."
And at that, Dot began to sob. Ankle deep in the sea and unsure what to say, Phryne let her friend cry on her shoulder until she was spent. Then Dot pulled away and gave her a small smile.
"I'm sorry. I'm being silly."
"Never apologise for your feelings, Dot," Phryne said, leaving the water and grabbing both pairs of shoes before moving back towards the blanket.
Dot followed Phryne silently, taking a seat beside her and sighing.
"How are you?" Phryne asked. "If you're not up for working… you can take as long as you need."
"No, miss. Working helps. Keeps me busy."
Well, Phryne couldn't fault her for that method.
"If that changes though, you know—"
"I know," Dot said, and they lapsed into silence again. Eventually Dot reached up and removed her hat, tossing it between them and closing her eyes. "It's just—Nell says I've got two already and mum says I can try again and I'm pretty sure Hugh's mother would say it's because I'm Catholic—"
"And that's utter rot, Dot, all of it," Phryne cut in. "To put it quite bluntly, it can and does happen no matter how many children you have or which church you attend or whether you are a deserving mother. There is no 'deserving' when it comes to this, and your family can go jump off a pier if they tell you otherwise."
Dot snorted softly.
"I don't think Father O'Leary would like to hear you say that."
"Well then, Father O'Leary can jump off a pier too."
Dot gave her a look that was both scandalised and amused.
"I'll drive him to the water myself if he says a word against you," Phryne offered, and Dot snorted again.
"I might just help you if he does."
"That's the spirit," Phryne said. "But, I really am sorry. I'm sure you had dreams, and those are not so easily transferred or forgotten."
Dot sniffed, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
"Why is it, miss, that you're the first person who has understood?" she asked quietly. Then, placing her hat back on her head, she gave herself a shake and stood. "We should head home before my mum brings the children back."
So, funny story. That "I'll do it in thirty-six." line of Phryne's? There was no way to know when I wrote it that the incredible fanbase of this show would raise $250,000 via Kickstarter in that exact amount of time. Amazing. It's not over yet-the more funds Every Cloud can raise, the bigger and better the movie can be. So if you have the ability and the inclination, please donate.
