A/N: Hello, hello! And welcome to chapter two. You'll be delighted to know that this story is coming along splendidly and might actually keep to a writing schedule. However, I don't want to make promises I can't keep. I will let you know as much ahead time as I can if that changes, but again no promises.

We continue in good old Christie fashion gathering the characters together before the murder takes place.

Thanks as always to my fabulous beta Old Ping Hai and her continued interest in the hair-brained idea of mine.


Jack had followed her, chasing her across Asia and Europe. He might have burned more than a few bridges in the Air Force, but that service wasn't the only one with access to an aircraft. A friend from his days in the Army had a dirigible. He hired that friend to take him to England, making stops along the way.

Sometimes he'd catch up with Phryne, hip deep in some murder or another, others he would arrive just in time to see her fly off.

By some miracle, he actually beat her to England. He was lounging in her mother's sitting room reading the paper, when she came in all breathless, calling out for her mother, her father close on her heels.

"Jack!" Phryne called out coming to a stop. "How on earth did you get here before we did?" she asked, putting one hand on her hip.

"To be honest, I'm not sure," he said with a smile. "But if it's any consolation, I've only been here a half hour. Perhaps my cab driver was simply faster than you."

Phryne rolled her eyes. "He forced me to take a cab," she said, jutting her thumb at her father.

"I wasn't going to let you drive me after seeing you fly!" the Baron protested.

"Never in my life have I wished more for the capable hands of Bert and Cec," Phryne complained as she flopped into a nearby chair.

"Yes, because having your two Redragger cabbies around would make everything better. For Christ's sake, Phryne, they wouldn't know London's streets any more than you would," Jack countered.

She ignored him and turned to watch as her parents made up. She smiled softly.

Just then the butler, Mr Hunter, came up carrying a small silver tray with a telegram on it. She tore it open and cooed in delight.

"Mac, Dot and Hugh are here! In England!" she cried. Jack was on his feet in a moment and standing behind her to read the message.

"Shall I go and rescue them from the docks, then?" he asked.

"Of course! They must stay here with us!" She turned to Mr Hunter, "Please prepare two more guest rooms."

"Of course, Miss," Mr Hunter said, with a nod.


Mycroft sat at the breakfast table reading his morning paper. Anthea was nearby making a fuss. She would groan dramatically from her chaise or sigh heavily.

"I can hear hear you over there, dear. I just don't know what you want me to do about it," Mycroft muttered without glancing up from his paper.

"I'm bored, Mycroft," Anthea huffed. "I'm in so much pain and it's only been four months."

Mycroft lowered the newspaper to look at her. "I know. Dr Watson is the best doctor in these parts and unless you decide to indulge me and let me send for the best all England has to offer, I don't know what else to do."

"I need decent company," Anthea replied.

"I noticed the caveat of decent company," Mycroft said, putting his paper down. His wife was in a mood and heaven help him if he didn't give the matter the attention it deserved. "Growing tired of the aimless prattle of the delightful Miss Morstan?"

Anthea snorted. "Delightful isn't the word for her. She goes on and on about herself and how clever she is and how much clever than I am she thinks she is." She raised up on the chaise a little, clutching her hands in a choking motion, "If I didn't think I'd hurt the baby, I would have strangled her with my bare hands weeks ago."

Mycroft chuckled and looked longingly over at the newspaper. He was about to turn his attention back to his actually in pain wife when something caught his eye.

"Well, I'll be," Mycroft breathed. "Some full idiot has flown from Australia to England in nothing but a two-seater."

Anthea groaned. "Please don't tell it's that idiot American again."

Mycroft picked up the paper and his eyebrows rose to such heights, they almost reached his hairline.

"No, my dear, I can honestly say it wasn't an American," Mycroft said, turning toward her.

Anthea struggled to get up on her elbow. "Well, then there is only one person in the whole world who would be that reckless."

"Indeed."

They shared a long look and suddenly Anthea burst out laughing. "She didn't!"

"'The Honorable Phryne Fisher arrived in London last Friday in typical Miss Fisher fashion. Flying in on a lovely two-seater, her father, stark white from the ordeal in the other seat'," Mycroft read to Anthea's delight.

"Now that would be proper company," Anthea lamented. "It's too bad we can't get her down here for a spell. She'd frighten off all the vultures."

"Your wish is my command," Mycroft said with a flourish. He rang for his valet.

The tall, older gentleman arrived quickly and quietly.

"Bishop, would you please bring me an up-to-date file on the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher?" Mycroft told him.

"Yes, sir," Bishop replied and slunk off.

"And you accuse me of being dramatic," Anthea said, as she gently lowered herself back onto the chaise.

"Nonsense," Mycroft replied, gathering up the paper once again. "I'm just trying to be thorough. After all, I have to entice the mischievous Miss Fisher to your side. No matter the cost."

Anthea giggled.


A few days later, Bishop had brought him the file and Mycroft sat in his study and perused it at both leisure and length.

It appeared that Phryne was a collector. But instead of collecting information like he did, or like the butcher's wife and her ghastly dolls, it appeared Phryne collected people. She had in the course of a single day picked up a couple of Communist cabbies, a Catholic personal companion and two policemen; one a constable, the other a detective inspector. She then picked up a not-quite orphan named Jane. The girl had a mother, it seemed, but one who was unable to care for her.

Of course there was also the list of Phryne's conquests. A Chinese trader, an Aboriginal actor, a French dancer, and that was just the start of the list. It went on for several pages and almost every single one of them would have scandalized the folk around here. All but one, it seemed. One Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. Her most recent, and apparently most enduring conquest, and nothing at all like the exotics on the list.

Mycroft put the file down and interlaced his fingers, placing the forefingers against his lips. A slow, small smile began to appear as a plan blossomed in his mind.

He pulled out some paper and unscrewed his pen, then he began to write a letter. The letter that would bring Miss Fisher down to Undershaw.


The five of them were sitting in the solarium catching some sun, or as much sun that could be had in London. Hugh definitely needed it. The usually tan, handsome young constable was looking pale and a bit blue around the lips. His dowdy new bride, Dot, sat darning one of Phryne's gloves.

"Really, Dot," Phryne admonished, "You're on your honeymoon, you don't have to do that. My mother has a really good seamstress who can take care of it."

Dot just shrugged. "It keeps my hands busy, Miss."

"If you're sure," Phryne murmured.

Dot nodded and Hugh looked like he was going to say something about it, too, when he saw the withering glare from his new wife. His jaw snapped shut.

"Thank you for the trip, Dr McMillan, it was really lovely of you to pay for us," Dot said in the resulting silence.

"For heaven's sake, call me Mac, everyone else does," Mac said, chewing on her cigar. Everything about her from her hair and clothes to her manner was modeled after the latest men's fashion, but all very professional.

"I'm just grateful to be on land again," Hugh sighed.

"Got a little seasick, did we, eh Collins?" Jack teased.

"It was dreadful, sir!" Hugh agreed.

"It's a good thing I was with them," Mac said. "The onboard physician was a quack." Every line of her form reeked of disdain for her fellow doctor. "He made more noise than the seagulls."

Dot smiled into her stitching but looked up in time to see Phryne wink at her.

Just then the clouds opened up and rain hit ground with a clatter.

"Who would have thought that London would be so dreadfully dull," Phryne complained, waving at the rain, now coming down in sheets.

"I don't know, Miss," Dot said, as she inspected her work. "Hugh and I have found plenty to do since we got here, and Hugh hasn't been feeling well."

Phryne looked at Jack and then away.

Jack chuckled. "You could seek your own amusements or go out with Mac." He smiled into his drink.

"But there are places I want to show you," Phryne grumbled.

Jack's smile grew into a grin. He tried to straighten it when she pouted at him, but the smile refused to stay gone.

Dot and Hugh shared a glance. Before Phryne Fisher came into his life, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson never laughed and rarely smiled. The war had changed him beyond recognition. But now he laughed and always had a smile for her. Even Dot, who had only met Jack after having met Miss Fisher, could see the change that she had worked in him. But then she could see the changes he worked in her, too.

The butler came to up to Phryne with a small silver tray, a letter perfectly centered on its surface.

"Thank you, Mr Hunter," Phryne said, waving him off. "I do so miss Mr Butler." She sighed and turned to her letter.

"Miss!" Dot admonished, watching Mr Hunter for any sign that he had heard the remark, but the butler just left without a word.

"I'm sure he's an ideal butler for my parents, but he lacks Mr B's flare."

Mac snorted. "You mean his ability to take your outlandish behavior in stride."

Phryne cocked her head to the side and shrugged.

"Oh! It's from Mycroft!" she squealed in joy.

Jack sat up and leaned toward her. "Who?"

"I told you about him, Jack. He's the government agent who saved me in France. You remember, don't you?"

He did remember. The thought of him made Jack squirm. "Right," he replied, his tone flat.

Phryne ignored him, reading her letter. "His wife, Anthea, is pregnant and would love some company."

Mac winced in sympathy.

Jack relaxed at the mention of a wife and settled back in his chair, his fingers interlaced on his lap.

"Will you go, Miss?" Dot asked. Her real question was implied, 'Will you go and leave us behind?'

"He's invited you all," Phryne said with a wink.

"Did he say you could bring friends?" Hugh asked.

"As if Mycroft would do something so common," Phryne said with a smirk. "No, he's invited you all by name." She handed Hugh the letter.

He dutifully read it out loud. "...And you are more than welcome to bring those staying with you, the newly wedded Mr and Mrs Hugh Collins, the esteemed Dr Elizabeth McMillan, and of course, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson." He looked up at Phryne in shock.

"How did he know who we were and that we were staying with you?" Jack asked.

"You'd have to meet him to understand," Phryne explained. "So who's all with me?"

Once everyone had agreed, Phryne crowed in delight. "Sussex, here we come!"