Axiom Tilt Chapter 8

"So, what happened?" Rosie was sitting across from Jack in her mother's kitchen as he ate some of her reheated pumpkin soup. It had been years since he had such a treat. He absently wondered if Rosie might be willing to give Mr. Butler the recipe—an absent thought that turned into a sharp pain. It might not matter, he thought sadly as he swallowed his favorite soup.

He cleared his throat, "I'm not even sure," he confessed, "I think there's something wrong with Phry… with Miss Fisher." He had trouble meeting her eyes.

"Phryne will do, Jack," she said gently with just a hint of sadness, "I know you are living together." She smiled lightly at him as the concern creased his brow. "It's fine, Jack. I'm happy for you both."

"I shouldn't have come," he said simply.

"I'd rather you come to me than sleep in the station… again," she smiled sadly, "Besides, we're friends. Aren't we, Jack? After you were there for me through the… well… with Father and…"

"Of course, we're friends, Rosie," he said gently. It had been a difficult time with both her father's trial and conviction, to say nothing of Sidney Fletcher's. She mostly avoided anything to do with Sidney. But she had to be there for her mother, and of course, for George. Ellen Sanderson had been away in Adelaide during the Lavinia ugliness, but she felt the full weight of George's rightful arrest.

Being there for Rosie was part of the reason for his delay in going after Phryne. Of course, he was her friend.

"You were there for me," she said firmly, "I'm here for you. It's in the ex-spouse rules and regulations."

He chuckled, "Is it?"

"Probably not," she smiled in return, "But it should be."

He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement but stared blankly at the soup. She studied him as he collected his thoughts.

"Miss Fi…Phryne," he corrected himself, "thinks that I don't trust her. And… maybe she's right." He set down his spoon and pinched his brow.

"Nonsense," Rosie weighed in, "As much as it pained me to see at first, you two are perfect together. And I've never seen you trust anyone more."

"Perhaps that's still not enough," he said gloomily.

She watched him for a minute more. The fight that had come back to him when she first saw him working with Phryne Fisher seemed to down for the count.

"What are the charges against you?" she asked.

He looked up at the question and smiled. He still felt this was dangerous ground, but it felt nice to talk to someone who understood him as well as Rosie. "Well, uh… keeping things from her. Not sharing how I feel. Removing her from an investigation without cause."

Rosie put her hands on the kitchen table and pushed herself back, smirking at him with a side glare and laughed shaking her head.

"It's not funny, Rosie."

She continued to laugh, "I don't know about the last charge, but I can testify for the prosecution that the first two are serial offenses."

He grimaced at her as she continued to laugh. "This isn't really helping, Rosie," he whined. She couldn't stop giggling. It was infectious. A smile started to crack through his dour veneer.

"I'm sorry, Jack… but she's not wrong," she stilled her laughter down to a fond smile.

"How did you endure me?" his face showed a smile, but Rosie could see the sadness in his eyes.

She sighed and reached her hand across the table to cover his, "Stop," she ordered softly, "you carry the world. You were—and still are—a good, kind, wonderful man. Your serial offense of guarded emotions was a factor in us drifting apart, but it wasn't everything."

The look he gave her was one of deep regret, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Rosie squeezed his hand, "I love you, Jack. I'll always love you. But I stopped being in love with you a long time ago. Who we were and who we are now are so very different. I'm happy we had the time together that we did, but we would have been miserable if we stayed together."

He gave her a close-lipped smile. He felt the same way. He'd always love Rosie, but knowing now what truly falling in love with someone felt like—he'd have to admit that his love for her was never as deep as the love he felt for Phryne now. Rosie was beautiful and intelligent, but his love for her always was tinged with duty before desire.

"I've met someone, Jack."

Her tone was guardedly optimistic. He knew from other conversations that she wasn't really looking for a new love. Sidney had hurt her badly with his betrayal.

"That's wonderful, Rosie," he said genuinely happy for this woman he used to share (or failed to share, he reminded himself) his life with.

"Lyle is a little less taciturn than you," she smiled, "but he's good and honorable man. More similar to you than to Sidney."

"Hopefully with a bit more ambition," he returned with a wink.

She rolled her eyes, "you have plenty of ambition. It just didn't match mine."

He sighed heavily, pulling his hand away from hers and casting his eyes down, "I'm not sure it matches anyone's."

"She loves you," Rosie said after a long moment of studying his sadness, "Really loves you for you… But, are you really being you right now? You seem to have given up, and that's not the Jack she fell in love with."

Jack glanced back at Rosie. He cleared his throat as he looked away again, "Yes… well. Thank you… for… thank you for everything, Rosie."

She could tell he'd heard her, but it was time to let it drop before he threw the walls into place again.

"It's late," she gestured to the bowl, "Are you finished?"

He nodded slightly and she stood, picked up the bowl and then took it to the sink.

"Get some rest, Jack," she squeezed his shoulder as she passed him leaving the room.

He wasn't completely convinced, but Rosie's words were a comfort. He gathered his strength and moved upstairs to the guest room.

Mac rang the doorbell at Wardlow. It was later than she usually dropped by, but she was worried about Phryne and she could tell the downstairs lights were on.

She stood just outside the door waiting for sometime. She tried knocking. Nothing. Odd. Usually Mr. Butler was here to answer the door. It was late but it wasn't that late.

She knocked again.

"Phryne!" she called through the door as she knocked a third time. "Phryne! Open the door, it's Mac!"

Mac thought she saw movement through the painted glass sidelites.

"Phryne," she knocked again. "Phryne, open up."

Maybe she'd imagined it, the movement behind the glass. As she turned to leave she heard the door open a crack.

"Dr. MacMillan?" a timid voice behind the door said softly.

"Nurse Isaacs!" Mac's eyes widened in surprise, "What are you doing here?"

Rebecca cast her eyes downward, "Miss Fisher insisted I stay. Someone broke into my room at the boarding house and… well… she felt it wasn't safe for me to stay there."

Mac nodded, "Of course. I didn't realize," she said carefully, "I'm sorry. Is she… is Miss Fisher here?"

Rebecca shook her head, "No, Dr. McMillan… she was here for a while but she left an hour or so ago."

"Where did she go? I… I heard that she's not well," Mac furrowed her brow in concern.

"I don't know, Dr. McMillan. She and… the policeman… they had a fight. He said some terrible things to her and then he left. Miss Fisher threw on her glad rags and… well, she left too." Rebecca reported nervously.

Mac nodded at her. She found it hard to believe Jack had said anything terrible, but that might explain his resigned tone on the telephone. Phryne heading out to dance her pain away sounded plausible.

"Where is Mr. Butler?" Mac asked the young woman.

"I don't know. I think he might have gone out?"

Mac tried to remember which night Mr. Butler had his weekly outing, but she couldn't be sure.

"If you see her, tell her I need to speak to her," Mac requested.

"Of course, Dr. McMillan."

"Good night, Nurse Isaacs," Mac lifted her hat to the young woman in farewell and turned on her heel.

"Good night, Dr. McMillan."

Mac wasn't sure whether she should search out Phryne at the usual haunts or just head home. It had been a long day, but there was something clearly not right. And what Nurse Isaacs said about Jack grated on her. That wasn't him.

She steered her boxy little Baby Austin toward the most likely haunt, The Green Mill.

Things were already hopping by the time she walked through the door of the packed club. She scanned the room, looking for the familiar black bob, but her initial check was less than thorough. The room was dark and smoky. An austral interpretation of Duke Ellington's hit "Creole Love Call" was being attempted with minor success. The crowds didn't seem to mind that the pianist lacked Ellington's finesse and the singer failed to capture Hall's soulful wail. They were all too happy just to grind closely together with the languid tune.

Mac made her way to the bar.

"Whaddya have, Doc?" the balding barman looked expectantly at Mac.

"Hallo, Doug," she greeted the familiar man with a smirk, "the usual."

Doug nodded with a smile, pulling a short glass from his stack. "Whiskey neat it is, Doc."

"Has she been in tonight?" Mac asked, knowing that Doug would know exactly which "she" Mac meant. Mac only ever came here with Phryne.

"Na, I don't think so," Doug wrinkled his head in thought, "I reckon I ain't seen her here in a week or so… We're crowded tonight. You could check the back."

Mac lifted her glass to him in, "Ta," and pushed away from the bar.

Mac sipped on her drink as she wove through the crowd, searching for her friend. She checked the back room where the illicit games were being conducted. It wasn't really Phryne's scene, but Mac had to check.

She's not here, Mac finally decided. She made her way back to the bar.

"Another?" Doug asked amicably.

"Na, I need to get moving," Mac knocked back the rest of her whiskey and set the glass and money on the bar, "If she comes in, tell her to find me at my office."

Doug nodded in acknowledgment as he turned to another patron, "Whaddya have?" he asked the slick young man next in line.

Mac climbed back into her Baby Austin and headed out to check the Rockery Club next. Same result.

She could be anywhere, of course, but Green Mill and Rockery seemed like the most likely.

Mac decided she'd best go to her office at the Women's Hospital. She'd brought Phryne's sample there earlier. The rabbit needed more time, but she could still test what was left of the sample. If what Jack was saying was true, there may be some clues to be found.

She'd read about a new series of tests that could be done on urine. It wasn't accepted science yet, but it was promising and might provide some answers.

She looked at her watch. It had just passed midnight. This was a bit of a long shot but she had to try something.

Rebecca shut the door behind her as Dr. McMillan walked away from Wardlow. She shook her head lightly and continued on her way to the kitchen. She'd been interrupted on her way there by the doctor's insistent knocking.

Mr. Butler had kindly shown her around the house, instructing her on where she could find all she needed, before he'd left for the evening.

She put the kettle on the hob and sat at the kitchen table with her book, waiting for the kettle to boil. She loved to read from her book. Such wonderful ideas she could get from it.

The kettle was gurgling.

Rebecca pushed her book aside as she stood. She walked over to where Mr. Butler had shown her the tea pots were kept and pulled down a pretty ceramic pot with green and gold art deco motif. Miss Fisher does have such lovely taste.

She walked over to the bag she'd left on the counter earlier when she'd gone to get her book… before Dr. McMillan stopped by.

Dr. McMillan is such a lovely woman. So very kind to me.

She pulled out the tea leaves and measured out a couple of scoopfuls into the basket. She pulled out the vial—the last of it; I need to make some more—and dumped the remaining white powder into the pot as well. The darker vial still had plenty and would last awhile. Almost done anyway.

The kettle began to whistle.

Rebecca brought the pot over to the counter next to the hob and carefully poured the boiling water over the leaves. I wonder if she'd like some biscuits. She didn't eat much.

While the tea was steeping, Rebecca searched through the cupboards for some biscuits. She found the biscuit jar, but was disappointed to see it contained only Monte Carlos. Good enough. She shrugged as she reached for a half dozen or so cream biscuits and put them on a small plate on the tea tray.

A glance at her watch told her that the brewing was done, so she carefully removed the leaf basket from the tea pot. She placed the tea pot and a lovely china cup next to the plate of biscuits, and then carefully picked up the laden tea tray and made her way through the house and up the stairs.

Luckily, she'd left the bedroom door open as her hands were now full. She'd made that mistake once already, such a hassle.

She set the tray down on the vanity bench and turned to look at the figure on the bed. At first, she thought she'd used too much… that's never happened before… I'm too careful, but a search of Miss Fisher's handbag revealed sinus headache medicine containing cocaine. Can't let that happen again. I need to keep a closer eye.

She sat down on the bed, reaching her hand out to stroke the ebony hair of the unconscious woman lying there. Such a pity. She's like a work of art. Hopefully, she'll last long enough to play her part.

Rebecca moved her hand to Phryne's shoulder and shook lightly, "Miss Fisher?" She shook her again, "Miss Fisher?"

"Jack?" a very groggy Phryne mumbled into the pillow.

Rebecca rolled her eyes, another issue I'll have to deal with. "No, Miss Fisher. It's Rebecca… Rebecca Isaacs."

Phryne tried opening her eyes. The first attempt raised her eyebrows, but her lashes seemed to be glued together. She alternated between closing her eyes tighter and trying to open them to break the seal. Finally, she saw blurry light, but it was progress. She blinked rapidly trying to clear away the haze.

"Rebecca?" She said with an airy, sleepy voice, "what are you doing in my room?"

"I… I'm sorry to intrude, Miss Fisher," she affected the frightened-young-woman voice, "I… was worried. You were in such a state."

"I was in such… where's Jack?" her voice was sounding more alert, but still husky with sleep.

"Don't you remember, Miss?"

"Don't I remember what, Rebecca?"

"You and your… um… friend. You had a terrible fight. He said he didn't trust you. He said he didn't care… and then he left," Rebecca reported. Omitting most of the salient facts, most especially that while he may have said those words, they were said with indignant disbelief.

"Left?" Phryne was still fuzzy headed. "Where did he go?"

"I don't know, Miss Fisher," Rebecca answered truthfully for once, "But he called you some awful things before he went."

"Awful… I don't understand," Phryne shook her head in the vain attempt to get the cobwebs out, "That doesn't sound like Jack."

"I haven't heard those words since…" Rebecca trailed off and looked down, "Well, since Brian."

Phryne put her head in her hands. What happened? There were snippets of memory. Mostly senses. There were images of an angry Jack. A man with a gun. A scared brunette woman. Jack raising his voice. He doesn't trust me. Tears began to well up.

Rebecca turned toward the vanity bench and poured a cup of tea.

"I made you some tea… chamomile blended with lavender. It should help you sleep," Rebecca handed Phryne the cup.

"Thank you, Rebecca," she said as she took a sip. "You don't know how comforting it is to have you here."

"Thank you, Miss Fisher," Rebecca said quietly, "I don't think I could do this without you."