Chapter Five

"I know it's tough for a baby to survive the early months," began Mac as they settled around her, drinks in hand. "Heaven knows I do. The number of babies we lose in the first three months is depressing. But the first one was nearly seven months old, and when I examined him post mortem, I couldn't find any sign at all of the cause; it was as though the heart had just decided to stop beating."

She sipped her whisky and continued. "What got me worried was the fact that I had two more deaths, of the same kind, within the space of two weeks. Three babies, all past the higher-risk period, all of whose hearts simply stopped."

"Any common factors in the family backgrounds?" asked Phryne. "Disease, poverty?"

Mac shook her head. "On the contrary, these were all nice, middle-class families. No, it's not that." She drained her glass and stood. "I don't know what it could be, but it can't just be coincidence. I know you'll be spending all the hours looking for Hugh, but if you can spare just a little time to speak to the families, Phryne, I'd be grateful."

Phryne looked at Jack, who nodded. "You should, Phryne – you'd do it better than me, and we don't know that there's a case to answer yet. Come to City South when you've finished and I'll let you know what progress we've made. There may have been some responses to the broadcast by then."

"Very well," she agreed. Then said, in a low voice, "Say nothing to Dot, Jack. She's got enough to contend with."

So it was that Phryne was at the door of a small house in Richmond the following morning. Just as Mac had said, the garden, though tiny, was well-kept, and the windows shone. Whatever this child had died of, neglect seemed an unlikely cause.

The door was opened by a thin, sallow-faced woman in an apron over a black dress that, though neat, was not smart, and was already showing the signs of continuous wear.

"I'm sorry," said Phryne automatically. The woman showed no reaction as she stumbled into the rest of her explanation. "My name's Phryne Fisher. It's about your little boy. I was asked to come and see if I could help … I'm sorry," she repeated, finding herself unusually at a loss. "Is it … Mrs Morland?"

"It is," said the woman. "And you can't." She made to close the door.

"Please," Phryne raised her voice a little as the door was closing. "There have been other children … other babies …"

The door closed.

Well done, Phryne. Tact And Diplomacy, Kindergarten Standard, Outright Fail.

She looked at the door, hunched her shoulders and turned to walk back to the gate.

"Wait."

Behind her, the door had opened again, and Mrs Morland stood looking round it.

"What other babies?"

Phryne walked back up the path and stood, regarding the other woman cautiously.

"May I come in?"

A moment's hesitation, and the door was opened fractionally wider; Detective Inspector Robinson would scarcely have recognised the humility embodied in the person passing through it.

Tea was produced, in the Good China; no biscuits were available, but the heel of the loaf had been sliced to a translucency reminiscent of a certain cocktail dress that had yet to be worn, and scraped with enough butter to pass muster. Phryne took both, politely, and declined both milk and (precious) sugar.

Dignity was a luxury she recognised and treasured as jealously in others as in herself.

"What other babies?" repeated Mrs Morland. She had not taken any bread, but drank the tea as though it was nectar.

"There have been two other children of about your son's age," said Phryne gently. "I am a private detective – " at which Mrs Morland frowned and moved to place her cup down, but held on to it at Phryne's calming gesture, "and a personal friend of the coroner, who is concerned about what might be a trend, but has nothing tangible to report to the police. She asked if I might make some … preliminary investigations … to see if there is a pattern that can be explored."

Again, the mention of the police had Mrs Morland tensing up.

"I don't know what you think I can tell you," she said tersely. "My boy died. We don't know why."

"Did he die here, at home, Mrs Morland?" asked Phryne.

"Here, in his bed. He'd only just got off to sleep at last."

"He wasn't a good sleeper?"

"Oh, he was fine at first. An angel. So good, straight to sleep straight after a feed. But then he was teething, and it made it hard for the poor lamb." Mrs Morland's handkerchief was in her hand, but the motion was reflexive; she was reliving a story that had been told countless times to the kitchen wall and the tears were over. "I gave him some of the gripe water and it got him off eventually. Then when I went to check on him …" she swallowed, and stood to go and look out of the window.

"So … he'd had a feed?" asked Phryne, mind casting frantically for what she knew of food poisoning. Surely Mac would have spotted that?

"Yes," replied Mrs Morland distantly. "Just me, I gave him a feed myself. He nipped me with one of his new teeth, and I told him off."

The wall hadn't heard that one, and the tears started.

"So … there was only your own milk that he'd had."

"And the gripe water, yes, I suppose."

Phryne had a feeling of grasping at straws. "Do you still have the bottle of gripe water? I could get it tested, to see if there was something in it there shouldn't be."

"I don't know," she said dully. "I threw it in the bin."

Miss Fisher had the bit between her teeth, though – she was not going to exit this encounter empty-handed. Even the hint of a fight would make a difference to this bereaved mother, she guessed.

"Let's find it."

The job was messy, and a pair of fairly decent kid gloves were not going to be seeing the light of day again, but the bottle was found and tucked into Miss Fisher's capacious coat pocket.

The gloves discarded, she took Mrs Morland's hand in both of her own.

"Thank you. And I'm sorry."

"Do you have children?" The question was baldly asked, but Phryne's wedding ring had been revealed when the gloves came off.

"Yes. An adopted teenager – and a baby daughter."

Two pairs of hands clasped, and understanding exchanged.

It was an unusually thoughtful Miss Fisher who entered City South a little later. With no Constable Collins to greet at the barrier, she wandered through to the Inspector's office, and sat, uninvited in the chair opposite his desk.

He looked up at her, and opened his mouth to speak, even as a voice was raised in the outer office.

"Where's Robinson? I heard him on the radio. I reckon I know who's got Mr Collins!"