Miss Fisher was currently enthralled in a book of a very different kind.

'18, syd, Vrd, 7m, Srno, mrt. It was still looking like nonsense, but it was beginning to gain some resemblance of sense.

"So, if the 18th is the date and syd indicated that the church lies on Sydney road, Vrd must stand for..."

"Verdi," said Stefano, sitting beside at the dining table, a cup of tea in front of him. "He must have given the order, I presume."

Miss Fisher rolled her eyes at him.

"Had I known all the relevant information at the beginning of this case, it may have been very helpful in protecting your sweetheart."

"Concetta is not my sweetheart," he said, a touch too quickly. "She's..."

"An old friend?" Phryne asked with a knowing smile. He looked at her, then a thin smile crept onto his own lips.

"You are a very clever woman, Miss Fisher."

Phryne returned her attention to the booklet.

"You think the 7m could be the amount of men they will need for the job?" she asked. Alessandro shrugged.

"Sadly I have not an inkling what Marco's shorthand means. I probably should've asked him for clarification." He smiled thinly, not hiding the tears starting to fill his eyes again. Telling him of his brother's death had been a thoroughly unpleasant experience. As it turned out, informing family of their loved one's demise was also not Miss Fisher's favourite pastime. Who knew?

She let the book sink.

"Why do you think Verdi ordered your brother's death?" she asked quietly.

Alessandro stared out the window.

"I fear he was just a pawn on the chess field," he explained quietly. "Marco had no loyalty for either of the leaders. He just went where the money was."

"But you did not?"

"Verdi always considered me Strano's puppet. If he was killed by my hands, it would have been the ultimate victory."

"What if there was another reason?" Phryne asked before he could entirely sink into depression. "Look here."

"7, dks, Srno, 3m, Lsa, shpmt," Alessandro read obediently.

"That's today," Phryne said, having a hard time to hide her excitement. "It seems your brother had another job lined up."

Alessandro seemed to have visible difficulty to set aside his blues for a spell of sleuthing, but he did lean in closer to look at the pages. He wasn't wearing any aftershave today, likely due to his hasty disappearance and Phryne noted she rather enjoyed his natural scent and the way his arm brushed against hers.

"If we assume that Marco followed some pattern with his notes, we should be able to decipher this one," she pointed out, draining her own cup.
"My brother was many things, but messy was not one of them," Alessandro said, still staring down at the page. "If Vrd stands for Verdi, let's presume that this job was ordered by Strano," he said after a pause.

"So Verdi may have wanted to stop them?" Phryne asked. "What better way to meddle than kill one of the men in charge?"

Alessandro's face darkened further, but he stubbornly continued to stare at the annoying code in his brother's curly hand.

"7, dks, Strano, 3 men, Lsa, shpmt," he read aloud.

Phryne looked up at him. "Say that again."

"Shpmt?" he asked.

"Shipment!" she said. "Dks… the docks." She jumped to her feet, her red lips in a broad smile. "Come along, we know where!"

Alessandro looked at her sceptically.

"What are we searching for?" he asked. She grinned.

"We'll know once we find it."

X

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end:

Oh churl! Drunk all and left no friendly drop

to help me after? I will kiss thy lips;

Jack let the book sink into his lap. Those silly children. Dying for love. No matter how often he read the play, he always returned to the same conclusion. Maybe one had to see as much death as he had for it to lose its romantic charms, but he couldn't understand its appeal. It seemed such a pointless exercise. Nevertheless he read on, ignoring the thoughts fluttering underneath the cover of his conscience about his own willingness to die for Concetta. For Phryne. Just as the dagger found its unfortunate sheath, an entirely different thought flashed through his mind. He had to stop reading in order to chase it. It had been important.

The Inspector jumped up, both the rest of his meal and his reading material forgotten, and stormed down the hall past a confused looking Constable, who just exiting the interview room with an untouched cup of tea. Mr Geoffrey didn't bother to look up when he entered and Jack remembered why he was so annoyed with the man. Nevertheless he sat down, folding his hands on the table.

"Will you tell me one thing, Mr Geoffrey?"

There was no answer, just a sort of deafening silence.

"Why are you hiding away your feelings?"

A twitch above the eyebrow. That was all.

"Mrs Geoffrey just confessed the murder of her husband," the Inspector continued conversationally. "If she is convicted she might hang."

"That stupid, stupid woman!" the man whispered under his breath.

"So, why don't you tell me what you know?" Jack prompted. There was a pause.

"I poisoned my brother," Geoffrey said.

"I see," Jack said, smiling grimly to himself. "And how did you do it?"

Geoffrey raked his fingers through his hair, disheveling himself.

"I visited Jonathan on Sunday afternoon. We fought, once again about his drugs and how he treated Maria. I was so angry that I took some rat-poison from the kitchen cabinet and I put it in his afternoon tea. Then I waited until he died. He went quickly, in the end."

Jack nodded slowly.

"And the knife?"
"I plunged it into his heart once he stopped moving, just to make certain."

The Inspector considered this for a long moment.

"You are telling me lies."

"I am not," the man said between gritted teeth.

Jack smiled. Dying for love. It hadn't come entirely out of fashion. But it was also still a pointless exercise.

"I'll tell you what I believe, Mr Geoffrey," he said casually. "You did visit your brother on Sunday afternoon. I even believe Mrs Geoffrey had left so see her mother. And you found your brother dead."

Malcolm kept his lips shut, sweat glittering on his forehead.

"You noticed the signs of poisoning and you drew a dire conclusion: Maria Geoffrey'd had finally enough. She had murdered her husband. But you couldn't see her hang. So, you did the only thing you could think of: you grabbed a kitchen knife and plunged it into his chest, hoping that it would distract the police from the real reason he died."

Geoffrey said nothing. He didn't have to, his eyes said enough. Jack leaned back, readying himself for the final stretch of this exhausting conversation.

"Mrs Geoffrey didn't murder her husband," he said calmly. "She gave me a false confession because she assumed that you had done it."

"Me?" Malcolm exclaimed before he could stop himself.

"You," the Inspector smiled. "And she was willing to go to the gallows to protect you."

The man closed his mouth, looking both stunned and confused.

"You are free to go," Jack said. Mechanically Malcolm Geoffrey rose and headed for the door, deep in thought.

"One more thing, Mr Geoffrey," the Inspector called after him. The man turned. "Please tell her before it is too late."

Malcolm nodded as if in trance. Then he was gone and Jack folded his hands on the table. He felt equal amounts of relief and emptiness. Two people were cleared, leaving him with no suspects whatsoever. He'd have to start all over again.