Chapter Eight

As ever, Phryne's ill humour didn't last long – within minutes of the light going out, Jack felt a hand creep across his chest, and lifted his arm to gather her in. Their disturbed night saw them rising later than usual, and when they descended for what was left of breakfast, they were met at the foot of the stairs by a uniformed police officer.

"Sergeant Stanford? DI Jack Robinson, Melbourne City South," Jack stuck out his hand. "Good to meet you."

"And you, sir," the man smiled as they shook hands. He was in his fifties, Jack guessed, and leanly built. Stanford turned to Phryne.

"Mrs Robinson?" he guessed. She smiled back, and shook hands too.

"Yes – but professionally, Phryne Fisher, Detective. Good morning, Sergeant, have you had breakfast?" He had, but agreed to have a cup of tea while they ate in a corner of the now almost-deserted dining room.

"I'm glad you're here, Stanford – we've been doing what we can to strike while the iron's hot, but without local knowledge it's hard to know what questions to ask, and of whom," said Jack. "The only suggestion we've got that we're on the right track is that we had a rather disrupted night last night."

"Oh?" Stanford was interested.

"We had an intruder – well, two intruders, only one of whom left," Jack explained. "My knowledge of botany isn't vast, but I'm fairly confident that the funnel web spider isn't a native of Victoria?"

"You'd be right," said Stanford grimly. "You're not telling me you had one in your room?"

Phryne took up the tale. "I was woken by the click as the door closed, then felt the thing crawl on to my hand." She gave an involuntary shudder at the memory.

"We've caught it, and it's in a jar in our room," Jack told him. "But even if the intention wasn't to kill anyone, but just scare us into leaving, it suggests we're right to be suspicious of the way David Baker died."

Stanford noted that the concept of taking the hint the spider was meant to have provided didn't seem to occur to either of them.

"Estelle was telling me you think the boat was sabotaged?" he asked.

Jack nodded. "It's interesting – the hole through to the engine was neatly drilled and varnished to match the rest of the woodwork. If you hadn't been looking for it, you probably wouldn't realise anything was wrong." He inclined his head in query at Stanford. "Can you think of anyone who would have cause to do such a thing?"

He shook his head. "Davy was a popular bloke, Inspector. The three kids are pretty well off – their dad left them the hotel and the boat, but also a few other properties around town, and there's a patch of land to the north as well. But Davy never acted like he was better'n anyone."

"But Estelle and Martin did?" asked Phryne, extrapolating from what hadn't been said.

Stanford pursed his lips. "Not Estelle, not really. She's a hard worker and she knows how she wants to run this place, but that's just business, and she's good at it. Just like her mum was. Martin's a chip off the old block, as ambitious as his dad was. Davy? He was just a gentle soul. Loved the boat, mostly."

He looked at them both.

"If you were to ask me who'd be the one to get himself killed, it would be Martin – not young Davy."

Jack considered. "So, Martin's ambitious. In what direction do his ambitions lie, do you know?"

"Property," replied Stanford succinctly. "The family already has two or three houses, but Martin wants to build that side of things up. They've a plot of land in the north of town, and he wants to put up some more properties on it."

"Oh?" asked Phryne, interested. "And did the others agree, do you think?"

Stanford shrugged.

"Don't see why they wouldn't. Town's growing, so the opportunity's there, plain to see."

Nonetheless, Phryne made a mental note to test that particular theory.

"So, what next, Inspector?" asked Stanford.

Jack grimaced. "There's still the boring legwork to be done – was anyone seen boarding the boat to perform the sabotage, do we know who knew David would be sleeping on it that night? The chloroform must have been administered around midnight or the early hours of the morning, I'd reckon."

Phryne's nose wrinkled delicately. "There's far too much sneaking about in the dead of night goes on in this town for my liking," she remarked. Jack looked at her in faint astonishment – as one who was something of an adept at sneaking about in the dead of night, it was odd that she should take exception to others doing it. Catching his glance, she smirked.

"Why lurk in the shadows when you could be relaxing by the fireside with a nice glass of something Scottish, Jack?"

Her selective memory was, he realised, quite awe-inspiring; and he stored away that particular quote to use in evidence against her at the earliest possible opportunity.

Folding his napkin, he stood, and agreed with Stanford that they would have another shot at talking to Estelle and Martin, while he attempted to come up with some useful witnesses. His lugubrious expression suggested the level of success he expected to achieve, but he politely took his leave of them.

Phryne poured herself another cup of coffee and looked up at him.

"What do you say, Jack – divide and conquer? You take the businesslike Estelle, and I'll grill mercantile Martin?"

Agreeing with Phryne's plan was, he'd found, usually the best approach. It was always the one which would be carried out, after all.