Chapter Ten
Martin Baker's house was a little further up Riverine St, and set back from the road. Opening the gate, Phryne strode up to the front door and rang the bell firmly. When it opened, she had to blink, then smiled.
She said to Jack later, "Can you imagine a female version of Mr Butler? I mean, with more hair, obviously. But the same height, the same face, and that same indefinable air of being able to do absolutely anything at the slightest notice? I almost wondered if she had been in Military Intelligence."
He raised an eyebrow. "Phryne, it wasn't until I met Mr Butler that I realised the phrase mightn't be an oxymoron."
Invited into the parlour to wait, she spent time wandering the room, trying to pick up a flavour of Martin Baker, property developer. There were remarkably lean pickings.
Photos of family: zero.
Art works demonstrating unique taste: also zero. She decided he had quite possibly bought his paintings by the square inch.
Ah, books. She ran a finger along the shelf, which looked beautiful.
And decided he was buying books by the yard as well. It wasn't that the titles weren't interesting, but putting the life of Lord Kitchener next to an early Jane Austen didn't precisely scream literary passion.
She heard footsteps behind her but decided she was happy to be caught examining the publicity in more detail.
"Mrs Robinson? Or is it Miss Fisher?" The deep voice behind her was already claiming moral high ground.
Without pausing for breath, she replaced him where he belonged.
"Very much Miss Fisher, Mr Baker, given that this is a murder investigation," A quick, efficient smile. "And to get the boring part out of the way, could you just clarify your movements from about 10pm onwards on Friday, and anyone you were in contact with between then and 10am yesterday?"
His glance was pure disbelief.
"Miss Fisher, I think I need to check that you're talking about the period in which my brother died. My only brother. Is it now the fashion in Melbourne to goad the bereaved?"
She afforded him a gentle, understanding glance, which belied the pure steel beneath it.
"No, Mr Baker. I'm talking about the time in which the death of your brother was finally engineered. He almost certainly died rather later. I do hope you understand that anything you can tell me about what you did then can only help catch his killer?"
The victim retired wounded, but rallied. "In that case, Miss Fisher, I can only say that I was here, with my brother, until late in the evening. He was singing. He does that."
He turned his head directly towards her.
"He does – did – it rather well, if truth be told."
She'd come to interrogate a fellow member of the human race but at the moment, she might as well have been chatting up granite.
"How do you mean?" she essayed carefully.
His gaze was now directed to the floor.
"Davy was a bard, Miss Fisher, in the old style. He'd tell stories in song. It sounds mad to say it, but he couldn't not tell a tale. It was in his blood. If something big happened – a birth, an anniversary, a death, whatever – you'd find Davy, in whoever's house he was in that night, singing about it."
Phryne nodded understandingly.
"Which side of the family did his talent come from, do you think? Was it his father?"
She could have snapped her fingers to have elicited such an instant response.
"I've no idea, Miss Fisher. Now, if you have the answers you need, perhaps you'll excuse me?"
He didn't wait to be excused.