Chapter Six

Lunch was delicious, and both the Robinson women were on excellent form. While they ate, Jack explained to them his concerns about Dawlish's behaviour, and Phryne's eyes lit up.

"So you're going to go to the house?"

He nodded. "I'm going to ask to look through Tombs' effects, for any hints as to the person he was meeting last night."

"Oh, Jack, you have to let me come along!" exclaimed Phryne.

"Me too, Daddy!" piped up the tot. Her mother regarded her fondly – Elizabeth always loved a party.

"This isn't precisely a party, poppet," she explained with a smile. "I suspect it might be tricky for Daddy to explain why he brought his daughter along on an investigation."

"But you're going, Mumma!" was the response.

"She really isn't, Elizabeth," her father demurred hastily; then looked around in surprise that Mrs R hadn't argued.

Mrs R, however, had most definitely reverted to Miss F mode. Elbows most reprehensibly propped on the table in solid defiance of the maxim that All Joints On the Table Will Be Carved, she had steepled her fingers before her lips in thought, eyes alight.

"Actually, perhaps you're right," she mused. His relief was momentary. He realised almost immediately that he was never right unless he agreed with Miss Fisher.

"I think I know a better way to go about it. I'm going to go and see Dot."

She sprang from her seat, and planted a firm kiss on the top of Elizabeth's head. "You'd better stay here this time, darling, but I promise to tell you all about it."

Mollified, Elizabeth slid from her seat and wandered into the kitchen to see if Mr Butler had any lollies that he didn't need.

"Phryne, what are you up to?" asked Jack suspiciously.

"Helping, Jack. Just helping," she assured him. "Can you get back to the station by yourself? I'm going to need the car."

He sighed and said he would telephone for someone to collect him, and as soon as she'd left, went to pick up the receiver.

"Collins. I need you to come over to St Kilda, and then we're going straight to Prahran."

With any luck, they'd get there before Miss Fisher started 'helping'.

There was certainly no sign of the Hispano when they arrived at Dawlish's address and rang the bell. Dawlish himself answered, and expressed surprise at the identity of his guests. If there was any disquiet, he certainly hid it well; but Jack, glancing over as he crossed the threshold, saw locks still worn with age, and so one question was answered and his suspicions found slightly firmer ground.

No hint of his thoughts was offered in his words, though. Explaining to Dawlish that they hoped there might be some record in the house of Tombs' meeting, they were shown into a study crowded with quaint objets d'art and very little sign of documentation.

"Is there perhaps any correspondence for Mr Tombs?" enquired Jack.

"Oh! Letters, and that sort of thing?" asked Dawlish vaguely. "I suppose … let me see …"

He started aimlessly opening drawers, while Jack and Hugh watched patiently. The process was interrupted, though, when the doorbell was heard to ring again and their host went to answer it.

Jack's heart sank. Surely not so soon? But the gushing tones from the front hall were unmistakeable. Dawlish had left the study door wide open (presumably to monitor any unauthorised police activity while he was called away).

"Hello, thank you so much for seeing us. I'm Miss Fisher, and this is my dear friend and colleague Miss Williams. We represent the Society for the Support of Distressed Gentlemen."

Jack had to cover his mouth, less sure whether he should laugh, cry, or step out into the hall and offer himself to act the role of a Distressed Gentleman.

"I'm sorry," Dawlish was offering a harassed reply. "If it's a subscription, perhaps another time …?"

"Oh, absolutely not!" came the answer. "No, I do hope you won't think it too awful of us. Believe me, we are both terribly sorry for your loss – aren't we, Miss Williams? But we have asked the morgue to keep us in touch with any chances to help our charity, because it really isn't money we need – it's clothes."

Jack and Hugh exchanged incredulous glances – but yes, she really did have that degree of nerve, and had apparently roped in Mrs Collins as well.

"You see, there are so many in need in our city, and we struggle to keep up; and there are those who would plan to send unwanted garments away to the poor of Africa, but I do think Charity Begins At Home, don't you?"

"Why, yes …"

Jack almost had it in him to feel sorry for Dawlish. Had he not himself been wiping tears of silent laughter from his eyes, he might have proffered a handkerchief.

"So, if you feel at all able, might we have a little look to see if there's anything our Distressed Gentlemen might be able to use?"

"Well, I … there are other callers here …" stammered Dawlish.

"Oh, please, we couldn't possibly drag you away from your guests. Please, we'll be as quiet as mice; if you could just show us where things are, we can have a little look – in the most sensitive way, of course! A lot of people, you see, simply can't face looking at a relative's clothing, so our service is really very often a mercy, we find. Is it upstairs? We can find our own way. Please, don't let us disturb you. We'll give you a little call when we leave, just so that you know we're off. Thank you so much. First on the right?"

"Second – second on the right …"

"Thank you so much!"

There was a scuttling of feet on the stairs, and a moment later, Dawlish appeared at the study door.

He was a little dazed, and looked at the two policemen in confusion for a moment. Fortunately, Jack had recovered his composure, although Hugh was still rather pale at the thought of what Mrs Collins might be getting up to.

Had he been able to see her rifling through another man's underwear drawer, he'd have been paler still.