A few words i wanted to get of my chest: I am really glad that you are still hanging around, waiting where all the little threads are going. Thank you. :)
Someone was wondering on the review-page, if I could imagine continuing after a break and the answer is: Of course, I am going to consider that. If I find some inspiration, good ideas and someone who wants to read it, I'd be more than happy to carry on with the Phryniverse. Sadly, inspiration hasn't knocked on my door yet though and therefore I might have to end this tale after this story of rather epic proportion. Maybe this is just the natural point for Jack & Phryne to live happily ever after - or not, we will see. ;)
Chapter 30: Lemon Balm
By the time the train arrived in the Station, Jack Robinson had gotten a grip on himself. So what if the wedding couldn't go ahead as they had intended? Surely they would find someone who would marry them, eventually. He was divorced after all. Even if not to all the world, it seemed. Jack glanced at Phryne, wondering what she made of being rubbed with her nose into the fact, that "in God's eyes" he was still married to Rosie. She had snapped out of her sadness almost immediately, but he knew her too well to believe the happy front she was putting up. She was upset as well.
And the idea of having to explain to his family that he couldn't have his wedding here, was more than humiliating. Presently, Jack wished that he had been able to keep his mouth shut in the morning. But if he was honest, he hadn't anticipated a downright refusal.
"Good morning, Sir."
The happy, eager voice of Hugh Collins ripped him from his thoughts. The Constable had brought a small suitcase and a lot of enthusiasm and Jack remembered, why he had called him here. Because he'd felt that they needed help solving this case that seemed to have nothing but question marks written all over it. And he was starting to wonder, if he himself was too entangled in the circle of suspects, to be as neutral as he needed to be. Of course, there was also the benefit of Mrs. Collins being able to tell her husband about her state in person. In this instance however, she had refused to pick him up from the station, as she seemed to be more comfortable in close proximity to a bathroom and therefore was home at the Lake Villa in the company of Mr. Butler. His inferior officer had noticed the absence of his wife as well.
"Dot is waiting at the Villa for you, she's feeling a little bit under the weather," Miss Fisher smiled, before Hugh had a chance to ask. "Probably a stomach bug," she fibbed happily, taking the Constables arm and leading him to Uncle Walter's car. Jack followed them.
"Have you found any information, Constable?" he asked, after slipping behind the wheel.
"Yes, Sir," Collins fumbled in his pocket for his notebook, almost slapping himself in the face with it when the Inspector hit a small rock. Phryne felt a little sorry for him, but she knew why Jack was in such a hurry to ask. Once they arrived at the Villa, Collins would probably be out of action for some time. So it was their best bet to extract all knowledge from him, before he met Dot.
"Joseph Barton married Miss Abigail Spencer in October last year in Ballarat, she then relocated with him to Hepburn Springs. He is running a winery, which however is currently financially on the rocks, Sir."
"How rocky are we talking, Hugh?"
"It could be closed by the end of the year, Miss Fisher."
The detectives glanced at each other.
"What was Miss Spencer's financial situation like, when she got married?" Inspector Robinson asked. For a moment there was only the sound of leaves being riffled through.
"She brought some money into the marriage, but not sustainable to keep the crisis at bay, Sir. Apparently the biggest part of the Spencer's riches is to be inherited by the victim's older brother James. Now obviously, there is no question anymore to that, Sir. Since they are dead, I mean," Collins added, when he got only silence for an answer.
"So, no motive," Phryne said, almost disappointed.
"I wouldn't say that, Miss. You see, on Monday morning, Mrs. Barton has contacted an insurance company in Sydney and signed a life insurance benefiting her husband in case of her death."
"That conveniently occurred only one day later," Miss Fisher pointed out with a thoughtful smile.
"That's correct, Miss."
"So a strong motive, but no means," the Inspector concluded. "He was in Sydney, when Miss Spencer expired and also when his wife died."
"He couldn't be at two places at once, Sir. There are plenty of witnesses as to him being in New South Wales at the time."
Phryne pondered this. Everything pointed to the husband, but it couldn't be. Was someone trying to frame him and he had been lucky enough to be out of the state at the time? She thought of the cigarette case. Still, quite convenient that Mrs. Barton would choose to take out an insurance just the day before she died, solving all her husband's financial problems.
"About the other people you asked me to find out about, Sir," Collins said. "You were correct, Samuel Cox-Stafford left Melbourne University two weeks ago."
"He did not arrive at Wombat Hall till last Wednesday," Jack stated quietly. "So where has he been in the remaining week?"
Phryne's hand found his knee, rubbing it gently. She knew how he hated the idea of his family being involved in those murders. Even now that it appeared like the victims might be relations to him as well.
"How about Fred?"
"Mr. Simmens-Cox-Stafford has left his business exactly as he has stated on Friday afternoon, announcing that he would travel up to Daylesford with his wife and son. According to his assistant, he has not changed his behaviour lately, Sir. No unusual business trips, no late hours. But... there is something else that strikes me as odd, Sir."
"Out with it, Collins."
"His Assistant, a Mr. MacWinter has noticed that some money went missing from the business accounts. No huge sums, apparently, but enough that he has talked to his employer about the occurrences."
Jack sighed. So another Crossley in the Simmen's business. Hardly helpful in their murder investigation though.
"He would not have been pleased," he heard Phryne say.
"That's the odd thing, Miss. He did not seem very bothered by it. Instead he ordered MacWinter to keep silent about it."
Miss Fisher frowned.
"That's indeed strange," Jack said under his breath. An idea was forming in his head. He would have to talk to Phryne about it. But first he would drop off the happy father-to-be for his appointment with fate – and his hormonal wife.
X
Mrs. Santi laid down the brush and looked at her creation. She bit her lip, then she took the canvas and threw it with vigour against the wall. Panting, she sat back down. Alright, so now she was feeling better – at least somewhat. A second later, a knock at the door shook her from her thoughts.
"Is everything alright, Ma'am?" Inga asked quietly, her eyes brushing over the destroyed canvas littering the floor.
"Everything is perfectly fine," Riya heard herself say, noting the almost hysterical happiness in her voice. The maid didn't believe her, but she pretended to all the same and was about to withdraw with a polite word, when her Mistress called her back.
"Inga, how is the packing progressing?" she asked, realising that really she was just looking for company so she could stop thinking for two minutes about a kind, humorous face under a missing head of hair.
"The same as two hours ago, Ma'am," Inga said, obviously trying to not roll her eyes. Mrs. Santi appreciated the effort.
"We will be leaving as soon as possible," Riya said, grabbing another canvas and chewing at the end of her paintbrush in thought, which really was a terrible habit.
"Yes, Ma'am, you mentioned."
Inga realised, that nobody was listening anymore and withdrew in silence. How a clever woman could be so utterly stupid, she would never know. Back in the atelier, Mrs. Santi surrendered. So she would not paint anything else before she had painted what wouldn't leave her alone. She might as well get it out of her system, she decided, dipping the brush into water.
X
Mr. B wasn't eavesdropping. Of course he wasn't; that would have been completely unsuitable in his position. Yet he couldn't help that the silverware he was currently polishing, despite it already sparkling, was just a little bit too close to the door leading to the sitting room, where the Collins had withdrawn to. To his worry, it was utterly silent in there. Mr. Butler couldn't know that this was caused by Hugh Collins currently staring at his wife speechlessly. Dorothy felt her stomach revolt, but was at present not willing to give in to the urge to storm to the next bathroom. It just didn't seem very poetic. Then she watched a tiny grin spread over her husband's lips, expanding until his whole face and then his whole body was covered in a smile as bright as the sun. He grasped her hands.
"I am going to be a father?"
"Well, that was always the plan, Hugh," she pointed out sheepishly.
"Yes, but now it's happening." He stared at Dot's belly. "So, there is actually a little one in there? That's amazing, Dottie."
He looked at his wife, as if she had invented the gift of motherhood single-handedly.
"Yes, there is," his wife smiled, patting the tiny bump she imagined to be there.
"I will play football with my son," Hugh explained joyful. "Or dolls with my daughter," he hurried to add with a look at the thunderstorm brewing on Dots face before getting up to crouch down in front of her.
"For all I care you can play football with your daughter," Dorothy smiled happily, leaning in for a kiss. She was still intoxicated with the excitement and finally sharing it with Hugh was so much more wonderful. His big eyes were filled with absolute pleasure, as he reached up to kiss her. Sadly, her stomach didn't have any sense for the romantic.
"Excuse me," she squeezed out, pushing her surprised husband away, while pressing a hand to her mouth and running for it. A knock at the second door tore Hugh from staring after her with a silly grin on his face.
"Would you like some tea, Constable?" Mr. Butler asked, content with the display of glee on the young man's face. Hugh pulled himself onto wobbly knees while answering.
"You know, I think I might need something stronger today, Mr. Butler."
X
"Nothing surprising," Jack concluded, flicking the Coroner's report shut and handing it to Phryne.
"A single shot in the chest from close proximity, just as your father concluded," Miss Fisher answered a moment later. "She must have died almost instantly."
Jack hummed unhappily.
"What is it?" Phryne asked, knowing this to mean that something was on his mind.
"Why take such a big risk? There were people all over the gardens when Mrs. Barton was shot."
Miss Fisher chewed on her lip.
"It's almost as if it was a staged drama. The same kind of dress on both women, the same hair brooch, both with a bleeding wound in the chest. Neither dress was really suitable for the occasion and time of day either." Looking at Jack she continued, "and I am well aware, that my personal sense of fashion is not a measure of 'suitable', Inspector Robinson."
"And the disappeared body," Jack added. "Why go through all this trouble of letting one body disappear and then shooting the second woman as if it was a bad theatre act?"
"Maybe the killer was hoping that we would think them the same woman?" Phryne pointed out.
"He would have to realise though, that our first way would be to the next-of-kin."
Miss Fisher's fingernails drummed impatiently on the table top. They seemed to be turning in circles. It was all just one big mystery and she couldn't help the feeling, that that was exactly what the killer had intended. From beginning to end this was his game and they were playing along. She looked up, when the Sergeant entered.
"Mr. Barton is here, Sir, Miss."
Jack got up with a sigh.
"Bring him in, please."
Joseph Barton was a tall, broad man with a dark set of hair and prominent cheekbones, handsome in a rough kind of way. He looked like one of the dark, charming strangers occurring frequently in the penny dreadfuls Miss Fisher read sometimes out of boredom. They usually had something to hide. He was the perfect suspect for a murder investigation.
"Please take a seat, Mr. Barton. I trust you know, why you are here?" Inspector Robinson asked, well aware that the police in Sydney had lost no time to inform the man of his wife's demise.
"I still don't understand it," Joseph Barton said, sinking into a chair. His voice didn't suit him, Miss Fisher found. He spoke like he was about a meter smaller than he was.
"It seems indeed all very mysterious," she cut in, sharing a look with Jack. "Do you have an idea, why your wife decided to head to Wombat Hall on Tuesday morning?"
They might as well find out, how much their suspect knew about his wife's secret family connections. To their disappointment, he shook his head.
"I wouldn't have the faintest clue," he answered. "Truth be told, I have never done much business with the Cox-Stafford's. We had a disagreement a few years back, when I was considering to add a sort of apple wine into my production. The deal didn't go ahead and Mr. Cox-Stafford was enraged."
"And he still employed your sister-in-law?" Jack asked.
"I am not sure, if Madelyn informed him about the connection," Joseph Barton pointed out. "My sister-in-law was not particularly fond of me. I believe the only reason she came to Daylesford was, that she didn't trust me alone with her sister."
"Were the women close?" Phryne asked, watching the man twist his hat in his hands.
"They used to be," he said quietly. "I will not lie to you, the mutual dislike I shared with Madelyn Spencer put some strain onto their relationship as well as my marriage. Poor Abigail was stuck in the middle. I was actually rather hoping that the distance would resolve some of those issues and then her sister decided to move out here. I was not pleased."
Jack nodded silently, deciding to change the subject.
"Mr. Barton, how is your business standing?"
A pair of sorrowful eyes flew up, looking at the Inspector in surprise.
"Since you are asking this, I assume you have already heard the rumours," he stated calmly. Jack leaned back in his chair.
"I generally do not take rumours into account, Mr. Barton. But I do have information, that you are in a little bit of strife."
The man took a deep breath before answering.
"I'm afraid, 'a little bit of strife', is understated, Inspector. We are in big trouble and I fear I will have to close the winery, if things do not improve dramatically."
"Your wives death should have cleared that up nicely," Miss Fisher said, in a complete lack of tact. Jack shot her a look somewhere between annoyance and admiration. The mourning widower seemed to be thrown for a moment.
"What do you mean?" he finally asked with suppressed anger in his voice. "My wives death is a tragedy and I am about to lose everything I care about. I find this a less than considerate statement."
Jack leaned forward behind his desk, clasping his hands together.
"You mean, you did not know that your wife took out a life insurance the day before she died?"
Mr. Barton stared at him, his mouth agape.
"Abigail? No, she didn't say a word!"
The Inspector took his time riffling through his papers.
"In case of her death, a sum of 70.000 pounds is to be paid to her husband, Mr. Joseph Barton. Signed two days ago during your trip to Sydney. And you are telling me you had no knowledge of this whatsoever?"
Jack gave the man a piercing stare, but Mr. Barton still seemed to struggle with the information.
"But 70.000 pounds? That is insanity!"
He buried his hands in his palms.
"Dear Abigail. This will save my business. But to what price?"
Miss Fisher couldn't help it. She felt it was too much. The whole case appeared like a cheaply staged drama and this was another act she did not see the point in. She slipped quietly to her feet and left, getting some fresh air outside. Could Abigail Barton have planned her own murder? To save the winery? That made absolutely no sense. Phryne fished for her cigarettes but to her disappointment didn't find any. She was considering to cross the busy main street to head over to an inviting tobacco shop, when she noticed the young couple arguing in an alleyway. She recognised them instantly, and slipped behind a cart in an attempt to not be seen.
"You cannot believe every rumour you hear," Samuel yelled desperately.
"Just tell me if you had something to do with it," Christine answered calmly. "It is a fair question between friends."
A painful expression crossed the young man's face.
"You can't seriously believe, that I murdered her?" he asked quietly. Christine chewed on her lip.
"I don't. But everybody knows you and her were..." she trailed off, looking upset.
Sam reached out his hand in a comforting gesture, but she retreated.
"It doesn't matter, Sam. If you tell me you haven't done it, that is all I need to know," she said firmly.
"Of course, I haven't. Christine, please."
Miss Fisher was surprised. She hadn't anticipated to ever hear Samuel Cox-Stafford beg. After a moment of silence, a small smile appeared on the pretty features of the young woman and she grasped the boy's hand.
"I believe you. But you should tell them. Tell them everything."
"There is nothing to be told," he insisted stoically and the smile disappeared.
"I have better get on my way home. Father will wonder, why I am taking so long."
He nodded, his jaw clenched and Miss Fisher ducked deeper behind the cart, smiling to herself. Plenty of secrets to be had in Jack's family. And she had just discovered another one.