Chapter 32: Bleeding heart

Esmeralda was starting to grow impatient. Her nephew had decided to retreat with his fiancée for a quiet catch-up; obviously the case had to come first. Walter was still walking Hector, possibly having forgotten the time, while stumbling into a horde of deer out in the forest. Mrs. Stanley had asked to use the phone and disappeared ages ago. Her daughter and her son-in-law had gone for a walk, letting her know in no uncertain terms that her involvement was not needed. And Jane had not returned from her quest of retrieving Hazel and the Doctor from the attic, where the women were digging through the Cox-Stafford's history.

She absent-mindedly cuddled her little grandson on her lap and looked at Iris, who shrugged.

"It seems like we aren't getting any more company," Rupert grinned.

"I was rather hoping to discuss the wedding with everybody," Esmeralda pointed out. "Which is rather impossible if they don't show for afternoon tea."

"Don't worry yourself about it," Olivia pitched in. "I'm sure, Jack and Miss Fisher will figure out the details soon. It's understandable, that they are busy with the two murders in your house, don't you think?"

"I rather hope they solve them, before their wedding," Iris added grinning. "I can just see Jack deciding to up and run from the ceremony, if it occurs to him who killed Miss Spencer."

A small smile appeared on Esmeralda's face against her will.

"I believe Miss Fisher would be right behind him," Will joked, his daughter looking at him with big eyes, obviously wondering about the conversation that was going over her head.

"How romantic," Sam grumbled. Some faces flew around to look at him. Esmeralda knew the expression on her son's face. He was upset and she currently didn't have a chance to ask him what was wrong. Not that she expected a honest answer. She sighed under her breath. It probably had to do with one of his many sweethearts. She wasn't sure, why he insisted on chasing after every skirt - it seemed as if he just did it for the fun of it. But if she was honest, it bothered her.

How could it be that her two children were so exactly opposite from each other? Laura insisted on settling into the most boring life possible, while Samuel couldn't be convinced to settle for anything.

Thinking of her daughter made Esmeralda's stomach churn. Laura had looked deeply upset before and so had Fred.

Just when her mother pondered this, the door flew open and both appeared in the room. Esmeralda found herself astounded at the change in her daughter. Laura was standing tall and proud; her hairdo had suffered a bit from the cold wind outside and her cheeks were glowing in a healthy red, which however gave her the look of a beautiful adventuress, rather than a dishevelled housewife. And there was a spark in her eyes that woke in Esmeralda the urge to drop onto her knees and thank the heavens for it. Her son-in-law looked less excited but exuded relief and a quiet happiness. The Mistress of the house got to her feet and handed over their son, resisting the want to pull them both into a hug, while she felt a weight lift off her heart. They had worked it out. Seconds later, Jack and Miss Fisher slipped through the door, obviously surprised that nobody had started eating yet, though they were late.

"I'm sorry," Jack mumbled near his Aunt's ear and brushed a kiss to her cheek, something he hadn't done in about thirty years. Esmeralda watched gobsmacked, as they sat down. Then the threesome from the attic arrived. They were still a little dusty, but beaming. The Lady of the house started to feel confused. Had someone discovered a well of happiness somewhere on Wombat Hall's grounds? They might have wanted to share the location with Samuel, who stilled stared miserably into the group. Last Walter trod through the door. He seemed even grumpier than when he had left and his wife breathed a sigh of relief. She was not going crazy just yet.

"I apologise, my love. Hector was out of sorts today, barking at bushes and trees. When we got near the lodge he completely freaked out and I had to catch him."

"Probably a stray deer," Esmeralda smiled, grasping his hand and wondering just what had spoiled his mood so much. He had returned from the Vicarage with a disgruntled air to him that she wasn't used to in her decidedly happy husband and had chosen to go for a walk without letting her into the secret. She couldn't help but wonder if Jack had not gotten the answer he had desired. Marrying in the gardens was probably stretching Vicar Bailey's boundaries a little and the date was very rushed. But then, Jack didn't seem unhappy and neither did his fiancée.

"How is your companion, Miss Fisher?" she asked politely, remembering the people still missing at the table.

"Feeling a little better I believe. Her husband is with her now. He is in for quite a shock," Phryne laughed.

"We all had to get through it, Miss Fisher," John said to general astonishment with a smile on his lips. "And we all ended up being proud fathers."

Jack' eyebrows rose involuntarily while his eyes locked with Will's, who looked similarly confused. That was about the closest their father had ever come to stating pride at them. It came as a bit of a shock. John seemed slightly embarrassed, but he didn't retreat from his statement. Something was happening to him, Jack noted. Maybe it was just Phryne's magic. Or possibly Jane's, because the girl had once again found a place right beside her 'grumps'. Her eyes were beaming, the worry of earlier gone and Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Now if only Mrs. Stanley worked her magic. When the elderly lady stepped through the door, he found he was holding his breath. She gave him something that was pretty close to a wink and Jack thought he would faint in a mixture of surprise and relief.

"Aunt P, I gather you were successful?" Phryne smiled, taking a sip of tea.

"Very much so. The Archbishop was only too happy to help out. Your marriage licence will be in the mail tomorrow morning. He has personally promised it."

Esmeralda's eyes widened in shock.

"The Archbishop?"

Walter burst into laughter.

"You are gold, Mrs. Stanley, I must say. I am very happy to soon call such a resourceful woman part of my family."

Esmeralda looked back and forth between her husband who was toasting the lady with his teacup and Mrs. Stanley, who somewhat reluctantly mirrored his gesture, while looking immensely proud of herself.

"Would you like to fill us in?" she asked pointedly.

"Vicar Bailey turned us down," Jack explained calmly. "It seems Mrs. Stanley has managed to talk Archbishop Ferguson into overruling his verdict and his Bishop's."

He shared a grateful look with Aunt P, for the first time in his life being deeply happy about her existence.

"And we will be forever in her debt for it," chipped Phryne in, happily biting into a scone.

"So, when are you getting married?" Jane asked. Miss Fisher had to swallow, before she could answer. She smiled at her daughter.

"As soon as possible."

She glanced at Jack, realising, that she hadn't asked his opinion before announcing this to his whole family. He gave her a tiny nod, paired with an even tinier smile. So it was set. They both completely missed the excited look that was shared between Jane and Hazel.

X

Miss Rucci had just sat down for tea, when the car arrived. Glancing out the window, she watched Inspector Robinson and Miss Fisher climb out. It was a strange coincidence. Or maybe it wasn't. Her palms went sweaty at the idea. She pulled herself to her feet, opening the door just when the Inspector lifted his hand to knock. He looked thrown for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid Mr. Barton isn't in right now," the Housekeeper explained calmly, before the police officer could say a word.

"Actually, we were looking for you," the Inspector answered, a small smile on his lips. Miss Rucci stared at him in confusion, but let them past all the same. After she had poured them some tea, the Inspector looked at her, seemingly fumbling for words.

"This might seem an awful time, Miss Rucci, but I need to ask you if you ever heard the sisters mention a John Robinson?"

Miss Rucci's busy hands stopped in their task, looking at him in wonder.

"Or maybe their parents?"

"Not that I know of, Inspector," the housekeeper answered calmly, slipping back onto the bench. "Why would they?"

Phryne sensed that things were hitting a little close to home for Jack. He wasn't comfortable bringing up his family life in an investigation.

"Mrs. Barton was on her way to meet him the morning she died," she explained calmly. The old lady nodded slowly.

"They were in contact via letters for months beforehand. Abigail Barton claimed to be his niece."

"What?"

Now Miss Rucci's eyes widened in shock.

"But that's impossible," she pressed out, her hand fumbling with a tea cup. "The girl never said a word to me."

"Miss Rucci, is the Christian name of the girl's mother Sophie by any chance?"

Now the old housekeeper looked up at the Inspector as if she had just woken from a nightmare. She shook her head eagerly.

"No, no, it isn't. Her name is Emma. Emma Spencer nee Devitt."

Jack locked eyes with Phryne. She could see a mixture of emotions displayed in them. So they hadn't been his cousins after all. But there was also no aunt to be found. He was visibly deflated.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Rucci."

"Before we leave, may we have a look into the private rooms of Mrs. Barton?" Miss Fisher asked, a friendly smile on her lips. Jack followed as the housekeeper lead them upstairs. Phryne was right of course. They should have searched her rooms days ago. His whole family drama was distracting him from his job and it was starting to annoy him. It didn't help that he felt like he had stumbled into a bad and rather deadly theatre production into which the director insisted on dragging Jack's family. He had somehow managed to find John Robinson's one weak spot to weave him into this web of secrets. But why on earth would Abigail play along in her own murder? It just didn't make any sense.

They were left alone in a bedroom that already started to feel unlived in. Miss Fisher had taken to the wardrobe, flicking through dresses.

"She didn't have terrible taste, quite in line with the dress she was wearing at Wombat Hall," she concluded, throwing the door shut. Jack was only half listening while he riffled through the contents of Abigail Barton's drawers, trying to avoid thinking too hard about the fact that his hands were currently emerged into the silken underwear of a rather attractive woman whom he had not met, until her heart had already stopped beating. Luckily Phryne wasn't watching as she searched the bed for any hidden items. Usually she seemed rather lucky with that. Jack withdrew his hands with a sigh of relief, flicking the drawer shut and turning to the next one. It held a variety of keepsakes and pictures of Mrs. Barton and her sister, her wedding, her parents. Miss Rucci had been right, the woman who must be Emma Spencer showed no resemblance to anyone in his own family and it pushed the idea that she might have changed her identity somewhere along the way, further back in his mind. The girl's connection to his family had just been another fabrication of the killer, trying to throw them off his trail. Just when he came to this conclusion, Jack's hands stilled.

"Phryne!"

She was with him in three steps, dropping the pillow she had just held onto. He shoved a photograph into her hands.

"I know this picture. Father showed it to me when I was young. He told me they were my cousins, and with some luck I would get to know them someday."

"Seems not very lucky," Phryne quipped, staring at two fair headed girls sitting on a blanket.

"How is this possible?" Jack exclaimed, visibly angry. "They are my cousins, but their mother is not my aunt?" He sank onto the edge of the bed, hurling an attacking pillow against the head of the bed, then rubbed his face with both hands.

"Nothing in this case adds up, Phryne, nothing at all." He sat for a moment, wondering. "Could the killer have planted the photograph here?"

Miss Fisher resurfaced from staring at the picture, then shook her head.

"No, that's Madelyn and Abigail, same nose, same eyes."

The Inspector pulled himself back to his feet, snapping back into working mode.

"Emma Spencer must be my missing Aunt then, resemblance or not."

"Why don't you take her picture and show it to your father?" Phryne wondered.

"A good plan, Miss Fisher." Jack smiled and kissed his finacée on the cheek. At least someone kept their head in this whole mess.

"I'm known for my excellent plans, Inspector," she quipped, catching him and kissing him in a way that was probably not quite appropriate for the setting. Jack decided to leave quickly, before he remembered that there was a bed nearby.

X

Riya stared angrily at the picture in front of her. It was beautiful. Breathtaking even. She hated it. But something stopped her from letting it follow the last one, cracking its frame by hurling it at some hard object or another. Tobias had been right. The flaming sunset had wanted to be painted and now that it had, it woke in her the urge to burst into tears just looking at it.

The arrival of her maid tore her from her dark thoughts.

"Ma'am, a visitor for you," she announced. Mrs. Santi felt her heartbeat speed up. It couldn't be that he had changed his mind, could it? But the person stepping through the door was taller and with a lot more hair.

"Good evening," Admiral Winterbuttom exclaimed smiling. "I heard you are returning to India and was coming to say my farewells."

Riya smiled, putting her paintbrush down.

"You have heard correctly, Admiral. Despite that, you didn't have to come, I do hate long goodbyes."

"But it would be a sacrilege to not farewell a woman like you properly, Mrs. Santi," the tall man said, pulling her hands to his lips. Riya let him, despite feeling a little odd. Almost as if she had stumbled onto stage in a theatre, when she was really supposed to sit in the audience. Over the Admiral's shoulder, she glanced at the flaming sunset her paintbrush had drawn from thin air. It seemed to have grown more realistic in the last two minutes. And it was trying to tell her something.

X

"This is not Sophie," John stated quietly. "I don't know who this woman is, but it is definitely not my sister."

The flames in the fireplace crackled happily, with no sense for the dramatic at all.

"But this is the picture of the girls, isn't it?" Jack asked, handing him the other photograph, "the one you used to show me?"

The old man nodded. Apart from his hands it was hard to say if he was moved by this whole story. But his hands were telling, Phryne found, as they moved aimlessly in his lap. Rather like Jack's.

"So they were not Sophie's daughters?" he asked, his voice suspiciously rough. The detective's looked at each other.

"To be honest, I have no idea, Father," Jack admitted after a pause. "The picture you have must be 20 years old and it shows the two women who died. But the lady in their family pictures is not Aunt Sophie. Do you think..." he paused. "Is it possible, that Sophie has died and maybe her widower remarried?"

John chewed on his lip in thought; there was a traitorous tremble to his fingers now.

"When was this picture taken?" he asked. Phryne turned it to read the date on the back.

"August 1912," she said.

The tension seemed to drain from John Robinson's shoulders.

"She still wrote to me then. Still told me stories of her family and her little girls."

He shook his head.

"This is not my sister, Jack. That's all I know."

"I might try and contact the registry of birth, death and marriage in Ballarat," Jack finally stated, pulling himself to his feet. "Maybe they can shed some light on the whole situation."

His father and fiancée both looked after him, when he left the room to use the phone. Then John's eyes returned to the picture that didn't show the person he had been hoping for.

"I'm sorry," Phryne said after a while. His shoulder's flinched as if he had forgotten that she was still there.

"She's been gone for so long, you'd think it would stop hurting someday," the old man finally said. When he looked up, there was a traitorous tear glittering. "But it never does."

Miss Fisher found her own vision blurring.

"I know." She wondered if to share this. They were not exactly on intimate terms, but then she could relate perfectly well to his troubles.

"My sister vanished when I was ten. I didn't get closure for many years, until we found her."

John Robinson stared at her.

"Was she alive?" he finally asked. Phryne shook her head, staring out the window.

"I'm sorry," John said and to Miss Fisher's shock a warm, rough hand wrapped over her fingers. It was awkward but not wrong and so she just let it happen.

"Thank God, Jack was there," she said into the resulting silence. "He held onto me, when I thought I'd drown."

She smiled a teary smile into the direction of her future father-in-law.

"Is that why you agreed to marry him, Miss Fisher?" John asked. His hand retreated, when they changed the subject, but there was no hostility. It felt more like curiosity really.

"I agreed, because I couldn't think of a single good reason to refuse," she explained. "And that might not sound very romantic to your ears, Mr. Robinson, but it took meeting your son for me to not run screaming from the idea of matrimony."

John Robinson smiled at this, staying silent.

"You will take very good care of him, won't you?" he finally asked, without looking at her.

"That goes without saying," Phryne answered, wondering where that thought had come from.

"I have never managed it myself," John uttered, clearing his throat loudly. Phryne tore her eyes from the dark clouds outside to look at the old man.

"He has almost died three times," John smiled and Miss Fisher supressed the urge to tell him about the other times that he didn't know about. "And I have never been there to protect him."

John stared at his hands, but something seemed to have opened the dams that usually kept him from talking and Miss Fisher was not about to stop him.

"He was shot when he was a young officer; I assume you know about that?"

Phryne only nodded. She had run her fingers over the scar on Jack's chest a hundred times.

"One inch, Miss Fisher, and I would have lost my son. And I was sitting on my sofa at home, enjoying my evening off with my wife."

Phryne opened her mouth to find some soothing words. Obviously blaming themselves was in the Robinson's blood too. But her conversation partner was too absorbed in his memories to pay any attention to her.

"My doctor forbid me to enlist for the War; said I was too old and the chance that my heart would give out was too great. So I sent my sons into hell on their own. I should have been there! I should have taken that knife."

John finally looked up at her, his eyes translucent in the dim light.

"Fatherly love does not stop people from being hurt," Phryne said, grabbing the old man's hand in a return of his earlier gesture. "If it did, there would be a lot less death in the world."

John looked at her for a long moment, then he gently retrieved his hand from her's, straightening his shoulders as if struggling for his composure. He had no idea why he told Miss Fisher all this. He hardly knew her at all. But the flood of words just wouldn't stop leaving his mouth and he surrendered, kept sharing what he'd never shared.

"When the Browning's captured him, I found out reading the papers. Sanderson didn't even bother to give me a call till the afternoon," he said bitterly. Phryne dragged a surprised breath into her lungs. Truth be told, she hadn't thought of Jack's family that night in the slightest. All her thoughts had been circling around the DI who had been holding onto his life by a thin thread and the hot ball of anger in her stomach at the people who had turned the strong, brave man she knew into this bundle of pain.

"The night is quite a blur," she admitted quietly, "George was at the hospital with me, I remember that. We were screaming at each other about what was to be done with the Brownings."

To Miss Fisher's surprise the old man laughed bitterly.

"Even George Sanderson was there, when Jack needed him. Only his father opened the newspaper the next day and nearly suffered a heart attack."

"My apologies," Phryne said, chewing on her lip. "I was too distracted to even think this far."

But John shook his head.

"Don't say that. You were there; you saved my son. I wasn't. So clearly you are much better at protecting Jack. And truth be told, Miss Fisher, I fear, I am rather terrible at the whole father-thing."

They shared a shaky smile with each other.

"I think you could do with some improvement," Phryne pointed out carefully. "But it's never too late to work on your skills."

John didn't get to answer, as the door flew open and the Inspector was back, exuding annoyance.

"Mr. Spencer was married for the first and only time to his wife Emma, who gave birth to all three of his children, James, Madelyn and Abigail. We are back to where we started."

"Oh, I think we definitely cleared some things up," Miss Fisher said, smiling, without tearing her eyes from John's, who was grinning. Jack looked back and forth between the both of them with the distinct feeling that he had missed something.