"Miss Fisher!"
"Steven!" Phryne greeted the Maitre d' with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. "Do you happen to have a table available for lunch?"
"For you, Miss Fisher, of course. Sarah!" This to the young cloakroom attendant, "help our guests with their coats."
Thus relieved of their outside garments (except for Hugh, who handed over only his helmet and truncheon) they were escorted to a table.
"I hope you're not expecting the Victorian Constabulary to pay for this, Miss Fisher," Jack remarked in a low voice. This was an upmarket restaurant in an upmarket neighbourhood, and he was certain even the air was expensive.
"Of course not, Jack. What's the good of being rich if I can't treat my friends to a meal? And heaven knows you perpetually look like you need one. It's fine, Hugh," she added, having glimpsed, out of the corner of her eye, the young constable's nervous dusting and straightening of his uniform. "There's nothing like a uniform to give a man a certain je ne sais quoi."
As Hugh had absolutely no idea what that was, he simply smiled and nodded. "Uh, thank you, Miss."
"If you had your way I'd end up with a waist like the younger Mr. Postlethwaite's," Jack murmured with a quirk of his lip as their took their seats.
"Too many pork pies and too much port," Phryne diagnosed. "A hearty meal for a working man is highly unlikely to yield the same results. He probably has gout as well."
"Now there's a charming image to go with my meal," Jack replied as he examined his menu. There were no prices. That was never a good sign.
Phryne, however, was unperturbed and, when she realised that her companions were unlikely to take the initiative, ordered for all three of them: soup of the day followed by chicken all round. She didn't bother suggest alcohol but instead requested three ginger ales, which appeared with remarkable alacrity. As they sipped and waited for their soup they briefed Hugh more fully on their case, the suspects, and the possible motives they might have for murdering William Postlethwaite. The younger man's brow became increasingly furrowed as he tried to follow the twists and turns of the family, until finally Phryne took his notepad and sketched a quick family tree complete with a number of lines with labels like 'affair' and 'resents'. That appeared to help somewhat.
"So, what's our plan after lunch, Sir?" he asked some time later, as they savoured the last few bites of their perfectly-cooked chicken and mopped up the last of the sauce with their fluffy white potato.
"We'll head to the Postlethwaite residences to interview the women and the staff, then to the morgue. I want those toxicology results, and I think it's time I examined the victim for myself."
"You mean you haven't done that yet?" Phryne asked.
"The case only crossed my desk this morning, when Moreston asked for my advice. He has potential," he added, when Phryne quirked an eyebrow at that, and then, with a sigh, "Miss Fisher, very few people have your ability to solve crimes through a dazzling mixture of charm, intuition, and a certain indifference towards the law. Most of us have to go about it the old fashioned way, by asking questions, gathering evidence, interrogating suspects, and hoping that someone lets something slip at the wrong moment."
"It sounds like an awful lot of unnecessary work. And I thought the old fashioned way involved thumbscrews and the rack."
"We got rid of those: too messy, and the screaming became distinctly tedious."
Once again, Hugh had the feeling that he'd stumbled into the middle of a private conversation. The Inspector certainly never seemed to talk like this to anyone else. Fortunately, his discomfort was alleviated by the discreet arrival of Steven.
"Was everything to your satisfaction, Miss Fisher?"
"Just wonderful, as always. I don't think we'll take tea or dessert though; the Inspector is keen to go and interrogate some more suspects."
"Very good Miss. And shall I put this on the account, as usual?"
"That would be perfect, thank you."
...
The 'family pile' as Archibald Postlethwaite had called it, was an impressively large stone house, almost a mansion, in the style of the mid-eighteen-hundreds. The door was answered by a uniformed butler, who asked them to wait while he established whether the mistress of the house and Miss Postlethwaite would be available to speak to them. He returned within a few moments to confirm that Mrs. Postlethwaite was waiting in the parlour, and Miss Postlethwaite would be available when they had finished. Jack and Phryne were shown through, while Hugh followed the butler to the kitchen to interview the household staff.
Mrs. Charlotte Postlethwaite was sitting in a floral armchair by the window, dressed in demure dove-grey and with a handkerchief twisted around nervous white fingers.
"Have you found the man who killed my husband?" she asked at once, while the detectives were still seating themselves.
"Not at this stage I'm afraid, Mrs. Postlethwaite," Jack replied. "We're still trying to determine how he came to be in that alleyway, and we were hoping you could help us build up a picture of what happened that night."
"Of course. Well, Billy arrived home from the office a little before five. He went to his room for a rest, then we all dined together at seven. At eight Archie and Josephine joined us for drinks, and around nine Billy remarked that he was feeling tired and went to bed. I saw Archie and Josephine out a short while later, and Margy excused herself to read. Bernie and I enjoyed a last drink together and then we went to bed as well."
"When you say you and Bernard 'went to bed', what exactly do you mean by that?" Jack asked slowly. When Charlotte didn't answer right away Phryne added gently,
"We know that you and Bernard Postlethwaite were having an affair."
"Oh God."
"And that you were expecting his child."
Charlotte bowed her head, tears spilling as she twisted the handkerchief in her fingers. "You have to believe me that I would never have killed Billy. I didn't love him, but he was a good husband to me. Too good! He knew about Bernie, and he... he knew – it had been seven years, he knew that he'd never be able to give me a child – that with Bernie I'd have a chance. Archie was the problem, not Billy. He's always so concerned with appearances: he made it clear that if I divorced Billy he'd make sure I lived to regret it, regardless of whether Bernie married me or not."
"Did either your husband or Archibald know that you were expecting?" Jack asked.
"I told Billy about a week ago. We were still trying to think of a way to tell Archie."
"And how did your husband react?"
"He was hurt. Very hurt. But he said that he understood. That he knew being a mother was important to me, and he wouldn't stand in our way. He said-" more tears "- he said that he just wanted me to be happy!"
...
"Do you believe her?" Jack asked softly, as they made their way to the drawing room where they had been told Marjorie Postlethwaite would be waiting. Phryne shrugged.
"They were absolutely besotted with one another in London. That was part of the problem: if Charlotte had been willing to put her foot down over Billy's gambling things probably wouldn't have gotten so far out of hand. But five years is a long time."
"Mrs. Postlethwaite isn't a particularly large woman, and given her condition... if she had sedated her husband, would she have been able to move him to the alleyway where he was found?"
"Not alone, but she could have had help. Bernie perhaps, or even Margy: Billy wasn't a particularly large man, and Margy's fairly robust. The two of them together could have managed it. We're assuming he was sedated, then?"
Jack nodded. "Everyone we've spoken to has remarked on his coming over tired during drinks, but his wife said he'd had a rest before dinner. It seems fairly likely that someone slipped something into his glass."
"But who? It could have been any member of the family, or one of the servants. So that doesn't help us at all."
"No. We need to narrow down whether a particular type of sedative was used, and who might have had access to it. With luck, Dr. Johnson will be able to help us with that."
"There's something else he may be able to help us with."
"Oh?"
"Well, the whole family is assuming that Billy was infertile, and the child Charlotte was carrying was Bernie's. But would that unsubstantiated assumption be enough to satisfy a courtroom?"
Jack couldn't help but smile. "Probably not. And I look forward to seeing the expression on Dr. Johnson's face when you raise the subject."
Phryne smiled back as he knocked on the drawing room door.