Thank you once again to those people who have taken the time to read and review this fic: your encouragement is ALWAYS appreciated.
Mrs. Josephine Postlethwaite was exactly the kind of woman Phryne would have expected Mr. Archibald Postlethwaite to choose for a wife. A demure-looking woman in a conservative navy blue dress, her hair pulled smoothly back into a neat bun, she sat calm and composed while the two detectives were escorted into her parlour.
"Mrs. Postlethwaite. I'm Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. This is the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, lady detective. We're here regarding your brother-in-law's death."
"I'm not sure how much help I can give you; to be honest, I never knew him that well."
"I got the impression that the six of you spent rather a lot of time together," Phryne remarked.
"Well, yes, but that's the thing: it was always the six of us. How well can you really get to know a person when you only ever see them as part of a crowd? William and I shared no great confidences; it wouldn't have been proper."
"I understand your husband sets great store by propriety?" Jack responded.
"Well somebody has to. William's gambling nearly ruined him, and you're no doubt aware of the shocking way Charlotte and Bernard are carrying on. And Marjorie, while she has her strengths, is hardly a paragon of womanly virtue."
"Yes, we met your sister-in-law. We understand you joined them for drinks that night?"
"Yes, at around eight o'clock."
"Could you describe the evening to us?"
Josephine sighed. "To be honest, it was rather unpleasant. Archie and Marjorie had a row, and William was looking positively ill. And I always feel so awkward whenever I'm around Charlotte and Bernard. Frankly, it was rather a relief to leave."
"And what time was that?" Phryne asked.
"Archie drove us home around nine o'clock."
"And did either of you go out again after that?" Jack asked.
Josephine frowned. "No, why would we?"
"Somebody mentioned that they heard your car pull up outside William's residence a couple of hours later."
"I can't think how. Archie takes sleeping pills, and I haven't driven since the War. Mother insisted that I learn, but I get so terribly nervous behind the wheel, and Archie's always perfectly happy for me to use Mr. Standley as a driver whenever I need to go out."
"Mr. Standley being..."
"Our butler."
Jack and Phryne exchanged a look, but there seemed to be nothing more to be said. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Postlethwaite," Jack said, as he and Phryne rose and moved towards the door.
"Inspector?" He turned back.
"Yes?"
"Well, it's rather a delicate matter, but just lately I'd been noticing certain... signs, you might call them. Things I'm sure only another woman would notice. Archie says I imagine things, but... do you happen to know whether my sister-in-law is expecting?"
Jack hesitated, but he was no liar and silence or equivocation would of themselves be telling answers, so he nodded. "We believe she is, yes."
"And the child is Bernard's?"
This time Phryne answered. "It seems likely, yes."
"Oh, poor William. Archie will be furious."
...
"How do you think she figured it out?" Jack asked, once they were headed back to the car.
Phryne shrugged. "Well, as she said, there are some things a woman is more likely to notice. A tendency to unexplained indisposure, especially around mealtimes. A slight thickening around the waist. Or perhaps there's been gossip between the maids."
Jack frowned. "If the couple are keeping it secret, how would the maid know?"
"Well, they are usually responsible for managing the laundry, Jack." He had been married, she thought, surely he didn't need her to spell it out for him. Sure enough, after a moment's puzzlement she saw understanding dawn upon his face.
"I see."
"The one way I can guarantee she won't have found out is through her sister-in-law's confidence: there is no way Charlotte Postlethwaite would have let Josephine know that she was expecting."
"Based on?"
"Well she is married to Archibald, guardian of all things moral and upright."
"You really don't like him, do you?"
"Not at all."
...
"There's the butler, the housekeeper, the nanny, and a maid," Collins informed them, "and none of them have much to do with Mr. William's household."
"Did any of them mention hearing Mr. Archibald go out again that night, perhaps around half past ten?"
"Yes Sir. Mr. Standley, the butler, heard the car pull out about then, and come back around midnight. But he said that wasn't unusual: Mr. Archibald has trouble sleeping, and sometimes rather than take a pill he'll go out to his club for an hour or two."
"It's an all-hours establishment, then?" Jack asked.
Hugh felt himself blushing. "Uh, yes sir, but I don't think it's, you know, one of those types of clubs," this with a nervous glance at Miss Fisher. The knowledge that she had infiltrated and performed in one of 'those' clubs did not make discussing the subject in front of her any easier – in fact, if anything it made it even more awkward. "Just, you know, a place for gentlemen to drink and smoke and that sort of thing."
"Yes, I can't imagine Archie being a member of a club that was actually interesting," Phryne remarked tartly. "What about you, Jack? What sort of club would appeal to a man of your tastes?"
He responded with dignity. "I can assure you, Miss Fisher, that I am quite happy with the police clubrooms and the RSA. Now," he continued before she had a chance to comment further, "I believe we have a corpse to examine."
Phryne looped her arm through his. "Why, Inspector Robinson, you do know how to show a girl a good time."
With a brisk "Come along, Collins," thrown over his shoulder, the Inspector escorted the lady detective back to the car.
...
Dr. Johnson thinned his lips in distaste when Inspector Robinson ushered That Fisher Woman into his morgue, but said nothing. There was absolutely no point in objecting to her presence, not when she had the Inspector wrapped so firmly around her little finger, and the woman knew it. She had even taken to turning up on her own on occasion, secure in the knowledge that any complaint made to the Inspector about her behaviour would be dismissed out of hand. The Inspector himself might take the occasional verbal swipe at her, but let anyone else try it and he reacted for all the world like the protective big brother who had just seen another boy pull his little sister's hair.
"Mr. William Postlethwaite." The Inspector began. "What do you have for me, doctor?"
"Well, you were right about the sedative. He'd consumed several barbiturates, probably crushed up in his brandy judging by the stomach contents. But that wasn't what killed him." He pulled the sheet back. "Death was inflicted by a single knife-wound below the lower left rib, striking up into the lung and puncturing the heart. The blade was diamond-shaped, at least eight inches long, assuming it was buried to the hilt, and relatively thick. Perhaps a dagger of some kind, or a bayonet."
"Would the pills on their own have been enough to kill him?" Jack enquired.
The doctor pursed his lips. "For a man of his stature and relative frailty, especially when combined with the alcohol, possibly, but only possibly. They would, however, have rendered him completely unconscious and incapable of defending himself."
"And also incapable of walking," Phryne remarked. "Was he killed in the alleyway?" This to Jack, who was shuffling through the crime-scene photos. Evidently those had not made their way to his desk when Moreston passed over the file, but had somehow been diverted to Dr. Johnson instead.
"Judging by the photographs, yes. There was a considerable pool of blood at the scene. Someone must have carried him there before they stabbed him." He saw her draw a deep breath, and was reminded that she had known this man, that she had called him a friend. He laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Would you like a moment?"
She looked up at him, and he was shocked – and yet unsurprised – to see tears shimmering in her eyes, tears which she would almost certainly not allow herself to actually shed. Phryne Fisher seldom cried. "Would you mind?"
"Of course not." He jerked his head at Dr. Johnson, who frowned in annoyance but withdrew with him to the other side of the room, leaving Phryne standing alone by her friend's body. To Jack's surprise, he saw her reach down almost absently and pull the sheet back up, so that it was covering William decently to his mid-torso. Hiding both his manhood and the wound which had killed him, along with his withered leg.
"Miss Fisher knew the victim personally," he explained softly. He was unsurprised when this did not seem to mollify the doctor, whose dislike for Phryne – and females in general – was well-established.
"And yet you're letting her involve herself with the case?"
He shrugged. "They don't seem to have been so close that it's a problem. More of an historic connection than a current one, I think. This is the first sign I've seen that she's actually taking it personally."
The doctor gave a long-suffering sigh, but said nothing more. After a moment Phryne gave a sigh of her own and walked back to the two men.
"There was something else I was hoping you'd be willing to examine for me?" she asked the doctor, who gave another sigh.
"Miss Fisher, I've told you before, we do not routinely examine the brain, and in this case-"
"Actually, I was thinking of something a little further... south."
"Your meaning?"
"The family suspected that William Postlethwaite was infertile," Jack explained. "His wife is pregnant, and there's a strong suspicion that the child is her lover's, not her husband's. Are you able to determine whether or not Mr. Postlethwaite would have been capable of fathering a child?"
Dr. Johnson cleared his throat. "That's something I could probably establish for you, yes. But the examination will take some time, and I absolutely refuse to perform it in the presence of a woman."
"Of course," Jack responded. "You can ring me at the station with the results."
With that he gestured to Miss Fisher, and the two of them headed for the door. Dr. Johnson closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. Now he was going to have to perform a detailed internal examination of a man's genitals. That Woman really was the living end.