My apologies to anyone who's bee waiting for an update on this fic: it should be smooth sailing from now on. Many thanks, as always, to all the people who have taken the time to post reviews.
"How are you getting on, Miss Fisher?" Jack's voice sounded tinny over the phone, but she would have recognised it anywhere.
"Quite well, thank you, Inspector. I think we've found everything we were looking for."
"I want you to question the staff. Ask them whether any of them heard anyone leave or enter the house last night. Then bring Collins and meet me here."
"She was definitely murdered then?" Phryne dropped her voice, just in case.
"Most definitely. Struck in the head, either before or after her fall. We have yet to locate the weapon, so if you happen to spot any blood-stained blunt instruments, particularly something with a curved edge..."
"We'll be sure to remove it for your perusal."
She could hear the smile in Jack's voice. "Legitimately bagged and labelled if possible, Miss Fisher, rather than stuffed into your handbag, but don't waste a lot of time on it; I'd rather the two of you were here as soon as possible."
She smiled back, knowing that he would hear it over the phone-line. "Of course."
"Within the speed limit, naturally."
"Spoilsport."
He hung up without a farewell, but that wasn't particularly unusual for their telephone conversations and she didn't take it amiss.
"What'd he say?" Hugh whispered anxiously.
"Definitely murder, probably with a blunt instrument. Keep an eye out for something heavy, with a curved edge. And he wants us to ask the staff whether they heard anyone leave or enter the house last night, and meet him at the scene as soon as possible."
Hugh nodded firmly. "Right, Miss. Where do you think we should start?"
"With the servants. Then we'll check the study for the murder weapon: if we found one there, I don't see why we shouldn't hope for a second."
...
As it turned out, Jack was able telephone Phryne back just a short while later and tell her not to worry about looking for the murder weapon. Returning to the hallway where Higgins was continuing his careful examination of every inch of the stairs, Jack raised his gaze a couple of feet and almost immediately spotted two likely candidates in the form of a pair of ornate silver candlesticks on a dresser. Donning his gloves he lifted one and examined it. By his estimation the curved base would nicely match the wound on Charlotte Postlethwaite's head, but the base was clean. The other candlestick, however, was slightly out of position and bloodied.
"Higgins!"
"Oh, well done Sir."
He shrugged. "Weapon of opportunity. Which means she was pushed, then struck where she fell. The killer probably fled through the front door as the household was responding to the noise."
"Sir?" Both officers turned as a constable entered the hallway. Jack glanced at Higgins – as far as the constable was concerned this was still the sergeant's scene – but realised almost immediately that both men now considered him to be in charge.
"Yes, Abbott?"
Constable Abbott glanced at Higgins, appeared to read the situation, and addressed himself primarily to the Inspector. "It's the gardener's boy, sir; I think you might want to come and speak with him."
The lad was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, wiry and tanned from his labours, and quite literally the 'gardener's boy' being, in fact, his eldest son.
"Now, tell them what you told me," Abbot prompted. The boy gulped, nervous in the presence of such authority, but bravely began speaking. This, Jack recalled, was the lad who had found the scene surrounding his dead master's body and had the presence of mind not only to bring a police officer to the house but, presumably, to ensure that it was the practical and forthright Miss Marjorie Postlethwaite the officer spoke to, rather than any other member of the household.
"Well, sirs, it's like this. I were out with me mates last night – nothin' dodgy, I swear, we was just mucking around on the foreshore – but me dad always says that if I stop out late I gotta stop out the night on account of me not waking the little ones, an' he don't want to see me 'til work the next morning. So anyway after we left the beach I decided I'd come and doss down here in the scullery. Cook don't mind, just as long as I don't touch anything, and then I'm all bright eyed and fit for work the next morning. I was just sneaking in the door when I heard a car pulling up on the driveway. I peeked out, an' it was Mr. Archibald's car. Real late it was, 'round midnight I'd say."
"Did you see who was in the car?"
The lad shook his head. "No sir, sorry sir, but if Mr. Archibald caught me sneaking round here late at night he'd think I was after more than a place to sleep, an' we can't afford to lose our jobs. I slipped inside an' hid meself away in the scullery before I even heard the car door slam. No toff's gonna come looking in there. Got me head down and went to sleep, 'til I heard Miss Marjorie yellin' for help."
"Did you see whether Mr. Archibald's car was still here at that point?"
He shook his head again, looking ashamed. "I was scared I'd be caught, so I didn't dare come out until morning, even with them shouting that Mrs. Charlotte was dead. But I remember hearing the car pull away just before Miss Marjorie yelled." He nodded decisively. "I remember that right enough."
...
"So Archibald Postlethwaite lay in wait for Charlotte in the hallway, then pushed her down the stairs," Jack told Phryne as they sat in his office several hours later, a sheaf of notes, the barbiturates, the dagger, and the candlestick on the desk between them. Archibald Postlethwaite was in a cell, vehemently protesting his innocence whenever an officer came within earshot. "Bernard confirms that they had an assignation that night."
"With her husband not even decently buried," Phryne remarked archly. "Somehow I doubt Archie would approve."
"He might not have approved, but he was certainly counting on it. I wonder what he would have done if Charlotte had disappointed him."
Phryne shrugged. "Probably snuck into her room and finished her off while she slept, then flung her down the stairs as planned."
"I still can't believe I was fool enough to tell his wife that Charlotte was pregnant." Jack's tone was harsh with self-recrimination, and Phryne sighed, knowing that left to his own devices he would happily wallow in guilt over that mistake for the foreseeable future.
"He would have had to have realised eventually. How much longer before she started to show?"
Jack shrugged, both because he really had no idea about how these things worked and because it made little difference to his self-loathing. Realising that she wasn't going to get anywhere with this anytime soon, Phryne decided to try distraction as a tactic instead.
"Perhaps it's time we went and interviewed Mr. Postlethwaite."
...
Archibald Postlethwaite sat before them at the interview table, back straight and shoulders back.
"I'm telling you, I did not kill my brother, or my sister-in-law."
"Mr. Postlethwaite," Jack began. "Our laboratory has confirmed that William consumed a number of barbiturates with brandy a short while before he was killed. You are the only member of either household who has a prescription for barbiturates. Your car was heard at the house that night, and seen shortly afterwards near the alleyway where your brother was found. The weapon which was used to stab your brother was found in your study. All the evidence points squarely to you."
"Nonetheless, I'm asking you to believe me. After we returned from drinks with Billy and the others I took a sleeping pill and went straight to bed. I slept soundly until Mr. Standley roused me with news of my brother's death."
"You and your wife sleep in separate rooms, don't you Mr. Postlethwaite?"
The man looked affronted. "Of course we do. What kind of man do you take me for?"
"So there are no witnesses to your alibi." Phryne pointed out.
"Last night," Jack jumped in before Archibald could respond. "You left your house again shortly before midnight. A witness saw your car outside your brother's house, and heard it drive away just after Charlotte was pushed down the stairs. You lay in wait for your sister-in-law, knowing that at some point in the night she would likely go to Bernard's room, and pushed her down the stairs, killing both her and her unborn child."
"The child who would have displaced your own as heir to the family fortune," Phryne finished.
"What? No. I would never kill a woman, let alone one who was with child. Ask my wife whether I've ever laid a hand on her with violent intent. But, last night? I was at my club."
"Really?" Phryne raised a sceptical eyebrow. "And how exactly did you get there? Did you perhaps fly out of your window and follow a star?"
The man gave her a withering look. "Of course not. I took a cab."
"When you have a perfectly serviceable car of your own?" Jack asked.
"I'd already taken a sleeping pill, but sometimes they don't work. Rather than stare at the ceiling or rouse another member of the household for company, I chose to go to my club. It's not the first time, and I know better than to drive under the influence of barbiturates. I arrived there at around eleven p.m., signed in, and sat in an armchair in the main bar, where I eventually fell asleep. The staff roused me shortly before six a.m. so that I could make my way back to my own house discreetly. No-one even knew I was gone."
"And can anyone confirm this?" Phryne demanded.
Archibald huffed impatiently. "My signature in the guest register. The night doorman. The bar staff. The concierge, Mr. Willis. The cab driver, although I can't for the life of me remember anything about him. I swear to you, I was not lying in wait for my sister-in-law last night. I am an innocent man, and whoever killed my brother and his wife is still out there."