"If he didn't kill Charlotte, can we be sure the he killed William?" Phryne asked, as she and Jack made their way to Archibald Postlethwaite's club.
"No, but we can't be sure he didn't, either," Jack replied.
"But it makes it less likely. Which means we're back to square one."
"Let's just confirm Archibald's alibi for last night before we dismiss the charges entirely," Jack suggested.
But Archibald Postlethwaite's signature was right there in the club register, as plain as day. Jack turned back to the previous page and found another signature to compare it to. The more recent signature was slightly uneven, as though the writer had indeed been under the influence of something, but clearly a match for Archibald's. An errand boy was dispatched to summon the night doorman and barman while Jack and Phryne spoke with the concierge, Mr. Willis.
"Yes, Mr. Postlethwaite was asleep in the main bar when I arrived this morning," Willis confirmed.
"And was that unusual?" Jack asked. The man sighed, and leaned forward confidentially.
"You understand that this club prides itself on its discretion?" At Jack's nod he went on. "Mr. Postlethwaite suffered shellshock, from the war. His doctor had prescribed him barbiturates to help him sleep, but sometimes they were inadequate. It wasn't a regular occurrence for Mr. Postlethwaite to end up asleep here, but it wasn't unknown either. On those occasions, I would rouse him when I arrived at six, provide him with strong coffee, and summon a cab to drive him home."
"All in the name of discretion?" Phryne asked.
"Mr. Postlethwaite has a reputation as a respectable, upstanding gentleman, as do all the gentlemen who favour our club. To be seen staggering home, or to his office, in the early hours of the morning having clearly spent the night in his suit would hardly be fitting to a man of his station. So we ensured that it did not happen."
The night doorman, grumpy at being roused from his bed so soon after finishing his shift, nonetheless confirmed that Archibald Postlethwaite, awake but obviously under the influence of a sedative, had arrived at the club at around eleven o'clock the night before, and had not left until he came out to meet his cab at around six a.m. The similarly-grumpy barman had kept an eye on him all night from his place behind the bar and hadn't seen him move from the time he fell asleep, and whilst he could have left through the kitchen, none of the day staff could recall hearing any of the night staff remark upon seeing one of the gentlemen 'out back', which they would have done had such a thing happened.
"So Archibald Postlethwaite wasn't lying in wait for Charlotte at midnight," Phryne concluded as they headed back to the car. "Damn. And I was so certain we'd solved our case."
Jack smiled, amused. "Last night you were disappointed to discover that Archibald was our killer," he remarked, but then sobered. "But who else could it have been?"
"Charlotte couldn't have killed herself, and I don't think Bernard would have killed her," Phryne enumerated. "Marjorie had more to gain by killing Archibald than Billy. Archibald had the means – sleeping pills, dagger, and car – the motive – his children's inheritance and the chance to secure the family business and assets against Billy's gambling – and the opportunity to kill Billy, but he has an alibi for Charlotte's murder. Which means either he's innocent of both murders, or we have two murderers."
"None of the household staff had a motive to kill either William or Charlotte," Jack continued. "Collins' interviews were quite thorough on that point, and he made certain to have them corroborate each other's stories as well. Who else is there?"
They paused for a moment in thought, and then their eyes met as another name occurred to both of them simultaneously, the name of a quiet, demure woman easily overlooked amongst the vocal, vile characters who dominated the Postlethwaite family. "Josephine Postlethwaite!" the two exclaimed at once.
"She had access to her husband's pills," Phryne began.
"And the daggers in his study," Jack went on.
"She can drive a motorcar, and we only have her word for it that she chooses not to."
"She was there when William's drink was spiked."
"She could easily have crept out of the house while her husband was under the influence of his pills, or at his club."
"But how did she move William's body?" Jack asked.
"And why did she do it?" Phryne added.
...
"She must have had help to move William." Back at the station they had made their way to Jack's office to continue the discussion with access to the case-notes thus far. Archibald Postlethwaite had not yet been released from custody, on the basis that there was still evidence against him for William's murder; they still had questions for him; and because, as Jack put it, guilty or not at least this way they knew where he was.
"That means an accomplice," Phryne observed. "And if we can figure out who, then we can lean on them for a confession."
"Unless it was Charlotte," Jack pointed out. Phryne made a face.
"Well, if it was then there's not much chance of talking to her again. Unless you're interested in another séance?" This time it was Jack's turn to make a face.
"As helpful as another interview with Charlotte Postlethwaite might be at this stage, Miss Fisher, I really don't see the colourful imaginings of a charlatan being accepted as evidence in any credible courtroom."
Whatever reply Phryne might have made was cut off by Hugh's brisk tap on the door. "Sir? Mr. Postlethwaite's solicitor wants to speak with you."
"Thank you Collins. Tell him I'll be right there."
"Yes, sir."
Phryne's lips thinned with distaste. "If Archibald Postlethwaite's solicitor is anything like the type of man I imagine he'd hire, you're going to have no option but to let him go."
Jack sighed. "I rather fear you may be right, Miss Fisher."
A brief conversation with their erstwhile suspect and his solicitor was all it took to confirm their suspicions. Neither man had any time for the now-shaky case against Archibald, and in the end Jack could only resign himself to the inevitable and release him.
"So, what do you know about Josephine Postlethwaite?" he asked, when he had returned to his office and recounted all this to Phryne.
She thought for a moment. "Very little, I'm afraid. Archie doesn't approve of frivolity, so they don't socialise much as a couple, and I've never seen much of Josephine without him, either."
"No trips to the salon for our Mrs. Postlethwaite, then?"
"Not my salon, at any rate. But looking at her hair and clothes, I'd say her husband keeps her on a relatively tight budget."
"It could simply be her choice."
She favoured him with a withering look. "Does Archibald Postlethwaite really strike you as the sort of man who takes any interest whatsoever in the choices of the people around him? However his wife dresses, it's how he chooses to have her dress, not what she might choose for herself."
"You think she'd kill for a pretty dress?"
"I think she'd kill for freedom."
Their eyes widened as the same thought occurred to both of them.
"Getting William and Charlotte out of the way isn't the end of it." Phryne's words tumbled out in a rush. "With them dead, Archie inherits, but Josephine's position is the same as it always was: still firmly under her husband's thumb."
"But if Archibald dies too, her eldest son becomes heir – and he's still a child."
"Meaning that Josephine would likely have significant discretion in managing his financial affairs until he reaches his majority-"
"By which stage, no doubt, her own fortunes will have been greatly improved."
"But how on Earth are we supposed to convince Archie that his own wife is likely out to kill him?" Phryne finished.
Hugh's next interruption could not have been more timely. "Sir, Mr. Bernard Postlethwaite is here, and asking to see you. He says it's urgent." The constable stepped further into the room, pushing the door almost closed behind him and dropping his voice. "He seems quite upset, sir."
"Thank you, Collins; please show him in."
Bernard Postlethwaite looked, if anything, even more rumpled and dishevelled than he had at their previous encounters. There was also a wildness about his eyes and a distinct whiff of alcohol that suggested he might have partaken of a measure or two of Dutch courage before coming to see them.
"Archie didn't kill Billy," he burst out, as soon as he entered the room. "I know this because I helped Josephine move the body. It was Josephine: Josephine killed my brother."
Jack and Phryne exchanged a look. This was the break that they had been waiting for, but nonetheless...
"Mr. Postlethwaite, I must caution you that you've just admitted to a very serious offense. If you'd like to have your solicitor present-"
"Do you think I give a damn about what you might do to me? The woman's insane! She killed Billy; she killed Charlotte; God only knows how long it'll be before she sets her sights on me. She's mad, I tell you, and you have to stop her!"