Chapter Six
"So, who do we inform? How do we find her mother? She's presumably next of kin?" asked Jack.
"Well," Phryne thought aloud, "unless you fancy touring the docks for information on a miscellaneous youth who's just taken ship," (the Inspector shuddered), "I'd suggest you try the Catholic churches, starting with Richmond. Then, perhaps, South Melbourne – but I'd guess Richmond."
"Sounds fair," he admitted, "but why Richmond?"
"The boathouse, for a start. If it was a trysting-place for Ellie and her lover, it's likely to have been within walking distance of her home." She gave him an assessing glance. "Will you accept help from Dot and me, Jack? I want to get to the bottom of this. The only thing left that I can do for Ellie now is prove that she didn't take her own life."
Phryne may not have been suffering from nausea, but Jack's stomach had definitely started churning. Yes, Miss Fisher, please do plough in to help me track down a potential murderer while you're carrying our child.
But this was the deal, he told himself sternly. This was always going to have been the deal. He could no more ask her to give up investigations for the duration of her pregnancy than he could ask the Chief Commissioner to let him sit behind a desk making paper aeroplanes for the next seven months.
"Of course," he replied, hoping she hadn't noticed his hesitation.
(She had, but as the answer was what she wanted, she'd decided to let the matter rest – for now).
"We can get Hugh and Dot to cover their own doorstep in South Melbourne while you and I take you back home to Richmond?" she suggested mildly. He agreed the logic, and the plan was made.
Mrs Collins was, predictably, horrified when escorted by her husband to City South for a conference.
"That poor girl! Yes, of course Hugh and I can go and ask at the church, but I don't think she was of our congregation. I can't think of an Ellie at all." They hurried away, leaving Mr & Mrs Robinson to venture out to Richmond in the Hispano-Suiza.
"Ellie?" ruminated the priest, when they managed to track him down. "Could it be Ellie Spratt, you mean? She must be, oh, around nineteen now, I'd think. A delightful girl – a great help to her mother." He willingly provided an address, to which they found they could walk from the church. The house was tiny, and Phryne wondered how on earth a large family had managed to cram themselves in.
Mrs Spratt, when she came to the door, exacerbated the question. How, wondered Phryne, could anyone else at all fit into the house with a lady of such extraordinary girth already ensconced? Her manner was far from welcoming, and it took all of Jack's determination to avoid having the interview on the doorstep.
"I'm sure I don't know why you think I can help you, Inspector," the woman grumbled as she led the way to her kitchen. Ignoring them, she heaved her bulk onto a sturdy chair at the head of the table – clearly her accustomed spot from which to direct activities. "We keep ourselves to ourselves, Ellie and me."
Phryne, meanwhile, was prowling the room, and pounced upon a photograph sitting on the dresser. A family group, it had a slightly more svelte Mrs Spratt holding court in the centre, with nine children of various ages distributed round her, dressed in punishing Sunday best.
"Just you and Ellie is it, Mrs Spratt?" she asked.
"S'right. That's her, sitting on my knee. Mr Spratt was killed right at the start of the war, so I've brought them all up myself," she said virtuously.
"Do you happen to have a more recent photograph of Ellie, Mrs Spratt?" asked Jack carefully.
"Couldn't rightly say," was the disinterested reply. "You can see her yourself, anyway – she'll be home soon. Went out before I was awake this morning." Then she frowned. "Come to think of it, she didn't come in until after I'd gone to bed last night, either. I'll tan her hide for her when I see her. Out gallivanting with that young man of hers."
Then she slapped a hand on the table. "I tell a lie – there is a photo, you know. They went to Luna Park and there was a fella taking pictures. Ellie got him to take one of her and Fred."
She pointed imperiously. "Look in the middle drawer of the dresser there."
Nothing loth, Phryne did as she was bid and after only a little shuffling through what was obviously the makings of a family album, if only someone bothered to do the work of sticking them in, she unearthed the picture in question. Looking up at Jack, she nodded – it was Ellie, all right.
Jack cleared his throat.
"Mrs Spratt, I'm afraid I have some bad news …"
The woman was disbelieving, then upset, then moved swiftly on to self-pity. Unbelievably, her chief concern appeared to be that there would be no-one to look after her.
"Can you tell us more about – Fred, did you say?" asked Jack, doggedly trying to get a word in edgeways amidst the outpourings of woe.
"Yeah, Fred. Not much," she shrugged. "Said he worked at the University, but I don't know what he does for 'em."
"You … don't happen to know his last name?" hazarded Phryne.
"Not a clue, love," came the reply. "Only met him once. Not like he's going to be much help to me now, anyway."
Mrs Spratt was evidently one of those people who sit at the centre of their own universe; and as such, it became increasingly clear that she would be of little further assistance to the sleuths. They excused themselves, but asked if they could borrow the photograph.
They then sat in the Hispano, staring at the picture glumly.
"A dead girl; a runaway boyfriend; and a mum whose only concern seems to be who's going to wait on her hand and foot in future." Phryne looked at Jack. "We're not exactly awash with likely suspects, Jack. How on earth do we go forward?"
He tapped the photograph against his fingers pensively. "We need to know why she went to the boathouse. Clearly, she didn't tell her mum she was going; and if she didn't commit suicide – yes, all right – AS she didn't commit suicide, she had to have been going to meet someone. If the place is used regularly by the same person, we might get lucky."
He tilted his head at her.
"Can I tempt to you a little boating trip tomorrow, Mrs Robinson?"
She grinned. "They do say that all the nice girls love a sailor, Mr Robinson."
He caught the hand that was reaching for the self-starter, and kissed the fingertips. "Then I have to hope you're not a nice girl," she narrowed her eyes at him, "because I'm no sailor." She giggled, floored the accelerator, and spent the evening reassuring him on that important point.