Chapter Seven
When he took the oars the following day, she discovered that he hadn't been expressing false modesty. After he'd caught several crabs, she lost patience and told him to swap seats with her. His pride fought with her determination, but in the end he had to admit to himself as he trailed his fingers in the water that there were worse ways to spend a working day than idling about in a boat on the edges of the Yarra with the delicious Miss Fisher.
It took her only a few minutes to bring the boat in to shore almost opposite the boathouse where the murder had taken place; an overhanging tree provided them with cover, and they settled in for a long wait. As Miss Fisher had firm views on such matters, Mr Butler had been prevailed upon to provide a picnic.
"Who owns the boathouse, anyway?" whispered Phryne, as she generously slathered a scone with butter and jam. She then placed it in his mouth, which rather hampered his reply.
"It's disused, but it's owned by the University," he managed, once he'd swallowed his mouthful. "I think it came with a parcel of land – not sure it's ever been used by them for its intended purpose."
"Is it worth following up with the University, do you think?" she mused. "I mean, I know young Fred-the-louse has flitted, but maybe someone can shed some light on what happened. Whether he had friends or family."
He nodded. "We could at least find out what job he did, and who he worked with. Maybe someone else knew Ellie too."
He reached for another slice of the raised pork pie, another of Mr B's specialities. As he did so, though, Phryne gripped his forearm.
"Jack, look!"
As they watched, a figure came walking briskly along the river path. It was hard to tell whether it was man or woman, so closely was it huddled in hat and coat with collar upturned. The person was tall, though, and the long stride was masculine.
Looking neither right nor left, it made straight for the boathouse and disappeared round the back, towards the entrance.
"Can you get us across to the other side of the river?" whispered Jack urgently.
"I think so," she replied, and lifted the oars. Bending to the task, she headed diagonally upriver; he quickly appreciated her purpose when the current gradually caught them and pushed them downriver. By the time they were approaching the opposite bank, they were almost exactly opposite the point at which they'd started.
There was no cover, though – it was almost fifty yards downstream to the nearest overhanging vegetation.
"Hang on, Jack – let's get the boat as far as that shrub to tie up to," urged Phryne in a low voice.
"No time," he muttered. "Let me off, and take the boat down there. Can you tie it up by yourself?"
"Yes, of course, but wait a second, let me …."
She turned to reach to the bank for some handhold, to keep the craft steady while Jack went ashore.
He failed to wait for her to do so; once again demonstrating that although he could be useful in all sorts of ways on ocean liners, he was not the shipmate of choice for anyone navigating a small craft.
One foot was safely on the bank, the other in the boat, and he leaned to try and grab a handhold among the grass. His weight shifted forward, and he instinctively pushed with his back foot.
Phryne could see what was going to happen, and was powerless to stop it; she prepared for the inevitable by wrapping one arm tightly round her waist, and raising the other hand to cover her mouth, the better to stifle her giggles.
Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson made an appreciable splash when the inevitable disjunction of boat and bank became greater than the length of his stride.
Mrs Robinson wept with laughter, and rescued his hat as it sailed past her, before once more reaching for her oars.
A tall figure exited the boat house, unnoticed either by the (mostly) dry sleuth or the drenched one.