Chapter 5: Solar Flare

The grey morning light woke her. She was freezing and Jack was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Robinson groaned, sitting up in bed. She had rather hoped that it had been a dream. But no, she was in fact back in Collingwood. Right now she was in a good mood to pack her things, grab the Inspector and return to St. Kilda to tell Sanderson where he could stuff his undercover work. But his words still rang in her ears. "Whoever is producing this crap is killing people." She was a detective and she would find those people, while keeping Jack here with her long enough to let justice take it's course in the Browning case. She would not allow this woman to ever walk free again.

It had been a long time since she had been really furious with Jack's kidnappers, but there was still a tiny ball of fire glowing somewhere deep in her stomach, reserved for them. They had sent her through hell that day that he had disappeared and the following two, when he had struggled for his life with her unable to do anything but watch on and hold his hand. She didn't even want to think about what Jack had gone through in his time bound to a chair in a dark basement, fever ridden and slowly bleeding to death. So, if they had managed to get through this and the big War, surely they could survive a few days in Collingwood to find a grog baron, who was poisoning young lads with his drinks. With fresh resolve Phryne swung her legs out of bed to go look for her husband. They had discussed their plans last night, when both of them had been lying awake after sleeping through most of the afternoon. The Inspector was intent on finding himself work in one of the surrounding factories, while Phryne would pretend for a while to be a nice little housewife. Her protest that she was more than capable of work, he had defied. They were meant to be impoverished Richmond middle class after all and as Mr. Turner, he would rather work two jobs than have his wife go into a factory, he had explained. Mrs. Robinson could not really deny that. She suspected that Jack Robinson, a former middle class policeman born and raised in Richmond, would consider taking on a second job before he would ever ask her to go into a factory as well. The thought didn't annoy her as much as it should have.

"I also need you to keep your ears open around here," he had said after a pause in which she had pondered this. "Gossip flows best in people's kitchens."

"You want me to make some friends, Jack?" she had asked.

"Well, we are trying to be good neighbours," he had smiled, kissing her neck. And that had been the end of that discussion. Phryne smiled, while her naked feet moved over the floor boards. She barely avoided the spider, which had decided to have a break from her window seat and looked at Mrs. Robinson in disgust, when she almost stepped on it.

"Sorry," Phryne quipped, feeling suddenly like she was on a big adventure. She fired up the oven with newly found enthusiasm. So what if they were playing this act for a few days? It could even be fun, if she tried hard enough and managed to shake off the dark thoughts. By now her bladder was complaining, which didn't bode well. Sighing, Phryne pulled on some boots, before she left through the back door. In her experience, outdoor toilets had a tendency to not be kind on bare feet. This one was no exception, she found. The sound of splashing water drew her to the small shed functioning as a wash house. Phryne silently stopped in the open door. Jack was standing over a washing dish, only in his trousers. She watched the muscles move under his skin, while he rubbed water over face and neck, the morning sun falling through the open window, bathing him into it's light. Some water dribbled down over his chest, caught in the fine hair; glittering droplets in the sun. Something about the sight let his wife stand in the door with her heart beating against her ribs. While yes, she did feel the urge to continue last night's activities, that wasn't what was holding her in stunned silence. She found that the warm emotion spreading through her chest, was pride. Her husband, beautiful, strong and yet, vulnerable. He turned, with a towel in his hands, grinning a lopsided grin at her.

"How long have you been standing there?" he asked.

"Long enough."

His eyebrows rose at this.

"Long enough for what, Mrs. Turner?"

Phryne walked into the wash house, having the presence of mind to trail her fingers through his washing bowl. There was no point in forgetting about basic hygiene she found, unromantic as it might be. Then she stepped towards him, drying herself onto the towel now wrapped around his neck.

"To realise that I have married a very attractive man."

She ran her palm through the soft curls covering his chest, watched his blood beat against the skin of his neck.

"Who will be late for the job he is hoping to get, if he doesn't leave," Jack grinned, gently peeling her from himself to grab his shirt.

"You are no fun, Jack," his wife pouted, helping him to close his buttons.

"That might very well be, Fanny," he said. "But I fear, right now we cannot afford much fun."

He took her by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to her lips, before he twirled to fish for his coat and headed back into the house. Phryne stared at the washing bowl he had forgotten about in his hurry, pulling her lips into a pout. Then she sighed and started to clean up his mess. Fanny was a house wife after all. And Phryne Robinson didn't do things by halves as a general rule.

X

Dorothy Collins poured herself a cup of tea and inspected the clock ticking over her kitchen counter. If Hugh didn't get up soon, he would be late for his shift. In the same moment, she heard steps overhead and smiled to herself. Her mental urging always seemed to raise him. Of course, Father Grogan would find that train of thought highly offensive. Superstition was a mortal sin after all. But then, maybe the connection between a husband and wife was more a gift from God than magic. Dot shoved a piece of bread into her mouth and fished for the paper. She might as well get a look, before Hugh would riffle through it and get it all wrinkly.

The newspapers were still full of the Butcher-Case, with the details slowly leaking into the public, mixed with wild speculations. Dot had spent two years with Miss Fisher and been seeing Hugh almost as long, but it still seemed awkward to her to read about their cases in the press. As if it was something private, while articles were something that happened to other people, public people. By now the information had moved a few pages back, but they were still keeping people occupied, she found, even two days after Darius Johnson had indeed turned out to be the serial-killer, stabbing men during their recreational activities with certain ladies. Dot knew that the former convict had been in the spotlight of this investigation early, but had managed to slip through the cracks. Not that Hugh was supposed to share this information with her, but she guessed that if Inspector Robinson could bring his wife into his cases, so could Constable Collins. And so she read the article only half-hearted, while chewing on the rind of her bread, smiled about the silly things the papers had made up. Just the moment Hugh Collins walked through the door, already donning his black uniform, she dropped her hand, leaving the slice hanging in her mouth.

"What?!" her muffled voice said, before she remembered to take the bread down and lay it onto her plate.

"Morning, Dottie," Hugh said, stepping behind her. "What are you reading?"

To his utter surprise, Dorothy jumped to her feet, almost knocking over the teapot.

"Hugh Collins! I don't believe this!"

X

After two cups of tea, a made bed and the realisation that she was dragging this out, Fanny Turner left the house, an old basket hanging off her arm. To her relief, the other cottages lay quietly in the morning sun. Phryne really wasn't a very neighbourly person. The idea that you should like people just because they had moved in beside you disconcerted her. Of her own neighbours in St. Kilda she only knew old Mr. Hobert, who she usually greeted in a friendly manner whenever she saw him and otherwise left him in peace. Luckily, he felt the very same way and had not once demanded a cup of sugar or a chat with her. And now she was supposed to make contact with the people here that she didn't share the slightest interest with? A little voice in her head told her that she was lying to herself. She was a Collingwood girl after all. She vaguely remembered the families that had lived around them back in the day. There had been quite a few families, plenty of shabby little girls wearing the same dress all year round, that flew up, when they would hop through their chalk squares on the footpaths and cheeky little boys, who were always willing to gamble their cherry stones against the Fisher sisters. Phryne's pockets had never held much money as a girl but always plenty of cherry stones. She returned to the presence to find a smile glued to her face.

Her feet had, without asking for permission, found their way down to Smiths Street. The contrast to the quiet little streets that made up most of Collingwood was slightly shocking and Phryne stood a moment, trying to orientate herself. Then she straightened her back and marched straight into the next grocery store. The old man behind the counter looked over the rim of his glasses suspiciously when the doorbell rang. Mr. Banning, the owner of the tiny shop, had been in the business for a very long time. He knew people - and something about this woman who wore a dark wool dress like it was the newest haute couture straight from the heart of Paris, seemed slightly dissonant. Yet, her beaming smile was unable to completely hide that she was feeling out of her depths and he couldn't help but grin to himself. So another one of those ladies then. The recession kept flooding people down to Collingwood, when they lost their footing, in wherever circumstances they usually lived. He thought it was quite possible that this very woman hadn't stepped into a grocery shop herself for years. He gently set down the tea jar he had just been busy refilling and greeted the lady.

Mr. Banning might have been surprised by how right he was. Phryne found herself a bit overwhelmed but also intrigued by the colourful little store. It had been a long time since she had bought her own groceries and then it had been shortly after the War, with shortages of many things then. Here, despite the recession the jars and shelves were filled with a variety of products and she realised that she really had no idea what to buy or cook. She looked at the small, baldman behind the counter who offered her his help and let her memory take over. Her basket filled easily, even though the man seemed almost surprised, when she handed him the money with no hesitation and for a moment she wondered if she had failed her role. But then he smiled and she remembered that Fanny wasn't really used to poverty either. He probably thought she was overspending. She might have to tone it down a bit in the future. Phryne turned, almost bumping into a lady that had stepped behind her, currently browsing the selection of bread on offer.

"Oh, so sorry," the blonde breathed, taking a step backwards. Then suddenly recognition lit up the beautiful face.

"You moved in beside us yesterday, didn't you?"

Phryne didn't answer. She was not quite sure if she had, since she had never seen the woman. But it was probably safest to just play along.

"You must be one of our new neighbours then," she said, extending her hand. "Fanny Turner. I just moved in yesterday with my husband. We sadly didn't have time yet to say hello."

Her hand was shaken with enthusiasm, while Mr. Banning watched on over the rims of his glasses, before returning his attention to a brown jar.

"Oh, don't worry about that. You are surely still settling in. But you should come over for a cup of tea someday. Mind you, I'll have to buy some tea first, I am out," the woman laughed, then babbled on. "But it is lovely to have neighbours again, the house has been empty for a while. Some people came the other day, looked rather grim, and I thought to myself, 'oh dear, they won't move in there, will they?' You know, you don't want just anyone to move in beside you. But you two make certainly a beautiful couple. No children though?"

Phryne shook her head, slightly overwhelmed by the steady stream of words coming from the woman's mouth, even though she had to admit, that her still nameless neighbour had a nice voice, soft and flowing like velvet with just a hint of an accent.

"No, I'm afraid we haven't been blessed," she smiled thinly, thinking of Jane and briefly feeling like the worst mother under the sun for denying her. But it was a job after all.

"Oh, they're only a blessing at times," the woman laughed. "My two are mostly trying their hardest to be a curse. Terribly cheeky. But then, they're children so they are meant to be. But I better let you go, or Mr. Banning will never make a sale. So nice to meet you, Fanny."

With that she turned, and already started ordering at the same speed she spoke about anything. Phryne made her way to the door, her thoughts stuck somewhere between amusement and confusion, but completely happy to have escaped, when she realised that she had still no idea who the woman was. She turned.

"I don't think I heard your name, Mrs..."

"Willis. Adelheid Willis," the woman laughed. "Do not try to say the name properly, you will get your tongue into a twist. And we can't have that. It's Belgian."

"Lovely," Phryne smiled. "I shall see you around, Adelheid."

And with that she was gone.

X

"It wasn't me, Dottie! Really!"

Hugh Collins had stared at his wife, who was pacing the kitchen for the better part of half an hour. Mr. Butler, who had innocently brought over some extra bread, now stood leaning against the kitchen counter, wondering if it would be terribly rude to disappear. But then, he could not really leave those two to themselves.

"I know that!" she grumbled under her breath. "But someone told the newspaper it was you. You are even named, Hugh Collins!"

The Constable picked up the discarded pages from the table, reading through the article.

"They are lying, Dottie. I'd never... Look, it was Inspector Robinson. They got their wires crossed. Surely we can call them and tell them... or something. Dottie."

Tobias Butler cleared his throat.

"I think it might not be very wise, Sir, to reveal that Inspector Robinson was involved in this. Especially right now."

The spouses turned to look at him. Mr. Butler had the decency to look embarrassed when he picked up the paper and flipped through to page five.

"Doubts raised about Browning execution," Hugh read aloud. "Is that...?"

Dorothy ripped the paper from his hands, running her eyes over it.

"I believe this might not be a good time for the Inspector to be in the spotlight," Mr. Butler urged. "Especially since he is unable to defend himself at this stage."

"But the papers make it sound like the officer actually had relations with this prostitute," Dot huffed. Tobias nodded.

"So they do, Dorothy. But you know better."

His words hung in the air for a long moment, while Dot stared first at him and then her husband, then finally sank onto a chair.

"Which means, we cannot reveal the truth, without getting the Inspector into trouble. And Miss Phryne," she said quietly, deflating.

"I'm so sorry, Dottie," Hugh whispered, taking his wife's hand. After a long moment, she looked at him with a smile and put her other hand over his. Mr. Butler smiled at the scene. They would get over it. He couldn't help but wonder who had whispered Constable Collins name to the press though. It felt a lot like politics. In the same moment, a rapping at the door interrupted his thoughts. Before he realised that he was in the wrong house, he was already on his way to open it. The woman standing in front of him looked rather flustered and stormed past him with just a faint greeting. Mr. Butler followed her into the kitchen.

"I didn't say a word, Dot. I don't know, who blabbed, but I promise it wasn't me!"

Dorothy looked at her sister, then her husband, then retrieved her hands from him. Hugh looked like he wanted to die. Mr. Butler sighed. This was going to be a long day.