It appears there are some formatting issues with this chapter. I hope a reposting will fix it, if not I shall contact FF (and then not hold my breath). If the problem continues I will probably pause posting until it's resolved, as this block of words makes reading pretty impossible. Please bear with me. Line breaks will back in your town soon. ;)

Chapter 11: Blood Moon

Constable Collins sighed, when he pulled himself to his feet in search of another file on the "Butcher"-case. It probably was lying in the Inspector's office, but for some reason, he hesitated to enter the abandoned room. The emptiness was unsettling despite the knowledge that the DI would be back soon and the fact that at this time of night he would likely be at home.

Hugh didn't know much about why and where the Robinsons had gone. Even Dot didn't seem to have much information beyond that they had gone to Collingwood for an undercover job. The officers at the station had found out even less - only that the Inspector was leaving for "some time". There were whispers and speculation of course, even some talk that he had been fired by Sanderson. Hugh couldn't abide that and so he had spoken up in defence of the Inspector. That again had increased the teasing, the Constable had suffered for his mention in the newspaper. Hugh knew that he couldn't win – the more he defended himself, the more he drew suspicion, while silence just cemented his guilt in the eyes of his co-workers.

The clock ticked the hours away too slow, while the Constable sat bent over the costumary paperwork, silently cursing the Commissioner for having sent the Detective Inspector away before he could manage to wrap up this case. Three more hours. Since Wilkins was lying in bed with a cold, the Constable had to pull a double shift to keep the station running, now that they were two men down. Collins chewed on the end of his pencil and stared at the clock-arms arms, willing them to go faster. It was tempting to just lock the door behind himself and go home to Dottie, her warm kitchen and their bed.

Tonight, not even criminals appeared to see any point in being awake. Besides the rustling of paper and the occasional car outside, there was no noise. Dead silence had fallen, so thick that it could be cut with a knife. Hugh almost jumped, when the phone rang.

X

Thoughtfully, Dot stared into the sugar bowl, while she listened to Jane talking. She probably should have sent the girl to bed but she didn't have school in the morning and truth be told, Dot didn't much enjoy being alone in the house.

Mr. Butler hadn't returned yet from his outing, she was quite sure or he would have let them know on his arrival.. Which meant that it was just the two of them – three if she counted the baby. Dot didn't find the idea of being on her own an overly comforting thought.

She also did cherish her time with Jane as she had missed the girl while she had travelled through Europe and while many things had changed over the last year, nothing at all had changed between them.

"So, what did this Miss Marion have to say?" she asked, yawning.

"It was quite strange," Jane offered, thoughtfully. "I believe she didn't dare speak very openly about Lucy in front of her brother, who was rolling his eyes and being a general pain."

"Brothers can do that to you," Dot grimaced, remembering both of her own.

"The night before she was much more upset about her disappearance."

"So you think, she was lying?" the maid asked. Jane shook her head, sending her braids flying.

"I believe that was the truth. She might have been embarrassed by her family knowing that she came to our house."

"So are you going to give up?"

"What do you think?" Jane grinned.

"Knowing you and considering your education in Miss Fisher's house, pigs may learn to fly first," Dot smiled, getting up to retrieve the pot of cocoa from the stove.

"I also don't think she can afford to pay for a detective," Jane said, pushing her cup over the table to be refilled.

"Surely that's not going to stop you," Dorothy stated, pouring hot liquid into both cups. "I don't believe Miss Fisher's has ever taken a case based only on financial compensation."

Jane chewed on her lip.

"No. She also said that she didn't have much money. But I was just wondering. They seemed to live in a lovely house and she was also well dressed. Yet, there was nothing around. No vases or statuettes, not even a picture on the wall."

"They might have had to sell things, due to the depression," Dot pointed out carefully.

But Jane wasn't listening, she twisted a braid in deep thought, before dropping it suddenly.

"Oh, I've been so stupid. Of course!"

Excitedly she shared her idea. When she had finished both women had a healthy glow to their cheeks. What a shame they had to wait for the morning.

X

It was a young woman. Or at least what was left of her. Her dark hair was matted on her head, leaves stuck in it, dirt smeared over her waxy cheeks from the ditch the killer had dumped her in. A drunk plasterer had found her, when he had tried to take a trip into the bushes on his way home with two of his mates. By now all three looked rather sober and pretty cold.

"How did you find her?" Hugh heard Constable Foster ask one of the men, while he waited crouched beside the corpse, in the way he had seen Inspector Robinson do it a hundred times. It couldn't be that hard to find clues, could it?

"Fell over her, when I went for a leak, didn't I? Was hidden under a pile of leaves the poor thing. She's no older than my lil' girl. If I catch that bastard..."

Collins tried to concentrate and block out the man's swearing. He was right though, she was no older than 17 or 18. Her clothes spoke of poverty even more than her missing shoes. The threadbare blouse and skirt were soaked in a lake of drying blood, as were the sheets someone had wrapped her in. So she had died in a bed. By blood loss seemed the most likely conclusion. He couldn't see any cuts or gunshot wound from the outside.

"Are you going to find out where the blood is coming from, Collins? Or are you suddenly gone shy on women?" a laughing voice beside him asked. Constable Dahle was new to City South and Hugh couldn't help but dislike him. He had a sneaking suspicion that he was not the only one. The Inspector seemed to always be very sarcastic around the young man with the red head of hair. That was generally not a good sign. DI Robinson's tongue could be sharper than this kids razors was.

"That will be done by the Coroner, after the photographs are taken," Hugh said calmly, channelling his inner Jack Robinson. "Now if you would like to head back to the station and go through the missing person's folder..."

Gurgling laughter was the only answer he got for a while.

"I almost thought you were giving me orders there for a moment, Collins."

More laughing followed. Hugh's hands balled into fists, while he battled down the urge to jump up and punch the other man. His attempt at steady breathing brought back the smell of mouldering leaves and blood. It didn't help his anger in the slightest.

"What is so funny, Constable Dahle?" he heard a voice over him.

"Nothing, Inspector Morgan," the kid gurgled. "Only that Collins is suddenly worried 'bout touching a girl. Weren't so shy the other night, were ya, Collins?"

Hugh looked up at both men, trying to read Morgan's face. That Dahle was grinning in a way he would have called evil for lack of a better word, didn't come as a surprise. But the Inspector seemed completely unfazed. Mind you, little ever seemed to shake him up.

"I believe, Constable, you're energy would be better spent at the Station, looking through the missing person's folder for a match," Morgan said smoothly. Hugh's eyebrows rose in surprise. Had that been a trace of sarcasm? Dahle didn't stop laughing, but hinted a mock salute.

"Aye, Sir."

With that he marched off. Morgan shook his head, looking after him and mumbled something under his breath.

"What do we have here, Collins?" he finally asked.

"An unknown young woman, Sir. No papers on her. She was found by those three men over there earlier tonight." He waved at the three guys, still standing shivering around Constable Foster.

"What were they doing down here? It doesn't seem a particularly interesting place to be after midnight," Morgan asked in his low singsong voice. Hugh wondered if he had children. If so, he would never get past the first page of reading them a goodnight story, he was certain.

"They were drunk, Sir, on their way home. One of them, a Gerrard Berning, had to go for a slash, Sir."

Hugh stopped. "Slash" was probably not a word policemen said during an investigation.

"A slash you say?" Morgan mumbled, while Hugh's ears turned a bright shade of red. "Very well. Continue."

"He fell over the body, called down the other two. Robert Edler ran back to the pub and called us, while the other two stood guard. That's really all we know at this stage, Sir."

"Hmmm, beside that she bled to death in a bed," Morgan hummed.

"May I voice a suspicion, Sir?" Hugh asked in sudden boldness.

"Please do."

"The blood seems to concentrate around... here, Sir."

Hugh was worrying at this point, that his ears might start to glow in the dark, but bravely he pointed towards the female parts of the young corpse – or at least, where he gathered they would be hiding under the stained brown cotton.

"Some time back we had a case of backyard abortion, Sir. A young woman, who almost bled to death."

'And was saved by the Cabbies, before Miss Fisher and Dot had gotten the quack doctor responsible, behind bars', Hugh followed this silently. Alice had actually been one of the bridesmaids at his wedding, half a year ago.

"And you think this might have happened here, Constable?"

"It is only a suspicion, Sir."

There was something almost akin to a smile whispering over Morgan's face, as he pulled himself to his feet.

"I'm sure the Coroner's report will show us more," he stated, then glanced at his watch. "Go home now, Collins, I am certain your wife will be waiting for you. Goodnight."

With that he wandered towards the four men still standing in the dark.

Hugh Collins stood lost for a moment, wondering what to do. It didn't feel right to leave the woman alone lying in her blood. But there was little he could do for her tonight. He had to wait until the morning. And Morgan was right, Dot would be waiting for him.

"Goodnight, Sir," he said, for nobody to hear.

X

It certainly wasn't a good night. Phryne hadn't counted how often she'd woken, but it must have been twenty times. It wasn't just her overdose of rest after dozing through most of the day that kept her awake. Nightmares haunted her and whenever she managed to calm down and drift off again, her husband stirred.

Jack had fallen asleep quickly in the end, seemingly exhausted and sated, but it hadn't lasted longer than an hour, before his own coughing had violently shaken him awake again. And Phryne along with him. He'd also tossed and turned in his sleep, as if there were other things on his mind that wouldn't let him find rest and she'd snuck a hand to his forehead several times, scared that her fears would be confirmed and he was running a fever. But every time his skin had been cool in the night air seeping through the thin walls and windows.

Sometime around four she slipped into the kitchen to make sure the fire didn't burn out. Phryne could not remember ever having worried this much about a simple cold, not even in Jane, and deep down she was hoping that Jack was too deeply asleep to notice. She was a little embarrassed by acting like an overprotective mother hen. Yet, she had to admit grumpily to herself, this place made her feel helpless, as if she couldn't protect him or herself from the lurking evil. A memory flashed in front of her eyes, causing her to return to bed in a hurry, snuggling with a racing heart into Jack, who turned to pull her close, as if he could sense her emotions even in his sleep. Phryne wrapped her arms around him, felt his warmth seep through his pyjamas and knew that nothing terrible would happen. They would be alright; he would make sure of it.

When she woke again, she was back on her own side of the bed, grey morning light falling through the window and the mattress moving under Jack's weight. She turned to find to her utter surprise, that he was sitting at the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep off his face with both palms before fastening his watch around his wrist. Phryne pulled herself into a sitting position. She knew this ritual rather well.

"And what exactly do you think you are doing?" she asked.

"I, my beloved wife, am getting ready for work," he smiled, turning to her and leaning in to kiss her on the forehead. Phryne withdrew, unwilling to let herself be calmed.

"You are sick, Jack!"

"I've got a cold. It won't kill me. And I cannot afford to lose my job," her husband pointed out, attempting to hide his disappointment at her reaction, while he collected his clothes.

"It's just a cover, Jack!"

Phryne closed her mouth, realising that the desperation in her voice was too telling. In fact, Jack was currently staring at her in mild confusion.

"I don't believe, you getting yourself seriously ill, will be helpful for our success in this investigation," she said quietly, remembering the thin walls. "You don't need this factory job. We don't actually depend on it, if you should have forgotten!"

Jack Robinson stood for a moment dumbfounded. Then he sat down, gently cupping her cheek, which told his wife that he had seen right through her argument.

"I am alright, Phryne. There is no need to worry. But it is necessary that I find out what people at James & Willerson's know. I overheard a very interesting conversation yesterday."

After he had told her the details, he leaned in to kiss her head again and this time Phryne surrendered, allowing herself to wrap an arm around him.

"I admire your commitment in this investigation, Inspector. But I would appreciate if you make an effort to not kill yourself in the progress," she quipped, her eyes belying the humorous tone of her voice.

"I will try my hardest," he promised with a wry smile, stroking a lock of hair from her face, before inspecting his watch. "However, I do have to get ready for work."

At witnessing the look she gave him, he added: "It's only a half day, Phryne and tomorrow is Sunday, the Lord's day of rest. And if you wish, I will spend it entirely in bed."

His wife smiled mischievously, running a teasing finger down his chest.

"What did you have in mind, Jack?"

"Sleeping off my cold, mostly," he grinned, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to the tip of her cheeky finger. "But if I don't want a cold wash, I do have to go," he prompted, pulling himself to his feet and leaving the bedroom. He did seem a little better, Phryne had to admit, but nevertheless, she wasn't at all happy with his unwillingness to see reason. For a long moment she sat, her knees pulled up to her chest, staring out the window into the cold autumn morning. She felt exhausted, despite spending what must have been twenty hours in bed. Finally she made a decision.