Chapter Five

If anyone had asked Phryne to describe a rectory, it probably would have involved crumbling stonework, stewed tea and a retainer with an incontinence issue.

It was hard, therefore, to reconcile herself to the premises in Napier St.

"Come in, please!" exclaimed the young lady who answered the door, her golden hair forming what appeared to be almost a halo around her head. She was dressed plainly, with an apron covering her blouse and skirt.

Jack and Phryne exchanged glances.

Young lady?

"I'm so sorry, we're in the middle of story time, but if you wouldn't mind going into the parlour, I can be with you shortly."

They dutifully walked into the front room and assumed suitably grownup poses in what appeared to be, to all intents and purposes, a nursery.

Phryne experimented with sitting in a wing chair, and leaped up again quite promptly when she discovered an unexpected model of St Patrick's Cathedral on the cushion.

Jack failed to hide a smile, mostly because letting Phryne see it was more fun; and her revenge was sweet when he stepped on to a wooden truck and staggered back to his feet only thanks to a handy and supportive aspidistra.

Open warfare of a thoroughly childish nature was avoided when the young lady re-entered the room.

"Thank you for waiting – I would have let somebody else finish, but when someone else does the voices, it's never the same, is it?"

Jack agreed that it wasn't, and showed her his badge. All of a sudden, the atmosphere was decidedly grownup.

"I'm sorry, miss but I don't know your name?"

She smiled. "Evangeline Stubbs." She went to sit on the same chair Phryne had just rejected, and neatly removed the ecclesiastical architecture. Phryne looked in her purse for her card.

"How can I help you, Inspector?" Her open glance at the man Phryne had long since decided was the finest of Melbourne's finest took a little … ignoring. His response was, she decided, culpably suave, tempered with a hint of professional gravitas, dropping his voice to an octave that she could have sworn was her personal territory.

"Miss Stubbs," he said. Invitingly. How dare he? For God's sake, he was even giving her his card.

"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson." He gave Miss Stubbs that half-smile and little head tilt. The last time Phryne'd seen those was when she'd worn her sables. Actually, strictly speaking, it was when she'd taken off her sables and accidentally-on-purpose taken off Madame Fleuri's latest triumph at the same time.

She still had her card in her hand, but it was becoming a little crumpled at the edges.

"And I'm Phryne Fisher, Detective, Miss Stubbs," she added sweetly, handing over her slightly mangled card.

Jack didn't bat an eyelid, but possibly experienced a spine extension of an inch or so. That could happen when Phryne's voice jarred on a C double sharp.

With no more than a mild twitch of the lips, he pressed on with the investigation.

"Miss Stubbs, I presume you know Father Ryan?"

She looked at him in surprise.

"Well, of course, Our priest here at St Peter's. Why?"

Jack looked at Phryne and concluded this task had been left to him.

"I'm sorry, Miss Stubbs, but Father Ryan is dead."

Miss Stubbs paled. "Dead? How can that be? He was quite a young man."

"I'm afraid he's been murdered, Miss," Jack said gently.

"But that's awful!" Her eyes were filling with tears. "Who on earth would do such a thing?"

"That's what we hope to find out, Miss Stubbs," said Phryne briskly. "Can I ask what your role is here?"

"Oh, I just help out with the children, Miss Fisher. Father kindly lets us use the rectory for a nursery hour every day." She seemed dazed. "This is extraordinary. Why would anyone kill Father Ryan? I don't think he had an enemy in the world."

"Would it be possible for us to search his rooms, Miss? I apologise for the necessity," Jack added, "but I'm sure you appreciate that we must move as quickly as possible."

She acquiesced, and showed them to Father Ryan's study, closing the door behind her as she left.

Phryne sat at the desk, and started pulling out the drawers; Jack found a diary and leafed through it. However, their search for anything untoward was fruitless.

"How can anyone lead such a tediously blameless life?" asked Phryne crossly. "He even paid his bills on time. And balanced his cheque book weekly."

"Only you, Miss Fisher, could express irritation with a corpse," remarked Jack. "I'm going to take away the diary anyway." Phryne leaned down and picked up the waste paper basket, poking through it with a desultory air. Then she stiffened.

"Jack, what's this?" He came to look over her shoulder. She held a single sheet of crumpled notepaper, on which was scribbled a succinct message in capital letters.

"YOU'RE NEXT"

Their eyes met.

"Clearly, someone thought he wasn't as blameless as he appeared," said Jack. "Well done, Miss Fisher."

She preened. "Perhaps we should grill Miss Stubbs about Father Ryan's state of mind last time she saw him," she suggested with an alacrity that was bordering on unbecoming.

"Perhaps we should," he agreed.

Miss Stubbs, though, was unhelpful.

"Really, he seemed quite as normal, Inspector. I mean, he had a headache, he said, and asked for an aspirin, but that wasn't at all unusual. He's a martyr to his headaches." She realised her mistake. "Was, I should say."

Phryne could see her eyes becoming dewy again, and decided it was time they beat a hasty retreat before Jack decided to proffer a gentlemanly hanky.

Really, how could anyone manage even to cry prettily? It was Positively Rude.