Chapter Ten
It was evening, and Jack and Phryne were relaxing over a whisky when there was a knock at the door, and Mr Butler ushered Mac into the parlour.
"Mac, come in and try this," said Phryne warmly. "It's from Islay, and it's glorious."
"I will, with thanks – but I'm big with news that you're going to want to hear," said the doctor. Accepting a glass of amber nectar, she took up a pose by the mantelpiece.
"You owe Dot a vote of thanks, Phryne," she began. "Once I'd decided to take a look at the brain of the deceased, the cause of the headaches was obvious."
Pausing for effect, she took a sip of scotch.
"Well?" Phryne wasn't known for her patience, and even Jack was leaning forward intently.
"Brain tumour," said Mac succinctly. "Frontal lobe. Well advanced. He'd probably lost his sense of smell as well. I wonder if anyone noticed any balance issues?" she meditated.
Jack and Phryne exchanged glances.
"But would it have killed him?" asked Phryne.
"Definitely – and probably within a matter of a few months, I'd say," replied Mac.
There was a silence.
"It makes even less sense than it did before," complained Jack. "Why kill someone who was dying anyway?"
"But it doesn't seem that anyone knew he was dying," objected Phryne. "Miss Stubbs said he was refusing to go to the doctor, so it seems likely that not even Father Ryan himself knew."
"And don't forget the note," Jack reminded her. "'You're next' suggests it's part of a chain of killings, but there's certainly nothing in Melbourne that we can tie in. I might have to see if we can get some information from the Irish police – maybe he was escaping from something there?"
They circled round the facts for a few minutes more, but got nowhere; eventually, Mac drained her glass and took her leave.
Jack stood, and drew Phryne to her feet, then asked diffidently, "Miss Fisher, please will you come home with me tonight?"
His worst fear was a polite response. He appeared to be on the receiving end of glee.
"Jack, I really wasn't sure you'd ever ask. I've rather felt that I was only to be allowed to see the side of you that you bring here."
"Oh, you're quite wrong, Miss Fisher," he replied solemnly. "I'm most eager for you to see all sides of me."
For that, she even allowed him to drive. At least it meant the journey was uneventful.
"Jack, your tastes in literature are … offensive," said Phryne, as she trailed a finger along the bookshelf in his study. "Boxing – Queensberry, of course," she nodded approvingly, "shooting … swordplay?"
She looked at him quizzically. He half-raised his glass in acknowledgement.
"I like to be prepared, Miss Fisher. Call me a boy scout of close-quarters small arms if you like."
With an embarrassment of opportunities to embarrass him with such a statement, Phryne was stymied.
She chose instead to pick out at random a leather-bound book on the expertise of one Achille Marozzo. Leafing through it, a reproduction of an old woodcut caught her eye; and the word misericorde. Focused now, she scanned the words and looked at her lover.
"Jack – Jack, we've been so blind."
The mystery was solved. Deciding what to do about it took much longer, and neither of the tireless pursuers of truth was entirely satisfied with the answer; other forms of satisfaction had to be sought instead.