Chapter Five

"And these are the flowers, Miss?"

Dorothy's brow furrowed as she teased over the sorrowful heads of the bouquet whose stems Mr Butler had carefully wrapped in damp tissue paper.

"I was wondering whether perhaps the initial letters might spell something out?" offered Phryne hopefully.

"Perhaps … said Dot doubtfully. "But I haven't got any vowels. Lilies – tiger lilies, actually – white lilac, cyclamen – so pretty – geranium. Not sure about this one – looks a bit like a fuschia, but it's the wrong colour."

"Can I help, Mrs Collins?" Evangeline Stubbs had entered the kitchen, having apparently successfully stowed both of the Collins offspring somewhere safe.

Dot turned readily to her home help. "Can you, Miss Stubbs? How are you on flowers?"

"Oh, I love flowers!" exclaimed Evangeline, eyes brightening.

Phryne's expression was almost unchanged. She did rather wonder, though, how Dot managed to cope with such enthusiasm every day, at an hour when a reasonable person would only have been contemplating a second cup of coffee rather than a meaningful conversation.

Miss Stubbs, though, was delicately examining the flowers. "It's not fuschia, Mrs Collins – it's bittersweet. Truth."

"Well, of course," said Phryne kindly. Miss Stubbs might not be the most challenging intellect in the world, but no-one thought her a liar. The girl looked up at her and giggled.

"No, no, that's what it means. Truth. Bittersweet stands for truth. So, if you give someone rosemary and bittersweet, you're saying you're remembering everything about them." She giggled again. "Like an elephant."

Dot was slightly wrongfooted by the association, but Phryne had a spark of inspiration.

"Do all of these flowers have meaning, Miss Stubbs?"

"Oh yes, Mrs Robinson," replied the home help artlessly. "The lilac is for innocence, and geraniums mean folly. The lilies are tiger lilies, so they stand for wealth, or pride. And the cyclamen – well, that's a strange one, let me see if I can remember. It's a kind of goodbye, but it's not goodbye, as in, God Be With You – it's more dismissive I suppose." She sat back and shook her head. "A funny bunch of flowers to put together, anyway. I don't think I'd be very pleased if someone gave them to me!"

She went to the sink to put the kettle on; clearly the matter was at an end as far as she was concerned. Dot and Phryne exchanged glances.

"I think Mrs Robinson and I need to go out, Miss Stubbs," said Dot carefully. "Will you be all right? I should be back by tea time."

"Right as rain, Mrs Collins – the darling children will be ready for lunch when they wake up from nap time, and then we can go and have a lovely walk to the park."

Phryne assumed her jolliest smile at all this talk of childcare, and escaped. Elegantly. At a brisk walk. Anyone who called it a sprint was … exaggerating.

Congratulations, Phryne Fisher. Motherhood, you think? Bitten off more than even you can reasonably chew.

It's a challenge. That's all. Jack said so. I said I could do it.

As your Scottish great-great-grandmother would say, Aye, Right.

Miss Williams met Miss Fisher at the car, at which point the handbrake was still engaged, but it was a close call.