11
Jack sat at Phryne's piano, his fingers gliding over the keys creating a soft soothing melody, one he'd hoped would calm his mind and return him to her bed. But without Phryne in it, there was little appeal.
Much like when he'd entered his own home after leaving City Central a few hours ago. He'd convinced himself it was reasonable to stay at the bungalow since Phryne remained behind bars and so had driven to Richmond rather than St. Kilda.
He'd grown up there and inherited the bungalow after parents had died from Spanish Flu before the War. Rosie had moved in after their wedding. With the exception of his years fighting overseas, it had been his home all his life. Crossing into the familiar confines should have been welcoming, comforting.
As soon as he'd entered, however, he'd discovered his logic didn't make sense. The rooms had felt cold, vacant, even spartan. Quite at odds with the sumptuous colors, stunning artwork, and rich fabrics that enveloped him here. There had been no hint of lavender in the night air. No smooth whiskey decanted. No promise of a gourmet breakfast in the coming hours accompanied by the approving smile of Mr. Butler or the shy greeting of Miss Williams.
Most importantly, there had been no Phryne Fisher. Lounging in his parlor. Dining at his table. Soaking in his bathtub. Or asleep in his bed.
Though she wasn't presently at Wardlow either, he still was surrounded by her here. Not only in objects, but in memories. Of their nightcap conversations. The gatherings of friends. Dinners. And now of them together as man and woman.
His fingers paused on the keys as he absorbed the peace welling inside him. At some point over the last few months, Wardlow, and Phryne, had become his home. He smiled and returned to playing, the notes changing from minor to major, from somber pondering to hopeful dreaming.
So what did that mean for them? And for his bungalow? He would happily sell it and move in with Phryne, needing no further commitment than last night's blatant declaration of love.
But would the higher ranks approve of him living with a woman who wasn't his wife and allow him to maintain his position with the constabulary? Likely not. Because even though questionable or a complete lack of morals might be overlooked, it was only as long as they weren't paraded around. And he was not about to hide his practices as they had theirs.
He did own the bungalow outright, though. Perhaps it was best to simply continue as they were? Keeping the bungalow for appearances only while spending all of his days and nights here. Even if he did officially move in to Wardlow, there were very few items in his possession that would join him. His bicycles, of course. And the few remaining items of clothing in his closet. But the rest he could shut the door on and never think about again.
He closed his eyes, allowing the notes to change once more adding a sweet sensation of joy fulfilled. It wrapped around him, anchoring into his deepest parts and grounding him.
A foot scuffed outside the parlor door. Jack glanced over as his fingers continued to play. Mr. Butler, clad in his customary suit, stood just outside the door, his face glowing with a calm delight. Jack smiled as he let his hands drift.
"Good morning, Inspector. I will be starting breakfast. Do you have any preferences?"
Jack's fingers stilled, and he grinned. "Something portable—and enough for two."
The sun had climbed only a few inches in the horizon when Jack pushed through the doors of City Central. Yesterday's young constable looked up from his post, relief washing over his features. "Ah, Inspector Robinson. G'day."
A loud, off-key caterwaul echoed from the holding cells. Jack smothered his grin. Phryne must be winding up for an encore.
"'Er now. There wuz a young man from Nantucket—"
A chagrined sigh slipped between Jack's slips. "I believe I'll take her off your hands now, Constable."
"Thank you, sir."
The constable had Jack completing the release paperwork in record time. But as Jack turned for the cell hallway, he stopped. Inspector Lawrence stood just inside the entry door, a glower darkening his heavy features.
"G'day, Lawrence."
"Robinson," he bit out with a curt nod.
Before he could ask, Jack flashed a quick, easy smile. "Collecting a public intoxication. We were full up with her friends at South last night, and your constable graciously gave her berth here for a few hours."
Lawrence's shoulders eased a bit, but suspicion still clouded his forehead. His dark eyes bored into Jack's shoulders as Phryne's first bawdy limerick had given way to a new, even bawdier one. Definitely time to leave.
Phryne clung to her cell bars, draping herself across them as she recited.
Jack pulled the cell's key off the wall, shaking his head. "Showtime's over."
She stepped back while he unlocked the door, a slight moue pouting her lips. "I'm not sure whether to be grateful or irritated."
Jack glanced over his shoulder toward the entry. "How about fast? Inspector Lawrence isn't thrilled seeing me in his station."
Phryne's pout disappeared as she straightened her wig, shooting him a questioning look.
"Perfect. Wrists?"
She offered them up, and he clasped his cuffs around them in short order. Jack raised his voice as he escorted out of the holding cells. "Time to go see your friends and get this sorted, Miss Donahue."
Phryne shifted against him, turning pleading eyes his way. "'Ere now, copper. Like I told ya' last night. Them ain't my friends. I 'ave no idea who they is. Surely ya' can't hold simply being thirsty against a girl, can ya?"
They shuffled past Lawrence as expediently as possible with Phryne launching a jaunty, "Cheerio, luv," to his blushing constable as they exited the door. When they reached Jack's car, he again settled her in the backseat and took the wheel. He pulled away, but stopped alongside a building a few yards down.
Phryne tugged off the wig and ran her fingers through her dark bob, giving her scalp a good scratch. "Glad to see that gone. As well as that cell. Jack, did you really need to take my lock pick as well as leave me there?"
"Did I rub a bit of salt in the wound, love?" He offered a smiling apology and held out the pick between them.
She grabbed it, slipping it into its case in her smalls with a perturbed huff. She opened her mouth to further chastise him, but Jack lifted a basket. Taking a deep sniff, she pulled back the towel cover. "Breakfast?"
"I did promise. And I try never to break a promise."
Phryne hmphed, then took a bite. Her brows rose. "This tastes like Dot's scones."
Jack dipped his head as he fetched his own serving. "That's because it is. She sends her regards by the by."
Phryne chewed for a moment, pondering. "All right. You're forgiven." She found the knife and pot of clotted cream, slathering a good dollop on her biscuit. "I'm glad you stayed at Wardlow last night."
Jack's lips twitched. Whether her pleasure derived from the quality of her breakfast or his presence in her home, he decided it was better to let the comment go. "Speaking of Wardlow, I assume you'd prefer to change before we head to City South?"
She surveyed her scanty dress and the discarded wig. "Normally, I wouldn't mind wearing glad rags to an investigation, but I do believe the wig might be a bit much."
He chuckled and swiveled in his seat, content to have his love and torment back where she belonged.
An hour later, Jack and Phryne sat at his desk while Hugh reported on the results of Jack's request for the dockworker case file.
Hugh rocked back on his feet as he lowered his voice, despite both office doors being closed. "It took calling in a favor with a friend at North, so if anyone asks, the file dropped out of heaven on your desk, sir."
Jack sighed, a sardonic lilt tickling his reply. "Most of our evidence seems to drop from heaven thanks to Miss Fisher's involvement. So I don't believe that'll be an issue."
Phryne rolled her eyes, but simply tugged the file from Hugh's hands. She dug into the reports, barely hearing Jack's, "That'll be all, Collins."
Locating the case summary, she began to read aloud. "Davy O'Rourke, 23, ship's deckhand, was killed during—of all things—a knife fight." She glanced up, meeting Jack's gaze.
"Can't be a coincidence. Who wielded the knife?"
She waved off his question as she continued to read. "Apparently members of the dock worker's union had a disagreement with a ship's crew. Davy stepped in to calm the situation, but Sully Murphy and three other dockworkers rushed him. Sully was identified as the man holding the bloody knife when the scuffle settled."
Jack threaded his fingers together and leaned his elbows on his desk. His gaze grew distant as if searching for information. "Sully Murphy. Sully Murphy. Yes, I remember now. He was killed in jail not long after his conviction. Participating in another riot, oddly enough."
Phryne scanned the remainder of the report. Her jaw dropped. "Jack, every officer who has been murdered worked this case. But there's one left."
"Who?"
She laid the file in front of him, her finger stabbing the man's signature."
"O'Shaughnessy."
"That's definitely the link. Someone is killing the investigators on this particular case."
Jack shook his head as he read through the relinquished file. "But why? O'Rourke was only in port as part of the ship's crew. Murphy was witnessed to have killed him … by one Ryan Carlisle."
"Which fits with Moira Carlisle's story." Phryne's eyes widened as she sat up straight in her chair. "Jack, if the murderer really is working up the constabulary ranks, but only killing those related to this case …"
"Then O'Shaughnessy is the last on his list." He launched from his chair, covering the distance to his door in three quick paces. Yanking it open he called for Hugh. "Is Inspector O'Shaughnessy on duty yet?"
Phryne followed Jack to the door, watching Hugh read through the sign-in roster on his desk.
After several silent moments, he shook his head.
Jack grimaced. "We need to get him into protective custody."
Phryne placed a hand on Jack's arm, drawing his gaze. "Won't that tip off the killer?"
He tilted his head, allowing the possibility. "But better that than another dead officer." He turned back to Hugh. "Track him down now, and get him here. No matter what it takes."
Hugh picked up the phone, then paused. "Ah, sir? Inspector O'Shaughnessy is Catholic."
Jack shook his head, irritation heating his words. "What's that got to do with anything?"
Hugh gulped but hurried on. "Well, it's just that, I've been taking my confirmation classes at Our Lady of Sorrows, and I've seen him at morning mass." He glanced to his watch. "The service would have ended at eight-thirty. Maybe he's still there? Or on his way here from there?"
Jack grabbed his revolver from his desk drawer, coat and hat from the rack, and dashed out. "Forget the call. Let's go, Collins."
"I'll meet you there," Phryne called, hard on his heels as she rushed to the Hispano-Suiza and they to the police car.
Detective Inspector Patrick O'Shaughnessy knelt at the pew exit and completed the sign of the cross, joining the handful of faithful as they shuffled out of morning mass and on to their days. He surveyed the congregants, mostly widows and upper-class toffs. The workers were, well, working. As he needed to be doing.
But he'd made a commitment to Mother on her deathbed that he'd attend mass weekly. As his duty shifts at City South didn't usually match up well with service times, he did his best to keep his promise, often attending midweek services as opposed to Sundays.
Father O'Leary, who was in a spirited discussion with a young man in a cassock, stood at the church doors nodding to the exiting parishioners. O'Shaughnessy bobbed his head as he passed by them. Maybe he should have gone to seminary like Mother dreamed. Being a copper was nothing like he'd imagined growing up playing cops and robbers with the neighbor lads. He'd figured he'd chase bad guys through the bush, fire guns, and then throw them in jail.
All the dull work of detecting, spending hours until his eyes crossed looking for evidence, interviewing suspects to get them confess, even just talking to witnesses bored him to tears. As he'd worked his way up through the ranks though, he'd found out he could pawn the menial tasks off on the constables. Then when the time came for the arrest, he'd ride in, flash his warrant card, and haul off the bad bloke.
And that was enough for him.
O'Shaughnessy climbed down the church steps and turned toward City South, wishing he could be anywhere but there. Robinson, the constabulary golden boy, was hunting down some madman, his lapdog Collins, and thorn-in-the-constabulary side Miss Fisher tagging along. But the rest of Melbourne seemed to have taken a sleeping powder.
Not that he minded too awful much. But it did make long days even longer. He'd much rather be on the banks of the Yarra with a pole in the water. He crossed under a grouping of trees and settled back against one of the trunks, pulling out a cigarette. Wouldn't make too much of a difference if he got to the station five minutes later.
A firm grip clasped his shoulder.
He turned with a smile, expecting to see someone from the mass.
"Finally, O'Shaughnessy. The last of my list. Vengeance has been repaid. How appropriate that it's finished on the grounds of a church."
The cigarette dropped from his slack fingers as the full meaning behind the words soaked into his thick skull. "What's this? What are you saying?"
"Be sure to give your regards to Sully Murphy."
The man lifted a short blade. "Now, brother, you can rest in peace."
A chorus of voices called from behind. O'Shaughnessy tried to turn, to step back, to think of any words to reply, but the knife slid into him, cutting off breath, thought, and finally his life.
The last thing he heard was the clattering of the blade hitting the cobblestone. The last thing he saw was that same cobblestone at eye level.
Jack and Hugh rushed from the police car as Phryne screeched the Hispano to a stop just behind them. A crowd of people clustered near a group of trees a few feet from Our Lady of Sorrows.
"Oh good heavens!" Father O'Leary waved both hands over his head. "Hugh, Inspector Robinson, quickly. Come quickly. It's terrible. Just terrible."
Jack pushed through the crowd, his eyes landing on a man in a suit lying prone on the cobblestone. Dread washed through him as he watched the blood pool grow. Too late. O'Shaughnessy was dead. "Collins, call the coroner. I need everyone else to step back. Please, this is a police matter."
Hugh gestured for the crowd to disperse as he left for the phone in the church office. Father O'Leary moved to follow, but Phryne stayed him. "Father, did you see anything?"
The balding priest nodded. "I saw it all."
"All?" Jack asked from where he knelt by the body.
"It was a man, heavily built."
Phryne's eyes widened. "Do you remember his hair color? Skin color?"
"He wore a hat pulled low, but I caught a glimpse of him when he stepped out from the trees. He was white. The hair at his neck was dark. Black even. He ran that way." O'Leary pointed in the opposite direction of the station.
Jack met Phryne's gaze, asking silently for her to take over questioning.
"Go," she breathed.
"He wore a long wool peacoat. Like a naval officer!" O'Leary called after Jack.
Jack took off at a run through the street, eyes scanning and searching, grateful for the description, but no one in his sight fit it. No pea coats. No heavily built men with dark hair. He cursed, but kept running for two more blocks.
Dammit. They'd missed him by minutes. O'Shaughnessy might still be alive if he hadn't taken Phryne home to change. If Collins had called him at Wardlow with the information instead waiting for them to arrive at the station. If they'd requested the file yesterday instead of today.
If. If. If. Bloody if.
He returned to the crime scene, finding Hugh standing guard with Phryne while Father O'Leary crouched over O'Shaughnessy clutching a small vial of oil. "…Welcome him now into paradise, where there will be no more sorrow, no more weeping or pain, but only peace and joy with Jesus, your son."
Jack touched Phryne's arm, drawing her gaze. He shook his head at her silent question. "Did he say anything else?"
She lowered her voice to match his. "Just that he was talking with a young deacon about some theological issue, so he was distracted."
"At least he saw something."
Phryne nodded, then pointed to Hugh. "And Hugh found the knife."
Jack's brows lifted. "Collins?"
Hugh held up the knife with two fingers gripping the end of the hilt.
"Take it back to the station. And make sure Dr. MacMillan gets his body for the autopsy, though there's no question he was killed by the same man." Jack ran a hand over his clean-shaven cheeks and cursed again.
Phryne linked his fingers with hers, eyes welling with empathy. "I'm so sorry, Jack. And I hate to say it, but maybe at least the killing spree is finished. Inspector O'Shaughnessy was the last investigator directly connected to Murphy's case."
Jack nodded absently. She was probably right. But it was little comfort for O'Shaughnessy's family nor would it soften the scathing reaming Jack himself would no doubt receive.
With a fourth constabulary death on his hands, losing his job seemed quite likely.
