7

Phryne lay sated and cozy against her new favorite pillow, her dreams a mishmash memories and moments … until that pillow shifted. Frowning, she tried to follow it, clinging to Jack's warm torso, but her fingers were lifted away and kissed.

"Jack." His name mumbled from her lips in an irritated mutter. Surely it couldn't be morning already.

A butterfly of kisses brushed against her forehead. "Shh, love. Just going to the station early."

She blinked fully awake as he rose from the bed. She longed to coax him back, but even as he wouldn't ask her to change she wouldn't ask him either. His honor and commitment to doing the right thing was ingrained and had drawn her to him from the start. Instead, she enjoyed the play of his muscles in the morning light as he padded to the armoire. "Did you find gold in your mountain of evidence?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder. A wry glint lit his eyes. "I would have mentioned it last night except you … ah … distracted me."

Phryne smirked. "Well, you were off duty. Fair game."

"True enough." He chuckled before heading to the bathroom. A few thumps followed by a swishing sound told her he'd begun his shave.

Phryne lay back on the bed, savoring the disappearing warmth from Jack's side. Her eyes closed as sleep tempted her back to dreamland, but a moment later, Jack continued. "Collins and I worked through all of the passenger manifests for the last two weeks. No one had military or police ties who also didn't have family connections in the area or job reasons for visiting the state."

He came out of the bathroom, patting his cheeks with a towel and shot her an amused glance. "And none had German or Italian military backgrounds."

Her lips twisted. "And I was so hopeful."

"Yes, you were." He stepped into his singlet and pants, then pulled on his Oxford and reached for a tie, updating her on the constabulary angle as he pinched and threaded the knot. "There is still one questionable possibility, though. Sergeant Kyle Warren at Central. He was passed over for promotion because of excessive brutality during an arrest."

Phryne returned to her side and propped her head on her hand. "Hmmm. Warrants looking into."

Jack nodded his agreement as he pulled his suit coat off the hanger. "And continuing to explore the constables' backgrounds further. There has to be something linking the two of them."

She sent him a sensuous smile then stretched slowly, savoring the soft gasp that slipped from his lips. "Well, since that's all boring paperwork, I do believe I'll return to dreamland for a while—even though my favorite pillow is leaving."

Jack took a step toward her, but stopped and shook his head. He lifted his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss, then slipped out her bedroom door. "Sweet dreams, love."

Phryne woke again to a soft knock on the door and a quiet, "Miss?"

Dot entered carrying a breakfast tray laden with two cups and plates. She glanced at the empty side of Phryne's bed with surprise.

Phryne waved off her concern. "Jack left early for the station."

Dot smiled, but she still seemed too contemplative in Phryne's estimation. She watched her companion and investigative assistant set the tray on the bed before opening the curtains. Phryne slathered a drop scone in clotted cream and chewed silently as Dot lifted Jack's shirt from the previous evening from the dressing chair and studied the buttons.

"Something wrong, Dot?"

Dot's gaze jerked up, and her cheeks pinked. "Oh, ah, the buttons on the Inspector's shirt. They're loose."

Phryne grinned as she poured a cup of tea. "It's a wonder they're not completely missing after last night."

Dot's eyes widened a bit at the bald admission, but she said nothing more. As she turned to leave, Phryne set her cup down. "Dot, what's really wrong? Jack's shirt can hardly be cause for such worry."

Dot had been embarrassed by Phryne's revolving door of men in the past, but surely she would be happy to see her settling into a relationship—especially with Jack? Phryne patted the empty spot next to her on the bed, and Dot sank down on it. After buttering another scone, Phryne shoved it into Dot's hands with a pointed look.

"I didn't want to bother you with this, Miss. As Hugh says, we need to start figuring these things out on our own."

Phryne shook her head. "Dot. Talking through a situation with a trusted confidante is hardly a bother. And I am a trusted confidante, am I not?"

Dot smiled, joy returning to the expression. "Of course, Miss." She picked at the scone, tearing a piece away from the whole and studying it for a moment. "The wedding is less than two weeks away, and we still haven't worked out a place to live. It's not as if Hugh hasn't been looking—he has. And he's found several options, but none of them are in St. Kilda."

She glanced to Phryne, then away, suddenly uncertain. "Hugh understands I want to keep working for you. But I just don't see how that could be, given the distance. Which really isn't that much—fifteen minutes away for most of the options. But in the middle of the night or early in the morning? Fifteen minutes might as well be fifteen miles."

"Are there no houses available nearby?"

Dot shook her head. "None, Miss. Except for Hugh's mother. And—"

"And Hugh would prefer not to live with her and his younger siblings." Phryne leaned back against her pillows and absorbed Dot and Hugh's conundrum. It did seem insurmountable, and yet, there's was nothing she liked more than a challenge. Her eyes widened. Unless it was bucking society's expectations. A slow grin spread across her lips. "I have the perfect solution."

"Miss?"

"You'll move into Wardlow."

"Miss! We couldn't."

"Why not? Jane will go from Paris to boarding school in England. The next time she'll be home will be winter break. She can use the guest room when she returns, and we'll redecorate her room into a parlor for you and Hugh."

Dot's jaw dropped open around silent words, but Phryne ignored her, fully warming to the idea. "It's not that revolutionary. Married couples work in service all the time, and even though Hugh will remain with the constabulary you'll still be in my employ. It's the perfect solution."

She grimaced as a thought niggled at her. "Well, at least until the babies begin arriving. Then you will certainly need your own place." She flashed an apologetic look Dot's way. "Sorry, but I don't do babes in arms."

Tears welled in Dot's eyes, then spilled over as an amazed giggle bubbled up.

Phryne watched her tenderly. "Would that do, Dot?"

Dot blotted her cheeks with her sleeves, awe filling her voice. "Oh, Miss. It would more than do."

Phryne beamed, then took a bite of her scone. "Well good. Talk with Mr. B about what you'll need, and everything will be arranged by the time you return from Sorrento."

Dot rose, clutching the scone and gathering Jack's shirt. "Thank you, Miss. You truly are an answered prayer."

Phryne's brows lifted in surprise. "Can't say I've ever been anyone's answered prayer before. What a novel sensation."

She chuckled at the idea as she clambered out of bed. "Now, I need to get dressed. Jack's been at the station for hours, surely he has results from his early morning research to aid our investigation."

Dot laid out a pair of trousers, a blouse, and Phryne's driving coat and hat while Phryne settled at her boudoir table. She picked up her brush to smooth its sleep-worn style and blinked. Jack's key lay beside her face powder. She shook her head as a wry grin flitted over her lips.

Oh, no, darling. That is yours to keep.

She waited until Dot left the room with the breakfast tray and Jack's shirt, then slid the key into her coat pocket. She'd return it as definitively and as inconspicuously as possible. But also forthwith. She chuckled. If she was going to be domesticated by Jack, then he needed to accept everything that came with it.

She applied her makeup and dressed quickly, donning her coat as she hurried downstairs. The phone's ring greeted her arrival at the foot of the stairs. She lifted the receiver and answered, "Phryne Fisher speaking …"

Jack rubbed his eyes as the words in Constable Carlisle's case file blurred. He'd read over it and Edwards's three times since arriving at his desk two hours ago, certain he must have missed something. Still, he couldn't find a link between them.

His office door opened, revealing his own senior constable. "G'day, Collins." Jack glanced to the newspaper in Hugh's hand. "The Argus?"

Hugh's eyes shot to the paper. "Ah yes, sir. And the headline isn't comforting."

Jack unfolded the paper, blanching at the headline.

THREE CONSTABLES KILLED, COPPERS ARE BEFUDDLED

"Three, Collins?"

Hugh heaved a sad sigh. "Yes, sir. A Sergeant Crossley, out of Hawthorn."

Crossley. Crossley. Jack played the name over in his head, then blinked. He pulled both case files out from under the paper and reread the incident reports, noting the signature. There it is. Nodding, he indicated Collins should continue.

"The notice came in when I arrived. Didn't know you were already here or I would have told you immediately. I did call Miss Fisher's residence, thinking you might be there. Learned you'd already left. Should have checked here before—"

Jack waved off Collins's explanation. "I presume you spoke with the lady herself?"

At Collins's nod, Jack said, "Saved me a call then. She's sure to meet us at the crime scene."

"Yes, sir. She did say that."

Jack refolded the paper and laid it on his desk. Grabbing his coat and hat from the tree, he said, "You can fill me in on the way."

They reached the police car moments later, and Jack pulled away from the station. "Where are we heading, Collins?"

"Ah, the Dark Rose on Hardware Lane."

"The brothel?"

"Well, the lane behind it anyway. Seems there's a saloon adjacent to it called The Rosebud, owned by Hector Chambers."

"Chambers. Why am I not surprised?" Jack shook his head. "How on earth did the press hear about the murder in time for the morning release?"

"According to the reporter writing the article, he was first on the scene. Stumbled over the body as he was leaving a certain establishment. Guessing he means the Dark Rose."

"And of course he decides to call his editor before the police. Damned vultures." Jack wove around a horse and buggy, narrowly missing an oncoming tram. Hearing Hugh's concerned gasp, Jack pushed aside his irritation at the press and eased back on the gas pedal. "I assume the coroner's been called."

"On his way as well, sir."

Minutes later, Jack turned onto Hardware Lane. Reporters and concerned citizens swarmed the car, slowing his pace to a crawl. Finally, he opted to simply stop altogether. "Ready to run the gauntlet, Collins?"

Outraged cries, insistent questions, and calls for someone's head assaulted Jack and Hugh as they climbed out of the car. A reporter shoved his way forward, landing nearly in Jack's face.

"DI Robinson, Mickey Greene with the Argus. You're awfully late to the party. What took you so long? Didn't like getting scooped by me?"

Hugh raised a straight-arm, blocking Greene and repositioning him out of Jack's path. Fixing Greene with a dark glare, Jack said, "I do hope you didn't trample the crime scene in your efforts to tell the dead man's tale."

Greene began blathering excuses and accusations, but Jack ignored him, pushing through the crowd toward the body in the back lane. A white sheet lay beside Crossley, and the coroner bent over him, taking notes.

Jack pointed to the crowd. "Get them under control, Collins. See if anyone is actually a helpful witness."

Hugh turned on his heel and began shepherding the people back while the coroner pulled the sheet over the body and briefed Jack on his findings.

"Make sure the body goes to the City South Morgue and request Dr. MacMillan's immediate attention."

The coroner nodded and headed off to his van.

A heady and familiar whiff of French perfume greeted Jack's nostrils. He smiled. "Miss Fisher. Fancy meeting you here."

Phryne stepped out from behind a trio of barrels to one side of the lane. Her own smile grew wide and cheeky. "Hugh called. And of course, I can never pass up an investigation." Her eyes gleamed, silently adding, Or time with you.

Jack's lips twitched, but he let the moment pass. "Find anything?"

Phryne shook her head, taking the coroner's place and crouching near the body. She pointed to the stained cobblestones. "Only blood and signs of a struggle. Looks like the same knife wound as the others. But Mac will know for sure."

Jack knelt down and pulled back the sheet covering Crossley. "Still in his uniform."

"Here on business then?"

He nodded. "Crossley was first on the scene for Carlisle and Edwards' murders. And at George Sanderson's house when the woman was murdered."

Phryne lifted her eyes to his. "Do you think that's how they're related? That this has something to do with Sanderson? But he's in jail for decades, isn't he?"

Before Jack could answer, Collins called from the end of the lane. "Ah, sir? Reinforcements are here, but you're not going to like it."

Jack shifted and smothered a curse as Graham O'Reilly, the head of the Police Special Powers Unit, descended on him like an avenging angel. Jack rose, as Phryne did the same. She said nothing, but shot a questioning glance his way. His lips thinned. "This won't be pleasant."

O'Reilly barreled to a stop, sticking a stubby finger in Jack's chest. "Robinson. This is death number three. This murderer is killing up the ranks. How many more of us are going to die before you actually make any progress?"

Jack stood tall, and kept his voice low and even. If there were to be an instigation of violence, it would not be laid at his door. "O'Reilly, the Commissioner himself assigned me this investigation. And we are making progress, eliminating suspects."

O'Reilly snorted and pulled at his suit jacket. He scanned the area, his eyes landing on Crossley's body. "Coulda fooled me! I don't care about your arrest and closure record. This investigation should've been given to the Special Powers Unit."

Phryne stepped forward, her defense clipping her words into hard edges. "As if the Terrible Tenners had any luck quelling the Woolpacker-Portsider gang violence last January. Might I remind you, it was Detective Inspector Robinson who solved that case for you?"

O'Reilly swung back around. Jack reached a hand toward Phryne, willing calm into her. The last thing he wanted was his impassioned defender going toe to toe with the short-fused O'Reilly. Phryne might be armed with a revolver and a knife, but O'Reilly had a mean right cross, and wasn't afraid to use it on man or woman when provoked.

"Ah, The Honorable Miss Fisher, lady detective." Biting derision saturated the words, but it was the decided leer in his gaze that balled Jack's own fists.

Phryne stared him down as if he were something nasty on the bottom of her shoe and lifted haughty brows, daring him to say more.

O'Reilly stepped forward, fire replacing his leer. But her pedigree and status must have been enough to quell his bluster, and he settled for mumbling something under his breath. He turned back toward Hardware Lane, but paused and pointed at Jack. "Make progress, Robinson, or I'll make damned sure you never work another investigation." He stalked away, bluster and ire back in full force.

Phryne huffed. "Well, then, let's get you some progress, Jack. Investigating murders without you won't be half as fun."

Jack chuckled as the tension broke. He tangled their fingers together out of sight of any witnesses except the deceased, marveling at Phryne's confidence and bravery. "When did I last say I love you?"

Phryne grinned up at him, eyes sparkling with love and impish delight. "I believe it was last night as I was—"

Jack placed a finger over her lips and shook his head with wry amusement.

She shrugged. "You did ask." She leaned away, with a speculative twist to her lips. "And by the way, you left something at Wardlow this morning." Her fingers rose between them, holding his key.

Jack closed his hand around it and glanced back to the street. Collins was admirably conducting crowd control, and the coroner had remained in his van.

Phryne's voice lowered to a serious, but loving tone. "I meant it when I gave it to you, Jack. This is your key. Keep it and use it whenever you want. You have free and full access to my home. Always."

Jack stared into her gray eyes, reading the calm assurance in their depths. "Always?"

She nodded.

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a slow, delighted smile, and soon Phryne's grin joined his.

Collins called from the main road, silencing anything Jack might have replied. He stepped back, realizing he and Phryne had somehow come to stand with barely an inch between them. Tucking his key in his overcoat pocket, he took in a breath. "Right then. Back to the investigation."

He joined Collins up at the road, Phryne on his heels. "What do you have, Collins?"

Hugh gestured to a man in a bow tie and striped shirt. "This is the Rosebud's bartender."

"Johnny Arlo," the man replied with a quick nod. He shifted on his feet and glanced over Jack's shoulder down the lane. "He's dead, is he?"

"Ah, yes, that appears to be the prevailing thought." Jack's dry tone cut through the cries of the crowd. "Did you know him?"

"Crossley? Yeah. He was a regular. Gave most of the others a fright when he first started coming. Thought we was being raided. But soon enough, he just became another face in the crowd."

Phryne pierced Arlo with a questioning look. "And what goes on in your establishment that would draw his interest?" Her eyes dropped to the rectangular bulge in his breast pocket. Before he could answer, she yanked out a thin wooden kip. Two empty circular divots sat at one end, but the slight clink in his pocket made her smile. "Perhaps more than a few games of … Two-Up?"

Arlo's eyes widened, and he lifted his hands. "Eh now, I don't know what that thing is. Just found it on a table. And I don't know nothing about what goes on in the back rooms. I just serve the lads drinks."

Phryne tapped the kip against her gloved hand. "Liar. Any former digger with eyes knows how to play Two-Up."

Jack took the kip from her and studied it for a moment. "Mr. Arlo, I'll overlook the gambling in exchange for a full answer about Sergeant Crossley's patronage."

Arlo shuffled his feet, but finally nodded.

"Good." Jack pulled two photos from his breast pocket and held them out. "Do you recognize either of these men?"

Arlo leaned forward and peered at the black and white images of Constables Carlisle and Edwards. His eyes narrowed, then he nodded and pointed to Carlisle. "Yeah, this one, I think. Young kid, right? Been more'n a bit, but Crossley brought him 'round a couple of times."

Jack flashed the photo in question toward Phryne, whose brows lifted in surprise. He tucked the photos back in his pocket. "Did you see Crossley last night in the saloon?"

"No, which was surprising. Had a tournament going, and he never misses them." He glanced over his shoulder. "Can I go now? Talking to the coppers isn't something my bosses would be happy about."

Jack jerked his head toward the road, and Arlo scampered away. "We'll need to find out what delayed Crossley."

Phryne lifted the kip from Jack's fingers. "And more about his friendship with young Carlisle and what led to their falling out."

Jack tucked his hands in his pockets as he let the theories play out. "Maybe he got scared of gambling, especially with Sanderson's bordello crackdown and the location of the saloon."

"Perhaps the family might know?"

Jack's lips twitched around a smile. "Thinking they were less than forthcoming with my presence during the questioning?"

Phryne slid her hand along his lapel. "As handsome as you are, darling, the title does come with its liabilities. I'll just go have a chat with Carlisle's mum and see what I can ferret out, woman to woman."

He nodded. "Crossley was at Hawthorn while Carlisle was at Central, but they could have worked the same case at some point. I'll go to the stations and dig into any official ways their paths would have crossed."

The coroner waved to Jack as the undertakers arrived to remove Crossley's body. Jack glanced to the diminishing crowd, pleased with Collins's efforts, then squeezed Phryne's hand. "I'll see you back at the station."

"Hopefully with more than one lead."

Jack's brows lifted in agreement. O'Reilly might be a boorish prig, but he was right about one thing. Jack was playing catch-up and the constabulary ranks were thinning fast. Was the murderer finished yet? Or were more bodies still to come?