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Cec climbs back into the cab, off-white envelope in hand, fancy handwriting spelling out Miss Phryne Fisher across the front. “Just like old times, yeah?” He settles into the passenger seat, tapping the envelope against the dashboard.
Bert shrugs. “Guess so. What’s she got this time? Haven’t picked up photographs for her in a while.” Or anything. It is good to be back working for her, as loath as he is to admit it even to Cec. He puts the cab back in gear and pulls out into the street. “Well, what’s in it?”
“Dunno.” Cec undoes the tie holding the envelope shut, but doesn’t immediately say what’s in it.
Stopping to let a horse-cart cross the other way, Bert waves a hand. “What’s the holdup?”
“You think it’s all right to look through the stuff she’s asked us to get?”
The horse-cart moves on and Bert starts toward the house again. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the nervous expression on Cec’s face. He shrugs again. “Never bothered her before. Figure she assumes someone will look through most stuff what comes into the house. What with us and Jane and Mrs. Stanley and everyone in and out.”
“You may be right there.” Cec drums his fingers on the dashboard for a moment, just barely out of rhythm. When he draws his hand back there’s little half-circles cleared in the dust.
The whisper of the paper flap tells Bert that Cec has finally opened it, and the rattling sound of photographs falling out says he’s looked, but he still hasn’t said. “A man’s gonna meet his maker before you say anything today.”
Cec clears his throat. “It’s - um - these are probably meant for the Inspector.”
“Of course they are, she’s always had plenty of things for the Inspector.” Bert turns right, onto the street that will take them to the Esplanade. “Didn’t know they had a case, though, wonder what she needed to get him so fast.”
“Don’t think they’re for a case, mate.” There’s an unfamiliar catch in Cec’s voice.
“How would you know? If we didn’t even know they had a case, why would we have any idea what they needed for it?” He pulls the cab into the alleyway behind the house. “Give it here.”
Without another word Cec hands the photos over - facedown. Confused, Bert flips the whole stack over. His jaw goes slack.
They’re not for a case. Or, at least, not one that he’s ever heard of. They’re of Miss Fisher, in various stages of undress, glaring at the camera. Some sort of silk robe, camisole and pants, and…
“Oh,” is all that comes out of his mouth.
With one quick motion Cec pulls the photographs away again, flipping them back over. “Come on, man, we don’t need to see those.”
He’s probably right. But. “Like I said, she never used to care who took a gander at whatever came into the house. Least of all us.” Slowly, Bert reaches a hand out for the stack again. Cec lets him grab them and flip them back frontwards.
Not the kind of pictures he’d ever expected to see of anyone he knows, even Miss Fisher.
“Mr. B’s seen us,” Cec says suddenly, and when Bert looks up it’s to find the old man gesturing at them from the kitchen door.
While Bert shoves the photographs back in the envelope, they both tumble out of the cab. Mr. Butler’s eyes narrow when they get within normal speaking distance.
“Are you two all right?”
“Right as rain,” Bert mumbles, holding up the envelope, slightly the worse for wear. “Just leaving this for Miss Fisher.” He steps around Mr. Butler and drops it onto the kitchen table. “Need anything else, Mr. B?”
“Not at the moment, Mr. Johnson. Thank you. I don’t think Miss Fisher has any other requests for you either, but she’ll send for you if she does.”
“Thanks, Mr. B.” Bert scarpers out the back door, and he knows Cec is right on his heels.
Dot nearly sings as she walks down the stairs. It’s so good to be back in this house. The house itself is lovely, of course, but it’s the people in it that have made it home these past few years. Jane, Mr. Butler, Bert and Cec. Miss Fisher herself, especially. And with Miss Fisher home now, everything is in its rightful place again, even with Dot herself living elsewhere and her job duties changing to accommodate.
She tidies the parlor on her way through, putting away a book and rearranging a tray of glasses, but the kitchen is her true destination. The hope of cocoa and a chat has remained strong through the months not in the house.
Mr. Butler’s hard at work when she arrives, half the table covered in various cooling dishes. “Oh, Dorothy, wonderful timing. Can you assist me with this one? I seem to have not left a large enough place at the table to set it down.” He’s awkwardly holding a large casserole dish, trying to set it down without placing it on top of an off-white envelope on the other half of the table. She grabs it and repositions one of the cooling racks.
“Will that work?”
“Perfectly. Thank you, Dorothy.” He sets the casserole dish down on the rack, shaking out his hands. After setting down the potholders, he gestures to the envelope she’s still holding.
“Any idea what that is? Bert and Cec dropped it off earlier this afternoon.”
She looks down at it. It’s the same sort of envelope the Inspector and Hugh sometimes bring evidence over in, but neither of them would write Miss Phryne Fisher across it, especially not in this flowing, elegant handwriting. “I haven’t a clue.”
The string’s untied and the envelope’s not closed, and there’s a corner of something poking out the top haphazardly, like Bert and Cec decided to take a look. Maybe she shouldn’t, but she shakes the contents out into her other hand. They’re photographs, obviously, but they’re all facing away from her. She flips them over, and knows in that same instant that her face has turned bright pink.
“Dorothy? Are you all right?”
Photographs of Miss Phryne: in some sort of flowy robe Dot doesn’t remember seeing before, in her smalls, and so on. Less revealing than that painting on her bedroom wall, but oh, not what Dot was expecting to find falling out of that envelope.
“They’re - um.” She swallows. “They’re photographs. She, um, she probably got them developed to give them…to give them to the Inspector.”
Mr. Butler nods in understanding. “Ah, I see. Well then, let’s just put them back in the envelope, and you can take them up to her.”
“Take what up to whom?” asks a new voice. “Something for me?”
“Miss!” Dot jumps so hard she stumbles, nearly knocking into Mr. Butler’s casserole dish. She steps back, giving the hot dish a wider berth. “I, uh. Didn’t see you there.” She holds out the envelope. “Your…photographs are here. Cec and Bert brought them by.”
“My photographs?” Miss Fisher holds out a hand, and Dot gives her both the photos and the envelope. A wide smile spreads across Miss Fisher’s face when she turns the stack of photos over. “Those photographs! Thank you, Dot, I’d forgotten I’d asked Cec and Bert to pick these up.”
Tucking the lot back into the envelope, she taps a forefinger against the edge before turning a wicked grin on Dot, who can feel the heat returning to her cheeks. “I’m glad to know my absence hasn’t dampened your investigative skills, Mrs. Collins,” she says breezily.
“I’m sorry, MIss,” Dot’s words tumble out in a rush, “the envelope was open, and people have left such nasty things for you before that I wanted to check, but I should have asked first, and I’m -”
“It’s all right, Dot.” The grin has softened now, into what Dot would call a doting smile on anyone else. “I’m only being honest, here, though a little teasing. It truly is good to be home.” Without another word she turns and glides into the parlor, leaving the scent of her French perfume behind.
Blinking, in a tussle between confused and delighted, Dot calls out, “don’t forget them in the parlor, Miss!”
“I won’t, Dot, thank you.”
Wandering around the house aimlessly, Jane finds herself in the parlor, running a hand over the spines of some of the books on the wall shelf. It’s the first time in a while that being in the house has felt right - even after coming home from school, with Miss Phryne and then even the Inspector abroad and Dot not coming round as much, the house had felt like a mausoleum. Now it’s real and living again, and she wants to soak as much of it up as she can.
Turning away from the bookshelves with a familiar book of poems in hand, she surveys the rest of the room. As lovely and homey as always, with her favorite armchair to her right, the piano across the way, the table ready and waiting with drinks for whoever might come to call. Everything as it should be, courtesy of Dot and Mr. Butler as - wait.
Nearly everything is where it should be, but there’s an envelope leaning against the decanter on the table. Large and not quite white, with writing across the front. Stepping closer, she can read Miss Phryne Fisher in looping, unfamiliar script. It’s open, the string trailing, but she can’t see what’s inside no matter what angle she tries.
“Now what could you be?” she muses under her breath. She definitely shouldn’t be snooping in Miss Phryne’s things, but this doesn’t really count as Miss Phryne’s things, out in the parlor and maybe a threat. People have tried to leave and do so many awful things before. If she can figure out what’s in that envelope, maybe she can ring the Inspector and get it sorted before Miss Fisher even has to know.
The book, she tosses onto her armchair. Hands steady, she reaches for the envelope, touching only the edges as best she can. There’s definitely something inside; she can hear it knocking against the edges when she shakes the whole contrivance. With a quick step to her right she turns the envelope over and empties the contents out over the piano bench.
Her cheeks get hot, and she knows she must be as red as Dot gets sometimes. Definitely not a threat, these - photographs of Miss Phryne, half-dressed, with a nearly angry expression that Jane luckily hasn’t seen much before. Like she’s angry at whoever took the photos, not whoever’s looking, but the distinction doesn’t seem to matter now. But it’s the half-dressed that has Jane shoving the photos back into the envelope, no longer trying to be careful of touching only the edges.
Once they’re all back inside, she takes a deep breath, holding the envelope in both hands. She’s seen plenty of women in less than what Miss Phryne was wearing in those photographs, including Miss Phryne herself. There’s a nude portrait of her on her own bedroom wall, for goodness sake! So why would these photographs be so embarrassing to see?
They’re for the Inspector floats into her thoughts, and she doesn’t know how but she knows it’s true (and, at the same time, knows she’s turning red again).
Ah. That would explain it all. And means that she should definitely take them up to Miss Phryne now, before someone else finds them. But as she steps into the entryway, headed for the stairs, a voice calls from somewhere in the back of the ground floor. “Miss Jane? Is that you? Your assistance would be greatly appreciated.”
It’s Mr. Butler. She shouldn’t keep him waiting. Glancing around for a moment, she slots the envelope onto the table next to the door, between a vase and a stack of gloves. Once she’s helped Mr. Butler with whatever he needs, she can run back and take it upstairs. Miss Phryne won’t mind waiting a few more minutes.
It’s been a lifetime since she last stood on this doorstep, Prudence thinks, or at least it seems that way. The last time she and Phryne even spoke was in London, half a world away.
At least this time she knows her niece isn’t dead.
Trying to banish that thought, she presses the doorbell, listening to it ring inside. It will take Mr. Butler a few moments to make his way to the front of the house, but she steps back anyway, to give him space when he opens the door.
He appears just as she plants her feet again. “Mrs. Stanley! How lovely to see you. I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you. I was in the kitchen with Jane; I apologize if you’ve been waiting long.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Butler, I’m only here to speak with my niece for a moment.” As she follows him into the house, a flash of white on the table next to the door catches her eye. An envelope? Why there?
“You can of course come through to the parlor, Mrs. Stanley.” She looks up again at the sound of Mr. Butler’s voice. “May I take your coat?”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.” While he’s occupied with her coat, she pulls the envelope off the table - open, she notices, with the string hanging off and looking rather the worse for wear. She takes the proffered seat in the parlor and, once he’s climbed onto the stairs, flips it over to the front.
Miss Phryne Fisher, it reads. Of course. The better question is who left it there, not who it was left for. Quickly she turns the envelope over, emptying its contents onto the table beside her.
Photographs? Who would be sending Phryne…
Wait.
The photographs are of Phryne, she realizes, wearing rather less than she should be for any sort of photograph. And there are so many of them. “Phryne Fisher!” she gasps aloud.
“Yes, Aunt P?” Phryne’s voice asks. “To what do I owe the pleasure of my full name?”
Prudence snaps her head up to find Phryne at the bottom of the stairs and fixes her with a narrow-eyed glare. “What are these , Phryne?” She holds up the photographs with delicate fingers, trying not to touch them more than she has to.
Stepping into the parlor on light feet, Phryne leans forward to look at what she’s holding. “They’re photographs, Aunt Prudence.”
The urge to roll her eyes like a teenager of Jane’s age is strong. “Of course they’re photographs, Phryne. It’s what they’re photographs of. Why on earth would you do something like this?”
“They were for a case.” She sits down in the chair opposite. “And you wouldn’t have seen them if you weren’t looking through private things in my house.”
She should have expected that. “What you do behind closed doors is your business, Phryne, but you cannot leave them out in the open! What if Jane had found them? What if some new client of yours had seen them while attempting to retain you for another case?”
Phryne does roll her eyes, and the resemblance to expressions Prudence has seen on Jane’s face is striking for the two having no family history. “Honestly, Aunt P, you worry too much. Jane has seen plenty of women’s bodies before, including mine. She’s nearly a woman herself. If any of my clients happened to see them, I should think they’d be pleased, the lengths I’d go to for a case.”
She sits forward in her chair. “But you found them, Aunt, and now I can take them upstairs and they won’t get found again.” Pulling both envelope and photographs from Prudence’s hands, she tucks them back away and ties the bedraggled string around the fasteners. “I’ll take them right upstairs when you leave.”
Prudence sighs. “I suppose that will have to do.” She is never going to know what to do with this girl.
City South Police Station is back to rights with the Inspector back in his office, Hugh thinks. Or, well, back in the station - he’s not in his office right now, he’s in one of the interview rooms in the back. Without Miss Fisher, this time. She’s back, too, though, and it’s honestly a relief in more ways than one.
“Constable Collins!” That’s the Inspector’s voice, with the edge to it that means he’s already called at least once.
Hugh scrambles out from behind the counter. “Coming, Inspector!”
The Inspector is leaning out of the first interview room, beckoning Hugh to come closer. “I need you to get the coroner’s report for me out of my desk. It’s in the top drawer, should be the only folder there.”
“Yes, Inspector, I’ll get it now.” Hugh hurries back to the office, trying not to take too long. Everything looks exactly the same as it always has, the desk neat and trim in the middle of the room, but it doesn’t feel the same at all.
“Top drawer,” he murmurs under his breath. Does that mean the top one in the stack on the right, or the long one that’s above them all? The coroner’s report and its folder could fit in either. He’ll start with the long one; that seems like a more reasonable place to be called the top drawer . But when he tries to pull it open, it sticks. Not like it’s locked, because he can tell it’s not, but like something’s caught on the underside of the desk. Jiggling the drawer doesn’t work. Neither does continuing to pull on it, not that he thought it would. Reaching into the small gap that he’s been able to eke out, Hugh runs his fingers along the top of the drawer.
Paper? How could something made of paper jam the drawer this badly? It must be rather heavy. But at least if it’s paper, he can put it back together if necessary. Hopefully it isn’t the coroner’s report that Inspector Robinson needs.
He yanks again, trying to both pull and jiggle at the same time. The sound of tearing paper rips through the air, followed by the drawer popping open and a flutter of paper somethings flying out. They scatter across the desk and the floor, some face-up and some facedown.
They’re photographs. Hugh leans forward to try and figure out what they are and whether he’ll need to patch them back together - and immediately jumps back, nearly knocking over the Inspector’s chair.
These are not just any photographs. They’re photographs of Miss Fisher, wearing rather less clothing than he’s used to seeing her in. Hugh’s face grows hot. She must have left them for the Inspector, not realizing they’d jam the drawer or that someone else would try to open it.
With the drawer finally open, Hugh can tell what it was that ripped - the envelope these photographs must have been in - and can see the intact folder underneath. He grabs the folder and flees. The Inspector can handle photographs of Miss Fisher all on his own.
His office definitely wasn’t this messy when he last left. Jack stands in the doorway, surveying what’s changed. The top drawer’s open, so this all likely happened when he sent Collins in to find the coroner’s report. But why would he have left such a mess? That’s not like him. Bending down, Jack picks up one of the pieces of paper from the floor and turns it over.
Not just paper, a photograph. And not just any photograph - a photograph of the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, clad in some sort of robe pulled close around her and glaring at the camera. He remembers where this is probably from, from that tennis case and the awful photographer, refusing to help without some sort of incentive, and Phryne confiscating the film as a Special Constable.
An indulgent smile spreads across his face as he looks down at the photo in his hand. He collects another photograph from the floor and sets both on his desk, adding them to the ones already there. In the robe, in a camisole and her pants, and the like. A progression. She must have gotten them developed and left them for him.
Taking a seat, he spreads the photos out so he can see them all before picking up the phone. She’s beautiful always, and she knows it, and he’s still frequently shocked that she’s chosen to share her beauty with him. But these are special, from before they’d gotten over themselves, before so many things.
He dials, and Mr. Butler’s familiar voice answers. “Miss Fisher’s residence.”
“Good evening, Mr. Butler, it’s Inspector Robinson. May I speak with Miss Fisher, please?” He’s called this number, made this request, so many times over the past few years. It still brings another smile to his face.
“Certainly, Inspector. One moment.” The voices get muffled while Mr. Butler puts his hand over the receiver, but he can still hear telephone for you and thank you, Mr. Butler .
“Jack?” Her voice is lovely, lilting, as always, and his heart stutters.
The pictures are beautiful. She is infinitely more so. “Hello, Miss Fisher.” He calls her Phryne more often, now, but there’s something about the continuity.
A smile is evident in her voice, too, as she asks, “And what has you calling on this fine evening, Inspector?”
He runs his finger along the long edge of one of the photographs. The one of her holding her robe closed: waiting, tantalizing. “Someone seems to have left me a gift at the station.”
“Oh? What sort of a gift?” she asks, continuing the game. He can just imagine her standing in the entryway, leaning against the banister as she talks. Like a Grecian sculpture.
“Mmm. Photographs.” Does she still have this robe? “All over my office. Including the floor.”
“The floor?” Her laughter is infectious. “That part wasn’t me. I was almost perfectly reasonable, leaving them in your desk drawer.”
Almost perfectly reasonable. This woman. “I have a feeling it was my stalwart constable who was responsible for them being on the floor. They may have jammed the desk drawer shut, and when I asked him to retrieve a report for me, he might have panicked.”
The laughter on the end of the line turns almost rueful. Not quite - this is Phryne - but. “These photographs have had a much more adventurous day than I imagined for them. The whole house seems to have seen them. Including Aunt Prudence.” The sarcasm in her voice is dry as the Negev.
He can’t help a wince at the thought of that conversation with Mrs. Stanley. But that she’d still gone through the trouble of bringing them here… “I’m glad they were intended for me, though.” Without intention, his voice has dropped a few notes.
Any trace of rue is gone from her voice when she answers. “Care to come home for another gift intended for you?” Warm, soft, familiar. Enticing.
Home. He doesn’t live at the house in the Esplanade, but some days it’s as good as. “That’s the best plan I’ve heard all evening, Miss Fisher.”
“Don’t keep me waiting, Inspector.”