Chapter Text
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
– Shakespeare, King John
“I’m terribly sorry, Inspector,” Phryne overheard Mr. Butler saying in the hall, “but I’m afraid Miss Fisher isn’t receiving guests today. There’s been a family upset and she’ll be departing shortly—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Butler,” she called from her desk. “Come in, Jack.” She attempted to school her face into a semblance of its usual order, but when she rose and turned to greet him, it was apparently all too obvious that she had been crying. “I’m a little out of sorts today, I’m afraid. Can I offer you a drink?”
“You seem to need it more than I do,” Jack said. His keen blue eyes, normally so suspicious and guarded, were soft. He stepped a little closer to her than was his wont; usually it was Phryne who had to close the distance between them. “Tell me what’s happened?”
Phryne took what she hoped was a calming breath. It shuddered in her chest. “I had a telephone call from Aunt Prudence, late this morning. My cousin Arthur...” Her lips began to tremble. “Passed away in his sleep last night.” The muscles of her face contorted sharply as she tried to control herself. And then she was sobbing, clutching a handful of Jack’s waistcoat and pressed against his chest, without knowing how she got there, so tightly she could feel the weave of his jacket imprinting into her cheek, and his hands were warm and solid and steady on her shoulder and in her hair.
“He’d always had a weak heart,” she explained to Jack, when she had cried herself out again, and completely soaked the lapel of his jacket and a large patch of his waistcoat. “The doctors prescribed all sorts of pills and tonics, but in the end there was nothing they could really do.”
Mr. Butler came quietly into the parlour, carrying a tray with fresh tea and sandwiches for Jack, and a small bowl of water and a face flannel for Phryne. Jack didn’t attempt to pull away from her in the presence of the servant, and she loved him for that. It was a simple thing, to acknowledge that she loved Jack, at least in her own mind. Right now, she loved a great many people, and wanted to cling to them all. She tightened her grip on his suit and nuzzled his damp chest, and felt his chin come to rest on top of her head.
They parted eventually, but only far enough to sit down, and while she was patting her eyes with the damp cloth, Phryne saw Jack surreptitiously move his chair an inch or two closer to hers. “Have a sandwich, Jack, I’m sure Mr. Butler made your favorite. He always does.”
Jack quietly piled the tiny tea sandwiches onto a plate, and then to Phryne’s surprise, held them out to her. “No, thank you.”
“Have you eaten anything at all today?”
“I... some toast?”
He raised his eyebrows, added three more sandwiches, and placed the plate on her knee. “Eat. You’ll be of no use to yourself or your aunt, otherwise.”
She ate the sandwiches, and drank the hot sweet tea he poured out for her, all the while marveling as though from very far away how solicitous and kind he was being. “I’m heading out to Aunt Prudence’s in a little while,” she told Jack. “With Guy and my mother away in England, I’m the only family she has here, and she’ll need my help. Dot and Mr. Butler will come out in a few days, to help get the house ready.”
Jack nodded. “Is there anything I can do?”
“...I’d appreciate a ride, actually,” said Phryne, with a hint of tired embarrassment. “I don’t really feel up to driving, right now.”
It was the perfect opportunity for a sly jab, and at any other time, he would have taken it. Instead, he allowed himself only a small quiet smile and a nod. “I’m at your service, Miss Fisher.”
Phryne finished her tea and then excused herself for a few minutes, so that she could go upstairs and change. The clothes she had put on that morning now seemed far too bright and light-hearted for her mood, and while normally she reveled in shocking and outraging her conservative aunt, now was not the time. Sober blacks and grays were what the situation called for.
She looked at herself in her full-length mirror, after she was done dressing. She looked smaller. Was it the lack of outward colour, she wondered, or the lack of inward vitality? And she forced herself not to think of Arthur, who had loved her wild outfits because, he said, they reminded him of rainbows. She washed her face and subdued her grief with makeup, and went downstairs.
Jack was waiting for her in the hall. “Mr. Butler’s already put your things in my car,” he said. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Jack.”
He took her lightweight black coat from her hands and held it so that she could slip it on easily. His movements were thoughtful and deliberate, and practiced. It occurred to Phryne, like a punch to her vital organs, that he was no stranger to sudden deaths. He was an officer of the law, and policemen died every day. How many funerals had he attended since the end of the war, for colleagues and friends cut down in the line of duty? And what of family? He had never spoken to her directly of any relations at all, save for one late uncle, and all his brief mentions of his parents were in the past tense.
She turned, fastening the coat’s collar at her throat, and reached for his hand. “Thank you,” she said again, warmly. “I know this wasn’t how we had planned to spend our afternoon.”
His eyes seemed very bright. “It never comes in a convenient moment,” he replied huskily. He squeezed her hand, then reached for the door knob.
The drive out to Aunt Prudence’s vast sprawling house was uneventful. Phryne spent most of it alternating between looking dumbly out the window, or curled against Jack’s side. He didn’t appear to mind, and he was an experienced driver, well able on quiet roads to handle having one arm commandeered for other purposes.
For once, Prudence did not come bustling out of the house to greet them with complaints and demands. Only one or two of the staff were there, for the luggage. Phryne felt strangely bereft.
“Will you come inside?” she asked Jack, not wanting to lose the warm solid security of his presence just yet.
He opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it abruptly on whatever reply he had intended to make. When he spoke again, Phryne felt sure it was not what he had originally planned to say. “I wouldn’t want to intrude. And I doubt Mrs. Stanley feels well enough to receive guests yet...”
“Jack.” Phryne touched his arm, feeling the coolness of his overcoat beneath the ridges and whirls of her black moiré glove. “You’re practically family.”
A strange expression flitted through his eyes. Again, he seemed on the verge of accepting... and then shook his head. “I’d rather not, Phryne. I’m... not good... with other people’s grief.” He looked away and coughed sharply into his hand. “But please, extend my condolences to your aunt. And let me know when the funeral will be. I’d like to pay my respects to poor Arthur. He was a nice lad.”
Phryne felt the warning sting of hot tears, even as Jack’s words sent a soothing warm glow through her aching heart. “Of course,” she promised.