Work Text:
This was something else again.
I fear it cannot be explained.
The words that maketh murder.
P.J. Harvey
They finished taking Mrs. Brightwell’s confession, and a constable led her to the cells, to await her arraignment. Phryne followed Jack back to his office, and found him rooting around in the bottom desk drawer, where he kept his stash of biscuits. To her surprise he brought out, not the tin, but a packet of cigarettes.
He noticed her enter. “Do you happen to have a light, Miss Fisher?”
“I didn’t think you indulged, Jack,” she said, crossing the room and holding out a very elegant, very expensive lighter.
“I don’t, as a rule.” As he reached out, Phryne grabbed his hand.
“Jack—your hands are shaking!” She could feel it trembling, between both of hers. She was suddenly and horribly reminded of a dog she had once seen on the streets of Collingwood, that had shook constantly. She had tried to pet it, but it slunk away from her. She found it dead in an alley, later.
Jack gripped her hand. “It’s nothing.” His voice was rough. He stared at the desk between them, not seeing it. “That damned shot she took at me – brought up some bad memories.” He looked up at her then. Phryne stared at him. She looked pale. He realized he had never cursed in front of her before. He swallowed. “Beg pardon, Miss Fisher.”
“Don’t.”
She released his hand, and tapped a cigarette out of the pack. She brought it up to her mouth and lit it, inhaling once, then offered it to him. He took it from her with only a slight tremor now. She lit a second cigarette for herself.
“It’s strange,” he said, after a quiet moment. “We all smoked like chimneys at the Front. When I got back I swore I’d never touch the things again. Rosie said it was a filthy habit.”
“But sometimes it’s the only thing that helps,” she replied.
“Yes. I’ll have a few bad nights, I’m afraid.” He sighed out a slow thread of smoke. “Although, if I’m perfectly honest, I’m more upset about the hat.” He looked at her with that wry, almost-smile he reserved for her.
“Mr. Butler has an excellent insomnia remedy, involving whisky and several secret ingredients.”
“Do you have unquiet dreams, Miss Fisher? I would have thought you slept the sleep of the just.”
She sat on the corner of the desk, as was her habit, but with less insouciance that was usual. “When Yourka Rosen died, I didn’t sleep properly for over a week. They all came back again, every night. Every face...”
She stubbed out the remains of her cigarette in an empty tumbler on his desk. “Come to the house tonight, Jack, when you’ve finished here. I have a little souvenir of Maiden Creek we could share. And Mr. Butler will give you his secret recipe, as long as you swear yourself to silence on your grandfather’s grave.” She smiled softly.
He regarded her solemnly. She noticed his hands had stilled.
“Sounds intriguing. And I would never dream of defying Mr. Butler.”