‘How shall I do this? It will break poor Eunice’s heart.’ Phryne took her morning bath without appreciating the scent and dressed in haste.
It had to be Alastair Thompson. He was used to disguise. He had a terrible temper. He had no alibi for the night in question. All that he had to do was to chloroform the people, sling a rope around Mrs Henderson, and cast a line over the water tower. He was a rock climber. Then he could haul her up, and himself, and leave no tracks. Whether he dropped her or trampled on her did not matter. All he had to do was to get rid of the mother and Eunice would fall into his arms and give him all her money, of which Phryne supposed that there must be a fair amount.
Phryne decided to call Detective-inspector Robinson, and when she had established contact with him, found that he had reached the same conclusion.
‘I’m bringing him in for questioning today,’ he assured Phryne. ‘I’m of the same mind, Miss Fisher. I’ll let you know.’
Phryne decided that there was no need to worry Miss Henderson with any news until she could say something positive, and closeted herself with her solicitor, who had drawn up the adoption papers.
‘But Miss Fisher, you have kept the girl from her guardian’s care,’ he protested. Phryne grinned and shoved Miss Gay’s ‘documents’ at him.
‘She has no legal guardian. Miss Gay is her aunt, but no adoption proceedings were ever taken. Here’s her birth certificate and all. Poor little thing. Have you sorted it all out?’
‘Yes, Miss Fisher. If you will just put your finger on this seal and repeat after me, “To this adoption I hereby put my name and seal”—just a legal form, Miss Fisher, you understand — and it is all completed.’
Phryne complied.
‘She’s mine, now?’
‘After the judge has approved this, yes.’
‘Excellent. When can you get it into court?’
‘In due course, Miss Fisher.’
‘That won’t do. “In due course” means at least six months.’
‘It is a practice court application, so I can probably get it into the list for next week,’ said the lawyer, shocked yet again by Miss Fisher’s disrespect for the law. He bundled up his papers and took his leave.
Jane tapped at the door of the parlour. ‘Miss, I’ve recalled something.’
‘Good. What is it?’
‘I remember Miss Gay. She took me and Grandma to her house. It was a horrible place. Grandma. . something happened to Grandma.’
‘It will come back. Nothing more about the train?’
‘No. Was that your lawyer, Miss Fisher?’
‘Yes. I just signed the adoption papers. You’re mine now, Jane, and no one can take you away.’
Phryne told herself that she should have known better than to say things like that. Jane began to weep, threw herself at Phryne and held her tight, and Ember scratched his way onto her upper arm, balanced like a small black owl, and glared.
‘You are quite right, Ember,’ Phryne told him. ‘It was a very silly thing to say. Never mind. Jane, my dear, here is a hankie, and I think that we should sit down. All this emotion is wearying, isn’t it?’
More emotion was expressed by a horrified client on the telephone.
‘Miss Fisher, I must first thank you for retrieving my daughter.’ He began with deceptive calmness. ‘But do you know what they have done to her, those hounds?’
‘I have a fair idea,’ admitted Phryne. ‘She has certainly been beaten.’
‘Beaten, and. . and. . assaulted, and the doctor thinks that she may have a. . venereal disease.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who were they?’ he screamed. ‘Tell me their names!’
Mr Hart dropped any pretence of control.
‘I don’t know their names, and if I did I should not tell you. Private vengeance is unsound, and moreover illegal. Leave them to me.’
Some nuance in her voice must have told Mr Hart that he was talking to a very angry woman.
‘You know them?’
‘I shall know them. And they shall all be very, very sorry. I promise.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Mr Hart, subdued.
‘Nothing. They have ravished your daughter, and a thousand offences beside. Leave them to me. Your daughter needs you now. She is an innocent victim, poor thing. She probably won’t remember anything about it, so don’t remind her. I am sure that you can find her the best of care. Then take her right away from Melbourne for six months. Switzerland has some very pleasant scenery.’
‘I put my confidence in you, Miss Fisher.’
‘So you may, Mr Hart.’
She hung up the phone. How was she going to find the abductor and avenge poor Gabrielle Hart? But now she was determined. She had given her word.
Detective-inspector Robinson surveyed the young man in the clutch of two policemen with approval. He was a fighter, this one, and it had taken the combined strength of four officers to bring him in. Even now he was straining in the grip of the station’s two heaviest and strongest officers.
‘It is my duty to warn you that you do not have to say anything, but that anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence,’ he said quietly.
The prisoner demanded, ‘What are you charging me with?’
‘The murder at or near Ballan on the night of the twenty-first of June 1928 of Anne Henderson by strangulation,’ said the policeman, and Alastair Thompson laughed.
‘Then you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll tell you where I was on the night of the twenty-first of June 1928.’
‘Well, I’m glad that you have decided to tell me at last.’
‘I was in the city watch house,’ sneered Thompson. ‘Drunk and disorderly. I was fined five bob the next morning. Cheap at the price, considering. Go on. Ask the watchhousekeeper!’
This was a surprise. Detective-inspector Robinson, however, preserved his habitual calm.
‘Book him in, please, Duty Officer,’ he requested civilly, and the young man was forced into a chair to be photographed, stripped of bootlaces, tie and braces, and placed with a certain celerity into a nice quiet cell.
‘Get those developed and send across for the drunks book,’ he snapped, and an underling carried off the camera and raced across the road to the watch house, demanding the cell register for the twenty-first of June.
‘You can’t have it,’ snapped the sergeant. ‘It’s my current book and I need it. Tell Jack Robinson to come and inspect it himself. What’s all this about?’
‘Murder suspect says that he was banged up on the night,’ gasped the cadet. ‘He’ll skin me if I come back without it! Have a heart!’
‘You can copy the page,’ said the sergeant, relenting. ‘And you can note at the same time the names of the officers what were on duty on the night of the twenty-first. Who was it?’ He leaned ponderously over the counter. ‘Aha. Sergeant Thomas and Constable Hawthorn. You can have Hawthorn, for all the use he is, but you can’t have Thomas, he’s on leave.’
‘When will he be back?’ asked the cadet, scribbling furiously with a spluttering pen on the back of a jail order. ‘This nib is frayed, Sarge, I swear.’
‘He’s in Rye on his honeymoon,’ replied the sergeant, grinning evilly. ‘Didn’t leave no address. There you are, son, and take Constable Hawthorn with you. Hawthorn!’ he bellowed.
A faint voice echoed from the cells, ‘Yes, Sarge?’
‘Get across and see if you can identify a prisoner of Jack Robinson’s, will you, lad? And you needn’t hurry back. Get some lunch.’
‘But Sarge, it’s only half-past ten!’
‘Get some breakfast, then,’ snapped the sergeant, and the cadet conducted Constable Hawthorn back across Russell Street to the detective-inspector’s office, waving his jail order the while so that the ink would dry.