Chapter Text
September 29, 1929
Dearest Jack.
How on earth have I only been in England for a little over a week? It feels as if I have been gone for at least a month, if not longer, and it does pain me a little, I’ll admit, to be away from the place that I have started to consider as my home in the last couple of years. If anything, I just miss my makeshift family- Mr. B, Jane, Dot, Collins, and especially you. I miss you awfully- much more than I had originally anticipated to. With the short telegrams that Dot has been sending me that mention you moping in your office and being far too invested in your work, I am inclined to feel like you must miss me a little bit too. If you don’t, well, I shan’t feel too offended. Perhaps it will give me a chance to train up another unsuspecting officer while I’m gone?
When I said come after me, I meant it with the fondest of regards, for I truly do want you to- come after me, that is. With all the toils that London holds, I feel it would much, much easier if you were here with me so I had someone to fall back on- there is only so much comfort that can be offered by nightcaps alone in my private parlour while reading Shakespeare’s works- though if I am to be quite open with you, Jack, it just makes me miss you more. I really do just need you here- for my sanity’s sake. My parents will end up driving me up the wall (you know how Father is), and I fear the worst if I am to stay here much longer. Between their tiffs and the endless social arrangements that I’ve had to deal with, I feel almost as if I shall waste away by the turn of the decade! At least when I was in Melbourne dealing with dear Aunt P, I had you to share looks with across the room, and laugh about the more... dull aspects of it over a nightcap at a later hour. It seems, over here, that my nightcap partner is more often than not Reggie’s (the butler, Jack, I can feel your scornful gaze from over the oceans) cat. As endearing as it is to have my nightcap partner try and cuddle into my shoulder or lap at every chance he gets, Mittens is less than stimulating company in the evenings. He doesn’t even tease me!
I need you here on a more professional note too- though, as of the moment, there is not all too much more I can say than that, for I myself am still trying to figure out what in god’s name is going on. (Note: if you tell Dot that I used the lord’s name in vain like you did last time, I shall be forced to throttle you; and it shan’t be la petite mort, Jack dear, so do pick your battles wisely). There have been a strange few occurrences lately, to do with women in the higher social circles, and I feel as lost as Collins did when he first started working on cases with us. There seem to be a lot of ends that aren’t tying up, and usually, a picture would have come together by now- there is also far too large a pool of suspects and a lot of men that aren’t who they seem. I’ve enclosed a photo that relates to my issue in hand, but no further detail than that at the moment, darling. If you want to learn more, I would strongly suggest that you come after me. Please. London seems to be doing its level best to stop me from coming home to you, so I ask of you to do the next best thing: bring home to me. Just you, Jack. Not Collins or Dot, but please, just yourself.
I need you to promise me you’ll think about it? For me? If you do think on it enough for anything to come to the point where you do end up looking at travel timetables, there’s a timetable of the Orient’s docking schedule hung up next to the calendar in my kitchen if you feel so inclined as to book a passage.
On another, somewhat unrelated note, would you also take any time you spend at Wardlow to pick up any of my beads that I left behind? Dot will parcel them up and give them to you, along with a few other items that I left behind (including my garter dagger, can you believe it?), it’s just that Mother dearest is breathing down my neck about not being engaged yet, so I need the mother of pearl ring that Father gave to me to wear once I found “a suitable man” so that she gets off my back.
I do hope to hear from you soon, Jack. I really do.
Eternally grateful and with all my love,
P x
+
Jack Robinson sighed, and smoothing the creases of the letter that had somehow made its way to the Antipodes in less than four days (no doubt there was some... old friend... who had aided the process), tipped back in his chair, and closed his eyes for a moment. Phryne had been gone for almost a month- a month next Tuesday, he thought to himself, and really, it was all too quiet without her. Every morning when he arrived at City South after spending a night in his cold parlour, without any nightcaps, or any nice dinner partners, he half expected her to turn up and to throw herself across his desk- for her to offer to help with the tiny cases that had been passing his desk since she left for London. Of course, he had only had small cases since she had taken her sudden leave with her father- it was clear that the crims were all too aware of her departure, and they too had taken a sudden, and surprisingly convenient break. He laughed softly, his eyes opening again as he picked up the letter’s envelope and tipped out its other contents onto the top of his desk, thinking all the while. He missed it- ‘it’ being cases with the lady detective by his side. Of course, there were the usual drunk and disorderlies, and domestic disputes, but there had been no murders at all, not one!
He didn’t miss the murders themselves, of course, for that would just be cruel; nor did he miss the paperwork; but he did miss the feel of the chase- the feel of the chase with her, and knew that it simply wouldn’t be the same without her lest a case did come into his hands before she returned home. Even if a decent case did make its way into his vicinity, it would be how it had been, post-war and pre-Phryne: a little bit dull, and far too slow. There was something about working with Miss Fisher that made Jack happier than he had ever been before, happier than even pre-war, or when he was married to Rosie. His cases with this crazy, lovable socialite were better than the supposed pre-marital bliss that newlyweds were supposed to adore. He laughed out loud again, and smiled to himself, opening his desk drawer and glancing at the mugshots that still lay there- three of four, their black and white smiles taunting him, the sparkles in her eyes evident even in the photos. The fourth one was his favourite, even if it wasn’t here with him, even if he shouldn’t have them still, but did, even if it did happen to be the bookmark in his current Zane Grey reading material- it really did make the opening of every book even more enjoyable than reading already was. It was annoying really, thought Jack to himself: he was so awfully infatuated with this woman that he had her photo as a bookmark even when his divorce wasn’t legally finalised, yet he hadn’t had the courage to do anything about this blossoming love until the woman herself had upped and left the country to deal with her parent’s financial affairs.
At first, when she had asked him to go after her, it had been no more than a joke: a silly little romantic overture that had made them both fall quiet. When she had seriously repeated it, in a tone so gentle that it was almost under her breath, Jack had felt as if his heart were to burst out of his chest, for it would have been the only appropriate reaction. She wanted her to go after him, and when he had watched her little yellow plane fly off into the sky, his heart had both healed and broken at the very same time, and he knew. He knew he would go after her. In all honesty, he had known that for months, ever since they had decided to ‘make do’ with one another- he knew that if she asked, he would follow her to the end of the earth. The more unfortunate reality of the matter, however, was that being able to go after someone- overseas of all places- was not such an easy feat: it was a matter of time, and expenses, and other difficulties that simply wouldn’t show themselves until the most unhelpful time. For the detective inspector who had finally found his heart again, the original plan was one of utter hesitation: to wait it out, to see if Phryne would return a month later with her plane and her things, and for him to be able to sweep her back up into his arms, and they could pick up where they left off: he would wait for her as he always had: his heart racing, and always being two steps behind her. That had always been his plan, Jack said to himself, reaching for the pot of station tea that one of the greenest constables had provided- at least, that was until the letter arrived.
The wax-sealed envelope was a cream colour, and the seal was embossed with a gold swallow, and a swirling ‘P.F’ right underneath: the usual decorated envelope of the upper class. When Collins had first given the envelope to his superior that morning, even just the sight of an embossed envelope had caused Jack’s heart to race, and what had been more likely than not a tear had almost escaped from Jack’s eye. Once he had realised for sure who the letter was from, even just her familiar hand scrawled across the front of a piece of embossed card was enough to move him to tears, that was just how dearly he missed her. He had grabbed the letter from Collins in a matter of seconds, and as soon as he had shed his coat, and acquired a cup of strong tea, had retreated to the quiet of his office, and had asked to be left in peace, and of course, Collins had obliged- after all. He knew full well that the letter would be from a certain lady detective, and that unless his superior was left in peace to relish in its contents, that the day would be a long, rather painful one. After all, the letter was one of two things: a notice that the woman would be making her way home, or yet another short one, detailing how she missed ‘her’ detective inspector so dearly, and would he please, for the love of all things holy or unholy, come after her already? Hugh Collins had seen the telegrams scattered around the station as he went about his daily duties- each telegram or letter a short confession of love, signed with a kiss- occasionally an actual one, and goodness, there had been so many: more than he could count on the two hands that God had given him.
FROM: P. FISHER
TO: J. ROBINSON
- AWFULLY BORED STOP COME AFTER ME STOP R+J II II 185 STOP
FROM: J. ROBINSON
TO: P. FISHER
- WISH I WERE THERE STOP MISSING YOU TOO STOP
FROM P. FISHER
TO: J. ROBINSON
- A+C V II 288 STOP REALLY JACK QUERIE YOU ARE THE WORST STOP
+
Jack treasured all of the telegrams that Phryne sent him, he truly did- and the letter was to be something he treasured even more, that was, until he had opened it. Her first paragraphs of declarations of missing him, and her mother and father being their usual charming selves had set his heart at ease, for she clearly missed him as much as he did her, but the latter paragraph of jumbled words and the prospect of a case sent his head spinning. In the present, he laid the letter back onto his desk with a sigh and leaned back in his chair. It made no sense. When it came to cases, Phryne Fisher was the one who knew what was what from the get-go: she understood all of what was going on and could pick out the most likely suspect from a twirling ballroom full of sparkling gowns. To hear that she was confused was like hearing Rosie verbally expressing that she loved him in the years after he had returned from the Great War: it was improbable, unpredictable, and highly unlikely.
Jack turned over the letter in his hands, and let his eyes come to rest upon the photo that Phryne had enclosed, battling with his heart and mind as he looked at the picture. Similar to one that had been taken before her cousin’s engagement party had gone to hell in the late days of 1928, there was a black and white photo of a group of women, stood in costumes in a garden that was likely part of some grand, sprawling estate in upper-class England. Jack’s eyes were of course drawn first to Phryne who was once again dressed in the ridiculously revealing Cleopatra costume she had worn at the other ill-fated party, and around her were the gleaming faces of marginally intoxicated women in varying states of dress- some as birds, some as storybook characters, others as biblical characters similar to that of the bride-to-be from before. What struck Jack as strange was the three men in the picture, lurking in the background, and the one man who was hanging onto the arm of a tall, pale-skinned blonde in the foreground. Phryne too had obviously found this strange, as there was a lipstick circle around the clearly tight grip he had on the woman’s arm, as well as a note of a name in the top corner. He turned the photo over and looked at her swirling script once more: “Mirriam Highcastle, Susan Merriweather, Amabella Lepont. Where was Rosemary? Peter Highcastle”
Jack sighed. No matter how many times he had read the names, over and over, he had no idea what they meant, or how they related to the case that she “couldn’t tell him more about”. He put his head in his hands, and opening his desk drawer once more, looked at the wad of cash and the passport that had been sat there for the last three days: since that call to the commissioner that had ended up with him learning that he had accumulated about nine months of leave since starting back with the Victorian Police force after the war. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he pulled the cash and passport out of the drawer, and stood up, grabbing the letter and his overcoat and hat off of their respective pegs of the coat stand.
“Collins!” Jack’s tone was sharp, and the constable scuttled to his side immediately.
“Yes, sir?”
“Call Mrs Collins up, Hugh,” Jack said, his mouth pulling into a taut line,
“We have business at Wardlow, it seems.”
Collins shook his head for a second, dazed, and then popped behind the desk to make the call as Jack paced the waiting room of the station. Once Hugh had put down the phone, he made his way to the door, waiting for his superior to follow him, only voicing his concerns as they opened the doors to the police car and climbed in.
“What ever is the matter, Sir?” he said in a confused manner,
“Dottie that she and Mr. Butler were expecting you, but she wouldn’t explain why.”
Jack seemed to suddenly realise that Collins was next to him in the car, and he let out a sigh.
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Collins.” He said quietly.
“I need you to stay here though. Call O’Shaughnessy, keep the station going. I might be gone a while.”
Hugh climbed out of the car, a frown on his brow. In the last few days, Inspector Robinson had gone from ecstatic to a nervous mess, and he had overheard the hushed conversation with the commissioner the other evening, talk of money and leave. Hugh Collins took a deep breath and praying that he wasn’t stepping over a line, made to speak up again.
“Does she need you, Sir?”
Jack nodded, and Hugh felt a niggling worry start up in his stomach.
“I believe she might, Collins. I believe that she just might.”