Chapter Text
Chapter 9
Phryne drove to Gillian’s house by the ocean alone, desperate to have a moment with her thoughts. Constable Collins had agreed to drive Dot home. Everything felt like it was happening far too quickly, and she hadn't slept a wink. Gillian’s cold, dead eyes stared out from blackness every time she closed her own eyes, and the image of them was nearly too much to bear. Its my fault.
Jack had pulled her aside, after Quentin Garside had left the station. “Are you sure you’re all right?” He had asked, voice rough. His face was stoic, but his eyes pleaded with her.
“I’ll be alright. Eventually.” She had replied, and she hoped that she sounded convincing. In truth, she doubted that she would ever lift the weight of melancholy that had settled between her shoulder blades— making itself at home beside the disappearance of her sister. But for now, finding the animal that had murdered her friend was the only thing that mattered. The only thing.
The Inspector had frowned at that, but didn’t press her. “Good. You go on to Gillian’s, see what you can find. I’m going to track own Maximillian Trippett.”
The thing between them shifted, slightly, and it gave her pause. “And Phryne?” His voice had gone low, cautious. And he had used her name. “Be careful.”
The rain had created a mudslide of the roads, and when Phryne finally pulled up to the small house with the blue door her tires were caked with mud. The ocean churned in the distance, the rainclouds still pressing angrily down, and immediately she felt like her lungs were collapsing within her chest. Gillian’s modest home stood quietly amidst it all.
Now or never.
The house was thick with the metallic scent of blood and fear. Phryne let out a quick exhale and covered her nose with a gloved hand. She rounded the corner to the stair where Gillian had been found. The area had been cleaned, but the elegant white carpet was still splattered with blood. Phryne jump-hopped over it and ascended the stair, mindful of the broken railing. There was always so much blood, and it never failed to shock her. Smeared against the wall, handprints grasping at the railing as she tumbled, dying, down the stairs.
The landing offered more blood, and Phryne continued to follow a trail leading up and down the hall. She entered the bedroom, the bathroom, and found a bag open on the bed, half packed with overnight clothes and a few more understated dresses, a hairbrush, an extra set of undergarments. It seemed hastily done— everything crumpled and thrown about in a hurry.
“So she was planning on returning.” Phryne said aloud to the room, the sound of her voice feeling disembodied, and out of place.
A few baubles had been knocked off a nearby vanity, and a throw rug was rumpled against a corner. There had been a struggle, beginning here. The blood began just outside of the bedroom, and lead towards the landing where Gillian had been stabbed once— no, twice— before she began to stumble down the stairs. There she had fallen, broken her spine, and stabbed five more times in the stomach. Phryne pressed the image of her bleeding friend from her mind and tried to focus on the evidence she had left behind.
Frustrated and sure there was something missing, she lifted her chin, peering through the dark hallway, back out towards the landing and down the stairs. From the different angle, something metallic caught her eye. Stuck into the carpet near the top stair and covered in blood was a slim, silver compact.
Phryne picked it up carefully with a gloved hand and examined it. She remembered now— it belonged to Julietta, but had been gifted to Gillian the night before she had been killed. Suddenly, as if an epiphany, the pieces slid into place.
She wrapped the bloodstained compact in a handkerchief and slipped it into her blouse. As she whipped the Hispano down the road, she began to drive back towards the Esplanade.
——
Max Trippett had been easy enough to track down. Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson had a reliable source that told him that their prime suspect spent nearly every evening sipping brandy and smoking cigars at a gentlemen’s club on the east end of Melbourne. Jack had been there once before, on one of George Sanderson’s brothel raids. It seemed to have cleaned up its act of late, though, and only granted entry to men.
Mr. Trippett had come quietly enough, stubbing out his cigar as they approached him. “I was wondering when you’d come for me,” he grumbled, smoothing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, lads.”
Once at the station, Jack locked the suspect in the interrogation room. It felt wrong to question him without his sleuthing lady-detective companion. Despite all of the complications that had transpired between them… he needed her. He was willing to put aside the— the thing that was writhing between them—even if they never spoke of it out loud. His ill-fated attempt to separate himself from his feelings for her had proved impossible. Truth be told, he could solve murders without her. He had done it before she had sashayed back into Melbourne, and he could do it again.
But he didn’t want to. He supposed, as he telephoned her, that perhaps he was a romantic.
No answer. That was odd.
Miss Fisher was probably still at Gillian’s residence, no doubt finding something that his constables had missed. He wondered if he should meet her there, let their suspect squirm a little.
After a moment of deliberation, he swiftly decided to stay put. He could fill her in on the finer details of the interrogation later on, but for now, he would press forward. He was anxious to get this case closed.
As he entered the interrogation room, Max was immediately defensive.
“I was at the club when Gillian was killed.” He said quickly, crossing his large arms over his chest. “You can ask the doorman.”
Jack frowned. “I have already taken statements from several doormen and other patrons of the establishment.”
“Listen—“ Max began, “I had an affair with Gillian. It was short. And it was months ago. As far as I know she’s shacked up with Quentin…” he gulped, eyes downcast. “She was shacked up with Quentin.”
The Inspector frowned and leaned towards him over the table. “She was pregnant with your child.”
Max’s eyes widened, and he scowled. “That’s not possible.”
“It is. Coroner confirmed it.” Jack stood and circled the table, closing in on the suspect. There was something nagging him, something in the back of his mind. This isn’t right. Phryne should be here. “I think that you found out that the mother of your child was living with your brother in law. That seems like a betrayal to me.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No?” The Inspector frowned. “Perhaps not. Perhaps you were too busy impregnating Sylvia to be jealous about an old fling?”
“I—“ Max sighed and put his head in his hands.
At that moment, they were interrupted by a man poking his head into the office.
Inspector Robinson glanced up, irritated. “Constable, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a—“
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he began. Constable Blackstone was a transfer from Sydney, and although he was younger than Jack by over a decade, he was tactful and sharp-witted. His younger sister had expressed interest in joining the police force, and Jack, feeling particularly inspired by his lady-detective colleague, was determined to create an opportunity for a female constable. In the meantime, Constable Blackstone had quietly become one of the Inspectors more dependable deputies, although he was careful to keep this information from one Constable Collins.
“But there are some women here to see you, sir. Quite urgent.”
“I’ll be right there,” replied Jack quickly. He turned to address Mr. Trippett: “I’m not finished with you.”
The Inspector exited the interrogation room and into the waiting area. Standing there, looking skittish, were two women who looked very familiar. Standing beside them was Gertie.
“Gertie!” He said, relief washing over him. He didn’t like her staying with Mr. Salisbury, particularly when they hadn’t cleared him as a suspect.
Gertie smiled weakly, her eyes shining. “Jack.” She paused and gestured to two young women standing timidly behind her. “These two came to see me at Salisbury’s estate”
The young women looked familiar, and they stepped forward to introduce themselves.
“Hello,” said one, offering her hand. “I’m Lily, and this is my sister Astor.”
The other woman, Astor, also offered her hand. “We met you at Mr. Salisbury’s party.”
Immediately, recognition flooded him. They had been wearing matching canary yellow dresses. “Oh, right.” He cleared his throat. “You two are friends of Gertie’s.”
Lily smiled and glanced sidelong at her sister. “Yes. She told us that-“
“-we could trust you.” finished Astor, looking grim.
Jack motioned to some chairs. “Please, sit.”
“No,” they said in unison. “We can’t stay long. Please—“
“Hear us out.”
They peered up at him with wide eyes, and the Inspector sighed. “Continue.”
Lily took a deep breath. “We saw who stabbed Sylvia.”
Jack frowned and glanced at Gertie, gesturing for the three of them to follow him into the interrogation room. They complied, but Gertie held back. “That’s not all.”
“Oh?” The furrow on the Inspector’s brow deepened and he leaned over to see what Gertie was pulling out of her bag.
“I found this stuffed into one of the garbage bins. I accidentally knocked it over on my way to try to start my car again.” In her hand was a ladies evening jacket, also familiar, but soaked in dark stains of blood.
Jack took it into his hands and turned it over, suddenly realizing who the jacket belonged to.