Chapter Text
It all started with a bit of gossip.
Phryne Fisher enjoyed gossip. It was something that she had accepted about herself rather early on, despite the scolding Aunt Prudence gave her when, as a child, she had leaned over to overhear her father’s conversations. Besides, loose lips were nearly always the source of good information, and good gossip made for good sleuthing.
Which was why, on this pleasant day in early spring, one miss Gillian Linscott was trotting up the walk of Phryne’s St. Kilda home. At tea a few days prior, Phryne had caught wind of a small rumor- well, a number of them, if one was being precise- regarding her old friend, Miss Linscott, and was hoping that the young woman would deny it.
“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Gillian, sullen, sipping on her tea. Usually charming, her delicate face had darkened somehow since Phryne had seen her last, perhaps only a few weeks prior. And now, here she was, perched delicately on one of Phryne’s sofas, her stocking feet tucked under her. “Although I will not name the father, to protect his good name, of course.”
“Understandably,” Phryne wanted to snort in derision, but decided against it, and instead studied her friend. She had a rather sneaking suspicion that she already knew who the father was, if her friend’s social habits were any indication, but she held her tongue. “More tea?”
Gillian nodded and held out her cup, and rather than call on Dot, Phryne poured it herself. “I had heard, originally, that it was Miss Buchanan who was pregnant.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Gillian. “I haven’t heard that. If she is, perhaps we should start a club.” Gillian spoke in a low, thrilling voice, the kind that one couldn’t help but follow up and down, as if each her speech were an arrangement of musical notes, keeping perfect time and pitch.
Phryne was relieved to see her friend in such good spirits, particularly when her social standing was on the line. “So…” she began, unsure how to broach this topic delicately.
“What are you going to do?”
“I had thought about seeing someone. A doctor, perhaps,” Gillian began, sensing what Phryne was really trying to ask. “But, I am a woman of means, am I not? I can raise this child without a man. What do I need a husband for? Really, just one more person to accommodate.”
“That’s admirable,” said Phryne at last, genuinely impressed by her friend’s independence and willingness to buck societal expectations. “Please let me know if you need anything, won’t you? Even if it is just someone with whom you can face society or my Aunt Prudence’s luncheons. I’d hate for you to face that storm alone.”
Gillian smiled and reached over to touch Phryne’s knee. It was strangely intimate, and Phryne could tell that the information that had just been entrusted to her was expected to be kept secret, at least until her condition became too obvious to deny. “Thank you. That means the world to me. You and I have always been so similar… So unwilling to be told no.” Gillian laughed, her face lovely and sad, full of bright eyes and cheeks and lips, her auburn hair pulled up and away to expose them.
Phryne laughed, in kind. “Now, enough of all this! Please, tell me what you have been up to these days? I’m afraid I’m sorely behind on my socializing.”
“Been spending a lot of time with the police, I’ve heard!” teased Gillian, her lips pulled up in polite jest, although her remark hit a sensitive place in Phryne’s chest. “No time to attend any of the soirees or society events, to be sure.”
“Yes, I’ve been quite busy. Who knew Melbourne had turned into such an exciting place? Full of crime and intrigue.” She tried to keep her face straight, her eyes unwavering, although she suspected that Gillian had already made up her mind about what went on during Phryne’s late evenings in the police station.
Gillian nodded, giving no indication that she was going to pry further. Gillian Linscott, Phryne had decided, was not a gossip, and Phryne was very grateful for that small kindness, just now. “I’ve been reading all about your exploits in the papers. Although, you know, I have been rather busy of late, as well.”
“Quite,” quipped Phryne, indicating Gillian’s still petite waist and what grew inside.
“No no! Not just that of course,” laughed her guest, waving her delicate fingers through the air as though conducting an invisible orchestra. “There have been these splendid parties, every other evening it feels like.”
“Oh?” asked Phryne, her interest suddenly piqued. “Thrown by whom?”
“No one is quite sure,” whispered Gillian, so hushed that Phryne had to lean over to hear her properly. “He’s some American gentleman, a Mr. Salisbury, come over just recently and purchased a rather large estate very near here,” she sniffed, and her sun-stained eyes looked up at Phryne with a polite disinterest, as though speaking of fancy soirees thrown by mysterious foreign gentlemen was akin to speaking on the weather. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”
“Near here?” Asked Phryne, making no such effort to feign disinterest. “In St. Kilda?”
Gillian nodded, keeping her gaze steady. “Just south, in fact, near Elwood. Right on the water, you could dip your feet into the bay from the lawn of the place. And the queer thing about it is that no one seems to be invited. All of these people- all society people of course- they just show up! None of us have even actually met this Mr. Salisbury, to be sure, although I’ve heard he’s quite dashing.” She paused, tipped her head back and allowed a bright smile to tie up her lips. “Oh Phryne, you really must accompany me tonight! It would be such a delight to spend more time with you, and catch up on all of your most recent adventures.”
Phryne knew this invitation was in large part due to her friend’s rather unfortunate condition, but she was pleased to be invited regardless. “I would be delighted.”
--
Phryne arrived at the sprawling estate at half past seven in the evening, and the sun had not quite set, but was instead hanging, indecisive, on the horizon. She had eaten an early supper, put on an elegant (and maybe even a tad conservative, for her wardrobe) lavender frock, and had agreed to meet up with Gillian at eight sharp. She eased the Hispano into the long, winding drive, already five cars deep and half a dozen wide, each car sleeker and more expensive than the last. The gardens on the sprawling lawn were lush with vibrant colors and thick with the sickly aroma of pollen and freshly tilled earth. As she straightened her hair, she could hear the far-off crescendo of jazz music, dipping and swinging in the warm evening.
The entirety of the grounds were alive with chatter and tinkling laughter, all formalities and introductions forgotten on the spot. Phryne witnessed a number of enthusiastic meetings between women and men who never learned each other’s names, but instead groped at each other with passion, and spoke in hushed, earnest voices. It was all quite surreal, and reminded Phryne of the hazy, contented warmth of a dream or a distant memory, played out in muted colors and far-off sounds. In fact, upon her arrival she had begun to feel dreamy and content, as though she had just eaten a large, satisfying meal.
“Oh Phryne!” exclaimed Gillian, suddenly appearing, throwing her thin arms around her. “I am so glad you could make it.” Despite her polite disinterest in all things social, her friend’s excitement was genuine, and it filled Phryne with warmth to know that Gillian was so fond of her.
“What an event!” Phryne cried out, noticing how easily her excitement spilled out of her mouth. “These grounds are exquisite.”
Gillian nodded, taking Phryne by the hand and leading her up a set of stairs towards a fountain and a small group of young people, lingering with glasses in hand. Below the fountain was a number of small, intimate areas, delicately sloped to varying degrees to allow for privacy, and each decorated finely with benches, twinkling lights, and shrubberies. A glimmering, cerulean swimming pool winked and glistened to her right, boiling with swimmers and the sound of splashing limbs. “Phryne, these are all of my very closest friends.”
“How wonderful to meet all of you,” Phryne found herself saying as a flute of champagne appeared seemingly without a source into her hand. “Please, Gillian, introduce me!”
Gillian gestured to a small, dark-skinned woman with almond-shaped eyes, a deeply dark complexion, and heavy perfume. “This is Miss Sylvia Buchanan.”
“Ah!” Phryne extended her hand as Miss Buchanan kissed her, elegantly, on the cheek, and suddenly the lights grew brighter as the sun, finally, pulled itself away from the earth. “I’m so glad to finally make your acquaintance.” Phryne paused, studied her, and then asked: “Are you an American?”
“Likewise,” purred Sylvia in her soft, breathy American accent, her heavy eyelids fluttering closed. “And yes. I was born and raised in Alabama, but moved here after the war. My parents highly disapprove, of course.” She was impeccably dressed in a dark blue gown that stopped just at the knee, exposing two sleek, slender legs. Her arms were bare, and a small gold bracelet snaked its way from her wrist to the small crook in her elbow. She seemed less genuine than Gillian, however, save for her bored expression, which Phryne suspected was not an act at all. “I’ve heard so much about your exploits from your dear Aunt Prudence.”
Phryne did not answer, only nodded politely as the swing orchestra suddenly swelled and began to play cocktail music, causing everyone to pitch his or her voice a key higher in response. She did not appreciate her detective work being referred to as “exploits,” or worse, “a hobby,” although she imagined that she must have earned such a description. Still, the small amount of celebrity her detective work had granted her gave her hope.
“And this-“ continued Gillian, gesturing to the blonde at Sylvia’s left, “is Mrs. Julietta Trippett, wife of this charming fellow here, Mr. Maximillian Trippett.”
Phryne had met the Trippetts before, briefly, at a fundraiser for children or widowed women or invalids, but had not had the distinct displeasure of speaking with them personally. She could tell, just by looking at them, that they were as vain as they were cruel, but she did not allow these feelings to blemish her mouth as she smiled at them.
The Trippetts nodded as they were introduced. Mr. Trippett took Phryne by the hand and placed a sloppy, impolite kiss on the soft skin of her wrist. “Enchanted, Miss Fisher. How quite beautiful you are! I am surprised no gentleman has claimed you as his own, yet.”
Insulted, but not feeling quite up to defending herself to these strangers, Phryne smiled and instead let it pass between them, floating up above their heads until it was no longer of consequence.
If his wife disapproved of his sloppy display, she made no indication, and instead smiled prettily. Julietta was petite, with small breasts and a long torso. She was a fair, blonde-haired woman, and wearing just enough rouge to highlight her sharp cheekbones. “Indeed. Quite glad to finally meet you, the famously unmarried Miss Fisher.” She giggled to herself, as though her joke were quite funny and not to anyone’s expense. “You know I am not intending to be unkind, of course, Miss Fisher. We all appreciate your enthusiasm for maidenhood.”
Phryne smiled, her world coming into much sharper focus. The colors around her swam bright and nearly blinding, although she did not let the barb falter her. She gulped more champagne, which eased her.
“And finally-“ Gillian cut in, hoping to dissipate the tension that hung solid and black between Phryne and Mrs. Trippett, “I present Mr. Quentin Garside, Julietta’s eldest brother, and, if I may say so, quite the eligible bachelor.” Gillian, a self-proclaimed spinster herself, said this with a playful wink to Phryne, and Phryne finally allowed the tension in her shoulders to ease. Still, she finished her champagne with a little too much enthusiasm.
Mr. Garside was a head taller than the rest of them, with a square jaw and playful, boyish eyes. He was clearly related to Julietta, for his face was just as fair and sharp as hers, only he had a kindness to him, a softness that could not be buffed out by societal tedium. He smiled at her and kissed her hand, slowly, although this time the contact of lips on bare skin made Phryne shiver in her heels rather than repulsed.
“Ah, Mr. Garside!” She exclaimed, grasping his hand with her own and rather enjoying the feeling of his calloused palm. It reminded her of the Detective-Inspector, for some reason, and she was a little surprised by the sudden thought of him in her minds eye. She tried to push him out so that she could focus on socializing with poise, but the thought of his large hands and dark eyes was making that more than a little difficult. “I very much enjoyed reading your paper on suffrage. Its always good to see a man who supports the rights of women.”
“I am flattered, Miss Fisher,” Quentin rasped, his breath hanging in the air between them. “I’m afraid the university did not share your appreciation.”
“Well, history will see them as they are,” she replied quickly, stepping back from him slightly to regain her composure. The whiskey on his breath was making her light-headed.
Sylvia, however, scoffed, and finished the rest of her champagne. “While I appreciate a man who supports the rights of women, as well,” she took a deep breath, aware that her words were charged, “but you did not make any mention of the negro woman. Where does our struggle fit in with your idea of women’s suffrage, Mr. Garside?”
Quentin laughed and took Sylvia’s long hand in his, intertwining their contrasting fingers and bringing them to his lips. “You are quite right, Miss Buchanan. I do apologize. Perhaps you can collaborate on my next paper?”
Julietta cleared her throat, daintily touching her husband on the arm. “Darling, would you mind grabbing me another glass of champagne? I’m terribly parched.”
Maximillian Trippett nodded and eagerly ascended the stairs into the open doors of the parlor, seeking out a waiter with a tray of champagne. Phryne genuinely hoped that he was kind enough to bring her a refresher, but suspected that he would not.
“Where is Gertie?” murmured Gillian, the sound of which caused everyone to lean in closer.
“Not here,” replied Sylvia quickly, her voice hitched with champagne and passion. “Her brother won’t allow her to come. Says we’re all quite uncivilized.”
Julietta snorted and stared deeply into a small, silver compact. “How dull.”
The atmosphere hung thick around them after that, as though suddenly they were all feeling exceptionally existential, wondering if they were, in fact, quite uncivilized. Phryne certainly felt so, all of a sudden, and felt very much like going home and having a stiff drink.
“Who has made the acquaintance of our host, Mr. Salisbury? I am quite eager to meet with him.” Phryne said, casually, hoping to dissipate the weight that had descended upon them.
Julietta laughed and touched her neck. “Why, no one!”
“Oh, come on,” Phryne prodded, hoping to get something out of these women. Weren’t society types supposed to know every move everyone made? It certainly seemed that way, at least where Phryne’s moves were concerned. “Someone must have had the pleasure. He can’t be a ghost.”
“But he is,” murmured Gillian in her lyrical voice. “No one has even seen him, let alone spoken with him.”
“I have,” said Sylvia suddenly, looking up at the rest of them through her thick dark lashes. Her lips were pursed disapprovingly, as though she had already had quite enough gossip. “He and I are very close friends. He knew my father closely, before the war.”
Julietta sighed and crossed her arms. “Well, come on then! Tell us what he’s like!”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She paused. “He was a war hero, for America. Awarded medals for bravery and valor, that sort of thing. He inherited quite a lot of money from a rich uncle sometime after, and spent some time in New York City.” Sylvia paused and took a sip of her champagne. “I’ve heard a rumor that he got his money bootlegging, but that is simply not true!”
Satisfied with this information, Phryne excused herself in search of more champagne while Julietta quizzed Sylvia relentlessly on their mysterious host. The poor girl should have kept her mouth shut, Phryne thought to herself, making a mental note to check into this Salisbury fellow in the daylight hours.
The rest of the night went on in that fashion, with gaudy talk, and swirling eddies of unknown faces, all floating around the gardens like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. Occasionally, a confident pair of partiers would throw themselves into the center of the crowd and dance triumphantly to the smooth tenor of the saxophone or the oboe, and for a moment, there was not a soul on the earth except for the two of them, moving quickly on the tilting grandeur of the earth.
At the end of the night, Phryne had a lovely buzz of champagne and conversation, and bade her new group of friends good evening. She rather liked them, even if the Trippetts were as abrasive as they were cruel. There was a sort of worldliness about them that Phryne greatly appreciated, and as such as willing to let their tactlessness slide, for now.
Gillian hugged her tightly as she left, as though holding onto her for a moment longer would allow bravery to seep into her skin and allow her to continue to socialize for the remainder of the evening, alone, and without Phryne’s supportive arm. Phryne wondered if perhaps she should offer Gillian a ride home in her Hispano, and when she wondered this aloud, Gillian eagerly dismissed her. “Oh, thank you, Phryne, but I will be quite alright,” she sang, as though reciting poetry, and Phryne left her to her own devices.
__
Dorothy Williams smiled to herself in the wan, early morning sunlight that filtered in through the kitchen windows. She enjoyed these quiet hours of morning, when the house was still, when she was free to be alone with her thoughts. This morning, however, she heard Hugh Collins’ large boots trod quietly- as quietly as any man in heavy boots could, in any case- on the walk outside the kitchen, and she could catch the curve of his hat in between the sunbeams. He had not been around in a few days, which was sometimes the case, but even so, she was happy to see him. Miss Fisher had returned quite late last night from a party, her lavender dress smelling of champagne, wildflowers, and tobacco smoke. Dorothy had already washed and pressed the gown, and was mending a pair of Unmentionables when Hugh rapped softly on the kitchen door.
She met his eyes through the windowpane and, with a smile, he made his way inside.
“Good morning, Dottie!” His voice was hushed, keenly aware that her household was still asleep. However, there was an excitement and warmth in his voice that was unmistakable. He leaned over her, smelling freshly of coffee and aftershave, and pressed his lips to the hollow below her cheekbones.
“Good morning,” she replied quietly, allowing herself to linger in the smell of him before standing. “Can I get you some scones and a cup of tea?”
“Yes please!” He beamed, removing his hat and making himself comfortable at the table. He watched her place two blackberry scones, jam, and cream on a plate before clearing his throat. “I do apologize for being absent lately, Dottie. It’s been rather busy down at the station.”
“Oh?” asked Dorothy, pretending to make polite conversation, but eagerly hoping to hear something interesting that she could relay to Miss Fisher later in the afternoon. She placed a cup of tea in front of him, as well as the plate of scones.
“Oh yes.” He replied around a mouthful of crumbs and jam. “It’s getting warmer, you know. More questionable types out and about. Nothing you need to worry your head about, though. I promise you, I am keeping the streets safe and sound.”
Dorothy hummed and seated herself across from him, studying the way the sun washed out his face and made his eyes fantastically bright. She knew that their engagement would, inevitably, end, with children and fussing, but for now she was enjoying things as they were, easy between the two of them, especially in this moment. He was so boyish, and so eager to do right in the world, traits which she found incredibly endearing.
“For instance,” he began again, as she knew he would. “There’s this American fellow who has moved to the area recently and has taken it upon himself to entertain all of Melbourne society. Which is all right, and all, but the Inspector suspects these parties are a money laundering scheme.”
“Mr. Salisbury?” Dorothy asked suddenly, making the connection in her mind. “Why, Miss Fisher was just at one of his parties last night!”
Hugh paused, as though suddenly aware that he may have said too much, and swallowed down a generous bite of scone. “You see, Dottie, he had a reputation as a bootlegger in America, and he has been shipping in a suspiciously large number of goods on the ships.”
“And you think he’s shipping in illegal alcohol?”
“Well, not only that,” Hugh replied quickly, unable to back out now that he had broached the subject. Distantly, he noted that now that he had told Dottie, that Miss Fisher would know, as well. He shook his head, making a mental note not to mention this to the inspector. “but things for his parties, you know, fruits and musicians and dancers. It would be easy to slip in a few bottles of moonshine, wouldn’t it?”
Dorothy’s mouth thinned. That did sound suspicious. She wondered if Miss Fisher had known this outright, and had other motives for attending these parties aside from socializing.
“Oh! Look at the time!” Exclaimed Hugh suddenly, gathering his hat, and without another word he was placing another kiss on her cheek. “I must be off!”
Within moments, he was gone. The sun still shone in the windows and the air still smelled thick with his aftershave, but something else had shifted, too, making Dorothy unable to resume her quiet thoughts.
“Good morning, Dot!” Miss Fisher greeted her, suddenly, touching her gently on the shoulder. “Did you sleep well?”
Dorothy nodded quickly, getting up to fix a cup of tea for her employer. “Oh yes, Miss, very well.”
“Glad to hear it,” Miss Fisher said, already absorbed in the day’s newspaper.
“Mr. Butler has just stepped out for a smoke and will be back shortly to fix breakfast. And, um,” Dorothy began, setting tea in front of her. “I have some information that you might be interested in.”
This piqued Miss Fisher’s interest, and her eyes snapped up to meet Dorothy’s gaze. “Oh? Do tell.”
“Well, you see Miss, Hugh stopped by on his way to work this morning and told me that they’ve been very busy down at the station these days,” she took a breath, then began afresh: “He said they’ve been looking into a person of interest who has just arrived in Melbourne. An alleged bootlegger, he said…”
Miss Fisher’s eyes grew wide and she grinned, circling the mouth of her teacup with her finger. “Mr. Salisbury?”
Dorothy nodded. “I’m afraid so, Miss. Hugh says that he ships in quite a lot of cargo from America, enough to be suspicious.”
“How interesting…” Miss Fisher was already shifting around her engagements for the afternoon to allow time to drop in on Jack Robinson. “Dot, will you prepare a basket with some lunch for the Inspector and I? This Salisbury fellow is getting much more interesting.”
“Did you know, Miss?” Dorothy asked quickly. “Did you know he was a bootlegger when you agreed to attend his party?”
Miss Fisher smiled knowingly, as though she had already been anticipating this question. “Of course not, Dot!” And like a whirlwind, she was out of the kitchen and up the stairs, preparing to face the day.