Chapter One

A man and a woman were lying on a rug in their garden in the late afternoon sunshine. Their heads were pressed closely together, but the passion of their intent was disguised by the gentle tones of their words, addressed to the third occupant of the rug, who sat facing them, looking with interest from one face to the other and back again.

"Papa" said Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, with a smile.

"Mama" suggested The Honourable Phryne Fisher, with a competitive edge to her tone.

"Pa-pa"

"Ma-ma"

There was a pause while Elizabeth Jane concluded her internal debate. She looked down at her hands, unwilling to witness the result of her actions.

"Babababa" she confirmed diplomatically.

She needn't have worried. Both parents laughed resignedly. Jack rolled on to his back, his head snug against his daughter's chubby legs; she patted his nose affectionately, recalling that the last time she'd done it he'd laughed, and having high hopes that he might do it again because it was a Nice Noise.

Phryne got up to refresh both their glasses with some of Mr Butler's best lemonade from the jug on the wrought-iron table standing in a shady corner of the garden. Delivering Jack's glass to his outstretched hand, she then sought refuge on a recliner and closed her eyes.

Peace was dull when it lasted too long, but it had only been a day since they'd cleared up a particularly taxing robbery, and Jack deserved the change of pace. She dozed idly, while a corner of her mind danced around the possibility of persuading the Inspector to go to the Green Mill later on. She'd taken delivery that morning of Madame Fleuri's latest work of genius, and was anxious to give the bewitching combination of jet beading and diaphanous silver underdress an airing. The difficulty, as ever, would be persuading Jack that he wanted to go to a smoky nightclub instead of spending the evening curled up with a book. Perhaps if she showed him the dress … no, cancel that … perhaps if she promised to show him the dress only once they got the club …

She was drifting into a pleasantly scheming reverie when there was a scuffle in the house. Raised voices were heard in the kitchen.

Jack leaned up on his elbows, and they exchanged mystified glances. Then through the garden door burst a very hot, flustered and tearful Mrs Hugh Collins.

"Dot!" exclaimed Phryne, getting to her feet and catching the younger woman by the arms.

"Oh, Phryne!" she wept, which had Jack on his feet too. Dot had never found it easy to call her former mistress, business partner and friend anything other than Mrs Robinson or Miss Fisher. The lapse told its own story.

"It's Hugh!"

She appeared to crumple on the spot, and Jack stepped forward just in time to catch her. He took two swift steps and placed her on the recliner Phryne had vacated. Phryne perched on its edge, and took Dorothy's hand in both of hers.

"Dot, what is it? What about Hugh?" she asked urgently.

Dorothy wiped a careless sleeve across her eyes, and gulped a breath to try to compose herself to talk. The words when they came, though, were no more than a harsh whisper.

"He's gone."