off.
‘Ruth, what have you been reading?’ asked Phryne.
‘Romances,’ replied Jane, scornfully. ‘There’s a whole shelf of them in the library and she’s read them all.’
‘I’m sure she hasn’t taken any harm, Miss,’ said Dot. ‘They’re just books.’
Phryne was about to say that a lot of harm was wrapped up in inoffensive covers with embossed flowers on them, caught sight of her expression in the mirror over the mantle and laughed.
‘I’m in no position to censor your reading,’ she told Ruth. ‘You may bathe in romances if you like. Just don’t act on them yet.’
Ruth blushed and took more potato. At least indulgence in railway reading hadn’t ruined her appetite. At this delicate juncture Jack Robinson exclaimed, ‘Of course! Billy the Match!’
‘Sorry?’ asked Phryne.
‘The burning rubbish bin, Miss Fisher, and the thinners on the butter. When I was a young constable there was a rash of house fires. Each one the same: started with thinners on something in the kitchen. Took us weeks to find him, too. He was my first real good collar.’
‘Tell us about it,’ breathed Ruth, and the subject of romance faded.
‘I was told to watch out for smoke while patrolling along the Esplanade—in fact, Miss Fisher, I walked along outside this house every night for almost a year. I’d heard about arsonists from this bloke who’d been on the Force for donkey’s years, seen everything, he had. Taught me a lot, Sergeant Patterson did. He said that arsonists got a real charge out of the fire, and he’d likely be among the crowd, watching. Look for the gleam in his eyes, the old Sarge said. So when I smelt smoke just along here, I blew my whistle and got the fire brigade, and then instead of continuing on my beat I hung around in the shadows, watching the mob.
‘Well, everyone was there. The house was burning like a torch. The people had got out all right and the lady of the house was standing on the pavement in her nightie going crook—I saw her point, of course—and most people were looking sad or sympathetic except this one bloke, towards the back. His eyes were gleaming, all right, and he was excited. My word, he gave a jump when I came up and put the arm on him. I arrested him for being knowingly concerned and took him back to the station. He stank of thinners and told us all about it, casual as you like. He liked fires, he said, they made him feel alive, and when no fires happened natural like, he had to start them himself. Billy the Match, they called him. I don’t remember his real name, but that was his style—thinners every time.’
‘Did he go to jail?’ asked Jane.
‘My word he did, despite his lawyer telling the judge that he was insane. Ten years, he got. Which would mean, now I think about it, that he’d be out. I’d better see what’s happened to our Billy,’ said Robinson grimly. ‘It was only luck that he didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t care if there were people in the house or not. And if he’s up to his old tricks in Fitzroy Street, I want to know about it.’
‘He might be in league with someone else,’ said Phryne. ‘The gentleman who left Café Anatole through the window, perhaps?’
‘Yeah, well, you meet a mixed group of people in jail,’ said Robinson, ‘not select company, Miss Fisher.’
‘Hardly.’
‘And you never know, someone in quod might have found a use for Billy the Match. Sorry, Miss Fisher. I interrupted you. What were you saying?’
‘Nothing of any importance, Jack dear. Just wondering if Miss Chambers had met a lover in Paris who might have followed her here.’
‘If you can’t meet a lover in Paris, where can you meet one?’ asked Robinson, as if this was a silly comment. ‘But I can tell you which French people came through customs at the docks, anyway, if you want.’
‘Thank you,’ said Phryne. ‘Now, what’s for dessert? Oh, wonderful. Apple pies.’
Jack Robinson sighed happily and surreptitiously undid a
‘Ruth, what have you been reading?’ asked Phryne.
‘Romances,’ replied Jane, scornfully. ‘There’s a whole shelf of them in the library and she’s read them all.’
‘I’m sure she hasn’t taken any harm, Miss,’ said Dot. ‘They’re just books.’
Phryne was about to say that a lot of harm was wrapped up in inoffensive covers with embossed flowers on them, caught sight of her expression in the mirror over the mantle and laughed.
‘I’m in no position to censor your reading,’ she told Ruth. ‘You may bathe in romances if you like. Just don’t act on them yet.’
Ruth blushed and took more potato. At least indulgence in railway reading hadn’t ruined her appetite. At this delicate juncture Jack Robinson exclaimed, ‘Of course! Billy the Match!’
‘Sorry?’ asked Phryne.
‘The burning rubbish bin, Miss Fisher, and the thinners on the butter. When I was a young constable there was a rash of house fires. Each one the same: started with thinners on something in the kitchen. Took us weeks to find him, too. He was my first real good collar.’
‘Tell us about it,’ breathed Ruth, and the subject of romance faded.
‘I was told to watch out for smoke while patrolling along the Esplanade—in fact, Miss Fisher, I walked along outside this house every night for almost a year. I’d heard about arsonists from this bloke who’d been on the Force for donkey’s years, seen everything, he had. Taught me a lot, Sergeant Patterson did. He said that arsonists got a real charge out of the fire, and he’d likely be among the crowd, watching. Look for the gleam in his eyes, the old Sarge said. So when I smelt smoke just along here, I blew my whistle and got the fire brigade, and then instead of continuing on my beat I hung around in the shadows, watching the mob.
‘Well, everyone was there. The house was burning like a torch. The people had got out all right and the lady of the house was standing on the pavement in her nightie going crook—I saw her point, of course—and most people were looking sad or sympathetic except this one bloke, towards the back. His eyes were gleaming, all right, and he was excited. My word, he gave a jump when I came up and put the arm on him. I arrested him for being knowingly concerned and took him back to the station. He stank of thinners and told us all about it, casual as you like. He liked fires, he said, they made him feel alive, and when no fires happened natural like, he had to start them himself. Billy the Match, they called him. I don’t remember his real name, but that was his style—thinners every time.’
‘Did he go to jail?’ asked Jane.
‘My word he did, despite his lawyer telling the judge that he was insane. Ten years, he got. Which would mean, now I think about it, that he’d be out. I’d better see what’s happened to our Billy,’ said Robinson grimly. ‘It was only luck that he didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t care if there were people in the house or not. And if he’s up to his old tricks in Fitzroy Street, I want to know about it.’
‘He might be in league with someone else,’ said Phryne. ‘The gentleman who left Café Anatole through the window, perhaps?’
‘Yeah, well, you meet a mixed group of people in jail,’ said Robinson, ‘not select company, Miss Fisher.’
‘Hardly.’
‘And you never know, someone in quod might have found a use for Billy the Match. Sorry, Miss Fisher. I interrupted you. What were you saying?’
‘Nothing of any importance, Jack dear. Just wondering if Miss Chambers had met a lover in Paris who might have followed her here.’
‘If you can’t meet a lover in Paris, where can you meet one?’ asked Robinson, as if this was a silly comment. ‘But I can tell you which French people came through customs at the docks, anyway, if you want.’
‘Thank you,’ said Phryne. ‘Now, what’s for dessert? Oh, wonderful. Apple pies.’
Jack Robinson sighed happily and surreptitiously undid a
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