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She was fairly certain that no-one in her family knew she attending all the hangings.
It wasn’t like her, after all; while there were plenty to swear that the Fisher bitch was a venomous, vengeance-driven harpy, they were mostly in jail, in the ground or in places best left to religious speculation. And as for the Honorable Phryne Fisher, once a case was done with, then—out of sight, out of mind, correct? Like her many and varied lovers, once they had failed to amuse; just so.
But she did. Attend the hangings, that is.
Phryne, in her rolé as Private Detective Miss Fisher had said it once, back when she was still a relative virgin between the sheets of Legality: Private vengeance is unsound, and moreover illegal. Leave it to me. And they had—scores of them, historians and housemaids, politicians and pig-breeders, whores and worried wives, titled gentlemen and self-righteous teetotalers, plus the occasional dyspeptic bishop— oh, they had. “Find my sibling’s/spouse’s/parent’s/child’s killer,” or “Find where our money has gone,” or (that old favorite) “Find out if he/she/they are cheating me.” All the wickedness that St. Kilda and other bits of Australia and thereabouts could lay in Phryne’s lap, clothed in deceit at first but eventually buck-naked and shameless. Sometimes she thought of that wickedness as a lover, the one who never bored her but kept enticing her inquisitive soul back with his bloody fingers and glinting knife-edged smile.
A horrible thought. Tugging her hat down with a vicious yank that the hot-pressed wool entirely did not deserve, Phryne huddled a little tighter into her coat. It smelt of tobacco and perfume and just a touch of gunpowder… strangely reassuring scents; or once she would have found them strange but now they were just reassuring, and that was almost the same thing anyway, wasn’t it? Wasn’t she strange but reassuring?
But back to the hangings.
It always struck Phryne just how monumentally still a hanging was, right up to the penultimate moment. Executions in Australia were no longer public, as they had been up until very little before the War, and perhaps it was the solitude that made them seem to happen in a quiet little world divorced of unnecessary movement. These days they took place in bare, brick-built rooms with a scaffolding that looked more like what you’d find at a dockside cargo-loading bay than anything else. There were neat little windows for the family, doctor and interested police personnel to peer through from a private gallery, and said peerers included Phryne’s own august self-- she’d made an arrangement early on for this. It had taken a larger roll of flimsies to set up than she would have thought, and even more to keep it secret from, oh, Jack, for instance--
(the patter of small, bare feet flickered through the corridor at her back, soft as the wingbeats of a bat; she did not turn around, not even when the long tails of her scarf fluttered.)
--and Dot, and Hugh, and Jane—
(soft shuffle of feet again, though these were shod, slowing and pausing briefly before they moved on, carrying a scent with them. She had smelled it before; dear God, if You’re actually listening, please make it go away. Thank You; regards, Phryne.)
--since they didn’t need to know, though Phryne thought that, just perhaps, Jack might even understand if he found out. She’d even wondered now and again if he did know and was just waiting, perhaps, for her to say something.
It wasn’t vengeance, not exactly; justice, though… Phryne had to see it through. Every death had a price to it, even the ones that came about at the end of a hempen noose. Their price had been to die for all the stupid or desperate choices they had made; hers was to see it happen. It wasn’t called ‘paying witness’ for nothing, she supposed.
Today, for instance… It had been in the headlines. ‘CHILD MURDERER TO BE HANGED AFTER FINAL APPEAL FALLS THROUGH’ the announcement had read, discretely camouflaged on the third page of the St. Kilda Commentator. ‘Charles Haw, notorious pederast and murderer of no less than seven children under the age of 10 will be hanged by the neck in an act of overdue Justice this evening…..” Justice, in Phryne’s opinion, was always overdue; that was why it was justice and not prevention.
(Sometimes she really was certain—dead certain, hah-- that Jack did know about her little trysts, her secret rendezvous with the St. Kilda hangman and his clients. Sometimes she hoped he did, just so they could talk about it. Or not talk about it, but talk around the whole dreadful thing; dear Jack. So, so very dear.)
There were figures standing around her now, not too close (except for one), never too close (except for one), and she could hear the soft whispers. No-one else noticed; but just in case, it was why, or partially why, she always stood as far away from all the other spectators as possible. Of course, no-one ever would notice, would they? Because there was nothing there to see.
Phryne had decided the first time that she was going barmy. That was what Bert called it, barmy, speaking in pitying tones about his cousin Flo who had decided that there were dead soldiers buried in her garden over in Queensland. ‘Barmy as a fruitbat in pear season,’ he’d said, shaking his head sadly. ‘She took to digging, hoping she’d find their bones and get them to quiet down—said they kept her up nights, complainin’ about how the worms wouldn’t let ‘em be. And then her son caught her out pouring grog all over the ground; said she was givin’ the boys a drink.’ He’d drawn on his cigarette then, the coal of its tip glowing like a tiny red-orange eye in the late evening fog. ‘Funny thing, though, ‘cause she, y’know, she’n Henry bought that place cheap after the War and it turned out to be where the hospital’d been dumping ashes from the bodies that couldn’t be identified, the ones that came home to no home at all.’ The eye had glowed again as he drew a drag of bitter smoke, ssssshhh, soft tobacco sigh in the night. ‘She was still barmy, ‘specially after she got on the gin. Makes a bloke wonder, though.’
Barmy was a good word, a sort of protection, as if labeling the state popped it into a tiny little pine box one could keep on the mantle. Phryne couldn’t really begrudge the state, not with all the useful work she had put into attaining it. She was comfortable with the idea. Well. More or less. Except on days like this.
Beside her at shoulder-height, the dim light reflected off tousled hair, straw-caramel in color; and Phryne Fisher closed her eyes. No. Oh no, please no. There was the muted crunch of sugar-crystals and fairy floss being bitten into, and that smell again…
No.
“You don’t have to come every time, you know,” said the voice, as calmly as if there was not a man being offered his Last Rites not fifteen feet away. “Nobody’ll be mad if you miss one.”
I won’t answer back. I won’t, that would be—I won’t. Phryne kept her eyes fixed steadfastly on the opposite wall. That there was a soon-to-be-executed murderer, a hangman and several guards between her and the wall did not seem to signify.
There was a put-upon sigh and the rustle of cloth beside her, just exactly such as you would get when someone crossed their arms. “I said, nobody’ll be mad if you don’t come. Are you listening, Phryne?”
No, I’m not. Because you’re not really here.
Another soft sound, less distinct; the aroma of fairy floss grew stronger.
“I said, are you LISTENING?” Chewing. “Pig,” the voice said, a little indistinctly.
“Am not,” muttered Phryne, and gritted her teeth, regretting her response immediately. She clenched her eyes and her fists tightly shut and shivered.
“Are too.”
The guards were slipping the noose over Haws’ head now. The condemned man was swaying slightly, shifting from foot to foot in a strange little dance, the shuffle of a man who wanted so badly to be somewhere else, anywhere else, that his body could not help but telegraph his thoughts. He’ll have his wish in a few moments, thought Phryne through the strange, ringing shock that seemed to be seeping through her nerves. At the very least he’ll be several feet lower. Though I doubt he’ll find that to be much of an improvement. Hangmen, in her opinion, were not paid enough for their work. Or priests. How did one determine which priest to bring in for a condemned prisoner? Was a choice offered, or was there some sort of rota? Clenching her thoughts as tightly as her teeth and eyes, Phryne tried to concentrate on the question. ‘It’s Tuesday, so you’ve a treat-- Rabbi Goldberg’s up today,’ or ‘Sorry, sir, I hope you’re Episcopalian.’ Does the clergy perhaps draw straws to see who has to muster for duty? Surely they--
Someone was asking a question. She could hear it buzzing right on the edges of sound, a young voice that tugged insistently at her attention despite every instinct to shove her hands over her ears and hunker down inside the woolen comfort of her collar until it all went away. Phryne’s reluctant mind couldn’t quite make out the words, but there was a flavor of whyyyyyy to whatever was being said; and next to her she heard, “Because that’s what happens when you’re bad.”
“……..” said the air, petulantly.
“You weren’t that bad, no matter what your Nana told you. If you were, you’d be the one up there.”
“…….?”
“I don’t know. Nobody said.” The chewing of fairy floss took on a contemplative edge. “He wants to know who was watching us, you know. But I don’t know, and anyway, he’s a spoiled little beast. Thank goodness I can take him home soon.”
--home? But-- Phryne swallowed, choking on her unwillingness to speak. She didn’t need to know. Not really.
There was a series of snapping, popping noises inside the little room—not, the detective had to remind herself, what one might consider the obvious, but the little nickering noises of the mechanism being checked and determined to be sound. In what Phryne Fisher thought of as her ‘preparatory phase’ she had read up on hangings, i.e., What Could Go Wrong, and had suffered through a few nightmares involving heads popping off like so many fabric-bagged champagne corks. However, the actual frequency of such gory happenings was fortunately very low, and usually the result of an amateur’s hand on the wheel, so to speak; and the local government official in charge of the very professional hangings performed in St. Kilda was a veteran of many years, well-practiced in his trade. I suppose, thought Phryne as she wiped her damp palms against her coat, that it’s something of a comfort for the inmates to consider that one’s final actions will be presided over by such a professional.
Well. It ought to be, anyway. Better than thinking that your head was going to take off skywards like the topper of a very large bottle of Veuve Clicquot--
The next few moments were busy ones, in a solemn, methodical way; they began with some sort of fusty Biblical reading, muffled snuffling and hard breathing from the prisoner as his instincts tried to rally themselves for a last and very final protest, and then a series of brief orders. Ultimately, of course, there came the strange moment of airborne silence (Mister Hangman’s hatch-hinges were very well oiled) before the star of today’s show thumped to a stop at the end of his rope.
The silence… stretched. The rope, thankfully, did not.
“Ewww,” said the rather sticky-sounding voice at her side. Phryne had to agree.
***
She was the last to leave, as always, uncharacteristically silent and alone… save, of course, for the ones who followed after her. And walked beside her. And nudged each other and whispered, like a gaggle of incredibly mismatched schoolchildren on the world’s oddest field-trip. Not that Phryne was looking; as usual, she refused to do so—barmy could only protect one so far, even in one’s own head. But after the stifling stillness of the execution chamber and gallery, the walk out was a journey up Dante’s own levels of Hell, from the frozen circle at the bottom all the way out to the floating mists of Limbo (the morning was a foggy one.) Breathing was easier; breathing was possible.
(Well, at least for her.)
The steps at last: six of them, rugged brick and mortar, and Phryne held her breath as she hurried down them; her unacknowledged escorts never followed beyond the last one, as if it were some sort of barrier that even the State Of Barmy could not pass. Usually she took the last one with the eagerness of a gazelle fleeing a lion; but something, she could not say what, made her slow and pause this time, lingering… The world around her seemed to fade; funny, it had never done that before.
“…Phryne?”
She would not look. She would not look. She would not, could not, but oh—
“It’s okay. You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
Yes, she did.
“They won’t get away just because you’re not here.”
They might. If I see them die, I know they won’t. And I can’t—can’t trust what happens where I can’t see it. I lost sight of you, didn’t I? And look what happened. If I see it, it’s real, and I know it in my bones.
That’s why I can’t look at you. Because then I’d know that you were there, and that every victim’s still there and maybe still suffering, and I just. Can’t. Bear it. I can’t. I can’t.
Faintest tug of fingers on her sleeve, oh God… “Phryne? Are you okay?”
Her temples were throbbing; Private Detective Miss Fisher, toast and bane of certain circles in St. Kilda, swayed on the last step, and bit her lip hard. Barmy, she thought, tasting blood. “Go home, Jane,” Phryne said, voice barely there. “Go home.”
“…..alright. You too.”
Phryne took the last step, and birdsong embraced her as the world came back from every direction. “Pig,” she whispered, and wondered if anyone could hear.
* * *
Jack was waiting by her front gate when the cab dropped her off. Well; so much for uncertainties, all tidied up and put to bed (possibly with a shovel.) He did know. Probably.
But he said nothing, just gave her one of his quick, angular smiles and walked her in, silent as the proverbial… never mind. She shooed off Mr. Butler with a wave of a hand and took a seat, gathering herself to do the polite thing, greetings and so forth; but Jack continued with his studying silence, not even breaking it when drinks appeared (sherry for him, a tot of suspiciously sherry-colored whisky in the same style of glass for her.)
Phryne studied her glass. Where did one begin with this sort of thing? Did she even need to say anything?
God, I hope not. But…
The whisky vanished, only to be replaced by second; Mr. Butler was truly a jewel among domestic servitors. Heartened a little by two glasses of liquid courage and in expectation of several more, she opened her mouth—
--only to stop, syllabus interruptus due to the fingertip that had briefly pressed against her lips. “Mmph?”
Jack shook his head.
Really? Well, that was… novel. But— Phryne opened her mouth again.
Headshake. “No,” the officer said firmly. “I don’t want to know.” He drew in a breath. “For certain, that is.”
OH. But--!
This time trying to speak earned her a hand over her mouth; she eyed its owner and entertained the notion of biting it. “No,” said Jack again, brown eyes more opaque than usual; he carefully removed his hand before Phryne had the chance to do anything indelicate and added, very softly, “for my own good.”
Oh. Well, then. Because if he didn’t know for certain, then he didn’t have to do anything about it. And if he didn’t have to do anything about it, it could keep going on. And apparently someone had made up their mind that she needed it. Of course, he couldn’t have done that without having been there at least once—or more. And if it was for his own good, then apparently he needed her to be alright for him to be so. The ways of men (especially policemen) were convoluted in the extreme.
Phryne sighed, slumping back and resting her head against cushions and mahogany, eyes closed. “Very well,” she said a little crossly. “I suppose that’s… realistic. And acceptable.” Though… maybe I would’ve liked to have talked about it, a little. Or parts of it. Not all of it, God knows. She shivered slightly and reached up to intercept the third tiny whisky from Mr. Butler without opening her eyes. Not all of it. I doubt policemen believe in… never mind.
She was home now, and Jack didn’t want to know so she didn’t have to tell him; it was all just fine. Relief spread through Phryne, riding on the shirttail of the whisky’s warm glow; and she knocked them both back in one swallow beneath the gaze of dear Jack’s warm brown eyes.
***
Morning broke in a shatter of birdsong and the too-loud rumble of a milkman’s cart; through Phryne’s windowpane the sunlight smashed its way to her pillow, committing terrible violence when it struck her in the face and refused to go away. “God,” moaned the hungover detective, burying the evidence of her own alcoholic crimes in the bedcovers. Three tiny whiskies had invited a number of their friends to stop by, and the last thing she remembered had been Jack covering her disreputable self with a shawl. Phryne had vague memories of dancing, but those were almost certainly hallucinatory.
A small glass of sal volatile and a covered dish of what turned out to be crackers and cheese eventually made things better; feeling more or less human, Phryne slouched downstairs wearing her favorite silk robe and a strong desire to become (temporarily) a hermit. She could do that; there were no open cases hanging fire, no social occasions that required her attendance, and Aunt Prudence was off making trouble at some women’s garden club down the coast in Sandringham. Even Dot was absent—some cousin or other had just brought another sprog into the world, and she’d taken the day off to visit. Hermitting sounded absolutely lovely.
So there was no reason for her to get dressed, was there? Or to have Mr. Butler call a cab (not Bert or Cec, not this time, and she just didn’t feel like driving), or to stop to pick up some flowers, or—
But her feet’d had plans, and they had brought her to a certain road and a certain gate, and a certain quiet green place on the grounds of St. Kilda’s one Anglican church. No God-botherer she, Phryne ignored the tolling of the noon bells and concentrated instead on the sound of gravel crunching beneath her shoes as she made her way to one particular stone.
She had chosen daisies; no elegant lilies or roses for this occasion, no showy orchids—just daisies, cheerful as puppies in the sun. No platitudes, no ribbons, no ornate holders… just a bunch of flowers like maybe a little girl would like, wrapped in a bit of plain paper. Phryne stared down at where she had placed them; they covered up most of the name and date on the stone, but if she tried she could make it out.
--Jane--
Did she expect a whisper? Or a voice that she shouldn’t be able to hear, or a hand slipping into hers? If she did, she was disappointed; Phryne’s sister wasn’t here. And that was alright. That was… fine.
See you later, Jane. Be good.
Duty done. Time to go home and find something useful to do.
***
Behind Phryne, leaves rustled. “Could’ve included a ribbon,” someone grumbled.
***end***