Chapter Text
Jack Robinson sat in his office contemplating his failed marriage, looking at a newspaper and the bottom of a cup of tea.
The glass on his door still read "Detective Inspector Fisher Robinson" that he’d hadn't bothered to replace — he recalled how he and Phryne had toasted when the new glass had been installed. They had conjured that double-barreled name together on a moonlit terrace in Constantinople. She teased him about how the constabulary would react. He had retorted that it was all part and parcel with becoming a toff.
1929 was never far from Jack's thoughts. A different case with Miss Fisher almost every week. Non-stop flirtations over pianos, football matches, tennis games, bodies. Kissing at last in that airfield. Jack showing up in London in December in the pouring rain and Phryne running up the gangway to embrace him.
1930. Scandalizing London with their affair. A high-society murder and partnering with Scotland Yard to solve the case. Laughing off the financial crash (the way they laughed off everything that year). Hopping in that plane to fly home together, leisurely seeing the cities of the world. Paris. Monaco. Venice. Athens. Constantinople. Baghdad. Delhi. Calcutta. Rangoon. Singapore.
It had been in Paris that he'd floated the question, "So, what happens when we get back to Melbourne?"
It had been in Venice that she'd suggested, "Why don't we just get married?"
Every leg of their journey, they'd sketched out plans and dreams. They’d reinvent marriage. They'd be equal partners, at home and at work. Spending their days together, full of cases and laughter. She didn't want him to change. He very much did not want to change her.
She teased him about his old line — “A marriage is still a marriage, Miss Fisher” — his old stern stance that had crumbled in divorce courts with Rosie. “A marriage is whatever we want it to be, Inspector!” The idea of clinging to empty vows with her was laughable: it seemed impossible to ever stop loving Phryne, for their partnership to ever become stale.
They made promises never to change for each other. The marriage would provide the veneer of respectability they needed to live as they pleased without consequences. Separate finances. Separate properties, although they'd probably make their love nest at Wardlow.
They talked about fidelity, frankly for once. She'd never really tried it, and wasn't particularly interested in trying it now. As he lay in a desert tent with Phryne in his arms, Jack's insecurities felt as though they'd never been. If he was honest, part of him had always been intrigued watching her flirtations; the idea of her having a few discreet dalliances tweaked a part of his brain he didn't know he had. As long as this magnificent woman came back home to him, whole, perfect, and wholly Phryne.
They found a lawyer in Delhi to draw up legal documents. They got married in Singapore, laughing through the vows. They flew back to Melbourne, Mr. & Mrs. Fisher Robinson.
The first few years had passed like a dream — Mrs. Stanley had been delighted, the Collinses had been astonished, and life together at Wardlow just came together. Jack rented out his flat, and moved all his books and belongings to Phryne's. Mr. Butler fitted out a study for him almost overnight. Melbourne high society ate him up: the man who had caught the scandalous Miss Fisher (being the disgraced Sidney Fletcher's ex-fiancee's ex-husband also added to the intrigue). They heard the whispers speculating on how long it would last; Jack and Phryne just laughed.
Phryne toned down her flirtations, but she did have a discreet apartment for her to entertain in every now and then. He'd spend those evenings tucked up with a cozy book in his study, secure knowing that she was coming home to him (and his daydreams became even more interesting). Every time she returned, she had a glint her eye like she was seeing him for the very first time. Their reunions after a night away were explosive.
And the days they were together? Glorious. He found it ridiculous how much his heart raced when a murder was reported, knowing that it would bring Phryne into the station. Breakfasts together, pursuing leads all day, training rookie constables, long dinners and nightcaps discussing clues, tangling into bed together at the end of the night. The newspapers loved them: The Fisher Robinsons Always Get Their Man.
When there wasn’t a case (but there almost always was a case), they’d spend evenings at home, with Mac and the Collinses as frequent guests. They’d drink whiskey (or cocoa) and play parlour games long into the night. He remember that Collins looked so startled in the beginning when he heard his old boss laugh.
Then, slowly, life crept up. Her international investments took a severe hit with the worldwide depression, and Phryne was heavily committed to her patronages and causes. It hurt Jack how long Phryne had tried to hide her difficulties from him. He only found out when he caught her selling jewels and furs, the day after she had bought him an expensive new suit. He quietly put two and two together, and they adjusted to life on a smaller income.
Had they ever learned to talk about serious matters? Their banter, their lovely banter, was so fun when it came to solving crimes or dreaming of life together. It fell flat when they had to discuss real issues — it was far too easy for them to retreat to quips and kisses.
Then societal pressures started to mount. Phryne became careless with her dalliances, and gossip started to swirl. Jack heard mutters at society gatherings and within the constabulary. He still loved her spirit, but the lack of discretion was disconcerting. His mother got wind of it -- she was still struggling to swallow Phryne in general, and the latest rumours froze things completely.
Family pressures got worse when her parents came back to Australia, with barely any money, looking to rebuild their lives. Her father's unpredictable presence caused constant strain on them both. The weight of things they weren’t discussing grew heavier. Jack started retreating to his study, Phryne to her social life.
And then a serial killer started killing young women, leaving no clues. Phryne joined him eagerly with the first few bodies, but they had nowhere to turn. There were no connections. No physical evidence. Nothing but empty leads. By the third, Phryne was looking at him with haunted eyes. By the fourth, they were driving in utter silence to the morgue. By the fifth, she didn't show up at the crime scene.
Things might had been fine if they had gotten more interesting murders. But all Jack got were just the usual open and shut cases. And the elusive serial killer. Six. Seven. Eight victims. Jack became obsessed, poring over every autopsy report over and over. Phryne just stopped.
What were they without their investigative partnership? Not much, apparently.
Jack would spend evenings alone in that study, reading the reports and his notes again, trying to make any connection, having conversations with Phryne alone in his head, and then lapsing into silence when she came home. Phryne threw herself into fundraising for her other causes, constantly pumping society connections to make sure that the futures of bright Melbourne women weren't squandered for lack of funds.
Then it all fell apart.
He had been sipping his morning tea in Wardlow’s kitchen, feeling hollow after the events of the day before: yesterday had started by standing in an empty morgue, combing over the corpse of yet another mutilated woman, no clues, no leads, no Phryne.
His father-in-law found him at the station in the afternoon, looking for police assistance with his latest dilemma, and Jack acquiesced. He'd never quite figured out how to stand up to Henry Fisher's charm when Phryne wasn't around.
Jack had come home to an quiet house, Phryne clearly out on one of her adventures. He hadn’t seen her all day.
Waking up to an empty bed did not improve his mood.
Jack was contemplating his tea, when Phryne came tripping in, humming a little tune. Everything just suddenly stung too much: that she didn’t care about his cases anymore — the fact that she hadn't bothered to tell him that she'd be out that night or who with — the fact her father was a constant thorn in his side. He greeted his wife with a distant, annoyed face.
It had started small, but then the fight had just boiled over. His frustrations. Her feeling stifled. The fight continued through the day, little bitter jabs over every possible hurt. Years of not communicating spilled out in an uncontrollable torrent. Every time she had hid evidence from him. Every time he hadn't trusted her. His old insecurities, his old feelings of inadequacy, still plaguing him from Rosie. Her old fear of constraint, fears of being buried in a sea of demands and responsibilities.
With another woman, the fight might have been resolved with time.
The next day, Phryne left for England. Jack didn't go to the airfield to see her off.
Once again, she left her family as far behind as possible. Only this time, it included him.
That had been well over two years ago. The serial killer slipped up and Jack caught him (eleven deaths, eleven families to notify). Phryne had sent him a telegram with her congratulations. Wardlow was shuttered. Mr. Butler had gone to work for Aunt Prudence. Jack moved all of his books back to his old bungalow.
He still found himself talking to Phryne on crime scenes — asking her opinion, wondering what she would say. The empty responses haunted him.
Fool that he was, he employed a clipping service to keep track of Phryne's news around the world. She was living in London, seemingly thriving. The Miss Fisher anyone-dead-yet luck persisted, as her name popped up in some articles about Scotland Yard murders. It was good to see that she was still investigating.
He hadn't needed to wait for the clipping service to send this latest article. He sighed and looked again: The Argus’s obituaries, Henry George Fisher, Baron of Richmond-upon-Thames, dead at 72.
Jack needed more tea.
He wandered out of his office, tea cup in hand, only to find a red-clad figure arguing with a fresh-faced constable like he’d stepped back 10 years.
"Phryne?"
"Hullo, Jack."