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the house. The girls liked Mr Lin, too. Bringing them shawls and teaching them that Chinese satin stitch. Perfectly proper that he should marry a suitable girl, of course, bound to happen some time, but Mr Butler was going to miss Mr Lin. It was most regrettable.
    Miss Fisher’s next comment made him flick a drop of coffee onto his own immaculate white apron.
    ‘So will I see you tonight?’ she asked.
    ‘Of course,’ said Mr Lin.
    Lin took his leave and Mr Butler offered Miss Fisher more coffee, perhaps an egg, and his resignation.
    ‘What?’ asked Phryne, passing a hand over her eyes.
    ‘Our notice, Miss Fisher.’
    ‘Why?’ she asked, blankly.
    ‘Mrs Butler and I have never been concerned about your . . . company, Miss Fisher. We can take the rough with the smooth. But adultery, no. Old-fashioned we may be, but that is our principle.’
    ‘Adultery?’ repeated Phryne.
    ‘Run a house with adultery in it, Miss Fisher, and sooner or later you find yourself standing up in a court giving evidence and breaking all oaths of confidentiality so that no one will ever employ you again, or refusing to answer and getting locked up for contempt. Happened to a friend of mine. His name was all over Society Spice . It ruined him. So if you are continuing with Mr Lin, and he is getting married, then I’m afraid that we must regretfully . . .’
    ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Phryne. ‘Not regretfully. Not with the greatest respect, either.’ She stood up. Her Paris memories, in which something lurked which she would not face, fired her temper. ‘If that is your view, Mr Butler, then you may take your leave as you wish. I will not have my morals the subject of adverse comment by my servants!’
    ‘As you wish,’ said Mr Butler, and withdrew.
    Phryne gave herself a mark for good conduct. She didn’t throw the epergne at his retreating, stubborn, righteous back.
    Her fingers itched to box someone’s ears. She took her coat and hat from Dot, who was troubled but bit back any comment. Then she ignited the Hispano-Suiza with one vengeful twist of the starting handle, leapt in, and roared down the street, scattering small boys, delivery bicycles and startled pigeons in her magnificent wake.
    By the time she had reached the city, she had slowed down. However irascible the driver, it did not pay to try conclusions with the nine tons of unstoppable steel which was a tram in its own right of way. Adultery! Did people really think that way? How dare they! Courts, indeed. And yet, there was the excellent cooking of Mrs Butler and the unobtrusive, imperturbable service of Mr Butler, who also mixed the best cocktails in Victoria. Damn! And there was Lin Chung, whom she had personally rescued from durance vile, risking her life and her virtue in the process, and the memory of his silky, sure touch made her shiver. No. There had to be some way to keep the Butlers and Lin Chung, and she would think of it as soon as she had time.
    Now for the records of French travellers, the strange fiery passion of Billy the Match, and the unexpected silence of a prominent racing identity.
    She flicked the car around a baker’s van and set off for Russell Street.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Countess G used to say ‘What do I care if they love men, women or canaries?’
    Natalie Barney,
Illicit Love Defended
    Jack Robinson in his little cubbyhole in Russell Street Police Station looked just as subfusc as Jack Robinson in Phryne’s dining room. He fitted perfectly into any surroundings, like a chameleon, if one could imagine a chameleon with no colour except, probably, mid-brown.
    ‘Here’s the list of Frenchies for the last two months. Not too many to cope with. And the inquest reports ought to be somewhere here—yes, both of them. I’ve had a look through. They don’t help much if this really is murder. In fact, if this is the work of one murderer, he’s a clever chap and I hope he doesn’t continue murdering. They both look like pure and simple accidents