This is it folks, the final chapter. This has been the longest fic I've ever written, the one with most complex mystery, and (for the record) the best researched. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

A huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this fic, and especially those who wrote a review or reviews. Thank you to all those who have been with me from the beginning, particularly Bellairian who has given a lot of support and encouragement behind the scenes as well. Thank you also to the likes of RCGgymratmom and Elsa007, who jumped in part-way through and paid me the massive compliment of binge-reading the whole thing and reviewing every chapter. Thank you (when she gets this far) to VavaVoom7, my friend IRL who I've succeeded in sucking into the crazy world of fanfiction. Finally, for always being only a message away (especially when I decided on the spur of the moment to give Jack the transport-grandfather backstory and got all excited about it), thank you to the wonderful FoxFireside.

This whole fic had its genesis in just two scenes: the first in Chapter Three where Phryne flings herself down the stairs into Jack's arms, and the final exchange at the end of this chapter. Everything else came later.

Part Fourteen: Coda

Phryne's birthday just a few days later was celebrated with a very different type of party: dinner at the Ritz with a large and colourful collection of friends followed by a night spent dancing in the very best (or worst, depending on one's point of view) London jazz clubs, after which Jack presented her with her gift, a leather-bound book of poems by Rumi. The beauty and sensuality of the verses, which were illustrated in the Arabian style with geometric designs and twining vines, delighted Phryne, who insisted on having Jack read them aloud to her at bedtime the following night... at least, for a little while.

An excited Jane arrived to spend the Christmas holidays with them, flinging herself into her foster-mother's arms with cries of "Is it true? Really true?" and then, when Phryne removed her glove to display her engagement ring, embracing a startled Jack with equal enthusiasm, shouting "I'm glad, I'm so glad!" until she suddenly remembered that she was a young lady (and he was a policeman, even if he was a pretty decent one) and withdrew in embarrassment.

Henry and Margaret also joined them for Christmas, which made for a household that was not only full to the rafters, but also at times rather tense. But, in spite of the bill for the engagement party, the Baron's finances now seemed to be on an even if less than ideal keel, and late at night in the darkened privacy of their bedroom Phryne and Jack discussed plans for their return to Australia.

Detective Inspector Lancelot ("call me Lance, please") Jones and his wife, Agnes, were invited to Kensington for what turned out to be a very pleasant evening, after which Lance invited Jack to join him one night for a pint at his East End local. The first question he asked when the first round had been duly procured was "so, how did you and Miss Fisher meet, anyway?" At which Jack chuckled and replied, "Well, I suppose it's rather a funny story..."

They returned to Paris, where they strolled hand in hand along the boulevards, explored the museums and art galleries, visited Phryne's friends, tasted the very best of French cuisine, and kissed atop the Eiffel Tower. The doors in Jack's mind had never completely closed after his return to the Somme, but although plenty of shadows still lurked in the corners the warm glow of his new life with Phryne ensured that they didn't manifest with the intensity that had oppressed him for so long. It was while they were walking home from an evening spent dancing to bal musette while drinking cheap wine and laughing in dingy Montparnasse cafés that he felt a wave of happiness sweep over him and realised that Phryne had indeed unlocked the delights of Paris to him.

On a cold morning in late January they stood together in the churchyard at All Saints in Poplar and read the words inscribed upon the memorial Phryne had commissioned for Yvette and her son:

Yvette Benot
French Women's 3rd Ambulance Unit, Belgium
Born France, 1898; died Poplar, 1929
And her infant son, George
Died Poplar, 1918
'For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed:
neither hid that shall not be known.'

The scripture had been underlined in Yvette's mission Bible, and Jack had suggested it as the last, fitting, words of a woman who had lived so much of her life in unwilling secrecy and died trying to break the silence which George Mortimer had imposed upon her. He had purchased an orchid – symbol of feminine beauty and grace – and laid it before Yvette's memorial, an extravagance offered in death as poor recompense for a life of deprivation and hardship.

George Mortimer's name and the sordid details of his treatment of his French lover and their child made for a sensational case that was reported in both the Times and the Mirror, as well as every other newspaper in the country. Vilified by the press, disowned by the Conservative party, estranged from his wife, abandoned by his friends and found guilty by a jury of his peers, his death sentence must almost have come as a relief to a man who had been so thoroughly and publically disgraced.

And then one day in early March Phryne and Jack found themselves standing upon the docks before the steamer that would carry them home to Melbourne.

"I saw you leave Australia with a single valise," Jack remarked as they waited for a porter to collect their luggage. "So how it is, Miss Fisher, that you're returning with-" he made an elaborate show of counting "-two trunks, two suitcases, four hat-boxes, and a carpet-bag?"

"Souvenirs, Jack," Phryne replied airily, deciding against pointing out that she had also arranged to ship several tea-chests full of items back to Australia. "And I'm not planning on coming back here for a very long time."

That was certainly true. She had made arrangements for her flat to be rented out, and Mr. and Mrs. Page had been reluctantly informed that their services would no longer be required. Just a few days after Phryne left they would be retiring to a cottage in Kent. Mrs. Page was planning on taking up quilting, and Mr. Page intended to keep bees.

"Anyway," she glanced at his own heavy trunk, which was filled almost entirely with books, "It's not as if I'm the only one. You may recall that we do have bookshops in Australia, Jack."

"Well, I need something to keep me occupied on the journey," he retorted.

She pouted and moved closer to him, running her hand down his lapel. "I thought that was what I was for."

He leaned closer, speaking for her ears only. "Two months, Miss Fisher. Two hopefully blissfully uneventful months without so much as a lost necklace to worry about. I'm not sure what kind of man you think you're marrying, but I can assure you that I plan on making plenty of time for reading as well as... other diversions."

"Two months at sea..." she sighed, thinking wistfully of her Avian as two porters wheeled their luggage away to be loaded and they started together towards the gangplank.

"Well, at least it'll give us time to plan the wedding," Jack replied.

"You know, I'm sure I remember hearing somewhere that a Captain has the authority to perform weddings at sea," Phryne remarked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"I'm fairly certain that's a myth," Jack responded. "But," he added, "a ship this size is bound to have a chaplain, and weddings are part of their stock in trade." And he gave her a broad, beaming smile as he proffered his arm. "Shall we, Miss Fisher?"

She smiled back and looped her arm through his. "I think we shall, Inspector Robinson."