Blood and Circuses pf-6 Read online

‘Yes.’

  ‘Like I should have taken mine.’

  She turned her face to the wall and began to weep, deep shuddering sobs, like a man crying, unwilling. There did not seem to be anything Phryne could do. She left, closing the door behind her. A roustabout, seeing her dishevelled condition, laughed.

  ‘I knew she was one of them sheilas that don’t like men,’ he jeered.

  As Phryne walked past she unthinkingly, and with accuracy and force, slapped him off his feet and into a pile of elephant dung.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cup

  Of Death is empty and Life hath always hope.

  Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)

  The Trojan Women

  ‘Dear Fern,’ began Jack Robinson, then stopped. He always found composition difficult. His pen spluttered and the words just would not put themselves in the right order. ‘Hear you’re with the circus. Hope you’re doing well,’ he went on, then wondered how he was going to convey the information about Exit and Mr Christopher’s murder which Phryne needed to know. Years of writing official reports had cramped his style.

  ‘Heard a bit of gossip the other day,’ he wrote, getting an idea. ‘Bloke that was with your show. A man–woman act. His name was Mr Christopher. It seems that he was murdered, Fern. Someone stuck a shiv into him. They say there was blood dripping through the ceiling of this boarding house he was living in. Real creepy. Living in the same place as your magician, Mr Sheridan. I think they got some woman for the murder. I can’t understand how she could do it.’

  Robinson paused and took a gulp of tea. He was proud of himself. That ought to convey his unease about the case of Miss Parkes. Now for Exit. ‘I also hear . . .’ What was he going to say? Aha. ‘. . . rumours about a new show. They want dancers, so if you’re back soon you can audition for it. It’s set in a prison. One of them surrealist things. I don’t like the idea much. Seems kind of morbid. I’d be looking for the Exit if I was in the audience. Still, there’s no accounting for tastes, as the old woman said when she kissed the cow. I’ll tell you more if you want to phone me. And say the word and I’ll come and take you away. Much love, Jack.’

  Robinson scanned the letter. That ought to alert Miss Fisher to the danger, at least, and warn her to look out for any mention of Exit.

  He put the letter into an old envelope and gave it to an attendant constable, ordering that it be taken by car to Rockbank to be collected with the circus’s mail. Miss Fisher should have it today. He worried about her.

  ‘Sir?’ Tommy Harris put his head around the door. I’ve deciphered all I could and Sergeant Grossmith has just got back and wants to see you.’

  ‘Good. Tell him to come in and bring your notes. Ah, Terry,’ he said expansively, ‘what news on the Rialto?’

  Before his sergeant could tell him that the Rialto was in the city and that he had been to Brunswick Street, Robinson motioned his minions to a seat. ‘Well, Terry?’

  ‘I got onto Pretty Iris,’ said Grossmith. ‘By Jiminy she’s pretty, and as hard as nails. Pure vitriol runs in her veins. She told me that someone called Robert Smith told her he was going to make a lot of money from Exit. He said it was a funeral parlour. That’s how we lost Seddon, you recall, sir. He said he was going to get hundreds of quids for doing something, though Iris didn’t know what, and that Albert Ellis had hired him. That’s about all, sir.’

  ‘Very good. What have you got, Constable?’ Robinson asked Harris.

  ‘Not all that much more, sir. There’s several lists of dates and names attached to them. But I thought you’d be interested in some of them. On plate ten, the last page, it says “Ronald Smythe”. He’s on the list of Western District places, sir. And so is Damien Maguire.’

  ‘Are they indeed?’ Robinson leaned forward and Tommy riffled through his notes.

  ‘I found this on plate three. It’s a bit faint but you can just make it out. Next to “Portland”, sir, down in that bottom corner.’

  He pointed and the detective inspector squinted over the pale scribble. ‘It’s William . . . yes.’ He looked up with a light in his eyes. ‘William Seddon.’

  ‘Well,’ said Terry Grossmith. ‘Three of ’em. What else is on them plates, Harris?’

  ‘Love letters, Sarge. Never sent. Perhaps drafts. To a lady called Molly that he was going to marry. And one note that I don’t understand.’

  ‘Spit it out, son.’

  ‘It says, “Money. Farrell sells Circus? Jones not rich. Who provided cash?”’

  ‘Clear enough,’ said Grossmith. ‘If that Jones is the Jones I think it is, then he ain’t got a pot to piss in. Small-time crim with the ’Roys. Thought he hadn’t been infecting the street with his presence lately.’

  ‘Which Jones?’ asked Robinson anxiously.

  ‘Killer Jones . . . oh, Lord,’ said Grossmith. ‘Your Miss Fisher’s there. And Jones likes girls. He likes ’em half-dead.’

  ‘She can look after herself,’ said Robinson abruptly. ‘You said something important then, Terry. Where did the money to interfere in this circus come from? Not from Jones himself. From the ’Roys?’

  ‘I can’t imagine it,’ said Grossmith. ‘Albert Ellis has more flash than cash.’

  ‘Harris, get onto it. I want you to find out who owns Farrell’s Circus and who put up the money for Jones. Then I want you back here by this afternoon with a bag. We’re going to Rockbank tonight. I’m going to take you boys to the circus.’

  Phryne Fisher, unable to find an occupation which did not involve sewing, strolled into the girls’ tent. It was empty. She opened her suitcase, took out a Coles notepad and a pencil and wrote busily for ten minutes. Then she tore off and folded the papers and stuffed them down her front.

  The suitcase seemed even more in disarray than when she had left it. She put it down on her bed and rummaged through its contents. It had certainly been searched. Her little gun and her box of ammunition were gone.

  With a great effort she managed to saunter casually through the circus and into the carnival, where Alan Lee was leaning on one pole of his carousel. She took off her cardigan, draped it over her arm and took his hand under cover of it.

  ‘Fern?’ he said under his breath, as her hand slipped in his grasp. Her palms were sweating. ‘What’s gone wrong?’

  ‘They’re onto me,’ she said, her lips hardly moving. ‘Can you send these telegrams for me?’

  ‘Yes.’ He took the pages that she slipped him and shoved them down his shirt. ‘Can I do something else for you?’

  ‘Call Dot on this number and ask for any news. And try to send the telegrams without anyone seeing you. I’ll come back in an hour. You might have to wait for a reply.’

  ‘You frightened, Fern?’

  ‘No,’ she lied.

  He held her hand in a strong clasp for a moment, then released it. ‘Break a leg, Fern.’

  Phryne was afraid that she would. Who had searched the suitcase? One of the girls? If so, who? And was this idle curiosity? No. Idle curiosity would not take the gun.

  It was time that she took the initiative. But there was not much she could do until she had some answers. Finally she wandered down to where Dulcie was repairing a large box.

  ‘H’lo Fern, come and help me.’

  Phryne took one side of the box and tilted it, so that Dulcie could tuck the piece of cloth she was gluing underneath.

  ‘What is this?’ Phryne found her voice. It was shaky.

  ‘It’s the magician’s disappearing-trick box. See,’ Dulcie motioned Phryne to set the box down and walked her around it, ‘it looks solid.’ She tapped it. ‘It sounds solid. But this side is just cloth, painted to look like that stained wood. So all the sides match and it ain’t too difficult to make Dulcie vanish.’

  ‘How do you vanish, then?’

  ‘I just lift up the side and out I go.’ She demonstrated. ‘There’s a screen between me and the punters.’

  The screen was also
painted to look like the box and was of canvas. Dulcie fitted neatly between the screen and the outer wall of the box.

  ‘Only thing to do is not to giggle,’ said Dulcie. ‘What’s the matter, Fern? You look pale.’

  ‘Miss Younger . . .’ said Phryne. Dulcie patted her shoulder.

  ‘It’s real hard for her,’ she said slowly. ‘Losing Mr Christopher like that. But it’s not surprising that she went crook. She sorta looks after us girls. And it’s my fault too, Fern. I oughta told you about clowns.’

  ‘What about clowns?’

  ‘They’re off limits,’ said Dulcie slowly. ‘I dunno why. It’s just always been like that. It’s all right for them to marry, like old Thompson, but not to have lovers, not to be happy. Clowns ain’t supposed to be happy. You did the wrong thing, Fern.’

  ‘So I did the wrong thing.’

  ‘And you gotta give him up.’

  ‘Do I?’ Phryne was bewildered. Just as she had thought that she was understanding the circus, it had turned unaccountable and alien again. ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then you’ll be a tart. They’ll all be coming to the tent and asking for you. You’ll be pestered to death.’

  Phryne thought about it. The clown was too sweet to surrender because of the circus’s strange views of morality. He was also the only person who could make her feel loved. She needed him. The affair would have to be secret. Then she remembered that one cannot have secrets in a circus. It was give up the clown or be taken for a tart. The decision was already made. There were worse fates than being pestered. She presumed that they would not go as far as actual rape.

  ‘Then the pesterers are going to get a shock,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m not giving him up. He’s lovely.’

  Dulcie sighed. ‘Oh, well, Fern, if that’s what you want. But it won’t be easy for you. I hope you know what you’re doing. You look a bit upset. Come and we’ll see if Bernie can give us a cuppa. He might even have some ginger biscuits left if that thieving Bruno ain’t scoffed the lot. That’s why he keeps ’em in a tin. Bruno ain’t got the hang of tins yet. Or, no, we can’t. Bernie’s washing Bruno today. We’ll think of something. Mr Sheridan,’ she called. ‘I’ve fixed the box.’

  The magician came out of the large caravan emblazoned with his name and smiled at Dulcie. Even in a dressing-gown he had a morning-suit manner.

  ‘There’s my good girl. My two good girls,’ he added. ‘Hello, who is this?’

  ‘Fern,’ said Dulcie. ‘We gotta go, Mr Sheridan.’

  Sheridan slathered a lascivious smile all over Phryne, leaving her feeling smirched. He stepped back into his large caravan like a cuckoo into a clock.

  ‘Jeez!’ snorted Dulcie, dragging Phryne away. ‘Every time he does that I feel like I gotta go and have a wash. It’s no jam being a magician’s girl. Here, look at the state of your arm. Fingerprints, they are. What did Miss Younger do to you, Fern?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing really. She was upset.’

  ‘Yair. Well, you can stay out of her way until tonight. I’m going over to see a friend in another camp. You want to come?’

  This was a surprising announcement. Phryne nodded and went with Dulcie back to the girls’ tent to wash off Mr Sheridan’s smile and change into another once-washed cotton dress. This one was lime green and had a matching scarf.

  As they crossed the circus into the carnival, Phryne realised that Dulcie was not going to stop there. They were going to the gypsy camp.

  The invisible boundary was crossed. It looked just like the other camps, except for the people. Dark eyes lifted from washtub and lathe and stared with the absent-minded indifference of cats.

  ‘Here,’ said Dulcie and stopped outside a tent. It was bigger than the others and striped in red and yellow.

  ‘Come in,’ said an old voice. They ducked in under the fringes of many brightly coloured shawls and came face to face with Mama Rosa.

  She was massive. Her face was beaky, strong and determined. She had a shawl draped over her mass of white hair and her blunt-fingered hands were folded in her lap. She was wearing what had been someone’s grandmother’s good black silk dress. On Mama Rosa it looked like a wizard’s gown. She had the huge Gothic authority of a mountain.

  ‘Dulcie,’ she said. ‘And Fern.’

  They sat down on cushions at her feet.

  ‘What do you see?’ asked Dulcie tensely. Mama Rosa opened her hands and cupped a crystal ball.

  ‘Dark,’ she said. ‘Danger.’

  ‘For me?’ asked Dulcie. Mama Rosa shook her head with a click of earrings. ‘Fern. In the darkness there are eyes. And teeth. Pray that you not be devoured. You will receive a message this afternoon. Heed it.’

  Her eyes closed. Dulcie and Phryne tiptoed out.

  ‘Whew!’ said Phryne. ‘She’s amazing!’

  ‘Yair,’ said Dulcie. They walked across the gypsy camp and into the carnival. Phryne remembered Alan Lee and had to get rid of Dulcie.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a friend here.’

  ‘I hope he don’t mind about the clown,’ said Dulcie. ‘Ta ta. You better take a rest this arvo. Show tonight. But no matinees tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Melbourne Cup,’ explained Dulcie and went away.

  Phryne had forgotten all about the Melbourne Cup. If she were at home, she thought, she would be having her last fitting for a fashionable dress, in order to go to the Cup the next day and dazzle the eyes of all beholders. She would bathe in scented water and perhaps eat a little chocolate, Hillier’s of course, before dressing, her maid waiting on her as she did so. Then she would recline in the back seat of her Hispano-Suiza while Mr Butler drove her to the racecourse, with Lindsay or some other suitable escort. There she would sniff the roses, look at a race card occasionally, and dine on chicken patties and drink champagne while the horses thundered past.

  It seemed like a dream. Fern the trick rider bought herself an ice-cream and paid to see Samson, the Strongest Man in the World.

  Fifteen muscle-racking minutes later, Samson finished his act by twisting a poker provided by a local into a knot. The man who had donated the poker exerted all his strength, grimacing, trying to untwist it again. Samson let him struggle until he gave up. The man put the knotted poker back into the offered hand and Samson flexed a few deltoids and straightened it with one smooth motion.

  ‘Show’s over, folks,’ said the strong man. ‘Hello, Fern.’

  ‘Samson, you really are very strong.’

  He wiped his forehead on a towel.

  ‘The poker’s easy,’ he said dismissively. ‘That bloke could do it if he knew how. It’s a knack. I hear you can stick on a horse good-o, Fern.’

  ‘It’s a knack,’ said Phryne. ‘Samson, if I need you, will you help me?’

  ‘You can count on me. You know that. You got trouble, Fern?’

  ‘Possibly. Might be tonight. I’ll . . .’ Someone came into the tent. ‘See you soon,’ concluded Phryne. She walked out into the sun again.

  Alan Lee drew her into the cover of his tent and dropped the flap. ‘We can talk if we’re quiet,’ he said. ‘I got your answers and a letter from town, I thought it shouldn’t go in the circus mail. What’s gone wrong?’

  She laid her forehead against his shoulder. ‘Nothing but my nerve,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost it. Don’t let go of me.’

  His arms closed around her. She could hear his heart beating. On impulse, she unbuttoned his shirt and laid her cheek against his skin. Her heart began to resume its normal pace and her breathing slowed.

  ‘Funny. That’s what frightened animals do,’ he said softly. ‘Or threatened ones. Huddle together, touching flank to flank.’

  Phryne did not speak. She was as close to a frightened animal as she had ever been. She leaned on the diddikoi. They lay down together on the dry and dusty grass, her head on his chest.

  After five minutes she sat up. ‘All right. Now, what are the answers?’

  ‘I r
ang the number you gave and Dot says the lawyer told her that the circus is owned half by Farrell and half by a company called Sweet Dreams. They own funeral parlours, Dot says. The lawyer made an offer and Sweet Dreams will not sell. They said their half-share cost them three hundred pounds. There isn’t such money in the world. The officers of the company are someone called Sweet, his wife and a Mr Denny. The capital is ten pounds.’

  ‘You have an excellent memory,’ commented Phryne. The arms around her tightened. He stroked a long hand down her face and turned her head into his chest.

  ‘I just hope I got it all. You’re important to me, girl. Don’t go getting in too deep.’

  ‘Any more messages?’

  ‘Just that she’s praying for you and hopes to see you soon. To make sure that you know it’s her she says to tell you that Ember has come down off the curtains.’

  Phryne laughed. ‘And the other?’

  ‘He says he’s sent you a letter. He also says he’ll be with you soon. I told him about Sweet Dreams. Was that all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Phryne was reluctant to drag herself out of this soothing embrace. He had a quality of deep, disinterested calm which was like hot water on a bruise, or a warm hand on the back of a cold neck. Reluctantly, Phryne got to her feet.

  ‘I can’t stay here any longer,’ she said. ‘I’ll be missed. Stand guard while I read this letter.’

  Alan Lee stood by the tent flap as she scanned rapidly through Robinson’s neat page. He heard her say, ‘Well,’ before she folded up the letter and gave it to him.

  ‘You’d better keep this for me,’ she said, kissing him lightly. ‘I’d better not be found with anything strange.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said the young man, stroking her arm. ‘Call us if you need us.’

  ‘You’ll hear me from here,’ promised Phryne and peeped out of the tent. No one seemed to be looking. She slipped out into the carnival and was gone, an ordinary-looking circus performer in lime green that did not suit her colouring.

  Alan Lee read the letter before he stowed it in his pocket. He wondered where he had heard the term Exit before. Shaking his head, as though that might make memory surface, he went back to his carousel.