Killing at the Carnival

by L. A. Nisula

  “What do you think happened?” Davy asked.

  Mrs. Albright tried to distract him. “What would you like to do next?”

  “Do you think that was what went wrong? Something technical? Maybe with the gun?”

  “I’m sure that’s it.” Mrs. Albright gave me a look.

  So she didn’t think the man had fainted anymore, either. I nodded. “That must be it.”

  Mrs. Albright nudged Davy forward, and we collected our tickets from Lucinda.

  When we were back outside on the midway, Mrs. Albright kept Davy moving away from the tent. “What shall we do with all these tickets?”

  Davy looked around. “Let’s try the Indian next. You don’t think he’ll have technical problems, do you?”

  Mrs. Albright steered him along. “Of course not, dear.”

  Redbird's Genuine Indian Tricks was in the next tent over, which made sense, I supposed. It had an equally anonymous poster outside, this time of an Indian riding a painted pony across the plains. Inside, the setup was the same as the cowboy’s tent, only this time it was a teenaged girl in a brown satin dress collecting the tickets, and we managed to get seats in the third row. Davy rocked back and forth in his seat, staring at the pole holding up the tent.

  “Something bothering you, love? Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, Auntie, I’m fine.” He was quiet for a minute, then he said, “Do you think that banker is? Fine, I mean.”

  “Banker?” she asked.

  “The man from Cowboy Nick’s show. He didn’t look all right.”

  “I suppose he did look like a banker,” Mrs. Albright said. She glanced at me but was saved from answering by the tent flap closing and leaving us in semidarkness again.

  This time there was no Lovely Lucinda lighting lamps. The girl with the tickets came on stage and dropped a match onto the pile of logs in the center. There was a pause, the small squeak of a gas jet engaging, then the fire flared up towards the ceiling. I glanced up to make sure nothing caught fire even though I knew it was part of the act. The flames settled down to a normal level, and the girl left the stage. I spotted her pushing a lever on what looked like a music box on her way down, and the tent was filled with a creaky rendition of “on the Range.”

  Redbird stepped out from behind the curtain. He was dressed in a slightly shabby suit and had an elaborate feather headdress on his blond head. He pushed his horn-rim glasses up on his nose and held up his bow and arrows. “I, Redbird, greet you, seekers of knowledge.”

  No one answered back as they had with Cowboy Nick.

  “Let us begin with the bow and arrow. This is an ancient weapon which predates the settlement of the New World by several centuries. Variations of this weapon have been found in archeological digs in…”

  I could hear the audience shuffling around us, although Davy seemed somewhat interested in the history lesson. At least I wouldn’t have to figure out how to tell him this was not a real Indian.

  The lecture had moved away from general discussion and was focusing on the identification of specific arrowheads when the tent flap opened. Redbird blinked into the light. “Who’s interrupting my show? Sorry, you’ll have to wait for the next—Oh, Mr. Kingston, it’s you.”

  I turned to see whom he was talking to, along with half the audience. There was a little man who I assumed was Kingston chasing after the last person I was expecting to see, Inspector Burrows of Scotland Yard, but there he was striding up the center aisle.

  “I run a legitimate outfit. It says, ‘Genuine Indian tricks.’ Nowhere does it say the Indian is real. Not my fault my Indian was stolen.”

  “I’m not interested in your Indian, Mr. Kingston. It’s your cowboy I’m after. Unless you think the same culprit stole your cowboy.”

  “What would Cody want with him?”

  “What?”

  “Buffalo Bill. What would he want with my cowboy?”

  “That’s who stole your Indian?”

  “That’s right. Cody snatched him right out from under me. Offered him more money.”

  “Then I’m not interested in him, only in the one who shares a tent with Cowboy Nick.” Inspector Burrows hopped up onto the stage with a bit more flourish than was strictly necessary, and I wondered if he was enjoying having an audience. Every eye in the room turned to him, including Redbird’s, wondering if he was part of the act.

  “Forgive the interruption, ladies and gentlemen. I will be needing to speak with Mr. Redbird and later with some of you. Mr. Redbird, if you would be so kind.”

  Someone in the crowd yelled, “You mean we have to sit here listening to you talk to him?”

  Inspector Burrows turned. “No, I’m afraid you cannot listen in on the questioning. We’ll find someplace to hold you while you wait.” He turned to Mr. Kingston. “I assume there is somewhere suitable here?”

  “You don’t need the Magnificent Malvolio, do you?”

  “Was he in the cowboy tent?

  “No.”

  “And who does he share a room with?”

  Kingston muttered something.

  “Python? Who is Mr. Python?”

  “Not a who, a what,” mumbled Mr. Kingston.

  “Speak up,” Inspector Burrows said.

  “Python is the name of a five-foot-long grass snake in a twenty-five-foot-long box.”

  “Then no, I will not need to speak to Mr. Malvolio or Mr. Python. If you would please clear the tent. But keep the group together so we can get names.”

  Mr. Kingston was too nervous to notice that Inspector Burrows was smiling. He scrambled to the front of the stage and burst out in his best ringmaster voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a slight delay here. If you would form an orderly line, I will personally escort you to the tent of the brilliant, the amazing, the Magnificent Malvolio, where you will see an exclusive performance of feats of magic that will astound and amaze you. Normally this is a six-ticket attraction, but as an apology for this fiasco, it will be at no extra charge, and you will be refunded your tickets for this interrupted show.”

  The audience didn’t know whether to be pleased by what was apparently a great deal or annoyed at having to move again. Davy pulled on my sleeve. “Didn’t Malvolio’s poster only say three tickets?”

  I grinned. “That’s what I saw. Maybe it’s a special show.”

  Davy looked unconvinced. “I guess it’ll be interesting, even if it doesn’t have Indians.”

  Mrs. Albright grabbed his hand. “Coming, Cassie?”

  “I’d like to see what Inspector Burrows is doing here.”

  “All right. We’ll find you near the food tents after the magic show.” She steered Davy towards the exit. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought she was trying to get away before I changed my mind.

  As I was edging up the aisle against the traffic going to see Magnificent Malvolio, I could see a pair of constables return with a table and chairs. “Those’ll do. Constable Jones, go get the names of anyone who was at the other show before they all disperse. I am assuming most of them came here, and those should all be at this Malvolio’s tent. Constable Lipson, see if you can find any other witnesses that weren’t here. Try the other shows around Cowboy Nick’s tent. And locate this Lucinda.” Inspector Burrows seemed to be in a good mood, so I didn’t think he’d snap at me for interfering just for wanting a look.

  “Right, sir.” Constable Lipson moved down the aisle, pushing through the crowds. Constable Jones went back on stage and disappeared into the wings. I tried to figure out how to greet the inspector without looking as though I was interfering.

  Inspector Burrows turned towards me before I could figure out how to gently make my presence known. “Miss Pengear, we have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Now, Inspector, I’m sure you find plenty of bodies without me around.”

  “I’m sure I do, but you do turn up with alarming frequency. Why are you here?”

  “Mrs. Albright brought her nephew to see t
he shows and invited me. Apparently being American means I can spot a genuine cowboy at fifty paces. But why are you here? Does that mean he is dead? It looked like an accident.”

  “You were at the cowboy show?”

  “Davy loves westerns.”

  Inspector Burrows sighed. “He would. But you saw what happened?”

  “We were in the fourth row, so we had a good view, or as good as we could with all the smoke and steam.”

  “Mr. Kingston said the organ was acting up. But judging from the rest of the place, I’d say that was a fairly common occurrence.”

  “We met a boy at the gate who thinks that Mr. Kingston believes he can fix anything when in reality he can’t hang a picture.”

  “That would explain it. Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  I could see Redbird watching us from the stage, and I wondered if he knew what all of this was about. Come to think of it, I wasn’t even sure I knew what it was about. “Lucinda came out and lit the lamps and showed off a bit, then Cowboy Nick came on stage. He is American, by the way, but I doubt he’s been farther west than New York. There was some patter; then he did some rope tricks, lassoing and then tying up an audience member. He was actually pretty good. Then there was some play with the guns, twirling them and drawing them, and then they picked another volunteer, and he and Lucinda were going to do a card trick. They held the card out between them, and Nick was supposed to shoot it, only when he shot, the volunteer collapsed back into the smoke. It almost looked like part of the trick except that Cowboy Nick looked shocked. And then he screamed and ran into the wings and out of the tent.”

  “Were there a lot of volunteers?”

  I thought back. “I don’t really know. I was watching the stage. Like I said, he really wasn’t bad.”

  “And how was the volunteer chosen?”

  “I don’t know that either. The Lovely Lucinda went into the audience and came back with him.”

  Inspector Burrows kept scribbling in his notebook. “But they did ask for volunteers?”

  “That’s right. Both of them were sitting behind us, though.”

  “So I should ask someone who was sitting behind you.” He closed his notebook. I was expecting him to tell me to run along and play nice somewhere, anywhere other than in the middle of his investigation, so I was surprised when he asked, “Can you take dictation?”

  “Of course.” He hadn’t asked if I was good at it, after all.

  “As well as you can swing on a trapeze, no doubt. Well, I’ve sent all of my constables off to round up witnesses, so you’ll have to do. Sit there, stay quiet, write what they say, and above all, don’t ask any questions of your own, all right?”

  I was too stunned at being asked to help on a case to answer. Inspector Burrows took the silence for a yes and pushed me in the direction of a small table and chair. Judging by the streamers and diamond edging, they had been appropriated from one of the ticket vendors. He put a notebook and three pencils down in front of me.

  “Mr. Redbird, if you would join us?”

  Mr. Redbird hopped off the stage and approached the table. Inspector Burrows motioned for Mr. Redbird to sit across from him.

  “If you would state both your real name and your stage name for the record.”

  “Really, sir, I had no intention of deceiving anyone. And everything here is a replica, nothing stolen or smuggled. I made most of it myself, using the original techniques...”

  “Names, please.”

  “Joseph Cardinal and Joe Redbird on stage.”

  “Any other stage names you’ve used in the past five years?”

  “No, this is actually my first circus. Well, technically I believe it is a carnival since it has rides, although I wouldn’t personally ride any of them. But I digress. I was just thinking of it like play, you see, an actor, no harm meant. I mean...”

  “Very well, Mr. Cardinal, you share a wagon with Nicodemus Cullingsworth-Pepridge, known as Cowboy Nick Culpepper, is that correct?”

  Mr. Cardinal looked surprised by the change of topic. “That’s correct.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “He should be on stage. I’ve told Mr. Kingston he should alternate our shows, so someone can go straight from his to mine and vice versa since our audiences overlap so much, but he says he has crowd-control studies. I think he’s too cheap to reprint the posters, myself.”

  “Do you know where Mr. Culpepper might go if he isn’t on stage?”

  “You checked our wagon? Maybe the commissary, or the infirmary.”

  “I’m thinking more along the lines of a hiding place.”

  “Hiding place? Why would he have a hiding place? He’s not ten years old.”

  “So nowhere you can think of where he would go to ground, as it were?”

  “Why would he need to ‘go to ground,’ as you say?”

  Inspector Burrows switched topics again. “You said this was your first circus. How did you become involved with the operation?”

  “I’m studying the various tribes of the Plains region of the United States. Well, as well as I can here in England. I’ve been trying to earn enough money for the passage to America since I can’t find a university to sponsor me. I had been interviewing Flyingcrow, the former occupant of this stage. When he left, Mr. Kingston offered me a nice—well, decent, to be perfectly honest—a miserable salary and the chance to help spread my knowledge. And miserable as it was, it was more than I was making at my studies, so I accepted.” He leaned in. “I’m getting the impression this is not a fraud investigation.”

  “No, it’s not. As you say, you were being paid to be an actor in a show. There’s nothing illegal about that. We’re interested in Nicodemus Culpepper.”

  “Why would the police be interested in Nick? Is there an immigration problem with him performing or something?”

  “So it would seem strange to you that we’re interested in him? No drunken bar fights spring to mind, no upset paramours?”

  “Nick is frankly boring. And coming from me, that’s saying something. There are plenty of people here that if the police started asking questions, I would assume drunk and disorderly or a fight, or for a couple of them even attempted robbery or assault. But not Nick. That’s why we room together. I spend most of my time studying, he spends most of his time practicing his act. He really takes that stuff seriously.”

  “I see.” Inspector Burrows closed his notebook. I kept mine open. I assumed that was a ploy, and he would still want my notes. “There was an incident during his performance. A man was shot.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I can’t believe it. I mean, I know you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t true, but Nick has so many safety precautions in place. He really does take this show seriously, right down to the stage effects. It drives him mad that the music is always off.” Mr. Cardinal stopped speaking abruptly.

  “You’ve thought of something?”

  “I think I know where Nick might be hiding.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “Yes, I think so. Come on.”

  Chapter Three

  Inspector Burrows and I followed Mr. Cardinal out of the tent and across to the area behind the midway. As we passed the last of the performers’ tents, I felt a tug on my sleeve. “Miss Pengear?”

  I looked down and saw Davy following me. “Does your Aunt Agnes know you’re here?”

  He ignored my question. “Do you know that policeman? The one who thinks Cowboy Nick is a killer?”

  So Mrs. Albright didn’t know where he was. “Inspector Burrows? Yes, I do. And why do you think that’s why he’s here?”

  Davy ignored my question again. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s a very good policeman. Why?”

  Davy started jerking his head to the side, and I realized he was signaling to someone behind the tents. “This is my friend Art.” I recognized him as the boy who had helped us with the ticket machine.
“He works for the carnival. You remember, right?”

  “Pleased to meet you again, Art.”

  “He heard something, and he wants to know if he should go to the inspector with it. I said you’d solved lots of murders, so you would know what he should do.”

  “I wouldn’t say lots...”

  “But more than he has,” Davy pointed out.

  Art poked Davy in the back. “Hey!”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  I addressed Art. “What did you hear?”

  Art stopped looking offended and started looking important. “I heard the dead man arguing with someone.”

  I must have looked as interested as I was since both boys perked up at once.

  “It’s important, isn’t it?” Davy asked.

  I knew I wouldn’t get any information like this out of Inspector Burrows. “I’d need to hear a bit more to be sure.”

  Art grinned. “It was on the midway, this morning, near where it turns into souvenirs. They were fighting.”

  “When you say fighting, what do you mean?”

  “I mean fighting.”

  “But were they yelling? Did it come to blows?”

  Art scratched his foot in the dirt. “No punches. It wasn’t really yelling, either. The dead guy was getting all worked up about something, and he said, ‘I didn’t know. I just need a little more.’ Then the other fellow said, ‘All right, all right, I’ll ask Martha about it. Will that shut you up?’ and the dead guy nodded, but I don’t think he liked that answer.”

  “Why not?”

  “He looked like he wanted to follow the guy and argue some more, but then he didn’t.”

  “How do you know it was the dead guy?”

  “It looked just like him.”

  “I mean how do you know what the dead guy looks like? Or that he was dead to begin with?”