‘Did you know about Mr Christopher’s profession?’
Mrs Witherspoon bridled. ‘Of course. He was a perfectly respectable person and a nice fellow. He couldn’t help the way he was born. And Farrell’s is a very well-conducted show. I was in the theatrical profession myself, you know.’ Her eyes strayed to the photographs. ‘I like theatrical people. Miss Minton is a dancer and Mr Sheridan a stage magician and Miss Parkes is an actress. Perfectly respectable.’
‘Yes, yes,’ soothed Robinson. ‘And was everyone at breakfast?’
‘Yes. And then we went off to our own rooms. I believe that Miss Minton went to church. Mr Christopher usually went too but this morning he seemed worried and said that he had letters to write. His people . . . well, they didn’t meet, you know, that was not to be expected but they did correspond. They’re in Ballarat; very well to do, I understand. Being what he was, he couldn’t stay in the country. People are so cruel. He used to say he was only happy since he joined Farrell’s.’
‘So everyone was here for breakfast. And tea. And they all went out in between. Good. You’re doing well, Mrs Witherspoon.’
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Witherspoon sat up a little higher in her bed. ‘Now, sir, is there anything else?’
‘Your guests. What can you tell me about them?’
‘Miss Minton has been here almost a year. She’s between shows, so she’s a waitress down at the Blue Diamond. Just while she’s resting. She’s a bit modern but a good girl. I don’t have any carrying on in my house. Mr Sheridan, now he’s a real gentleman. Mind you, I think his father was a grocer. But a well-spoken man and the words he knows! Good as an education. He’s been here three months and it’s nice to have a man in the house. Houses with all women get, well, quarrelsome. Miss Parkes has only been here a couple of weeks. I don’t know much about her but she’s a quiet body. I’ve had Mr Christopher for three years. He always stays with me when he’s in Melbourne,’ she said proudly and then burst into fresh tears. ‘Oh, a murder in my house! Poor Mr Christopher! Who could have done such a dreadful thing?’
As Robinson had no answer to that, he patted the landlady on the shoulder and regained the hallway with some relief.
‘Sir,’ said Sergeant Grossmith proudly, ‘we found this.’ He held out a long, heavy knife, stained with a gummy brown substance.
‘Good. Where was it?’
‘Miss Parkes’s room, sir.’
‘Was her door locked?’
‘Yes, sir. It was in the wastepaper basket, wrapped up in this.’ The knife was bedded in crumpled pale paper.
Robinson looked at the weapon. ‘I’ve never seen one like that before. Have you, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir. I’ve seen a blade that long but it’s a very heavy hilt. Weighted with lead, I think.’ He turned the knife to exhibit the cross-hilt, made of brass and set with large glass stones. ‘Very theatrical, you might say. But it did the job all right and it’s as sharp as a razor.’
‘Very good, Sergeant. Get it down to the laboratory and see if there are any fingerprints on it. I doubt it; the murderer obviously wrapped all that paper around it to avoid that very thing. Everyone knows about fingerprints these days.’ He sighed.
‘Well, Miss Minton next. Where is she?’
‘I sent her down to the parlour, sir, with the rest of them. That magician chap came out of his swoon pretty fast. Are you thinking the same as me, sir?’
‘Oh, yes, Terry, I expect so. Door bolted on the inside, window open. Unusual strength in the blow. Unusual agility required to get in through that window. The weapon found in her room. And a proven track record. I’ll leave her till last.’
Jack Robinson went heavily down the stairs. He met very few female murderers, because there were very few of them in existence. Usually they had good reason for killing. Miss Parkes certainly had had good reason to remove her husband. But he liked competent women and admired courage. He quite liked Miss Parkes, who had rescued the hapless Constable Harris off the roof with speed and dispatch. He did not like to think of her returning to prison. No, he corrected himself, she would not go to prison again. For Miss Parkes there was the madhouse or the gallows; no other choices were possible. Robinson sighed again, hoping that she was insane. Hanging women was abominable. He went back to the parlour.
Miss Minton had replaced herself in the magician’s arms and was shrill and excited. ‘We saw the blood come through the ceiling. Oh, it was horrible!’ She gave a small sob and Mr Sheridan echoed it. ‘Then I went up to see if it was the bath and Mr Christopher wasn’t there and then your constable went out on the roof and he said . . . he said . . .’
She sobbed again. Miss Parkes had not moved. Her hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were as white as pearls.
Robinson said, ‘Miss Parkes, what did you do today?’
‘I got up for breakfast and then I went back to my room. I took a nap, if you must know.’ Her voice was toneless. Robinson had heard the like before, in prisoners. I fell asleep and I didn’t wake until after three. Then I got dressed again and came down to tea.’
‘Did you see Mr Christopher this morning?’
‘No.’
‘But you knocked on his door,’ said Miss Minton shrilly.
I saw you.’
Robinson looked at her. She had pulled out of the magician’s embrace and was pointing a finger at Miss Parkes. I saw you! When I came home from . . . from church.’
There was a hesitation in her voice, which Robinson marked. He asked Miss Parkes, ‘Did you knock at the door then, Miss Parkes?’
‘No,’ said Miss Parkes. Her eyes avoided the detective’s gaze.
Miss Minton was offended. ‘I tell you, I saw her! I had just come to the head of the stairs and I saw her!’
‘Very well, Miss Minton. Miss Parkes, can you explain this?’
Grossmith, on cue, produced the knife in its wrappings. Miss Parkes stared at it.
‘No,’ she said again. I can’t explain it. Where did you find it?’
‘In the wastepaper basket in your room.’
‘It’s her!’ screamed Miss Minton. ‘She did it! She killed Mr Christopher!’
The magician moved away from Miss Minton. She leapt to her feet. ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why did you kill him? You must have crept through his window and stabbed him. I liked him. He was nice. Why did you kill Mr Christopher?’
She collapsed in tears and burrowed into Mr Sheridan’s chest. He appeared to be shocked and levelled the second accusing finger of the morning at Miss Parkes. ‘You bitch,’ he said in a low, intense voice. ‘You stole her from me. My Christine. You stole her. You always disliked her, didn’t you?
Why were you knocking on her door? You utter bitch.’
Robinson intervened.
‘Miss Parkes, I have no alternative but to ask you to come down to the station to answer questions in relation to the murder of . . . er . . . Mr Christopher,’ began Robinson heavily. ‘You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down by this constable and may be given in evidence. Have you anything to say?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ said Miss Parkes through stiff lips. ‘I did not kill Mr Christopher.’
Doreen had ransacked the kitchen and found sufficient salad for all of them. The argument continued around the table. Phryne had opened another bottle of wine and was beginning to feel embattled.
‘Think about it,’ urged Alan Lee. ‘We need you. We’re going to be ruined if Farrell’s goes bust. There’s no circus going on the road before Christmas, and the Agricultural Show is over. We’ll be skint and starving if we can’t get out of town before the end of the month.’
‘Yes, I understand, but what do you expect me to do?’ asked Phryne.
‘Why, come with us,’ said Alan Lee. ‘Come with us and watch and you’ll be able to tell what’s going on. Then we can stop it.’
‘Oh, yes? And how do you expect to stop it?’
‘We have Samson. He can stop
a train with one hand.’
Samson smiled modestly and took some more bread.
‘Please,’ urged Alan Lee.
‘No,’ said Phryne. ‘What could I do? Besides, I’d stick out in your carnival like a sore thumb.’
‘You’d be in disguise. We’d have to get you into the circus itself, not just down among the carnies. You can ride, can’t you?’ ‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Won’t take you long to pick up a few tricks. You can sell tickets and maybe do a little acrobatic riding. Anna could teach you. She did a sharp-shooting cavalry act before she got so big. Or Molly.’
‘Who’s Molly?’
‘Molly Younger. She can teach a horse to do anything but talk. Oh, Lord, Doreen, I forgot about Molly. I wonder if she knows about Chris?’
Doreen swallowed an enormous mouthful and gasped. ‘Gosh, I forgot about that! Someone ought to go and tell her, Alan. I’ll do it.’
‘What about Molly and Chris?’
‘She was . . . well, they were close. They were going to get married. Poor Molly. First Socks and then Mr Christopher. You see, Phryne? Something has got to be done. We can’t go on like this.’
‘So you want to smuggle me into the circus, where I don’t know anyone, in order to find out who is sabotaging it? It’s insane, Alan. I like you all very much but I don’t see that I can help you.’
‘Leave her alone, Alan. If you were this rich and had a lovely house like this and all that money and nothing to do, would you leave it all to go haring off on a wild-goose chase with people like us?’ Doreen’s voice was scornful. ‘You’d be mad. I could work all my life and never be as comfortable as this. Look at this house—she’s got a car and a staff of servants and everything to make her happy. Our problems ain’t her concern. We’re only carnies, you know.’
‘Don’t say that, Doreen. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just don’t see how I can.’ Phryne was slightly hurt. ‘I haven’t lived like this all my life. I was poor enough when I was a child.’ She began to sound self-justifying in her own ears and held her tongue.
Alan Lee took her hand and stood her up, then surveyed her. He saw a slim young woman in a skimpy cotton dress. Her black hair swung as she turned her small head to look at him. He ran hard hands down her body with the impersonal touch of a farrier.
‘You’re soft, living like this,’ he said insinuatingly. ‘Look at that thigh and the buttock. There’s been muscle there but not now. And these hands,’ he laid Phryne’s bare inner arm to his cheek, ‘smooth as silk. Never done a tap’s work in years. You’re so beautiful I almost can’t bear to look at you. You’ve got the build and the lightness and the hands to be an acrobat or a rope-walker or a rider, yet you’re wasting away in idleness. What’s more, I’d bet good money that you’re bored. Ain’t you?’ The dark eyes bored into Phryne’s green ones. ‘You are, ain’t you, Phryne? You gotta remember that I know you.’
‘And I know you,’ said Phryne, taking a handful of his hair at the back of his neck and squeezing. ‘I know you too, Alan. And you are right. I am bored. But that’s all I am—bored. I shall be amused tomorrow.’
‘Will you? As well as I can amuse you?’ His hand lingered at her waist and the touch tingled.
‘Not in the same way,’ she said lightly. ‘But amused none the less. Now, let us have some more lunch and talk about it. I’m not saying that I’ll do it. I just want to know what you’ve got in mind.’
Alan Lee sat down. Doreen, who had continued eating during the conversation, remarked, ‘He’s right. You could’ve been a ropie or even a flyer but that takes too long to learn. I reckon you’d make up good as a rider. It’s not too hard to learn. I can do it and so can Anna. Just a matter of sticking on and not panicking. There’s a finale in the horse act where they have ten girls come in, standing up in the saddle. One of ’em fell last week and broke her leg. You could take her place, after a few lessons. You’re too distinctive with that hair, though, and them green eyes. Can’t, do nothing about the eyes so you’d have to wear a wig, or a cap. Might only take a few days to put your finger on what’s crook with Farrell’s. I’ll give you a name, too. Fern. That’s close enough to Phryne.’
She pronounced the name correctly, with a long ‘e’: Fry-knee. It sounded even more Greek and alien in Doreen’s flat Australian accent.
‘Fern,’ said Phryne, tasting the name. ‘I have to think about this.’
‘Don’t think about it,’ said Samson. ‘Never does to think too much. Just do it.’
She looked at him.
‘Please,’ said Alan Lee.
Phryne wavered. She had indeed been very bored. The round of social engagements and parties stretching in front of her seemed suddenly tedious as a twice-told tale. The concerns of her own circle were narrow. Everyone she liked was busy elsewhere. Her household would get along even more smoothly without her.
‘If you can teach me to stand up on a horse,’ she said, ‘I’ll try it. But only for a while.’
Samson reached across the table and shook her hand, engulfing it to the wrist. Doreen grinned. Alan Lee swept Phryne into a close embrace.
And Ember, encountering his first snake when he sidled into the parlour in quest of more ham, shrieked and fled up the curtains, where he remained despite coaxing and bribery, hissing and clawing ferociously at every attempt to rescue him.
‘I hope that this is not an omen,’ said Phryne, wondering if she owned a stepladder. ‘I do hope that I’m not going to regret this.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Partem et circenses (Bread and circuses)
The demand of the common people,
Imperial Rome
Jack Black Blake shot his immaculate cuffs and said crisply, ‘Billy, what do you hear?’ The boss of the Brunswick Boys was well dressed, dapper and good looking. He had dark hair, slicked back, and a large diamond on his hand, outside his glove. Today the gloves were lemon-yellow kid but they did not seem to be affording him any pleasure. He was smoking a fat cigar and scowling into his beer.
The Brunswick Boys, known to the police as the Brunnies, were having a council of war in the august confines of the Brunswick Arms hotel.
Billy the Dog, so named for carnal atrocities too awful to mention, muttered, ‘Not much, Jack. They say the ’Roys are out to get us.’
‘What about it, Snake?’ Snake, a tall man with reptilian eyes, nodded, as did Reffo, his mate. They were of a height and stood shoulder to shoulder as though expecting attack.
Little Georgie, who combined the knife-wielding abilities of his Italian mother with the ability to run amok of his Malay pirate father, ventured, ‘We gotta do something, Boss. They’re saying on the street that we got no balls.’
Jack Black Blake wore gloves, it was said, because he could not bear the touch of human flesh. He tapped on the bar.
‘They’ll find out if we have balls,’ he said quietly.
Miss Amelia Parkes, once Mrs Fantoccini, was escorted into Russell Street Police Station by Constable Tommy Harris, who kept a hand on her arm. He did not think that she would escape. He was afraid that she might collapse.
Tommy was shocked. Miss Parkes had saved his life. She had rescued him with bravery and dispatch. The scene which had ensued as she was taken out of the boarding house still stung his ears. Mr Sheridan had moaned, ‘How could you, how could you rob me of Christine?’ Miss Minton had screamed, ‘I knew it!’ loud enough to bring the landlady to the head of the stairs. When old Mrs Witherspoon had caught the drift of the conversation, she had denounced, ‘Out of my house, hussy! I gave you a chance. I was sorry for you. But out of my house you go, bag and baggage! How could you do it? How could you kill poor Mr Christopher?’
Mrs Witherspoon had then broken down, and Tommy Harris’s last sight of the household was Miss Minton hurrying up the stairs to mingle her tears with those of the old woman crumpled on the top step.
And Miss Parkes had said nothing, beyond mumbling, ‘I didn’t do it.’ She now moved at his side w
ith the even pace of a sleepwalker.
Tommy Harris didn’t like it. There was something wrong. And yet, there was enough evidence to convict Miss Parkes. The knife. Her dexterity on roofs. And the locked and bolted door.
They paused at the entrance to the station and he said, ‘All right, Miss Parkes?’ and she croaked, ‘Fantoccini. My name is Fantoccini. Prisoner number 145387. Sir.’ Tommy Harris was very uneasy. He delivered Miss Parkes to the detention officer and she answered his questions in the same toneless voice.
Constable Harris went to find his sergeant. ‘Sir,’ he saluted. ‘Sir, can I say something?’
Sergeant Grossmith looked up from a pile of papers. ‘Yes, Harris, what is it?’
‘I . . . sir, I don’t think she did it.’
‘Oh, I see. How long have you been in the force, Harris?’
‘Eight months, sir.’
‘All of eight months, eh? Well, Constable Harris, I am always interested in the views of younger officers. But I don’t find “I don’t think she did it” convincing. She had the knife and the skill and she’s killed before. I expect she had a reason. Anyone else in that house strike you as a suspect?’
‘Sir, no, sir.’
‘Well, then. Cheer up, son. Jack Robinson’s in charge of the case. He won’t make no errors. He’s brought her in. He must think she did it. Now take that knife down to the lab and pull yourself together. Or I’ll tell the lads about how you had to be rescued from your roof by a murderer. A female murderer.’
Tommy Harris took the knife. ‘I still don’t think she did it, sir. She didn’t have to rescue me and reveal that she was good with heights. She could have let me fall.’
‘You’re green, Harris. Some of the nicest people I know have been murderers. I remember old Charley Peace now, he could play the violin like an angel and was very kind to dogs. He just didn’t like people. Go on, Constable. Trust Robinson. He knows what he’s doing.’
Tommy saluted and went out. Sergeant Grossmith snorted. What namby-pamby recruits they were getting these days. In his day no mere constable would have questioned the actions of a superior officer.
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