Meanwhile, Jack Robinson was facing Miss Parkes in the little interview room which was the antechamber to the cells. Howls and wails came through the wall. Evidently the drunks were noisier than usual.
‘Now, Miss Parkes, tell me, what did you know about Mr Christopher?’
Miss Parkes was moving through a maze of unbelieving horror. The police station and the official voices had slotted her straight back into her prison persona. She had been a good prisoner, diligent and meek, and she had thought that she had escaped. Now the prison smell, unwashed humanity and urine and despair, reeked in her nostrils again. She grasped at her mind, which was slipping.
‘I did not know him well. He worked for Farrell’s Circus, as a freak. He was happy there. He said that he could not have been happy anywhere else. In the circus, he was valued. He made a good living, I believe. He was very good looking. He lived like a man. Mr Sheridan was convinced that he was a woman and pestered him all the time, bought him flowers, that sort of thing, but Mr Christopher never gave him the slightest encouragement. Miss Minton thought he was a man. We used to giggle about it, Mrs W and I, because she was going to get a shock if she managed . . . you know what I mean. But Mr Christopher was a real gentleman. He said that he had a fiancee, anyway, a trick rider in the circus. Her name was . . . was . . .’
The name had gone. She shook her head.
‘Molly Younger. Her picture was on his wall.’ Jack Robinson had done some research. ‘So you did not know him well?’
‘No. No one did. He was a very private person. Kept himself to himself, as Miss Minton would say. I never saw him perform. I . . . I would not be welcome at the circus, especially not that circus.’
‘It was Farrell’s where . . .’
‘Yes. My husband and I and the others worked for Farrell’s and it was at Farrell’s that . . . that he died.’
‘I see.’ Robinson referred to his notes. ‘Now, as to the day of the murder. Sunday, that’s today. What did you do today?’
‘I got up for breakfast at ten, then I went back to my room for a nap,’ she said wearily, rubbing her eyes.
‘Do you usually sleep on a Sunday afternoon?’
‘No but I was so sleepy after breakfast that I went to lie down and I dropped off. I woke at three-thirty and had a wash and then I went down to tea. Mrs W’s teas are very good and I don’t have to watch my figure any more. Then blood dripped through the ceiling and your constable came and got stuck on the roof. After that you came and all of this happened.’
‘Miss Parkes, did you kill Mr Christopher?’
‘No.’
‘Did you climb out on the roof and get in through his window and stab him in the heart?’
‘No . . . no, I don’t think so. But I killed before. I killed my husband. I hated him. I know how to kill. The ultimate crime. I might have killed him. Oh, God, how do I know? I can’t remember. I might have done it in my sleep.’
‘But you had nothing against Mr Christopher?’
‘No, nothing.’
Miss Parkes began to laugh. The laughter stretched, became unbalanced. Then she began to scream, silencing the drunks in the cells just beyond the room.
‘Better lock her up,’ observed Robinson. ‘Send in a doctor.’
‘No, no!’ shrieked Miss Parkes. ‘No, don’t lock me up, don’t, please. Not again. I can’t bear it. I can’t. I can’t.’
Two policemen carried her to a small cell. When she heard the thud of the latch and the rattle of keys, she fell silent.
Robinson was unhappy. He sought out Sergeant Grossmith. ‘Terry, I don’t like this,’ he began.
‘Did she confess?’ Sergeant Grossmith asked.
‘In a way. She said she might have done it while she was asleep. She’s gone off her rocker.’
‘Well then, a guilty but insane verdict. She’ll spend the rest of her life in a nice cozy loony-bin, out of harm’s way.’
‘Hmm.’
‘If it’s any consolation, my Constable Harris came and told me she didn’t do it. Want to hear his reasoning? Because she rescued him from the roof. Said if she was a real murderer she wouldn’t have revealed her skill with heights. She would have let him fall. I don’t know. In my day I would never have dared to speak to my sergeant like that. These young blokes . . .’
Sergeant Grossmith continued to talk for some time but Detective Inspector Robinson was not listening.
Early in the morning, Phryne was transported to Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show in Alan Lee’s old truck. Samson had also come, presumably as a chaperone. As instructed, she was wearing a scarf over her hair, a leotard, soft shoes and an old cotton dress.
The day was going to be hot. Williamstown Road was empty. The scents of summer reached her; baking earth, melting tar, sweaty humans, and the circus smells of dung and engine grease and drying shirts.
Alan Lee parked the truck in the carnie’s camp. Some tents had been erected but most of the personnel seemed to live in caravans. Horses grazed in lines. Children ran on the urgent errands of childhood, threading their way through stalls and booths.
‘I’ll go and get old Bell,’ Alan Lee said. ‘She’s safe enough. Samson, you ask Mr Farrell if we can use the ring and get someone to rig up a governor. If he ain’t there, ask the Bevans if they’d mind us using their rig.’ He looked at Doreen, who had come up to meet them. I reckon you’d better go and see Molly, Doreen. She mightn’t have heard. About Chris. We’d better tell the old man, too.’
‘I reckon,’ agreed Doreen reluctantly. Then she added with relief, ‘No, I don’t need to. Look.’
Two men were crossing the encampment. One was tall and stout, in a blue uniform. The other was smaller, in plain clothes, with a face and stance which was hard to remember.
‘They’re cops,’ said Doreen. I seen enough cops to know a Jack when I see one.’
‘And a Jack it is, too,’ said Phryne. ‘I have to intercept him and quietly. If he greets me publicly I won’t be any use to you.’
‘Easy enough. He’s going to pass through our camp, so I’ll scrag him when he comes past my van. Come on.’
Alan Lee and Doreen, with Phryne between them, sauntered towards the caravan, built on the ruins of a truck. Phryne slipped inside and as the policemen walked past, Doreen said quietly, ‘This way.’
Jack Robinson caught sight of Phryne’s face over the half-door and turned smoothly. He sat down on the caravan step, facing the camp and said, ‘My feet are killing me. I haven’t been a flat foot for too long. How do you feel, Terry?’
‘You’re getting soft, Jack,’ said Terence Grossmith, who knew that his chief was fond of twenty-mile walks. ‘Well, I could do with a spell, too. Any more room on that step?’
The two officers sat down and Phryne whispered, ‘Hello, Jack dear, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m trying to find out about Mr Christopher,’ he replied evenly. ‘What about you?’
‘I want to find out who’s trying to ruin Farrell’s Circus. Your murder is just a part of a long line of very bad luck.’
‘Is it? But we’ve got our killer.’
‘Who?’
‘A woman who was with this circus ten years ago.’
‘Mrs Fantoccini?’ Alan Lee asked, bewildered. ‘She’s out of jail?’
‘Ten months ago and she’s done it again,’ said Sergeant Grossmith complacently. ‘Made the arrest within the hour.’
‘Oh. Why?’ asked Phryne.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ said Robinson.
‘You’ve got your doubts about her, haven’t you?’ said Phryne, who had known Jack Robinson for some time.
‘Not to say doubts. Questions, maybe. Well, keep your eyes open, Miss, and be careful. Bad luck can be catching. I take it you don’t want me to recognise you?’
‘No. And my name is Fern.’
‘Then I haven’t seen you, Fern. Come on, Terry, I reckon these poor old plates’ll bear me a while longer. What was the name we wa
nted?’
‘Younger,’ said Grossmith aloud, consulting his notebook ostentatiously. ‘Miss Molly Younger.’
‘You’re in the wrong camp,’ said Samson, coming up, with perfect innocence. ‘She’s over with the circus folk. Go towards the big top and turn right at the elephants.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jack Robinson, heaving himself off the caravan step and collecting his offsider. ‘Come along, Sergeant.’
‘The Bevans say we can use their rig,’ Samson told the others. ‘Mr Farrell seems real put about. But he said we could use the ring. What were those cops doing here?’
‘Lost their way,’ said Phryne. ‘All right, Alan. Let’s go and get Bell and see if I can learn to stand up on a horse.’
Bell was a placid, smooth-paced horse with a broad back and an accommodating disposition. She stood about fifteen hands and was a soothing chestnut colour. She had a delicate mouth and intelligent eyes.
Alan Lee strapped Phryne into a canvas jacket, which had stout lines attached to it at the waist. He cast the line to Samson, who attached it to a hanging rope slung over a block and hauled until Phryne rose a foot off the ground.
Doreen took charge. ‘All right, mount up, Fern.’ Phryne vaulted onto Bell’s broad back. The horse stood like a rock. ‘Off you go, Bell,’ ordered Doreen, and Bell began to walk. Phryne had no difficulty maintaining her seat. Doreen grunted. ‘You can ride, then. Good. Come up, Bell.’ Bell increased her pace imperceptibly, so that she was soon cantering. ‘Now, Fern, put both hands on her neck and swing your legs over to the right, so that you’re sitting side-saddle.’
Phryne put both hands on the patient neck and made the movement, slid off, was brought up short and replaced on the horse. She tried it again, nettled that a physical skill should elude her so completely.
‘Now the other side,’ ordered Doreen, and Phryne found herself facing the outside of the ring, as Bell continued her smooth canter. ‘Again,’ ordered Doreen, and Phryne slid from one side to the other without falling. She grinned.
The scent of horse and sweat brought back the struggles which the young Phryne had endured learning to ride a cross-grained pony in the cool Shires. It had taken months before she had managed to get onto April the pony’s back, and stay there. April had not been patient with novices. By now, April would have taken Phryne over to the nearest gorse bush and flung her into it.
‘Back astride,’ Doreen commanded and Phryne regained her seat. ‘Now. You’ve got to trust me. Bell is moving fast enough to hold you in the saddle if you kneel. Just like swinging a billy round your head. Same thing. Put both hands flat either side of her neck and push your knees up onto her back. As long as you stay with your spine over the horse’s spine you can’t fall. One movement, make it smooth. Now.’
Phryne found the movement easy, though odd. She reflected that being educated by April had made her a good rider. Anyone who could stick onto April could ride anything and in any conditions. She was kneeling on Bell’s back, on all fours. She was just about to say, ‘How simple!’ when she found that it wasn’t. The horse slid out from beneath her and Samson hauled her up and onto Bell’s back again. The harness cut into her ribs. She concentrated. It was a matter of balance and trusting that Bell would not swerve or change pace. The rough horse hair chafed her inner thighs. She bit her lip.
The trick was to keep up a constant pressure with the knees. Four more circuits and she could kneel and not fall off. Doreen said, ‘All right. Now slowly lift your hands and straighten your back. You can’t fall. Try it.’ Phryne suppressed an unworthy urge to clutch at Bell’s mane and straightened her back. She balanced herself as she once had on a beam at school. Bell’s movements were as smooth as machinery. Phryne was kneeling up and the empty tent was flying past. She laughed aloud and wobbled perilously, then regained her balance. This was clearly no laughing matter.
‘Stay like that for a while,’ said Doreen, and Phryne and Bell completed two circuits. Phryne found that she could balance better with her arms outstretched. Alan Lee watched the slim figure with a private smile. Samson anchored the governing rope with careless strength. ‘Now you’re going to stand,’ said Doreen. ‘Put your hands down again, bring up your feet. Come up, Bell.’
This was going against every instinct of self-preservation and all Phryne had ever learned about horses. She fought an inner reluctance to do anything so foolish, pulled her knees in towards her chest and straightened her back. It did not want to straighten.
‘Feet further apart and flat. Good, you’re supple enough. Now, when I tell you, push down with your hands and stand up. Do it in one movement. You gotta flow, not jerk. You can do it. Come on.’
Phryne attempted to convince herself that it could be done and failed. Bell completed another circuit. Phryne began to sweat and her hands slipped on the chestnut hide. She lifted them, one by one, to wipe on her cotton dress.
‘You can do it,’ called Alan Lee.
‘I don’t think I can,’ wailed Phryne from her upside down position. Her thigh muscles twinged, presaging cramp.
‘Don’t think,’ said Samson. ‘I’ve got you. Hup!’ he roared, taking Phryne entirely by surprise, so that she had released her grip on Bell and was standing up, arms out, actually standing up on Bell’s back, with the ring fleeting past and some force holding her on.
Every rider is familiar with the drag of gravity as a horse jumps a fence. But this force did not pull her down. It appeared to be encouraging her to stay mounted. She noted from her perspective of the watchers that she must be leaning in towards the centre of the ring.
‘Good. Stick on,’ encouraged Doreen. ‘See? I told you anyone could do it. Try a handstand.’
Phryne, elated, bent again and laid her hands on the horse’s neck.
‘Not there—you’ll strain her neck. In the middle.’
Attempting to move back, Phryne lost her balance and fell. The governing rope brought her up short of the sawdust. Doreen brought Bell to a halt and stood caressing the soft nose.
‘Here’s your carrot, Bell. Fern? You all right?’
Phryne was sweaty, bruised by the canvas jacket and completely above herself.
‘Fine. I’m fine. Can we do it again?’
‘Yes,’ said Alan Lee. ‘And again every day. I reckon you’ll be able to stick on good-o by the time we get on the road again. See? I told you. And now you’re coming with us. You promised,’ he reminded her.
‘Yes, I promised. And I’ll come. Oh, that was lovely.’
‘Come back tomorrow,’ said Doreen. ‘Meanwhile, you need to practise handstands and balance. Alan can take you home and he’ll come and get you again. Now we gotta take Bell back to the lines and groom her. She did bonzer for you, Fern. But she’s the best. There ain’t many neddies with a pace like hers. Molly trained her up from a filly.’
Phryne led Bell out of the big top. Samson, having removed the governor, carefully detached it and undid his line, returning the hanging rope to exactly the same length and position.
‘Never meddle with a rope and never move it,’ said Alan Lee. ‘Someone’s life might depend on it. If you watch the flyers, you’ll see what I mean. But the Bevans don’t like an audience when they’re rehearsing. You’ll have to sneak into the show. You’ll see ’em put out a hand for a line, knowing that it’s there. If it ain’t there . . .’ he left a significant pause and Phryne nodded.
‘Quite. Who was Mrs Fantoccini?’
‘Why do you ask?’ Alan Lee seemed taken aback.
‘Jack Robinson said he arrested her for murdering Mr Christopher.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, she was one of the Flying Fantoccini. The husband and two brothers and Amelia Parkes and her sister Ella. They was good, too. Eh, Doreen?’
‘Good? They was great,’ said Doreen. ‘She never oughta married that bastard George, though. He treated her like a dog.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Look, this was ten years ago, I wasn’t here,’ said Doreen sharply.
‘I knew Amelia when we was kids together. I’da said she wouldn’t hurt a flea. But he knocked her about. Stole her money. They say . . .’ She lowered her voice and looked sidelong at Alan Lee and Samson, who took the hint and shifted out of earshot. ‘She told me that he made her have an illegal operation, you know, to get rid of a baby.’
‘Why?’ whispered Phryne. ‘Wasn’t she married?’
‘You can’t be a flyer if you’re expecting.’
‘That’s terrible!’
Doreen’s eyes glinted. Phryne noticed that her eyes were not green as she had thought, but a dark, almost charcoal grey.
‘Yair. And she wanted that baby real bad. But she loved him so she did it, and after that she was so scarred up inside she couldn’t never have another. She went strange then. Cold. You couldn’t get close to her. But I was away when it happened. Alan might know.
‘Alan?’ she called him over. ‘What about the murder?’
Alan Lee seemed uncomfortable. ‘I was here, yes, but I didn’t see it. Come along, we’d better get Bell back before her legs stiffen.’ As they walked, he began to tell the story in brief, unwilling sentences.
‘George had arranged a big finale. Six flyers all crossing each other, simple enough. But he insisted on his own trapeze; he had small hands and he needed a thinner bar. That night, they were all flying and he reached his bar and then he slipped. He fell. He fell outside the net, because he was at the top of his flight. Forty feet to the ground and he was dead. When they lowered his bar, they found it was smeared with engine grease. His wife, she had engine grease in her fingernails, and his brothers knew he’d been beating her. They knew about the baby, too.’ He grinned at Doreen. ‘You can’t keep secrets in a circus. And that day, he had been heard to tell her that he was short of money and that she should go on the street to earn him some, because that’s all she was worth. He called her a clumsy flyer and untrustworthy in the air. She killed him all right. She admitted it.’
‘And I can see why,’ observed Phryne.
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