Blood and Circuses pf-6

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘Yes, Miss. Good luck, Miss Phryne.’ Dot kissed Phryne on the cheek. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Dot, I will. I promise.’

  Mrs Butler stepped forward and offered Phryne a bottle.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Goanna oil,’ said Mrs Butler. ‘If you’re going to keep falling off a horse, Miss Fisher, then you’ll need it.’

  Phryne took a last look at the anxious faces and said, ‘Thank you. I’ll be off then.’

  No one moved.

  She went out of her own back door, taking a last look at the solid, well-known and well-loved house.

  ‘Right?’ asked Alan Lee, running a caressing hand down her back. ‘You want to leave all this and come to the circus, Fern?’

  Phryne shivered pleasantly and kissed him very gently and lingeringly on the mouth. She would not be able to kiss Alan Lee again while she stayed with Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show.

  ‘Right,’ she said.

  Half an hour later Alan Lee parked his truck near the carousel and Phryne leapt out, clutching the brown suitcase. Her dress was once-washed and a blinding pink. Her head was bound up in a closely fitting pink turban. Her only unusual attributes were hidden. Around her waist, in a custom-made webbing belt, was her card case, some coins and twenty pounds in notes. In a compartment in the cheap suitcase was her Beretta and a box of ammunition.

  The circus was breaking up. Two trucks had been loaded with planks and seats. Phryne stowed her suitcase on the truck designated by a laconic rigger. He was dressed lightly in a blue singlet, army-issue shorts, boots, and a fixed hand-rolled cigarette.

  ‘What are they doing?’ she asked him nervously, expecting to be snubbed. He smiled indulgently down at the pink turban.

  ‘You’re the new rider, ain’t you? Never seen this before? Well, first we take down the canvas,’ he said, as gangs of sweating men passed him, unlacing and folding the sides of the tent. ‘Then we take out the guys and dismast the king poles.’

  ‘Which are they?’

  ‘The two highest ones. They’re jointed so we can carry them. But they gotta fall careful-like, ’cos they cost a fortune. So we slows the fall all the way with lines.’

  ‘But what takes the strain?’

  ‘Rajah,’ he said, gesturing with a thumb. Rajah the elephant, in harness, was holding the lines which stretched up to the king poles without shifting her feet. Phryne noticed three men in a group, leaning against the guys and smoking.

  The head rigger noticed them too. ‘Hey, you blokes! Come and lend a hand.’

  One of the group made a rude gesture and the rigger strode off into the collapsing tent. Lifting the man off his feet, the rigger swung him out from under the canvas. The man stood rubbing his arm with one sticking-plastered hand.

  ‘You wanna work in a circus,’ the rigger said calmly, the cigarette never moving from its position on his lower lip, ‘then you work.’

  ‘Mr Jones said—’

  ‘I don’t give a . . .’ The rigger noticed Phryne and did not finish the sentence. ‘I don’t care what Mr Jones said. He ain’t head rigger and I am. Now carry canvas or get out.’

  Sulkily, the three men moved away. The rigger spat out his cigarette and ground it slowly into the dust with the heel of his boot.

  ‘Now, you watch,’ he said. The tent came down with a gusty sigh, ballooning gently, as the king poles toppled. Rajah trundled out as it fell and stood patiently waiting until someone undid her harness. An army of men fell on the flattened saucer-shaped mass and dissected it into laced sections of canvas, miles of line, poles, tent pegs, electrical equipment and wires.

  ‘You’ve got electric lights, then,’ commented Phryne.

  ‘Yair, boss bought a generator. That’s the generator truck. Much better than the old flares. Petrol vapour, they were, and bloody dangerous. The electric ones are beaut. But the flyers say that they’re too bright and they get too hot up in the air. Flyers,’ he chuckled, ‘they don’t come more temperamental than flyers.’

  It struck Phryne that she was talking to the most important man in the circus. Without this tall and competent rigger, the temperamental flyers would have no trapeze, the circus would have no cover, no lights and no ring. He seemed to bear his responsibility lightly. His eyes, however, missed nothing.

  Horses neighed, camels hooted and bubbled. Rajah was unharnessed and led through the crowd by one ear. The air was full of smoke as all manner of trucks revved and either started or did not start. The air was also filled with curses.

  ‘Miss Fern,’ said a voice at Phryne’s hip. This time she did not look up and around but dropped to one knee immediately. The dwarf seemed nervous.

  ‘Mr Burton,’ she said. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Would you care to ride with me?’ he asked diffidently. ‘The Catalans and I travel in convoy. Or perhaps you have a companion already?’

  Phryne’s body ached suddenly with remembrance of Alan Lee’s touch. She banished a treacherous thought of what it might be like to make love in a moving caravan.

  ‘Am I supposed to travel with the rest of the girls?’ she asked.

  The rigger commented, ‘Nah. The girls spread ’emselves wherever there’s a place. You go with Mr Burton, girl. You’ll get a more comfortable ride with him.’ He grinned. ‘Safer, too.’

  Since Mr Burton had drawn himself up to his full four feet (advertised height, three foot, seven inches), Phryne interposed her body.

  ‘Thank you for telling me about the tent,’ she said hurriedly to the rigger. ‘Most interesting.’ He gave her a puzzled look and she realised belatedly that she had used the wrong voice.

  ‘Gotta go,’ she added and accompanied the dwarf across the disintegrating camp to his own caravan. It was drawn by a large and patient horse, who was being backed into the shafts by one of the Catalans.

  ‘Hola,’ he encouraged. ‘Il vaut mieux aller seul qu’en mauvaise compagnie. It is better to travel alone than in bad company,’ he added, viewing the pink dress with disapproval. He recognised Phryne as she came closer and muttered an apology. Phryne grinned. The dwarf climbed the side of the caravan and took the reins.

  ‘Merci, Benet,’ said Mr Burton. ‘Will you sit beside me, Miss Fern?’

  The solemn dark boy boosted Phryne up onto the wagon and she sat down beside Mr Burton, clutching at her turban.

  ‘It all vanishes so fast,’ she said breathlessly.

  The circus, which had looked so permanent, came apart and packed itself up with astounding speed. The horse lines were empty. Phryne caught sight of Miss Younger, sitting astride Bell with effortless ease, ordering the riders of the liberty horses into convoy. The lions’ cages had been loaded onto two trucks, with Amazing Hans driving one. Phryne caught sight of his flowing mane of hair. The first trucks, carrying the tent and the seating, were already out of sight. Behind, in a straggling line which was nevertheless perfectly ordered, came the riders, the camels, Rajah and her friend Sultan, the flyers and tumblers and clowns. There followed the Catalans and Mr Burton, then after them in a long line the riggers and the lions and the roustabouts, cooks and boys. After them, separated by a little space came the carnival and after them, also separated, the gypsies.

  The wagon jolted onto the tarmac surface of Williamstown Road. ‘Would you like to make some tea?’ suggested Mr Burton. ‘There is a spirit stove inside.’

  Phryne climbed back into an immaculate little room. Everything was dwarf-size, from the four-poster bed with the satin quilt to the tiny wash-stand and the miniature wardrobe. It was all decorated in English cottage style and must have been very expensive.

  She managed to persuade the spirit stove to light. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she looked out of the chintz-curtained window at the passing scene. Children whooped and ran along the pavements. Adults stood and stared. Once she had watched a circus go past in this way. Now she was inside one.

  A bubble of delight burst in her chest.

>   She called to Mr Burton, ‘How do you like your tea?’

  ‘Two sugars. Black,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to keep driving; can you bring it out here?’

  Phryne managed to crawl back through the caravan hatch without spilling too much tea. Mr Burton gave her the reins while he drank. The big horse plodded on after the others in perfect four-four time. Clop, clop clop clop. Clop, clop clop clop. Phryne felt suddenly very relaxed, almost sleepy. The creature needed no guidance from the reins. He knew where he was going.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Burton, putting down his empty cup in a niche evidently designed for it. ‘Why not have your tea now and perhaps a cigarette? This is always my favourite part of the journey. The beginning. Who knows what lies ahead?’

  As Phryne sipped her tea and lit a gasper, the small man continued without change of tone, ‘And what are you doing in Farrell’s Circus, Miss Phryne Fisher?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Are summer songs for me and my Aunts

  As we lie tumbling in the hay.

  William Shakespeare

  The Winter’s Tale, Act II, Scene iii

  ‘What’s eating you?’ demanded Detective Inspector Robinson, summoned out of his cubbyhole of an office by Sergeant Grossmith at eight o’clock in the morning. The sergeant seemed excited about something. ‘Why are you tiptoeing like that?’ Robinson did not get on well with mornings. ‘Taken up ballet at your age?’

  Sergeant Grossmith opened the door into the front office of Russell Street Police Station and motioned his chief to look.

  There, offending the cleanliness of the mud-coloured lino, sat old Lizard Elsie the sailor’s friend, clutching a bottle of what appeared to have been brandy. Her tattered dress was splashed with dark stains and her boa was balder than ever. She was fast asleep and smiling. This in itself was not unusual. What caused Robinson to step back a pace onto Grossmith’s foot was the sight of Elsie’s supporter. The ill-famed harpy was lying with her head on Constable Harris’s tweed-clad shoulder. He was sitting with his arm around Elsie and his back against the wall and his eyes were closed.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Robinson. ‘The Babes in the Wood. Just waiting for the birdies to come and cover them with leaves. How long have they been there, Duty Sergeant?’

  ‘They came in, sir, about ten minutes ago and flopped down like that.’

  ‘Thank you for this little comic interlude, Terry,’ said Robinson. ‘Now, hadn’t you better wake your constable and ask him what in hell’s name he thinks he’s doing?’

  Grossmith strode over to the pair and bellowed, ‘Wakey, wakey!’

  Lizard Elsie sprang to her feet, hands hooked into claws, and then identified the speaker. She grinned at him. ‘H’lo, Terry,’ she said. ‘I brung your copper back.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong with him?’ Grossmith crouched down next to Harris. He shook him by the shoulder. The young man groaned and strove to focus. Grossmith roared, ‘Harris! What’s the matter with you?’

  Robinson came out of the doorway and inspected the recumbent officer.

  ‘Use your eyes, Terry. Look at his coat. And his shirt. That ain’t booze. He’s not drunk. That’s blood. He’s been hurt.’

  ‘One of youse has got bloody eyes, then,’ said Lizard Elsie sarcastically. ‘Of course he’s been hurt. He’s been shot. It was that fucking mongrel Wholesale Louis. If you want to bloody know.’

  ‘The ’Roy Boys,’ said Grossmith. ‘Call the police surgeon,’ he shouted at the bemused duty officer. ‘Don’t stand there like an idiot! Jack, d’you reckon we can get him up onto the bench?’

  Together they lifted Constable Harris. Lizard Elsie began to sidle towards the door and Robinson caught her arm.

  ‘Stay with us, Else,’ he said. ‘I reckon we owe you a favour.’

  ‘For a fucking change,’ she told him. ‘He’s a good boy, he is,’ she added. ‘I was bloody getting the worst of it last night in the Blue Diamond and he piled in and rescued me. Then we ran away and fucking Louis shot ’im, so I hid ’im all night and we come ’ere on the first tram. He’s not hurt bad. He’s just tired and bloody shocked.’

  ‘Elsie, you are a remarkable woman,’ said Robinson.

  ‘Too fucking right,’ Elsie agreed.

  In an hour, Constable Harris was recovered enough to be interviewed. The wound was revealed to be a long, shallow gash along his side, which hurt when he moved but was not serious. That he had not contracted tetanus the police surgeon attributed to Elsie’s dressing of the wound with fine cognac.

  ‘Best drink I ever had,’ said Elsie wistfully. ‘And I didn’t like to waste it.’

  ‘It wasn’t wasted,’ said the doctor. ‘Keep the wound dry, lad, and get it dressed again tomorrow.’ He took his leave.

  ‘Now, Harris, tell me exactly what happened,’ instructed Grossmith. ‘Slowly.’

  Constable Harris, who had been allowed to wash and change back into his uniform, felt clean and comfortable. He sat up straighter and ordered his thoughts. He then told, in minute detail, everything he could remember about the night before.

  ‘Then I crawled into this humpy and I don’t remember anything until Elsie dragged me onto the cobbles and we staggered out to the street and caught a tram. They almost didn’t let us on. We must have looked a sight.’

  ‘I wrapped him up and I stayed with him to keep him warm,’ said Elsie slowly. ‘You can bloody die of cold and shock if you ain’t kept warm. Then I brung ’im back like he says. But what I wanna fucking know,’ her voice rose in wrath, ‘is where do them mongrel ’Roys get off, trying to snuff me what never did ’em any fucking harm? And why?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Now, you told Albert Ellis that he owed you ten bottles,’ said Grossmith slowly. ‘Why should he owe you ten bottles, eh, Else?’

  Lizard Elsie looked past him at the wall. Her mouth shut tight.

  ‘Come on, Elsie, you’re in big trouble. Not from me. I’m not going to charge you with anything if all you did was go into the Provincial and start a fight with the publican so that the ’Roys could shoot poor old Reffo. Neither is my chief.’ Elsie looked at Robinson. He nodded. Grossmith continued, ‘But you rescued Harris here, who seems to have a talent for being rescued by women, and the ’Roys’ll be after you now. You’ve never done anything really wrong, Elsie, except swear the air blue. We got nothing against you. But I bet the ’Roys don’t see it like that.’

  ‘What can you bloody do?’ asked Elsie. ‘I spill my guts to you, then I go out on the street again and they’re fucking waiting for me. Wholesale Louis with his bloody gun.’

  ‘We can keep you in protective custody until we sort it out,’ said Grossmith. ‘You can walk out any time you like,’ he added, as Elsie made a convulsive start for the door. He hung onto her. ‘Wait a bit, Elsie. You and me, we’ve known each other a long time, eh? I always did the right thing by you, Else. I’d hate to see you dead.’

  Elsie did not struggle. She allowed Grossmith to put her back in her chair.

  ‘Yair. Well, you’re bloody right. I did start that fight. Albert Ellis owes me ten fucking bottles of port, the mean bastard dog. And I s’pose I can trust you, Terry. I s’pose so,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘And we could probably manage a bottle of beer a day,’ he added. ‘You know you’ve gotta get off the red biddy, Else, it’d kill a brown dog. A week on one bottle of beer a day and you’ll be leaping like a spring lamb. But I’ll give you a bottle of brandy out of the first-aid kit to start you off.’

  ‘Whaddaya reckon, eh, sailor?’ She nudged Constable Harris in his uninjured side. ‘You’re the one what swept me off me poor ole feet.’

  ‘You stay for a while, Elsie,’ said Constable Harris. ‘While we have a little chat with Mr Ellis and the boys. I’m anxious to meet them again.’

  She sized him up in one sharp glance from her bright black eyes. Then she smiled a breathtaking smile from her wrinkled face, gentle and sensuous, which set Constable Harris back in his recovery.

  ‘All
right, sailor.’ She patted his cheek. ‘I’ll do it. Come on then, Terry,’ she laughed up at the big policeman, ‘put the bloody cuffs on. I’ll go quiet.’

  Because there was no other accommodation available for females, the duty officer put Lizard Elsie in the same cell as Miss Parkes.

  Phryne Fisher managed not to spill her tea. She stared at the little man, who was driving the horse and preserving a perfectly blank face.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I recognised you when Rajah pulled off your scarf,’ he explained. ‘No one else is likely to have heard of you.’

  ‘And you have?’ Phryne did not feel equal to denying it entirely and had now lost the initiative.

  He smiled slightly at the tacit admission of identity. ‘Oh yes. I read the fashionable papers.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Book reviews,’ said the dwarf calmly. ‘Since I graduated from Oxford I have kept up my reading. Literature is my field. Also, I like to see what the social set is doing. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. The times change, and we change with them. There has been a general failure of nerve since the War, would you not agree? No one believes now that there is a golden age ahead, not even Mr Wells.’

  ‘You were at Oxford University?’ squeaked Phryne. ‘Then what are you doing in Farrell’s?’

  ‘Where else could my . . . deformities be valuable? Everywhere else I am a freak. Here I am still a freak but I am a performer. Circuses are the only places where dwarves can get some respect. And even then, you heard the head rigger. “Safe with me,” he said and laughed.’

  ‘Only because you are obviously a gentleman,’ said Phryne. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Mr Burton, how old are you?’

  ‘I’m thirty,’ he said, looking into her face. ‘I went grey early. That’s good. An old dwarf has more value, because he is obviously not just a child. I’ll never be taller than I am and unless I can find a suitable lady dwarf I’ll never marry.’