Blood and Circuses pf-6

by Kerry Greenwood

  my people, but they’re accustomed to be quick

  in their movements; and if you don’t act on

  my advice, I’m damned if I don’t believe that

  they’ ll pitch you out of the window.’

  Charles Dickens

  Hard Times

  An unconscious Phryne was being cleansed and tended in the girl’s tent by Dulcie and Joseph the horse doctor.

  Outside, Samson threw down an armload of wood and Mr Burton kindled a small fire. All the participants of the evening’s turmoil sat down on the bone-dry grass. Constable Harris, awed by Samson’s size, stared up at the big man. By cripes, but he was huge. Then he asked his chief, ‘What do we do now, sir?’

  Robinson was tired. ‘Nothing to be done for the moment, son. Sergeant Grossmith has taken the prisoners to Rockbank and then he’ll come back for us. I’ve sent out a road alert to all stations between here and Melbourne, but I reckon that bastard Sheridan has shot through. I hate to lose him.’

  ‘After what he did to Miss Parkes, trying to frame her for something she didn’t do and nearly driving her mad, is he going to get away?’ protested Constable Harris. ‘Surely not, sir.’

  ‘We’ll catch him.’ Robinson accepted a mug from Mr Burton, who had brewed tea over the fire. ‘Don’t you worry. You’ve done well, Harris.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Tommy Harris was not as pleased as he might once have been at receiving a compliment from a superior officer.

  ‘What has Sheridan done?’ Mr Burton asked Harris. Because he was sitting down and the dwarf was standing up, Constable Harris was looking into Mr Burton’s eyes. They were bright and intelligent.

  ‘He’s done a murder—your Mr Christopher,’ said Tommy. ‘And he tried to frame Miss Parkes for it.’

  ‘He killed Chris?’ Miss Younger had come out to see what all the excitement was. Her face knotted with hatred. Tommy Harris shivered at the sight of such implacable fury and pain.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ she wailed.

  ‘I don’t know. He said he loved her.’ Tommy was getting confused.

  Miss Younger made a guttural sound that he would have expected from a wounded animal. Then she demanded in a fierce, hard voice, ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s run,’ said Robinson. ‘No use hoping to catch him, Miss. But we’ll get him in Melbourne, if he ain’t took ship and gone by now.’

  Mr Burton tugged at Miss Younger’s shirt. ‘Sit down and have some tea,’ he urged. ‘You can’t get to him, Miss Younger.’

  She pulled away from his touch. ‘Freak!’ she screamed at him and stumbled into the night. Mr Burton stood quite still. His face showed no expression.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Farrell from the other side of the fire. ‘I’d better go after her. If she should find our Mr Sheridan there wouldn’t be nothing left for you to hang.’ He walked away into the dark, calling, ‘Molly!’

  ‘Tell me what this reprobate of a magician has done,’ insisted Mr Burton.

  Tommy sipped his tea, which was heavily laced with rum, and told the story while the dwarf listened with the closest attention.

  ‘But what will his criminal associates think of him deserting them like this?’ Mr Burton asked in his precise, scholar’s voice.

  Robinson laughed. ‘If Albert Ellis knew about it, he’d spit chips and there’d be more blood on Brunswick Street. But they don’t know about it. This tea just about hits the spot, Mr Burton. Any more in the pot?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mr Burton, and refilled the detective inspector’s cup.

  Tommy Harris caught the dwarfs eye and grinned slowly. Mr Burton made an excuse and trotted out of the firelight, with Tommy following.

  ‘Constable Harris,’ said Mr Burton, speaking with great deliberation, ‘it is not very far to Rockbank, where there is a telephone operator who is already awake. All I need is the number. What do you say?’

  Harris drew a deep breath. ‘I’m risking my career,’ he began. Then he remembered Miss Parkes and her courage and her pain. He recalled Reffo dying in his arms. Lizard Elsie’s remembered face grinned at him. He made up his mind and opened his notebook at the page where he had written down Albert Ellis’s telephone number. The dwarf needed only one look. Then Harris went back to the fire and Mr Burton faded into the scent-laden circus night.

  Phryne woke abruptly, stifling a scream. Something was breathing close beside her. She put out a hand and touched hair, slid down and found a human face. Eyelashes flickered against her palm.

  She saw that she was lying on a canvas swag in a dark tent. The flap was open. Moonlight streamed in. Outside, she could see a man standing with his heels together in the back-saving stance of a soldier. He was a truly large policeman, in low-voiced conversation with a mountain of muscle. Silver light slid over marble contours. Samson and Sergeant Grossmith were keeping guard over Phryne and discussing horse racing.

  Sergeant Grossmith had lodged his captives in the Rockbank lock-up, first evicting the chickens that were the usual inmates. The Rockbank policeman, reinforced with three of Grossmith’s own men, was guarding them with a gun.

  ‘I favour Strephon,’ murmured Grossmith. ‘In this weather, over that sort of track.’

  ‘It’s a long distance,’ commented Samson. ‘I’m backing Statesman. More staying power. And he won the Derby, too.’

  Phryne moved a little and yelped. All of her body hurt. Alan Lee said softly, ‘It’s all right, Phryne,’ and stroked a gentle hand down her arm.

  ‘Alan?’ She touched his face.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, and you’re all right. Lie down again.’

  ‘And it’s me, beautiful Fern,’ said the voice on her other side. Greasepaint smeared over his ugly face, Jo Jo smiled anxiously. ‘Unless you want me to go away.’

  ‘No!’ Phryne clutched at him with weak fingers. ‘No. Please stay. Please, both of you, stay. I was so scared,’ she said, lying down between them. ‘I’m so cold.’

  Alan Lee and the clown locked hands across her, folding her in a double embrace.

  ‘How did you both come to be here?’ she wondered aloud.

  Jo Jo laughed and said in his treacle-toffee voice, ‘Someone had to stay with you and we couldn’t agree as to which of us. Dulcie washed off your paint and tended your bruises. We thought that you might have been . . . molested but you hadn’t. But you are going to have legs like a tattooed lady in a few days, Fern. Phryne. A name that tickles. Phryne. Hmm. Alan said that you needed warmth. Contact.’

  ‘He was right.’ Phryne snuggled closer to sides and flanks, breathing in vitality and concern. Jo Jo stroked back her black hair with his free hand.

  ‘And since we . . . er . . . share your regard . . .’

  ‘Seeing as we love you,’ Alan Lee did not mince words, ‘we couldn’t leave you. You were limp and Dulcie was afraid for you. She said that you were in shock. She wanted to stay but that head cop said that you’d like men better.’

  ‘Cheek,’ murmured Phryne.

  ‘Then it seemed silly for me to have a fight with your other bloke, so we lay down together. I like the clown, Phryne,’ said Alan Lee. ‘I never been this close to any circus folk before.’

  Jo Jo chuckled. ‘I never thought I’d be holding hands with a carnie, either. You have a profoundly disturbing influence, Fern. But it won’t be for long, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t ask her now, Matt. She’s worn out,’ said Alan Lee. Phryne was falling asleep.

  ‘Ask me what?’

  ‘Not to leave us,’ said Alan Lee reluctantly. Phryne reached out both hands. The clown and the carnie took them.

  ‘I can’t leave now,’ she said drowsily. ‘What a silly thing to say. I’ve got a contract. I’m a rider . . . in Farrell’s . . . Circus.’

  They waited in the dark but she did not speak again. She had leaned her head against Jo Jo and one hand lay curled open on Alan’s chest. Phryne Fisher and Fern Williams were both asleep.

  On Tuesday, after an early lunch,
most of the performers assembled in the big top. Phryne had dressed in her cotton shift and was redolent of goanna oil. She had been repossessed of her belongings, and Dot’s St Christopher medal hung once more at her throat. Her fear was gone. She felt renewed. She had come close enough to death to smell his breath and she had not died. She was, however, so stiff that Samson had carried her into the ring and placed her in a chair as though he were handling a new-laid egg. She sat between Alan Lee and Jo Jo the clown. Dulcie and her partner Tom were there. Amazing Hans sat beside them. Mr Burton had perched on a tub on which elephants were wont to stand. The Catalans were gathered into an interested group. Even the Flying Bevans had made an appearance. Bernie, without Bruno, talked racing with Sergeant Grossmith. Sam Farrell sat in the middle of the ring, turning his hat in his hands.

  Robinson walked out to join Farrell and clapped his hands. No one paid any attention. Sam Farrell stood up and cracked the ringmaster’s whip. Instant silence fell.

  ‘You want to know what has been happening to Farrell’s Circus?’ he roared. ‘Bit of shoosh and we’ll find out.’ He bowed to the policeman and sat down again.

  ‘This is a long story,’ Robinson began. ‘You’ll have to be patient because I don’t know it all, either. We’ll start with the furthest event in time. A man called Jones approached Mr Farrell with an offer to buy half of his circus. January, wasn’t it, Mr Farrell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Farrell refused. Then things began to go wrong. Fires were lit. Animals died. The show began to lose money. So, in March, Mr Farrell had to accept the offer from Sweet Dreams Pty Ltd. They bought half of his circus. With the deal, however, came Mr Jones. He could not be said to have been an asset. And things continued to go wrong. In April the circus harboured an escaped prisoner called William Seddon. He accompanied you in the guise of a roustabout and took ship at Portland for Rio. Once there, the cocky bu— bloke couldn’t help gloating. He sent me a postcard. That’s when I found out about Exit. Seddon had escaped by being carried out of Pentridge in a coffin. We think that it had a double shell and Seddon was snugged under a real corpse brought in with the laundry. The prison doctor may not be a terrific practitioner but he can diagnose death all right, when he sees it.’

  This got a laugh.

  ‘More things went wrong. Farrell was losing money, even though he had given in and sold half the show. Mr Jones and others were there to make sure that when Sweet Dreams Pty Ltd offered to buy the other half, keeping Farrell on as manager, he would agree. Exit wanted the circus to be entirely under their control. Where do you hide a leaf? In a forest. Where do you hide a wanted man or an escaped prisoner? In a circus. It has a floating population of runaways and roustabouts. Although they’re not performers, some of them wear paint when they move nets and things in the ring. What Jones and Exit didn’t know was that you can’t keep secrets in a circus.’

  Phryne looked to either side, at the dark gypsy profile and the lumpy countenance. She took both hands in her own.

  ‘You identified Jones and the three others as outsiders almost as soon as they stepped onto your site. You began to suspect. And Mr Christopher knew. He must have had a sight of Jones’s papers, or overheard a conversation, because he wrote it all down in a little book. But because he was an honourable man,’ Robinson looked sidelong at Grossmith and dared him to snicker, ‘he went to tell Farrell first. This is a family circus and Farrell had been his friend. He told Farrell. Jones overheard. And so Mr Christopher had to die.’

  Miss Younger groaned. Phryne looked at her with deep pity and guilt. Here was someone whom she couldn’t help. Dulcie moved closer to Molly and took her hand. The horsemaster endured the touch for a moment, then snatched her hand away and wrapped her arms around herself, as though she were in great pain. Sam Farrell hung his head and his fingers bent his hat brim out of shape.

  ‘This murder was done by the man who was the proprietor of Exit,’ Robinson went on, ‘the Mr Denny who was the sole active officer of Sweet Dreams. He did it so well that we arrested the wrong person for it.’

  This got a laugh as well. Robinson held up a hand.

  ‘We kept her because her safety was endangered. The murderer was using some city criminals for his Exit schemes. There’s been a feud between them and when one lot informed to us, a man was shot dead in Brunswick Street in broad daylight. We didn’t like the look of things.

  ‘Then, into the equation came an interfering woman.’ He purposely did not look at Phryne. ‘She had been asked to solve the circus’s problems and find the saboteurs. She did that in a few days. But she did not know enough about Exit, until last night. She was captured with my constable, and after they pooled their information we all knew who it was. Then it was a matter of catching the villains and rescuing the innocent.’ Phryne chuckled at his application of the term to herself. ‘So we did that and here we are.’

  ‘But who is the murderer? That mongrel Jones?’ asked Bernie, reflecting that humans were a lot more complex than bears.

  ‘No,’ said Phryne, trying to stand and failing as her knees gave under her. Jo Jo and Alan Lee held her up between them. ‘It was Mr Robert Sheridan, the magician.’

  ‘But how?’ teased Robinson. ‘He had an alibi.’

  ‘Easy. He was an illusionist, remember? The disappearing Dulcie trick? The dagger in the air? The ceilings of the house were holed by water, discoloured. All he had to do was to put a paper patch over the plaster as he removed it, so that it would look the same from the ground. Then he needed a couple of pulleys and a solid, heavy dagger suspended on fishing line. He could poise the dagger, point down, above the paper patch. He knew that Mr Christopher always slept on his back because of the cream on his face, and he could guess that Mrs Witherspoon wouldn’t like her guests to move the furniture around, so his bed would stay in the same place. The end of the line passed over the pulley, along to the other in a similar hole in his own ceiling, and down into his room. He could release it any time he liked. He could then go down to tea and wait for someone to discover the body. The door was locked and bolted. The only way in was through the window and only Miss Parkes could have got in that way.

  ‘It was a really clever, utterly wicked plan. All that the police would find—did find—was Mr Christopher dead, transfixed by the missing knife, and a few sheets of paper, broken when Sheridan pulled the knife back up again. There’s enough space in the roof for him to crawl along, I’ll bet. He just pasted another prepared patch over the hole, removed his apparatus and smiled at the cops. The police arrested Miss Parkes. He set her up. He stashed the weapon in her room. Locks don’t even slow him down. He tried to get rid of me last night by putting a splinter into Missy’s blanket. I found it. That must have irritated him. But Jones says that he got his orders from Mr Sheridan the magician.’

  ‘Where is he, then?’ demanded Miss Younger, really wanting to know.

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Robinson. ‘We’ll get him. Roadblocks went up last night. But he was the mastermind. Jones’ll hang for the murder of poor bloody Reffo in Brunswick Street. The rest of the ’Roy Boys won’t be walking pavements for a good few years. Smythe’ll go to trial for his original offences. Maguire’ll go back to jail for life, for armed robbery and escaping lawful custody and for attempted rape and attempted murder of Fern here.’

  Phryne swayed on her feet, tasting a backwash of terror. Her escorts bore her up, clown’s arm and carnie’s arm crossing at her back.

  ‘Steady, Fern,’ murmured the clown. ‘The show must go on, you know.’

  As she grinned weakly, Mr Farrell stood up. ‘What of the show?’ he asked. ‘What about Farrell’s Circus?’

  ‘Ah. Now, there’s a letter.’ Robinson groped in his pocket. ‘Yes. This was found on the pile of decorated panels from Mr Sheridan’s truck. It’s addressed to you,’ he told the astonished Phryne. ‘Shall I read it?’ Phryne nodded and Robinson began to read. ‘“Dear Fern (for I will preserve your pseudonym), Vicisti, Galilaee! You have conq
uered. I have just been privileged to listen to your admirably detailed exposition of all my little plots from behind the wall of a certain tent. I don’t know to whom you were talking but if that fair young man is indeed Constable Harris then I am sunk. You seem to have found the splinter in Missy’s blanket. You are a very dangerous woman.

  ‘“This, then, is my Apologia pro sua vita.”’ Phryne snorted. Mr Sheridan couldn’t even get his Latin right. ‘“It was so easy, Fern. The skills which I have laboured so long to learn were not being valued as they deserved. Wirth’s let me go and Sole Brothers did not appreciate me. So when I obtained employment (at a derisory salary) with Farrell’s Circus, I decided to increase my income and to show the world what magic can do.

  ‘“You are aware how easily the human eye is deceived. It was simplicity itself to smuggle in a suitable corpse, a pauper from the morgue. Then it was just as easy to smuggle William Seddon out in a trick coffin. He was a little cramped but he was very grateful. He paid me a hundred pounds, having come into several inheritances. Likewise, I instructed Damien Maguire in some elementary sleights of hand and provided him with chloroform and a hacksaw by distracting the guard. And Ronald Smythe left his house as a policeman. Among other policemen he blended until he could slip away and join the circus. He had made an attempt to remove his fingerprints with acid. This, as you are aware, cannot be done. However the consequent pain seems to have soured his temper. I was sorry that he had to escape. A detestable little man.

  ‘“Even more revolting was Killer Jones, the person I borrowed from the Fitzroy Boys, led by Albert Ellis. I do trust that he comes to a bad end. I’m sure that you will do your best to attain this much wished for result. I told Pretty Iris about Exit, once, when I was drunk. I fear that she told the Brunswick Boys and they told the police. I had to order Reffo, who was Pretty Iris’s messenger, to be shot. This was regrettable. But I doubt if he will be much missed. I wanted Jones because I needed someone who was in a position of authority to ruin the circus. That stubborn fellow, Farrell, would not deal on ordinary commercial lines. He had to be forced and Jones was the man to do it.