Lestrade and the Sawdust Ring

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Now, now, lassie,’ the showman put an avuncular arm around her, ‘that’s no way to go on. It was an accident.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ Lestrade spoke for the first time, leaning against the bolted door.

  ‘Now, you keep out of this,’ Sanger snarled. ‘This is circus business.’

  ‘It’s my business too,’ Lestrade insisted. ‘A man is dead.’

  The girl looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and a crimson nose. ‘Who’s he?’ she asked.

  ‘This is . . . Mr Lister,’ Sanger told her. ‘He’s a reporter on the Graphic.’

  ‘A reporter?’ she jumped. ‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’

  ‘No police,’ Sanger said levelly, looking hard at Lestrade. ‘The show must go on.’

  ‘I have some experience in these matters,’ Lestrade said. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, Miss . . .?’

  She looked at him. Then at Sanger. ‘It’s all right, lass,’ the showman said, ‘Mr Lister isn’t going to write about this in his paper. Are you, Mr Lister?’

  ‘Not a word,’ Lestrade promised. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

  ‘All right,’ she sniffed. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Your name,’ he sat down beside her.

  ‘Miss Muffett,’ she said, ‘Angelina Muffett.’

  ‘A circus orphan, Mr Lister,’ Sanger said. ‘Little Angie’s Ma and Pa died of the smallpox in ’65. We brought her up.’

  ‘You and Lady Pauline?’

  ‘Me and the whole show,’ he said, lighting a cigar. ‘There’s lots of orphans in a show this size – take little Evadne Grimaldi, for instance.’ Lestrade would rather not. For a start he was far too busy and for afters, Samuel Clinch had already tried that.

  ‘This act you do, Miss Muffett,’ he said, ‘“Dick Turpin’s Ride to York” – have you done it before?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she blew her nose and an elephant answered, yards away, ‘many times.’

  ‘It’s one we inherited from Astley’s,’ Sanger told him. ‘Always went down well there in old Batty’s time. The star of course – and I know Little Angie won’t mind me saying this – is Black Bess. That’s what the crowd come to see.’

  ‘Is he all right, Boss? Blackie? He wasn’t frightened by the firing?’

  ‘No, he’s fine, Angie,’ he reached down and patted her long dark hair. ‘Getting his oats by now in the lines. Don’t you worry.’

  ‘How old are you, Miss Muffett?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Nineteen, sir,’ she told him.

  ‘How long have you been riding?’

  ‘Since I could walk, sir.’

  ‘Born in the saddle, Mr Lister,’ Sanger said proudly. ‘Balloons and banners, toe to pommel, baguette – you name it, Angie’s the girl. Why, she can do things on a horse that’s make your eyes water.’

  Looking at Miss Muffett’s sturdy thighs under her riding breeches, Lestrade didn’t doubt it.

  ‘Tell me about the act,’ he said. ‘What usually happens?’

  ‘Well, the coach circles the ring three times, then I appear on Blackie, I shout “Stand and deliver” and the guard delivers a speech.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that tonight,’ Lestrade frowned.

  ‘He didn’t deliver it,’ Angelina sniffed, ‘’cos it was Joey Atkins, not George Tullett.’

  ‘Tullett? Atkins?’

  ‘George Tullett is the usual guard, but he’s laid up.’

  ‘Fell off a wagon day before yesterday,’ Sanger said, ‘Sprained his ankle, so Joey filled in. Best cudgel man I’ve seen since Stepney Fair.’

  ‘Cudgel man?’

  ‘Juggler. Ever kept twelve balls off the ground at once, Mister Lister.’

  Lestrade shook his head. He had to admit two was his limit.

  ‘He’ll be a hard act to follow.’

  ‘Was he supposed to draw his blunderbuss?’ Lestrade asked the girl.

  ‘Yes. And then I fire . . .’ her voice faded away and she shuddered, suddenly taking another gulp from the glass.

  ‘What normally happens?’

  ‘The . . . the coach is robbed. I take the ladies’ trinkets, the gentlemen’s watches and then gallop to York, chased by the Charlies.’

  ‘After much racing around the ring, “Black Bess” collapses and dies,’ Sanger went on. ‘Slowly, of course. You can’t kill a good horse like that all at once. By the time Blackie finally rolls over in the dust, there isn’t a dry eye in the house, I can tell you.’

  ‘Tell me about your guns,’ Lestrade took the murder weapon from Sanger’s table. ‘Flintlock?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, ‘I can’t tell one from another. Dakota-Bred does all that.’

  ‘Who?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Jack Carver,’ explained Sanger, ‘known as The Medicine Man or Dakota-Bred. Remember those twelve balls I was talking about? Well, Dakota-Bred can shoot ‘em out of the sky before they drop. Not a man to fall out with.’

  ‘And he loads the guns?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Angelina said.

  Lestrade stood up, cradling the horse pistol in his hands. ‘Where will I find him?’ he asked Sanger.

  ‘End caravan,’ the showman said, ‘next to “The Shoal of Trained Fish” exhibition. You can’t miss it.’

  But Lestrade could. And did. He found the wagons in a circle, dark against the night sky of March. The wind moaned through the horse-lines, promising early rain. Only the smoke of the fires wafted silently through the darkness. From the beast cages he heard the throaty snore of a lion, dreaming no doubt of the broad yellow grasses of the Serengeti and smacking its lips on the off-chance of running into Doctor Livingstone. The door of the end caravan was slightly ajar and a pale glow shone from inside. Lestrade pushed and the thing creaked back on its hinges.

  He let his eyes get used to the blackness to his left. To his right a single tallow candle burned, its flame steady again now that he had closed the door. Before him stood a huge glass tank, full of water and on its surface bobbed little wooden ships of the line bedecked with sails and flags. In the murky waters beneath, gold-finned shubunkins flashed this way and that. A lofty angel-fish paused to look at him and slid away to the weedier corners.

  ‘Hello.’

  The voice made Lestrade shriek but he did his best to turn the scream into an answer. ‘Hello,’ he managed, as if those two balls he’d been talking about had not yet descended.

  ‘Fin rot.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  A head had emerged from behind the tallow candle. ‘Fin rot. Only one or two, not the whole shoal. Still, it’s a bugger when it gets a grip. I’m just wondering if there’s a connection with the fowl pest that’s going the rounds at the moment. Farmers are having rather a hard time of it just now, what with the foot-and-mouth and this appalling weather. We’re in for the worst harvest of the century, I shouldn’t wonder. Oh, my dear chap. You’ve turned a little pale. Did I startle you?’

  From the conversation and the thrust of the head, Lestrade had at last made out who his companion was. ‘Mr Masters,’ he said, ‘you’re the vet.’

  ‘That’s right. You’re the chappie from the Graphic. Sorry if I startled you, but you need quiet to diagnose fin rot. Quiet and subdued light.’

  ‘You must be kept busy,’ Lestrade said, ‘with so many animals.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a living,’ Masters looked for somewhere to dry his hands, having plopped a goggle-eyed Moor back into the water. He settled for his waistcoat. ‘Of course, this is my first season on the road.’

  Mine too, thought Lestrade, but he wanted to keep his private life as private as possible.

  ‘It’s the oyster I’m worried about.’

  ‘The oyster?’ Lestrade echoed.

  ‘Sanger’s Smoking Oyster. So you smoke, Lister?’

  ‘Cigars,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Not attached to a yard and a half of rubber tubing, though?’

  ‘Er . . . not us
ually,’ the detective-turned-journalist confessed, ‘I’m sorry, I thought you said “Sanger’s Smoking Oyster”. It must be earwax,’ and he rammed home a finger to alleviate the problem.

  ‘No, no,’ Masters assured, ‘It definitely an oyster. A genuine specimen of Oyster Edulis, the common European bivalve. Admittedly, I cannot yet be sure of its sex. It may well be hermaphrodite which puts it, I suspect, on a par with Dorinda the Bearded Lady – have you met her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lucky man. Take my advice. Stay away. No, the oyster appears totally healthy, but then, nothing is quite what it seems in the circus, is it? There is a theory . . .’ and he closed to Lestrade, extinguished the lone candle as he did so, ‘there is theory that smoking can seriously damage your health.’

  ‘Really?’ Lestrade had not heard that. ‘How?’

  ‘Gives you violent headaches,’ Masters almost mouthed the words.

  ‘Do oysters have heads?’ Lestrade had pondered the question before. He knew of a place called Oystermouth in the West of Wales, so presumably it was feasible.

  ‘Not in so many words,’ Masters explained, then stopped abruptly. ‘Wait a minute. Is any of this going in the Graphic?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘Oh, no,’ the vet shook his head,’ no, no, Mr Lister. I’m preparing a paper on the effects of smoking – not just in bivalves, you realize, but generally. It could have earth-shattering implications. You’ll forgive me if I don’t share the products of my researches with you just yet?’

  ‘Oh, of course. Of course. I was actually looking for the wagon of “Dakota-Bred” Carver.’

  ‘Really? Oh, it’s behind this one. Over to the left. Well, goodnight, Lister. See you on the road.’

  ‘Good night,’ Lestrade called and wandered off in search of his quarry.

  He crossed the yard behind the fish exhibition, feeling his boots squelch in mud. He thought he heard a faint whirring sound behind him, but before he had time to turn, he felt a searing pain across his throat. Not since the time he was garrotted (unsuccessfully) in Flower and Dean Street had he felt pain like this. Then he had jabbed backwards with his elbow and brought his assailant down. This time, he only jabbed thin air and lost his balance. A second whiplash slashed around his ankles and as his hands came up to release pressure on his throat, a third roped his wrists together.

  ‘Well, I’ll be hog-tied,’ a lazy voice sounded above him and he saw himself being stared at by what appeared to be a huge Stetson hat. Then there was much unwrapping and loosening and he felt his Adam’s apple sink to its proper place before a strong pair of hands hauled him upright. ‘Say, ain’t you that there newspaper fellah?' the voice drawled again.

  ‘Indeed,’ rasped Lestrade. ‘And you Dakota-Bred?’

  ‘Thru an’ thru,’ the American shook his hand. ‘Jack Carver. Gee, I’m sure sorry ’bout them rope burns. An’ that mess on your suit an’ all.’

  Lestrade let the cowboy help him up into a wagon. In the lamplight, he saw a spare-looking man, a year or two his senior, with clear blue eyes and a healthy tan. He wore a loud check shirt and the widest leather trousers Lestrade had ever seen.

  ‘Never min’,’ said Carver, ‘you’d be surprised how quick the skin grows back. This is likely to hurt a tad.’ Lestrade screamed for the second time that night and left the chair he had only just collapsed into. ‘There, I told yer it would. But there ain’t no substitute for horse liniment on a rope burn. You’ll thank me in the mornin’. I’m awful sorry, mister, but when I see a fella a-comin’ out o’ the darkness with a gun in his hand, why, I just do what comes natural.’

  ‘Yes,’ grimaced Lestrade, eyeing with malice the lariat that had just brought him down.

  ‘Jest be lucky you ain’t a dogie.’

  Whatever that was, Lestrade certainly was.

  ‘Else, havin’ roped yer, I’d be burnin’ your butt about now with a red-hot brandin’ iron. Ceegar?’

  Lestrade was past caring what it did to oysters and since Dakota-Bred didn’t seem to be offering any rubber tubing, he took the cheroot as it was.

  ‘Actually,’ the cowboy lit up for them both, having struck the Lucifer on his fancy boot. ‘I gotta confession to make.’

  Lestrade was all ears, especially the left one, which had got caught up in Carver’s rope and it was throbbing madly. He craned forward.

  ‘Ah ain’t from Dakota at all. Ah’m from the sovereign state of Alabama. Trouble is there ain’t many cowpushers in Alabama. Oh, I was raised in the West, sure enough, so I guess it ain’t too much of a lie. What paper do you work fer, Mister?’

  ‘The Graphic,’ Lestrade said, hoping that wasn’t too much of a lie either. ‘I wanted to talk to you about your guns.’

  ‘Why, sure,’ the cowboy, creaking as he walked, crossed to a large wooden chest at the far end of the wagon. ‘This here,’ he pulled a nickel-plated revolver from a blanket, ‘is a Thumb-Breaker – have a heft o’ that an’ you’ll know why.’

  He threw it at Lestrade who missed it expertly and it clattered at his feet. ‘Careful, boy,’ Carver said, ‘that thar’s real ivory handles. This’n,’ he hauled out a second pistol, larger than the first, ‘is ma pride ’n’ joy. It’s a Navy Colt, made for General Bedford Forrest hisself.’

  Lestrade had always assumed that Bedford Forrest was a football team, but perhaps this wasn’t the place or the time to say so.

  ‘Now, this’n,’ Carver yanked out a heavy Dragoon pistol, bigger than anything he’d produced so far. He’d thrown nothing else Lestrade’s way and noting the size of the latest weapon, the detective was very glad of that. ‘This’n’s got a kick like a Tennessee mule. Now, if it’s rifles you gotta hankerin’ fer . . .’

  ‘I was rather referring to this one,’ Lestrade held up the horse pistol which he had recovered from the mud on his way into the wagon.

  ‘Aw, that ain’t mine,’ Carver frowned.

  ‘But you load it for Miss Muffett’s act – Turpin’s Ride to York?’

  ‘Sure. She’s jest a li’l ol’ slip of a girl. Don’t know tiddly squat ’bout shootin’ irons. Not like Annie Oakley. Now there’s a missie who can fan my hammer any time.’

  ‘Is it a flintlock?’

  ‘That?’ Carver took the butt of the proffered gun. ‘No, sir. Oh, it’s dressed up to look like a flintlock, but flintlocks is jest too goldarned unreliable for show work. See here,’ he flicked off the fancy serpentine, ‘that’s jest fer show. What you’ve got here, Mister, is a good ol’-fashioned percussion cap.’

  ‘It fires one bullet?’

  ‘Ball, fellah, ball,’ Carver corrected him, but it was rather late and Lestrade felt he’d disturb people if he complied, so he stayed silent.

  ‘Did you load the gun tonight?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘As every night?’

  ‘Yup’

  ‘Were you in the ring when Joey Atkins died?’

  ‘No, sir. Ah was puttin’ on ma duds ready for ma act.’

  ‘Which is. . .?’

  ‘Well, in the ring, ah do some bronc bustin’.’

  ‘“Bronc bustin’”?’

  ‘Yeah. Okay,’ Carver chuckled, consigning each gun to the chest again, having twirled them like lightning around his fingers before Lestrade’s very eyes. ‘Not much of a bronc, I’ll admit. But you put a burr under the saddle of a sofa, an’ ah’ll guarantee you some kind o’ reaction. Old Paint – that’s ma horse – Old Paint bucks around a little, then settles down and ah pat him in the right place. Know’d a woman like that once. Struggle like a hell-cat she did, ’til ah put ma hand on her . . .’

  ‘Yes, Mr Carver, thank you. Er . . . the act?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Well, then ah rope the odd geeraffe or llama. Darn things spit like an ol’ Tennessee Spittin’ contest. Ah tell yer, most nights ah come off soaked in spit. Occupational hazard, ah guess.’

  ‘Do you do any shooting in the ring?’

  ‘No, sir. Too plum dangerous in a Top thi
s size. Oh, it’s okay at Olympia, with a real roof an’ all. But even in yer goddamned English weather, there’s a chance of a spark hittin’ the canvas. Anyhow, Lord George, he says “no” to live ammunition.’

  ‘But you use blanks?’

  ‘Sure. In ma other act, I recreate the battle of Adobe Walls.’

  ‘What happens there?’

  ‘Ah get to kill me some injuns. ‘Course, they ain’t real injuns, on account o’ the last injun to live in Britain was ol’ Pocahontas but she took sick.’

  ‘And as far as you know, you loaded Miss Muffett’s pistol with a blank charge tonight.’

  ‘Sure. Here,’ he tossed a box of cartridges to Lestrade. ‘Blanks, all of ‘em. Want me to prove it?’

  ‘All right,’ said Lestrade.

  Carver caught the box Lestrade threw back to him and one by one loaded them into the gun. Each time, he placed the muzzle to his head and squeezed the trigger. Each time, the explosion shook the caravan and wreathed the smiling cowboy in smoke.

  There was a thump on his door and a top-hatted gent appeared above the steps. ‘Everything all right, Dakota-Bred?’

  ‘Jest hunky-dory, Boss,’ the cowboy waved. ‘Ah was jest provin’ to Mr Lister here how ah didn’t fix the killin’ of poor ol’ Joey.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Sanger frowned. ‘Come, come, Mr Lister, you can’t go around accusing my people like this, you know.’

  ‘I made no accusation, Mr Sanger,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Good,’ the showman straightened his lapels, ‘I’m very glad to hear it. No more firing, then, Dakota, there’s a good bloke. Cicero’s got one of his heads.’

  ‘Cicero?’ Lestrade repeated.

  ‘My oldest lion,’ Sanger said, ‘I’ve given him a mustard poultice, but he’s off his food something chronic. ‘Night all,’ and the door clicked shut.

  ‘Where are these guns kept?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Right here, in ma wagon,’ the cowboy told him.

  ‘When did you load them tonight?’

  ‘Six o’clock. Give or take. . .’

  ‘And you’re sure you put blanks in both?’

  Carver leaned forward, his hat tilted on the back of his head. ‘Look, Mister, ah’ve been handlin’ guns since you was wearing diapers. If ah couldn’t tell a blank from the reel thing, ah’d hang up ma spurs. Now, if you don’t mind, ah’ve got to get to bed. Castleford tomorrow.’