Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

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.

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.’