Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

‘And who are you, Miss?’

‘My name is Amelia Parkes. I’m an actress and I live here.’

The constable eyed her narrowly. She was a middle-aged woman, with cropped brown hair, brown eyes, and the beautiful complexion of those who use greasepaint and seldom see the sun. The constable was new to the area; he was sure that he had seen that face before but he could not remember where. She did not assist him but smiled slightly. The constable thought that she had a really lovely smile.

‘Well, Miss, we’d better see about it,’ he said. ‘Where are the keys?’

‘Just wait over there, will you,’ Miss Parkes requested politely. ‘I’ll see if I can get them.’

The constable withdrew to the back doorstep and left Miss Parkes to tap on the door and whisper to the wretched inmate. After a few moments, the door opened a crack and a bunch of keys was thrust out. Miss Parkes took them, murmuring something that the constable did not catch, and then bore them to the back step.

‘Here we are. I think we’d better leave her alone. She’ll feel better when she’s thrown up everything in her stomach, poor old chook.’

The rest of the inhabitants were gathered in a palpitating group in the front hall. None of them liked to go back into the dining room, where a succession of gory drops now defiled the white linen tea-cloth. Constable Harris walked past them and up the stairs, unlocked the relevant door and tried to open it.

It would not budge.

‘What’s wrong?’ Miss Parkes called up and he shouted, ‘It’s bolted on the inside! Can I get in through a window?’

‘Only if you’ve got a long ladder. There’s no balcony on the back.’

‘Open up!’ yelled Constable Harris in a voice calculated to pierce an alcoholic fog. ‘Come on, you in there! This is the police!’

Dead silence was the only reply. Miss Minton whimpered and the magician put an arm around her. She leaned against him gratefully, only to recoil with a little shriek as something moved in his breast-pocket.

‘Sorry,’ he said, removing a dove with an automatic flourish. Miss Parkes bit her lip. This did not seem to be the moment to laugh. Sheridan’s dove fluttered up to perch on the lintel, something Mrs Witherspoon would never have allowed had she been present. ‘There,’ said the magician, holding out his arms. Miss Minton replaced herself in his now dove-free embrace and Mr Sheridan held her close, congratulating himself that his luck was holding, with all the women who did not matter, at least.

‘There, there, little girl,’ he soothed. ‘We’re all upset.’

Constable Harris appeared at the head of the stairs and called down to Miss Parkes, ‘Can you show me how to get onto the roof?’ Miss Parkes left Miss Minton to the wiles of the magician without a qualm and led the way up to the skylight.

‘Do be careful,’ she urged, as the young man stepped out onto the slate roof.

‘It’s not safe, you know. Mrs W was always meaning to have it fixed.’

Constable Harris had the sun-kissed, blue-eyed, milk-fed country look which Miss Parkes had always found most attractive. He grinned at her, showing white teeth.

‘I’ll be all right, Miss. I’m fit, I do a lot of sport. Can you go down and look after the old lady? I’ll need her in shape to answer questions if there’s dirty work afoot.’

‘And do you think there is?’

Miss Parkes had a direct gaze and Constable Harris liked her, although he was still pestered by her resemblance to someone he had seen. A long while ago. In a paper, perhaps? He said soberly, ‘I reckon he’s done himself in, Miss. The door’s not only locked, it’s bolted on the inside. And I don’t reckon anyone tried the roof. You’d have heard.’

‘Yes. Just the same, Constable, I think I’d rather stay here, in case you need some help.’

‘All right, Miss.’

He grinned again and walked carefully down the steep leads to the gutter and along towards Mr Christopher’s room. Lying down on the sun-warmed surface he leaned as far over as he dared. The window was uncurtained and the sun was bright. Moreover the light was on.

What he saw so surprised Constable Harris that he gave a loud yell, lost his grip and began to slither over the edge. He flailed wildly. Just in the nick of time, he was braked and suspended in space by a firm hand gripping the back of his tunic.

Miss Parkes had leapt the ledge and run down the roof with the lightness of a bird. As the constable hung over the edge, gasping, she threw all her weight back to balance him but she was not heavy or strong enough to drag him back.

‘Well, this is a pickle, isn’t it?’ she remarked in the same voice she would have used to a child who had come in dripping with mud. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tommy.’ Harris tried not to look down to the flagstones of the yard, where Mrs Witherspoon was even now emerging from the water-closet. They were hard stones, unyielding. He tried not to think of what he would look like after he had met them from this height. Head first. The grip which was holding him did not slacken and the voice was as smooth as milk.

‘Tommy, you will have to save yourself. I’m not strong enough to drag you up by main force. And if you struggle you’ll send us both over. Do you understand?’

‘Yes!’

‘Now, you will reach back with your right hand. Like that—yes, slowly, don’t make a sudden move. Don’t look down. Look straight ahead. Another six inches and you will do it. Good. That’s the gutter. Have you got a good grip?’

Tommy Harris had a grip on the gutter which would deform steel. The rim cut into his hand and he clutched tighter.

‘Right-ho.’

‘Good. Now, reach back with the other hand, slowly. I’m trying to support your whole weight, you know! You’re touching the gutter now. Have you got it?’

His left hand found the metal and clung with simian strength.

‘Good. Now I am going to let go and get back into the skylight.’

He made an inarticulate cry which might have been, ‘No,’ choked and called, ‘Don’t let go of me!’

‘I am going to let go and you are going to lie still and cling. Keep your arms straight and you can’t fall. I will get your feet and drag you inside.’ The voice was cool and held great authority. Some of her calm was creeping into his mind. He took a deep breath.

‘Good. You’re brave, Tommy my lad. I’ll count three, then all you have to do is hang on like fury and I can bring you safely inside. All right?’

He nodded. His mouth had dried to the consistency of coal.

‘One, two, three.’ Her grip relaxed, very carefully, and he heard her scramble back inside. For what seemed like endless ages he clung to the gutter. Then two hands closed on his ankles like pincers and he was dragged slowly and inexorably up the roof.

‘Let go now, Tommy. I’ve got half of you and I’m not going to let the rest fall,’ he heard her say and he struggled to believe in her enough to be able to let go. The drag on his knees and thighs grew stronger.

‘Let go, Tommy,’ she coaxed. He tried to unlatch his hands and couldn’t.

Above and behind him, he heard Miss Parkes sigh.

‘Let go at once!’ she yelled and hauled with all her force. Constable Harris was inside the window and collapsing into Miss Parkes’s arms before he knew what had happened.

‘There,’ she said, setting him on his feet and dusting down his tunic. ‘That was very brave. You don’t have any head for heights, do you?’

‘And you do.’ He gazed at her, open-mouthed and rumpled. ‘You’re . . . I know where I’ve seen you before!’

Miss Parkes stepped away from his touch as though she might contaminate him, her face blank with what looked like pain.