Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

Miss Younger swung past, riding with as much comfort as if she were sitting in an armchair.

‘Fern! Take Missy and get Dulcie to give you a costume. Red truck,’ she called. ‘Joan! Can’t you see that’s not temper, it’s a stone in the hoof? Pick up her foot instantly. Well she might kick! So would I!’

Phryne found the red truck and Dulcie in the midst of what looked like complete confusion. Spangled and sequined garments hung from the sides, along with masks and headdresses and hats.

Dulcie, however, seemed calm and organised. ‘Here’s your costume.’ She handed Phryne a red satin tunic, fleshings and a tall feather headdress. ‘Take Missy over to the side and don’t let her drink yet.’

Phryne managed to get Missy through the stream of camels and wagons but she could not simultaneously hold the beast and change into the costume. Missy was thirsty and could smell water. She could not see why this human was being so obstructive. She ramped on her front feet and threatened to buck.

A figure landed on Missy’s back and brought her down onto all four hooves again. It was a clown in full costume, his face painted into sad lines.

‘I’ll amuse her, Fern, while you get into that feather thing,’ said Matthias Shakespeare. His eyes were devouring her. Under this intense regard, Phryne did not feel threatened. Excitement rose up her spine like mercury in a thermometer. She shivered, licked her lips and dropped her feather crown.

‘You are so beautiful,’ said the clown, controlling Missy’s tantrum with hardly any effort. ‘You have been appearing in my dreams.’

‘Oh?’

‘Starring Beautiful Fern,’ said Matthias in his dark brown voice. ‘And Jo Jo the clown whom no one loves.’

Phryne stripped off the pink dress and pulled on the spangled tunic and the tights. They had holes in the knees. Then she knelt to remove the turban and pull the feathers down over her telltale hair.

‘Fern, Fern,’ sang the clown. ‘Makes my heart burn. Tell me, do you like me, Fern?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, tucking in the last strand of hair. ‘Yes, I like you.’

Matthias made a grab at Missy’s neck, slid forward, bounced and landed sitting back to front, his hands grasping for the reins.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said a passing girl.

‘It’s my profession,’ said the clown. With the elegance of a cat, he leapt down, retaining Missy’s rein. ‘Fern,’ he said softly. Phryne searched the painted face for an expression but could discern none. Only the gaze of the dark grey eyes affected her, like a caress. ‘Makes my heart burn,’ he whispered.

Phryne smiled. He tossed her Missy’s reins and did a handstand on her back. The upside-down face looked into Phryne’s and she laughed.

Detective Inspector Robinson found a report on his desk and summoned both Grossmith and Harris to hear about it.

‘This is the lab’s report on the notebook. Mr Christopher’s notebook, you remember,’ he prompted. ‘The little red book. It’s been stained and soaked in blood but they managed to get some clearish images. Have a look at this.’

He showed them a photographic sheet, still wet from developer. They stared at it. In small, neat handwriting it read ‘Exit’.

At that moment the phone rang.

‘Yes. This is Robinson. Miss Williams? Of course I remember you. Miss Fisher? Yes, I saw her . . . she’s done what?’ Robinson grabbed for a piece of paper. ‘Yes, I’ve got that . . . yes. Call for a letter at the post office . . . and if we want her have her arrested? What’s her name? Fern Williams? Yes. Dangerous? Not really. But I’ll keep an eye on her, Miss Williams. Yes, I promise. Thanks.’ He hung up the receiver.

‘Miss Fisher has got a job as a trick rider in Farrell’s Circus,’ he muttered half to himself. ‘I saw her there recently. Well, I suppose she knows what she is doing. Not my problem yet,’ he said grimly to his staff. ‘Back to the subject. Look at the rest of the plates.’

They spread them out on the overloaded desk and onto the floor. Robinson bent over the last page. Quite clearly, they could read where Mr Christopher had written:

To Molly,

I have come into some information which proves that Farrell’s is being used by a criminal organisation called Exit. I am going to see Mr Farrell about it tonight. I haven’t told anyone because he has a right to know first. He has always been good to me. But if I don’t see you again, Molly, know that I always loved you. I love you, Molly. You made me into a man.

Chris

‘What’s on the rest of the pages?’ grunted Grossmith, getting down onto his knees. ‘Made him into a man, indeed. Someone was writing love letters to his other half. Christopher/ Christine! Disgusting.’

‘Shut up, Terry!’ snapped Robinson. ‘Here. Yes. A list of places. Damn. They’re the same as Miss Fisher’s list. Phryne Fisher is going with the circus, did you hear? And she’s going to all the places that Mr Christopher has listed.’

‘Who’s Phryne Fisher?’ asked Tommy from the floor.

‘An interfering woman,’ said Robinson. ‘A very clever, very beautiful, very rich, interfering woman. And I’m afraid,’ he added, ‘that this time she might have got herself in too deep.’

The parade entered the main street of Rockbank. Phryne was riding ahead of the chariot, driven by Miss Younger, four-in-hand. Dust rose and swirled and children cheered. A pair of young men with slicked back hair gutter-crawled their battered old car beside them and called obscene suggestions to any woman they saw.

Asphalt Arabs, Phryne reflected, were not confined only to sealed roads. She pulled Missy a little aside. Beside her danced Jo Jo the clown. For a second, he laid one hand on her thigh and slid his strong fingers along it. Phryne nearly lost her seat.

The clown’s hands were charged. Then he was gone and the shouting died away. The respectable citizens of Rockbank had been thoroughly informed that the circus was in town.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Thy feet have trod the pathway of my feet

And thy clear sorrow teacheth me mine own.

Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)

The Trojan Women

‘I reckon we bring Albert Ellis in,’ said Sergeant Grossmith.

‘On what charge?’ Robinson wanted to know.

‘Being concerned in an attempt to murder Constable Harris here.’

‘We’ve got nothing on him. Only on Wholesale Louis and the two others. The Mad Pole and Cyclone Freddy.’

‘Well, three out of four ain’t too bad,’ commented Grossmith. I say pull ’em in. Scum like that cluttering up my nice clean street.’

‘What about the Brunnies, then?’ asked Tommy Harris.

‘What about ’em?’ grunted Grossmith.

‘They’ll be out looking for the ’Roys, because they killed Reffo. Jack Black Blake won’t be pleased. He probably sent Reffo to sneak on them. He really hates the ’Roys.’

‘So?’ Grossmith was staring at his constable.

‘Why don’t we go and talk to the Brunnies?’

This was self-evidently a good suggestion. Grossmith nodded. ‘All right. I’ll go and have a chat with Jack. Usually to be found in the Brunswick Arms this time of day.’ He stood up, filling the room.

‘Good idea, Terry,’ said Robinson. ‘I’m going to give your constable the task of writing out all that can be deciphered from these photographs. And I think I’ll write a letter to Miss Phryne Fisher, care of Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show. She ought to know about Exit.’

The circus settled for the night. The tents had been erected; the head rigger had dressed the king poles with lights and ropes. After a lot of hauling, the canvas sides and top were laced and the whole resembled a large ghostly grey pancake. Rajah walked amiably backwards and the entire erection rose like a mushroom. The guys were fastened to the trucks and the ring traced out in wooden blocks.