Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

‘I knew she was one of them sheilas that don’t like men,’ he jeered.

As Phryne walked past she unthinkingly, and with accuracy and force, slapped him off his feet and into a pile of elephant dung.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cup

Of Death is empty and Life hath always hope.

Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)

The Trojan Women

‘Dear Fern,’ began Jack Robinson, then stopped. He always found composition difficult. His pen spluttered and the words just would not put themselves in the right order. ‘Hear you’re with the circus. Hope you’re doing well,’ he went on, then wondered how he was going to convey the information about Exit and Mr Christopher’s murder which Phryne needed to know. Years of writing official reports had cramped his style.

‘Heard a bit of gossip the other day,’ he wrote, getting an idea. ‘Bloke that was with your show. A man–woman act. His name was Mr Christopher. It seems that he was murdered, Fern. Someone stuck a shiv into him. They say there was blood dripping through the ceiling of this boarding house he was living in. Real creepy. Living in the same place as your magician, Mr Sheridan. I think they got some woman for the murder. I can’t understand how she could do it.’

Robinson paused and took a gulp of tea. He was proud of himself. That ought to convey his unease about the case of Miss Parkes. Now for Exit. ‘I also hear . . .’ What was he going to say? Aha. ‘. . . rumours about a new show. They want dancers, so if you’re back soon you can audition for it. It’s set in a prison. One of them surrealist things. I don’t like the idea much. Seems kind of morbid. I’d be looking for the Exit if I was in the audience. Still, there’s no accounting for tastes, as the old woman said when she kissed the cow. I’ll tell you more if you want to phone me. And say the word and I’ll come and take you away. Much love, Jack.’

Robinson scanned the letter. That ought to alert Miss Fisher to the danger, at least, and warn her to look out for any mention of Exit.

He put the letter into an old envelope and gave it to an attendant constable, ordering that it be taken by car to Rockbank to be collected with the circus’s mail. Miss Fisher should have it today. He worried about her.

‘Sir?’ Tommy Harris put his head around the door. I’ve deciphered all I could and Sergeant Grossmith has just got back and wants to see you.’

‘Good. Tell him to come in and bring your notes. Ah, Terry,’ he said expansively, ‘what news on the Rialto?’

Before his sergeant could tell him that the Rialto was in the city and that he had been to Brunswick Street, Robinson motioned his minions to a seat. ‘Well, Terry?’

‘I got onto Pretty Iris,’ said Grossmith. ‘By Jiminy she’s pretty, and as hard as nails. Pure vitriol runs in her veins. She told me that someone called Robert Smith told her he was going to make a lot of money from Exit. He said it was a funeral parlour. That’s how we lost Seddon, you recall, sir. He said he was going to get hundreds of quids for doing something, though Iris didn’t know what, and that Albert Ellis had hired him. That’s about all, sir.’

‘Very good. What have you got, Constable?’ Robinson asked Harris.

‘Not all that much more, sir. There’s several lists of dates and names attached to them. But I thought you’d be interested in some of them. On plate ten, the last page, it says “Ronald Smythe”. He’s on the list of Western District places, sir. And so is Damien Maguire.’

‘Are they indeed?’ Robinson leaned forward and Tommy riffled through his notes.

‘I found this on plate three. It’s a bit faint but you can just make it out. Next to “Portland”, sir, down in that bottom corner.’

He pointed and the detective inspector squinted over the pale scribble. ‘It’s William . . . yes.’ He looked up with a light in his eyes. ‘William Seddon.’

‘Well,’ said Terry Grossmith. ‘Three of ’em. What else is on them plates, Harris?’

‘Love letters, Sarge. Never sent. Perhaps drafts. To a lady called Molly that he was going to marry. And one note that I don’t understand.’

‘Spit it out, son.’

‘It says, “Money. Farrell sells Circus? Jones not rich. Who provided cash?”’

‘Clear enough,’ said Grossmith. ‘If that Jones is the Jones I think it is, then he ain’t got a pot to piss in. Small-time crim with the ’Roys. Thought he hadn’t been infecting the street with his presence lately.’

‘Which Jones?’ asked Robinson anxiously.

‘Killer Jones . . . oh, Lord,’ said Grossmith. ‘Your Miss Fisher’s there. And Jones likes girls. He likes ’em half-dead.’

‘She can look after herself,’ said Robinson abruptly. ‘You said something important then, Terry. Where did the money to interfere in this circus come from? Not from Jones himself. From the ’Roys?’

‘I can’t imagine it,’ said Grossmith. ‘Albert Ellis has more flash than cash.’

‘Harris, get onto it. I want you to find out who owns Farrell’s Circus and who put up the money for Jones. Then I want you back here by this afternoon with a bag. We’re going to Rockbank tonight. I’m going to take you boys to the circus.’

Phryne Fisher, unable to find an occupation which did not involve sewing, strolled into the girls’ tent. It was empty. She opened her suitcase, took out a Coles notepad and a pencil and wrote busily for ten minutes. Then she tore off and folded the papers and stuffed them down her front.

The suitcase seemed even more in disarray than when she had left it. She put it down on her bed and rummaged through its contents. It had certainly been searched. Her little gun and her box of ammunition were gone.

With a great effort she managed to saunter casually through the circus and into the carnival, where Alan Lee was leaning on one pole of his carousel. She took off her cardigan, draped it over her arm and took his hand under cover of it.

‘Fern?’ he said under his breath, as her hand slipped in his grasp. Her palms were sweating. ‘What’s gone wrong?’

‘They’re onto me,’ she said, her lips hardly moving. ‘Can you send these telegrams for me?’

‘Yes.’ He took the pages that she slipped him and shoved them down his shirt. ‘Can I do something else for you?’

‘Call Dot on this number and ask for any news. And try to send the telegrams without anyone seeing you. I’ll come back in an hour. You might have to wait for a reply.’

‘You frightened, Fern?’

‘No,’ she lied.

He held her hand in a strong clasp for a moment, then released it. ‘Break a leg, Fern.’

Phryne was afraid that she would. Who had searched the suitcase? One of the girls? If so, who? And was this idle curiosity? No. Idle curiosity would not take the gun.

It was time that she took the initiative. But there was not much she could do until she had some answers. Finally she wandered down to where Dulcie was repairing a large box.

‘H’lo Fern, come and help me.’

Phryne took one side of the box and tilted it, so that Dulcie could tuck the piece of cloth she was gluing underneath.

‘What is this?’ Phryne found her voice. It was shaky.

‘It’s the magician’s disappearing-trick box. See,’ Dulcie motioned Phryne to set the box down and walked her around it, ‘it looks solid.’ She tapped it. ‘It sounds solid. But this side is just cloth, painted to look like that stained wood. So all the sides match and it ain’t too difficult to make Dulcie vanish.’

‘How do you vanish, then?’

‘I just lift up the side and out I go.’ She demonstrated. ‘There’s a screen between me and the punters.’