Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

virtues of any class of people in the world.

Charles Dickens

Hard Times

Once Phryne had demonstrated that she could stand on Missy’s back steadily, despite complaining flyers, tumbling Catalans, roaring lions, two clowns playing a violin in a choice of keys, and a wire walker bashing two saucepans together, she was dismissed for the afternoon and told to get some sleep.

This was not an easy matter, although she was so tired that she could have lain down on a barbed-wire fence. The affair with Matthias the clown was known, so she could not sleep in his bed. Someone had found and removed her gun, so they knew where she slept in the girls’ tent, which meant that she couldn’t sleep there either. By an association of ideas she crossed the circus grounds and curled up under Bernie’s awning, next to Bruno. He was affected by the weather, which was hot and somnolent. He lay down beside her, laying his formidable head on her hip, and whickered softly through his nose.

It was the first time that Phryne had ever been lulled to sleep by a snoring bear.

She was woken by Bernie. Bruno scrambled onto all fours, hoping for biscuits. Phryne sat up and rubbed her eyes.

‘You look like something out of a fairy tale,’ commented Bernie. ‘Dinner’s on. Mr Thompson must have bought his wife flowers or something. She’s had a rush of blood to the head and dished up a quite decent Irish stew. For a change. Don’t waste this opportunity, Fern. It may never come again.’

Phryne splashed her face in Bruno’s drinking water and felt refreshed.

Mrs Thompson’s Irish stew, though it would not pass at the Ritz, was pleasant and filling. She perched on a bucket near the heat of the cook tent, and various people greeted her as they passed.

‘Ah, Fern,’ carolled a voice like buttered toffee. ‘Fern, Fern, makes my head turn. “For beautiful Fern I groan and . . . er . . . girn.”’ Matthias looked at her severely. ‘Don’t laugh. It’s Scotch. Probably Burns. “Fern will teach and I will learn. I gave my heart to beautiful Fern.” There. Can I have some stew, Mrs T?’

‘If you promise not to make any more poems,’ said the older woman. Matthias laid his hand on his heart and promised solemnly. Phryne saw that he had his other fingers crossed behind his back. She grinned up at him.

‘Help me carry this?’ he asked. ‘I have to take some back for Toby.’

Phryne slung her tin plate into the washing-up water and accepted the dish. ‘What’s wrong with Toby?’

‘He’s gone off again,’ said Matthias sadly. ‘Poor Toby. Gone funny, you could say. He doesn’t see or hear. Come in,’ he invited as they reached the caravan. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, Fern. I have to feed him.’

Toby sat where he had been placed in a comfortable chair in his own caravan. His eyes were open. He seemed to be breathing. That was his only sign of life.

‘How do you know something’s wrong?’ asked Phryne, cutting up the solid bits of the Irish stew. The ugly face with the beautiful grey eyes turned to her.

‘You were seen fighting off Jones behind the lions. You were molested by Miss Younger. You flattened a roustabout who said something nasty to you. Then you were found by Dulcie who took you to Mama Rosa. After that you vanished into the carnival, possibly with a diddikoi called Lee, or the strongman, Samson. Then you rode Missy in practice, took her back to the lines and groomed and fed her, then fell asleep with Bruno. Open your mouth, Tobias. It’s din-dins time.’

‘Do you know everything?’ asked Phryne, astonished.

‘No. But I want to know about you. I’m worried, Fern. Something is brewing.’

‘You bet,’ said Phryne. She wanted to say more but Toby’s open mouth and expressionless eyes worried her. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said uneasily. ‘You finish feeding him and then we can go into your caravan.’

‘Don’t go out,’ he said quietly. ‘Toby won’t tell, will you, eh Tobias? Swallow, now, there’s a good fellow. It’s kosher. It’s mutton and onion and potato. Eat up, Toby.’

He spooned stew into Toby’s mouth until he finished his ration. Matthias gobbled his own dinner and turned Toby to face the wall.

‘Now,’ said the clown, ‘if you trust me, tell me.’

Phryne, in a low voice, began to tell him about the murder of Mr Christopher, the accidents on the road, which could all have been done for a central purpose and were attributable to the three roustabouts, the half-share of the circus owned by Sweet Dreams Pty Ltd, the names of the company’s officers, and the strange hint in Jack Robinson’s letter.

‘Exit,’ mused the clown. ‘I seem to have heard it before. Then again, it’s a word you see a lot. On every theatre wall, for example. But death is an exit too. Could that relate to funeral parlours? Tell me your real name,’ he said and Phryne leaned towards him and slid her hand behind his head to catch a handful of the ragged silvery-brown hair. She breathed her name into his ear.

‘A name that tickles,’ observed Matthias. ‘It’s clear that those three are responsible and that Jones is their paymaster. He wants to ruin Farrell, for some criminal reason. Why shouldn’t we just . . . er . . . lose them? Your Samson could tie them into Turk’s heads and leave them out in the bush somewhere. No?’

‘No,’ said Phryne. She was firm on the ethics of assassination as a tool of practical problem solving.

‘We could at least tell someone,’ said Matthias. ‘That Jones has got it in for you, Fern. I don’t like the way he looks at you.’

‘I don’t like the way he looks at me, either. I’ve got some help and more coming, I suspect.’ She looked into the grey eyes. ‘And there’s time.’

‘Time for what?’

‘For things to develop,’ said Phryne.

The clown’s mouth curved up into a smile. He kissed her gently on the shoulder that showed through the boat neck of the lime-green shift.

The bell announced showtime. Phryne accompanied the clowns to the girls’ tent, where Dulcie gave her the scarlet tunic, a feather headdress and a pair of tights, which had been mended. Jo Jo, carrying two violins, a bow, and a heavy bag which clanked, walked his brother into the canvas antechamber and stood him against the wall.

‘First act: the Thompson-and-Dog Turn to warm up the crowd,’ he commented. ‘You can see through here, Fern.’

The ring was brightly lit. Thompson, in baggy trousers and huge shoes, was encouraging his fox terrier to leap through a hoop. It wouldn’t. He lowered the hoop. It refused. He laid the hoop on the ground. The dog was impassive. Finally he picked up the hoop and tried to leap through it himself. He stuck. The dog began to dance on its hind legs. It seemed to be amused. Thompson with the ring around his knees and elbows, frog-jumped out of the ring. The audience laughed and applauded.

‘Liberty horses,’ said Jo Jo. ‘Hold still, Toby.’ He was applying white paint to his brother’s immobile face.

Into the ring ran ten horses, all perfectly white. Phryne was close enough to see where whitewash concealed the occasional unmatching sock or ear. In response to Farrell’s whip, they walked, cantered and ran. Then they all stopped and bowed. A boy ran along the line, attaching a cloth with a number to each back. Farrell selected one horse out of the throng and blindfolded it with a black bandanna. He turned it around tail to nose three times and then let it go.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! These horses are so highly trained that number three will find her own way back into order blindfolded.’

He set the horses to cantering again. The blindfolded mare, listening with her ears pricked, hesitated for perhaps ten seconds, then joined in the canter around the ring, slotting herself in neatly between number two and number four. The crowd applauded and the horses left.