Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

Detective Inspector Robinson was also somewhere in the crowd. He was difficult to spot in any gathering because he seemed to melt and blend, so that it was hard even for his friends to remember exactly what he looked like. He had no memorable features.

Sergeant Grossmith, under Robinson’s orders and profoundly out of place away from his precious Brunswick Street, was in Rockbank waking up the local constable. Jack Robinson meant to make a clean sweep of the circus. He had already spotted one man he knew—the little man with the sticking plaster on his hands, assiduously sweeping up horse droppings.

‘Ronald Smythe, or I’m a Dutchman,’ he breathed. Since he had definitely been born in Richmond, he was sure of his identification.

The grand parade was just starting when a hand plucked at Constable Harris’s clean white sleeve.

‘You looking for Fern?’ asked a voice behind him, in the gloom above his seat. ‘Come down here, then. She wants to talk to you private.’

Constable Harris had only been in the police force for eight months. He jumped softly down into the dark and, after a short and painful interval, knew no more.

Phryne rode Missy out of the tent and allowed a handler to take her away. She looked around for Dulcie or Matthias and could not see them. It was dark after the lights in the big top and she stood still to let her eyes adjust. Soon people would be streaming out of the tent again, to play games in the carnival and eat more ice-cream. They were merely the audience. She was now part of the show. She pulled off the feathers and ran her hands through her hair, hoping to cool her head.

At which point someone flipped a sack over her and scooped her off her feet. She was too astonished to scream. When she started to struggle, someone shoved a sharp blade through the sack. The point was icy on the hot flesh of her back.

‘Say one word,’ grated a voice, ‘and it’ll be your last.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

As a god self-slain on his own strange altar

Death lies dead.

Algernon Swinburne

The Forsaken Garden

Detective inspector Robinson, unable to locate Phryne, drifted over to the carnival in search of the person Dot had mentioned as her friend. The carousel music blared, brassy and loud. Jack Robinson jumped aboard and went round with the horses. Poseidon, Artilleryman, Carbine and Spearfelt bobbed and swayed. He sat down on one called Windbag. Alan Lee had a taste, it seemed, for Melbourne Cup winners. Robinson had an affection for Windbag. It had come in first in 1925 over the favourite Manfred, netting a nice return at five to one. Alan Lee was taking tickets from the children. Robinson settled down on Windbag to wait.

Phryne was extracted from her sack, bound and gagged and flung into what felt like a tent. It smelt sweaty and hot and there was dead grass under her, which crackled as she moved.

She tried her bonds; they were tight and expertly applied. She rolled over and sat up. Something shifted in the dark and made a suppressed noise, like a partly strangled oboe. Phryne peered into the gloom. Something humped over the ground and touched her. Then a chest became apparent and a male chin, which scraped over her face until teeth could seize her gag and drag it down, at the risk of dislocating her jaw.

‘Ouch,’ she commented. ‘Who are you?’

The man mumbled again. Phryne got the idea and knelt up, finding the gag in his mouth and pulling it away. She still could not see, but got the general impression of someone quite large and young.

‘Who are you?’ she asked again. The figure coughed, spat and then whispered, ‘I’m Constable Harris. Tommy Harris. Are you Miss Fisher?’

‘Yes. But they know me as Fern. Is Jack Robinson here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Well, he’ll find me. Find us. Who scragged you?’

‘I couldn’t see. It was too dark.’

‘Me neither. Can you turn and reach my hands?’

‘I’ll try.’

He struggled with positioning and at last his fingers found the knots. He scrabbled for a while and then said, ‘Can’t be done. My fingers have gone numb.’

‘Never mind. What we need in these circumstances is calm.’ Phryne was not feeling calm. ‘We’ll have to pass the time. Talk to me,’ she said, leaning against his comfortingly broad back.

‘What about?’

‘Tell me all about Exit and Mr Christopher.’

Tommy began to feel less outraged. He was still ready and willing to lose his temper if it would help, but dragging against his bonds had only damaged his hands. So he began, in his soft country voice just above the level of hearing, to tell Phryne Fisher all he could remember about both cases. Because he was naturally meticulous he told her everything, including the decor of Mr Christopher’s room, the collapse of Miss Parkes, Lizard Elsie’s falling asleep with her head on his shoulder in the custody area, and the shooting which had left a pool of blood on Brunswick Street.

Phryne did not interrupt. When he had got down to the present, she said, ‘Interesting. Now I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.’

Phryne recounted her struggles to stay on Missy’s back. She talked about the social organisation of the circus, the carnival and the gypsies. She told him about the clown Matthias and his brother Toby. She mentioned the various acts that made up the show, the grace of the flyers, the importance of the rigger, and the unfillable void which Mr Christopher’s death had left in Miss Younger’s life. Pieces began to fall like dominoes. The two stories dovetailed in a way that would have made a Chippendale carpenter swell with pride. At the end of this recital Phryne knew who had killed Mr Christopher and why. She had discovered who was sabotaging Farrell’s Circus and why.

She nudged the young constable. ‘Listen!’ she said urgently. ‘If you get out of here, then you have to tell Jack all about this and make sure that he catches the guilty parties. I expect they’ll come for us soon. Stick to your story that you came looking for me because someone told you that I was a tart.’ He made a shocked exclamation and Phryne snapped, ‘I tell you, that’s your best chance. By circus standards I am a tart. They all think so. Now, this is important.’

Carefully she told Constable Harris all that Jack Robinson needed to know to solve the portfolio of problems currently in his possession. Towards the end, she stopped.

‘Can you hear something?’ she whispered.

‘No.’

‘I thought I heard a footstep.’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

Phryne completed her theory. Harris nodded. Then he remembered that he could not be seen and said, ‘All right, but I can’t leave you.’

‘Yes, you can,’ said Phryne acidly. ‘If you get away, then you can find Jack and rescue me. Clear?’

‘Yes,’ the young man said reluctantly.

Alan Lee walked around the carousel to the unremarkable man sitting on Windbag and said, ‘Tickets, please.’

‘I must speak to you,’ said Jack Robinson. ‘About Fern Williams.’

‘Wait till we stop,’ said Alan. I’ll get Bill to take over. Then we can talk.’

The carousel went round again, to the tune of ‘A Bicycle Built For Two’, a full quarter tone flat.

Grossmith found that the Rockbank constable had been called out on a sheep-stealing case. He gritted his teeth.

They came for Phryne a little after midnight. She heard footsteps and she and Tommy Harris struggled to replace their gags.

Phryne was dragged upright by unseen hands. Someone chuckled.

‘Leave him,’ said an oily voice. ‘He’s just a bumpkin. Come sniffing after this tart, I bet. But this one . . .’ He slung Phryne over his shoulder. ‘Jones wants this one.’