Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

‘Now,’ said Robinson to the half-conscious Jones, ‘where is she?’

Jones spat. Mr Burton hauled on the tie.

Phryne had tried once more to undo the bolt. She had the advantage of opposable thumbs, but her hands would not answer her orders. The lion’s attention was attracted by the movement. It rolled over, stood up and padded towards her. She shut her eyes. A cold nose slid up her arm, a heavy paw held down her knees. Teeth scraped her skin. Phryne felt it at last. Sleepy acceptance weighted her eyelids. Warmth bloomed in her blood. She sighed on a gust of the predator’s breath. The teeth took hold of her arm, pulling her into the middle of the cage.

Then Bruno sniffed her all over, looking for ginger biscuits.

The gathering crowd of rescuers, who had managed to extract from the roustabout the secret of Phryne’s whereabouts, came running with torches. Amazing Hans had been woken and carried a loaded rifle, weeping but ready to shoot. Jo Jo, Alan and the lion tamer entered the lions’ tent carefully, dreading what they might see.

They looked into all the cages, waking the occupants, who snarled and muttered. Phryne Fisher was not there. Then they came to Bruno’s cage beyond the tent wall. They stopped and stared, struck dumb.

A naked woman, bruised and streaked with dirt, was lying curled up in the middle of an iron cage. Her face was painted and her black hair fell forward like a cap. Her head was pillowed on the bear’s back. Her hands were buried deep in cinnamon fur. To Alan and Jo Jo, she seemed like a forest goddess, tamer of beasts and invulnerable. To Detective Inspector Robinson, she was evidence of a criminal act which he was intending to take out of Mr Jones’s hide. Samson considerately averted his eyes. Mr Burton was reminded of a print out of the Marquis de Sade.

To the handcuffed Jones she was an erotic memory which would torment him until, after due process of law, they put a bag over his head, strapped his hands and dropped him into eternity.

Phryne opened her eyes and blinked. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said dreamily. ‘I can’t reach the bolt.’

Jo Jo and Lee undid the cage door and she crawled out. Bruno leaned a questing nose after her and grumbled.

‘Anyone got a ginger biscuit?’ asked Phryne, and collapsed into the waiting arms.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘I tell you what, Squire. To speak plain to you,

my opinion is that you had better cut it short

and drop it. They’re very good-natur’ d people,

my people, but they’re accustomed to be quick

in their movements; and if you don’t act on

my advice, I’m damned if I don’t believe that

they’ ll pitch you out of the window.’

Charles Dickens

Hard Times

An unconscious Phryne was being cleansed and tended in the girl’s tent by Dulcie and Joseph the horse doctor.

Outside, Samson threw down an armload of wood and Mr Burton kindled a small fire. All the participants of the evening’s turmoil sat down on the bone-dry grass. Constable Harris, awed by Samson’s size, stared up at the big man. By cripes, but he was huge. Then he asked his chief, ‘What do we do now, sir?’

Robinson was tired. ‘Nothing to be done for the moment, son. Sergeant Grossmith has taken the prisoners to Rockbank and then he’ll come back for us. I’ve sent out a road alert to all stations between here and Melbourne, but I reckon that bastard Sheridan has shot through. I hate to lose him.’

‘After what he did to Miss Parkes, trying to frame her for something she didn’t do and nearly driving her mad, is he going to get away?’ protested Constable Harris. ‘Surely not, sir.’

‘We’ll catch him.’ Robinson accepted a mug from Mr Burton, who had brewed tea over the fire. ‘Don’t you worry. You’ve done well, Harris.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Tommy Harris was not as pleased as he might once have been at receiving a compliment from a superior officer.

‘What has Sheridan done?’ Mr Burton asked Harris. Because he was sitting down and the dwarf was standing up, Constable Harris was looking into Mr Burton’s eyes. They were bright and intelligent.

‘He’s done a murder—your Mr Christopher,’ said Tommy. ‘And he tried to frame Miss Parkes for it.’

‘ He killed Chris?’ Miss Younger had come out to see what all the excitement was. Her face knotted with hatred. Tommy Harris shivered at the sight of such implacable fury and pain.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ she wailed.

‘I don’t know. He said he loved her.’ Tommy was getting confused.

Miss Younger made a guttural sound that he would have expected from a wounded animal. Then she demanded in a fierce, hard voice, ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s run,’ said Robinson. ‘No use hoping to catch him, Miss. But we’ll get him in Melbourne, if he ain’t took ship and gone by now.’

Mr Burton tugged at Miss Younger’s shirt. ‘Sit down and have some tea,’ he urged. ‘You can’t get to him, Miss Younger.’

She pulled away from his touch. ‘Freak!’ she screamed at him and stumbled into the night. Mr Burton stood quite still. His face showed no expression.

‘Poor woman,’ said Farrell from the other side of the fire. ‘I’d better go after her. If she should find our Mr Sheridan there wouldn’t be nothing left for you to hang.’ He walked away into the dark, calling, ‘Molly!’

‘Tell me what this reprobate of a magician has done,’ insisted Mr Burton.

Tommy sipped his tea, which was heavily laced with rum, and told the story while the dwarf listened with the closest attention.

‘But what will his criminal associates think of him deserting them like this?’ Mr Burton asked in his precise, scholar’s voice.

Robinson laughed. ‘If Albert Ellis knew about it, he’d spit chips and there’d be more blood on Brunswick Street. But they don’t know about it. This tea just about hits the spot, Mr Burton. Any more in the pot?’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr Burton, and refilled the detective inspector’s cup.

Tommy Harris caught the dwarfs eye and grinned slowly. Mr Burton made an excuse and trotted out of the firelight, with Tommy following.

‘Constable Harris,’ said Mr Burton, speaking with great deliberation, ‘it is not very far to Rockbank, where there is a telephone operator who is already awake. All I need is the number. What do you say?’

Harris drew a deep breath. ‘I’m risking my career,’ he began. Then he remembered Miss Parkes and her courage and her pain. He recalled Reffo dying in his arms. Lizard Elsie’s remembered face grinned at him. He made up his mind and opened his notebook at the page where he had written down Albert Ellis’s telephone number. The dwarf needed only one look. Then Harris went back to the fire and Mr Burton faded into the scent-laden circus night.

Phryne woke abruptly, stifling a scream. Something was breathing close beside her. She put out a hand and touched hair, slid down and found a human face. Eyelashes flickered against her palm.

She saw that she was lying on a canvas swag in a dark tent. The flap was open. Moonlight streamed in. Outside, she could see a man standing with his heels together in the back-saving stance of a soldier. He was a truly large policeman, in low-voiced conversation with a mountain of muscle. Silver light slid over marble contours. Samson and Sergeant Grossmith were keeping guard over Phryne and discussing horse racing.

Sergeant Grossmith had lodged his captives in the Rockbank lock-up, first evicting the chickens that were the usual inmates. The Rockbank policeman, reinforced with three of Grossmith’s own men, was guarding them with a gun.