Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

‘I favour Strephon,’ murmured Grossmith. ‘In this weather, over that sort of track.’

‘It’s a long distance,’ commented Samson. ‘I’m backing Statesman. More staying power. And he won the Derby, too.’

Phryne moved a little and yelped. All of her body hurt. Alan Lee said softly, ‘It’s all right, Phryne,’ and stroked a gentle hand down her arm.

‘Alan?’ She touched his face.

‘Yes, it’s me, and you’re all right. Lie down again.’

‘And it’s me, beautiful Fern,’ said the voice on her other side. Greasepaint smeared over his ugly face, Jo Jo smiled anxiously. ‘Unless you want me to go away.’

‘No!’ Phryne clutched at him with weak fingers. ‘No. Please stay. Please, both of you, stay. I was so scared,’ she said, lying down between them. ‘I’m so cold.’

Alan Lee and the clown locked hands across her, folding her in a double embrace.

‘How did you both come to be here?’ she wondered aloud.

Jo Jo laughed and said in his treacle-toffee voice, ‘Someone had to stay with you and we couldn’t agree as to which of us. Dulcie washed off your paint and tended your bruises. We thought that you might have been . . . molested but you hadn’t. But you are going to have legs like a tattooed lady in a few days, Fern. Phryne. A name that tickles. Phryne. Hmm. Alan said that you needed warmth. Contact.’

‘He was right.’ Phryne snuggled closer to sides and flanks, breathing in vitality and concern. Jo Jo stroked back her black hair with his free hand.

‘And since we . . . er . . . share your regard . . .’

‘Seeing as we love you,’ Alan Lee did not mince words, ‘we couldn’t leave you. You were limp and Dulcie was afraid for you. She said that you were in shock. She wanted to stay but that head cop said that you’d like men better.’

‘Cheek,’ murmured Phryne.

‘Then it seemed silly for me to have a fight with your other bloke, so we lay down together. I like the clown, Phryne,’ said Alan Lee. ‘I never been this close to any circus folk before.’

Jo Jo chuckled. ‘I never thought I’d be holding hands with a carnie, either. You have a profoundly disturbing influence, Fern. But it won’t be for long, I suppose.’

‘Don’t ask her now, Matt. She’s worn out,’ said Alan Lee. Phryne was falling asleep.

‘Ask me what?’

‘Not to leave us,’ said Alan Lee reluctantly. Phryne reached out both hands. The clown and the carnie took them.

‘I can’t leave now,’ she said drowsily. ‘What a silly thing to say. I’ve got a contract. I’m a rider . . . in Farrell’s . . . Circus.’

They waited in the dark but she did not speak again. She had leaned her head against Jo Jo and one hand lay curled open on Alan’s chest. Phryne Fisher and Fern Williams were both asleep.

On Tuesday, after an early lunch, most of the performers assembled in the big top. Phryne had dressed in her cotton shift and was redolent of goanna oil. She had been repossessed of her belongings, and Dot’s St Christopher medal hung once more at her throat. Her fear was gone. She felt renewed. She had come close enough to death to smell his breath and she had not died. She was, however, so stiff that Samson had carried her into the ring and placed her in a chair as though he were handling a new-laid egg. She sat between Alan Lee and Jo Jo the clown. Dulcie and her partner Tom were there. Amazing Hans sat beside them. Mr Burton had perched on a tub on which elephants were wont to stand. The Catalans were gathered into an interested group. Even the Flying Bevans had made an appearance. Bernie, without Bruno, talked racing with Sergeant Grossmith. Sam Farrell sat in the middle of the ring, turning his hat in his hands.

Robinson walked out to join Farrell and clapped his hands. No one paid any attention. Sam Farrell stood up and cracked the ringmaster’s whip. Instant silence fell.

‘You want to know what has been happening to Farrell’s Circus?’ he roared. ‘Bit of shoosh and we’ll find out.’ He bowed to the policeman and sat down again.

‘This is a long story,’ Robinson began. ‘You’ll have to be patient because I don’t know it all, either. We’ll start with the furthest event in time. A man called Jones approached Mr Farrell with an offer to buy half of his circus. January, wasn’t it, Mr Farrell?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Farrell refused. Then things began to go wrong. Fires were lit. Animals died. The show began to lose money. So, in March, Mr Farrell had to accept the offer from Sweet Dreams Pty Ltd. They bought half of his circus. With the deal, however, came Mr Jones. He could not be said to have been an asset. And things continued to go wrong. In April the circus harboured an escaped prisoner called William Seddon. He accompanied you in the guise of a roustabout and took ship at Portland for Rio. Once there, the cocky bu— bloke couldn’t help gloating. He sent me a postcard. That’s when I found out about Exit. Seddon had escaped by being carried out of Pentridge in a coffin. We think that it had a double shell and Seddon was snugged under a real corpse brought in with the laundry. The prison doctor may not be a terrific practitioner but he can diagnose death all right, when he sees it.’

This got a laugh.

‘More things went wrong. Farrell was losing money, even though he had given in and sold half the show. Mr Jones and others were there to make sure that when Sweet Dreams Pty Ltd offered to buy the other half, keeping Farrell on as manager, he would agree. Exit wanted the circus to be entirely under their control. Where do you hide a leaf? In a forest. Where do you hide a wanted man or an escaped prisoner? In a circus. It has a floating population of runaways and roustabouts. Although they’re not performers, some of them wear paint when they move nets and things in the ring. What Jones and Exit didn’t know was that you can’t keep secrets in a circus.’

Phryne looked to either side, at the dark gypsy profile and the lumpy countenance. She took both hands in her own.

‘You identified Jones and the three others as outsiders almost as soon as they stepped onto your site. You began to suspect. And Mr Christopher knew. He must have had a sight of Jones’s papers, or overheard a conversation, because he wrote it all down in a little book. But because he was an honourable man,’ Robinson looked sidelong at Grossmith and dared him to snicker, ‘he went to tell Farrell first. This is a family circus and Farrell had been his friend. He told Farrell. Jones overheard. And so Mr Christopher had to die.’

Miss Younger groaned. Phryne looked at her with deep pity and guilt. Here was someone whom she couldn’t help. Dulcie moved closer to Molly and took her hand. The horsemaster endured the touch for a moment, then snatched her hand away and wrapped her arms around herself, as though she were in great pain. Sam Farrell hung his head and his fingers bent his hat brim out of shape.

‘This murder was done by the man who was the proprietor of Exit,’ Robinson went on, ‘the Mr Denny who was the sole active officer of Sweet Dreams. He did it so well that we arrested the wrong person for it.’

This got a laugh as well. Robinson held up a hand.

‘We kept her because her safety was endangered. The murderer was using some city criminals for his Exit schemes. There’s been a feud between them and when one lot informed to us, a man was shot dead in Brunswick Street in broad daylight. We didn’t like the look of things.

‘Then, into the equation came an interfering woman.’ He purposely did not look at Phryne. ‘She had been asked to solve the circus’s problems and find the saboteurs. She did that in a few days. But she did not know enough about Exit, until last night. She was captured with my constable, and after they pooled their information we all knew who it was. Then it was a matter of catching the villains and rescuing the innocent.’ Phryne chuckled at his application of the term to herself. ‘So we did that and here we are.’