Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

‘But who is the murderer? That mongrel Jones?’ asked Bernie, reflecting that humans were a lot more complex than bears.

‘No,’ said Phryne, trying to stand and failing as her knees gave under her. Jo Jo and Alan Lee held her up between them. ‘It was Mr Robert Sheridan, the magician.’

‘But how?’ teased Robinson. ‘He had an alibi.’

‘Easy. He was an illusionist, remember? The disappearing Dulcie trick? The dagger in the air? The ceilings of the house were holed by water, discoloured. All he had to do was to put a paper patch over the plaster as he removed it, so that it would look the same from the ground. Then he needed a couple of pulleys and a solid, heavy dagger suspended on fishing line. He could poise the dagger, point down, above the paper patch. He knew that Mr Christopher always slept on his back because of the cream on his face, and he could guess that Mrs Witherspoon wouldn’t like her guests to move the furniture around, so his bed would stay in the same place. The end of the line passed over the pulley, along to the other in a similar hole in his own ceiling, and down into his room. He could release it any time he liked. He could then go down to tea and wait for someone to discover the body. The door was locked and bolted. The only way in was through the window and only Miss Parkes could have got in that way.

‘It was a really clever, utterly wicked plan. All that the police would find—did find—was Mr Christopher dead, transfixed by the missing knife, and a few sheets of paper, broken when Sheridan pulled the knife back up again. There’s enough space in the roof for him to crawl along, I’ll bet. He just pasted another prepared patch over the hole, removed his apparatus and smiled at the cops. The police arrested Miss Parkes. He set her up. He stashed the weapon in her room. Locks don’t even slow him down. He tried to get rid of me last night by putting a splinter into Missy’s blanket. I found it. That must have irritated him. But Jones says that he got his orders from Mr Sheridan the magician.’

‘Where is he, then?’ demanded Miss Younger, really wanting to know.

‘He’s gone,’ said Robinson. ‘We’ll get him. Roadblocks went up last night. But he was the mastermind. Jones’ll hang for the murder of poor bloody Reffo in Brunswick Street. The rest of the ’Roy Boys won’t be walking pavements for a good few years. Smythe’ll go to trial for his original offences. Maguire’ll go back to jail for life, for armed robbery and escaping lawful custody and for attempted rape and attempted murder of Fern here.’

Phryne swayed on her feet, tasting a backwash of terror. Her escorts bore her up, clown’s arm and carnie’s arm crossing at her back.

‘Steady, Fern,’ murmured the clown. ‘The show must go on, you know.’

As she grinned weakly, Mr Farrell stood up. ‘What of the show?’ he asked. ‘What about Farrell’s Circus?’

‘Ah. Now, there’s a letter.’ Robinson groped in his pocket. ‘Yes. This was found on the pile of decorated panels from Mr Sheridan’s truck. It’s addressed to you,’ he told the astonished Phryne. ‘Shall I read it?’ Phryne nodded and Robinson began to read. ‘“Dear Fern (for I will preserve your pseudonym), Vicisti, Galilaee! You have conquered. I have just been privileged to listen to your admirably detailed exposition of all my little plots from behind the wall of a certain tent. I don’t know to whom you were talking but if that fair young man is indeed Constable Harris then I am sunk. You seem to have found the splinter in Missy’s blanket. You are a very dangerous woman.

‘“This, then, is my Apologia pro sua vita. ”’ Phryne snorted. Mr Sheridan couldn’t even get his Latin right. ‘“It was so easy, Fern. The skills which I have laboured so long to learn were not being valued as they deserved. Wirth’s let me go and Sole Brothers did not appreciate me. So when I obtained employment (at a derisory salary) with Farrell’s Circus, I decided to increase my income and to show the world what magic can do.

‘“You are aware how easily the human eye is deceived. It was simplicity itself to smuggle in a suitable corpse, a pauper from the morgue. Then it was just as easy to smuggle William Seddon out in a trick coffin. He was a little cramped but he was very grateful. He paid me a hundred pounds, having come into several inheritances. Likewise, I instructed Damien Maguire in some elementary sleights of hand and provided him with chloroform and a hacksaw by distracting the guard. And Ronald Smythe left his house as a policeman. Among other policemen he blended until he could slip away and join the circus. He had made an attempt to remove his fingerprints with acid. This, as you are aware, cannot be done. However the consequent pain seems to have soured his temper. I was sorry that he had to escape. A detestable little man.

‘“Even more revolting was Killer Jones, the person I borrowed from the Fitzroy Boys, led by Albert Ellis. I do trust that he comes to a bad end. I’m sure that you will do your best to attain this much wished for result. I told Pretty Iris about Exit, once, when I was drunk. I fear that she told the Brunswick Boys and they told the police. I had to order Reffo, who was Pretty Iris’s messenger, to be shot. This was regrettable. But I doubt if he will be much missed. I wanted Jones because I needed someone who was in a position of authority to ruin the circus. That stubborn fellow, Farrell, would not deal on ordinary commercial lines. He had to be forced and Jones was the man to do it.

‘“I do hope,”’ the letter continued blandly, ‘“that he has not done you too much damage, Fern. I ordered him to subdue you and keep you out of the way for the night. But Jones is terribly prone to exceed his orders.”’

Phryne flinched. Alan Lee hissed a curse through his teeth and Jo Jo hugged Phryne tighter. Samson pounded a stony fist on a massive knee.

‘“But if you are reading this you are still alive and that is the main thing.”’ Robinson’s flat voice did not rob the writer of any of his offensiveness. ‘“Now, I am not coming back, so I have given you my half of the circus. The deed is all drawn up and signed. I hope that this might be some recompense for whatever it was that Jones did to you, Fern. I have made my money and my mark and can now retire. I doubt that you will see me again.

‘“Think of me kindly,”’ the letter went on. Incredulity blossomed in Robinson’s voice and he began the paragraph again. ‘“Think of me kindly. I have killed the only person I have ever loved. I had a brief fling with Miss Minton and tried to forget Christine with Pretty Iris, who had something of the same cool aloofness. But it was no good. When it came to a matter of money, of course, I had no choice. I killed her because she knew about me and I could not risk disclosure then. All I can say is that she died instantly and in her sleep. I had drugged her and Miss Parkes, who struck me as a very good candidate for the scapegoat. The knife was a twin of the one used in my act. If you examine the ceiling in Christine’s room, you will be able to poke your finger through the hole. Illusion. It is all illusion.” It’s signed “Robert Sheridan, the Great Magician”.’

Immediately, every person within hearing distance yelled their opinion of the writer. Miss Younger screamed, ‘He was a man! Chris was a man. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him, the bastard!’ Dulcie was trying to calm her and seething with fury. Phryne went cold, then flushed red. She was trembling uncontrollably. The Catalans, who had received a French translation of the letter from Mr Burton, scowled in perfect unison. ‘ Mare de Déu! Monstruos! ’ Dogs barked. Toby the clown stirred from his trance to comment, ‘Judas.’ His neighbour stared at him. ‘Bastard,’ added Toby, just to prove that it had not been a fluke.