Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

‘Shut up!’ yelled Robinson, his voice lost in the babble. Amazing Hans asked, ‘Could we just catch him and put him in with the lions? That’s what Jones wanted to do to Fern. I wonder which lion? Prince, maybe. He’d bite off his head.’ Samson rose to his feet, took an iron stanchion and bent it between his teeth.

Farrell cracked his whip again and the voices died down.

‘Well, that’s the end of a horrible story. When they catch him we can leave him to the law. He’s confessed he’s a murderer and he’ll swing for it.’

The ringmaster had inbred authority. They were quiet now. ‘You have to decide,’ he said quietly, ‘whether Farrell’s Circus is to go on. I have let you down. I shouldn’t have sold to Sweet Dreams. I should’ve run that cur Jones out of my show the moment he laid a hand on the first girl. You relied on me to protect you. I didn’t. I even allowed an innocent rider to be badly mistreated, then nearly murdered. Half of the show now belongs to her and the way things stand she’ll never want to see a circus again. What do you want me to do?’

‘Question is,’ said Dulcie simply. ‘What does she want to do?’ Phryne had conquered her fear. She looked at the deed in her hands, which Detective Inspector Robinson had passed to her.

‘I’ll give it to you, Mr Farrell,’ she said. ‘If you want me to. Then you can keep it or sell it. But the financial circumstances being what they must be, I can come to an arrangement with a wealthy friend of mine. She can fund you for another year. Then, if the show starts making money, you can pay her back and she’ll give you your circus again.’

‘Would she do that?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Oh, yes.’ Phryne smiled sunnily. ‘She loves circuses. That’s the offer. Which do you want?’

‘Do we go on?’ asked Sam Farrell, looking around the ring.

There was a short silence. Then Mr Burton said crisply, ‘Of course.’ The Bevans conferred and nodded. So did the Catalans. Amazing Hans said, ‘I’ll stay and see how it goes.’ Bernie yelled, ‘Yes!’ Miss Younger looked up from her folded hands and whispered, ‘Please. It’s all I’ve got left.’

‘We go on,’ said Farrell, taking off his hat and mopping his face. He looked at his watch and grinned. ‘And now,’ he added, raising his whip, ‘just in time and for your especial delectation and delight, Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show presents . . .’ The drummer found his drum and played a roll. ‘The Melbourne Cup!’

Two tumblers brought in his bakelite radio, trailing a cable from the generator truck. Mr Farrell turned the dial and the announcer said blithely through crackling interference, ‘And it’s a beautiful day for the races.’

You could have heard a pin drop. Robinson reflected that circus people were all mad.

‘See?’ said Samson to Sergeant Grossmith ten minutes later. ‘I told you. Statesman had the staying power.’

Dulcie, who had put a bet on Demost for a place, collected from Mr Burton and gloated over ten shillings.

‘I think that I’ll go back to bed,’ said Phryne. ‘I’m not as well as I thought I was.’

Unmarked by anyone but Miss Younger, the carnie and the clown escorted Phryne out of the big top.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘Squire, shake hands, first and last! Don’t be

cross with us poor vagabonds. People must be

amused. They can’t always be a-learning, nor

yet they can’t always be a-working, they ain’t

made for it. You must have us, Squire. Do the

wise thing and the kind thing too and make

the best of us, not the worst!’

Charles Dickens*

Hard Times

That same Tuesday morning Mr Sheridan drove his unobtrusive van into the docks. It was six o’clock and there was no gang working. He had bought a passage to Bolivia on a small cargo tramp called Legerdemain. He thought the name a charming coincidence. His Oxford tweed suit was immaculate and his manner as smooth as ever. He hummed as he stopped the van by the first shed.

A flurry of many-coloured pigeons sprang suddenly into the dawn sky. Mr Sheridan was puzzled. There must be someone about and he had seen no one.

* lisp omitted in the interests of clarity

A cold metal tube touched his cheek. He turned his head slowly. It was the barrel of a shotgun. Behind it was a sneer.

‘Going somewhere, Boss?’

‘Oh, it’s you, Louis. You gave me quite a start. Take that gun out of my ear.’

‘You’re trying to shoot through, Boss.’ Behind Louis was Albert Ellis with all his rat’s teeth showing. ‘You’ve left Killer in quod. He’ll hang. And you were running out on the rest of us. That’s not friendly, is it, boys?’

‘Not very friendly at all,’ agreed Cyclone Freddy.

‘If you think you can just leave us in the lurch, you’re wrong. Where’s the money?’ demanded Ellis.

Terrified, Mr Sheridan went the colour of a tallow candle. They meant it. The world was going out of his control. His voice shook, losing its affected unctuousness. He dragged out his wallet.

‘You can have it. You can have it all! Just don’t kill me. You can’t kill me, Ellis!’

Albert Ellis took the wad of bank notes and smiled gently. ‘Wrong again,’ he said. He flicked his finger at Wholesale Louis, who tripped both triggers. The twelve-gauge shotgun roared.

They watched with interest as the remains of Mr Sheridan twitched, spouting gouts of blood.

‘He’s dead, Boss,’ said Louis, turning away and breaking the gun open. He stowed it inside the Gladstone bag in which he had smuggled it past the gate. Then he took a last look at the mess which had been Robert Sheridan, the Great Magician. ‘Christ have mercy,’ he gasped, backing away and crossing himself. The others crowded to look. Something that could recall his childhood Catholicism to Wholesale Louis must be dreadful indeed.

In the blood-soaked chest, something stirred. Bloody white and red fragments were all that remained of Mr Sheridan’s head. He could not have been alive. Albert Ellis and Cyclone Freddy followed a terrified Wholesale Louis out of the vicinity as fast as they could. Whatever it was that was happening with that corpse, they did not want to know. Besides, someone must have heard the gun and soon there would be inconvenient questions asked of bystanders.

The lump in the tweed coat moved again. It struggled forward. A white dove, spattered with blood, poked its head out from the ruin of its master’s natty suit. Seeing no predator, it fluttered groggily up onto the truck window, gripping the ledge with its claws. It preened shakily, distilling red drops from its beak, shook itself, then flew upward. There was a flourish of snowy wings, fanning out as it wheeled, puzzled. Then the magician’s last dove settled on the grain-shed roof, where the pigeons pecked companionably in the red and gold sunrise.

Three weeks later, Lizard Elsie and Miss Parkes were sitting together in a room in Mrs Witherspoon’s refined house for paying gentlefolk. Miss Minton was gone. Her producer had come up trumps. She had landed a dancing part in a travelling show and was in Sydney.

Constable Harris had paid a visit and demonstrated the trick ceiling, finding that the magician had left his two pulleys and the fishing line in place. Tommy had operated the weighted line and the force of the fall had driven the knife six inches into the mattress.

‘Houdini’s trick,’ Tommy had explained to Mrs –Wither––spoon. ‘He couldn’t even make up his own trap.’

Mrs Witherspoon was mortified. She had trusted Mr Sheridan and mistrusted Miss Parkes and she felt terrible. That was the only reason why Lizard Elsie the sailor’s friend was dwelling under her genteel roof.