Kerry Greenwood: Blood and Circuses

‘What then?’ Phryne got up and handed Samson another bottle of beer. The first had vanished without touching the sides.

‘Then there was me,’ said Samson. ‘I’m strong, I am.’ He rippled a few muscles in his massive forearms complacently. ‘So I don’t have much trouble from the boys in them small towns. They sorta stay away from me. But five of ’em set on me in the street, after dark. And they had knives. Hayseeds don’t carry shivs. I never seen such a thing. If Al hadn’t seen ’em and come running, they woulda killed me.’ He opened his shirt to reveal a long, healed gash which sliced up from his chest to his upper arm. It had been aimed at his heart. ‘And they cut Al up, too. They weren’t no hayseeds out to pick me. They was,’ he pronounced the word carefully, ‘assassins.’

Alan Lee turned over the hand which was holding Phryne’s and she traced the slash on the back. It had left a white scar three inches long, having been done with a very sharp knife.

‘A souvenir of Colac,’ he said with a mirthless smile. ‘That same night a gang attacked Farrell’s head rigger and sank the boot into him. He had eight broken ribs and he’s still in hospital. And riggers are the most important men in a circus. Everyone depends on ’em.’

‘It’s been niggle, niggle, all the way,’ observed Doreen. ‘Sit still, Joe, you silly snake. Little things—like bookings cancelled and animals taking sick and audiences falling off. One of them things, or two, you could expect. But not all of them. So Farrell’s is in trouble. Old man Farrell is worried. It’s not a big show, like Wirth’s, that can work over the winter in the Olympia. Farrell has to clear enough in the season to pay for the winter camp, and there’s the vet’s bills and the food for the stock and all that. We thought that we’d get back to Melbourne and then hook up to another show—a lot of carnies have done that already, they say it’s jinxed. But I like Farrell’s. So I went to Mama Rosa.’

Alan Lee stared at Doreen. ‘You went to the gypsies?’ he asked incredulously. ‘But you don’t believe all that fortune-telling stuff, Doreen? It’s all made up.’ He turned Phryne’s hand over and intoned in a falsetto, ‘You will take a long journey over water and meet a dark-haired man and you will marry and have ten children and be very happy. It’s all rubbish, Doreen! It’s superstition.’

Phryne recovered her hand, while Doreen blushed with rage.

‘Well, I just thought I would. She’s been right for me before. She told me that Mum was going to marry and leave me the snakes and the Princess of the Amazon lark. She told me I’d be a princess. You just put a sock in it, Alan. You ain’t never

forgiven your mum for being a gypsy. And if I want to go to the fortune-teller, what’s it to you?’

Joe, the massive python whom she had named after Stalin, lifted his head off Doreen’s feet and raised his body three feet into the air, flicking his tongue. Alan Lee did not pursue the matter. Phryne reflected that it was never wise to quarrel with a woman with that shade of hair and ten feet of well-trained constricting snake at her disposal.

Doreen stroked the snake and continued, ‘She did a reading of the cards for me—the real cards, not the patter about the King of Spades being a tall dark man. I know the difference! She was worried, too, or she’d never have let me see ’em. They’re real old, with pictures on ’em. She drew the Eight of Wands, reversed . . .’

‘So?’ Alan Lee poured a third glass of wine and Phryne noticed that his hands were trembling. He evidently knew what that card meant.

‘So she said it wasn’t a curse or fate or anything, but a secret and malicious enemy. She said that the gypsies were worried about Farrell’s as well and were thinking of leaving but there wasn’t another show to trail. She told me that this enemy was a man, tall and with white hair, and that I’d see him within three days. She also said that there would be more blood within two weeks but not at the circus. So, two days later, I meet the new partner of Sam Farrell’s show. His name is Mr Jones and he’s tall and has white hair. And just now we went to see Mr Christopher and he’s dead. Stabbed to death in his boarding house in Brunswick Street. So we come to you.’

‘But why me?’ asked Phryne, confused. Samson snorted.

‘Women always get things hind-end before. That old woman, Miss, she said that the problems would all be solved if we went to see a woman with black hair and green eyes whose name began with an F. You’re the only lady we know who matches.’ He sat back and beamed at her with perfect faith.

‘I think,’ said Phryne, at a loss, ‘I think that we had better all have something to eat.’

Detective Inspector Robinson surveyed the corpse. The woman was lying on her back with her head on a rolled pillow, staring straight up. He saw that the eyes were blue and he closed them. They sprang wide again.

‘Rigor is not present,’ said the surgeon, feeling the neck and well-turned jaw, which were as soft as putty. ‘Cause of death is exsanguination from a massive stab-wound.’ He probed gently. ‘Yes, right through the heart, I would say, and it might have cut the rib. Corpse must have been pulled about a bit while dying, or just after death, probably to get the knife out. That’s why there’s so much blood. Arteries spurt, you know.’ Robinson gulped. ‘You are looking for a big, heavy knife, Robinson, at least seven inches long, double edged and about an inch wide. I’ll be able to tell you more later.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Can’t tell, it’s warm in here. Maybe two hours. Could be longer, perhaps as long as ten. Considering the weather, you know. This morning, after dawn, I’d guess. It’s six o’clock now.’

Robinson scanned the face, trying to avoid the gaze of the eyes. She had been quite tall, slim, with manicured hands. Her hair was cropped short and there was an odd, oily glaze on the skin. He touched the cold cheek and sniffed. Cold cream. At least the beautifully formed face bore no expression but faint surprise. The faces that had died hard still grimaced in Robinson’s sleep.

Constable Harris, who had searched the floor, carefully avoiding the pool of drying blood, produced his findings. A small bottle which had contained a proprietary sleeping drug, now empty, two crumpled handkerchiefs, a sleeve link, two buttons, a torn strip of flimsy paper with a little blood on the edge, a stick of kohl, and a small notebook covered in red suede.

‘That paper might have been used to wrap the knife,’ observed Robinson. ‘Nothing else? No? In that case, Sergeant Grossmith, you’ll want to start searching for the murder weapon. You heard the description, Terry?’

Sergeant Grossmith nodded. He left, taking the second constable with him. Robinson returned to the corpse. The wound which had killed her was terrible. The little doctor was rendered almost pleasant in the face of such sudden death. ‘She can’t have felt a thing,’ he murmured. The blue eyes in the wax doll’s face stared Robinson out of countenance.

Constable Tommy Harris had opened the wardrobe and was examining the garments. He called to Robinson, who left the dead woman thankfully.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘There must have been two people living in this room, sir. Look. Gents’ trousers and suits and ties and shoes. And ladies’ clothes and er . . . garments and shoes, too.’

The constable blushed a little and Robinson grinned. He laid a pair of trousers over his charm and measured them against a close-fitting dress.

‘I think it’s stranger than that, son. I haven’t seen you before. What’s your name?’

‘Constable Harris, sir.’

‘Who lives in the house and where are they?’