Kerry Greenwood: Blood and Circuses

‘Sir, the landlady Mrs Witherspoon, she was took sick and she’s lying down. A showgirl called Miss Minton, she’s with the old lady. A bloke who’s a stage magician—Sheridan is his real name—he’s downstairs in the parlour. And a lady called Miss Parkes who’s an actress is there too, and my partner’s with them. Sir.’

‘Good. And what’s all this about the roof?’

‘Er . . . I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t just someone oversleeping, sir, so I climbed out on the roof and it was steeper than I thought and real slippery. When I saw him—I mean her—lying all bloody, I lost balance and Miss Parkes ran out onto the roof and got me back. She’s as light as a cat on them glassy leads.’

‘I see. Unusual skill for an actress.’

Robinson eyed the uncomfortable Harris. There was something that he was not telling his superior in rank. Finally Tommy Harris said reluctantly, ‘I recognised her, sir. She’s the woman who killed her husband in the circus, ten years ago. Her name was . . .’

‘Oh, indeed. Mrs Fantoccini. So they let her out, did they? I remember that case. Her husband beat her and was unfaithful and stole her earnings and gambled them. Nasty. Then he suggested that she supplement their income in an unacceptable way. No wonder she greased his trapeze. I went to see her when the kids were young. She was as graceful as a bird, used to do somersaults in the air. Hmm. And she had no difficulty walking that very dangerous roof?’

‘No, sir.’

Robinson replaced the garments and went to examine the window. It was open.

‘Was the window open when you looked in?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No dust on the sill. Mrs W keeps a clean house. Pity. Not a smear. No sign that something has come in. Or someone. Doctor?’

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘Could a woman have struck that blow?’

The little doctor pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and stared. ‘She’d have to be a pretty unusual woman. That blow would have felled an ox.’

‘Ah, but the woman I have in mind is unusual,’ said Detective Inspector Robinson. ‘Come on, Constable. I want to meet Miss Parkes.’

He left the police surgeon filling out his certificate and walked down the corridor, with Constable Harris plucking at his sleeve. At the head of the stairs he turned.

‘Well, Constable?’

‘Sir . . . Miss Parkes . . .’

‘Yes, what about her?’

‘Sir, she saved my life.’

‘Yes,’ said Detective Inspector Robinson and went down the stairs. ‘So she did.’

In the drinking pit called the Blue Diamond, further down Brunswick Street, Mr Albert Ellis was taking a dim view of certain political developments. His employees were nervous. Hell’s foundations were prone to quiver when the boss of the Fitzroy Boys took a dim view of a situation.

Mr Ellis was small, dark and dressed in a navy suit. His distinguishing feature, according to the criminal history sheet kept by Sergeant Grossmith, was teeth like a rat. He was acutely aware of these intrusive dental adornments, so he never smiled.

Wholesale Louis, the trader in dubious goods, looked at the Mad Pole, whose name was Janucz and who could bend sheet metal in his hands. The Mad Pole looked at Mr Ellis, as it was no use expecting sense from his bench mate Cyclone Freddy. It was well known that since Freddy had wound up his career as a tent fighter by king-hitting the local constable into next week, he had not been as acute as formerly, which was not very acute anyway. He was also prone to take offence if anyone looked at him. No sensible man wanted to cause Cyclone Freddy to take offence.

‘What’s the problem, Boss?’ asked Louis.

‘It’s like this. The Brunnies have been moving into our territory. They pulled that payroll robbery at the shoe factory. I just got word from a dog about it. It was Jack Black Blake’s boys. They got inside information from that bitch Pretty Iris.’ Wholesale Louis nodded. The others sat waiting to be told what to do. Albert Ellis aimed and fired at his men like a sniper. ‘We can’t have that. Can we?’ He raised his eyes. ‘Well, can we?’

‘No, Boss,’ said Wholesale Louis, and the others echoed him. ‘But,’ added Louis, ‘we’re short-handed with Jonesy gone into the bush on that job. When you expecting him back, Boss?’

‘When the job’s done. Might be a couple of months. That don’t matter, Louis. We can handle the Brunnies one-handed. Something will have to be done,’ said Mr Ellis slowly. ‘I got an idea. Is Lizard Elsie still in the front room?’

CHAPTER THREE

And I the aged, where go I

A winter-frozen bee, a slave

Death-shapen as the stones that lie

Hewn on a dead man’s grave:

Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)

The Trojan Women

Miss Amelia Parkes and Mr Robert Sheridan were sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the horsehair sofa in Mrs Witherspoon’s plush parlour. The magician was practising passes. The constable left to watch the pair was fascinated by the way an ordinary coin flickered and vanished in his long fingers. The room smelt of fatigue. Miss Parkes had composed herself, feet together, back straight, eyes fixed on the door. Mr Sheridan muttered, ‘Oops-a-daisy,’ and produced an egg from the constable’s ear.

The magician was suitably tall and dark, with an oval face and the beginnings of a double chin. His hair was as black as stove-polish and he had dark brown eyes. His skin was pale, his hands long and fine, and his whole person neat and stylish. Even with the stress of murder and his own apparent grief, he was, Miss Parkes reflected disagreeably, as crisp as though he were straight out of his box. She herself was conscious that her sojourn on the roof had not improved her stockings and that her hair was standing on end. She was also cringingly afraid to her soul of the law and the police. Even the cool, official tone of the detective inspector’s voice outside the door flooded her system with terror, so that she thought she might faint. She shivered.

‘I say, Miss Parkes, are you all right?’ asked Mr Sheridan.

‘No, I’m not all right,’ she snapped. ‘There’s been a murder in the house. That can really ruin a nice peaceful Sunday. And I liked Mr Christopher.’

‘No need to bite a chap’s head off,’ he said, hurt. ‘You know how long I have loved her. I’m all jittery with the thought that she’s dead . . . my beautiful Christine. I even muffed that simple pass. My hands are shaking. I wonder how long they’re going to keep us here?’

‘Until they are ready to talk to us.’

‘You look white as a sheet. Would you like to lie down?’

‘No. I’m quite all right, Mr Sheridan.’

‘You don’t look it,’ he said. ‘You sure that you . . . ?’

‘For God’s sake, man, leave me alone!’ Her voice rose to a dangerous pitch and Mr Sheridan moved from beside her to a chair near the door. He was frightened of hysterical women. Miss Parkes’s eyes were glittering and her hands were clutching at the arms of the sofa.

The constable standing by the door said soothingly, ‘Not long now, Miss, I can hear them coming down the stairs. Then I can get that half-witted girl to make you some tea.’

‘Who is the officer in charge?’

‘Detective Inspector Robinson, Miss.’

The name evidently meant nothing to Miss Parkes. She clutched even harder at the sofa and said, ‘What are they doing, Constable?’

‘Searching the house, Miss. Looking for the murder weapon.’

‘Weapon?’ she asked through lips that seemed to be numb.

‘Yes, Miss. The knife.’

‘I see.’

Footsteps sounded in the hall and the door opened. Tommy Harris looked in.