Kerry Greenwood: Blood and Circuses

‘Mr Sheridan, the detective inspector would like to see you now,’ he said. ‘Hello, Miss Parkes. I’ve brought you a cuppa.’

The attending constable accompanied Mr Sheridan out of the room. Constable Harris gave Miss Parkes a cup of strong, sweet tea and said, ‘You drink that, Miss, and you’ll feel better.’

Miss Parkes, who had learned to be obedient to authority, drank the scalding tea and began to feel better, as ordered.

The magician was ushered into the presence of an affable policeman. He had brown hair, brown eyes and utterly undistinguished features, but his voice was deep and pleasant.

‘Mr Robert Sheridan, is it? Sit down, sir, we won’t keep you long. Now, you’re the only man in the house and so we have to ask you to do something unpleasant. I hope you’ll help us.’

‘Yes?’ asked Sheridan.

‘We understood that the occupant of the room was a male person but it seems that the corpse is a woman. We want an identification. Can you do that for us?’

‘Yes,’ said Sheridan, ‘but . . .’

‘But?’

‘I don’t think that you understand about Christine,’ said Sheridan slowly. ‘She was . . . he was . . . one of them that is born wrong. Born both, if you see what I mean. Christine and Christopher as well. Nothing for her to do but join the circus.’

‘You mean that the woman was a man?’ asked Grossmith incredulously. Robinson smiled.

Mr Sheridan protested. ‘She was so beautiful, I can’t believe she’s dead. She wouldn’t ever look at me, of course. She had the best attributes of both sexes. But she was a freak,’ he said flatly.

‘And Mrs Witherspoon knew about him? I mean, her?’

‘Of course. Christine worked for Farrell’s Circus. She had a turn, half-man and half-woman, you know.’

‘Androgyne,’ said Robinson. ‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘She wasn’t an “it”,’ protested the magician. ‘She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I loved her and I don’t care who knows it and you can keep your sneers to yourself, you stupid cop!’

Terence Grossmith snorted. ‘He was a freak, as you said. Someone did him a favour, killing him.’

Mr Sheridan howled and lunged for Grossmith’s throat, who subdued him without difficulty and sat him down on the chair. The magician muffled his face in a silk handkerchief out of which another dove fluttered. Detective Inspector Robinson turned on his colleague a glare of such actinic brilliance that he subsided with a muttered apology.

‘Calm down, Mr Sheridan,’ said Robinson. ‘Now, tell me about yourself. You work for Farrell’s Circus?’

‘I am a stage magician,’ said Mr Sheridan loftily, putting his handkerchief back in his sleeve with an automatic flourish. ‘I have worked for all the big circuses. Sole Brothers. Wirth’s. But they were unappreciative of my talents. So I condescended to join Farrell’s. Farrell’s is not what I am used to, but some experience in these smaller shows can give a magician a new freshness.’

Robinson knew overmuch protestation when he heard it. Mr Sheridan was evidently not the best of circus magicians, and his affectations of speech were beginning to grate on the policeman.

‘Come along, Mr Sheridan, let’s have a look at the deceased.’

‘I can’t stand the sight of blood,’ said Sheridan edgily. ‘Especially not hers, not Christine’s.’ He began to sob again. ‘Couldn’t you ask Miss Parkes? Cool as a cucumber in emergencies, she is. Blood never bothered her. I remember when Tillie cut off half her finger with a chopper. Miss Parkes was the only one who kept her head. She held the cut together, got the silly minx to a doctor and saved the finger too. And she hauled your constable off the roof—and that’s thirty feet high. I would have been terrified.’

‘That’s very interesting,’ observed the sergeant. ‘Not afraid of the sight of blood, eh? And her with a . . . sorry, sir.’

Detective Inspector Robinson reflected that only Providence knew how he was tried by his colleagues. He switched off the glare and escorted Mr Sheridan upstairs.

The pool of blood was drying. The police photographer had hauled his apparatus up the stairs and down again. The police surgeon had made a discovery.

‘I say, Robinson, look at this,’ he said, revealing the lower part of the corpse. ‘I was wrong about her being female. This is an hermaphrodite. Perfect blend of male and female—oh, I do beg your pardon,’ he added as he sighted Mr Sheridan. He drew the blankets up and stood aside to allow Sheridan sight of the face.

Mr Sheridan paled and leaned on his attendant constable.

‘That’s Christine. Oh, Lord, Christine, my Christine!’ he gasped. ‘My hat, look at all that blood . . .’ and he fainted into a tidy heap in the doorway.

Detective Inspector Robinson was admitted into Mrs Witherspoon’s room. It was dark, reeked of roses, and was the most cluttered room he had ever seen. The walls were hung with theatrical posters. Every available space was filled with tables which supported vases and knick-knacks and souvenirs and framed photographs, most of them depicting a buxom young Mrs Witherspoon beaming at the camera. On the wall was a large oil painting of the same subject, dressed in flowing draperies and contemplating a sheaf of lilies. Miss Minton, subdued and scared, was sitting beside a large bed heaped with pillows, in the depths of which Mrs Witherspoon lay, retching weakly and crying like a torrent.

‘Come now, Mrs Witherspoon, pull yourself together,’ urged Miss Minton in her high voice. ‘Here’s a policeman come to see you.’

This brought a fresh outbreak of lamentations. ‘Oh, oh, the police in my house!’ Detective Inspector Robinson was reminded of his Mechanics’ Institute Shakespeare. ‘Oh, woe, Alas! What, in my house?’ he quoted to himself, and Terence Grossmith at his side said, ‘Sir?’

‘Nothing. You wait outside, Miss Minton, if you please. Sergeant Grossmith has a few questions. Now, Mrs Witherspoon, just give me a moment and then you can rest again.’

He drew the curtain and the cool evening light came streaming in. Mrs Witherspoon sat up against her pillows and sniffed.

‘I just need to know what you have been doing today,’ said Robinson, ‘and something about your paying guests.’

‘We rose late, because it’s Sunday,’ said Mrs Witherspoon in a whisper, ‘and we had breakfast at ten. Not a large breakfast, because we have tea at four. It’s what we always do on Sundays, a high tea. Mr Witherspoon used to like it.’ She started to cry again and Robinson patted the plump, veined hand.

‘Of course. And you are being very brave. Now who was at tea?’

‘All of us, except Mr Christopher. Oh, poor Mr Christopher!’

‘Did you know about Mr Christopher’s profession?’

Mrs Witherspoon bridled. ‘Of course. He was a perfectly respectable person and a nice fellow. He couldn’t help the way he was born. And Farrell’s is a very well-conducted show. I was in the theatrical profession myself, you know.’ Her eyes strayed to the photographs. ‘I like theatrical people. Miss Minton is a dancer and Mr Sheridan a stage magician and Miss Parkes is an actress. Perfectly respectable.’

‘Yes, yes,’ soothed Robinson. ‘And was everyone at breakfast?’

‘Yes. And then we went off to our own rooms. I believe that Miss Minton went to church. Mr Christopher usually went too but this morning he seemed worried and said that he had letters to write. His people . . . well, they didn’t meet, you know, that was not to be expected but they did correspond. They’re in Ballarat; very well to do, I understand. Being what he was, he couldn’t stay in the country. People are so cruel. He used to say he was only happy since he joined Farrell’s.’