‘So everyone was here for breakfast. And tea. And they all went out in between. Good. You’re doing well, Mrs Witherspoon.’
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Witherspoon sat up a little higher in her bed. ‘Now, sir, is there anything else?’
‘Your guests. What can you tell me about them?’
‘Miss Minton has been here almost a year. She’s between shows, so she’s a waitress down at the Blue Diamond. Just while she’s resting. She’s a bit modern but a good girl. I don’t have any carrying on in my house. Mr Sheridan, now he’s a real gentleman. Mind you, I think his father was a grocer. But a well-spoken man and the words he knows! Good as an education. He’s been here three months and it’s nice to have a man in the house. Houses with all women get, well, quarrelsome. Miss Parkes has only been here a couple of weeks. I don’t know much about her but she’s a quiet body. I’ve had Mr Christopher for three years. He always stays with me when he’s in Melbourne,’ she said proudly and then burst into fresh tears. ‘Oh, a murder in my house! Poor Mr Christopher! Who could have done such a dreadful thing?’
As Robinson had no answer to that, he patted the landlady on the shoulder and regained the hallway with some relief.
‘Sir,’ said Sergeant Grossmith proudly, ‘we found this.’ He held out a long, heavy knife, stained with a gummy brown substance.
‘Good. Where was it?’
‘Miss Parkes’s room, sir.’
‘Was her door locked?’
‘Yes, sir. It was in the wastepaper basket, wrapped up in this.’ The knife was bedded in crumpled pale paper.
Robinson looked at the weapon. ‘I’ve never seen one like that before. Have you, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir. I’ve seen a blade that long but it’s a very heavy hilt. Weighted with lead, I think.’ He turned the knife to exhibit the cross-hilt, made of brass and set with large glass stones. ‘Very theatrical, you might say. But it did the job all right and it’s as sharp as a razor.’
‘Very good, Sergeant. Get it down to the laboratory and see if there are any fingerprints on it. I doubt it; the murderer obviously wrapped all that paper around it to avoid that very thing. Everyone knows about fingerprints these days.’ He sighed.
‘Well, Miss Minton next. Where is she?’
‘I sent her down to the parlour, sir, with the rest of them. That magician chap came out of his swoon pretty fast. Are you thinking the same as me, sir?’
‘Oh, yes, Terry, I expect so. Door bolted on the inside, window open. Unusual strength in the blow. Unusual agility required to get in through that window. The weapon found in her room. And a proven track record. I’ll leave her till last.’
Jack Robinson went heavily down the stairs. He met very few female murderers, because there were very few of them in existence. Usually they had good reason for killing. Miss Parkes certainly had had good reason to remove her husband. But he liked competent women and admired courage. He quite liked Miss Parkes, who had rescued the hapless Constable Harris off the roof with speed and dispatch. He did not like to think of her returning to prison. No, he corrected himself, she would not go to prison again. For Miss Parkes there was the madhouse or the gallows; no other choices were possible. Robinson sighed again, hoping that she was insane. Hanging women was abominable. He went back to the parlour.
Miss Minton had replaced herself in the magician’s arms and was shrill and excited. ‘We saw the blood come through the ceiling. Oh, it was horrible!’ She gave a small sob and Mr Sheridan echoed it. ‘Then I went up to see if it was the bath and Mr Christopher wasn’t there and then your constable went out on the roof and he said . . . he said . . .’
She sobbed again. Miss Parkes had not moved. Her hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were as white as pearls.
Robinson said, ‘Miss Parkes, what did you do today?’
‘I got up for breakfast and then I went back to my room. I took a nap, if you must know.’ Her voice was toneless. Robinson had heard the like before, in prisoners. I fell asleep and I didn’t wake until after three. Then I got dressed again and came down to tea.’
‘Did you see Mr Christopher this morning?’
‘No.’
‘But you knocked on his door,’ said Miss Minton shrilly.
I saw you.’
Robinson looked at her. She had pulled out of the magician’s embrace and was pointing a finger at Miss Parkes. I saw you! When I came home from . . . from church.’
There was a hesitation in her voice, which Robinson marked. He asked Miss Parkes, ‘Did you knock at the door then, Miss Parkes?’
‘No,’ said Miss Parkes. Her eyes avoided the detective’s gaze.
Miss Minton was offended. ‘I tell you, I saw her! I had just come to the head of the stairs and I saw her!’
‘Very well, Miss Minton. Miss Parkes, can you explain this?’
Grossmith, on cue, produced the knife in its wrappings. Miss Parkes stared at it.
‘No,’ she said again. I can’t explain it. Where did you find it?’
‘In the wastepaper basket in your room.’
‘It’s her!’ screamed Miss Minton. ‘She did it! She killed Mr Christopher!’
The magician moved away from Miss Minton. She leapt to her feet. ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why did you kill him? You must have crept through his window and stabbed him. I liked him. He was nice. Why did you kill Mr Christopher?’
She collapsed in tears and burrowed into Mr Sheridan’s chest. He appeared to be shocked and levelled the second accusing finger of the morning at Miss Parkes. ‘You bitch,’ he said in a low, intense voice. ‘You stole her from me. My Christine. You stole her. You always disliked her, didn’t you?
Why were you knocking on her door? You utter bitch.’
Robinson intervened.
‘Miss Parkes, I have no alternative but to ask you to come down to the station to answer questions in relation to the murder of . . . er . . . Mr Christopher,’ began Robinson heavily. ‘You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down by this constable and may be given in evidence. Have you anything to say?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ said Miss Parkes through stiff lips. ‘I did not kill Mr Christopher.’
Doreen had ransacked the kitchen and found sufficient salad for all of them. The argument continued around the table. Phryne had opened another bottle of wine and was beginning to feel embattled.
‘Think about it,’ urged Alan Lee. ‘We need you. We’re going to be ruined if Farrell’s goes bust. There’s no circus going on the road before Christmas, and the Agricultural Show is over. We’ll be skint and starving if we can’t get out of town before the end of the month.’
‘Yes, I understand, but what do you expect me to do?’ asked Phryne.
‘Why, come with us,’ said Alan Lee. ‘Come with us and watch and you’ll be able to tell what’s going on. Then we can stop it.’
‘Oh, yes? And how do you expect to stop it?’
‘We have Samson. He can stop a train with one hand.’
Samson smiled modestly and took some more bread.
‘Please,’ urged Alan Lee.
‘No,’ said Phryne. ‘What could I do? Besides, I’d stick out in your carnival like a sore thumb.’
‘You’d be in disguise. We’d have to get you into the circus itself, not just down among the carnies. You can ride, can’t you?’ ‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Won’t take you long to pick up a few tricks. You can sell tickets and maybe do a little acrobatic riding. Anna could teach you. She did a sharp-shooting cavalry act before she got so big. Or Molly.’
‘Who’s Molly?’
‘Molly Younger. She can teach a horse to do anything but talk. Oh, Lord, Doreen, I forgot about Molly. I wonder if she knows about Chris?’
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