Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

Doreen swallowed an enormous mouthful and gasped. ‘Gosh, I forgot about that! Someone ought to go and tell her, Alan. I’ll do it.’

‘What about Molly and Chris?’

‘She was . . . well, they were close. They were going to get married. Poor Molly. First Socks and then Mr Christopher. You see, Phryne? Something has got to be done. We can’t go on like this.’

‘So you want to smuggle me into the circus, where I don’t know anyone, in order to find out who is sabotaging it? It’s insane, Alan. I like you all very much but I don’t see that I can help you.’

‘Leave her alone, Alan. If you were this rich and had a lovely house like this and all that money and nothing to do, would you leave it all to go haring off on a wild-goose chase with people like us?’ Doreen’s voice was scornful. ‘You’d be mad. I could work all my life and never be as comfortable as this. Look at this house—she’s got a car and a staff of servants and everything to make her happy. Our problems ain’t her concern. We’re only carnies, you know.’

‘Don’t say that, Doreen. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just don’t see how I can.’ Phryne was slightly hurt. ‘I haven’t lived like this all my life. I was poor enough when I was a child.’ She began to sound self-justifying in her own ears and held her tongue.

Alan Lee took her hand and stood her up, then surveyed her. He saw a slim young woman in a skimpy cotton dress. Her black hair swung as she turned her small head to look at him. He ran hard hands down her body with the impersonal touch of a farrier.

‘You’re soft, living like this,’ he said insinuatingly. ‘Look at that thigh and the buttock. There’s been muscle there but not now. And these hands,’ he laid Phryne’s bare inner arm to his cheek, ‘smooth as silk. Never done a tap’s work in years. You’re so beautiful I almost can’t bear to look at you. You’ve got the build and the lightness and the hands to be an acrobat or a rope-walker or a rider, yet you’re wasting away in idleness. What’s more, I’d bet good money that you’re bored. Ain’t you?’ The dark eyes bored into Phryne’s green ones. ‘You are, ain’t you, Phryne? You gotta remember that I know you.’

‘And I know you,’ said Phryne, taking a handful of his hair at the back of his neck and squeezing. ‘I know you too, Alan. And you are right. I am bored. But that’s all I am—bored. I shall be amused tomorrow.’

‘Will you? As well as I can amuse you?’ His hand lingered at her waist and the touch tingled.

‘Not in the same way,’ she said lightly. ‘But amused none the less. Now, let us have some more lunch and talk about it. I’m not saying that I’ll do it. I just want to know what you’ve got in mind.’

Alan Lee sat down. Doreen, who had continued eating during the conversation, remarked, ‘He’s right. You could’ve been a ropie or even a flyer but that takes too long to learn. I reckon you’d make up good as a rider. It’s not too hard to learn. I can do it and so can Anna. Just a matter of sticking on and not panicking. There’s a finale in the horse act where they have ten girls come in, standing up in the saddle. One of ’em fell last week and broke her leg. You could take her place, after a few lessons. You’re too distinctive with that hair, though, and them green eyes. Can’t, do nothing about the eyes so you’d have to wear a wig, or a cap. Might only take a few days to put your finger on what’s crook with Farrell’s. I’ll give you a name, too. Fern. That’s close enough to Phryne.’

She pronounced the name correctly, with a long ‘e’: Fry-knee. It sounded even more Greek and alien in Doreen’s flat Australian accent.

‘Fern,’ said Phryne, tasting the name. ‘I have to think about this.’

‘Don’t think about it,’ said Samson. ‘Never does to think too much. Just do it.’

She looked at him.

‘Please,’ said Alan Lee.

Phryne wavered. She had indeed been very bored. The round of social engagements and parties stretching in front of her seemed suddenly tedious as a twice-told tale. The concerns of her own circle were narrow. Everyone she liked was busy elsewhere. Her household would get along even more smoothly without her.

‘If you can teach me to stand up on a horse,’ she said, ‘I’ll try it. But only for a while.’

Samson reached across the table and shook her hand, engulfing it to the wrist. Doreen grinned. Alan Lee swept Phryne into a close embrace.

And Ember, encountering his first snake when he sidled into the parlour in quest of more ham, shrieked and fled up the curtains, where he remained despite coaxing and bribery, hissing and clawing ferociously at every attempt to rescue him.

‘I hope that this is not an omen,’ said Phryne, wondering if she owned a stepladder. ‘I do hope that I’m not going to regret this.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Partem et circenses (Bread and circuses)

The demand of the common people,

Imperial Rome

Jack Black Blake shot his immaculate cuffs and said crisply, ‘Billy, what do you hear?’ The boss of the Brunswick Boys was well dressed, dapper and good looking. He had dark hair, slicked back, and a large diamond on his hand, outside his glove. Today the gloves were lemon-yellow kid but they did not seem to be affording him any pleasure. He was smoking a fat cigar and scowling into his beer.

The Brunswick Boys, known to the police as the Brunnies, were having a council of war in the august confines of the Brunswick Arms hotel.

Billy the Dog, so named for carnal atrocities too awful to mention, muttered, ‘Not much, Jack. They say the ’Roys are out to get us.’

‘What about it, Snake?’ Snake, a tall man with reptilian eyes, nodded, as did Reffo, his mate. They were of a height and stood shoulder to shoulder as though expecting attack.

Little Georgie, who combined the knife-wielding abilities of his Italian mother with the ability to run amok of his Malay pirate father, ventured, ‘We gotta do something, Boss. They’re saying on the street that we got no balls.’

Jack Black Blake wore gloves, it was said, because he could not bear the touch of human flesh. He tapped on the bar.

‘They’ll find out if we have balls,’ he said quietly.

Miss Amelia Parkes, once Mrs Fantoccini, was escorted into Russell Street Police Station by Constable Tommy Harris, who kept a hand on her arm. He did not think that she would escape. He was afraid that she might collapse.

Tommy was shocked. Miss Parkes had saved his life. She had rescued him with bravery and dispatch. The scene which had ensued as she was taken out of the boarding house still stung his ears. Mr Sheridan had moaned, ‘How could you, how could you rob me of Christine?’ Miss Minton had screamed, ‘I knew it!’ loud enough to bring the landlady to the head of the stairs. When old Mrs Witherspoon had caught the drift of the conversation, she had denounced, ‘Out of my house, hussy! I gave you a chance. I was sorry for you. But out of my house you go, bag and baggage! How could you do it? How could you kill poor Mr Christopher?’

Mrs Witherspoon had then broken down, and Tommy Harris’s last sight of the household was Miss Minton hurrying up the stairs to mingle her tears with those of the old woman crumpled on the top step.

And Miss Parkes had said nothing, beyond mumbling, ‘I didn’t do it.’ She now moved at his side with the even pace of a sleepwalker.

Tommy Harris didn’t like it. There was something wrong. And yet, there was enough evidence to convict Miss Parkes. The knife. Her dexterity on roofs. And the locked and bolted door.

They paused at the entrance to the station and he said, ‘All right, Miss Parkes?’ and she croaked, ‘Fantoccini. My name is Fantoccini. Prisoner number 145387. Sir.’ Tommy Harris was very uneasy. He delivered Miss Parkes to the detention officer and she answered his questions in the same toneless voice.