Kerry Greenwood: Blood and Circuses

Praise for Kerry Greenwood’s Phryne Fisher series

‘Independent, wealthy, spirited and possessed of an uninhibited style that makes everyone move out of her way and stand gawking for a full five minutes after she walks by—Phryne Fisher is a woman who gets what she wants and has the good sense to enjoy every minute of it!’ Geelong Times

‘Phryne . . . is a wonderful fantasy of how you could live your life if you had beauty, money, brains and superb self control.’ The Age

‘Fisher is a sexy, sassy and singularly modish character. Her 1920s Melbourne is racy, liberal and a city where crime occurs on its shadowy, largely unlit streets.’ Canberra Times

‘The presence of the inimitable Phryne Fisher makes this mystery a delightful, glamorous romp of a novel—a literary glass of champagne with a hint of debauchery.’ Armidale Express

‘Elegant, fabulously wealthy and sharp as a tack, Phryne sleuths her way through these classical detective stories with customary panache . . . Greenwood’s character is irresistibly charming, and her stories benefit from research, worn lightly, into the Melbourne of the period.’ The Age

‘The astonishing thing is not that Phryne is so gloriously fleshed out with her lulu bob and taste for white peaches and green chartreuse, but that I had not already made her acquaintance.’ Bendigo Advertiser

KERRY GREENWOOD is the author of more than fifty novels and six non-fiction works, and the editor of two collections. When she is not writing Kerry is an advocate in magistrates’ courts for the Legal Aid Commission. She is not married, has no children and lives with a registered Wizard.

Phryne Fisher mysteries:

Cocaine Blues

Flying too High

Murder on the Ballarat Train

Death at Victoria Dock

The Green Mill Murder

Blood and Circuses

Ruddy Gore

Urn Burial

Raisins and Almonds

Death Before Wicket

Away with the Fairies

Murder in Montparnasse

The Castlemaine Murders

Queen of the Flowers

Death by Water

Murder in the Dark

Murder on a Midsummer Night

Dead Man’s Chest

A Question of Death: An Illustrated Phryne Fisher Treasury

Corinna Chapman mysteries:

Earthly Delights

Heavenly Pleasures

Devil’s Food

Trick or Treat

Forbidden Fruit

Cooking the Books

KERRY

GREENWOOD

BLOOD AND CIRCUSES

This edition published in 2012.

First published by Allen & Unwin in 2005.

First published in 1994 by McPhee Gribble Publishers.

Copyright © Kerry Greenwood 2012

All rights reserved.

For John Greenwood,

my dear brother

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Fervent thanks to David Greagg, Jean Greenwood, Nick Engleman the juggler, Gregory Carter the clown, Jenny Pausacker, Richard Revill, Keryn D’Arcy, Stephen D’Arcy, Roz Greenwood, Ann Dwyer, Meredith Rose, Sophie Cunningham, Simon Barfoot the diva, Judith Rodriguez, Jude Bourguignon, the staff at Footscray Library, the Performing Arts Museum, the Moscow Circus, Circus Oz, Bullen’s Circus, and all circuses, carnivals and fairs.

‘People must be amused, Squire . . .

they can’t always be a-working, nor yet

they can’t always be a-learning. Make

the best of us, not the worst.’

Charles Dickens

Hard Times

CHAPTER ONE

These were a part of a playing I heard

Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife

Love that sings and hath wings as a bird

Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.

Algernon Swinburne

The Triumph of Time

Mrs Witherspoon, widow of uncertain years and theatrical background, was taking tea in her refined house for paying gentlefolk in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. It was four o’clock on a warmish Friday afternoon. The month was October and the year was 1928 and she had no idea, as she reached for the last slice of fruitcake, that the worst moment of her life was a mere minute away.

A drop fell from the ceiling and plopped into her cup. She tsked.

‘Oh, dear, that Mr Christopher has let his bath run over again. I’ve told him and told him about that.’

Mr Sheridan leapt to his feet, and Mrs Witherspoon glared at him. ‘Not you, Mr Sheridan, if you please.’

‘I’ll run up, shall I?’ offered Miss Minton, who was behind with her rent until another show should manifest itself and was consequently disposed to be helpful.

‘Yes, dear, you do that, but don’t open the door, will you? Mr Christopher is so careless with doors and I won’t have no immodesty in my house.’ The voice was full, rich as the fruitcake and perfectly pitched to carry to the back row of the stalls. Miss Minton, who had been a showgirl and dancer since she was seventeen, grinned and went out. They heard her feet clatter on the uncarpeted stairs.

The company consisted of Mrs Witherspoon, a magician called Robert Sheridan, a character actress whose stage name was Parkes and whose past, it was darkly hinted, would not bear examination, as well as the Miss Minton who had just departed on her mission.

The others were paying close attention to what they could hear of her progress along the corridor to the bathroom.

‘I say, Mr Christopher,’ the girl called. ‘Hey!’ she added. They heard the bathroom door open with its characteristic creak. Mrs Witherspoon tutted at the behaviour of modern girls and finished her cup of tea, brushing idly at another drop which had fallen on her hair. Miss Parkes hid a smile. Mr Christopher was slim, moved like a dancer and had dark Valentino hair and finely cut features. Miss Parkes had watched Miss Minton chasing him for weeks; she would not miss an opportunity to corner him in the bath. And there would be a surprise in store for her when she did: a life in the chorus line, thought Miss Parkes, injured the modesty.

The sounds of emptying water that they were expecting never came. Instead, Miss Minton ran back exclaiming, ‘He’s not there, Mrs Witherspoon, and he hasn’t been there. The bath’s as dry as a chip.’

It was only then that they all looked at the ceiling.

A large red stain, like the ace of hearts, was spreading and dripping. No one even thought that it might be red wine. Mrs Witherspoon put up a shaking hand and wiped her cheek, where another drop had fallen.

Her palm came away stained with blood.

She recalled, with dreadful inner turmoil, that she had finished her cup of tea.

The arrival of the police was not enough to drag Mrs Witherspoon out of her place of concealment, so a very discomfited Constable Tommy Harris held a conversation with her through the door.

‘Whose room is just overhead?’ he asked desperately. A gasping retch was all his reply. Miss Parkes nodded at him and he left the door.

‘I can tell you about it. The poor old dear has realised that she’s drunk blood in her tea and that’s upsetting, wouldn’t you agree? The bathroom is upstairs and the adjoining room is Mr Christopher’s. He is a circus performer and he is usually asleep until tea every day, because he performs at night. I’ve been up and tried his door but it’s locked.’