Blood and Circuses (6 page)

‘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.

Constable Harris went to find his sergeant. ‘Sir,’ he saluted. ‘Sir, can I say something?’

Sergeant Grossmith looked up from a pile of papers. ‘Yes, Harris, what is it?’

‘I . . . sir, I don’t think she did it.’

‘Oh, I see. How long have you been in the force, Harris?’

‘Eight months, sir.’

‘All of eight months, eh? Well, Constable Harris, I am always interested in the views of younger officers. But I don’t find “I don’t think she did it” convincing. She had the knife and the skill and she’s killed before. I expect she had a reason. Anyone else in that house strike you as a suspect?’

‘Sir, no, sir.’

‘Well, then. Cheer up, son. Jack Robinson’s in charge of the case. He won’t make no errors. He’s brought her in. He must think she did it. Now take that knife down to the lab and pull yourself together. Or I’ll tell the lads about how you had to be rescued from your roof by a murderer. A female murderer.’

Tommy Harris took the knife. ‘I still don’t think she did it, sir. She didn’t have to rescue me and reveal that she was good with heights. She could have let me fall.’

‘You’re green, Harris. Some of the nicest people I know have been murderers. I remember old Charley Peace now, he could play the violin like an angel and was very kind to dogs. He just didn’t like people. Go on, Constable. Trust Robinson. He knows what he’s doing.’

Tommy saluted and went out. Sergeant Grossmith snorted. What namby-pamby recruits they were getting these days. In his day no mere constable would have questioned the actions of a superior officer.

Meanwhile, Jack Robinson was facing Miss Parkes in the little interview room which was the antechamber to the cells. Howls and wails came through the wall. Evidently the drunks were noisier than usual.

‘Now, Miss Parkes, tell me, what did you know about Mr Christopher?’

Miss Parkes was moving through a maze of unbelieving horror. The police station and the official voices had slotted her straight back into her prison persona. She had been a good prisoner, diligent and meek, and she had thought that she had escaped. Now the prison smell, unwashed humanity and urine and despair, reeked in her nostrils again. She grasped at her mind, which was slipping.

‘I did not know him well. He worked for Farrell’s Circus, as a freak. He was happy there. He said that he could not have been happy anywhere else. In the circus, he was valued. He made a good living, I believe. He was very good looking. He lived like a man. Mr Sheridan was convinced that he was a woman and pestered him all the time, bought him flowers, that sort of thing, but Mr Christopher never gave him the slightest encouragement. Miss Minton thought he
was
a man. We used to giggle about it, Mrs W and I, because she was going to get a shock if she managed . . . you know what I mean. But Mr Christopher was a real gentleman. He said that he had a fiancee, anyway, a trick rider in the circus. Her name was . . . was . . .’

The name had gone. She shook her head.

‘Molly Younger. Her picture was on his wall.’ Jack Robinson had done some research. ‘So you did not know him well?’

‘No. No one did. He was a very private person. Kept himself to himself, as Miss Minton would say. I never saw him perform. I . . . I would not be welcome at the circus, especially not that circus.’

‘It was Farrell’s where . . .’

‘Yes. My husband and I and the others worked for Farrell’s and it was at Farrell’s that . . . that he died.’

‘I see.’ Robinson referred to his notes. ‘Now, as to the day of the murder. Sunday, that’s today. What did you do today?’

‘I got up for breakfast at ten, then I went back to my room for a nap,’ she said wearily, rubbing her eyes.

‘Do you usually sleep on a Sunday afternoon?’

‘No but I was so sleepy after breakfast that I went to lie down and I dropped off. I woke at three-thirty and had a wash and then I went down to tea. Mrs W’s teas are very good and I don’t have to watch my figure any more. Then blood dripped through the ceiling and your constable came and got stuck on the roof. After that you came and all of this happened.’

‘Miss Parkes, did you kill Mr Christopher?’

‘No.’

‘Did you climb out on the roof and get in through his window and stab him in the heart?’

‘No . . . no, I don’t think so. But I killed before. I killed my husband. I hated him. I know how to kill. The ultimate crime. I might have killed him. Oh, God, how do I know? I can’t remember. I might have done it in my sleep.’

‘But you had nothing against Mr Christopher?’

‘No, nothing.’

Miss Parkes began to laugh. The laughter stretched, became unbalanced. Then she began to scream, silencing the drunks in the cells just beyond the room.

‘Better lock her up,’ observed Robinson. ‘Send in a doctor.’

‘No, no!’ shrieked Miss Parkes. ‘No, don’t lock me up, don’t, please. Not again. I can’t bear it. I can’t. I can’t.’

Two policemen carried her to a small cell. When she heard the thud of the latch and the rattle of keys, she fell silent.

Robinson was unhappy. He sought out Sergeant Grossmith. ‘Terry, I don’t like this,’ he began.

‘Did she confess?’ Sergeant Grossmith asked.

‘In a way. She said she might have done it while she was asleep. She’s gone off her rocker.’

‘Well then, a guilty but insane verdict. She’ll spend the rest of her life in a nice cozy loony-bin, out of harm’s way.’

‘Hmm.’

‘If it’s any consolation, my Constable Harris came and told me she didn’t do it. Want to hear his reasoning? Because she rescued him from the roof. Said if she was a real murderer she wouldn’t have revealed her skill with heights. She would have let him fall. I don’t know. In my day I would never have dared to speak to my sergeant like that. These young blokes . . .’

Sergeant Grossmith continued to talk for some time but Detective Inspector Robinson was not listening.

Early in the morning, Phryne was transported to Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show in Alan Lee’s old truck. Samson had also come, presumably as a chaperone. As instructed, she was wearing a scarf over her hair, a leotard, soft shoes and an old cotton dress.

The day was going to be hot. Williamstown Road was empty. The scents of summer reached her; baking earth, melting tar, sweaty humans, and the circus smells of dung and engine grease and drying shirts.

Alan Lee parked the truck in the carnie’s camp. Some tents had been erected but most of the personnel seemed to live in caravans. Horses grazed in lines. Children ran on the urgent errands of childhood, threading their way through stalls and booths.

‘I’ll go and get old Bell,’ Alan Lee said. ‘She’s safe enough. Samson, you ask Mr Farrell if we can use the ring and get someone to rig up a governor. If he ain’t there, ask the Bevans if they’d mind us using their rig.’ He looked at Doreen, who had come up to meet them. I reckon you’d better go and see Molly, Doreen. She mightn’t have heard. About Chris. We’d better tell the old man, too.’

‘I reckon,’ agreed Doreen reluctantly. Then she added with relief, ‘No, I don’t need to. Look.’

Two men were crossing the encampment. One was tall and stout, in a blue uniform. The other was smaller, in plain clothes, with a face and stance which was hard to remember.

‘They’re cops,’ said Doreen. I seen enough cops to know a Jack when I see one.’

‘And a Jack it is, too,’ said Phryne. ‘I have to intercept him and quietly. If he greets me publicly I won’t be any use to you.’

‘Easy enough. He’s going to pass through our camp, so I’ll scrag him when he comes past my van. Come on.’

Alan Lee and Doreen, with Phryne between them, sauntered towards the caravan, built on the ruins of a truck. Phryne slipped inside and as the policemen walked past, Doreen said quietly, ‘This way.’

Jack Robinson caught sight of Phryne’s face over the half-door and turned smoothly. He sat down on the caravan step, facing the camp and said, ‘My feet are killing me. I haven’t been a flat foot for too long. How do you feel, Terry?’

‘You’re getting soft, Jack,’ said Terence Grossmith, who knew that his chief was fond of twenty-mile walks. ‘Well, I could do with a spell, too. Any more room on that step?’

The two officers sat down and Phryne whispered, ‘Hello, Jack dear, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m trying to find out about Mr Christopher,’ he replied evenly. ‘What about you?’

‘I want to find out who’s trying to ruin Farrell’s Circus. Your murder is just a part of a long line of very bad luck.’

‘Is it? But we’ve got our killer.’

‘Who?’

‘A woman who was with this circus ten years ago.’

‘Mrs Fantoccini?’ Alan Lee asked, bewildered. ‘She’s out of jail?’

‘Ten months ago and she’s done it again,’ said Sergeant Grossmith complacently. ‘Made the arrest within the hour.’

‘Oh. Why?’ asked Phryne.

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ said Robinson.

‘You’ve got your doubts about her, haven’t you?’ said Phryne, who had known Jack Robinson for some time.

‘Not to say doubts. Questions, maybe. Well, keep your eyes open, Miss, and be careful. Bad luck can be catching. I take it you don’t want me to recognise you?’

‘No. And my name is Fern.’

‘Then I haven’t seen you, Fern. Come on, Terry, I reckon these poor old plates’ll bear me a while longer. What was the name we wanted?’

‘Younger,’ said Grossmith aloud, consulting his notebook ostentatiously. ‘Miss Molly Younger.’

‘You’re in the wrong camp,’ said Samson, coming up, with perfect innocence. ‘She’s over with the circus folk. Go towards the big top and turn right at the elephants.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jack Robinson, heaving himself off the caravan step and collecting his offsider. ‘Come along, Sergeant.’

‘The Bevans say we can use their rig,’ Samson told the others. ‘Mr Farrell seems real put about. But he said we could use the ring. What were those cops doing here?’

‘Lost their way,’ said Phryne. ‘All right, Alan. Let’s go and get Bell and see if I can learn to stand up on a horse.’

Bell was a placid, smooth-paced horse with a broad back and an accommodating disposition. She stood about fifteen hands and was a soothing chestnut colour. She had a delicate mouth and intelligent eyes.

Alan Lee strapped Phryne into a canvas jacket, which had stout lines attached to it at the waist. He cast the line to Samson, who attached it to a hanging rope slung over a block and hauled until Phryne rose a foot off the ground.

Doreen took charge. ‘All right, mount up, Fern.’ Phryne vaulted onto Bell’s broad back. The horse stood like a rock. ‘Off you go, Bell,’ ordered Doreen, and Bell began to walk. Phryne had no difficulty maintaining her seat. Doreen grunted. ‘You can ride, then. Good. Come up, Bell.’ Bell increased her pace imperceptibly, so that she was soon cantering. ‘Now, Fern, put both hands on her neck and swing your legs over to the right, so that you’re sitting side-saddle.’

Phryne put both hands on the patient neck and made the movement, slid off, was brought up short and replaced on the horse. She tried it again, nettled that a physical skill should elude her so completely.