Blood and Circuses (9 page)

‘I’ll need a costume, too,’ said Phryne. ‘I presume that it will be provided. I can hardly ask any of the usual people to make it up for me. This is going to be exciting, Dot! I’ve got too reliant on things and people. It will do me good to manage on my own for a while.’

Dot hefted the parcel and led the way out of the shop.

‘Have you ever managed on your own, Miss Phryne?’ she asked as Mr Butler piled the parcels into the car.

CHAPTER SIX

He smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel,
horses’ provender and sawdust and he
looked the most remarkable sort of centaur,
compounded of the stable and the play-house.

Charles Dickens
Hard Times

Phryne ate well, Mrs Butler having been invigorated by her niece’s wedding. There she had put down the pretensions of three of her most irritating relations by referring, in passing, to her employer the Honourable Miss Fisher’s rank as just below the relict of a duke and above the daughters of baronets. Mrs Butler’s relations had never seen a baronet, even at a distance, and had been properly silenced. Mrs Butler’s triumphs were always reflected in her cookery. Phryne finished the exalted form of shepherd’s pie and pushed a piece of lettuce around her plate.

‘Have you ever managed on your own?’ Dot had asked, and Phryne was now wondering if she ever had. She had been surrounded with people since birth. First her sisters, her brother and her parents in that small set of rooms in Collingwood. There she had been poor, hungry, sometimes, and always cold. There her younger sister had died of diphtheria one winter. Phryne had gone badly clad to Collingwood Primary School and learned the rudiments of literacy, and there had been people there, too, who could be charmed or coerced into helping the little girl with the strange name get what she wanted.

Then the great change had come and the family had been uprooted and dragged across the ocean to the counties and wealth, not because of any virtue in themselves but because the War had killed the younger sons of every family in Europe. Mr Fisher had been translated into a lord and Phryne had been sent sullenly to boarding school to be made into a suitable daughter of the aristocracy. At school she had been unpopular because she was wild and did not care about the things the school cared about; standards of behaviour and learning and sport. People again, all around her, in the dorms and on the playing fields. Malleable, useful people. After that, Melbourne had been easy. She had money and position, beauty and style.

She had never been alone.

Phryne allowed Mr Butler to take away the plate. What am I worrying about? she wondered. The circus was composed of people just as society was, just as school had been. There was always a man to be persuaded, bought, daunted or charmed.

‘And I’m the woman to do it,’ she said aloud.

‘Miss?’ asked Mr Butler.

‘Nothing to signify, Mr B.’ He hovered at her shoulder.

‘Another glass of wine, Miss Fisher?’

‘Thanks.’

He poured the wine, a rich red Burgundy, and retired to the kitchen.

Phryne looked around her dining room, which was hung with pale damask. The carpet, patterned with green leaves, had been specially woven for her. On the wall, opposite the big windows which opened onto her pocket-handkerchief front garden, hung seven oil sketches of dancing acrobats. They were freely drawn, light-hearted and perfect just as they were. Phryne had snatched them from the artist’s hands as they were completed, despite Mrs Raguzzi’s protests that they were not finished. Usually they refreshed her spirit. Today they looked as animated as dolls.

‘I shall do without luxury for a while,’ she said aloud. ‘Then it will all be lovely again. Alan is right. I am soft.’ She flexed her hands, which had acquired rope burns from getting on and falling off Bell’s patient back. ‘Hello, Dot, how did you go with the second-hand rag trade?’

Dot exhibited a nightie washed almost transparent and two pairs of thin unmentionables. She hung a ratty cardigan over the chair and sat down.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Miss,’ she said seriously. ‘I heard nasty things about that circus.’

‘Did you? Tell all.’

‘I was in Brunswick Street, Miss—that’s a good place for old clothes—and there were two women searching through the rags. Gypsies, Miss. You can’t trust people like that. The old woman said, “We can’t but go with Farrell’s. It’s not a long trip. But we need to get out to the sticks. The Jacks’ll move us on in two days.” The other one said, “They’re cursed, Farrell’s is got the evil eye,” but the first one told her that she knew the evil eye when she saw it and it wasn’t on Farrell’s. Then they went out and I didn’t hear no more. I wouldn’t take the word of a gypsy for anything. But . . .’

‘But?’

‘They know about curses,’ said Dot slowly, crossing herself. ‘So I bought you this.’

Phryne took it. Dangling from a leather thong was a round silver medal. On it was depicted a man fording a river, with a child on his shoulders.

‘St Christopher, Miss. Patron saint of travellers. I didn’t get a silver chain because maybe you won’t want to have anything valuable on you in such a place, with all them thieves about.’ Phryne was about to laugh, then caught sight of Dot’s serious face and didn’t. ‘I’d feel happier about this if you’d promise to wear it, Miss Phryne.’

Phryne tied the bootlace around her neck, so that the medal hung just at the base of her throat. She didn’t want anything to dangle when she stood on her hands, her balance on a horse being shaky at best.

Dot looked at her seriously. ‘I’ll be praying for you, Miss Phryne,’ she said. Phryne put down her glass and hugged Dot and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Thank you, Dot. I appreciate it. And I promise I’ll wear it. I will need all the help I can get. What with the circus and the carnival and the gypsies, there must be a hundred and fifty people in that camp and I’m supposed to find out who is sabotaging the place. It sounds impossible. So if you can ask God to help me, it might assist. In any case, He’s more likely to listen to you than me. Come on. Have a cuppa and I’ll tell you how we are going to make me look like a daughter of the people, down on her luck and glad to get a place in Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show.’

Dot, comforted by Phryne’s acceptance of the holy medal, drank her tea and listened.

‘Lizard Elsie,’ said Sergeant Grossmith indulgently. ‘What a girl! I reckon she’d be getting on for fifty now. Been a beauty in her time. Portuguese, her dad, a sailor off a ship, they say, and her mum no better than she should be. Elsie was a pretty one. Her mum sold her to a gentleman when she was fourteen. But you can’t treat Elsie like that. Bit off half of his ear and him a respectable man, too. Then she lighted out the window and took to . . . well, I don’t quite know what you’d call it, sir. She’s not a whore. Far as I know she ain’t never been a whore. She lives with the sailors while they’re ashore, till they both of ’em drink away his pay and he signs up for a new ship and Else finds a new partner. She don’t thieve from ’em, that’s why they call her the sailor’s friend. But rough! She’s as rough as bags. And swear! A man ain’t never heard language like it. She’d make a bullocky blush, would Elsie. But she’s getting on, the old Else. I don’t reckon she’ll last much longer, poor old tart. She’s taken to the red biddy and that’s cruel on women, red biddy is.’

‘What’s red biddy, sir?’ asked Constable Harris.

‘Ruby port and metho,’ said Robinson shortly. ‘Kill a brown dog. Go on, Terry. Who are her associates?’

‘Well, sir, I wouldn’t have said that she had any. She never used to. Time was, the first collar any young constable made in Brunswick Street was to haul Lizard Elsie in for Indecent Language. I did it myself, must be near thirty years ago. And the things she called me! That’s when they named her Bluetongue Lizard and the name stuck. Everyone calls her Lizard Elsie now. She’s been standing over the publicans in the last year or so, threatening to break up their hotels if they don’t fork out. Most of ’em don’t mind, it’s cheap enough muck, God knows. And it just ain’t worth the mess to try and chuck her out. She can fight like a cat—all scratches and bites—she can throw a mean punch and she ain’t afraid of nothing, Elsie ain’t. But since she got on the plonk she’s been going downhill. I’ll put the word out. She used to lodge in Marian Hayes’s guesthouse. I’ll be able to tell you tomorrow, sir.’

‘All right. And remember what I said about Exit. If you can find it, Sergeant, it will be a great feat, though I won’t offer you promotion. Now, as to the other matter. I have detained Miss Parkes in custody. She says that she might have done it and she doesn’t deny it, but I’m not happy about the case. The laboratory says there are no fingerprints on the knife. Here’s the report. The knife is unusually heavy and well balanced, and the lab says that it might be a throwing knife. The stones on it are glass and they suggest that it belongs to a variety or a circus act. Then there is the post-mortem on Mr Christopher.’ He rummaged among the pile of papers on his desk. ‘Yes. Here. The pathologist has had a lovely time with this one. He told me that he hasn’t seen such an interesting cadaver since he was at medical school. “Body of an hermaphrodite aged approximately twenty-five with well-marked male and female features . . . might have had functioning male genitalia . . . blood supply to an intact womb with all structures present . . . unbroken membrane suggests that the subject was a virgin.” Oh, he’s having a high old time with this. Where was that . . . ? Aha. #8220;Cause of death, deep penetration injury to the upper chest. Heart pierced, overlaying rib cut through. Wound seven inches deep and approximately an inch wide. Massive insult to muscle and lung. Exsanguination. Vessels almost empty. Suggest a knife blow given with considerable skill and with great force.” Now, I’ve seen Miss Parkes and although she’s strong for a woman, I don’t know if she’s that strong. I think I might have jumped the gun a little with her. What do you think?’

‘If she had killed that . . . that thing, I reckon she oughta get a medal for it,’ said Grossmith. ‘Sorry, sir, but them freaks turn me up. I never could abide ’em, the dwarves and the rubber men and all them. As to Miss Parkes, well, she mighta been angry. An angry woman is pretty strong. Look at Lizard Elsie.’

‘She’s not the angry type,’ said Harris reflectively. ‘Nor the panicky type, either. She wasn’t strong enough to pull me up the roof on her own, sir. But she didn’t fluster and she thought about what to do as though she had all the time in the world. I wasn’t much help, either. I was scared to death.’

‘Understandably,’ commented Robinson. ‘I know you don’t think she did it. I think I might release Miss Parkes. I haven’t formally charged her yet. What do you think, Terry?’

‘No one else in the house had the time. She was out of reckoning for hours. She says that she was asleep but she was alone. I dunno, Jack. I reckon she killed it, all right.’

‘And you, Constable?’

Constable Harris hesitated. His sergeant nudged him. ‘Go on, boy, spit it out.’

‘Well, sir, she hasn’t got anywhere to go. We came and got her and she can’t go back to Mrs W’s house. She’s been getting her life together and we came in and smashed it all to bits. I . . . I don’t know what would happen to her if we let her go.’ He was still powerfully affected by Miss Parkes’s brown eyes and her courage and the strength of her warm hands.

‘Well, we gotta either charge her or let her go. I reckon we charge her,’ said Grossmith. ‘Even though I think she did a good day’s work.’

‘There is the notebook,’ said Robinson. ‘Mr Christopher’s little red book. It seems to have lists of names and places in it. It’s stained, so I’ve sent it to the lab to see what they can make of it. They can photograph through filters and so on, it seems. Modern science. Also, we’ve had a look at the ashes in the fireplace. Love letters, they seem to be. Addressed to Christine. The sender’s name is burned away. Well, let’s have Miss Parkes charged, then, and we can keep her in custody for a while and see what else happens. By the way, Sergeant Grossmith, what did you get from the carnies about Mr Christopher?’

‘Not much, sir. Didn’t seem to have no enemies. Did two shows a day, dressed half-man, half-woman. Always lived out of the camp when the circus was in town. Kept himself to himself, like Miss Parkes said.’ He opened his notebook and referred to his meticulous notes. ‘The owner of the circus, Samuel Farrell, aged forty-eight, says that it’d been working with his show for some years and it seemed very happy and was a good performer. The really disgusting thing was Miss Molly Younger, thirty-two, trick rider, who told me that she was going to marry it. Pretty girl too, blonde. Wizard with horses, they say. She was real cut up about Mr Christopher being dead, when she ought to have been down on her knees thanking God for a merciful release.’

‘Sergeant Grossmith,’ said Robinson, ‘you will refer to Mr Christopher as “the deceased”, “the victim”, or “him”. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir. If you say so, sir. No one noticed anyone being missing but them carnies only pay attention if someone’s late into the ring. Their show was at eight o’clock and went on until eleven. After that everyone went to their own tent or caravan or whatever and no one noticed anything odd. They hadn’t heard about the death of . . . of the victim until I told ’em the next day. The three that called at the house, sir, they was Alan Lee, thirty, carousel proprietor; Doreen Hughes, wouldn’t tell me her age but about thirty-five, snake handler; and Samson, real name John Little, twenty-eight, occupation strongman. And, Jeez, he looks it, too. They said they was looking for . . . the deceased . . . to give him a message from Miss Younger. They ain’t got no alibis for the night before, except that Samson was performing and Lee and Hughes were in the sideshows until midnight. No one in the whole show can really vouch for any of the others.’