Blood and Circuses (12 page)

‘I do. You’re taking her on the grand tour? Look out for the lions. Someone’s been niggling them. Listen.’

Deep, angry roaring disrupted the camp and seemed to echo out of the ground. Horses neighed and camels bubbled and honked, made uneasy by the feral voices of the flesh eaters.

‘Thanks for the warning. This way, Fern.’

Phryne followed Dulcie, stepping carefully over guys. A strong scent of cooking became apparent. Someone was having bubble and squeak for lunch.

‘Hello, Mr Shakespeare,’ said Dulcie. ‘Bit of bacon would go real well with that.’ A blocky middle-sized man with a painted face looked up from stirring a pot over a small fire. His features were disguised but he had clear and beautiful grey eyes, and he smiled under his mask.

‘Dulcie. Don’t be cheeky. How nice to see you. You want some potato and cabbage?’ He had a treacle-toffee voice, slightly accented. ‘It’s nearly ready.’

‘No thanks, I’m showing a newie around. This is our new rider, her name’s Fern. This is Mr Matthias Shakespeare. Him and his brother are our main clowns.’

‘Jo Jo and Toby, Musical Madness,’ said the man, taking Phryne’s hand with the one not occupied in stirring. ‘Being myself and my brother Toby. Welcome to the Circus. Toby! Come and meet a new rider.’

A muffled assenting voice came from the caravan and Toby emerged. He was dishevelled and evidently had been interrupted, as one eye was outlined in white and the other was bare.

‘Off with the motley, it’s lunch time,’ said Matthias. ‘Meet Fern.’

Matthias looked at Phryne with appreciation and seemed to wish to further the acquaintance. Then he was distracted by his brother.

‘I don’t think much of that new greasepaint, it’s dry and it flakes. I don’t think I want any lunch, Matt. Hello, Dulcie.’ Toby’s voice was sad and dreary. He ignored Phryne.

‘Oh, Toby, just a mouthful or so. You have to eat something. It’s bubble and squeak. You like my bubble and squeak.’ Matthias sounded worried.

Toby groaned. ‘Again?’ He slumped down into a canvas chair and put his head in his hands. Matthias patted Toby’s shoulder and the man looked up. It was hard to discern his features under the heavy makeup but his mouth curved down, in opposition to the elevation of his painted smile.

‘Cheer up, Toby,’ said Matthias. ‘Try a bit of lunch. You have to keep up your strength. Here, let me just dish up, then I have to clean my face. And you’re right about the new paint. I think we’ll go back to Max Factor. Come on, Tobias, give me a smile, eh?’ They had forgotten all about the visitors.

Dulcie led Phryne on, through a maze of washing lines and parked vans.

‘One of the rules is that you never look in a caravan window,’ she instructed. ‘If you have to go out at night, you don’t talk to people you see and you don’t say where you seen ’em. You don’t go into anyone’s tent unless they invite you. All right?’

‘All right,’ agreed Phryne.

The circus was vast and bewildering. The number of people who might want to destroy it was unknown and it seemed impossible to keep tabs on everyone. Phryne was conscious of being alone in shabby clothes and completely ignorant. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, this time, Phryne, she thought. You’ll never make any sense out of this.

‘To understand a circus,’ she added aloud, stepping sideways to avoid a passing camel, ‘you obviously have to be born in a trunk.’

‘Too right,’ agreed Dulcie.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tread lightly, lest you wake a sleeping bear.

Oliver Goldsmith’s epitaph
on Samuel Johnson

Mr Robert Sheridan, on his return home, was all apologies that the constable had not been able to get into his room, which he unlocked immediately.

‘Oh, I see. You’re moving out, then?’ said Tommy. The room was bare, the bed had been made up and all the pictures and memorabilia were gone.

‘I move back into my caravan tomorrow, so I took all my things down to Farrell’s this morning.’ Mr Sheridan smiled at Tommy. ‘I hope that is not too inconvenient?’

‘No, Mr Sheridan. When does the circus leave?’

‘Friday. After that, it will be hard for you to find me.’

‘Leave me an itinerary, please,’ said Tommy, taking out his notebook and licking his pencil. Mr Sheridan seemed a little put out but began, ‘Rockbank on Saturday, we will be there four days. I expect to hear the Melbourne Cup there. Then Melton, four days, then Bacchus Marsh, only a couple of days. Myrniong after that, I don’t think we’re stopping there. Ballan for four days. Through Gordon to Wallace, four days, and then Bungareek—quaint, these rustic names, are they not? From Bungareek to Ballarat. We expect to stay there a week. Or longer, if there is a good attendance. There usually is, say two weeks’ audiences at Ballarat. Then to Sebastopol or Smythesdale. After that we do Linton, four days, and the run of little towns: Skipton, Carranballac, Glenelg, Lake Bolac—we swam the elephants there last year—Wickliffe, although we won’t be stopping there because some idiot accused me of witchcraft there last season. Witchcraft, in 1928! Glenthompson, Dunkeld, and we finish that road at Hamilton. From there we take a different road back, along the coast. I’m not precisely sure of the route.’

‘That will do, thank you,’ said Tommy Harris, sure that if he didn’t solve this murder by the time the circus got to Hamilton, he would never solve it. ‘Can messages be left?’

‘Just address a letter to the next town. Nothing travels slower than us. Of course, when I was with Wirth’s, we travelled in style, on the train. On the road, Farrell’s goes at elephant pace, four miles an hour. And slower, sometimes, depending on the weather, though that looks set fair. Is there anything more, Constable?’

‘Not at the moment, sir.’ Harris tried to look stern and official. ‘But I may be seeing you again.’

‘Always at your service,’ said the magician and drew a string of flags from the constable’s pocket. ‘Well, well. How did they get there?’

Straight-faced, Constable Harris returned the flags to Mr Sheridan and left the house.

Miss Parkes was formally charged with murder. From the dock she said, ‘I don’t know if I did it.’ The magistrate took this as a plea of not guilty and set her down for a committal hearing in ten weeks’ time. Bail was not applied for and was formally refused. The magistrate remanded her in custody to await her trial.

Because there was no room in Pentridge for female prisoners, she was taken back to the watch-house. Such as remained of her sanity was applied to sharpening her stolen knife on the stone wall of her cell.

Phryne was still following Dulcie around the circus. Scents arose and delighted her. Tar, sulphur, the reek of burning hoof and new-staunched metal in the horse lines. The strange thick odour of camel. The smell of drying hay. Canvas, toffee, engine oil. They were approaching a very grand large caravan. Outside it a slim blonde woman was sitting under an awning, rubbing liniment into the calf of one leg.

‘Hello, Miss Bevan.’

‘Damn! Can you reach around for me, Dulcie? I can’t afford a cramp.’ Dulcie nudged Phryne, who took the offered leg and began to smooth oil into the bunched muscle. Miss Bevan accepted her ministrations without bothering to acknowledge them. I can’t ask Joseph for another massage so soon. He’s very busy, you know.’

Phryne, rubbing assiduously, reflected that however busy the camp’s horse doctor was, a lowly rider could be commandeered at any time. She wondered suddenly how Dot felt, attending on Phryne. Phryne, as employer and mistress, expected service, just as this flyer did. The tense muscle relaxed under her touch and Phryne got to her feet. Miss Bevan wiggled her toes. ‘Thanks,’ she said carelessly. She put her foot to the ground and stood up. ‘Yes. That’ll do. Is she new to the show?’ she asked, looking at Dulcie. ‘Better get her a practice tunic. I’ll give her one of mine. Mum just made me three new ones. Falling off a horse knocks hell out of clothes, especially if you haven’t got many.’

Phryne boiled with shame. Second-hand garments, hand-me-downs, had been an aspect of childhood poverty that had been hard to bear. She hated wearing clothes made for someone else. But she gulped her humiliation down and accepted a skimpy sky-blue tunic from Miss Bevan. It had been patched.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Phryne. ‘It’s very nice.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Miss Bevan. She lost interest in them and Dulcie drew Phryne on.

‘That’s the Flying Bevans. They’re world-class flyers. Everyone wants to be a flyer.’

‘Do they?’ said Phryne, folding the tunic. Miss Bevan was right. It was nothing. Phryne was feeling angry and ashamed. She was being ignored. Miss Bevan had not even looked at her or spoken to her directly. ‘Where now?’

‘Round here are the sleeping tents. They double as changing tents.’

Phryne lifted a flap. A long row of beds lined one side of the tent. Each had a trunk or suitcase next to it. The other side was cluttered with costumes hanging over lines, properties, and what appeared to be an elephant saddle.

‘Here’s the kitchen,’ said Dulcie. ‘Hello, Mrs T. What’s for lunch?’

A bent crone scowled up from her covey of kettles. Steam had damped her hair and it hung in witch-locks around her nutcracker face.

‘You take your fingers out of me pots, Dulcie,’ she snarled. ‘Lunch is over. You’ll have to wait till dinner. And what are you trailing along with yer? Another mouth to feed?’ She glared at Phryne. ‘Ye’re nothing but a nuisance, girl.’

Dulcie did not seem at all cast down. ‘Stew again?’ she asked. ‘I dunno what you’d do if them sheep didn’t keep on dying of old age.’

Mrs T threw a tin mug with accuracy and venom. Dulcie ducked and caught the missile with effortless grace. Then she juggled it with a box of matches and a ladle. She tossed them back, one by one, to the old woman, who caught them easily. Dulcie backed away, taking Phryne with her.

‘She’s a good cook but she ain’t half got a temper. You stay out of casting range when she loses her rag, Fern. Even chucked a chopper, once, and missed the old man’s head by a whisker. He was complaining about having mutton stew ten days running. She told him to go kill a horse if he wanted a change of diet. She’s married to a clown, though. That always sours the temper.’

‘What, one of the Shakespeares?’

‘No, they ain’t married. They’re Jews. They don’t get married like us. No, Mrs T married Thompson, the acrobatic clown. He’s a great performer and he loves his dog, but he’s a real mean old cuss otherwise. Clowns are like that. They waste all their niceness on the audience. Then they ain’t got none left for the rest of us. All right, now, that’s the men’s tent. Instant dismissal if you’re caught inside it, no matter what the reason. Farrell told you that? This caravan belongs to Mr Robert Sheridan, the magician, he ain’t here yet. He don’t lodge with us common folk when we’re in town. Wait a bit. I have to deliver a message. Just wait for me here.’

Phryne felt in her pocket for a cigarette. There seemed to be no rule against smoking. She lit a gasper and drew in the smoke gratefully. She was feeling off balance. Deprived of her usual props and stays and allies, and having to speak with the accent of her childhood, she was losing confidence. No one seemed to like her, and she was used to being liked, or at least noticed. She closed her eyes.

A strong hand took hold of her scarf and pulled at it. She gasped, her eyes snapping open. The hand felt rapidly down her body until it reached her cardigan pocket. She let the scarf fall, grabbed for the hand and found she was holding an elephant’s trunk.

The end was soft, pinkish, and as sure as the grasp of fingers. She sighted up along it to a grey mass of body, tethered by one foot to a picket. Bright eyes in the plane of the face winked at her. Sail-like ears flapped.

‘Oh, you gave me such a shock,’ said Phryne as the delicate trunk curled around her wrist with a warm noise like a kiss. ‘My, you are big! What a huge creature you are.’ The elephant gave an absurdly small squeak, the sort of noise that should have come from a mouse, Phryne thought. It rocked from foot to foot. ‘What do you want?’ asked Phryne as the trunk began to quest through her clothes. ‘Oh, I see.’

There were three peppermints in her pocket, which she had brought to feed the horses. She was about to bring them out when the trunk curled back to the huge mouth and a noise like a concrete mixer offended her ears. The elephant had picked her pocket. ‘I wonder who taught you that?’ she asked aloud.

‘Rajah, you’re a bad girl,’ said a sharp voice. ‘You ain’t been doing that pickpocket trick on our own folk, not after I told you it was a low mean act.’

A tiny man with hay in his hair ducked under Rajah’s bulk and blinked into the sunlight.

‘I’m Fern,’ said Phryne. ‘I’m the new rider in the rush.’

She waited for him to snub her, as Lyn Bevan had, but the small man was too busy apologising for his elephant to concern himself with questions of status.

‘Billy Thomas,’ said the elephant keeper. ‘I dunno where she picked that up. Did it herself, maybe. Queer creatures, elephants. Sorry about that. I keep moving her picket back and she keeps movin’ it forward again. What did she get?’

‘Three peppermints.’