Blood and Circuses (20 page)

‘Then you went and did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘I smelt you. I can smell you now. Greasepaint and lust. You slut!’

Phryne sat back on the hard bed and stared. She had not remembered that one cannot keep secrets in a circus. Miss Younger stepped out of the dish and flung the water out the door. She did not dress but stood, hands on slim hips, glaring.

‘You tart!’ she yelled suddenly. ‘I could smell the polecat stink of you from Missy’s back. You haven’t even washed.’

Phryne decided to say exactly what she meant.

‘I haven’t done any harm,’ she began.

Miss Younger’s chest heaved and she began to breathe in short, painful gasps. ‘No harm? No harm? You’ve only been here a few days and you lie down with a clown!’

‘I like him,’ said Phryne coldly. ‘What business is it of yours?’ She decided to attack. ‘Haven’t you ever had a lover?’

Hands shot out to her throat and began to strangle. Phryne choked, broke the grip with both thumbs biting into the tendons and punched Miss Younger in the stomach. Her fist bounced off muscles like rubber. Miss Younger screamed at Phryne, ‘Slut!’ and Phryne slapped her across the face with all her force. The woman crumpled to the ground.

‘He’s dead,’ said Miss Younger, flatly. ‘He’s dead.’

Phryne accepted Miss Younger into her arms. The woman knelt with her face against Phryne’s breasts and moaned. ‘He’s dead. Mr Christopher is dead. Murdered.’ Phryne did not know what to say. She had not realised just how much the man had meant to the horsemaster. Molly Younger was now weeping freely, with her head buried in Phryne’s lap, kneeling between her knees. Her tears were soaking the cheap cotton dress. All Phryne could do was embrace Molly close and say nothing.

After ten minutes, bitter lamentations were whispered just above hearing.

‘He wanted us to travel together,’ she heard the woman say. ‘He wanted us to live together, to share a caravan. I said we couldn’t because . . . because we weren’t married yet and I wasn’t a tart. It hurt his feelings. He went back to his boarding house and . . . I wanted him,’ she sobbed. ‘I never wanted a man before. They say I only love horses. I do love them. But . . . you stink of love,’ she snarled suddenly. ‘A little slut off the streets, out of the dancehalls, and you’ve . . .’ She drooped. ‘You’ve got love, even the clown, even though no one sleeps with clowns.’ She groaned, then demanded shrilly, ‘Did you enjoy him, then, slut? Did he please you, Jo Jo the clown? Did he touch you and kiss you until you were dizzy? And did you lie down and open your legs and . . .’ Her voice choked again.

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, treading very carefully. ‘I lay down with him and he loved me and I loved him.’

‘You won’t do it again!’ Miss Younger clutched at Phryne’s hips and sank her fingers in around the bone.

Phryne winced. ‘Not again,’ she said softly. ‘Not if you say not.’

Miss Younger made a convulsive movement, forcing Phryne back onto the bed. She slid upwards, rubbing her body against Phryne’s as though she wanted to penetrate it, to be inside her skin and bones. Her rigid lips gaped and she kissed Phryne’s mouth with great force.

Phryne held her tight and kissed her back. The mouth was strong, with a muscular jaw, and Molly kissed wildly and clumsily as though she would bite. Phryne was seized with great pity. Mr Christopher and Miss Younger. Man–woman and woman-man. They were made for each other and no one else would fit. Miss Younger broke off the kiss and shoved Phryne away.

‘It’s all right,’ said Phryne gently. ‘It’s all right for you to love women. I know two women who live together in the country and they are perfectly happy. No one has even noticed.’

‘No!’ Miss Younger screamed, mouth still wet from contact. ‘No! Not you, not any woman! I’m not a freak, not a pervert! I have done without love, I can forget about love. Only when I smell the stink of sluts on heat, like you, does it come back.’ She was panting and the grip on Phryne’s arm was bruisingly tight. ‘I only ever wanted one person in the world, the only one I could love. I never thought there’d be anyone. I’m a man, you stupid bitch. I’m a man. Cursed with this body, which is wrong and bleeds and betrays me. Formed wrong. Born wrong. And so was he. Born different. Born for me, my only one, my dear love. And he’s dead. Gone. I’ve lost him forever. And I never lay with him, never found out about love while I had the chance. Leave me,’ she said harshly.

Phryne stood up and moved away. She stopped at the caravan door as the woman gasped, ‘The clown.’

‘Yes?’

Miss Younger veiled her eyes in the cloud of her hair. ‘Do you really want him?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne honestly.

‘Then take him,’ said Miss Younger. ‘Even if he is a clown. Take him while you can get him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Like I should have taken mine.’

She turned her face to the wall and began to weep, deep shuddering sobs, like a man crying, unwilling. There did not seem to be anything Phryne could do. She left, closing the door behind her. A roustabout, seeing her dishevelled condition, laughed.

‘I knew she was one of them sheilas that don’t like men,’ he jeered.

As Phryne walked past she unthinkingly, and with accuracy and force, slapped him off his feet and into a pile of elephant dung.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cup
Of Death is empty and Life hath always hope.

Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)
The Trojan Women

‘Dear Fern,’ began Jack Robinson, then stopped. He always found composition difficult. His pen spluttered and the words just would not put themselves in the right order. ‘Hear you’re with the circus. Hope you’re doing well,’ he went on, then wondered how he was going to convey the information about Exit and Mr Christopher’s murder which Phryne needed to know. Years of writing official reports had cramped his style.

‘Heard a bit of gossip the other day,’ he wrote, getting an idea. ‘Bloke that was with your show. A man–woman act. His name was Mr Christopher. It seems that he was murdered, Fern. Someone stuck a shiv into him. They say there was blood dripping through the ceiling of this boarding house he was living in. Real creepy. Living in the same place as your magician, Mr Sheridan. I think they got some woman for the murder. I can’t understand how she could do it.’

Robinson paused and took a gulp of tea. He was proud of himself. That ought to convey his unease about the case of Miss Parkes. Now for Exit. ‘I also hear . . .’ What
was
he going to say? Aha. ‘. . . rumours about a new show. They want dancers, so if you’re back soon you can audition for it. It’s set in a prison. One of them surrealist things. I don’t like the idea much. Seems kind of morbid. I’d be looking for the Exit if I was in the audience. Still, there’s no accounting for tastes, as the old woman said when she kissed the cow. I’ll tell you more if you want to phone me. And say the word and I’ll come and take you away. Much love, Jack.’

Robinson scanned the letter. That ought to alert Miss Fisher to the danger, at least, and warn her to look out for any mention of Exit.

He put the letter into an old envelope and gave it to an attendant constable, ordering that it be taken by car to Rockbank to be collected with the circus’s mail. Miss Fisher should have it today. He worried about her.

‘Sir?’ Tommy Harris put his head around the door. I’ve deciphered all I could and Sergeant Grossmith has just got back and wants to see you.’

‘Good. Tell him to come in and bring your notes. Ah, Terry,’ he said expansively, ‘what news on the Rialto?’

Before his sergeant could tell him that the Rialto was in the city and that he had been to Brunswick Street, Robinson motioned his minions to a seat. ‘Well, Terry?’

‘I got onto Pretty Iris,’ said Grossmith. ‘By Jiminy she’s pretty, and as hard as nails. Pure vitriol runs in her veins. She told me that someone called Robert Smith told her he was going to make a lot of money from Exit. He said it was a funeral parlour. That’s how we lost Seddon, you recall, sir. He said he was going to get hundreds of quids for doing something, though Iris didn’t know what, and that Albert Ellis had hired him. That’s about all, sir.’

‘Very good. What have you got, Constable?’ Robinson asked Harris.

‘Not all that much more, sir. There’s several lists of dates and names attached to them. But I thought you’d be interested in some of them. On plate ten, the last page, it says “Ronald Smythe”. He’s on the list of Western District places, sir. And so is Damien Maguire.’

‘Are they indeed?’ Robinson leaned forward and Tommy riffled through his notes.

‘I found this on plate three. It’s a bit faint but you can just make it out. Next to “Portland”, sir, down in that bottom corner.’

He pointed and the detective inspector squinted over the pale scribble. ‘It’s William . . . yes.’ He looked up with a light in his eyes. ‘William Seddon.’

‘Well,’ said Terry Grossmith. ‘Three of ’em. What else is on them plates, Harris?’

‘Love letters, Sarge. Never sent. Perhaps drafts. To a lady called Molly that he was going to marry. And one note that I don’t understand.’

‘Spit it out, son.’

‘It says, “Money. Farrell sells Circus? Jones not rich. Who provided cash?”’

‘Clear enough,’ said Grossmith. ‘If that Jones is the Jones I think it is, then he ain’t got a pot to piss in. Small-time crim with the ’Roys. Thought he hadn’t been infecting the street with his presence lately.’

‘Which Jones?’ asked Robinson anxiously.

‘Killer Jones . . . oh, Lord,’ said Grossmith. ‘Your Miss Fisher’s there. And Jones likes girls. He likes ’em half-dead.’

‘She can look after herself,’ said Robinson abruptly. ‘You said something important then, Terry. Where did the money to interfere in this circus come from? Not from Jones himself. From the ’Roys?’

‘I can’t imagine it,’ said Grossmith. ‘Albert Ellis has more flash than cash.’

‘Harris, get onto it. I want you to find out who owns Farrell’s Circus and who put up the money for Jones. Then I want you back here by this afternoon with a bag. We’re going to Rockbank tonight. I’m going to take you boys to the circus.’

Phryne Fisher, unable to find an occupation which did not involve sewing, strolled into the girls’ tent. It was empty. She opened her suitcase, took out a Coles notepad and a pencil and wrote busily for ten minutes. Then she tore off and folded the papers and stuffed them down her front.

The suitcase seemed even more in disarray than when she had left it. She put it down on her bed and rummaged through its contents. It had certainly been searched. Her little gun and her box of ammunition were gone.

With a great effort she managed to saunter casually through the circus and into the carnival, where Alan Lee was leaning on one pole of his carousel. She took off her cardigan, draped it over her arm and took his hand under cover of it.

‘Fern?’ he said under his breath, as her hand slipped in his grasp. Her palms were sweating. ‘What’s gone wrong?’

‘They’re onto me,’ she said, her lips hardly moving. ‘Can you send these telegrams for me?’

‘Yes.’ He took the pages that she slipped him and shoved them down his shirt. ‘Can I do something else for you?’

‘Call Dot on this number and ask for any news. And try to send the telegrams without anyone seeing you. I’ll come back in an hour. You might have to wait for a reply.’

‘You frightened, Fern?’

‘No,’ she lied.

He held her hand in a strong clasp for a moment, then released it. ‘Break a leg, Fern.’

Phryne was afraid that she would. Who had searched the suitcase? One of the girls? If so, who? And was this idle curiosity? No. Idle curiosity would not take the gun.

It was time that she took the initiative. But there was not much she could do until she had some answers. Finally she wandered down to where Dulcie was repairing a large box.

‘H’lo Fern, come and help me.’

Phryne took one side of the box and tilted it, so that Dulcie could tuck the piece of cloth she was gluing underneath.

‘What is this?’ Phryne found her voice. It was shaky.

‘It’s the magician’s disappearing-trick box. See,’ Dulcie motioned Phryne to set the box down and walked her around it, ‘it looks solid.’ She tapped it. ‘It sounds solid. But this side is just cloth, painted to look like that stained wood. So all the sides match and it ain’t too difficult to make Dulcie vanish.’

‘How do you vanish, then?’

‘I just lift up the side and out I go.’ She demonstrated. ‘There’s a screen between me and the punters.’

The screen was also painted to look like the box and was of canvas. Dulcie fitted neatly between the screen and the outer wall of the box.

‘Only thing to do is not to giggle,’ said Dulcie. ‘What’s the matter, Fern? You look pale.’

‘Miss Younger . . .’ said Phryne. Dulcie patted her shoulder.

‘It’s real hard for her,’ she said slowly. ‘Losing Mr Christopher like that. But it’s not surprising that she went crook. She sorta looks after us girls. And it’s my fault too, Fern. I oughta told you about clowns.’

‘What about clowns?’

‘They’re off limits,’ said Dulcie slowly. ‘I dunno why. It’s just always been like that. It’s all right for them to marry, like old Thompson, but not to have lovers, not to be happy. Clowns ain’t supposed to be happy. You did the wrong thing, Fern.’

‘So I did the wrong thing.’

‘And you gotta give him up.’

‘Do I?’ Phryne was bewildered. Just as she had thought that she was understanding the circus, it had turned unaccountable and alien again. ‘And if I don’t?’

‘Then you’ll be a tart. They’ll all be coming to the tent and asking for you. You’ll be pestered to death.’

Phryne thought about it. The clown was too sweet to surrender because of the circus’s strange views of morality. He was also the only person who could make her feel loved. She needed him. The affair would have to be secret. Then she remembered that one cannot have secrets in a circus. It was give up the clown or be taken for a tart. The decision was already made. There were worse fates than being pestered. She presumed that they would not go as far as actual rape.

‘Then the pesterers are going to get a shock,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m not giving him up. He’s lovely.’