by Evelyn James
Clara, having met David and found him perfectly ordinary and far from sinister, wondered about Maven’s talk of not holding prejudices.
“Are there any other Americans among your funfair staff?” She asked.
“Lady Grey, the Elephant Woman, is from Mississippi, or so she claims,” Maven replied. “She isn’t like the Elephant Man, mind, we call her that because of her girth and her saggy skin. She has legs like post-boxes. Anyway, she is my only other American. Most of my acts are English, or European. Had quite a few come from Russia after the revolution. Russia produces some amazing acrobats, I guess it is all the bullet dodging.”
Maven gave a laugh at what he seemed to think was a clever joke. Clara was unimpressed.
“I suggest you put word out for everyone to keep their eyes peeled for any Americans visiting the funfair,” Clara said without responding to the jest. “I have this feeling the person behind last night’s attack has not finished yet.”
That brought Maven back to earth with a bump. He scowled out the window of the caravan.
“All these years,” he said to himself. “All these years with Clark performing across the country and not a murmur, not one jot of fuss, now suddenly someone takes a grudge. It’s all designed to ruin me.”
“Mr Maven, it is remarkable how everything is aimed at you,” Clara said with polite sarcasm.
Maven did not catch her tone, instead he responded with a look of genuine horror.
“Yes, Miss Fitzgerald, yes, it is! And I have done nothing to warrant it, nothing!”
Clara retrieved the knife from the table and waited for Maven to secure Ted before she left. The old dog seemed content enough with a belly full of bacon and just gave her a cursory snarl as she departed through the wooden gate. Clara reflected on the remarkable similarity between dog and owner.
“Miss Fitzgerald, you appreciate the urgency of this matter,” Maven asked once she was through the gate. He released Ted’s collar and the dog scuttled up the caravan steps as fast as he could. A moment later there was the clatter of a plate being knocked off the table and it was obvious Ted was helping himself to the remains of Maven’s breakfast.
“Damn dog!” Maven yelled running to the steps without receiving an answer from Clara.
She had no intention, in any case, of replying to his ridiculous question. Of course, the matter was urgent; someone might decide that their warning towards Clark had not been enough and that they needed to do something worse. A troubling thought kept creeping into Clara’s mind that maybe this was all a prelude to Clark being murdered; a way of making him suffer before that happened. It was a terrible thing to think, especially as there was an endless number of potential suspects coming and going from the fair all the time. If the assailant was not an actual member of the funfair, then their only hope might be to catch them in the act, and that could go horribly wrong.
Clara hoped that would not be necessary, that someone would be able to tell her of a person who hated Clark. Even better, if O’Harris could just get Clark to remember, then he would be able to tell them who came into his tent last night and murdered Gung-Ho. Even if he could not offer a name, he could give a description and spot the person if he saw them again.
Too many ‘ifs.
Clara decided to find David, the coffee seller who had shown such concern for Clark last night. Maybe he knew more about the cowboy’s history and could offer some ideas.
Clara felt Mad-Jack’s knife move in her handbag, falling to one side and reminding her of its heavy weight. You had to ask yourself who would be fond enough of Mad-Jack that they would bring his knife all the way to England to hunt down Clark? Had they been found with such a knife aboard a boat, there would have been some difficult questions. Though the customs authorities could be alarmingly lax at checking passengers.
To her surprise, Clara found the weight of the knife in her handbag somewhat reassuring. Recent events had left her wary, worried for her safety and the knife, though not hers, gave a sudden spark to her confidence. Clara had never carried a weapon in her life, but she now could see why a person might.
Feeling a new sense of security coming over her, Clara followed her nose, heading in the direction of the scent of coffee.
Chapter Nine
“David?”
The coffee seller glanced up from cleaning one of the brass pots he used on his stall. Even when he was not brewing, the aroma of coffee grounds filled the air and marked out the purpose of all the little saucepans and pots.
David looked up and smiled at her. It was a wary smile, as if someone he did not know using his name filled him with uncertainty.
David had tight, curly black hair, that seemed most profuse on the top of his head, so he rather looked like a small bush had sat on his scalp. He was somewhere in his thirties with big, worried eyes and hands that seemed always occupied with a task. Clara had only vaguely noticed his accent the night before; she had not really been thinking about such things at the time, nor did it particularly worry her if David was Polish or not, Jewish, Christian or atheist. She judged people on their words and actions, not by a label. Now, as he spoke, she heard the Eastern European intonations through the heavy, and slightly forced, American twang.
“Clara Fitzgerald,” she introduced herself, being unable to recall if she had told him her name the night before. “I am trying to find out who assaulted Clark last night.”
“He was attacked?” David looked appalled.
“Not physically,” Clara explained, it was tricky finding the right phrase for what had occurred to Clark. He had not been personally struck, but surely the psychological impact of what had happened to him warranted the word ‘assault’? “Last night someone murdered Gung-Ho, with the result that Clark entered the state of mind we all witnessed.”
“The horse?” David was now confused. “Why would anyone do that?”
“A good question,” Clara sighed. “The result of the events of last night is that Clark has lost all memories of Gung-Ho and, as a consequence, all his memories of the last decade. He does not recall where he is, or why he came to England in the first place.”
David nodded thoughtfully. Unlike Maven, whose reaction to Clark’s condition had been annoyance and frustration, David appeared to completely understand the situation.
“Yes, yes, I have seen this happen to men before,” David said quietly. “Something so terrible happens to them, the only way they can cope with it is to erase it from their minds along with everything else associated with it. Clark loved that horse.”
“So I have heard. Gung-Ho performed tricks?”
David’s smile broadened.
“Gung-Ho was more human than a lot of people around here,” he said. “Clark would bring him over to have a coffee sometimes. That horse insisted on three sugar cubes and lots of milk in his coffee.”
The smile waned as David realised he would never serve Gung-Ho a coffee again.
“I am confused. This is such a strange thing to happen.”
“Not so strange if you see it as an act of revenge on Clark,” Clara replied. “Trouble is, no one seems to be able to suggest a person who hated Clark enough to want to make him suffer in this way. And he has forgotten everything about last night.”
“It was a threat,” David nodded. “Someone wanting to pain him, like if they hurt a member of his family.”
“The question I am struggling with is whether this was all that was intended to happen, or whether this person intends more harm on Clark.”
David had no trouble following Clara’s train of thought, unlike Maven who had seemed to bump around the idea in his head with no clue what was really going on – other than that his prime act was going to be absent for a while and cost him money.
“This may have been a warning to Clark, a warning he can’t remember. Maybe this person said, ‘get out of town or I kill you, like I kill this horse’ and Clark has no idea,” David shook his head sadly. “This is very bad.”
Th
at was an understatement.
“Since Clark can’t remember anything about last night, I am hoping someone else may know a reason for the attack. Maven suggested you and Clark are friends.”
“We are,” David nodded his head proudly. “I am the only one who makes coffee the way Clark likes best.”
“Do you know anyone in the funfair who has had trouble with Clark, it might be something that seems minor to us, but has caused that person to become resentful of him?”
David stopped rubbing the brass pot in his hand, looking off to one side with a wrinkled brow as he thought about what Clara had said.
“Clark keeps himself to himself, he is not rude, just not fussed about making many friends. I can think of little odd things that have happened, the sort of things that always occur when people are travelling together, but they don’t seem important.”
“You would be surprised what can spark a grudge,” Clara assured him. “What were these little things?”
David pulled a face, then he waved a hand in the direction of the other side of the funfair.
“Duncan, who deals with all the supplies, he complained that Gung-Ho was eating too much hay and should be put out to graze more instead. Clark said Gung-Ho was a prairie horse and could not cope with a lot of fresh grass, he was better on hay and oats.”
Clara turned and saw that David was loosely indicating a man stood near a cart loaded with boxes. He was unstacking the boxes into a tent and Clara guessed that each contained provisions for the performers and staff of the funfair.
“How much did he complain?” Clara asked.
“He tried to insist that Clark pay for the extra hay out of his own pocket. Clark said that his contract included provisions for Gung-Ho and he was not paying a penny. I don’t think they have talked in a while.”
Clara made a mental note of this, considering that Gung-Ho had been the victim, there was always the possibility that someone was acting on a grudge they had against the horse, rather than Clark.
“Who else?” She asked.
“Mary the Painted Lady,” Clark did not wave this time as Mary was not in his eyeline. “Before Clark became involved with Polly, he was involved with Mary. They were together for several years, then Polly came along and Clark picked up with her.”
That was a very good reason for wishing him ill – love turned to hate in a heartbeat.
“Anyone else?”
David’s forehead creased further as he thought hard over the question, at last he cast his eyes towards the gateway and sucked in his lower lip as if coming to a tough decision.
“Gunther, one of the guards who patrols around here at night. Clark said they had had an argument, that it had almost come to blows, but he would not speak about it further. It seemed to have shaken him.”
Clara looked in the direction of the gates and saw the two security men, brawny thugs who certainly looked ready to deal with any trouble, smoking cigarettes and talking. They had done their patrol and were now manning the gate until the public was properly allowed in.
“Which one is Gunther?”
“He has the droopy right eye. He was shot in the war.”
“Is he German?”
“Austrian,” David shrugged. “I think he was a very bad man during the war. I think he did things none of us want to know about.”
David gave a little shudder and that hunted look returned to his eyes. Clara wondered what his story was, how he had ended up in England making coffee in a funfair, but this was not the time to ask about his history.
“David, how long have you known Clark?”
David’s uneasiness lifted as he returned to a subject he preferred.
“I think it is about five years now. I come from what is now called Poland but used to be Galicia. I left during the war; it seemed the wisest idea. Things were already tense and difficult. I was in France a while, but the Germans drew closer and I was worried what might happen if they found me,” David ducked his head a fraction. “I had worked for a small anarchist group in Galicia. We were vocal, but not violent, at least that was what we tried to be. I knew that certain people were watching me and when war came, I was warned I was best to get out of the country. People were vanishing overnight, it was frightening, the Austrians were behind it, but also some of my countrymen.
“Anyway, France was no longer safe, as I knew I was on a wanted listed and if the Hun found me, I was a dead man. So, I found a way onto a hospital ship heading for England. I paid my way by helping out as an orderly and then I was in this country and had no idea what to do with myself. Being safe is slightly bitter when you are starving and cold.
“It was by chance, and because I was looking for food and hoped I might find some thrown away by visitors, that I entered the funfair one night. I was frail and had been living as a tramp for some time. As I was wandering about, I heard this man arguing about coffee with a stall holder. I had nothing better to do and I walked over. I knew how to make very good coffee, but I had not had any in so long. My mouth was watering.
“The coffee seller was English and, I am sorry to say, did not really know how to make anything but black broth labelled as coffee. The English will consume the worst bile as coffee, you know? I don’t blame you. No one has taught you what real coffee is, but I could see the man complaining did know and suddenly I heard myself offering to make good coffee. I don’t know why they agreed, why they thought this tramp with an Eastern European accent should be given a chance. But the English coffee seller had stormed off and his stall was just sat there.
“I made the coffee. I gave a cup to the complaining man and his eyes lit up. I assume you have guessed I am referring to Clark. From that moment he declared I must always make coffee for the funfair, and more importantly for him. I needed the work and was not going to protest. Here I am.”
“You owe Clark a lot,” Clara smiled.
“I do. We have become friends over the years and over the coffee.”
David placed the brass pot back on his stall and started checking over the little stove that would heat his water.
“Would you like a cup?”
“I have never quite developed the taste for coffee,” Clara refused politely. “I’m afraid I am very English and very fond of tea.”
“There is nothing wrong with that,” David grinned.
“I don’t suppose Clark has ever mentioned to you why he left America?” Clara asked.
“He doesn’t tend to talk much about his life before the funfair,” David said, apologetic that he could only be of limited help. “I always had the impression that he was bitter about having to leave the US. I don’t know how to describe it other than this feeling that if ever he talked about America or saw another American, he had this… edge to his voice.”
“Could it have been anything to do with his last bounty?” Clara asked. “That seems to be the earliest he can remember, riding into Cactus Falls to claim a bounty. He had his horse Indiana.”
“Indiana died of colic,” David said as the name rang a bell. “Clark told me that once when he was talking about his horses. He always thought Indiana had eaten something he shouldn’t have, or maybe drank too much water. Anyway, one night he collapsed in his stable, Clark was summoned, but there was nothing could be done.”
“Horses are prone to that,” Clara said, rattling up the idea from her limited knowledge of horses.
“Horses are prone to lots of things,” David flicked his eyes up to the sky in a ‘what-can-you-do?’ gesture. “For an animal so strong, they can be remarkably weak.”
“Then he bought Gung-Ho?” Clara asked.
“Yes, he was the replacement for Indiana,” David nodded. “Only, he had something wrong with his back. Couldn’t bear a saddle or rider on him. Had Clark been back in the US he might have sold him, but he was in England and did not need to ride, and Gung-Ho was very clever.”
“And became part of Clark’s act.”
“Precisely,” David became sad. “I think it
is another black mark against the morality of humankind that someone would slay a dumb animal just for revenge on a man. Sometimes I think God must despair of us.”
“I couldn’t comment,” Clara admitted. “Though I like to think there is more good in this world than evil, that the balance is in the favour of kindness and honesty.”
David gave her a wistful look.
“You do not strike me as naïve, yet you think like this?”
“I spend my working days hunting murderers and criminals,” Clara replied. “I am a private detective, yet despite what I have seen, or maybe because of it, I have this hope within me that good will win out one day, that we are all heading in the direction of becoming better people, rather than the opposite.”
David gave her a very solemn look.
“I lost my hope a long time ago, and this…” he did not need to explain that he meant the incident with Clark. “Well, it has only compounded my feelings.”
“That’s a shame,” Clara said softly. “A life without hope must be very lonely.”
“Yet not filled with disappointment anymore,” David managed to smile. “I do not mean to sound so callous, but life has taught me it is better to dwell in reality and not indulge hope.”
Clara had no response to that.
“Thank you for talking to me, if you remember anything else, will you tell me?”
“Of course,” David promised. “I want to help Clark. I shall be keeping my eye on him too.”
“Good. I think the more people watching his back the better, and if you see any Americans around, let me know. It is possible his killer has come across an ocean to find him.”
“You suspect something happened in America that sparked all this?” David thought about that. “It seems a very logical assumption, but I know of nothing.”