by Evelyn James
“I shall keep digging,” Clara promised. “There is a key to this somewhere, I just have to find it.”
Chapter Ten
Clara walked over to where a man in a cloth flat cap and tatty brown jacket was taking boxes off a wagon and carrying them into a tent that had a ‘private’ sign on the door. Clara recalled the night before this tent had functioned as a food hall, serving meals to those who had the money to pay for them. Nothing spectacular, but more complex fare than the quick snacks bought at the stalls outside and there were wooden tables and chairs for people to sit down at while they ate.
It was off limits for the time being and Clara patiently waited outside for the gentleman to return. While she did, she noticed a poster pinned to the canvas of the tent that advertised a baking competition for the public, held at the funfair on the following Saturday. Clara made a mental note to inform Annie that one of the categories was best sponge cake. She was bound to enter, determined to prove her worth as a cook. Clara felt that Annie had nothing to prove but, like everyone, Annie had insecurities that caused her to relentlessly seek out baking competitions to enter, so she might demonstrate her worth as a baker.
Clara imagined that if there was such a thing as a private detective competition, she would also be inclined to enter it and demonstrate she was the best around. Perhaps it wasn’t insecurity after all, maybe it was pride.
The gentleman in the cloth cap reappeared, muttering under his breath as he pushed through the canvas flap of the big tent. He looked hunched up and tired, and not in the mood to talk to the likes of Clara. However, he would find he had no choice.
“Are you Duncan?”
The man gave Clara a sharp, suspicious look.
“Tell Maven I’ll get to the peanut stand when I can, I have all these boxes to unload and my back is playing me up,” Duncan flapped a hand at the crates as though they offended him.
“It isn’t about the peanut stand,” Clara explained.
“Well, tell him I have his damn personal supplies ready. He just has to be patient. The cook needs his stuff so he can begin work. The blasted funfair opens at lunchtime, don’t it, and people will be expecting food.”
Clara politely allowed him to finish his rant before speaking.
“I am not here about supplies. I am here to ask a couple of questions concerning Clark the gunslinger.”
Duncan frowned, he had a weather-beaten face that seemed made of rubber and capable of extremely intense expressions. His brow creased into such a deep furrow, you could have held a pencil in it.
“I don’t have time to talk,” he snapped.
“I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer. Something bad happened to Clark last night and my greatest concern is that the incident is the beginning of something worse.”
Duncan snorted, ignoring her as he reached for another box.
“I heard the rumours. Fellow went crazy, that’s all. He’s an American, what do you expect?”
“From your tone, I take it you don’t like Clark much.”
Duncan’s eyes flashed back towards her.
“Don’t try to put words in my mouth,” he snarled. “I don’t like anyone much. I don’t like you.”
Clara smiled.
“That is not so uncommon when I first question people,” she shrugged. “Might I help you with your boxes and then I can ask you questions as we go?”
Duncan looked surprised at the offer of help, not least coming from a woman. He flicked his head to his cargo, doing a mental assessment of everything there, then looked back to Clara.
“It’s heavy. Tins and stuff,” he said uncertainly, not quite prepared to accept her offer, yet also reluctant to turn down the help.
Clara reached out for the nearest box that contained an assortment of tinned meat and potatoes. It was heavy, but no worse than some of the things she had carried back in her days of nursing. A pile of bed pans and woollen blankets could prove surprisingly heavy, as well as awkward. She took the box and nodded to Duncan.
“Where does it go?”
Somewhat alarmed by this turn of events, Duncan grabbed up another box as quickly as he could and led Clara into the tent.
The interior was dim, with just the pale November sunlight glowing through the canvas for light. Later, when the sides were opened and the oil lamps lit, it would be a cosy, lively place, right now it was much like the rest of the funfair – empty, cold, missing its atmosphere.
“What is the cook making today?” Clara asked, noticing there were several tins of Maconochie’s Beef Stew in her box and suspecting the cook cut a lot of corners in his recipes.
“I don’t ask,” Duncan said, his surliness returning now his surprise was gone. “I cook for myself. I have a very delicate stomach.”
He dropped the box near a rough wooden counter, which presumably served as a workstation. Clara placed hers beside it and followed Duncan back to the entrance. Having relaxed him a little, and hopefully earned a little bit of good grace, she went back to what she really wanted to know.
“Have you ever had trouble with Clark?” She hoped the question would not imply she was considering Duncan a suspect; it was too early to let that slip.
“Trouble?”
“Well, as you put it, he went ‘crazy’ last night. I wondered if you had noticed anything odd about him before, or maybe he could be awkward about things unnecessarily?”
“He fussed about his horse like there was no tomorrow,” Duncan grumbled. “Never seen a man so obsessed about an animal. I don’t dislike horses, or anything, I mean I have old Daff to pull my wagon and I take good care of her. But Clark treated his horse like a person.”
Clara had noted that Duncan was referring to the horse in the past tense.
“You are aware Gung-Ho is dead?”
“Yeah, guess who Maven had drag the damn creature’s carcass off the beach! Mind you, I had help, couldn’t have done it by myself. I asked around and found a local butcher happy to take Gung-Ho and cut him up for dog food,” Duncan shrugged his shoulders as if he saw nothing disturbing about such a pragmatic ending for the horse.
“Did you and Clark ever have problems?”
They had reached the wagon and were taking up more boxes. These contained carrots and other root vegetables. Clara noticed a turnip or two.
“I have problems with most folk at the fair,” Duncan snorted. “I am under-appreciated. A fellow told me that phrase once, said people did not understand the efforts I went to for them. They are always demanding things I can’t get them.”
“You deal with all their personal orders too, then?”
“Oh yes. If Madame Crystal wants more make-up, I find it. If Hector the strongman needs a new leotard, I’m the one who has to run around town to find it. Yet I am only paid the wage of a glorified delivery boy. All this hassle I endure, the tantrums, the hysterics and does anyone ever say thanks? Hardly.”
Duncan looked quite miserable as he explained his predicament. He dumped his box of vegetables by the counter and glared at it.
“My back aches constantly, I have these dizzy spells which Hulu the medicine man says are because I don’t get enough rest, and I am starting trouble with my kidneys, but what does anyone care? All they do is moan and groan when I can’t get the things they want.”
“That is very sad, Duncan,” Clara said with genuine sympathy. “I am sure, if you were not around, they would soon realise how much you did for them and find themselves in quite a pickle.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Duncan wiped his nose on his sleeve. “But what can I do? This is a job, after all, and plenty of fellows don’t have that. I ain’t going to starve or die of cold, and there is always a roof over my head, even if a lot of the time it is made of canvas.”
Duncan stared wistfully up at the ceiling of the tent and gave another of his heavy sighs.
“What sort of things does Clark ask for?” Clara asked.
“Mainly stuff for the horse,” Duncan explained. “
From how he put it, the animal was more delicate than a glass saucepan. Always wanting hay for it, extra hay. ‘Can’t let Gung-Ho graze like the other horses, Duncan, it will affect his digestion.’ I saw that horse graze plenty when Clark was not watching. He gave me this special list of herbs that he wanted a constant supply of for the horse, supposed to keep him healthy. I guess that won’t matter now.”
“Did he ever get angry about supplies for Gung-Ho?”
“Oh, he was temperamental, but only in that American way, not meaning it,” Duncan waved off the thought. “We argued from time to time, but I argue with everyone. I think I have an argumentative nature, that fellow who said I was under-appreciated told me that too. I told him to mind his own business.”
A slight grin crept onto Duncan’s lips and there was just a hint of another man beneath the surly, depressed exterior.
“I was told you and Clark argued about Gung-Ho needing extra hay?” Clara said.
Duncan’s smile evaporated.
“Who said that? Ah, it doesn’t matter. Sure, we argued. That horse was eating into my hay budget quite literally. Maven only gives me a certain amount of money for the supplies, he has it all worked out in his head how much should be needed and what it should cost. If the performers want extra, they have to pay for it themselves. I told Clark that. I would supply Gung-Ho with the same amount of hay as all the other horses, but extra had to be paid for by him,” Duncan snorted. “He didn’t take that well. Said it was all in his contract that Gung-Ho’s food be paid for by Maven. I told him that was not my problem, showed him what I was allowed to spend on hay and told him to talk with Maven about it. I figured he did, as later Maven gave me extra money for hay for Gung-Ho.”
“That was it?” Clara asked.
“Should there be more?” Duncan frowned, producing that same elaborate fold on his brow. “Honestly, it was the usual thing. I get this all the time from the performers. Madame Crystal is a nightmare, gets herself in such a state over things and takes it out on me.”
“You didn’t feel resentful towards Clark, or Gung-Ho?” Clara pressed.
“Why?” Duncan asked. “I told him his horse was a damn nuisance, but I regretted that afterwards. Gung-Ho was not the problem, Clark was, and even then, he was not as bad as most around here.”
Duncan had led them back to the wagon. He closed the back and walked to the front where a pale grey cart horse sat patiently in the shafts.
“This is Daffodil,” Duncan introduced the animal. “My horse, and honestly I know what it is to care about an animal. Daff gets all I can give her, but I don’t go crazy.”
He patted the horse’s head and she nuzzled her soft lips into his shoulder.
“What happened to Gung-Ho,” Duncan continued, “that was evil. No animal deserves that. I would kill any man who did that to my Daff. Can’t understand why Clark did it.”
“You think Clark killed Gung-Ho?” Clara remarked.
Duncan gave her a strange look.
“Well, of course, he went crazy, didn’t he?” Duncan shook his head. “Wonder what makes a man flip like that. Can’t say he was a drinker, so that doesn’t explain it. Maybe it’s all that gunpowder he was breathing in every night at this gun slinging show? I sometimes had to go into the tent afterwards and the place reeked of it. Maybe that addles a man’s head.”
“What if Clark did not do it? Supposing someone wanting to make him suffer by harming Gung-Ho?”
Duncan looked confused at this statement.
“Who would do that?”
“Someone from Clark’s past who held a grudge against him? Or maybe someone at this funfair? Perhaps he had fallen out with a person?”
“Not that I know of,” Duncan said. “I mean, everyone gets on everyone else’s nerves around here. We are on top of each other day and night. Arguments are frequent, but it is all part of the business.”
“Someone might have taken an argument to heart?”
“No one I know around here would do such a thing,” Duncan said stoically. “These folks are all a little mad, I will admit that, but they ain’t nasty or dangerous.”
“I don’t suppose you saw any Americans other than Clark at the fair last night?” Clara tried one last-ditch effort.
Duncan paused to give the question due thought, which gave Clara hope, until he gave another shake of his head.
“Can’t say I did. Anyway, quite early last night I had to go to my caravan and lay down, another dizzy spell,” Duncan looked morose. “Hulu says I need to get regular sleep and not be working all the hours God sends, but I have a job to do.”
Duncan stroked Daff’s nose sadly.
“I’m like this here horse, a beast of burden, expected to get on with my work uncomplaining. Makes a man sick, it does.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your woes, Duncan,” Clara said. “I wish I could offer more than just my sympathy.”
He smiled at her words.
“Don’t matter, miss, we all make the beds we lie in. So, Maven has you chasing down what happened to Clark last night? Thinks there was someone else involved?”
“Something like that,” Clara agreed.
“Hmm,” Duncan paused and glanced over the funfair, as if looking for someone. “If you ask me, the person who would have the biggest grudge against Clark was Maven himself.”
“Maven?” Clara said in surprise. “I thought Clark was his biggest act?”
“Oh, he is,” Duncan grinned. “But that don’t mean he isn’t also Maven’s biggest nuisance. Clark is always asking for more money, more prestige, got a chip on his shoulder that one. They have been arguing a lot lately, because Maven wanted Clark to reinvigorate his act, was suggesting adding a cowgirl to the mix. That went down badly.”
“But Maven would not do something that could ruin Clark’s act,” Clara said, mostly to herself. “Would he?”
“People do things they later regret,” Duncan said mildly. “Maven has a wicked streak in him. I’ve known him a lot of years and I have seen him cast acts out of this funfair if he thinks they are no longer any good.”
“Not Clark though? Clark was good?”
“Can’t say, miss,” Duncan replied. “Never saw his show.”
Chapter Eleven
Clara headed next for the thuggish pair of security guards. They were both burly men, the sort who appear to spend a lot of their time building muscle for no better reason than to look powerful. The two men gave Clara dull, slightly surly looks, as she approached.
“Can I ask you a few questions?” She said politely.
Gunther, the one with the odd eye, hefted his shoulders to indicate he did not care. His companion did not respond.
“Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara said, wishing for once not to have a battle to get information from a person. Just occasionally, Clara came across a suspect in a case who was hugely talkative, and it was a delightful change from trying to drag words from a person. “Mr Maven has hired me to find out who upset Clark last night and if they pose any further danger. Are you aware of what happened?”
Gunther looked to his colleague. The other man was virtually bald and had shaved closely what hair he had left. He had small eyes under heavy brows, and a tendency to narrow them as he glared at Clara. Several scars across his face suggested an encounter with a disease that had left its mark.
“We know nothing,” he said coldly, and his accent was Eastern European, similar to Russian in tone but not quite the same.
“That is rather disappointing, considering you are the security around these parts,” Clara said blithely. “You are the security guards for this funfair, aren’t you?”
The man blinked.
“Yes!”
“Hmm,” Clara said thoughtfully. “Yet, you know nothing about an intruder entering the funfair, attacking one of the star acts and then disappearing into thin air?”
The man hesitated and his gaze flicked back to Gunther, who had a very faint smile on his face, as if he was enjoying seeing
the man’s torment.
“No, I mean, we know about that,” the man told Clara.
“So, when you said you knew nothing, you were lying or merely misunderstood me?” Clara folded her arms across her chest and confronted the man, deciding a fierce approach was the way forward. She needed this pair to know she meant business and they could not just ignore her.
“No! Yes!” The man seemed confused, then he glared at Clara. “I am no liar!”
“Good,” Clara responded. “Then I look forward to perfectly honest answers to all my future questions.”
She smiled at the two men.
“Now, let us begin again. When did you learn that something had happened to Clark?”
“About the same time everyone else did,” Gunther finally spoke, his voice husky and raw sounding. His Austrian accent was minimal, and Clara suspected he had moderated it to fit in better in a country that still stung from war with the Kaiser. “When he was standing before the carousel looking out of his head. You got to him before we did.”
There was a hint of accusation in that last statement, as if he resented Clara’s interference. Probably he did, as now she was making life hard for him.
“Had you seen anything or anyone odd before then? I appreciate that is a rather difficult question considering the nature of most of the acts and some of the patrons of the funfair.”
The smile on Gunther’s face increased enough that it tipped the corners of his mouth.
“As you say, people at funfair are strange souls, mostly the performers, but some of the visitors. I saw no one I was concerned about,” he said.
“Me neither,” his companion said. “It was a normal night.”
“What about after the incident with Clark? Notice anything then?” Clara asked.
The two men managed to shrug in unison.
“We had girls fighting near the darts stall,” Gunther said. “That is common though. We saw no one who worried us.”
Clara found it very disturbing that a person could slip into Clark’s tent, kill Gung-Ho and slip away wholly undetected, but she was not exactly surprised. Funfairs were busy places, a good location to attack someone and disappear without being seen, as long as you did so quietly. That no one had heard any commotion, even raised voices from Clark’s tent, was troubling, but also understandable. The evening had been noisy and there had been shrieks and screams from the people playing games and fooling around; why should another loud voice among all that be heard?