by Evelyn James
“Before last night, has there been any trouble here? Maybe someone hanging around Clark or arguing with him?”
Gunther shook his head. His companion had a strange look on his face, but he was silent.
“Any people causing problems here other than the normal stuff? Maybe someone trying to sneak in when it was shut?”
“People are always trying that,” Gunther snorted. “They think they can see everything for free or steal things. That is why we here.”
He thumped his chest with a fist, and it was all rather too Tarzan-like for Clara’s liking. She wondered if Gunther really thought the way he spoke, or if it was just a good act, like everything else at the fair.
“What about within the funfair? Had Clark had difficulties with anyone?” Clara continued.
Gunther simply shook his head; his companion had started to glare at the ground. Clara was growing annoyed.
“Someone told me you had a quarrel with Clark,” Clara decided the softly-softly approach was a failure and went for a head-on assault at Gunther. “Maybe last night you wanted revenge?”
Gunther scowled.
“What is this? Who has said this about me?”
With his ire increasing, so his accent became more noticeable. His colleague had taken a slight step away from him, a casual enough move, but that all the same implied he was distancing himself.
“Is there any truth to it?” Clara pressed.
“No!” Gunther almost howled the response.
“You never quarrelled with Clark?”
Gunther hesitated.
“What quarrel? We disagree, that all.”
“What did you disagree over,” Clara persisted.
Gunther was clenching and unclenching his fists. Clara did not consider the gesture threatening, rather it was an unconscious reaction to the situation.
“It was nothing, I don’t remember,” Gunther shrugged.
He suddenly turned his attention onto a person near the food tent.
“Who is that? I don’t know them. Hey!”
Relieved the intruder had bought him an excuse to leave, Gunther hastened to pursue the stranger. Clara watched him go with a vague feeling of irritation that he had been so elusive. Then she recalled the man stood close to her. Gunther’s companion had not followed him and seemed to be trying to concentrate on guarding the gate from further potential trespassers, while ignoring Clara.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Clara said to him.
The man glanced at her, just for a second, then looked away.
“Vladimir,” he said, “it is family name.”
He looked deeply uncomfortable.
“You are not Austrian like Gunther.”
“No,” Vladimir said without elaboration. “I am from Bohemia.”
“Which is now part of the newly created Czechoslovakia, if my geography is correct. Wasn’t there a lot of tension between the Germans and Bohemia? The Germans believing that they had a right to the country, while Bohemia was fighting for its own independence?”
“It was very complicated,” Vladimir said noncommittally.
“And, of course, Bohemia borders on Austria and some Czechs volunteered to fight against the Austrian Empire in the war.”
“You are trying to suggest it is peculiar I am friends with Gunther,” Vladimir said sharply.
“Well,” said Clara, “is it?”
Vladimir was silent some time, then rubbed a hand over his bald head.
“Gunther is my colleague; we are not friends. Czechs and Austrians cannot be friends.”
“I sensed that much,” Clara nodded. “Does that mean you will be honest with me about Gunther? You told me you were not a liar, Vladimir.”
Vladimir was looking very uncomfortable and Clara suspected that he was hoping for another intruder to show up and give him a chance to slip away, just as Gunther had. He was out of luck.
“What do you want to know?” He said at last.
“What was the disagreement between Gunther and Clark?”
Vladimir kicked at a stone on the ground.
“I don’t know it well, it’s an old argument between them. Something that started before I worked here.”
“You mean they dislike each other? A long-standing problem between them?”
Vladimir seemed uncertain what to say, he continued to fuss at the stone, kicking it back and forth between his feet.
“I don’t know the cause, that is true, but I have heard Gunther say things, swear about Clark. Call him names. His fury is…” Vladimir frowned as he considered the word he needed. “It is very big, his fury.”
“Immense,” Clara muttered. “Immense fury for Clark. Why?”
“I do not know,” Vladimir repeated petulantly, not realising the last question had been rhetorical.
“Have they ever come to blows?” Clara asked.
“Not that I have seen, but they avoid each other.”
“Which explains why Gunther was not paying much attention to Clark’s tent last night. What about you?”
“I do the east side of the fair at night,” Vladimir answered, throwing his arm in the appropriate direction. “Gunther is the west side. We only come together when we need to.”
“You were nowhere near Clark’s tent,” Clara understood. “Well, that is all very interesting, but I am no closer to understanding this problem. If you can’t tell me why Gunther and Clark hated each other, I am not sure who else to ask. Clark is clearly no help.”
“They say he has lost his mind?”
“Just his memory,” Clara corrected. “From shock.”
Vladimir seemed to find this idea confusing.
“Look, you need to keep your eyes peeled for anyone acting suspiciously around Clark’s tent or caravan, even if that someone is Gunther,” Clara said. “I suspect the person behind this is not through just yet, and they might want to cause Clark more harm.”
“Gunther would have just killed him,” Vladimir seemed keen to exonerate his colleague, even if he had declared them not to be friends. “He would not play these games.”
“That may be true,” Clara nodded, having to agree that Gunther did not seem the sort to mess with a man’s head, when a dagger to the face could do the trick just as well. “But, until I know more, he has to remain a suspect. He has a grudge against Clark, and he refuses to tell me what that is about, and neither of you can offer me an alternative suspect.”
“No,” Vladimir said glumly.
Clara was about to go, when she remembered the knife in her bag and pulled it out to show Vladimir. He startled as she drew out the blade, took a step back and held up his hands.
“I have not lied! I shall tell you all I know!” He cried, panic appearing in his eyes.
Suddenly the burly guard seemed rather vulnerable. Clara glanced at the knife, the magic weapon that had caused this remarkable effect.
“I wanted to show you this, not to threaten you, but to see if you recognised it,” Clara said, gingerly flipping over the blade and showing its hilt to Vladimir. He relaxed a fraction, but only a fraction.
“It is a big blade, you kill with this, either hunting animals or people,” he said slowly, his eyes never dropping from the knife.
“I thought as much,” Clara nodded. “Hardly a pocketknife, is it? Ever seen it before?”
“No,” Vladimir shook his head to emphasise his words.
“It belonged to an American. Ever been to America, Vladimir?”
“No, England is the only place beyond my home I have spent time in,” Vladimir said hastily. “I come here to get away from the politics of my homeland. To live a life where I know where I stand.”
“Gunther ever been to America?”
“He has not said,” Vladimir replied.
“That’s a shame,” Clara slipped the knife back in her bag. “I was hoping he might have. If you recall anything else, Vladimir, please contact me.”
Clara offered him a card.
“No matter h
ow big or small, if you think of some detail relating to Clark, let me know.”
Vladimir looked at the card as if it was poisoned and Clara would not be surprised if he discarded it the second he had the chance, but she had tried, at least.
“Remember, keep an eye on Clark. I am holding you responsible for him,” she impressed this on Vladimir, even though she had no authority over him. She was hopeful a firm tone would go further than the truth and he would forget she could demand nothing from him. “Clark could be in grave danger.”
Vladimir held the card tentatively.
“Is Clark going to be all right?” He asked.
“That is a good question and one I can’t currently answer,” Clara replied. “Except that I hope so. Now, could you point me in the direction of the painted lady’s caravan?”
“Mary O’Reilly?” Vladimir said curiously. “You know that she and Clark were once lovers.”
“That would be the reason I am going to speak to her.”
“She is an odd woman,” Vladimir said, attempting to put Clara off. “She says one thing, means another and asks you to do something and then forgets all about it.”
“I hope she has not forgotten Clark.”
“Hardly likely,” Vladimir gave a cawing sound which might have been a laugh. “She is very angry, very angry indeed. Did you know that Clark dropped her for Polly?”
“I had heard,” Clara agreed. “That is never going to make a person happy.”
“And the painted lady is a person much better happy than angry. I suggest you be careful.”
Clara was intrigued by this statement.
“Why?” She asked.
“Because Mary takes out her temper on people and sometimes she is…” it seemed to be dawning on Vladimir just what he was saying and the implication of it. He gave a long pause as he considered his next few words. “She can be a little violent.”
Clara felt hope returning to her.
“Violent, as in shoving a blade into a horse’s skull?”
“Violent as in throwing things at people,” Vladimir said cautiously. “I avoid her, that is for sure.”
Clara felt that here might be the lead she needed. If Mary was the sort to be physically aggressive, maybe her acute anger at Clark had driven her to stab Gung-Ho as a means of revenge. It was a possibility at least, though the strength required to stab through a horse’s skull might be beyond the capabilities of a woman. Whoever had killed Gung-Ho had had a lot of strength in their arms.
Then again, rage could bring on great efforts of will from a person, that could not be ignored.
Clara thanked Vladimir, reminded him once again about the card she had given him and then walked solemnly in the direction he had pointed out.
Time to see what Mary had to say.
Chapter Twelve
The painted lady was a polite term for a woman who was covered from head to foot in tattoos. In most aspects of society, she would be shunned, but at the funfair she was popular, even if that popularity consisted of being gawked at by visitors. Clara wondered if Mary O’Reilly had got her tattoos for the purposes of the funfair, or whether she had found work here because of them. A question of which came first – the tattoos or the painted lady performance. If the answer was the tattoos, then Mary must truly be devoted to the forum of body art, for they would certainly limit Mary’s options in employment and possibly in her personal life. Most men would struggle to see the appeal of a woman with a skull tattooed on her left cheek and a Bible passage on the right, while on her forehead a bird (possibly an eagle, but the artist had not been remarkable) soared over her eyebrows.
That being said, apparently Clark had seen past this assortment of slightly ghoulish decorations to the woman within. At least until Polly came on the scene. Quite frankly, to compare the two women was to compare the work of an Italian master painter, to primitive tribal art. Both had their aspects of beauty, but one was hewn to appeal to the masses, to tick all the boxes of what was perfection and easy on the eye, while the other was more earthy and deliberate, appealing to the senses but also capturing the reality of life, in all its grim and unhappy details.
Mary perhaps was pretty. It was difficult to know beneath the assortment of tattoos that were rather jarring on the eye. None had been placed with a seeming understanding of how they would alter the appearance of Mary’s face, how they would make one cheekbone seem rounder than the other, how they would cause her to appear perpetually scowling (then again, she might actually be perpetually scowling). A tattooist with any sense of aestheticism would surely have been able to enhance Mary’s features rather than make them ugly, but that was not what had occurred.
And if what Vladimir had said was true, then Mary’s temperament did not make up for the patchwork of her features. How could anyone wonder that Clark had tossed her over for the delicate, ageing beauty that was Polly the former trapeze artist. It might not have been nice, but you could see how it had happened.
Clara found Mary in her caravan, laying out playing cards on a table. When Clara had knocked on her door, she had invited her in, cast her an appraising look that seemed to dig into Clara’s very soul, and then nodded.
“You’ll do, I want the white dress pressed and the lace at the hem stitched back on firmly, and when I say firmly, I mean so it won’t come off at the slightest sneeze. That was what cost the last girl her post with me.”
“I’m not a seamstress,” Clara said calmly.
This time she was treated to a glare that would have frightened a weaker soul.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I am Clara Fitzgerald, a private detective, hired by Mr Maven to determine who threatened Clark last night.”
Mary had gone back to her cards and very pointedly laid down two more, the cardboard making a soft snap as it was firmly placed on the table.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “If you can’t sew on lace, I am truly not interested in you and you are disturbing my morning.”
“I wanted to talk to you about Clark,” Clara said. “I hoped you could offer me an idea as to who would wish him harm.”
“Why would I know anything about that man?” Mary raised one eyebrow at her. “He is nothing to me.”
“But once, he meant a lot to you,” Clara said gently, wanting to befriend Mary rather than antagonise her. “People talk to me, I have heard that you and Clark were once very close, until Polly came along.”
Mary snorted, the abrupt burst of air pushed a playing card off the table and onto the floor.
“Polly,” she hissed under her breath. “Well, if you want a thing that is all bone and gristle…”
“It might console you to know that after Clark’s episode last night he could not recall Polly at all,” Clara said, trying to appeal to the woman’s pride.
“That is hardly surprising,” Mary said with a faint hint of a smile. “Polly is wholly forgettable.”
“Are you still angry with Clark?” Clara asked.
“Angry?” Mary frowned. “He is a man and men are all stupid and shallow. No, it is like getting angry at a dog for acting on its nature. There is no point. I am angry with Polly, however. From the moment she joined this funfair she had her eye on Clark. She worked her way into his company and charmed him. He was duped and could not see it. I watched everything, I even told her to leave him alone, but she declared war on me, and her tactics were better than mine.”
Mary laid out more cards. Clara did not recognise the game she was playing.
“That must have made you sad.”
“I don’t break my heart over men,” Mary shrugged. “They are not worth it. I chose my path and let me tell you this, I shall not end up some wrinkled assistant to a magician, my glory days behind me. No! I shall always be the Painted Lady, right until they lay me in my coffin. That is what makes me proud, what defines me, and Polly can fawn over Clark all she wants if that makes her feel better for being a has-been no longer capable of wooing
an audience.”
Mary smirked to herself at this revelation and finished with the cards.
“Is that a game?” Clara asked.
“No, it is a type of fortune telling,” Mary replied. “My grandmother taught me it. She was an Irish gypsy and knew all the old ways. Left milk out for the fairies and could charm worms from the ground. She was the one who taught me that you must never rely on the opinion of others for your own self-worth, because those people change and let you down. The only person that truly matters is the one in here.”
Mary placed a hand on her heart. Clara was finding the woman far from the temperamental harridan Vladimir had described. She was growing to like her.
“That is very wise,” she said.
“Sadly, few live by it,” Mary said. “Clark, for instance, is addicted to the praise and adoration of others. He needs a person who will butter him up all the time to nurse his fragile ego. For a former bounty hunter, he is remarkably sensitive. I suspect I did not fawn over him enough. I did not act as though I worshipped the ground he walked on. I reminded him that he was just a man, not a god with a gun. He could not handle that.”
Mary started to pick up the cards from the table.
“Would you like me to tell your fortune?”
“Not really,” Clara said. “I have never been comfortable about predictions; they make me twitchy whether they are good or bad.”
“You are a person who likes to take control of her future, bend it to her will,” Mary observed.
“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” Clara agreed.
“A time will come, my dear, when you will discover that we have no control over anything in this life. We are just passengers hitching a ride on something bigger than ourselves. Some call it God, some call it fate. I believe a divine thread joins us all together and leads us to the place we are meant to be.”