There were not nearly as many people queuing up for the menagerie as there had been at Ursula’s first visit. She couldn’t help remembering Jackman and her reaction to the realisation that he was actually involved in following a couple: how cross she had been; she had seen Jackman as using her as camouflage for his main purpose.
That afternoon, though, had been the first time she had seen Alice and Rachel. How tremendous Rachel had been in saving Alice from being photographed with Daniel, leaping on to the little table and addressing the crowd with her message of freedom for the animals and for women, and what a delight it had been to find her on Mrs Bruton’s doorstep for the tea party.
At that precise moment, Ursula saw disappearing round the corner of the menagerie the back view of a girl that looked exactly like Rachel, wearing a beret on long dark hair. Except it could not be her because Rachel had been arrested by Inspector Drummond and was now in prison – as was Alice.
The afternoon seemed to darken further. So much had happened since that first visit and somewhere there was a murderer handing out doses of cyanide poisoning. Ursula shivered. For an instant she wished Jackman was with her.
She joined Mrs Bruton, who had reached the top of the ticket office queue and asked whether there would be a show in the menagerie that afternoon.
‘I’m sorry, Madam, not today. But Arturo the Magnificent is just about to perform in the Big Top. Would you like to buy tickets for that?’
‘Shall we see the other animals there?’
‘Bareback riding and jugglers and trapeze artists will all be on display. And you could buy a combined ticket that would admit you to the menagerie after the circus performance.’
‘Why, that would be perfect,’ said Mrs Bruton, handing over money. ‘There,’ she said to Ursula, slipping a hand into her secretary’s arm. ‘We should be beautifully entertained. I have long wanted to see a show with lions.’
As they entered the big tent, the bareback rider Ursula had seen practising when she’d visited Millie was riding round the ring, standing on the broad back of her grey pony, the light coat shining like a polished pearl, the girl’s bright red and gold leotard jewel-like.
An attendant indicated a pair of seats half way up the ramp but Mrs Bruton headed for the top rows, all empty, and took two at one end, from where they had a clear view of the ring. As they settled themselves, the rider performed a series of somersaults as her horse continued to circle the ring.
Loud applause greeted the girl as she slipped on to her mount and waved; a final circuit of the ring and she rode out of the arena.
Two clowns chased each other around the ring. A rattle of metal heralded the erection of a run between the menagerie and the circus arena. It looked as though the next act would be the lions.
Mrs Bruton sat very erect, clutching her handbag and looking a little awkward. ‘Shall I look after that for you?’ Ursula asked.
‘Why, no, thank you, I am quite happy.’ She gave a little sneeze. ‘I hope I am not coming down with a cold.’ She opened the bag, took out a handkerchief and delicately applied it to her nose. ‘We have an excellent view from here, have we not?’
Indeed they could see right across the ring and there, standing in an entrance dressed in the same uniform as the other attendants, was Millie. She was directing some late-comers to seats. Ursula opened the cone of humbugs, offered one to Mrs Bruton and took one herself. They sat contentedly sucking on the sweets.
From the direction of the menagerie came the growl of a lion.
Working rapidly in the centre of the ring while the clowns kept the audience entertained, circus workers finished erecting a metal cage and into it strode Arturo the Magnificent, his outfit every bit as colourful and stylish as when Ursula had first seen him. He cracked his whip and along the caged runway loped the first lion, his large head bearing a wonderful mane of thick hair. Another crack of the whip and the lion leaped on to a circular stand decorated with streaks of jagged red. In came another one, his hair not quite so exuberant. The whip cracked and he, too, mounted a stand. A lioness followed, sleeker and younger-looking. A third crack of the whip and she mounted the last of the stands.
Arturo circled the beautifully balanced trio, raised his whip with a flourish and the three lions lifted their front legs, waving their paws to maintain their balance. For a moment there was silence. Ursula was mesmerised.
Suddenly the lions turned their heads, as though seeking something beyond the cage. As applause broke out, the first lion jumped down and stalked round. Arturo cracked his whip, ordering him back, but now the other two followed. The applause died down and the audience held its collective breath as the trainer tried to shoo his animals back into place, cracking the whip so it zinged right beside each without touching them.
In the silence all could hear the lions growling fiercely, then they advanced on the trainer. He backed towards the metal frame of the cage.
Ursula, appalled at the tragedy that seemed about to happen, glanced at Mrs Bruton, and saw her snatch something from her mouth, secreting it in her hand.
It wasn’t a humbug. Ursula gasped and tried to wrench it from Mrs Bruton. ‘That’s your dog’s whistle! It’s you who’ve upset the lions. Why?’
Mrs Bruton said nothing, her mouth a hard line. She pushed at Ursula’s shoulder. With the unexpectedness of the move, she found herself thrown down along the bench.
Astonished, she tried to right herself. Then she saw Mrs Bruton open her large handbag and remove a wicked-looking syringe. Horror surged through Ursula.
It was no use calling for help. The audience was screaming as the lions advanced on their trainer, their growls increasing in volume and aggression. Attendants were shouting; Arturo was cracking his whip. And the smell of fear pervaded everywhere.
Mrs Bruton lunged forward but her jacket caught on a protruding nail and for a moment it held her back. Ursula rolled off the bench and landed on her back along the slats supporting the seating. Mrs Bruton pulled away from the nail, ripping her jacket, and lunged forward again, aiming the syringe at the base of Ursula’s throat.
This was how Arthur Pond had died, Ursula knew it without any doubt. Somehow she managed to jerk up her own handbag as a shield and caught the syringe needle in its stout leather.
Mrs Bruton gave a determined grunt, pulled the needle clear and drew back her arm for another assault.
Ursula kicked out, trying to thrust the woman away, but the confining material of her skirt destroyed the power of her legs. Her situation seemed hopeless. There was the bitter taste of fear in her mouth, and her mind was paralysed. A picture of Albert Pond’s contorted face and body flashed before her. With a despairing effort she managed to roll herself down to the next level of the seating.
From the menagerie squawks of parakeets and excited monkey shrieks joined with the lions’ roars. Mrs Bruton produced a series of rapid grunts that could hardly be heard above the general clamour and managed to crawl down to the bench immediately above Ursula. Another attempt to inject the syringe into any part of her victim that she could reach was being launched.
Recklessly, with both hands, Ursula grabbed Mrs Bruton’s wrist and tried to force her to drop the lethal weapon. Then cried out as the woman bent her head and bit her wrist, drawing blood.
The teeth were sharp, the pain was intense but Ursula held on, pulling herself up from the slats, amazed at Mrs Bruton’s strength. She dared not let go of the woman’s wrist and at any moment that needle could connect with some part of her body and inject the deadly cyanide into her bloodstream.
Mrs Bruton’s free hand fumbled for her handbag. If she managed to hit Ursula’s head then the battle would be over.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ said a male voice and the woman suddenly slumped down, unconscious.
Ursula couldn’t understand that death was no longer poised above her. Her hands had to be prised away from her assailant’s wrist. Then she started shaking.
‘It seems I was just in time,’
said Jackman cheerily. He picked up the cyanide-loaded syringe with great care and returned it to Mrs Bruton’s handbag then felt for her pulse. ‘She’ll live,’ he said after a moment. Then he turned his attention to Ursula. ‘Are you all right?’
She looked up at him, still trying to take in the way he’d appeared from nowhere. ‘I’m … I’m fine …’ she stuttered, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to realise that the danger was over and she was safe. Jackman slid down beside her and gently bent her head on to her knees.
‘Deep breaths,’ he said calmly and massaged her shoulders.
Gradually the shakes subsided.
Shouts from the circus ring rose along with loud cracks of the whip. Arturo the Magnificent had brought his lions back under control. They were prowling the cage but seemed more puzzled than aggressive. More cracks of the whip and shouts returned them to their stands.
Ursula sat up straight and looked gratefully at Jackman. ‘Where did you spring from?’
He glanced at Mrs Bruton’s recumbent body. ‘Don’t have to worry about her for a bit,’ he said, then turned to Ursula again, his eyes assessing her condition. ‘You sent me a note this morning that said the two of you were to come here this afternoon so I wasn’t to call on you at Mrs Maple’s until this evening. I decided to meet you here instead.’
Ursula rubbed at her forehead, still unable to believe she was alive. She looked at the comatose Mrs Bruton. ‘What did you hit her with?’
He reached into his jacket and brought out an efficient-looking revolver. ‘Lucky I thought to bring it.’
Jackson was not a person who allowed luck to play an important part in his dealings with life. Ursula thought back to the note she had sent. ‘Certain things have occurred that suggest I might have identified Albert Pond’s killer,’ she had written. But she had never suspected Mrs Bruton’s reason for suggesting a visit to the menagerie and she had never been so glad to see anyone in her life than Jackman that afternoon.
‘Should we call the police?’
‘Oh, I think so. If the struggle I interrupted means what I think, that syringe contains cyanide.’
Ursula shuddered. ‘She killed Albert and Mr Peters. If we tell Inspector Drummond that, he has to release Alice.’
‘I presume you know why they were blackmailing your employer?’
‘I have a theory.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was easy enough, thought Ursula, to say she had a theory but would it convince Jackman? She watched him use strong arms to pull the unconscious Mrs Bruton up from the slats and arrange her body in a sitting position.
They were high above the rest of the audience. Attention had been so fixed on what was happening in the lion cage with Arturo the Magnificent, even those people sitting directly across the ring from herself and Mrs Bruton did not seem to have noticed their struggle. Instead, everyone’s eyes were on the battle Arturo was having to bring his lions back under control.
Jackman gave a series of small slaps to Mrs Bruton’s face. Her head lolled backwards and sideways. He lifted one of her eyelids and checked her pupils.
‘Will she be OK?’ Ursula asked. The woman had tried to kill her but she did not want Jackman to have taken her life. She was glad the woman’s eyes were closed; the look of hate Mrs Bruton had given her as she tried to insert her syringe into Ursula’s flesh had been shocking.
‘She’s just out for the count. Help me take her outside, then we can send for the police.’ He picked up the handbag that contained the syringe.
With one of Mrs Bruton’s arms across each of their shoulders, Ursula and Jackman manhandled her unconscious body down the steps and out of the circus tent, her head lolling from side to side, their progress noted by no more than a few of the audience. Ursula caught a ‘Disgraceful, she’s drunk,’ comment as they went.
Outside, Jackman steered them round the circus tent towards the encampment area. One of the menagerie workers came up and asked if they needed a hand.
‘I’ve got this woman under arrest,’ said Jackman. ‘She tried to kill Miss Grandison.’ He indicated Ursula. ‘Had to knock her out.’
The worker, a small man with a droopy moustache and lank black hair, dressed in brown dungarees with a large white and red checked handkerchief round his neck, whistled. ‘You don’t say! I better get Ma.’ He ran off towards the caravan site.
Jackman and Ursula dragged Mrs Bruton in the same direction.
Then Ma appeared and took control.
‘Those lions! They was gone crazy! You know why?’
‘I think she used a dog whistle,’ said Ursula. ‘That’s what it looked like and I know she has one. It’s in her handbag.’
‘Along with the syringe she tried to kill Miss Grandison with.’ Jackman tucked the bag more securely beneath his arm.’
Ma stood with her hands on her hips. ‘What we do with ’er, eh?’
Mrs Bruton, showing no signs of regaining consciousness, was still suspended between Jackman and Ursula.
‘Over other side is empty van,’ said Ma. ‘You take her there, yes? Willie help.’
‘Sure,’ said the droopy moustached worker.
‘Better if he went for the police,’ said Jackman. ‘You all right?’ he asked Ursula, still helping to support the unconscious woman.
She nodded but her legs didn’t feel as though they could keep her upright much longer. Shock was beginning to turn her muscles to water.
‘You look about collapse,’ said Ma. She put two fingers in her mouth and gave a long, high-pitched whistle.
Two more workers dressed in brown overalls appeared.
‘This woman ’ere needs go that van there.’ Ma pointed to a somewhat dilapidated vehicle at the back of the little circle of caravans. ‘Store animal feed,’ she added. ‘Feed low now, lots of room for ’er. Fetch rope, tie her,’ she said to one of the workers. ‘Willie, you go police station, fetch constable.’
‘I think I’d better write a note to Inspector Drummond of the Marylebone Station,’ said Jackman. ‘They can send it on.’
Ursula admired the skill with which Ma organised them all. In no time it seemed Mrs Bruton was incarcerated in the old van, her wrists and ankles tied and the door fastened with a padlock; Jackman had been provided with pen and paper; Willie had been sent off with his note to the police station; and Ursula had been made to stretch out in Ma and Pa’s luxurious caravan with her feet up and a glass of Ma’s ‘special tonic’ to revive her.
‘Is old, old recipe I always ’ave. Would bring life to Egyptian mummy.’
The drink was slightly bitter, with a complex mixture of flavours that really did seem to make Ursula feel she was no longer going to keel over.
‘What did you say in your note to Inspector Drummond?’ she asked Jackman, sitting up, swinging her legs down to the ground and trying to neaten her hair into its usual knot. It had come loose in her fight with Mrs Bruton and her hat was still somewhere up where they’d been sitting. Beside everything else that had happened, it didn’t seem to matter. Only Jackman was there to see what a mess she was in. Ma had gone, she said, to check on Pa and the lions and tell him about the dog whistle. ‘Beasts never act so before,’ she said as she left.
Jackman gave Ursula a smug look, sat opposite her and put his bowler beside him. How, Ursula wondered, had he managed to keep hold of his hat through everything that had happened?
‘I told Drummond that we had the murderer of Joshua Peters and Albert Pond under lock and key, and suggested he get over here pronto and take her into custody. And that he could release Miss Fentiman and arrange the same for Mrs Peters.’
‘It seems that Rachel has already been released. While we were waiting for tickets into the menagerie, I saw her. She was with Lord John. And it’s no use looking at me like that, I have no idea why she was allowed to go.’
Jackman ran a hand through his hair. ‘Lord John, isn’t his father some high-up aristocrat?’
‘A duke, I believe.’
‘Honestly, Thomas, can’t you give up on the idea that Rachel Fentiman murdered her brother-in-law?’
‘It seems a good deal more likely than that Mrs Bruton should.’
‘And Alfred Pond?’
He shrugged, came and sat down again. ‘Drummond said he had a witness that saw the Fentiman woman calling on Pond’s house just before he was killed.’
‘Ah, now that’s what put me on to Mrs Bruton. I was packing up her clothes this morning,’ Ursula paused for a moment. It seemed so much longer ago she had been with her employer in Brown’s Hotel, acting as her maid. ‘And I found a cream beret, identical to the one Rachel Fentiman has. Rachel was wearing it when she came to Mrs Bruton’s tea party. She removed it from my hand. It set me to thinking. If someone saw a woman wearing a cream beret over dark hair hanging loose, in the vicinity of Albert Pond’s building on Friday afternoon, it could very well be taken as a description of Rachel Fentiman. She always wore that beret. It was like an epiphany. That’s why I wrote that note.
‘What clinched it for me was that, while we were having lunch, I mistook a woman for Mrs Trenchard because she wore a hat almost identical to the one she wore at that same tea party. And I said something about how one had to be careful to look at the face rather than the hat. Stupid of me, it must have convinced Mrs Bruton I was on to her.’
‘Why did she have a cyanide-loaded syringe in her handbag?’
Ursula had been giving some thought to just this question. ‘She wouldn’t have wanted me to find the syringe or the cyanide while I was doing her packing, or Enid doing the unpacking. Much safer to place both in her handbag. She probably had them carefully wrapped or in some sort of case. Then, having seen me with the beret, she decided she had to be prepared to deal with me if I really did suspect her. She could have made sure the syringe was to hand after she sent me off to arrange with the concierge for her baggage to be taken to Wilton Crescent.’
A Fatal Freedom Page 37