A Fool and His Money

by Marina Pascoe

  ‘I don’t actually know. I didn’t get a proper look at her. I could tell she was young but I only really saw her from the back. I noticed she had long, dark hair. She was wearing a pale blue cardigan and navy trousers.’

  ‘Well, that’s something. Do you think she’s a member of the troupe?’

  ‘Difficult to say, sir. I’ve brought along a list of all the people we interviewed before so I think we should concentrate on the women first, maybe … see if we can find her.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea, Boase.’

  The two men, followed by three constables, had now reached the recreation ground. Bartlett gave the three men his instructions and then turned to Boase.

  ‘Right. Who are the women on your list?’

  Boase flicked through a small notebook.

  ‘Well, we’ve got, let me see, there’s the trapeze artists – two of them are women. That’s Rosa and Allegra Marziani – we could start with them. Then there’s one of the lion tamers, Pearl Wayland. Also one of the high wire act … erm, wait … yes, here she is, Adele Beauchêne. Plus three sisters who juggle – Betty, Joan, and Anne Warner. Then just one other, I think – Molly James, the trick pony rider or whatever they’re called.’

  ‘Right. Come on, let’s make a start. What’s the chief’s name?’

  ‘It’s Chester Martin. Look – over there.’

  Boase indicated a caravan with the ringmaster’s name painted on the side and the two men crossed the field towards it. Bartlett knocked. The door opened and a rather shabby little man stood there. He was wearing brown trousers with braces hanging loosely by his sides and a grubby, greyish vest. Boase was astonished that this could be the dapper man he had seen in charge of the big top the evening before.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Martin. We’ve met before. I’m Inspector Bartlett and this is Constable Boase.’

  ‘Yes. I remember you. What do you want?’

  ‘Can we come inside please, Mr Martin?’

  The man opened the door and Bartlett and Boase went inside the caravan. The smell of stale food pervaded the small compartment which was being used as a sitting room. Bartlett moved a pile of papers from a bench and sat down. Boase remained standing.

  ‘I’m sorry to say we have come here with some bad news, sir. Please sit.’

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s about a member of your troupe – Clicker. I’m very sorry to tell you that he was found dead this morning.’

  ‘Dead? Clicker? No. No – you must be mistaken. I only saw him yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve been told that he didn’t perform last night?’

  Chester Martin looked at Bartlett.

  ‘Yes. That’s right. I wasn’t told. He didn’t send a message so everyone assumed that he was ill. It wasn’t like him to miss a performance but he had been getting quite tired lately so when he didn’t show up I didn’t really make much of it. I thought I’d leave him alone last night and go and see him this morning. He was such a lovely man, although he could be a little awkward at times.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  Bartlett coughed and looked impatiently at Boase.

  ‘Did you go and see him this morning?’

  ‘Well, I tried. I went to his caravan and knocked a couple of times but there was no answer so I just thought he was still asleep.’

  ‘And what time was that?’

  ‘Oh, about midday, I suppose.’

  ‘Was that normal for him to be still asleep at midday – did you not find that unusual?’

  ‘Well, not really. We perform late sometimes and quite often we’re late risers.’

  ‘That makes sense, I suppose. Were you aware of anything that was troubling him or anyone who might have reason to harm him?’

  Chester Martin sat back further in his chair.

  ‘Harm him? Are you saying someone killed him?’

  ‘I think that might be likely, sir.’

  ‘But that’s terrible. I … I can’t believe it.’

  Bartlett stood up and went towards the door of the caravan. He turned and looked again at Chester Martin.

  ‘I will need someone to identify Clicker – I understand from our previous enquiries here that he has no family – so, I would like to ask you if you can identify the body. Would you be able to do that for us, sir?’

  ‘What do you mean … no family?’

  ‘Well, just what I say. That’s what I understand to be the case.’

  ‘It isn’t true. He has a daughter.’

  ‘And where might I find her?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. Clicker’s daughter is Molly James, the trick pony rider. I thought you must know that.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t. Well, in that case, I will need to speak to her – along with the other members of the troupe.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Please let me know if I can help in any way … if there’s anything you need?’

  ‘I will. Thank you, Mr Martin.’

  Bartlett and Boase left the caravan and Bartlett stopped to light his pipe. Boase coughed a few times.

  ‘That smell was terrible, sir. I thought I was going to be sick.’

  ‘Yes, I thought it was pretty unpleasant myself. What do you make of him, Boase?’

  ‘Nothing so far, sir.’

  ‘Me neither – yet.’

  Bartlett and Boase walked on towards the big top to see if anyone was inside rehearsing their act. The tent was empty.

  ‘Strange, Boase – I’d have expected someone to be in here getting ready for tonight.’

  ‘Me too, sir. Why don’t we try some of the caravans?’

  ‘Right, come on. Let’s see if we can find his daughter first.

  At one end of a small row of circus caravans stood a rather modern affair; a luxurious green caravan, with horses’ heads painted along the sides. Next to it, on a patch of grass, stood four white ponies, tethered and grazing. The door of the caravan was open.

  ‘We got lucky, Boase.’

  Bartlett knocked at the open door. An argument was clearly going inside the caravan. Eventually a tall man with blond hair stuck his head through the doorway.

  ‘Yes … what do you want?’

  Bartlett introduced Boase and himself.

  ‘Are you Edward James, sir?’

  ‘Yes – what of it?’

  ‘May we please speak to your wife?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Please, sir – don’t try to get involved. Is she in here?’

  Bartlett, knowing perfectly well that Molly James was inside the caravan, having just heard the argument, pushed past the man and went inside. Boase followed. Molly was sitting at a small table. She looked up. Her face was tear-stained.

  ‘Are you Molly James?’

  ‘Yes … yes, I am.’

  Bartlett put his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you, Molly, that we have some bad news. Your father has been found dead.’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Yes. We know about Clicker and your mother. We know the story.’

  Molly looked terrified.

  ‘What story?’

  ‘About your parents here in the circus – and you as a baby.’

  The woman looked visibly relieved.

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Did you understand what I just told you, Molly? About your father?’

  ‘Yes. What happened to him?’

  ‘Well, we’re not entirely sure yet but it looks like he was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? Oh, that’s terrible. Who could do such a thing?’

  At this, Molly burst into tears again and held her head in her hands.

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I’ve come to see you – I thought you might have an idea of who could have done this.’

  ‘But I haven’t. No idea. Everyone loved my father – you only need to ask a
round here, they’ll all tell you how much they thought of him.’

  The woman continued to cry. Bartlett patted her hand.

  ‘We’ll leave you now. I’m so sorry to bring you such awful news, truly I am. Now, please don’t go anywhere because we will probably need to speak to you again … and someone will come to ask you to identify your father’s body; I’m so sorry but you are his next of kin.’

  ‘I won’t go anywhere.’

  The two men left the caravan and walked a little way. Bartlett lit his pipe.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘They’re a strange couple all right.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She was obviously distraught and he just stood there – no attempt to comfort her.’

  ‘Well, some people are like that, Boase. And we’d just heard them having a big argument when we arrived. Did you catch any of that?’

  ‘No, sir – only the curses.’

  ‘Hmm – me too. So, where next?’

  Chapter Four

  Bartlett and Boase worked their way around the circus site, breaking the news of Clicker’s death and trying to find out how much, if anything, everyone knew. By late afternoon they called a halt to the proceedings.

  ‘They’re all keeping their cards close, sir.’

  ‘Maybe they genuinely don’t know anything – no way of telling really. Now, the only people we haven’t managed to speak to are the Warner girls. What time did that groundsman say they’d be back?’

  ‘Half past five. It’s nearly that now – shall we wait?’

  ‘I think we should. One of them has to be the girl you saw with the old man that evening – they’re the only females left that we haven’t spoken to. Yes – we’ll hang on.’

  Bartlett and Boase sat on a wall and waited. Twenty minutes later, three young women walked through the gates of the recreation ground. Boase stood up and called out to them.

  ‘Hello. Are you the Misses Warner?’

  The girls walked across the grass and approached Boase. Betty spoke first.

  ‘Yes, we’re the Warners – I’m Betty, this is Joan and this is Anne. Can we help you?’

  ‘I’m Constable Boase, this is Inspector Bartlett. Could we please speak to you about Clicker?’

  Anne, the youngest of the girls, grabbed Boase’s arm.

  ‘Clicker? Have you seen him? Where is he? Is he all right?’

  Boase immediately recognised Anne as the person he had seen with the clown the night he was at the circus.

  ‘Have you seen him? Please tell me where he is.’

  Bartlett looked at the young girl who had now begun to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss, we have some bad news about Clicker.’

  ‘Oh, no, please, no.’

  Joan stepped forward.

  ‘What’s happened, Inspector Bartlett? – my sister is very fond of him.’

  ‘I have to tell you that Clicker has been found dead.’

  At this news, Anne let out a wail and fell to the ground. Betty and Joan picked her up.

  ‘I will need to speak to all three of you about this – is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Joan pointed to a nearby caravan.

  ‘That’s ours – we can talk in there.’

  The small group made the short walk to the little caravan and went inside.

  Betty made tea for everyone.

  ‘Here you are, Inspector Bartlett, Constable Boase.’

  Bartlett sipped his tea and looked at Anne.

  ‘It’s obvious, Anne, that you were very fond of Clicker. Can you tell us a bit more about him? We’ve been to see his daughter but she was a little unhelpful. I’m coming back to see her tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, her. Well, she didn’t deserve him as a father. We lost our parents in a fire – which is why we ended up here; we had nowhere else to go. She’s a hateful and greedy woman, Inspector Bartlett.’

  ‘What makes you say that, Anne?’

  ‘Because I know her. Clicker told me everything was fine until she pitched up – of course he was so happy to see her. But then … well, then she started to become demanding.’

  ‘Demanding? About what?’

  Anne began to cry again.

  ‘What can you tell us, Anne? This is very important.’

  ‘I think this may be all my fault. Did he kill himself, Inspector?’

  ‘No, we don’t think he did. It doesn’t look like it. Why do you think this is your fault?’

  ‘Because it was me that told Clicker that she was a liar. It was to do with Molly’s mother.’

  Boase stood behind Bartlett with a notebook and pencil, scribbling down everything that Anne said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, Clicker liked me a lot and I liked him – he was almost like a father to me. He used to tell me all his little secrets and stories about his life. Molly’s mother was in this very circus, years ago. She was Margaret Field – they called her the most daring high wire act in the world.’

  Bartlett looked round at Boase.

  ‘I think I’ve heard about her – she was a Londoner, if I’m not mistaken. Yes, very famous she was. Go on, Anne.’

  ‘Well, they had a relationship many years ago, she and Clicker, and Molly was born. For some reason, just a couple of months before the birth, Margaret ran away. She left a note for Clicker saying she wanted to get away and not to look for her. He was distraught. He loved Margaret so very much. Anyway, a couple of years ago, Molly James appeared with her husband. She told Clicker that her mother was in a sanatorium in Switzerland and that she had something wrong with her lungs. Clicker wanted to go and see her but Molly just said she was too ill. She also said that she was struggling to keep up with the medical bills and could Clicker help her out a little. Well, naturally, he was happy to. But it never stopped. She just kept on taking more and more money from him – he barely had anything left, Inspector Bartlett. He felt that she wasn’t capable of doing such a thing, he really believed that Edward, her husband was behind the extortion – that’s what it was, Inspector, extortion.’

  ‘So how is this all your fault?’

  Anne looked at her sisters. Joan squeezed her hand.

  ‘Go on, Anne dear. Tell Inspector Bartlett everything you know – for Clicker’s sake.’

  Anne dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘I wasn’t really prying but I just saw something in an old newspaper. When I get homesick and bored – which is often – I go to the reading room at the library on the moor. I was looking at some papers a few weeks ago and that’s when I saw it – the article. I’m ashamed to say I stole it from the library. Look, here it is – am I in trouble now?’

  Bartlett smiled.

  ‘Well, we don’t normally encourage stealing from libraries but, given everything that’s happened, I think we can overlook it.’

  Anne shook open the newspaper.

  ‘Look, Inspector. It’s an article which is seven years old – it’s about Margaret Field.’

  Bartlett reached into his inside coat pocket for his reading spectacles.

  ‘Well, this says she died in 1917.’

  ‘Yes – and Clicker has been paying vast sums of money to the Jameses ever since they turned up here. They knew she was dead – there never was any clinic in Switzerland! I’m not ashamed to say that I showed this to Clicker the other evening. But I am sorry to say that now he’s dead and it could be because of me.’

  Boase flipped over another page in his notebook. As he did so, he gestured towards the wall outside.

  ‘Were you talking to him just over there, before the performance?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I was. I showed him this. He got very upset and said I shouldn’t have got involved. That was the last time I saw him.’

  Anne buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

  Bartlett patted the girl’s shoulder.

  ‘This isn’t your fault, Anne – you must stop thinking like this immediately. We’ll leave you now but we ma
y want to speak to you again, if that’s all right?’

  Anne smiled a weak smile.

  ‘Yes, of course that’s all right – I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you, ladies. Goodbye.’

  Two fairly uneventful days passed at the Falmouth police station, other than Clicker’s body being positively identified by his daughter and some sketchy news about the break-in at the church. Bartlett had been asking for almost a year for his office to get a new coat of paint and so it was that at seven o’clock in the morning, two painters arrived and knocked at his door. Boase had come in early and he opened the door to them. The two men looked to be in their early sixties, one about five feet two, the other about six feet two. The taller man spoke first. Holding aloft a paint can, he gestured towards the office.

  ‘Mornin’ – Painter.’

  ‘Well, yes, I can see that …’

  ‘No, my name – I’m Peter Painter. This is my brother, Paul. We’ve come to do your office.’

  Boase looked at the tall man and then at the short one. He held the door wide.

  ‘You’d better come in – is this going to take long?’

  Now the short man spoke.

  ‘Well, sir – it’s in a bad way. It’ll need two coats, so probably one today and one tomorrow.’

  ‘My chief isn’t going to be happy about that – we’ve got work to do. Although he has been asking for this to be done for some time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you won’t want to be in here once we get started – it’ll get on your nerves. It’s the smell you see, sir. We’re used to it ourselves but, well, to those outside the trade, it can get a little unpleasant.’

  At this, Bartlett entered the office.

  ‘What’s unpleasant? What’s going on, Boase?’

  Boase chuckled.

  ‘Well, these are the Painters, sir.’

  ‘I think I’ve worked that out, Boase. But I didn’t expect them until next week.’

  ‘Their name is Painter, sir – Peter and Paul.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, this is rather inconvenient – can’t you come back next week?’

  Paul propped the ladder he had been holding, against the wall.

  ‘If we don’t start today then we can’t start at all.’

  Bartlett flung his coat onto the back of his chair.’