by T E Kinsey
‘Crushed, boss. We found him about an hour ago, backstage. He had one of Abe’s barbells across his chest, pinning him down, and one of those iron weights he uses... crushed the poor fella’s head, so it did. Burst it like a grape.’
‘My god,’ said Dawlish, obviously stunned. ‘Who else knows?’
Mr O’Bannon swept his arm to indicate the hubbub and commotion inside the camp. ‘Pretty much everyone, I’d say.’
‘Right, we need to keep this on the QT. No one leaves the camp. No one says anything to outsiders except Lady Hardcastle and Miss Armstrong. Understood? Spread the word; it’s a family affair. Then get me Abe. I need a word with him.’
‘Really, George!’ said Lady Hardcastle, angrily. ‘Two suspicious deaths and you’re going to keep it quiet? I can’t be party to this, I really can’t. You have to tell the police. I’m going to get Sergeant Dobson right this minute.’ She turned to go.
‘O’Bannon,’ said Colonel Dawlish with a nod towards Lady Hardcastle.
The prize fighter took two steps towards her and went to lay his hand on her arm to stop her from leaving. But before he managed to touch her, I had seized his arm, turned it away and thrown him across my hip. Within moments he was face-down on the grass with my knee in his back and his right arm twisted painfully behind him.
‘Please don’t try to move, Mr O’Bannon,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s a tricky hold and something might get broken.’ I gave his arm a little tweak to emphasize his predicament.
‘As I said, George,’ said Lady Hardcastle, coldly. ‘I’m going to fetch Sergeant Dobson. He’s a sensible, practical man and I’m sure I can persuade him that discretion is of the utmost importance. But the police will be involved, and you and your staff will cooperate. I promised that I shall do everything I can to help you, George, and I shall, because that’s what friends do. But what I shall not do is break the law. And I never expected a friend to ask me to.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Emily. You can’t. You’ll ruin us.’
‘I can and I must. And you’ll not be ruined, not if I can help it. You must trust me, George.’ She looked at him sternly for a moment as he calmed slowly down. ‘Now release Mr O’Bannon, Armstrong.’
I gently let O’Bannon’s arm fall back into a more natural position and stood up, careful not to press my knee into his back as I did so. He got slowly to his feet, massaging his shoulder and took a step towards me. I readied myself for an attack but he held out his hand.
‘Don’t worry, girlie,’ he said. ‘My old da’ taught me never to get into a fight I wasn’t certain I could win.’
I reached out my own hand and he grasped it and shook it solemnly. He leaned in close.
‘That was quite something, girlie,’ he said quietly in my ear so that the others couldn’t hear. ‘I never even saw you moving. Now the colonel here, he’s a nervous fella, and he sees disaster round ever corner. But me, I’m more of a philosophical sort. I don’t trust the police as a rule – I’ve had more than my fair share of run-ins with them – but I reckon I’m a pretty good judge of character. I had a pint or two with your man Sergeant Dobson the other night and I reckon we can trust him. I reckon we can trust your mistress, too. I see things getting out of hand here and us getting into even deeper water if we try things the colonel’s way, so you go with her to the police station and I’ll calm the colonel.’
‘Thank you, Mr O’Bannon,’ I said, leaning back and looking him in the eye. ‘No hard feelings?’
‘None at all, girlie. And call me Mickey. You did what you had to do and no one can hold that against you. Just don’t go telling anyone how easily you took me down or I’ll be out of a job.’
As he let go of my hand, Lady Hardcastle turned and left the encampment, heading towards the police station. I followed.
‘What did Mr O’Bannon say?’ she asked me as she knocked on the sergeant’s front door.
‘He expressed his admiration for my abilities. He also said that he considers himself an excellent judge of character and that he trusts you.’
‘So I should bally well think,’ she said. ‘I’m the most trustworthy person in the village. I’ve met the king, and everything.’
‘You have indeed, my lady.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘That Colonel Dawlish is a nervous nelly but that he’ll set him straight.’
‘In so many words?’
‘I might be paraphrasing slightly.’
‘I think you probably might.’
Sergeant Dobson answered the door.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Hardcastle, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you two fine ladies?’
‘Just so as we’re completely clear, sir,’ said Sergeant Dobson, ‘you think your strongman, Mr Abraham Bernbaum, is responsible for these two murders?’
‘Yes, sergeant. I believe he locked Hubert Parvin in the lion cage last night and then crushed Augustus Noakes to death just after lunchtime today.’
We were in Colonel Dawlish’s tent, seated on camp chairs, as Colonel Dawlish and Lady Hardcastle explained recent events to the sergeant.
‘And you agree, m’lady?’ said Dobson.
‘Let’s say that I have no especially strong reasons to disagree at the moment, Sergeant,’ she said, guardedly.
‘That’s not quite as unequivocal as I’d have liked, m’lady, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll get over to the Dog and Duck and arrest Mr Bernbaum straight away.’
‘To where?’ said Lady Hardcastle quickly.
‘The inn, m’lady. He’s been over there since about eleven this morning. I was in there... ah... having a bit of a chat with Old Joe. He came in, ordered a pint of ale and sat there reading a book. Been there ever since.’
‘But, sergeant,’ she said, ‘we’ve already spoken to several people here, and Mr Noakes was alive and well and tending to his beasts at noon. Bernbaum can’t very well have killed him if he was in the pub with you.’
‘That’s very true, m’lady, I don’t suppose he could now you mentions it. So where does that leave us?’
‘Blessed if I know, sergeant,’ she said. ‘I find both murders hard enough to credit without having to imagine that they’re not the work of the same twisted mind. If Mr Bernbaum didn’t kill Noakes, I can’t really believe him guilty of killing Parvin, either.’
‘As you say, m’lady,’ said Dobson, stroking his beard thoughtfully. ‘And a man as has been sitting in a pub all day under the very eyes of the local police doesn’t seem to have a guilty conscience.’
‘All day,’ mused Colonel Dawlish. ‘Is he fit to perform?’
‘That I couldn’t say, sir. I can’t speak for his mental state but when I left half an hour ago, sir, he was still nursing the pint he bought when he got there. He’s not drunk, sir, I think he just wanted somewhere to sit. Not sure he wanted the beer at all.’
‘Then please be so kind as to send him over. We have a show to put on. Is there anything we need to do as regards the... other matter?’
‘No, sir, I’ll get that all squared away. Dr Fitzsimmons is on his way to take care of the body and I’ll make sure all the correct forms are filled in. I should report the matter to the Bristol CID but I’ll take the reprimand for that failing as long as we make some progress in the next day or so.’
‘Thank you, sergeant, I’ll not forget this,’ said Colonel Dawlish, standing up.
‘Right you are, sir,’ said the sergeant, picking up his helmet and rising from his own chair. He bade us all good afternoon and left the tent.
Colonel Dawlish returned to his seat and we sat in contemplative silence for several minutes.
Lady Hardcastle was the first to speak. ‘There’s still a murderer at large, George.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said.
‘They’ve already killed twice and they might again.’
‘I know,’ he said, more impatiently.
‘Our main suspect is dead, and our outside bet has an alibi.’
‘And if you care that passionately about it,’ she said, sharply, ‘then stop snapping at me and bally well do something.’
‘What, Emily? What? My experiences of killers are a great deal more straightforward: they tended to be wearing the enemy’s uniform and pointing a gun at me. And I dealt with them by pointing my own gun back at them and shooting first. I have no idea how to track down a lunatic.’
‘Nor do I, George, nor do I. But I strongly suggest that action trumps moping. Eight members of the group of friends remain. Do they take an afternoon break before the show?’
‘They usually gather in the mess tent at about four o’clock for afternoon tea. I doubt they’ll all be there today, though, not after what’s happened.’
‘Then it’s up to you to make sure they are. It’s something to do with that group, George, and I’d wager the killer is either among them or known to them. We need to get them talking.’ She stood. ‘Up you get, George. We’ll take a stroll round the camp and meet you in the mess tent at four o’clock. Come on, Flo.’
We left Colonel Dawlish standing by his desk, tapping his fingers and looking as dejected as I’ve ever seen a man look.
Our tour of the circus brought us precious little new information. Both victims, as is so often the way with the recently deceased, were universally loved and admired. Circus folk, we found, are as superstitious and sentimental as sailors and we didn’t hear a word spoken against them.
Of the rest, it seemed that Veronica and Wilfred, the married couple from the sideshow, were “a bit stand-offish, you know, keep very much to themselves” but for two people who earned their living as “freaks” that was scarcely a revelation. I’m sure I’d keep very much to myself if everyone I met was there only to gawp and mock.
Strongman Abraham Bernbaum was widely liked and respected, as much for his gentle wisdom as for his warm, kind sense of humour. He was the man people went to for advice and it was always freely given and gratefully received. He had, so the story went, begun training as a rabbi in his youth, but something happened and he had turned instead to the world of entertainment. “The synagogue’s loss was our gain, I reckon,” was the consensus.
Genial joker and clown Jonas Grafton divided opinion. Some saw him as quite the funniest and most loveable man they had ever laid eyes on, while others knew him as melancholy and given to sentimental brooding. It was widely known that he had a long-standing, unrequited infatuation with Sabine Mathieu and that was interpreted by some as the cause of much of the recent brooding. One person told us that he had written her some awful poetry, and had earned himself a fair amount of leg pulling from his friends when they found out. But all of that seemed to me entirely in keeping with the stereotypical image of the clown, so I for one didn’t feel much better informed there, either.
Prudence Hallows, the trapeze artist, was elitist and a bit “hoity-toity” by some accounts, with “a vicious tongue on her when she’s crossed”, but those that knew her and her sisters – who formed the rest of the act – well, said that she was “an adorable, sweet little thing who couldn’t do enough for you”.
Pretty little contortionist Adeline Rosethorn was timid and shy, but was similarly kind and helpful and would, apparently, “bend over backwards to help anyone”. We laughed politely and moved on.
Mickey O’Bannon we’d already met, and that left only the star of the dancing horse show, Sabine Mathieu. Beautiful women are seldom widely liked, and when they’re also extremely talented and extremely French, they stand no chance at all. Sabine, we ascertained, was universally loathed. A native of Paris, she had that city’s special talent for rudeness, which didn’t help her, either, but there was, said everyone we spoke to, such an air of superiority and dismissiveness about her that, in the words of one of the stable lads, “I reckon if she met God himself she’d look down on him. And He’d be too frightened to say anything.” Despite his obvious wariness of the woman, it was difficult to stop him waxing lyrical about her beauty and her skill on horseback once he got started.
It was approaching four o’clock so we left the stables and walked past the regimentally ordered living tents and caravans to the mess tent. Colonel Dawlish was already there and was pouring mugs of tea from a huge, ornate samovar for the four members of the gang who had already arrived. Veronica and Wilfred were sitting together, deep in some private conversation, with Mickey and Sabine opposite them, lost in their own thoughts. Lady Hardcastle sat down with them and I helped Colonel Dawlish carry the teas.
As we sat at the table sharing them out, the other four came in, led by Jonas. He and Adeline came to join us while Abraham and Prudence fetched four more teas and one of the plates of fresh buns that Babble had just brought out.
‘It’s been a hellish day,’ said Colonel Dawlish once everyone was seated, ‘but I don’t need to remind you all how essential it is that we put on a good show tonight and get the punters talking about how magnificent, spectacular and incredible this circus really is. No matter how hard we’ve tried, news will already have got round about the murders so any of tonight’s crowd that hasn’t been frightened off will be here out of morbid curiosity. But who knows what might happen tomorrow; once the fuss has died down even they might stop coming. But if we give them a show they can tell their friends about, we can have a full house for the week. You’re the core of the show, you’re my platoon leaders, I need you to spread the word, chivvy the troops. We can get through this if we stick together and do what we do best.’
‘My girls, they are not affected by these things,’ said Sabine, haughtily. ‘They are the professionals. They will give the performance of their lives tonight. I guarantee it.’
The others nodded earnestly, but Jonas seemed lost in a world of his own and just gazed at the Frenchwoman with unconcealed adoration. Adeline had noticed Jonas’s trance and nudged Prudence, who smirked. Her smile vanished instantly when Jonas came to himself and glared at her.
‘The boys and I have been working on some new gags,’ said Jonas, suddenly jovial once more. ‘They need a little more work to get them perfect, but they’ve never been seen before so it might be worth trying them out tonight.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Colonel Dawlish. ‘Well done, you two.’
‘The girls and I have been working on some new tricks, too,’ said Prudence. ‘I’m sure they’re ready.’
‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ said Colonel Dawlish with boyish enthusiasm. I was sure he’d already forgotten why we’d wanted to get them all together, but it didn’t seem right to try to disrupt this sudden burst of enthusiasm.
‘I shall have one more bun, I think,’ said Veronica. ‘And try to continue to be fat,’
‘And if I slouch I might pass myself off as Britain’s sixth smallest man,’ said Wilfred, reaching out and taking her hand.
The others laughed and for the briefest moment, the horrors of the day seemed to have been forgotten as the eight friends started planning an evening’s entertainment. A burble of conversation erupted as more and more ideas occurred to them. Only Abraham looked forlorn. It was his equipment that had been used to kill Gus, and he was no doubt dreading having to go out and demonstrate his prodigious strength as though nothing had happened.
Suddenly, I had the most horrible feeling that we were intruding. Despite our promises to Colonel Dawlish to track down the killer, and despite our belief that he or she was somehow connected with this group, it suddenly seemed entirely wrong for Lady Hardcastle and I to be sitting with them while they tried to suppress their grief and save their circus. I caught Lady Hardcastle’s eye and it was apparent that she had had precisely the same feeling.
Without saying a word, we rose from the table and left the mess tent. We walked home and it was only once we were safely inside the house that we began to discuss the day’s events and to try to decide what we were going to do about our invitations to see the show that evening.
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After much discussion, Lady Hardcastle and I had decided that we had no good reason not to go to the circus as planned. We joined the villagers and the visitors that mobbed the box office. Milly and Molly had been delighted to see us and had summoned a stable boy to show us to our seats in the area reserved for distinguished guests.
We sat with Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud on one side and Dr Fitzsimmons on the other. I could tell that Lady Farley-Stroud was more than a little put out at having to share her exclusive spot with a servant, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to care very much.
The show itself exceeded my expectations. The clowns, the elephant, the trapeze, the Chinese acrobats, and the wonderful dancing horses were even more magical than I’d dared hope. And the revelation of the evening was that Colonel Dawlish, in a tailcoat of hunting pink, wearing a silk top hat and addressing the audience through a polished brass megaphone, was the ring master. With jokes, outrageous exaggerations, and a line of patter of which I should never have dreamed him capable, he charmed the audience and whipped them into a frenzy of enthusiastic appreciation for each act.
By the time the show finished with the performers parading round the ring for their final bows, he was exhausted, but the crowd was enraptured. Even without the lion tamer and the circus’s lead juggler, the show had been every bit as amazing as the posters had promised, and as we all made our way out into the warm summer’s night, everyone was buzzing with the excitement of it all.
It was rather late by the time we got home and Lady Hardcastle had said that she had no intention of getting up at her usual hour and that a lie-in would be very much in order.
As is always the way when licensed slugabeddery has been offered, I was up with, if not the lark, then at least the lark’s more lackadaisical cousin. Many a long-put-off chore had finally been completed and at least one cake baked by the time Lady Hardcastle rang from her bedroom.
I took her a tray with tea, crumpets and the morning post and soon afterwards she arrived downstairs in her dressing gown, still yawning, holding a letter in her hand.