Blood and Circuses pf-6

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘Mr Farrell?’

  A grunt, and someone croaked, ‘Come in.’

  Phryne mounted the steps and walked into a cluttered little room, with a table full of papers and a typewriter. There were two chairs and two gentlemen occupied them. One was the tall man with white hair, whom she knew to be Mr Jones. The other was a smaller man with a stockman’s hat and weary blue eyes set in a nest of wrinkles.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here?’ asked Jones. ‘The little rider.’

  ‘Sir, Miss Younger sent me for a contract,’ parroted Phryne, poised for flight. She recognised the look in Mr Jones’s eye and did not like it.

  ‘Oh, yes. My name’s Farrell.’ Mr Farrell stood up and reached out a hand crooked with arthritis but nonetheless strong. ‘Hello. Welcome to the circus. What’s your name?’

  ‘Fern,’ said Phryne. She realised that Doreen had neglected to provide her with a surname and added, ‘Fern Williams,’ fervently hoping that Dot would never find out that she had borrowed her name for such an unrespectable purpose.

  ‘And you can stand up on a horse, Fern? That’s good. Been a dancer? Thought so. Way you stand. Sit down, Fern. Before you sign you get the lecture on circuses. Want you to know that this is an Imperial tradition, one to be proud of, no matter what they say about us. Rogues and vagabonds, they call us. But the crowds in ancient Rome wanted bread and circuses and they got them. And ever since we have been travelling, bringing innocent amusement to the people. We cross the boundaries of what is possible. We fly higher, leap further. We defy natural laws. My old dad could balance with one foot on each of a pair of horses. They bet him once that he couldn’t run the pair across a bridge and he laid the bet, then found when he was in motion that the bridge had a toll gate across it.’

  He paused. Phryne asked breathlessly, ‘What happened?’

  ‘He called to the horses and they jumped it, with him aloft. He won his bet. He was a great rider, my old dad. And his father before him and me too, in my time. Perhaps you, Fern, if you practise enough. Which mount did Molly give you?’

  ‘Missy, sir. She’s lovely. Not so smooth paced as Bell, though.’

  ‘She must like you. Missy’s her second string. Good. Now, you get thirty shillings a week, five more if you are good enough to ride in the rush. We give you accommodation and food. You sleep in the girls’ tent, left of the big top. That’s where you leave your stuff and change before the show. If you aren’t riding you can help the other girls with changing and mending and washing, you help wherever you’re needed. This is a circus. We all help each other. When we strike camp you’ll see all the principals helping as well. Always something to do in a circus.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ll have to be ready to leave early Friday morning. I’ll hire you for the tour. That’s six weeks. If you don’t practise or if you get into any hanky-panky I can fire you on the spot. Thieving or disobedience, the same. Is that clear?’

  Farrell’s face seemed to have been carved out of mahogany. Phryne nodded.

  ‘Good. Be a good girl and you’ll be happy with us, Fern. Sign here.’

  Fern signed, crabbing her ordinarily free script down into a scribble. Mr Farrell signed after her. His hand shook.

  ‘Wait a bit,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Stand up.’

  The caravan was just lofty enough to allow him to stand. He reached out for Phryne, seized her shoulder and ran his hand down her side and buttock. His touch was not impersonal, like Alan Lee’s and Miss Younger’s, and Phryne squirmed. In her present persona she could not hand this mongrel the clip on the ear which he evidently required. She had to suffer his touch, turning imploring eyes on Mr Farrell, who seemed uncomfortable but said nothing. Phryne stumbled and kicked Mr Jones in the shin by what appeared to be accident. It was a sharp kick. He let go of her and swore.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said tonelessly. As she turned to leave the caravan, she caught a glow of pure pleasure in Mr Farrell’s eyes.

  ‘Now, I wonder what that means?’ she asked herself aloud as she walked away. ‘Mr Farrell and Mr Jones are not at one, it seems. Ooh, how I would like to boil that Jones in engine oil. How dare he touch me like that!’

  ‘You had trouble with Jones?’ asked a plump girl who was sitting on an upturned bucket mending tights. ‘He’s a cur. Felt me all over as though I was livestock.’

  ‘I kicked him in the shin,’ said Phryne with simple pride. The plump girl laughed.

  ‘Good for you! What’s your name? Can you darn?’

  ‘Fern. I can’t darn, sorry.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. Kicked ’im in the shins, eh?’ She laughed again. ‘I’m Dulcie. What’s your line?’

  ‘Horses.’

  ‘Oh, you must be replacing Allie. Hope you have better luck.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Juggler,’ said Dulcie laconically. ‘Magician’s assistant, wardrobe, costumes, and I’m one of the elephant girls. You doing anything special?’

  ‘No, I was just going to have a look around.’

  ‘I’ll take yer, if you like. Your reward for kicking that mongrel Jones.’ She stuffed the tights and thread into a canvas bag. ‘I could darn tights all day and never get to the end of ’em. You’d better learn to sew, though. You want me to introduce you?’

  ‘Thanks, I’d like that. It’s big, isn’t it?’

  Dulcie stood up and stretched. She was the same size as Phryne but plump, with small hands and feet, brown eyes and hair, and a round cheerful face like a doll’s.

  ‘Biggest thing there is. The circus has magic. Changes people’s lives. Look at me. I was working in a shop when I was fourteen. Came to the circus and got put on a horse on a governor in the clown’s act. I stuck on good-o and Mr Farrell asked me if I’d like to join. Never went back. Couldn’t go back, p’raps. It’s a hard life but most of ’em are. This way you get to travel and . . . well, you’ll see. If it gets you, you’ll never be happy staying in one place again.’

  They had reached the Williamstown Road boundary. The circus camp was spread out before them, bright with banners and humming with activity.

  ‘Now, there are three camps. Because we have to set up in a hurry, sometimes in the dark or the rain, the tents and caravans are always in the same order. Next to the big top there’s men on the right and women on the left. Then after that, all round the big top, there’s the caravans. We can tie the guys to them and it steadies the tent. From the left there’s the clowns, two of ’em, Matt and Toby Shakespeare. Then there’s the lion tamers, then three jugglers. After them there’s the Cat’lans, they’re balancers, you know, the Human Pyramid. They don’t speak much English, you stay away from ’em.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Foreigners. They’re,’ her voice lowered to a whisper, ‘almost gypsies. Mr Farrell don’t like to hear us say that but you just take the hint, Fern. Then, going round the big top, there’s the three trucks that hold the seating and the canvas, then the two caravans of the flyers. The Bevans. You’ve heard of ’em. Famous trapeze artists. Lynn Bevan, that’s the daughter, does the triple somersault, which is what all of them flyers aim for. She can do it two times out of three. Out from the big top to the left there’s the booths of the carnies. Don’t go near ’em alone. Not after dark. To the left of the carnies there’s the big cats, the lions. We only got lions here, they’re more reliable than tigers. Tigers is got a dirty temper. I wouldn’t trust a tiger so far as I could spit. The other side, to the right, there’s the horse lines, the camels and the elephants. You gotta put them as far away from the lions as you can. Our horses is well trained and won’t spook, p’raps, but lions and horses don’t get on. That’s why we only feed our lions on beef or mutton. Not horse. We don’t want ’em to get a taste for horse. Come on. We’ll go take a look at the folk. Where do you want to start?’

  ‘What are those other caravans over there, past the elephants?’

  ‘Gypsies,’ said Dulcie, spitting. ‘That’s the gypsies. You don’t want to notice them. They don’t li
ke being noticed overmuch. Now, where shall we start?’

  ‘At the left,’ said Phryne. ‘I’ve already been to the horse lines.’

  ‘Oh, yair. Miss Molly talked to you? Be nice to her, Fern. Her fiance’s been murdered, so you can understand why she’s a bit short with you. She’s nice, or she was nice before someone killed Mr Christopher.’

  ‘Mr Christopher?’

  ‘Yair. Half-man, half-woman—Christopher and Christine as well. He had a turn in the show, just before interval. Some said that he ought to be in a booth in the carnival. But he was a nice bloke, or she was, you know what I mean. And Miss Molly, what wouldn’t go near a man except in the way of business, she was real gone on him. He seemed to be fond of her, too. It’s a real pity. I don’t reckon they’ll find who did it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No one cares about us,’ said Dulcie matter-of-factly. ‘We’re rogues and tramps and vagabonds and the cops don’t like us. They won’t extend themselves catching him, whoever he is. Besides, Mr Christopher wasn’t just a circus performer, he was a freak as well.’

  ‘Freak?’ growled a voice from knee level. ‘Freak? A glorious title.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Burton,’ said Dulcie, after she had looked to either side. ‘This is the new rider, her name’s Fern.’

  Mr Burton was a dwarf, dressed in cut-down overalls. Although he had the stature of a child, his face was wrinkled and his hair was grey. Phryne guessed that he might be forty-five. She knelt down and offered her hand.

  ‘Pleased,’ said Mr Burton, kissing the hand with a courtly flourish. His voice was educated and crisp. ‘Welcome. I’m Josiah Burton. Freaks, Dulcie?’

  ‘Yair. I was telling Fern about Mr Christopher and reckoning that the cops wouldn’t bother much about finding who killed him.’

  The dwarf tapped his front teeth with a forefinger. ‘Hmm. All connected, I’d say, Dulcie. The fires and the lost beasts and the death of poor Mr Christopher. How’s Molly taking it?’ He cocked a bright dark eye at Phryne.

  ‘Not good,’ said Phryne. ‘She’s been crying a lot. And she was very sharp with me.’

  ‘You are a perceptive young woman, Miss Fern,’ commented Mr Burton. ‘Someone doesn’t like us and that’s a fact. I’m talking to Wirth’s. What about you, Dulcie?’

  Dulcie seemed taken aback. ‘You reckon it’s that bad?’

  ‘I do. You’re taking her on the grand tour? Look out for the lions. Someone’s been niggling them. Listen.’

  Deep, angry roaring disrupted the camp and seemed to echo out of the ground. Horses neighed and camels bubbled and honked, made uneasy by the feral voices of the flesh eaters.

  ‘Thanks for the warning. This way, Fern.’

  Phryne followed Dulcie, stepping carefully over guys. A strong scent of cooking became apparent. Someone was having bubble and squeak for lunch.

  ‘Hello, Mr Shakespeare,’ said Dulcie. ‘Bit of bacon would go real well with that.’ A blocky middle-sized man with a painted face looked up from stirring a pot over a small fire. His features were disguised but he had clear and beautiful grey eyes, and he smiled under his mask.

  ‘Dulcie. Don’t be cheeky. How nice to see you. You want some potato and cabbage?’ He had a treacle-toffee voice, slightly accented. ‘It’s nearly ready.’

  ‘No thanks, I’m showing a newie around. This is our new rider, her name’s Fern. This is Mr Matthias Shakespeare. Him and his brother are our main clowns.’

  ‘Jo Jo and Toby, Musical Madness,’ said the man, taking Phryne’s hand with the one not occupied in stirring. ‘Being myself and my brother Toby. Welcome to the Circus. Toby! Come and meet a new rider.’

  A muffled assenting voice came from the caravan and Toby emerged. He was dishevelled and evidently had been interrupted, as one eye was outlined in white and the other was bare.

  ‘Off with the motley, it’s lunch time,’ said Matthias. ‘Meet Fern.’

  Matthias looked at Phryne with appreciation and seemed to wish to further the acquaintance. Then he was distracted by his brother.

  ‘I don’t think much of that new greasepaint, it’s dry and it flakes. I don’t think I want any lunch, Matt. Hello, Dulcie.’ Toby’s voice was sad and dreary. He ignored Phryne.

  ‘Oh, Toby, just a mouthful or so. You have to eat something. It’s bubble and squeak. You like my bubble and squeak.’ Matthias sounded worried.

  Toby groaned. ‘Again?’ He slumped down into a canvas chair and put his head in his hands. Matthias patted Toby’s shoulder and the man looked up. It was hard to discern his features under the heavy makeup but his mouth curved down, in opposition to the elevation of his painted smile.

  ‘Cheer up, Toby,’ said Matthias. ‘Try a bit of lunch. You have to keep up your strength. Here, let me just dish up, then I have to clean my face. And you’re right about the new paint. I think we’ll go back to Max Factor. Come on, Tobias, give me a smile, eh?’ They had forgotten all about the visitors.

  Dulcie led Phryne on, through a maze of washing lines and parked vans.

  ‘One of the rules is that you never look in a caravan window,’ she instructed. ‘If you have to go out at night, you don’t talk to people you see and you don’t say where you seen ’em. You don’t go into anyone’s tent unless they invite you. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Phryne.

  The circus was vast and bewildering. The number of people who might want to destroy it was unknown and it seemed impossible to keep tabs on everyone. Phryne was conscious of being alone in shabby clothes and completely ignorant. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, this time, Phryne, she thought. You’ll never make any sense out of this.

  ‘To understand a circus,’ she added aloud, stepping sideways to avoid a passing camel, ‘you obviously have to be born in a trunk.’

  ‘Too right,’ agreed Dulcie.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tread lightly, lest you wake a sleeping bear.

  Oliver Goldsmith’s epitaph

  on Samuel Johnson

  Mr Robert Sheridan, on his return home, was all apologies that the constable had not been able to get into his room, which he unlocked immediately.

  ‘Oh, I see. You’re moving out, then?’ said Tommy. The room was bare, the bed had been made up and all the pictures and memorabilia were gone.

  ‘I move back into my caravan tomorrow, so I took all my things down to Farrell’s this morning.’ Mr Sheridan smiled at Tommy. ‘I hope that is not too inconvenient?’

  ‘No, Mr Sheridan. When does the circus leave?’

  ‘Friday. After that, it will be hard for you to find me.’

  ‘Leave me an itinerary, please,’ said Tommy, taking out his notebook and licking his pencil. Mr Sheridan seemed a little put out but began, ‘Rockbank on Saturday, we will be there four days. I expect to hear the Melbourne Cup there. Then Melton, four days, then Bacchus Marsh, only a couple of days. Myrniong after that, I don’t think we’re stopping there. Ballan for four days. Through Gordon to Wallace, four days, and then Bungareek—quaint, these rustic names, are they not? From Bungareek to Ballarat. We expect to stay there a week. Or longer, if there is a good attendance. There usually is, say two weeks’ audiences at Ballarat. Then to Sebastopol or Smythesdale. After that we do Linton, four days, and the run of little towns: Skipton, Carranballac, Glenelg, Lake Bolac—we swam the elephants there last year—Wickliffe, although we won’t be stopping there because some idiot accused me of witchcraft there last season. Witchcraft, in 1928! Glenthompson, Dunkeld, and we finish that road at Hamilton. From there we take a different road back, along the coast. I’m not precisely sure of the route.’

  ‘That will do, thank you,’ said Tommy Harris, sure that if he didn’t solve this murder by the time the circus got to Hamilton, he would never solve it. ‘Can messages be left?’

  ‘Just address a letter to the next town. Nothing travels slower than us. Of course, when I was with Wirth’s, we travelled in style, on the train. On the road, Farrell’s goe
s at elephant pace, four miles an hour. And slower, sometimes, depending on the weather, though that looks set fair. Is there anything more, Constable?’

  ‘Not at the moment, sir.’ Harris tried to look stern and official. ‘But I may be seeing you again.’

  ‘Always at your service,’ said the magician and drew a string of flags from the constable’s pocket. ‘Well, well. How did they get there?’

  Straight-faced, Constable Harris returned the flags to Mr Sheridan and left the house.

  Miss Parkes was formally charged with murder. From the dock she said, ‘I don’t know if I did it.’ The magistrate took this as a plea of not guilty and set her down for a committal hearing in ten weeks’ time. Bail was not applied for and was formally refused. The magistrate remanded her in custody to await her trial.

  Because there was no room in Pentridge for female prisoners, she was taken back to the watch-house. Such as remained of her sanity was applied to sharpening her stolen knife on the stone wall of her cell.

  Phryne was still following Dulcie around the circus. Scents arose and delighted her. Tar, sulphur, the reek of burning hoof and new-staunched metal in the horse lines. The strange thick odour of camel. The smell of drying hay. Canvas, toffee, engine oil. They were approaching a very grand large caravan. Outside it a slim blonde woman was sitting under an awning, rubbing liniment into the calf of one leg.

  ‘Hello, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘Damn! Can you reach around for me, Dulcie? I can’t afford a cramp.’ Dulcie nudged Phryne, who took the offered leg and began to smooth oil into the bunched muscle. Miss Bevan accepted her ministrations without bothering to acknowledge them. I can’t ask Joseph for another massage so soon. He’s very busy, you know.’

  Phryne, rubbing assiduously, reflected that however busy the camp’s horse doctor was, a lowly rider could be commandeered at any time. She wondered suddenly how Dot felt, attending on Phryne. Phryne, as employer and mistress, expected service, just as this flyer did. The tense muscle relaxed under her touch and Phryne got to her feet. Miss Bevan wiggled her toes. ‘Thanks,’ she said carelessly. She put her foot to the ground and stood up. ‘Yes. That’ll do. Is she new to the show?’ she asked, looking at Dulcie. ‘Better get her a practice tunic. I’ll give her one of mine. Mum just made me three new ones. Falling off a horse knocks hell out of clothes, especially if you haven’t got many.’