‘How about . . . er . . . love?’ asked Phryne. Mr Burton laughed.
‘A lot of women want to find out about dwarves,’ he said primly. ‘They are . . . er . . . interested in my . . . er . . . attributes. But I will not compromise. It is love or nothing. So far, it is nothing. Now, tell me what you are doing in a circus. Is this a whim, Miss Fisher? Are you bored?’
‘I was, until I tried falling off a cantering horse every morning. Now I’m bruised. I really don’t know what to say, Mr Burton, except to tell you that I am here for a good purpose and beg you not to expose me.’
‘What purpose?’
‘First, tell me. Do you think that there is a reason behind the accidents which have befallen Farrell’s in the last few months?’
‘No. I think that there is a design. The Catalans went to Mama Rosa—they have no prejudice against gypsies—and she said that there was malice, not the evil eye, behind the incidents. Mama Rosa may be a charlatan, I have no opinion on the matter. But she has her finger squarely on the pulse of the circus, perhaps because she is not part of it. Someone has been making mischief. Is that what brings you here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why should you care about us? We are only circus folk.’
‘I’ve had enough of this “only rogues and vagabonds” rubbish,’ said Phryne angrily. ‘I’m here because a close friend asked me to save his livelihood, which will be lost if the circus folds its tents and goes broke. My motives are excellent. I admit I was bored and a little irritated by that person implying I couldn’t leave all my luxuries behind. The luxuries were no loss, but being so lowly is hard to bear and putting up with Mr Jones is harder. But I will find out what is wrong with Farrell’s Circus. I gave my word. Even if I continue to fall off Missy every day.’
Mr Burton heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Good. I don’t know if I can help you but I will try.’
‘Is there anyone else who might be reliable?’
‘They’re all reliable, Miss Fisher. But as to who might help you . . .’ He thought about it and gave Phryne the reins while he lit a cigarette. The horse paid no attention to the movement of the leather straps across his patient back. He continued the solid heavy four-four clop and Phryne’s head nodded.
‘Yes, it is hard to stay awake. That’s why I usually have one of the Catalans as a companion. Not that my noble steed Balthasar actually needs to be driven, but he likes some company. Have you noticed the time of the hooves? Exact metronome-measurable four beats in a bar. I’m not telling anyone else or they’ll want to make him a performer and then he might not like the wagon so much. Yes. Well. We are leaving the suburbs behind. This is Deer Park. Not that I know if they still have any deer. Or if they ever had any. Hmm. Now, what can I tell you? Avoid Amazing Hans and the lions. He is a little unhinged. Most wild animal tamers are. Bernard Wallace and Bruno are safe enough.’
‘Yes. Bruno likes me.’
‘Does he indeed? A rare mark of trust.’ Mr Burton seemed impressed. ‘Mr Farrell—well, I don’t know that you should go anywhere near Farrell. Since this Jones man came he’s been looking wearier and greyer every day. Jones has some hold over him. I suggest that it is good old-fashioned money. Rajah is a flighty beast and so is her trainer. Of the flyers, Lynn Bevan is the only one who might even listen to you. Flyers are very self-involved. They are the aristocrats and the rest of us are cast as peasants. Dulcie is a good girl. So, oddly enough, is Mrs Thompson. Being married to a clown is a sore trial. You might be able to talk to the clowns. Toby is a depressive but Matthias is all right—or so they say. I do a performance with them. The only time you can get a word out of Toby is between bouts of this illness, when he is quite pleasant. When he’s down, he is very down and won’t talk. Matthias even has to feed him. But he can still perform and make the whole crowd fall down laughing. Clowns are odd. The Catalans will help but they are looked upon with almost as much suspicion as gypsies. If I were you, I’d look at Mr Jones very closely. And there are three roustabouts who have certainly never done this work before. One has sticking plaster all over his hands.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen him. He gave the head rigger the finger.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ Mr Burton chuckled. ‘His two offsiders are also incompetent, but that may not mean that they are criminals. Circuses have a strange fascination for unhappy boys. Unhappy men, too. They run away and join us. Then when they find out that it is all hard work, erecting tents in the rain, eating Mrs Thompson’s stew and no orgies with the girls, they run away again. If they are still here in a week I shall be more sure that they don’t belong.’
‘What about Mr Christopher?’ asked Phryne. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Alas, not well. His only confidants were Miss Younger, poor girl, and the clown Matthias. He was a nice man who kept his own counsel.’
‘And what about the magician? You left him out.’
‘Miss Fisher, I strongly advise you not to go near our Mr Sheridan unless you have company and are wearing armour. He is what was once known as a bounder. There was a scandal with a country girl in Colac and there will be more. He is oily and pleasing and gets his own way far more often than he should.’
Mr Burton sounded very irritated and Phryne decided to change the subject. ‘How far are we going today?’
‘Presently we shall stop for lunch. Then we will have a light afternoon’s jog to Rockbank. It was the first stopping place for the miners. Half a mile out we stop and dress for the parade.’
‘What?’
‘We stop,’ said Mr Burton patiently, ‘and put on our costumes. All the people who are not needed to rig the tent and set up the camp ride something and toot or bang something and we parade through Rockbank throwing leaflets announcing the circus. We do not do a performance until tomorrow night. But we have to let the populace know that we have arrived. I would advise you, at that time, to go and collect Missy, give her a quick lick and a promise and find yourself a costume. They will be in the wagon with all the lady’s gear. Ask Dulcie for something.’
Phryne lunched with the Catalans on a peppery stew made out of mutton and garlic in roughly equal proportions. She did not need the proverb, ‘Val més bona gana que bona vianda’— ‘A good appetite is worth more than good meat’—which Àgata quoted, anticipating the Australian disgust for anything gastronomically unusual. The food was solid and spicy. Phryne conversed in her Parisian French about the Catalans’ home. They told her that the mountains there were blue and cold, so high that they reached heaven.
Climbing into the back of Mr Burton’s wagon after lunch Phryne drowsed away the rest of the journey, through country which sloped like the limbs of a recumbent animal, furred with short grass dried to the colour of a lion’s hide.
Mr Burton woke her with a cup of tea. ‘Here we are,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Rockbank just ahead. Drink that, my dear, and then go down to get Missy and give Dulcie my best regards. You will ride with me again?’ he asked stiffly. Phryne gulped the tea. She was filled with a rush of gratitude for his company. She had not realised how lonely she was.
‘Mr Burton, I would esteem it an honour.’
Jumping down, she walked along the trail of wagons which carried the tents and gear and the seating. The first ten had branched off to reach the camping ground. She found Missy standing in a line of horses, detached her and fed her a peppermint.
‘Missy, my dear, just look at the state of your coat,’ she exclaimed. She borrowed a body brush from the next girl and gave the mare a quick wipe down, finishing by removing dust from the horse’s eyes with her handkerchief.
Miss Younger swung past, riding with as much comfort as if she were sitting in an armchair.
‘Fern! Take Missy and get Dulcie to give you a costume. Red truck,’ she called. ‘Joan! Can’t you see that’s not temper, it’s a stone in the hoof? Pick up her foot instantly. Well she might kick! So would I!’
Phryne found the red truck and Dulcie in the midst of what looked like complete confus
ion. Spangled and sequined garments hung from the sides, along with masks and headdresses and hats.
Dulcie, however, seemed calm and organised. ‘Here’s your costume.’ She handed Phryne a red satin tunic, fleshings and a tall feather headdress. ‘Take Missy over to the side and don’t let her drink yet.’
Phryne managed to get Missy through the stream of camels and wagons but she could not simultaneously hold the beast and change into the costume. Missy was thirsty and could smell water. She could not see why this human was being so obstructive. She ramped on her front feet and threatened to buck.
A figure landed on Missy’s back and brought her down onto all four hooves again. It was a clown in full costume, his face painted into sad lines.
‘I’ll amuse her, Fern, while you get into that feather thing,’ said Matthias Shakespeare. His eyes were devouring her. Under this intense regard, Phryne did not feel threatened. Excitement rose up her spine like mercury in a thermometer. She shivered, licked her lips and dropped her feather crown.
‘You are so beautiful,’ said the clown, controlling Missy’s tantrum with hardly any effort. ‘You have been appearing in my dreams.’
‘Oh?’
‘Starring Beautiful Fern,’ said Matthias in his dark brown voice. ‘And Jo Jo the clown whom no one loves.’
Phryne stripped off the pink dress and pulled on the spangled tunic and the tights. They had holes in the knees. Then she knelt to remove the turban and pull the feathers down over her telltale hair.
‘Fern, Fern,’ sang the clown. ‘Makes my heart burn. Tell me, do you like me, Fern?’
‘Yes,’ said Phryne, tucking in the last strand of hair. ‘Yes, I like you.’
Matthias made a grab at Missy’s neck, slid forward, bounced and landed sitting back to front, his hands grasping for the reins.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said a passing girl.
‘It’s my profession,’ said the clown. With the elegance of a cat, he leapt down, retaining Missy’s rein. ‘Fern,’ he said softly. Phryne searched the painted face for an expression but could discern none. Only the gaze of the dark grey eyes affected her, like a caress. ‘Makes my heart burn,’ he whispered.
Phryne smiled. He tossed her Missy’s reins and did a handstand on her back. The upside-down face looked into Phryne’s and she laughed.
Detective Inspector Robinson found a report on his desk and summoned both Grossmith and Harris to hear about it.
‘This is the lab’s report on the notebook. Mr Christopher’s notebook, you remember,’ he prompted. ‘The little red book. It’s been stained and soaked in blood but they managed to get some clearish images. Have a look at this.’
He showed them a photographic sheet, still wet from developer. They stared at it. In small, neat handwriting it read ‘Exit’.
At that moment the phone rang.
‘Yes. This is Robinson. Miss Williams? Of course I remember you. Miss Fisher? Yes, I saw her . . . she’s done what?’ Robinson grabbed for a piece of paper. ‘Yes, I’ve got that . . . yes. Call for a letter at the post office . . . and if we want her have her arrested? What’s her name? Fern Williams? Yes. Dangerous? Not really. But I’ll keep an eye on her, Miss Williams. Yes, I promise. Thanks.’ He hung up the receiver.
‘Miss Fisher has got a job as a trick rider in Farrell’s Circus,’ he muttered half to himself. ‘I saw her there recently. Well, I suppose she knows what she is doing. Not my problem yet,’ he said grimly to his staff. ‘Back to the subject. Look at the rest of the plates.’
They spread them out on the overloaded desk and onto the floor. Robinson bent over the last page. Quite clearly, they could read where Mr Christopher had written:
To Molly,
I have come into some information which proves that Farrell’s is being used by a criminal organisation called Exit. I am going to see Mr Farrell about it tonight. I haven’t told anyone because he has a right to know first. He has always been good to me. But if I don’t see you again, Molly, know that I always loved you. I love you, Molly. You made me into a man.
Chris
‘What’s on the rest of the pages?’ grunted Grossmith, getting down onto his knees. ‘Made him into a man, indeed. Someone was writing love letters to his other half. Christopher/ Christine! Disgusting.’
‘Shut up, Terry!’ snapped Robinson. ‘Here. Yes. A list of places. Damn. They’re the same as Miss Fisher’s list. Phryne Fisher is going with the circus, did you hear? And she’s going to all the places that Mr Christopher has listed.’
‘Who’s Phryne Fisher?’ asked Tommy from the floor.
‘An interfering woman,’ said Robinson. ‘A very clever, very beautiful, very rich, interfering woman. And I’m afraid,’ he added, ‘that this time she might have got herself in too deep.’
The parade entered the main street of Rockbank. Phryne was riding ahead of the chariot, driven by Miss Younger, four-in-hand. Dust rose and swirled and children cheered. A pair of young men with slicked back hair gutter-crawled their battered old car beside them and called obscene suggestions to any woman they saw.
Asphalt Arabs, Phryne reflected, were not confined only to sealed roads. She pulled Missy a little aside. Beside her danced Jo Jo the clown. For a second, he laid one hand on her thigh and slid his strong fingers along it. Phryne nearly lost her seat.
The clown’s hands were charged. Then he was gone and the shouting died away. The respectable citizens of Rockbank had been thoroughly informed that the circus was in town.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thy feet have trod the pathway of my feet
And thy clear sorrow teacheth me mine own.
Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)
The Trojan Women
‘I reckon we bring Albert Ellis in,’ said Sergeant Grossmith.
‘On what charge?’ Robinson wanted to know.
‘Being concerned in an attempt to murder Constable Harris here.’
‘We’ve got nothing on him. Only on Wholesale Louis and the two others. The Mad Pole and Cyclone Freddy.’
‘Well, three out of four ain’t too bad,’ commented Grossmith. I say pull ’em in. Scum like that cluttering up my nice clean street.’
‘What about the Brunnies, then?’ asked Tommy Harris.
‘What about ’em?’ grunted Grossmith.
‘They’ll be out looking for the ’Roys, because they killed Reffo. Jack Black Blake won’t be pleased. He probably sent Reffo to sneak on them. He really hates the ’Roys.’
‘So?’ Grossmith was staring at his constable.
‘Why don’t we go and talk to the Brunnies?’
This was self-evidently a good suggestion. Grossmith nodded. ‘All right. I’ll go and have a chat with Jack. Usually to be found in the Brunswick Arms this time of day.’ He stood up, filling the room.
‘Good idea, Terry,’ said Robinson. ‘I’m going to give your constable the task of writing out all that can be deciphered from these photographs. And I think I’ll write a letter to Miss Phryne Fisher, care of Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show. She ought to know about Exit.’
The circus settled for the night. The tents had been erected; the head rigger had dressed the king poles with lights and ropes. After a lot of hauling, the canvas sides and top were laced and the whole resembled a large ghostly grey pancake. Rajah walked amiably backwards and the entire erection rose like a mushroom. The guys were fastened to the trucks and the ring traced out in wooden blocks.
The tired company dined off mutton stew and retired to their various resting places. Animals made sleepy noises. Only the lions roared and complained, unsettled by the thunder in the air or, possibly, the wandering presence of sheep.
Phryne had been allotted a stretcher bed. She unfolded her quilt and got under it. Her diaphragm was in her sponge bag and, in view of what might happen in a circus, she did not intend to be found wandering outside this chaste tent without it. No one seemed to notice what she was doing, or to care.
Twelve women stubbed
out cigarettes, stretched, stowed their mending and rubbed a little more ointment into their bruises. Dulcie put out the light.
Phryne could not sleep. She looked up into the canvas ceiling of the tent, feeling as lonely as she had on her first day at boarding school. There she had known no one, had no friends and was not the sort of person who would fit in. Here she had a few allies, but only Mr Burton, Bruno and Dulcie could be said to be friendly. She was surprised to find herself crying.
‘Never mind, Fern,’ whispered Dulcie from the next bed. ‘You’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘Do what?’ sobbed Phryne.
‘Stand up on the horse.’
‘Yes,’ replied Phryne. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ She had never felt so much like an alien.
Muttering an excuse, she rose and went out into the dark. She could not stay in the tent any longer. She was looking for something, though she did not know what it was.
Ten minutes later, Phryne was standing outside a lighted caravan watching Jo Jo the clown strip.
The darkness was hot and laden with scents: engine oil, horses, burned sugar from the fairy lolly machine, and sun-scorched grass. A hot wind caressed her face and stirred the skirts of her cotton nightgown. Phryne could not tell why she was fixed in her place, unable to move even if she wanted to. She did not want to move.
The ragged fall of ash-coloured hair was real, she observed, as he shook his head free of the ridiculous cap. With careful, automatic movements he peeled off his shirt, his trousers, and began to unfasten padding from around his tubby waist. When it was gone he was revealed as slim and muscular. His hands were big and gnarled with years of hauling lines.
He sat down to take off his boots and ran considering hands down the length of his body, from shoulder to calf, as if to calm and reassure it—as one would stroke a nervous animal. She heard him sigh, but because of the painted mask she could not read his face.
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