Blood and Circuses (17 page)

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 confusion. 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.

His lines were as elegant as those of the great cats. Could he, like them, see in the dark? He had risen to his feet, naked and beautiful, and walked to the caravan door, leaning out, scanning the night.

Phryne was still rooted to the spot as if she had grown there. She realised that her position was equivocal, to say the least, and also that she was clad only in a thin nightdress.

The clown looked down and she looked up, green eyes into slate-grey eyes.

‘Fern,’ he said softly, as though he were tasting the name.

‘Matthias,’ she acknowledged.

‘Were you watching me?’

There was an odd undertone to the question but Phryne answered simply, ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Perhaps I was curious.’

‘So am I. Will you come in?’

He made no move to cover his body. It was, Phryne thought as she climbed the stairs into the caravan, a body worth looking at and not one to be ashamed of. She wondered if his nakedness was an invitation or a threat.

She came up over the last step and shut the caravan door behind her. He drew his curtains. The little room was brightly lit by a kerosene lamp and crowded with possessions—posters, a trunk, and a bed covered with a handmade patchwork quilt. On the windowsill stood the trademark eggshell with his clown’s face painted on it, proof of Jo Jo’s ownership of his mask.

‘Sit down,’ he said politely. ‘I’m afraid there is only the bed. Would you like some wine?’

Phryne nodded, overcome by his closeness and the brightness of the light. He opened a bottle of wine and turned down the lamp as he saw her wince.

‘You’ve been out in the dark for a while,’ he observed, his voice low and detached. ‘Here we are, Fern, have a drink with me and tell me what you’re curious about.’

‘I’m curious about everything,’ said Phryne with perfect truth, taking a swig from the bottle. It was a sweet, rich port.

‘But you are curious about me in particular.’

‘Yes.’

She took another gulp of wine. The paint was still on his face, two yellow stars over each eye, the mouth white and his own lips red. Those grey eyes watched her, giving nothing away. He sat easily on the bed next to her, his bare thigh touching her cotton-covered one.

‘Perhaps I just find you . . . attractive,’ she added. ‘Why else would I prowl in the night?’

‘Why else indeed?’ he replied. ‘But you are no circus-born kid, Fern. Or you’d know.’

‘Know what?’

His nearness was unsettling Phryne. She could feel heat radiating off his skin and she noticed a muscle begin to twitch, a tendon pulling from his hip to groin. Other developments were making themselves apparent. There was no doubt that the clown was pleased to see her.

His voice, however, was still cool. ‘No one sleeps with clowns,’ he said, passing her the bottle. ‘It’s unlucky, we’re unlucky. And we are supposed to be sad.’

‘Why?’ Phryne laid a hand on the nearest expanse of flesh and heard him draw in his breath.

‘Clowns contain sadness. That’s why people laugh at us. How can we be sad if we have lovers?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Ah!’