Blood and Circuses (27 page)

‘“Think of me kindly,”’ the letter went on. Incredulity blossomed in Robinson’s voice and he began the paragraph again. ‘“Think of me kindly. I have killed the only person I have ever loved. I had a brief fling with Miss Minton and tried to forget Christine with Pretty Iris, who had something of the same cool aloofness. But it was no good. When it came to a matter of money, of course, I had no choice. I killed her because she knew about me and I could not risk disclosure then. All I can say is that she died instantly and in her sleep. I had drugged her and Miss Parkes, who struck me as a very good candidate for the scapegoat. The knife was a twin of the one used in my act. If you examine the ceiling in Christine’s room, you will be able to poke your finger through the hole. Illusion. It is all illusion.” It’s signed “Robert Sheridan, the Great Magician”.’

Immediately, every person within hearing distance yelled their opinion of the writer. Miss Younger screamed, ‘He was a man! Chris was a man. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him, the bastard!’ Dulcie was trying to calm her and seething with fury. Phryne went cold, then flushed red. She was trembling uncontrollably. The Catalans, who had received a French translation of the letter from Mr Burton, scowled in perfect unison. ‘
Mare de
Déu! Monstruos!
’ Dogs barked. Toby the clown stirred from his trance to comment, ‘Judas.’ His neighbour stared at him. ‘Bastard,’ added Toby, just to prove that it had not been a fluke.

‘Shut up!’ yelled Robinson, his voice lost in the babble. Amazing Hans asked, ‘Could we just catch him and put him in with the lions? That’s what Jones wanted to do to Fern. I wonder which lion? Prince, maybe. He’d bite off his head.’ Samson rose to his feet, took an iron stanchion and bent it between his teeth.

Farrell cracked his whip again and the voices died down.

‘Well, that’s the end of a horrible story. When they catch him we can leave him to the law. He’s confessed he’s a murderer and he’ll swing for it.’

The ringmaster had inbred authority. They were quiet now. ‘You have to decide,’ he said quietly, ‘whether Farrell’s Circus is to go on. I have let you down. I shouldn’t have sold to Sweet Dreams. I should’ve run that cur Jones out of my show the moment he laid a hand on the first girl. You relied on me to protect you. I didn’t. I even allowed an innocent rider to be badly mistreated, then nearly murdered. Half of the show now belongs to her and the way things stand she’ll never want to see a circus again. What do you want me to do?’

‘Question is,’ said Dulcie simply. ‘What does she want to do?’ Phryne had conquered her fear. She looked at the deed in her hands, which Detective Inspector Robinson had passed to her.

‘I’ll give it to you, Mr Farrell,’ she said. ‘If you want me to. Then you can keep it or sell it. But the financial circumstances being what they must be, I can come to an arrangement with a wealthy friend of mine. She can fund you for another year. Then, if the show starts making money, you can pay her back and she’ll give you your circus again.’

‘Would she do that?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Oh, yes.’ Phryne smiled sunnily. ‘She loves circuses. That’s the offer. Which do you want?’

‘Do we go on?’ asked Sam Farrell, looking around the ring.

There was a short silence. Then Mr Burton said crisply, ‘Of course.’ The Bevans conferred and nodded. So did the Catalans. Amazing Hans said, ‘I’ll stay and see how it goes.’ Bernie yelled, ‘Yes!’ Miss Younger looked up from her folded hands and whispered, ‘Please. It’s all I’ve got left.’

‘We go on,’ said Farrell, taking off his hat and mopping his face. He looked at his watch and grinned. ‘And now,’ he added, raising his whip, ‘just in time and for your especial delectation and delight, Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show presents . . .’ The drummer found his drum and played a roll. ‘The Melbourne Cup!’

Two tumblers brought in his bakelite radio, trailing a cable from the generator truck. Mr Farrell turned the dial and the announcer said blithely through crackling interference, ‘And it’s a beautiful day for the races.’

You could have heard a pin drop. Robinson reflected that circus people were all mad.

‘See?’ said Samson to Sergeant Grossmith ten minutes later. ‘I told you. Statesman had the staying power.’

Dulcie, who had put a bet on Demost for a place, collected from Mr Burton and gloated over ten shillings.

‘I think that I’ll go back to bed,’ said Phryne. ‘I’m not as well as I thought I was.’

Unmarked by anyone but Miss Younger, the carnie and the clown escorted Phryne out of the big top.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘Squire, shake hands, first and last! Don’t be
cross with us poor vagabonds. People must be
amused. They can’t always be a-learning, nor
yet they can’t always be a-working, they ain’t
made for it. You
must
have us, Squire. Do the
wise thing and the kind thing too and make
the best of us, not the worst!’

Charles Dickens*
Hard Times

That same Tuesday morning Mr Sheridan drove his unobtrusive van into the docks. It was six o’clock and there was no gang working. He had bought a passage to Bolivia on a small cargo tramp called
Legerdemain.
He thought the name a charming coincidence. His Oxford tweed suit was immaculate and his manner as smooth as ever. He hummed as he stopped the van by the first shed.

A flurry of many-coloured pigeons sprang suddenly into the dawn sky. Mr Sheridan was puzzled. There must be someone about and he had seen no one.

* lisp omitted in the interests of clarity

A cold metal tube touched his cheek. He turned his head slowly. It was the barrel of a shotgun. Behind it was a sneer.

‘Going somewhere, Boss?’

‘Oh, it’s you, Louis. You gave me quite a start. Take that gun out of my ear.’

‘You’re trying to shoot through, Boss.’ Behind Louis was Albert Ellis with all his rat’s teeth showing. ‘You’ve left Killer in quod. He’ll hang. And you were running out on the rest of us. That’s not friendly, is it, boys?’

‘Not very friendly at all,’ agreed Cyclone Freddy.

‘If you think you can just leave us in the lurch, you’re wrong. Where’s the money?’ demanded Ellis.

Terrified, Mr Sheridan went the colour of a tallow candle. They meant it. The world was going out of his control. His voice shook, losing its affected unctuousness. He dragged out his wallet.

‘You can have it. You can have it all! Just don’t kill me. You can’t kill me, Ellis!’

Albert Ellis took the wad of bank notes and smiled gently. ‘Wrong again,’ he said. He flicked his finger at Wholesale Louis, who tripped both triggers. The twelve-gauge shotgun roared.

They watched with interest as the remains of Mr Sheridan twitched, spouting gouts of blood.

‘He’s dead, Boss,’ said Louis, turning away and breaking the gun open. He stowed it inside the Gladstone bag in which he had smuggled it past the gate. Then he took a last look at the mess which had been Robert Sheridan, the Great Magician. ‘Christ have mercy,’ he gasped, backing away and crossing himself. The others crowded to look. Something that could recall his childhood Catholicism to Wholesale Louis must be dreadful indeed.

In the blood-soaked chest, something stirred. Bloody white and red fragments were all that remained of Mr Sheridan’s head. He could not have been alive. Albert Ellis and Cyclone Freddy followed a terrified Wholesale Louis out of the vicinity as fast as they could. Whatever it was that was happening with that corpse, they did not want to know. Besides, someone must have heard the gun and soon there would be inconvenient questions asked of bystanders.

The lump in the tweed coat moved again. It struggled forward. A white dove, spattered with blood, poked its head out from the ruin of its master’s natty suit. Seeing no predator, it fluttered groggily up onto the truck window, gripping the ledge with its claws. It preened shakily, distilling red drops from its beak, shook itself, then flew upward. There was a flourish of snowy wings, fanning out as it wheeled, puzzled. Then the magician’s last dove settled on the grain-shed roof, where the pigeons pecked companionably in the red and gold sunrise.

Three weeks later, Lizard Elsie and Miss Parkes were sitting together in a room in Mrs Witherspoon’s refined house for paying gentlefolk. Miss Minton was gone. Her producer had come up trumps. She had landed a dancing part in a travelling show and was in Sydney.

Constable Harris had paid a visit and demonstrated the trick ceiling, finding that the magician had left his two pulleys and the fishing line in place. Tommy had operated the weighted line and the force of the fall had driven the knife six inches into the mattress.

‘Houdini’s trick,’ Tommy had explained to Mrs –Wither––spoon. ‘He couldn’t even make up his own trap.’

Mrs Witherspoon was mortified. She had trusted Mr Sheridan and mistrusted Miss Parkes and she felt terrible. That was the only reason why Lizard Elsie the sailor’s friend was dwelling under her genteel roof.

‘Well, Elsie?’ asked Miss Parkes. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Look for another sailor, I reckon.’ Elsie grinned. With her hair combed and with clean clothes, she had gained a certain gypsy beauty. She bore her fifty years very well. Miss Parkes took her hand.

‘You could stay here,’ she suggested. Elsie squeezed the hand for a moment, then released it.

‘I’m too bloody old a dog to learn new tricks,’ she said gruffly. ‘I’ll get a room and find a man. Don’t you fucking worry about me.’

Miss Parkes reached into her handbag and laid something in Elsie’s lap. It was a police-issue dinner knife, sharpened to a razor point.

‘What’s this?’ asked Elsie.

‘It’s a present. I won’t need it any more.’

Elsie shoved the knife into her old black handbag and rose to go.

‘Stay one more night,’ begged Miss Parkes. ‘Have dinner with me. We’ll invite Tommy Harris. What do you say, Elsie?’

‘Yair.’ Elsie smiled her wickedest smile. ‘He owes us a favour, I reckon. Pity he ain’t a sailor. I always had a fancy for sailors.’

At the same time, approaching Sebastopol, Phryne Fisher was discovering that making love in a moving caravan, with the windows open, the air moving sweetly over naked skin and the horse walking at a steady pace, was both delicious and soothing to the bruises.

Miss Younger, who had seemed more settled since the news of Mr Sheridan’s death had come to the circus via a week-old newspaper, had seen Phryne climb into the clown’s caravan and had not snarled. A packet of photographic plates of Mr Christopher’s book had been delivered to her by a sympathetic Robinson. She would read them every night until she died. She looked at the caravan with a perfectly blank face, then wheeled Bell and galloped off in a cloud of snuffy dust.

On the road to Hamilton Phryne walked towards Skipton Church. It seemed like an ordinary bluestone building; she wondered why Mr Burton had insisted, chuckling, that she see it.

She paused with her hand on the wrought-iron gates. White things poked out of the tower. Gargoyles, if she was not mistaken. Phryne stared. Four gargoyles grinned demoniacally from the church tower. There was something odd about them. They were not pigs or dogs or dragons, like the standard received gargoyle of Notre Dame. She edged closer. What were they based on? Curly decorations, horns. Phryne began to laugh helplessly, clinging to the church gate. Skipton Church was guarded from evil spirits by four gargoyles in the shape of fanged, feral sheep.

She had almost recovered from Skipton Church when she was watching a team of sweating yokels in a tug of war with Rajah at Lake Bolac. Rajah allowed them to drag with their utmost force, without moving a muscle. Then she reached out with her trunk and gave a sharp tug and fifty men flew off their feet and into Lake Bolac with a mighty splash.

Detective Inspector Robinson attended the committal of Albert Ellis and his gang for various offences, including the murder of Robert Sheridan, stage magician. He sat through the whole lengthy, complicated brief of evidence with a broad smile on his face.

Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show was nearing Hamilton. Jo Jo the clown kissed Phryne awake.

‘Almost at Hamilton,’ he observed. ‘You’re going home from here, aren’t you, Fern?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will we see you again?’

She sat up abruptly and dragged on her cotton dress. ‘Do you think I’m going to waste a skill that cost me so many bruises to learn?’ she demanded. ‘I’m a circus rider now, and don’t you forget it. And I found you, too.’ Her voice softened. ‘I won’t forget you, Matt dear. I’ll see you again.’

Hamilton was a prosperous town, clean and windswept. The circus trucks turned off Ballarat Road for the camping place down by the railway line. The parade, Phryne’s last, proceeded along Cox Street and into Gray Street, attended by running children.

Down Gray Street went Phryne, mounted this time on Rajah the elephant, high up and elated. Jo Jo the clown was encircled by Rajah’s trunk, swept up and dropped unceremoniously beside her. Drums banged and trumpets tooted. Miss Younger led her liberty horses past the Argyle Arms, where the drinkers cheered. Phryne tossed her head and her crown of feathers danced. ‘Oh, this is lovely,’ she sighed. The clown laid a hand on her thigh.