Blood and Circuses

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tell us the showman’s tale, you say. And why not?

The very thought of it brings back to my ears

the jingle of bells.

‘Lord’ George Sanger

Seventy Years a Showman

Tommy Harris returned to Mrs Witherspoon’s refined house for paying gentlefolk with a warrant to search everywhere for anything. He was determined to be thorough.

He had nothing to rely upon but the conviction that the woman who had drawn him away from the brink of that roof was not guilty of murdering Mr Christopher.

He reached the house to find that the only person home was Tillie, the girl described as halfwitted. She answered the door timidly and would only allow him inside after he had exhibited the impressive warrant, blazoned with the seal of the Magistrates’ Court at Melbourne.

‘Ooh,’ she commented, handing it back. ‘Well, you’d better come in, bettern’t you? Missus is out. What do you want?’

‘I’ve got a warrant to search everywhere,’ said Tommy Harris, smiling at Tillie. ‘I’m Constable Harris. Do you remember me?’

She wiped her hands on the greasy tea-towel she was carrying. ‘Yair. You was here when they took Miss Parkes away.’ Tears filled Tillie’s eyes. ‘I liked her. I don’t reckon she killed Mr Christopher.’

‘I don’t reckon so, either.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No. So that’s why I’m searching. But that’s a dead secret, Tillie. You won’t give me away?’

Tillie mopped her eyes with the tea-towel. She was a faded girl, with pale blue eyes and scraped-back blonde hair. She smiled slowly at Constable Harris. ‘I won’t give you away.’

‘Good, now you tell me about the lodgers, while I have a look at each room.’

‘The keys is in the scullery. I’ll get ’em.’ Tillie scurried away and was back in no time.

Tommy Harris began with the bedrooms. Miss Parkes’s room was tidy, sparsely furnished and anonymous. The bed was neatly made. Harris lifted the mattress and felt down behind the pictures and the back of each drawer in the chest of drawers. Clothes, plain and well kept. Her stockings were darned with the correct thread. This was always an index, Tommy had been told, to the state of a woman’s mind. There were no reminders of her circus past. Her prison-release document was the only personal item in the room. Her ashtray was full of pins and one loose button.

‘All right, Tillie, who’s next?’

‘This is Miss Minton’s room.’

‘Do you like her?’ asked Tommy, reeling back under a cloud of cheap scent. Tillie looked around to make sure that no one was listening.

‘She’s all right. Makes a lot of work. Lots of washing and ironing, with all them costumes. I don’t know what sort of an actress she is, though. And,’ Tillie lowered her voice further, ‘I don’t think she goes to church when she goes out on Sundays.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘I asked her what church she was, cos I thought she might be a Catholic. I can’t abide them Micks. She said she went to St Paul’s. But she don’t.’

‘How do you know?’ The overpowering femininity of Miss Minton’s belongings was stifling Harris. The window had evidently not been opened for some time. He pulled at a drawer, dreading that he might see something which would cause him to blush.

‘She leaves at the wrong time. Service at the cathedral is eight and ten. She often don’t leave until ten. I don’t know where she’s going but it ain’t church. But she’s got some pretty things.’ Tillie gazed admiringly at a gown figured with gold dragons. ‘And she smells nice.’

Love letters and cards and cheap novels with chocolate wrappers marking her place comprised most of Miss Minton’s reading matter. Tommy glanced through them. The terms in which Miss Minton’s person was described by one ardent suitor were too much for him. He felt his cheeks begin to burn.

He replaced the letters, felt along the mattress and under the bed. There he found three unmatched stockings and an earring. The walls of her room were hung with posters for various plays, and the small table was covered by a fringed shawl. Her wastepaper basket contained more chocolate wrappers and two types of cigarette butt—one long and lipstick stained; the other short, gold-ringed and brown.

‘Oh! They’re the ones that Mr Sheridan smokes!’ squeaked Tillie. Tommy Harris selected a representative collection of butts and put them into an envelope.

‘Come on Tillie, I’m stifled in here,’ he said. ‘Who’s next?’

‘This is Mr Christopher’s room,’ breathed Tillie. ‘All his stuff is still there. Ooh, this is creepy!’

Constable Harris had been taught how to search a room. He got down and crawled. His first effort had been thorough; at the end of half an hour his harvest was scant. The only things which he could not definitely state were Mr Christopher’s possessions were another strip of flimsy paper, which he discovered caught behind the picture of Miss Molly Younger, a length of twisted fishing line and a small white feather. The collection meant nothing whatever to him but he packed it all up in another envelope.

‘What’s the next, Tillie?’

‘Mr Sheridan’s room.’

But no matter how Constable Harris turned the key, the door would not open.

‘Missus’ll be mad,’ said Tillie. ‘They ain’t s’posed to muck about with the locks. In case of fire, she says.’

‘Well, it won’t open. Tell me about the house. Can you get into the roof? What about under the floors?’

‘They fixed the ceilings where the roof used to leak but the painter ain’t been yet. And now I expect she’ll have to have the downstairs ceiling fixed. Ooh, to think of poor Mr Christopher lying there bleeding like a tap! It’s awful.’

‘How did you feel about him, then?’ asked Tommy, trying not to think of Mr Christopher bleeding like a tap. Tillie screwed the tea-towel in her water-sodden hands.

‘He was a gent,’ she said sadly. ‘Never any trouble and as nice-spoken as you please. Not like Mr Sheridan. He’s not nice.’

‘What sort of not nice?’ asked Tommy.

Tillie grimaced. ‘He pinches,’ she said, rubbing her bony hindquarters as though an old wound still ached. ‘And he grabs. But now he’s taken advantage of Miss Minton, I’ll reckon he’ll leave me alone.’

‘Why do you think he’s done that?’

Tillie looked up at the ceiling, scratched her nose and refused to comment further. Tommy Harris went downstairs to wait for Mr Sheridan to return home.

Phryne Fisher completed the grooming of Missy and said to Miss Younger, ‘Are you hiring me?’

Miss Younger inspected Missy. She ran a hand through the soft mane and lifted a hoof to check that it had been properly cleaned.

‘You can stay. If you aren’t good enough to go in the ring, you can mend, wash, make yourself useful. Thirty shillings a week, five more if you go on. You sleep in the girls’ tent, that’s on the left of the big top. We go on tour on Friday. You’ll need fleshings and a costume but we can look at that when we see how you progress. All right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Call me Miss Younger. You came with some carnies. Don’t have much to do with them once we’re on the road. Not if you want to be accepted by the circus.’

‘No, Miss Younger,’ said Phryne.

‘Go over to Mr Farrell’s van and get a contract. Tell him to talk to me if there’s a problem. And Fern . . .’

‘Yes, Miss Younger?’

The horsemaster came closer, lifted Phryne’s chin with a finger and looked into her face. Phryne looked back. The older woman’s face was blotched with shed tears which powder did not entirely conceal. Phryne was sorry for her.

‘I don’t know what things have been like for you, being a dancer, but circuses are very moral. If you play at being a tart, you’ll be taken for one.’

‘Yes, Miss Younger.’

‘And look out for Mr Jones. He has an eye for a pretty face. You aren’t precisely pretty but you’re graceful and you’re young and that’s how he likes ’em. Don’t be alone with him.’

‘No, Miss Younger.’ Phryne pulled her chin out of the horsemaster’s hold. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she said. ‘But thanks for the warning.’

Phryne walked across the circus towards the largest and most gaily decorated van. It had ‘Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show’ emblazoned along both sides in red and tarnished gold. She paused at the bottom of the steps. The half-door was open.

‘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 like 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.