Blood and Circuses

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 goes 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.’

Phryne boiled with shame. Second-hand garments, hand-me-downs, had been an aspect of childhood poverty that had been hard to bear. She hated wearing clothes made for someone else. But she gulped her humiliation down and accepted a skimpy sky-blue tunic from Miss Bevan. It had been patched.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Phryne. ‘It’s very nice.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Miss Bevan. She lost interest in them and Dulcie drew Phryne on.

‘That’s the Flying Bevans. They’re world-class flyers. Everyone wants to be a flyer.’

‘Do they?’ said Phryne, folding the tunic. Miss Bevan was right. It was nothing. Phryne was feeling angry and ashamed. She was being ignored. Miss Bevan had not even looked at her or spoken to her directly. ‘Where now?’

‘Round here are the sleeping tents. They double as changing tents.’

Phryne lifted a flap. A long row of beds lined one side of the tent. Each had a trunk or suitcase next to it. The other side was cluttered with costumes hanging over lines, properties, and what appeared to be an elephant saddle.

‘Here’s the kitchen,’ said Dulcie. ‘Hello, Mrs T. What’s for lunch?’

A bent crone scowled up from her covey of kettles. Steam had damped her hair and it hung in witch-locks around her nutcracker face.

‘You take your fingers out of me pots, Dulcie,’ she snarled. ‘Lunch is over. You’ll have to wait till dinner. And what are you trailing along with yer? Another mouth to feed?’ She glared at Phryne. ‘Ye’re nothing but a nuisance, girl.’

Dulcie did not seem at all cast down. ‘Stew again?’ she asked. ‘I dunno what you’d do if them sheep didn’t keep on dying of old age.’

Mrs T threw a tin mug with accuracy and venom. Dulcie ducked and caught the missile with effortless grace. Then she juggled it with a box of matches and a ladle. She tossed them back, one by one, to the old woman, who caught them easily. Dulcie backed away, taking Phryne with her.

‘She’s a good cook but she ain’t half got a temper. You stay out of casting range when she loses her rag, Fern. Even chucked a chopper, once, and missed the old man’s head by a whisker. He was complaining about having mutton stew ten days running. She told him to go kill a horse if he wanted a change of diet. She’s married to a clown, though. That always sours the temper.’

‘What, one of the Shakespeares?’

‘No, they ain’t married. They’re Jews. They don’t get married like us. No, Mrs T married Thompson, the acrobatic clown. He’s a great performer and he loves his dog, but he’s a real mean old cuss otherwise. Clowns are like that. They waste all their niceness on the audience. Then they ain’t got none left for the rest of us. All right, now, that’s the men’s tent. Instant dismissal if you’re caught inside it, no matter what the reason. Farrell told you that? This caravan belongs to Mr Robert Sheridan, the magician, he ain’t here yet. He don’t lodge with us common folk when we’re in town. Wait a bit. I have to deliver a message. Just wait for me here.’

Phryne felt in her pocket for a cigarette. There seemed to be no rule against smoking. She lit a gasper and drew in the smoke gratefully. She was feeling off balance. Deprived of her usual props and stays and allies, and having to speak with the accent of her childhood, she was losing confidence. No one seemed to like her, and she was used to being liked, or at least noticed. She closed her eyes.

A strong hand took hold of her scarf and pulled at it. She gasped, her eyes snapping open. The hand felt rapidly down her body until it reached her cardigan pocket. She let the scarf fall, grabbed for the hand and found she was holding an elephant’s trunk.

The end was soft, pinkish, and as sure as the grasp of fingers. She sighted up along it to a grey mass of body, tethered by one foot to a picket. Bright eyes in the plane of the face winked at her. Sail-like ears flapped.

‘Oh, you gave me such a shock,’ said Phryne as the delicate trunk curled around her wrist with a warm noise like a kiss. ‘My, you are big! What a huge creature you are.’ The elephant gave an absurdly small squeak, the sort of noise that should have come from a mouse, Phryne thought. It rocked from foot to foot. ‘What do you want?’ asked Phryne as the trunk began to quest through her clothes. ‘Oh, I see.’

There were three peppermints in her pocket, which she had brought to feed the horses. She was about to bring them out when the trunk curled back to the huge mouth and a noise like a concrete mixer offended her ears. The elephant had picked her pocket. ‘I wonder who taught you that?’ she asked aloud.

‘Rajah, you’re a bad girl,’ said a sharp voice. ‘You ain’t been doing that pickpocket trick on our own folk, not after I told you it was a low mean act.’

A tiny man with hay in his hair ducked under Rajah’s bulk and blinked into the sunlight.

‘I’m Fern,’ said Phryne. ‘I’m the new rider in the rush.’

She waited for him to snub her, as Lyn Bevan had, but the small man was too busy apologising for his elephant to concern himself with questions of status.

‘Billy Thomas,’ said the elephant keeper. ‘I dunno where she picked that up. Did it herself, maybe. Queer creatures, elephants. Sorry about that. I keep moving her picket back and she keeps movin’ it forward again. What did she get?’

‘Three peppermints.’

‘That’s all right. I gotta be careful. She’ll eat herself sick on fairy lollies, and what that does to her digestion don’t bear thinking about. An elephant with a belly-ache ain’t no laughing matter. You watch her from now on. Elephants don’t forget. Well, they don’t forget someone who has peppermints in their pockets.’ He ducked back under the canvas shade, pulling Rajah with him. Phryne could hear him hammering in the picket, to the accompaniment of a lot of cursing.

Dulcie returned and Phryne called excitedly, ‘Dulcie, an elephant just picked my pocket!’

‘Oh, yair, that Rajah. Nice old cow, otherwise. But she dearly loves lollies and Billy won’t give her more than a few. So she steals ’em. Come along. There’s the jugglers’ caravans. I live there with my partner Tom. Next to us is the Cat’lans. I wish they were further away.’

Phryne caught the eye of a slim, dark man. He was sitting in the sun mending a pair of much-worn sequined trunks. He did not smile but scanned her with black eyes. She did not know what language he spoke, so she ventured on French.

‘Bonjour, M’sieur.’

Dulcie dragged at her sleeve. ‘I told you not to have nothing to do with them foreigners!’

Phryne pulled away. She had been pushed around more than she was accustomed to lately.

‘Jour,’ said the man, smiling a brilliant smile. ‘Mademoiselle Àgata! ’ he called into the tent. ‘Quelqu’un qui parle français! Someone who speaks French!’

Àgata emerged, a thin woman holding a suckling baby. She beamed.

‘Aaró? Si? I tant! ’ She addressed Phryne directly. ‘Vous parlez français? Et voila—ca me fait plaisir. Do you speak French? What a pleasant surprise!’

‘Vous faiters partie du cirque? Are you with the circus?’ asked the man.

‘Oui, je suis écuyère . . . Et vous? Yes, I am a rider,’ said Phryne. ‘What do you do?’

‘Nous sommes des équilibristes. Nous avons perfectionné le castell—la pyramide humaine. We are balancers. We have perfected the human pyramid,’ Àgata broke in eagerly. ‘Vous devez venir vous voir. Nous sommes en troisième lieu à là liste, Mare de Déu. You must come and see us. We have third billing.’ Phryne found the woman hard to follow. She seemed to be thinking in another language. The accent was harsh and definite and she had never heard it before.

‘Bien sûr. Mais d’ òu venez-vous? But where do you come from?’ One thing she was sure of. ‘Vous n’ êtes pas français. You aren’t French.’

Àgata laid the baby over her shoulder and patted its back. It was small and dark and it burped resoundingly.

‘Non, senyoreta, nous sommes Catalans. Nousautres aimons mieux parler le français que le castillian. We are Catalans. We would rather speak French than Spanish.’

Her husband interposed, seeing Phryne’s difficulty. ‘Je doute fort que vous parliez le catalan. I doubt that you can speak Catalan.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Les autres nous appellent les étrangers. The others call us foreign. Il n’y a que le nain, M Burton, qui parle français. No one else can speak French, except for Mr Burton the dwarf.’

Àgata laughed. ‘Un homenet bien enseigné. An educated little man.’

Aaró agreed. ‘Un petit bonhomme bien savant,’ he said. Phryne wondered if he was being ironic. Savant also described a performing flea. Then again, there was certainly something of the performing flea about the amazing Mr Burton. ‘Voudriez-–vous nous faire le plaisir de souper avec nous? Perhaps you will like to dine some time?’

‘Je veu bien. Je vous en remercie. Thank you, I would be delighted,’ said Phryne. ‘Bon, je dois partir. Mon cavalier s’ énerve. I’d better go. My escort is becoming nervous. Je suis bien contente d’avoir fait votre connaissance. A bientôt. How delightful to meet you.’

‘Adéu,’ said Àgata. ‘Petite cavaliere?

’ ‘A bientôt,’ echoed Aaró.

‘You ain’t foreign, are you, Fern?’ asked Dulcie suspiciously.

Phryne laughed. ‘No. I learned—’ Oops. She had to think fast. ‘I lived in Collingwood when I was a kid. Went to school there. I picked up a bit of the lingo. Enough to get along. Come on. What’s over there?’ She pointed to a row of steel cages under a canvas awning.

‘Lions. We gotta be careful. Mr Burton said the lions was upset and an upset lion ain’t nothing to fool about with. But all the newies want to see the lions. I’ll go first.’

Phryne followed Dulcie into a narrow alley. There was a stench of raw meat and something more worrying, a reek of predator. The hair on the back of Phryne’s neck bristled. An inheritance, she thought, from the days when lions hunted humans. Some small primitive Phryne had streaked across the grassland and up a tree just out of ripping distance of those terrible claws, those long sharp white teeth, that hot red gullet. That cave-dwelling Phryne was gibbering frantically in the back of 1928 Phryne’s head.

Three men were discussing the racing news, seated on folding canvas chairs. The central figure was big and running to fat, with a crop of longish hair as white as wax. The other two were undistinguished, rather oily, in overalls. One had each finger and most of both palms strapped up in sticking plaster.

‘Well, I’m putting my money on Strephon,’ declared the man with the plaster. ‘I like the name. And I reckon the weather’ll suit him. Hello! What have we here?’

‘Dulcie and a new girl,’ said the big man languidly. ‘Hello, Dulcie. Who is this?’

‘Fern. I’m showing her around.’ Dulcie sounded cautious.

‘And of course you could not stay away from Amazing Hans and his equally amazing lions!’

Amazing Hans stood up. He had just a trace of German accent and was magnificent, his mane of white hair resembling that of the lions. He gestured to them to come under the awning. Iron bars made the occupants of the cages hard to see but Phryne did not want to see them any clearer.

‘Sarah,’ he said. Something snarled in the half-dark and Phryne made out teeth and eyes. ‘Sam, Boy, King, Albert and Prince. Presently of Farrell’s Circus, soon to be . . . well.’

‘You, too?’ Dulcie eyed him disapprovingly. ‘Ain’t Farrell’s a good show? And ain’t Farrell been good to you? Bought you that new lion and all?’

‘He has been good to me,’ said Hans precisely. ‘But he is no longer in charge. And too many things have been going wrong, Dulcie. These beasts need a lot of care, you know. There’s the food and the vet’s bills. It’s costly.’

‘Aren’t they hard to handle? I thought that female lions were more fierce,’ said Phryne. Amazing Hans scowled at her.

‘What would you know? Amazing Hans does not need advice from a slip of a new girl. They recognise me as their master. Female and male.’

‘They’re just big cats,’ sneered the man with the plastered hands. He ran a finger along the steel bars and whistled to the lion inside. It stood up and shook itself.

‘You think so?’ Hans laughed unpleasantly. ‘Just cats, eh? I’d advise you not to take them for granted, Jack.’

Hans approached and Jack stepped back from him. Dulcie took Phryne’s cardigan sleeve and drew her towards the sunlight. ‘Not to be taken lightly,’ advised Hans in a gentle voice. Jack took another pace away and snarled, ‘What’re you doing?’ a split second before the air was wounded by a thunderous roar. A clawed paw shot out between the bars. Jack squealed. The claws had raked his skin, leaving thin parallel scratches as clean cut as a razor-blade. The stout cloth of the overall had been slit.

Amazing Hans laughed merrily. ‘You’d better go and get Mrs Thompson to put some lard on that,’ he said. ‘Don’t come near my lions again. They’ve got a good memory,’ he added, as Jack scuttled past him into the alley. ‘And Prince has got your scent now.’

Phryne and Dulcie walked away. Phryne found that she was shaking.

‘I don’t like ’em either,’ confessed Dulcie. ‘Nothing that big ought to have teeth like daggers. Still, they’re a draw.’

They had come to a small patch of grass outside a neat green caravan, where a shirtless, tanned man was plaiting leather bootlaces into what looked like a leash.

‘Give me a hand with this,’ he grunted. Phryne sat down and took the four ends from his hand and watched as the deft fingers moved like shuttles. After a few minutes, he tied off the end and looked up.

‘Thanks. Who’s this, Dulcie? I thought she was Andy. Want a cuppa?’

A kettle was singing on a small fire. Phryne was thirsty. So was Dulcie.

‘Thanks, Bernie. Her name’s Fern, she’s a new rider. I’d kill for a cuppa, Bernie, thanks.’ Dulcie flopped down onto the grass. I never realise how big Farrell’s is until I take a newie around.’

Mr Wallace made mugs of strong tea with milk and sugar and opened a tin of ginger biscuits. He accepted one of Phryne’s cigarettes, without thanks, as though it were his due. Phryne had been bolstering her courage. Now it was leaking away like sand out of a sandbag. She sat down on the grass, ignored, and feeling utterly forlorn.

‘This is the life,’ said Bernard Wallace, smoking contentedly and blowing on his tea. ‘Nice day, sun shining, no show tonight and Dulcie the juggler to talk to.’

A dog inserted its head under Phryne’s elbow soliciting attention and biscuits. She managed not to spill her tea and stroked the smooth head absent-mindedly.

‘Just Bruno, he’s all right,’ observed Mr Wallace. ‘What’s new, then, Dulcie?’

‘Nothing much. You heard about Mr Christopher?’ Bernard nodded. ‘Lots of ’em are thinking of leaving. Even Mr Burton. How about you?’

‘Nah. Farrell’s I started and Farrell’s I’ll end. Got a couple more years’ work and then I’m off to the country with Bruno. I reckon Farrell’s will last that long.’

‘I hope so,’ said Dulcie. ‘Who would a couple of greasy fellers be, one with his hands all bandaged up?’

‘A couple of fellers, I s’pose. There’s a lot of newies this time round. And a couple of the worst roustabouts I ever saw trying to put up a pup-tent this morning. Talk about cack-handed! Give him a bit of your biscuit,’ he advised, speaking directly to Phryne for the first time. ‘He loves ginger biscuits.’

It was at this point that Phryne finished her tea and looked down. Instead of the dog she had expected, she found that she had been caressing the round furry head of a bear. He had black, twinkling eyes, almost buried in deep cinnamon fur. His ears looked to be insecurely gummed on and his nose was cold and wet at the end of a long snout.

Her hand fell from the domed forehead and the bear nudged her. She kept stroking and he rumbled blissfully and leaned on her. Phryne leaned back as hard as she could till they established an equilibrium.

‘That’s Bruno. He likes you,’ commented Mr Wallace with some surprise, as though the creature should have had better taste. ‘Bears always take likes and dislikes at first sight. Some people they hate, some people they love. Some they just ignore.’

‘He ignores me,’ said Dulcie. ‘Thankfully.’

‘He likes me,’ said Phryne, honoured but rather hot and squashed. ‘Get off now, Bruno.’

She shoved hard and managed to scramble to her feet, still holding the ginger biscuit. As she came up off the ground, so did Bruno. He stood considerably taller than she and opened his mouth, begging. Phryne found that he had a remarkable array of what looked like very sharp teeth. His paws, resting on her shoulders, weighed her down. Phryne noticed that he was curling up the ends of his paws so as to keep his claws away from her skin. She was not afraid. She dropped the biscuit into the gaping mouth.

‘There, good Bruno.’

The biscuit vanished instantly and Bruno sniffed at her for any others concealed about her person. When she opened both hands and he snuffled up a few crumbs, he dropped to all fours again and looked around hopefully for more.

‘All right, you beggar, here’s another biscuit,’ said Mr Wallace, getting up. ‘But you gotta dance for it. Hup!’ Before Phryne’s enchanted gaze, Bruno lifted up onto his hind legs and solemnly circled three times. Then he sat down and waited for his reward.

‘There you are, good bear. He’s as good as a wife,’ said Mr Wallace, scratching Bruno behind the ear. ‘Cruel to make him sleep in a cage next to the lions. But shire councils will be shire councils and they just don’t understand about bears. Old Bruno fetches and carries and is as good as gold and he don’t talk. What more could a man want? Have another cup, Dulcie?’

‘No thanks,’ said Dulcie. ‘We’d better get on. Fern’s got another lesson and I have to get back to the mending.’

‘Come back and see Bruno again,’ said Mr Wallace to Phryne. ‘He don’t like many people. He’d like to see you again.’

Phryne walked back onto the path between the tents with an idiotic smile on her face. What have I come to? she chastised herself. I’m so dependent on approval, and this circus cares so little for me, that I am terribly grateful if a bear likes me. Still, he does like me.

Dulcie was saying something and Phryne wrenched her attention back to her companion. It seemed that Phryne had impressed Dulcie with her aplomb.

‘Whew!’ said Dulcie. ‘I wonder you wasn’t scared to death! He’s supposed to keep that infernal animal chained up!’

‘Bruno’s all right,’ said Phryne. ‘Bruno is fine. But those lions are not. I do not like lions. What about those two men, then?’

‘Oh, just that they didn’t seem used to the lions. Everyone gets told not to go near ’em. They ain’t safe. Even Hans knows that. Every wild animal trainer gets mauled sooner or later. And don’t you go taking liberties with any of ’em, even if they look harmless, like Rajah or the bear. Rajah can pull up the big top on his own and Bruno nearly bit a kid’s arm off down at Colac. Kid thought that he’d tease him with a toffee apple, pulling it out of reach. Bruno took the apple and bit the kid to teach him not to tease bears.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ promised Phryne. ‘But it worked, didn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘I bet the little ratbag didn’t tease any more bears.’

Dulcie laughed. ‘Now, you know your way round, Fern? Are you staying here tonight?’

‘No, I’ve still got a day on my lodging. I’ll come in tomorrow.’

‘And you all right for . . . I mean, you got somewhere to sleep and all?’ said Dulcie. ‘Cos I can lend you a few shillings if . . .’

‘No, that’s all right.’ Phryne felt suddenly ashamed of her house and the exquisite dinner awaiting her. ‘You’re very kind, Dulcie.’

‘I been broke before,’ said Dulcie. ‘That way to the horse lines and you better put on that tunic. And hurry. Miss Molly don’t like to be kept waiting.’

Phryne fell four times during her next lesson. Her knack seemed to have deserted her. Miss Younger scowled but said, ‘You did all right this morning. We’ll try again tomorrow.’

Phryne limped back to groom and water Missy, favouring a scraped knee. Then she walked out of the circus and caught a bus.

Once home, she telephoned her solicitor and ordered him to make urgent enquiries about the ownership of Farrell’s Circus, authorising him to make an offer to buy it if he could not find out any other way. She had to know why Farrell tolerated Mr Jones.

When Alan Lee came to her front door, he was greeted by a woman in circus garb. Phryne had retained the scarf and the washed-out dress and she was limping.

‘Come up,’ she invited, leading him by the hand. He mounted the polished stairs to her boudoir. A sumptuous cold supper was laid out on the table. There were plates of smoked salmon, cheeses, caviar, olives, French bread and crisp salad. She locked the door behind him and led him into the bathroom.

‘Tonight you shall share my luxury,’ she said, pulling off the dress and the scarf and shedding battered undergarments, ‘because tomorrow I shall share your poverty.’

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt and she stripped him with automatic efficiency, dropping his stained garments to the floor. The bath was full of steaming water, scented with horse chestnut. It was a bewitching, delicate fragrance. Phryne stepped into it and brought Alan Lee with her. The marble tub was big enough for two. He moved like a sleepwalker, overwhelmed by her nakedness and the summer-forest scent.

His hands found the bruises of her falls onto hard ground. He stroked them as she slathered him with sweet-smelling foam, extinguishing the smell of engine grease and fairy lollies. He mouthed at the offered breasts, nuzzling and suckling and she embraced him close in the green water. His black hair was slicked against his head. He laughed, smooth as an otter, strong as an eel, and pulled her under.