Blood and Circuses

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!’

Phryne had stroked another part of his back. His muscles under her hands were hard, evidence of formidable strength.

‘So you think I don’t belong to the circus?’ she asked, running her fingers lightly down his neck to his chest and finding an erect nipple.

‘No, you don’t. You’re a good rider but that’s not why you’re here. Why . . . Ah! . . . Why are you here?’

‘I won’t be able to concentrate,’ purred Phryne, ‘and neither will you, until we have this over with. Therefore, you shall have kisses for answers. One, do you favour Farrell or Jones?’

‘Farrell. Jones is a crook,’ he said and Phryne kissed the painted mouth. The greasepaint came off on her lips and coloured them alike.

‘Good. Two, will you help me find out what is happening?’

‘Yes,’ he said and red mouth met red mouth in a deeper kiss.

‘Third and last . . .’ She breathed into his ear. Then she paused.

‘What?’ he said, still not touching, and saw her smile, the black hair swinging back from her face.

‘Do you want me?’

The clown mask came closer, until he was staring into her eyes, and for the first time that night he touched her. He slid both calloused hands up her calves to her thighs and she caught her breath.

‘I might hurt you,’ he said. ‘It has been a long time.’

‘Because clowns are unlucky?’

‘Yes.’ His face glowed with sweat and paint; a desperate clown who trembled at her touch, at her nearness and her female scent.

‘I will take the risk. What is your answer?’

‘Yes.’

She stripped off the nightgown in one movement and then he was above her, kissing her with hard, fast kisses, his strong hands picking her up and laying her on the patchwork quilt. Paint smeared as he rubbed his face across her belly, his mouth seeking the sweet place where all of her sexual nerves twined into a knot.

Her joints loosened, her thighs parted. Over the flat planes of her breast and hip, the clown’s face appeared. His hair fell ragged and Phryne bit her hand to still a cry. His mouth was skillful; he had found the right place.

She could not reach him to caress him; he did not seem to want to be touched. His rough fingers found each nipple and squeezed hard; she gasped on the edge of pain and pleasure. There was such pent-up force in this clown that she was as close to fear as she had ever been.

His mouth moved, sliding up to join with her mouth; an engulfing kiss, bitter with paint. She wrapped her legs around his hips and the first thrust was so strong that it nailed her to the bed. The clown mask filled her vision, which was blurring. She grasped him tightly and began to respond, but his hands came down on her shoulders so that she could not move.

‘Please. Don’t move. I can’t . . . wait . . . if you move.’

‘I won’t run away,’ she said, wriggling under the imprisoning hands. ‘I will stay all night. Let me go! I won’t be pinned down!’

He blinked and released her. Phryne, whom force turned cold, began to regain her lust as the movements became slow and considered. He bent to kiss her nipples. The sliding of painted flesh made a sucking sound, curiously loud in the night. His hair fell over his eyes, hiding their strange light.

Phryne seized his shoulders, forcing him closer, deeper. He groaned and stiffened, then fell into her arms and writhed with release.

She had been so surprised by his collapse that she had lain still for five minutes under his weight. Now he was becoming too heavy. She shoved at his chest and he clung to her, the muscular arms encircling her in a fast embrace.

‘You said that you would stay all night,’ he whispered and there was that odd note in his voice again. Phryne decided to ask. Besides, she was not yet sated and this man had erotic potential which needed to be developed.

‘What is it, Matthias? Why are you so . . . unsure of me?’

He leaned up on one elbow and wiped the sweet-smelling hair out of his eyes.

The paint had largely been transferred to Phryne’s body. She saw that he had a face which in Paris would be called joli laid; an ugly face, with high cheekbones, long nose, a wide mouth and soft full lips. His eyebrows were winged at the corners.

He bore her inspection bravely and said, ‘There are some women who aren’t circus folk who like . . . who like masks. They occasionally . . . want to try me. But they never want to stay. Just for an experiment, you see.’

‘And you thought I was one of them?’ Phryne’s voice was cold.

He stroked her breast, laying his cheek on it gently. ‘You said that you were curious.’

‘Yes. I am curious. But you are lovely, a good lover. Hasn’t anyone told you that? You’re the only person in this circus who likes me, if you don’t count Mr Burton and Bruno the bear. And my curiosity isn’t so easily satisfied.’

A smile dawned on his face, curving the soft mouth. ‘What can I do for your curiosity, Fern?’ he breathed into her ear.

She reached for him and drew him close, relishing the sprung line of his backbone and the hard strength of his buttocks.

‘Why, satisfy it,’ she said lightly.

Lizard Elsie offered her bottle to the woman lying face-down on the other bed.

‘Have a bit of good cheer,’ she said in her creaking voice. ‘Come on, love, it can’t be as fucking bad as all that.’

Miss Parkes looked up in astonishment at the strange voice and slid her knife down under her mattress.

‘Come on,’ encouraged Lizard Elsie. ‘What’s bloody wrong?’

‘I’m a murderer,’ said Miss Parkes flatly.

‘Oh, are yer? Who says so?’

‘They say so.’

‘Well, they can be fucking wrong, can’t they? Have a sip. Just a sip. It’s bloody good brandy.’

Miss Parkes sat up and accepted the bottle. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m Elsie. They calls me Lizard Elsie because of my bloody blue tongue. I learned the habit early and I don’t seem to be able to fucking break meself of it. That’s better.’

Miss Parkes had taken a deep draught of brandy and was leaning back against the wall. She had not eaten for two days and the spirit rushed straight to her head and disconnected her wits.

‘Now,’ said Lizard Elsie, repossessing herself of her bottle, ‘tell me how you got to be a fucking murderer.’

‘A man,’ said Miss Parkes. ‘He was my husband.’

‘Ain’t it always the fucking way,’ Elsie spat. ‘Did yer kill him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ asked Elsie, settling down for a long chat.

‘I . . . he mistreated me and made me barren and beat me and then told me to be a whore.’

‘He was bloody lucky if all yer did to ’im was kill ’im,’ observed Elsie. ‘When was this?’

‘Ten years ago.’

‘Ten years ago? They just bloody found out, then?’

‘No, they think I killed another person. A circus performer who lived in the same house as me. His name was Mr Christopher. He was stabbed to death.’

‘And did you?’ asked Elsie, interested.

‘I don’t think so. But I got out of prison, see, and they thought that if I’d killed once I’d kill again.’

‘Fucking cops,’ said Elsie. ‘Have another dram.’

Miss Parkes pushed back her cropped hair, which was filthy. She was still wearing the same suit in which she had rescued Constable Harris from the roof. She noticed that she was grimy, and that her fingernails were black and broken. Elsie scanned her with her parrot regard.

‘Hey!’ yelled Elsie. ‘Duty copper!’

‘Yes, madam?’ asked the duty officer with heavy sarcasm. ‘What does madam require? Caviar? Champagne?’

‘Madam requires that you give me and this poor bloody woman a bath and some clean fucking clothes. Then we’ll see about some lunch,’ said Elsie flatly.

‘But she doesn’t want a bath,’ said the policeman. ‘And she won’t eat, either.’

‘You leave it to old Elsie,’ she said with deep cunning. ‘Just get us a wash and a comb and some lunch and we’ll be right as bloody rain. And fucking put some speed on,’ she shrieked at his retreating back. ‘I ain’t had a bath and a feed for a bloody week.’

‘I can tell,’ muttered the duty officer and went off to arrange the closure of the men’s ablutions for the ladies’ bath.