Blood and Circuses

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

As a god self-slain on his own strange altar

Death lies dead.

Algernon Swinburne

The Forsaken Garden

Detective inspector Robinson, unable to locate Phryne, drifted over to the carnival in search of the person Dot had mentioned as her friend. The carousel music blared, brassy and loud. Jack Robinson jumped aboard and went round with the horses. Poseidon, Artilleryman, Carbine and Spearfelt bobbed and swayed. He sat down on one called Windbag. Alan Lee had a taste, it seemed, for Melbourne Cup winners. Robinson had an affection for Windbag. It had come in first in 1925 over the favourite Manfred, netting a nice return at five to one. Alan Lee was taking tickets from the children. Robinson settled down on Windbag to wait.

Phryne was extracted from her sack, bound and gagged and flung into what felt like a tent. It smelt sweaty and hot and there was dead grass under her, which crackled as she moved.

She tried her bonds; they were tight and expertly applied. She rolled over and sat up. Something shifted in the dark and made a suppressed noise, like a partly strangled oboe. Phryne peered into the gloom. Something humped over the ground and touched her. Then a chest became apparent and a male chin, which scraped over her face until teeth could seize her gag and drag it down, at the risk of dislocating her jaw.

‘Ouch,’ she commented. ‘Who are you?’

The man mumbled again. Phryne got the idea and knelt up, finding the gag in his mouth and pulling it away. She still could not see, but got the general impression of someone quite large and young.

‘Who are you?’ she asked again. The figure coughed, spat and then whispered, ‘I’m Constable Harris. Tommy Harris. Are you Miss Fisher?’

‘Yes. But they know me as Fern. Is Jack Robinson here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Well, he’ll find me. Find us. Who scragged you?’

‘I couldn’t see. It was too dark.’

‘Me neither. Can you turn and reach my hands?’

‘I’ll try.’

He struggled with positioning and at last his fingers found the knots. He scrabbled for a while and then said, ‘Can’t be done. My fingers have gone numb.’

‘Never mind. What we need in these circumstances is calm.’ Phryne was not feeling calm. ‘We’ll have to pass the time. Talk to me,’ she said, leaning against his comfortingly broad back.

‘What about?’

‘Tell me all about Exit and Mr Christopher.’

Tommy began to feel less outraged. He was still ready and willing to lose his temper if it would help, but dragging against his bonds had only damaged his hands. So he began, in his soft country voice just above the level of hearing, to tell Phryne Fisher all he could remember about both cases. Because he was naturally meticulous he told her everything, including the decor of Mr Christopher’s room, the collapse of Miss Parkes, Lizard Elsie’s falling asleep with her head on his shoulder in the custody area, and the shooting which had left a pool of blood on Brunswick Street.

Phryne did not interrupt. When he had got down to the present, she said, ‘Interesting. Now I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.’

Phryne recounted her struggles to stay on Missy’s back. She talked about the social organisation of the circus, the carnival and the gypsies. She told him about the clown Matthias and his brother Toby. She mentioned the various acts that made up the show, the grace of the flyers, the importance of the rigger, and the unfillable void which Mr Christopher’s death had left in Miss Younger’s life. Pieces began to fall like dominoes. The two stories dovetailed in a way that would have made a Chippendale carpenter swell with pride. At the end of this recital Phryne knew who had killed Mr Christopher and why. She had discovered who was sabotaging Farrell’s Circus and why.

She nudged the young constable. ‘Listen!’ she said urgently. ‘If you get out of here, then you have to tell Jack all about this and make sure that he catches the guilty parties. I expect they’ll come for us soon. Stick to your story that you came looking for me because someone told you that I was a tart.’ He made a shocked exclamation and Phryne snapped, ‘I tell you, that’s your best chance. By circus standards I am a tart. They all think so. Now, this is important.’

Carefully she told Constable Harris all that Jack Robinson needed to know to solve the portfolio of problems currently in his possession. Towards the end, she stopped.

‘Can you hear something?’ she whispered.

‘No.’

‘I thought I heard a footstep.’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

Phryne completed her theory. Harris nodded. Then he remembered that he could not be seen and said, ‘All right, but I can’t leave you.’

‘Yes, you can,’ said Phryne acidly. ‘If you get away, then you can find Jack and rescue me. Clear?’

‘Yes,’ the young man said reluctantly.

Alan Lee walked around the carousel to the unremarkable man sitting on Windbag and said, ‘Tickets, please.’

‘I must speak to you,’ said Jack Robinson. ‘About Fern Williams.’

‘Wait till we stop,’ said Alan. I’ll get Bill to take over. Then we can talk.’

The carousel went round again, to the tune of ‘A Bicycle Built For Two’, a full quarter tone flat.

Grossmith found that the Rockbank constable had been called out on a sheep-stealing case. He gritted his teeth.

They came for Phryne a little after midnight. She heard footsteps and she and Tommy Harris struggled to replace their gags.

Phryne was dragged upright by unseen hands. Someone chuckled.

‘Leave him,’ said an oily voice. ‘He’s just a bumpkin. Come sniffing after this tart, I bet. But this one . . .’ He slung Phryne over his shoulder. ‘Jones wants this one.’

Phryne was taken out of the tent. Left alone, Constable Harris struggled afresh with his bonds. The gag had slipped back into his mouth and he was rendered mute.

Phryne was carried, her mid-section bumping painfully, through darkness which smelt of canvas and cooking. She tried to see where she was but could catch no clue. Most parts of the circus looked the same, viewed from upside down.

She was conveyed up the steps of what was probably a caravan and thrown down into a chair. Light wounded her eyes. She shook her head and squinted.

‘Ah,’ said Mr Jones, whom she now knew to be Killer Jones of the Fitzroy Boys, ‘you owe me a favour, Fern.’ He reached out with hands scarred to the knuckles and grabbed the front of her scarlet tunic and ripped it slowly open.

Phryne stared at him. There were four people in the caravan. The small man with the sticking-plastered hands. Ronald Smythe, she presumed. The tall man must be Damien Maguire. And the sneering roustabout whom she had slapped across the face. Everybody except Smythe was staring at her, willing her to struggle, wanting to savour her defeat.

Mr Jones, now kneeling, was engaged in untying her ankles. She shuddered at the reason he might do that.

‘I owe you no favours,’ she said though the gag. Mr Jones removed it. He obviously liked screams and he clearly expected that he would not be interrupted.

‘You got in the way, Fern,’ he said with slow relish, peeling off her tights. ‘You been snooping. You even had a gun. Was that a nice thing to bring into the circus? We got to teach you a lesson, Fern.’

Her much-washed knickers gave way under his pulling fingers and tore down from their band.

‘I should find Fern,’ said Robinson to Alan Lee without urgency. ‘Lot of things been going on in this circus.’

‘This ain’t the circus. This is the carnival. The circus is over there,’ Alan Lee corrected him. ‘She was in the parade, all of the girls were. She’ll be in the girls’ tent by now. I’ll take you.’

Alan Lee and the detective inspector began to stroll through the carnival, chatting casually, but when Alan called Dulcie out she told him that Phryne was not there.

‘She ain’t been back,’ said Dulcie. ‘But I know where she might be. And before I say it, I think she’s all right. She don’t belong in a circus but she’s all right, Fern is.’

With delicacy, she told them about Matthias the clown.

Phryne was helpless. For a moment she lay in panic. Her fate appeared to be set. Jones dragged the webbing belt from around her waist. She made no sound until he broke the thong which held the holy medal and pocketed it. Phryne gave a pitiful cry. Her last link with her own self had gone.

Ronald Smythe’s nerve broke. Phryne was far too old to attract him. His chosen sexual objects were all below puberty. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Boss just said to dispose of her. He didn’t say nothing about rape.’

‘Don’t you want a turn?’ sneered Jones. ‘She can’t complain. She’s a spy. Probably belongs to the Brunnies. Don’t you think she’s pretty?’ He indicated Phryne. Her ankles were now free and her hands were still behind her back. The forced arch of her spine thrust out her breasts. ‘She’s defenceless,’ added Jones. ‘She can’t fight back.’

‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Ronald Smythe. He went out and Phryne heard a match strike as he lit a soothing cigarette.

Jones had found the fastening of the webbing belt. He took out a wad of notes and riffled them.

‘Whacko,’ he gloated. ‘The girl and the money. What was this, eh? Bribe money?’

‘Keep looking,’ advised Phryne. ‘You’ll be surprised.’

He found the card case, opened it and read the elegant lettering. ‘Miss Phryne Fisher. Well. Private detective, eh? You’ve been playing with the big boys, ain’t you? Little girls oughtn’t to play with the boys.’

He approached menacingly. One of the roustabouts seized Phryne’s ankle and the other one grabbed for her foot.

She considered the caravan. It was hung with objects which she could not reach. Her hands remained tightly fastened. She had only a second to act before she would be rendered helpless. Mr Jones reached for the buttons on his trousers.

Phryne let go of her civilisation. Years of ladylike behaviour and carefully learned social rules had peeled off along with her clothes. Her rank, wealth and the protection of class had been deliberately abandoned when she joined the circus. She was the ten-year-old ragged girl standing guard over her favourite pig-bin at the Victoria Market, menaced by the bigger boys in the dark behind the stalls. She was the eighteen-year-old Phryne at bay in the black cornices of the Place Pigalle, with the Apache hulking towards her.

A surge of strength went through her like an electric current. They might rape her. But she would not be a victim.

‘No,’ said Matthias Shakespeare worriedly, ‘she isn’t here. And she said she would come,’ he added softly. ‘But perhaps, since Dulcie told her about the rules, she is no longer interested in clowns.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Dulcie. ‘She seemed interested to me. Said she’d rather be thought a tart than give you up. Where can she be?’

‘Perhaps she did not feel it was safe to come to me, or stay in the girls’ tent,’ said Matthias. ‘You can’t keep secrets in a circus. Perhaps . . . Miss Younger?’

Dulcie considered this. ‘We’ll go and ask,’ she said. ‘But quietly. Everyone’s asleep.’

Samson, Alan Lee, Robinson and Matthias the clown, still in clown gear and makeup, followed Dulcie through the canvas lanes.

Phryne jackknifed away from the hands. She pulled her feet free and kicked Jones full in his most threatening part. As he screamed and fell to his knees, Phryne doubled up and brought her bound hands to the front. Damien Maguire aimed a slap at her, which connected with the side of her head. She fell against the caravan wall, dizzy, and was grabbed and shaken. She bit at the passing hands, managed to catch one and shut her jaw with all her force. The hand slid back into her mouth and her back teeth closed on the hand between the thumb and the wrist. She bore down until she felt a bone crack. Blood rushed into her mouth and she had to let go or choke. Jones glared at her as Maguire dragged her off her feet and into a headlock. The sneering roustabout was nursing his hand, holding it between his side and his arm and moaning.

‘She’s a wild beast,’ Jones snarled from his crouch. ‘And you know where we put wild beasts. In a cage.’

Phryne, naked and choking, clawed with bound hands at the steely forearm which was crushing her throat. Then she was back in a bag, jogging up and down as she was carried.

Vengefully, she gloated that the blood wasn’t hers.

Miss Younger was not asleep. She stared at Dulcie. ‘No, she isn’t here,’ she said flatly. I haven’t seen her. Why? Is she missing?’

‘She might be,’ Dulcie temporised.

‘Well, she’s a tart. She’s probably looking for customers in Rockbank.’ Miss Younger slammed the door. The policeman, the carnies and the circus folk looked at each other.

‘What now?’ asked Dulcie.

‘We’d better search,’ said Alan. ‘I don’t like this. Fern’s no tart. She wouldn’t just go missing. Not when she’s got at least two good reasons to stay.’ He looked at Matthias and grinned in a brotherly fashion. Jo Jo the clown smiled uncertainly at the carnie. ‘I don’t like this,’ repeated Alan.

‘Nor me,’ agreed Robinson. ‘She’s reliable, Phr— Fern is.’

Mr Sheridan the magician had packed all his goods away, secured his caravan and started the engine. It purred. He got out and pulled several pegs, unlatching hidden hinges. The decorated sides fell away and he stacked them neatly on the ground. He left the one proclaiming his name, ‘Mr Robert Sheridan, the Great Magician’, uppermost. He looked at the resulting neat Bedford van, painted an unobtrusive shade of grey. It was clearly a tradesman’s truck, full of tools and odds and ends of plumbing.

He took out a large envelope and laid it on the pile of sidings, putting a stone on top. Then he got into his van and drove towards Melbourne, which was only twenty-five miles away.

Phryne was shoved into a steel cage. Someone cut the bonds on her wrists. She heard the door clang behind her. A bolt was shot. The darkness was absolute. She could see nothing. Her legs were free and she had no gag. Her mouth still tasted of blood. The reek of the carnivores was all about her. In front of her, something stirred.

Fur brushed iron and claws sounded on the wooden floor. Something stood up and shook itself with a sound like a beaten carpet.

Phryne had been told that the moment before the prey was seized by the predator, it went limp. It ceased to fear or care. An archaeologist friend had talked about the moment when a lion’s teeth closed on his shoulder. Dreamy, he had said. The world had ceased to matter. The last mercy, he had said, to creatures destined to be dinner was that they went down sweetly and gently to death, reconciled to their place on the menu.

‘I am not reconciled,’ muttered Phryne. She tried to think. Screaming would only alarm the lion and she did not want it alarmed. She squeezed herself into as small a compass as she could, drawing in her limbs and making herself into a ball. Fear almost overcame her. The primitive Phryne who had run from lions on the Pleistocene grasslands was taking over what remained of her mind.

‘Nice kitty,’ said Phryne, afraid that her voice might have devolved along with her courage.

Police Constable Harris had found a rough edge on a tent peg. It had taken him almost an hour and his wrists had not been improved, but he had weakened his ropes enough to break them. He tore with swollen fingers at the other lines and stood up, staggering. He felt at the walls. They were canvas. He could hear the cough and smell the cigarette smoke of the man who was placed at the tent flap to prevent his escape. Tommy felt in his pocket, took out a pen knife and fumbled it open. They had not even bothered to search him. He slashed at the tent wall. It gaped. Constable Harris walked through the rent and into the circus-scented dark.

Ronald Smythe did not notice that he was gone.

Matthias, Robinson, Samson, Dulcie and Alan Lee had covered the horse lines and the jugglers and tumblers. They interrupted Mr Burton in his study of Shakespeare’s sonnets and he was cross.

‘No, I don’t know where she is. But I do know who she is. Why? Is she lost?’

Jo Jo the clown nodded. His face was already painted into sad lines but now the underlying flesh echoed them.

‘She didn’t come when she said, Matt?’ snapped Mr Burton. ‘This is serious.’ He walked out along his caravan’s driving seat and stepped onto Samson’s shoulders. The huge man accepted the small added weight without comment. Mr Burton settled himself comfortably. ‘Well, come on.’ He tweaked Samson’s hair as though it were a rein. ‘To the rescue.’

Jones, favouring his groin, got to his feet. ‘We’d better do something about the hayseed,’ he said roughly. The others followed him to the tent. Ronald Smythe was on guard, chain smoking. ‘I heard a scream,’ he said nervously. ‘What . . . er . . . happened?’

Damien Maguire laughed. ‘She kicked Jones in the balls and fought like an animal. So we put her where she belongs.’ He peered into the tent. ‘Hey, you there?’

Maguire lit a match. Apart from some shredded ropes, the tent was empty.

‘You idiot!’ Jones cuffed Smythe. ‘You let him escape!’

Tommy Harris was lost. He blundered around in the dark until he came out into a relatively lighted stretch. A grotesque creature was approaching. It was nine feet tall and had two sets of arms. He gulped. Then it passed him and he saw it was a little man sitting on a big man’s shoulders. Detective Inspector Robinson said curtly, ‘Ah, Harris. Where the blazes have you been? Where is Fern?’ Constable Harris was about to protest that he had done rather well in freeing himself, all things considered, but this was not the time. He said, ‘They got her. Jones and the others. They took her towards a caravan.’

‘Where?’ snapped Mr Burton.

Constable Harris looked around helplessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It all looks the same in the dark.’

Detective Inspector Robinson swore in a way that would have gained Lizard Elsie’s admiration.

Darkness blanketed Phryne’s eyes. She was not cold. She was considering death. There was not much chance that she would get out of this cage alive. She stank of blood. She was sure that she was oozing terror. She was losing what grip she had on her wits and she could not reach the bolt. Every time she moved, the creature shifted and came a little closer. She looked and smelt like prey.

‘I don’t want to die,’ she mourned softly, hearing her voice as small as a child’s. ‘I don’t want to die yet. There are a lot of things I haven’t done.’

Even the reeking dark in the lion’s cage seemed precious and infinitely preferable to whatever lay beyond. She would go out like the flame of a candle. Where does the candle flame go when the candle is blown out?

She laid her painted face against the iron bars and bared her teeth at death.

‘What could you see?’ asked Robinson urgently. Harris shook his head.

‘Feet,’ said Dulcie urgently. ‘Running.’

‘Catch him!’ said Robinson to Harris. Ronald Smythe, fleeing in terror from his allies, was tripped and fell flat on his face. Alan Lee was on his back in a moment.

‘Tell us where Fern is,’ threatened the carnie in his silky voice, ‘or I’ll kill you.’ Alan Lee was seriously worried and did not allow the presence of two policemen to cramp his invective.

‘I’ll take you to the Boss,’ quavered Ronald. ‘Don’t hurt me!’

Robinson applied issue handcuffs to Smythe’s wrists and he led them to the right.

Jones was standing in the place where a caravan had rested, cursing. Damien Maguire and the other roustabout looked blank. There the searchers found them.

It was a short fight but nasty. Jones yelled for Farrell, dived back for his caravan and came up short facing a monster. It reached out two sets of arms. Samson seized Mr Jones by the waist and tucked him under his arm as neatly as if he had been a fractious child. He struggled. ‘Excuse me, Mr Burton,’ said Samson politely, ‘could you help?’ The dwarf sprang down from Samson’s height and twisted his tie around Jones’s neck.

‘I am very displeased with you,’ he told the enpurpling face. ‘If you give my colleague here any little difficulty, I shall have to strangle you all dead, instead of half dead.’

Mr Jones ceased to struggle.

Harris and Alan Lee circled Damien Maguire, who had a knife. Lee feinted one way, Harris another. Maguire turned, threatening, ‘Come closer and I’ll stick yer. You won’t take me again!’ Lee went left, Harris right. The man kept turning so that they could not get behind him.

Robinson had secured the roustabout’s hands behind his back by dint of knocking him down and kneeling on him. He watched Maguire with concern. And where was the interfering Miss Fisher?

Jo Jo the clown looked into one of the nearby tents and picked up a large iron skillet. Then he stood just outside the circle with it hidden behind his back. Alan Lee looked at him.

‘Ringwise,’ said Jo Jo calmly, as if he were giving directions in a rehearsal. Alan Lee moved clockwise, Harris lunged forward, and Jo Jo crowned Damien Maguire with the skillet. The blow made a loud, heavy, soggy noise and the bank-robber fell to earth, he knew not where. They handcuffed him. Jo Jo, Alan Lee and Constable Harris shook hands.

‘Now,’ said Robinson to the half-conscious Jones, ‘where is she?’

Jones spat. Mr Burton hauled on the tie.

Phryne had tried once more to undo the bolt. She had the advantage of opposable thumbs, but her hands would not answer her orders. The lion’s attention was attracted by the movement. It rolled over, stood up and padded towards her. She shut her eyes. A cold nose slid up her arm, a heavy paw held down her knees. Teeth scraped her skin. Phryne felt it at last. Sleepy acceptance weighted her eyelids. Warmth bloomed in her blood. She sighed on a gust of the predator’s breath. The teeth took hold of her arm, pulling her into the middle of the cage.

Then Bruno sniffed her all over, looking for ginger biscuits.

The gathering crowd of rescuers, who had managed to extract from the roustabout the secret of Phryne’s whereabouts, came running with torches. Amazing Hans had been woken and carried a loaded rifle, weeping but ready to shoot. Jo Jo, Alan and the lion tamer entered the lions’ tent carefully, dreading what they might see.

They looked into all the cages, waking the occupants, who snarled and muttered. Phryne Fisher was not there. Then they came to Bruno’s cage beyond the tent wall. They stopped and stared, struck dumb.

A naked woman, bruised and streaked with dirt, was lying curled up in the middle of an iron cage. Her face was painted and her black hair fell forward like a cap. Her head was pillowed on the bear’s back. Her hands were buried deep in cinnamon fur. To Alan and Jo Jo, she seemed like a forest goddess, tamer of beasts and invulnerable. To Detective Inspector Robinson, she was evidence of a criminal act which he was intending to take out of Mr Jones’s hide. Samson considerately averted his eyes. Mr Burton was reminded of a print out of the Marquis de Sade.

To the handcuffed Jones she was an erotic memory which would torment him until, after due process of law, they put a bag over his head, strapped his hands and dropped him into eternity.

Phryne opened her eyes and blinked. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said dreamily. ‘I can’t reach the bolt.’

Jo Jo and Lee undid the cage door and she crawled out. Bruno leaned a questing nose after her and grumbled.

‘Anyone got a ginger biscuit?’ asked Phryne, and collapsed into the waiting arms.