Blood and Circuses

of the Brunswick Arms hotel.

Billy the Dog, so named for carnal atrocities too awful to mention, muttered, ‘Not much, Jack. They say the ’Roys are out to get us.’

‘What about it, Snake?’ Snake, a tall man with reptilian eyes, nodded, as did Reffo, his mate. They were of a height and stood shoulder to shoulder as though expecting attack.

Little Georgie, who combined the knife-wielding abilities of his Italian mother with the ability to run amok of his Malay pirate father, ventured, ‘We gotta do something, Boss. They’re saying on the street that we got no balls.’

Jack Black Blake wore gloves, it was said, because he could not bear the touch of human flesh. He tapped on the bar.

‘They’ll find out if we have balls,’ he said quietly.

Miss Amelia Parkes, once Mrs Fantoccini, was escorted into Russell Street Police Station by Constable Tommy Harris, who kept a hand on her arm. He did not think that she would escape. He was afraid that she might collapse.

Tommy was shocked. Miss Parkes had saved his life. She had rescued him with bravery and dispatch. The scene which had ensued as she was taken out of the boarding house still stung his ears. Mr Sheridan had moaned, ‘How could you, how could you rob me of Christine?’ Miss Minton had screamed, ‘I knew it!’ loud enough to bring the landlady to the head of the stairs. When old Mrs Witherspoon had caught the drift of the conversation, she had denounced, ‘Out of my house, hussy! I gave you a chance. I was sorry for you. But out of my house you go, bag and baggage! How could you do it? How could you kill poor Mr Christopher?’

Mrs Witherspoon had then broken down, and Tommy Harris’s last sight of the household was Miss Minton hurrying up the stairs to mingle her tears with those of the old woman crumpled on the top step.

And Miss Parkes had said nothing, beyond mumbling, ‘I didn’t do it.’ She now moved at his side with the even pace of a sleepwalker.

Tommy Harris didn’t like it. There was something wrong. And yet, there was enough evidence to convict Miss Parkes. The knife. Her dexterity on roofs. And the locked and bolted door.

They paused at the entrance to the station and he said, ‘All right, Miss Parkes?’ and she croaked, ‘Fantoccini. My name is Fantoccini. Prisoner number 145387. Sir.’ Tommy Harris was very uneasy. He delivered Miss Parkes to the detention officer and she answered his questions in the same toneless voice.

Constable Harris went to find his sergeant. ‘Sir,’ he saluted. ‘Sir, can I say something?’

Sergeant Grossmith looked up from a pile of papers. ‘Yes, Harris, what is it?’

‘I . . . sir, I don’t think she did it.’

‘Oh, I see. How long have you been in the force, Harris?’

‘Eight months, sir.’

‘All of eight months, eh? Well, Constable Harris, I am always interested in the views of younger officers. But I don’t find “I don’t think she did it” convincing. She had the knife and the skill and she’s killed before. I expect she had a reason. Anyone else in that house strike you as a suspect?’

‘Sir, no, sir.’

‘Well, then. Cheer up, son. Jack Robinson’s in charge of the case. He won’t make no errors. He’s brought her in. He must think she did it. Now take that knife down to the lab and pull yourself together. Or I’ll tell the lads about how you had to be rescued from your roof by a murderer. A female murderer.’

Tommy Harris took the knife. ‘I still don’t think she did it, sir. She didn’t have to rescue me and reveal that she was good with heights. She could have let me fall.’

‘You’re green, Harris. Some of the nicest people I know have been murderers. I remember old Charley Peace now, he could play the violin like an angel and was very kind to dogs. He just didn’t like people. Go on, Constable. Trust Robinson. He knows what he’s doing.’

Tommy saluted and went out. Sergeant Grossmith snorted. What namby-pamby recruits they were getting these days. In his day no mere constable would have questioned the actions of a superior officer.

Meanwhile, Jack Robinson was facing Miss Parkes in the little interview room which was the antechamber to the cells. Howls and wails came through the wall. Evidently the drunks were noisier than usual.

‘Now, Miss Parkes, tell me, what did you know about Mr Christopher?’

Miss Parkes was moving through a maze of unbelieving horror. The police station and the official voices had slotted her straight back into her prison persona. She had been a good prisoner, diligent and meek, and she had thought that she had escaped. Now the prison smell, unwashed humanity and urine and despair, reeked in her nostrils again. She grasped at her mind, which was slipping.

‘I did not know him well. He worked for Farrell’s Circus, as a freak. He was happy there. He said that he could not have been happy anywhere else. In the circus, he was valued. He made a good living, I believe. He was very good looking. He lived like a man. Mr Sheridan was convinced that he was a woman and pestered him all the time, bought him flowers, that sort of thing, but Mr Christopher never gave him the slightest encouragement. Miss Minton thought he was a man. We used to giggle about it, Mrs W and I, because she was going to get a shock if she managed . . . you know what I mean. But Mr Christopher was a real gentleman. He said that he had a fiancee, anyway, a trick rider in the circus. Her name was . . . was . . .’

The name had gone. She shook her head.

‘Molly Younger. Her picture was on his wall.’ Jack Robinson had done some research. ‘So you did not know him well?’

‘No. No one did. He was a very private person. Kept himself to himself, as Miss Minton would say. I never saw him perform. I . . . I would not be welcome at the circus, especially not that circus.’

‘It was Farrell’s where . . .’

‘Yes. My husband and I and the others worked for Farrell’s and it was at Farrell’s that . . . that he died.’

‘I see.’ Robinson referred to his notes. ‘Now, as to the day of the murder. Sunday, that’s today. What did you do today?’

‘I got up for breakfast at ten, then I went back to my room for a nap,’ she said wearily, rubbing her eyes.

‘Do you usually sleep on a Sunday afternoon?’

‘No but I was so sleepy after breakfast that I went to lie down and I dropped off. I woke at three-thirty and had a wash and then I went down to tea. Mrs W’s teas are very good and I don’t have to watch my figure any more. Then blood dripped through the ceiling and your constable came and got stuck on the roof. After that you came and all of this happened.’

‘Miss Parkes, did you kill Mr Christopher?’

‘No.’

‘Did you climb out on the roof and get in through his window and stab him in the heart?’

‘No . . . no, I don’t think so. But I killed before. I killed my husband. I hated him. I know how to kill. The ultimate crime. I might have killed him. Oh, God, how do I know? I can’t remember. I might have done it in my sleep.’

‘But you had nothing against Mr Christopher?’

‘No, nothing.’

Miss Parkes began to laugh. The laughter stretched, became unbalanced. Then she began to scream, silencing the drunks in the cells just beyond the room.

‘Better lock her up,’ observed Robinson. ‘Send in a doctor.’

‘No, no!’ shrieked Miss Parkes. ‘No, don’t lock me up, don’t, please. Not again. I can’t bear it. I can’t. I can’t.’

Two policemen carried her to a small cell. When she heard the thud of the latch and the rattle of keys, she fell silent.

Robinson was unhappy. He sought out Sergeant Grossmith. ‘Terry, I don’t like this,’ he began.

‘Did she confess?’ Sergeant Grossmith asked.

‘In a way. She said she might have done it while she was asleep. She’s gone off her rocker.’

‘Well then, a guilty but insane verdict. She’ll spend the rest of her life in a nice cozy loony-bin, out of harm’s way.’