‘Hmm.’
‘If it’s any consolation, my Constable Harris came and told me she didn’t do it. Want to hear his reasoning? Because she rescued him from the roof. Said if she was a real murderer she wouldn’t have revealed her skill with heights. She would have let him fall. I don’t know. In my day I would never have dared to speak to my sergeant like that. These young blokes . . .’
Sergeant Grossmith continued to talk for some time but Detective Inspector Robinson was not listening.
Early in the morning, Phryne was transported to Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show in Alan Lee’s old truck. Samson had also come, presumably as a chaperone. As instructed, she was wearing a scarf over her hair, a leotard, soft shoes and an old cotton dress.
The day was going to be hot. Williamstown Road was empty. The scents of summer reached her; baking earth, melting tar, sweaty humans, and the circus smells of dung and engine grease and drying shirts.
Alan Lee parked the truck in the carnie’s camp. Some tents had been erected but most of the personnel seemed to live in caravans. Horses grazed in lines. Children ran on the urgent errands of childhood, threading their way through stalls and booths.
‘I’ll go and get old Bell,’ Alan Lee said. ‘She’s safe enough. Samson, you ask Mr Farrell if we can use the ring and get someone to rig up a governor. If he ain’t there, ask the Bevans if they’d mind us using their rig.’ He looked at Doreen, who had come up to meet them. I reckon you’d better go and see Molly, Doreen. She mightn’t have heard. About Chris. We’d better tell the old man, too.’
‘I reckon,’ agreed Doreen reluctantly. Then she added with relief, ‘No, I don’t need to. Look.’
Two men were crossing the encampment. One was tall and stout, in a blue uniform. The other was smaller, in plain clothes, with a face and stance which was hard to remember.
‘They’re cops,’ said Doreen. I seen enough cops to know a Jack when I see one.’
‘And a Jack it is, too,’ said Phryne. ‘I have to intercept him and quietly. If he greets me publicly I won’t be any use to you.’
‘Easy enough. He’s going to pass through our camp, so I’ll scrag him when he comes past my van. Come on.’
Alan Lee and Doreen, with Phryne between them, sauntered towards the caravan, built on the ruins of a truck. Phryne slipped inside and as the policemen walked past, Doreen said quietly, ‘This way.’
Jack Robinson caught sight of Phryne’s face over the half-door and turned smoothly. He sat down on the caravan step, facing the camp and said, ‘My feet are killing me. I haven’t been a flat foot for too long. How do you feel, Terry?’
‘You’re getting soft, Jack,’ said Terence Grossmith, who knew that his chief was fond of twenty-mile walks. ‘Well, I could do with a spell, too. Any more room on that step?’
The two officers sat down and Phryne whispered, ‘Hello, Jack dear, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m trying to find out about Mr Christopher,’ he replied evenly. ‘What about you?’
‘I want to find out who’s trying to ruin Farrell’s Circus. Your murder is just a part of a long line of very bad luck.’
‘Is it? But we’ve got our killer.’
‘Who?’
‘A woman who was with this circus ten years ago.’
‘Mrs Fantoccini?’ Alan Lee asked, bewildered. ‘She’s out of jail?’
‘Ten months ago and she’s done it again,’ said Sergeant Grossmith complacently. ‘Made the arrest within the hour.’
‘Oh. Why?’ asked Phryne.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ said Robinson.
‘You’ve got your doubts about her, haven’t you?’ said Phryne, who had known Jack Robinson for some time.
‘Not to say doubts. Questions, maybe. Well, keep your eyes open, Miss, and be careful. Bad luck can be catching. I take it you don’t want me to recognise you?’
‘No. And my name is Fern.’
‘Then I haven’t seen you, Fern. Come on, Terry, I reckon these poor old plates’ll bear me a while longer. What was the name we wanted?’
‘Younger,’ said Grossmith aloud, consulting his notebook ostentatiously. ‘Miss Molly Younger.’
‘You’re in the wrong camp,’ said Samson, coming up, with perfect innocence. ‘She’s over with the circus folk. Go towards the big top and turn right at the elephants.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jack Robinson, heaving himself off the caravan step and collecting his offsider. ‘Come along, Sergeant.’
‘The Bevans say we can use their rig,’ Samson told the others. ‘Mr Farrell seems real put about. But he said we could use the ring. What were those cops doing here?’
‘Lost their way,’ said Phryne. ‘All right, Alan. Let’s go and get Bell and see if I can learn to stand up on a horse.’
Bell was a placid, smooth-paced horse with a broad back and an accommodating disposition. She stood about fifteen hands and was a soothing chestnut colour. She had a delicate mouth and intelligent eyes.
Alan Lee strapped Phryne into a canvas jacket, which had stout lines attached to it at the waist. He cast the line to Samson, who attached it to a hanging rope slung over a block and hauled until Phryne rose a foot off the ground.
Doreen took charge. ‘All right, mount up, Fern.’ Phryne vaulted onto Bell’s broad back. The horse stood like a rock. ‘Off you go, Bell,’ ordered Doreen, and Bell began to walk. Phryne had no difficulty maintaining her seat. Doreen grunted. ‘You can ride, then. Good. Come up, Bell.’ Bell increased her pace imperceptibly, so that she was soon cantering. ‘Now, Fern, put both hands on her neck and swing your legs over to the right, so that you’re sitting side-saddle.’
Phryne put both hands on the patient neck and made the movement, slid off, was brought up short and replaced on the horse. She tried it again, nettled that a physical skill should elude her so completely.
‘Now the other side,’ ordered Doreen, and Phryne found herself facing the outside of the ring, as Bell continued her smooth canter. ‘Again,’ ordered Doreen, and Phryne slid from one side to the other without falling. She grinned.
The scent of horse and sweat brought back the struggles which the young Phryne had endured learning to ride a cross-grained pony in the cool Shires. It had taken months before she had managed to get onto April the pony’s back, and stay there. April had not been patient with novices. By now, April would have taken Phryne over to the nearest gorse bush and flung her into it.
‘Back astride,’ Doreen commanded and Phryne regained her seat. ‘Now. You’ve got to trust me. Bell is moving fast enough to hold you in the saddle if you kneel. Just like swinging a billy round your head. Same thing. Put both hands flat either side of her neck and push your knees up onto her back. As long as you stay with your spine over the horse’s spine you can’t fall. One movement, make it smooth. Now.’
Phryne found the movement easy, though odd. She reflected that being educated by April had made her a good rider. Anyone who could stick onto April could ride anything and in any conditions. She was kneeling on Bell’s back, on all fours. She was just about to say, ‘How simple!’ when she found that it wasn’t. The horse slid out from beneath her and Samson hauled her up and onto Bell’s back again. The harness cut into her ribs. She concentrated. It was a matter of balance and trusting that Bell would not swerve or change pace. The rough horse hair chafed her inner thighs. She bit her lip.
The trick was to keep up a constant pressure with the knees. Four more circuits and she could kneel and not fall off. Doreen said, ‘All right. Now slowly lift your hands and straighten your back. You can’t fall. Try it.’ Phryne suppressed an unworthy urge to clutch at Bell’s mane and straightened her back. She balanced herself as she once had on a beam at school. Bell’s movements were as smooth as machinery. Phryne was kneeling up and the empty tent was flying past. She laughed aloud and wobbled perilously, then regained her balance. This was clearly no laughing matter.
‘Stay like that for a while,’ said Doreen, and Phryne and Bell completed two circuits. Phryne found that she could balance better with her arms outstretched. Alan Lee watched the slim figure with a private smile. Samson
