“him”. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir. If you say so, sir. No one noticed anyone being missing but them carnies only pay attention if someone’s late into the ring. Their show was at eight o’clock and went on until eleven. After that everyone went to their own tent or caravan or whatever and no one noticed anything odd. They hadn’t heard about the death of . . . of the victim until I told ’em the next day. The three that called at the house, sir, they was Alan Lee, thirty, carousel proprietor; Doreen Hughes, wouldn’t tell me her age but about thirty-five, snake handler; and Samson, real name John Little, twenty-eight, occupation strongman. And, Jeez, he looks it, too. They said they was looking for . . . the deceased . . . to give him a message from Miss Younger. They ain’t got no alibis for the night before, except that Samson was performing and Lee and Hughes were in the sideshows until midnight. No one in the whole show can really vouch for any of the others.’
‘Hmm. Not helpful, is it?’ Robinson looked at Harris.
‘No, sir,’ the young constable replied.
‘Tell you what. We’ll hang on to Miss Parkes a little longer. If your sergeant can spare you . . . ?’ Grossmith grunted agreement and Robinson went on, ‘You make some enquiries about the other people in the house. Find out about the stage magician, Sheridan. See if he’s got a record. And Miss Minton, she’s working at the Blue Diamond. I seem to recall that as something of a dive. Night-clubbing has never been my idea of relaxation,’ said Robinson, who preferred the undemanding company of his wife, his children and his orchids. ‘That make you feel better, Harris?’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘And wherever you go keep your ears open for a whisper about Exit.’
The next morning Phryne Fisher awoke, threw on the shabby clothes and was transported to the circus by Alan Lee.
‘I’ll take you to meet Molly,’ he said, sparing one hand from the wheel of the old Austin to lay on Phryne’s shoulder. ‘She’ll take over training you, Fern. The circus folk, they don’t like diddikoi. As you heard from Mr Jones.’
‘What is a diddikoi?’
His dark face creased in a grimace that might have been laughter or pain.
‘I am. Half-gypsy, half-Gorgio—Gorgios are what the gypsies call everyone else. My mum was seduced by a Gorgio when she was sixteen and her own people threw her out. Luckily the man married her later but she had to leave the road and she lives in Prahran now. I haven’t seen her since I ran away when I was twelve to go with Farrell’s. The man said it was in my blood and hers too and called me a gypsy. And the gypsies won’t have me because I’m the son of Marie who left the road and betrayed her people. So I’m a betwixt and between, neither fish nor flesh. I wasn’t born on straw but I can’t stay in one place. Like them, I’m a traveller. Like the man my father, I’m a good businessman, so I make a decent living out of the merry-go-round. It’s uncomfortable, though. I only half believe in curses, for instance. If I really believed in them, I could go to Mama Rosa and get the curse taken off. If I didn’t believe at all I could forget about it. But I’m in the middle.’
He shrugged and Phryne patted the hand on her shoulder.
‘That’s why I came and got you, lady. I don’t think Mama Rosa got your name and description from the spirits. However, I know she’s a shrewd old biddy with a finger on the pulse of the circus. And there are things Mama Rosa knows that she couldn’t have got anywhere else. So I came and got you and now . . .’
‘Now?’ Phryne pulled the scarf further down over her eyes.
‘Now you can find out what’s happening and I don’t need to decide my own future for a while. I don’t want to leave Farrell’s but I gotta make a living. If this tour don’t clear a profit, I’ll take off on my own. Carousels are popular. But I like Farrell’s and I don’t want to leave my mates. That make it clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Also, once you’re with the circus, you shouldn’t have anything to do with us—with Doreen and Samson and me. Doreen’s off today, anyway, to see her mum in Tumbarumba. She said to say goodbye. I hope she don’t try and take Joe on the bus again. Now, listen. The circus folk don’t mix with the carnies. You’ll have to slip into their way of doing things, become one of them, if you want to find out anything. And to their way of thinking the carnies ain’t no more important than the fleas on a dog. See?’
‘Yes. I see.’
He stopped the truck on the outskirts of the camp. ‘It’s not what I want,’ he said, staring past her through the dusty windshield. ‘Not what I woulda chosen, Fern.’
‘Not what I would have chosen, either.’
Phryne ran a considering hand down the perfect dark profile, the set mouth, the firm chin, until her fingers curled in the hollow of his collarbone and he shivered.
‘Tonight,’ she mouthed into his ear. ‘Tonight is my farewell to luxury. Come and share it with me?’
The shadowed face inclined. The smooth cheek turned a little into her caressing palm.
‘Tonight,’ said Alan Lee.
The horse lines were busy. Performers were grooming, trimming hooves, and plaiting manes and tails. The hot sun ripened the scent of dung and sweat and hay. Alan Lee led Phryne through the lines and presented her to a small woman who was applying sulphur and lard to a pony’s back. Molly Younger was shorter, stockier and plainer than her image on the posters. She was dressed in riding breeches and a workman’s shirt, with her long blonde hair dragged back under a peaked fisherman’s cap. Alan Lee introduced Phryne.
‘Fern, eh?’ She looked at Alan Lee. ‘All right, Lee, you can leave her with me.’
Alan Lee said, ‘Good luck, Fern,’ and turned away without another word.
‘So. You can stand up on Bell?’ Molly’s voice was cracked and her eyes were red but she was brisk and her regard was as straight as a lance. She surveyed Phryne and ran a hardened hand down over her body. ‘Some muscle there. But your hands are soft. You haven’t done any trick work for a while, have you? Where have you been?’
‘Dancing,’ said Phryne in her hesitant Australian accent. ‘I been dancing.’
‘In one of the dancehalls, I suppose, shilling a dance? You’ll have a harder life here. Now, anyone could stand up on Bell. Bell’s my darling.’ Bell, hearing her name, nosed into Miss Younger’s hand and was fed a carrot. ‘She’s as steady as a rock and as good as gold. Some of the others are not so good. We’ll take Missy here and see what you can do. I don’t like taking my replacement riders off the chorus line,’ she added, detaching a grey from the lines, ‘but that silly bitch Alison has broken her leg good and proper and I’m missing a girl for the horse-rush.’
Phryne trailed Missy into a clear space. The grass had been beaten down and dried and the ground looked uncommonly hard. Phryne reflected that this was going to be a painful test if she failed.
‘A circus ring is forty-two feet across,’ said Miss Younger, reeling out a long rein and taking a bamboo pole with a few ribbons tied to the end, ‘because that is the width that brings centrifugal force into action. A horse cantering around a forty-two-foot ring generates the force and allows the rider to stand up. I don’t suppose you are interested in any of this, Miss Tea-dancer, but that is why you will stay on, if you stay on. Mount.’
Phryne leapt onto Missy’s back. The creature did not flinch and began to walk in a circle. Phryne pressed her knees into the grey sides and urged her into a canter.
‘No. Don’t try and control your mount. That’s why you haven’t got any reins. Leave it to me. That is the horsemaster’s job. Sit quiet and let me tell Missy what to do. You have to trust me, Fern.’
Phryne relaxed her grip and Missy completed two circuits. She was keeping in a precise circle even though there was nothing to guide her, not even a chalked outline on the grass. Molly Younger flicked the bamboo pole and Missy increased her pace, lengthening her stride into a smooth canter. Her pace was not as even as Bell’s.
‘Side to the left,’ ordered Miss Younger. Phryne managed the movement and sat sidesaddle on the bare back, hands braced.
‘Side to the right.’
Phryne was getting the hang of Missy’s pace, which was slightly faster than Bell’s because of her shorter legs. She slid and balanced, facing the outside of the ring. Caravans and tents flashed past. She did not look down but fixed her gaze on the flag flying from the big top.
Miss Younger flicked her whip again. ‘Come up, Missy.’ Her voice when addressing the horse was clear and gentle. ‘Kneel up, rider,’ she ordered Phryne.
