Dulcie.’ Toby’s voice was sad and dreary. He ignored Phryne.
‘Oh, Toby, just a mouthful or so. You have to eat something. It’s bubble and squeak. You like my bubble and squeak.’ Matthias sounded worried.
Toby groaned. ‘Again?’ He slumped down into a canvas chair and put his head in his hands. Matthias patted Toby’s shoulder and the man looked up. It was hard to discern his features under the heavy makeup but his mouth curved down, in opposition to the elevation of his painted smile.
‘Cheer up, Toby,’ said Matthias. ‘Try a bit of lunch. You have to keep up your strength. Here, let me just dish up, then I have to clean my face. And you’re right about the new paint. I think we’ll go back to Max Factor. Come on, Tobias, give me a smile, eh?’ They had forgotten all about the visitors.
Dulcie led Phryne on, through a maze of washing lines and parked vans.
‘One of the rules is that you never look in a caravan window,’ she instructed. ‘If you have to go out at night, you don’t talk to people you see and you don’t say where you seen ’em. You don’t go into anyone’s tent unless they invite you. All right?’
‘All right,’ agreed Phryne.
The circus was vast and bewildering. The number of people who might want to destroy it was unknown and it seemed impossible to keep tabs on everyone. Phryne was conscious of being alone in shabby clothes and completely ignorant. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, this time, Phryne, she thought. You’ll never make any sense out of this.
‘To understand a circus,’ she added aloud, stepping sideways to avoid a passing camel, ‘you obviously have to be born in a trunk.’
‘Too right,’ agreed Dulcie.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Oliver Goldsmith’s epitaph
on Samuel Johnson
Mr Robert Sheridan, on his return home, was all apologies that the constable had not been able to get into his room, which he unlocked immediately.
‘Oh, I see. You’re moving out, then?’ said Tommy. The room was bare, the bed had been made up and all the pictures and memorabilia were gone.
‘I move back into my caravan tomorrow, so I took all my things down to Farrell’s this morning.’ Mr Sheridan smiled at Tommy. ‘I hope that is not too inconvenient?’
‘No, Mr Sheridan. When does the circus leave?’
‘Friday. After that, it will be hard for you to find me.’
‘Leave me an itinerary, please,’ said Tommy, taking out his notebook and licking his pencil. Mr Sheridan seemed a little put out but began, ‘Rockbank on Saturday, we will be there four days. I expect to hear the Melbourne Cup there. Then Melton, four days, then Bacchus Marsh, only a couple of days. Myrniong after that, I don’t think we’re stopping there. Ballan for four days. Through Gordon to Wallace, four days, and then Bungareek— quaint, these rustic names, are they not? From Bungareek to Ballarat. We expect to stay there a week. Or longer, if there is a good attendance. There usually is, say two weeks’ audiences at Ballarat. Then to Sebastopol or Smythesdale. After that we do Linton, four days, and the run of little towns: Skipton, Carranballac, Glenelg, Lake Bolac—we swam the elephants there last year—Wickliffe, although we won’t be stopping there because some idiot accused me of witchcraft there last season. Witchcraft, in 1928! Glenthompson, Dunkeld, and we finish that road at Hamilton. From there we take a different road back, along the coast. I’m not precisely sure of the route.’
‘That will do, thank you,’ said Tommy Harris, sure that if he didn’t solve this murder by the time the circus got to Hamilton, he would never solve it. ‘Can messages be left?’
‘Just address a letter to the next town. Nothing travels slower than us. Of course, when I was with Wirth’s, we travelled in style, on the train. On the road, Farrell’s goes at elephant pace, four miles an hour. And slower, sometimes, depending on the weather, though that looks set fair. Is there anything more, Constable?’
‘Not at the moment, sir.’ Harris tried to look stern and official. ‘But I may be seeing you again.’
‘Always at your service,’ said the magician and drew a string of flags from the constable’s pocket. ‘Well, well. How did they get there?’
Straight-faced, Constable Harris returned the flags to Mr Sheridan and left the house.
Miss Parkes was formally charged with murder. From the dock she said, ‘I don’t know if I did it.’ The magistrate took this as a plea of not guilty and set her down for a committal hearing in ten weeks’ time. Bail was not applied for and was formally refused. The magistrate remanded her in custody to await her trial.
Because there was no room in Pentridge for female prisoners, she was taken back to the watch-house. Such as remained of her sanity was applied to sharpening her stolen knife on the stone wall of her cell.
Phryne was still following Dulcie around the circus. Scents arose and delighted her. Tar, sulphur, the reek of burning hoof and new-staunched metal in the horse lines. The strange thick odour of camel. The smell of drying hay. Canvas, toffee, engine oil. They were approaching a very grand large caravan. Outside it a slim blonde woman was sitting under an awning, rubbing liniment into the calf of one leg.
‘Hello, Miss Bevan.’
‘Damn! Can you reach around for me, Dulcie? I can’t afford a cramp.’ Dulcie nudged Phryne, who took the offered leg and began to smooth oil into the bunched muscle. Miss Bevan accepted her ministrations without bothering to acknowledge them. I can’t ask Joseph for another massage so soon. He’s very busy, you know.’
Phryne, rubbing assiduously, reflected that however busy the camp’s horse doctor was, a lowly rider could be commandeered at any time. She wondered suddenly how Dot felt, attending on Phryne. Phryne, as employer and mistress, expected service, just as this flyer did. The tense muscle relaxed under her touch and Phryne got to her feet. Miss Bevan wiggled her toes. ‘Thanks,’ she said carelessly. She put her foot to the ground and stood up. ‘Yes. That’ll do. Is she new to the show?’ she asked, looking at Dulcie. ‘Better get her a practice tunic. I’ll give her one of mine. Mum just made me three new ones. Falling off a horse knocks hell out of clothes, especially if you haven’t got many.’
Phryne boiled with shame. Second-hand garments, hand-me-downs, had been an aspect of childhood poverty that had been hard to bear. She hated wearing clothes made for someone else. But she gulped her humiliation down and accepted a skimpy sky-blue tunic from Miss Bevan. It had been patched.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Phryne. ‘It’s very nice.’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Miss Bevan. She lost interest in them and Dulcie drew Phryne on.
‘That’s the Flying Bevans. They’re world-class flyers. Everyone wants to be a flyer.’
‘Do they?’ said Phryne, folding the tunic. Miss Bevan was right. It was nothing. Phryne was feeling angry and ashamed. She was being ignored. Miss Bevan had not even looked at her or spoken to her directly. ‘Where now?’
‘Round here are the sleeping tents. They double as changing tents.’
Phryne lifted a flap. A long row of beds lined one side of the tent. Each had a trunk or suitcase next to it. The other side was cluttered with costumes hanging over lines, properties, and what appeared to be an elephant saddle.
‘Here’s the kitchen,’ said Dulcie. ‘Hello, Mrs T. What’s for lunch?’
A bent crone scowled up from her covey of kettles. Steam had damped her hair and it hung in witch-locks around her nutcracker face.
‘You take your fingers out of me pots, Dulcie,’ she snarled. ‘Lunch is over. You’ll have to wait till dinner. And what are you trailing along with yer? Another mouth to feed?’ She glared at Phryne. ‘Ye’re nothing but a nuisance,
