the side of the caravan and took the reins.
‘
The solemn dark boy boosted Phryne up onto the wagon and she sat down beside Mr Burton, clutching at her turban.
‘It all vanishes so fast,’ she said breathlessly.
The circus, which had looked so permanent, came apart and packed itself up with astounding speed. The horse lines were empty. Phryne caught sight of Miss Younger, sitting astride Bell with effortless ease, ordering the riders of the liberty horses into convoy. The lions’ cages had been loaded onto two trucks, with Amazing Hans driving one. Phryne caught sight of his flowing mane of hair. The first trucks, carrying the tent and the seating, were already out of sight. Behind, in a straggling line which was nevertheless perfectly ordered, came the riders, the camels, Rajah and her friend Sultan, the flyers and tumblers and clowns. There followed the Catalans and Mr Burton, then after them in a long line the riggers and the lions and the roustabouts, cooks and boys. After them, separated by a little space came the carnival and after them, also separated, the gypsies.
The wagon jolted onto the tarmac surface of Williamstown Road. ‘Would you like to make some tea?’ suggested Mr Burton. ‘There is a spirit stove inside.’
Phryne climbed back into an immaculate little room. Everything was dwarf-size, from the four-poster bed with the satin quilt to the tiny wash-stand and the miniature wardrobe. It was all decorated in English cottage style and must have been very expensive.
She managed to persuade the spirit stove to light. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she looked out of the chintz-curtained window at the passing scene. Children whooped and ran along the pavements. Adults stood and stared. Once she had watched a circus go past in this way. Now she was inside one.
A bubble of delight burst in her chest.
She called to Mr Burton, ‘How do you like your tea?’
‘Two sugars. Black,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to keep driving; can you bring it out here?’
Phryne managed to crawl back through the caravan hatch without spilling too much tea. Mr Burton gave her the reins while he drank. The big horse plodded on after the others in perfect four-four time.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Burton, putting down his empty cup in a niche evidently designed for it. ‘Why not have your tea now and perhaps a cigarette? This is always my favourite part of the journey. The beginning. Who knows what lies ahead?’
As Phryne sipped her tea and lit a gasper, the small man continued without change of tone, ‘And what are you doing in Farrell’s Circus, Miss Phryne Fisher?’
CHAPTER TEN
William Shakespeare
‘What’s eating you?’ demanded Detective Inspector Robinson, summoned out of his cubbyhole of an office by Sergeant Grossmith at eight o’clock in the morning. The sergeant seemed excited about something. ‘Why are you tiptoeing like that?’ Robinson did not get on well with mornings. ‘Taken up ballet at your age?’
Sergeant Grossmith opened the door into the front office of Russell Street Police Station and motioned his chief to look.
There, offending the cleanliness of the mud-coloured lino, sat old Lizard Elsie the sailor’s friend, clutching a bottle of what appeared to have been brandy. Her tattered dress was splashed with dark stains and her boa was balder than ever. She was fast asleep and smiling. This in itself was not unusual. What caused Robinson to step back a pace onto Grossmith’s foot was the sight of Elsie’s supporter. The ill-famed harpy was lying with her head on Constable Harris’s tweed-clad shoulder. He was sitting with his arm around Elsie and his back against the wall and his eyes were closed.
‘Well, well,’ said Robinson. ‘The Babes in the Wood. Just waiting for the birdies to come and cover them with leaves. How long have they been there, Duty Sergeant?’
‘They came in, sir, about ten minutes ago and flopped down like that.’
‘Thank you for this little comic interlude, Terry,’ said Robinson. ‘Now, hadn’t you better wake your constable and ask him what in hell’s name he thinks he’s doing?’
Grossmith strode over to the pair and bellowed, ‘Wakey, wakey!’
Lizard Elsie sprang to her feet, hands hooked into claws, and then identified the speaker. She grinned at him. ‘H’lo, Terry,’ she said. ‘I brung your copper back.’
‘Why, what’s wrong with him?’ Grossmith crouched down next to Harris. He shook him by the shoulder. The young man groaned and strove to focus. Grossmith roared, ‘Harris! What’s the matter with you?’
Robinson came out of the doorway and inspected the recumbent officer.
‘Use your eyes, Terry. Look at his coat. And his shirt. That ain’t booze. He’s not drunk. That’s blood. He’s been hurt.’
‘One of youse has got bloody eyes, then,’ said Lizard Elsie sarcastically. ‘Of course he’s been hurt. He’s been shot. It was that fucking mongrel Wholesale Louis. If you want to bloody know.’
‘The ’Roy Boys,’ said Grossmith. ‘Call the police surgeon,’ he shouted at the bemused duty officer. ‘Don’t stand there like an idiot! Jack, d’you reckon we can get him up onto the bench?’
Together they lifted Constable Harris. Lizard Elsie began to sidle towards the door and Robinson caught her arm.
‘Stay with us, Else,’ he said. ‘I reckon we owe you a favour.’
‘For a fucking change,’ she told him. ‘He’s a good boy, he is,’ she added. ‘I was bloody getting the worst of it last night in the Blue Diamond and he piled in and rescued me. Then we ran away and fucking Louis shot ’im, so I hid ’im all night and we come ’ere on the first tram. He’s not hurt bad. He’s just tired and bloody shocked.’
‘Elsie, you are a remarkable woman,’ said Robinson.
‘Too fucking right,’ Elsie agreed.
In an hour, Constable Harris was recovered enough to be interviewed. The wound was revealed to be a long, shallow gash along his side, which hurt when he moved but was not serious. That he had not contracted tetanus the police surgeon attributed to Elsie’s dressing of the wound with fine cognac.
‘Best drink I ever had,’ said Elsie wistfully. ‘And I didn’t like to waste it.’
‘It wasn’t wasted,’ said the doctor. ‘Keep the wound dry, lad, and get it dressed again tomorrow.’ He took his leave.
‘Now, Harris, tell me exactly what happened,’ instructed Grossmith. ‘Slowly.’
Constable Harris, who had been allowed to wash and change back into his uniform, felt clean and comfortable. He sat up straighter and ordered his thoughts. He then told, in minute detail, everything he could remember about the night before.
‘Then I crawled into this humpy and I don’t remember anything until Elsie dragged me onto the cobbles and we staggered out to the street and caught a tram. They almost didn’t let us on. We must have looked a sight.’
‘I wrapped him up and I stayed with him to keep him warm,’ said Elsie slowly. ‘You can bloody die of cold and shock if you ain’t kept warm. Then I brung ’im back like he says. But what I wanna fucking know,’ her voice rose in wrath, ‘is where do them mongrel ’Roys get off, trying to snuff me what never did ’em any fucking harm? And why?’
‘Ah. Yes. Now, you told Albert Ellis that he owed you ten bottles,’ said Grossmith slowly. ‘Why should he owe you ten bottles, eh, Else?’
