Lizard Elsie looked past him at the wall. Her mouth shut tight.
‘Come on, Elsie, you’re in big trouble. Not from me. I’m not going to charge you with anything if all you did was go into the Provincial and start a fight with the publican so that the ’Roys could shoot poor old Reffo. Neither is my chief.’ Elsie looked at Robinson. He nodded. Grossmith continued, ‘But you rescued Harris here, who seems to have a talent for being rescued by women, and the ’Roys’ll be after you now. You’ve never done anything really wrong, Elsie, except swear the air blue. We got nothing against you. But I bet the ’Roys don’t see it like that.’
‘What can you bloody do?’ asked Elsie. ‘I spill my guts to you, then I go out on the street again and they’re fucking waiting for me. Wholesale Louis with his bloody gun.’
‘We can keep you in protective custody until we sort it out,’ said Grossmith. ‘You can walk out any time you like,’ he added, as Elsie made a convulsive start for the door. He hung onto her. ‘Wait a bit, Elsie. You and me, we’ve known each other a long time, eh? I always did the right thing by you, Else. I’d hate to see you dead.’
Elsie did not struggle. She allowed Grossmith to put her back in her chair.
‘Yair. Well, you’re bloody right. I did start that fight. Albert Ellis owes me ten fucking bottles of port, the mean bastard dog. And I s’pose I can trust you, Terry. I s’pose so,’ she said reluctantly.
‘And we could probably manage a bottle of beer a day,’ he added. ‘You know you’ve gotta get off the red biddy, Else, it’d kill a brown dog. A week on one bottle of beer a day and you’ll be leaping like a spring lamb. But I’ll give you a bottle of brandy out of the first-aid kit to start you off.’
‘Whaddaya reckon, eh, sailor?’ She nudged Constable Harris in his uninjured side. ‘You’re the one what swept me off me poor ole feet.’
‘You stay for a while, Elsie,’ said Constable Harris. ‘While we have a little chat with Mr Ellis and the boys. I’m anxious to meet them again.’
She sized him up in one sharp glance from her bright black eyes. Then she smiled a breathtaking smile from her wrinkled face, gentle and sensuous, which set Constable Harris back in his recovery.
‘All right, sailor.’ She patted his cheek. ‘I’ll do it. Come on then, Terry,’ she laughed up at the big policeman, ‘put the bloody cuffs on. I’ll go quiet.’
Because there was no other accommodation available for females, the duty officer put Lizard Elsie in the same cell as Miss Parkes.
Phryne Fisher managed not to spill her tea. She stared at the little man, who was driving the horse and preserving a perfectly blank face.
‘Sorry?’
‘I recognised you when Rajah pulled off your scarf,’ he explained. ‘No one else is likely to have heard of you.’
‘And you have?’ Phryne did not feel equal to denying it entirely and had now lost the initiative.
He smiled slightly at the tacit admission of identity. ‘Oh yes. I read the fashionable papers.’
‘Why?’
‘Book reviews,’ said the dwarf calmly. ‘Since I graduated from Oxford I have kept up my reading. Literature is my field. Also, I like to see what the social set is doing.
‘You were at Oxford University?’ squeaked Phryne. ‘Then what are you doing in Farrell’s?’
‘Where else could my . . . deformities be valuable? Everywhere else I am a freak. Here I am still a freak but I am a performer. Circuses are the only places where dwarves can get some respect. And even then, you heard the head rigger. “Safe with me,” he said and laughed.’
‘Only because you are obviously a gentleman,’ said Phryne. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Mr Burton, how old are you?’
‘I’m thirty,’ he said, looking into her face. ‘I went grey early. That’s good. An old dwarf has more value, because he is obviously not just a child. I’ll never be taller than I am and unless I can find a suitable lady dwarf I’ll never marry.’
‘How about . . . er . . . love?’ asked Phryne. Mr Burton laughed.
‘A lot of women want to find out about dwarves,’ he said primly. ‘They are . . . er . . . interested in my . . . er . . . attributes. But I will not compromise. It is love or nothing. So far, it is nothing. Now, tell me what you are doing in a circus. Is this a whim, Miss Fisher? Are you bored?’
‘I was, until I tried falling off a cantering horse every morning. Now I’m bruised. I really don’t know what to say, Mr Burton, except to tell you that I am here for a good purpose and beg you not to expose me.’
‘What purpose?’
‘First, tell me. Do you think that there is a reason behind the accidents which have befallen Farrell’s in the last few months?’
‘No. I think that there is a design. The Catalans went to Mama Rosa—they have no prejudice against gypsies—and she said that there was malice, not the evil eye, behind the incidents. Mama Rosa may be a charlatan, I have no opinion on the matter. But she has her finger squarely on the pulse of the circus, perhaps because she is not part of it. Someone has been making mischief. Is that what brings you here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why should you care about us? We are only circus folk.’
‘I’ve had enough of this “only rogues and vagabonds” rubbish,’ said Phryne angrily. ‘I’m here because a close friend asked me to save his livelihood, which will be lost if the circus folds its tents and goes broke. My motives are excellent. I admit I was bored and a little irritated by that person implying I couldn’t leave all my luxuries behind. The luxuries were no loss, but being so lowly is hard to bear and putting up with Mr Jones is harder. But I will find out what is wrong with Farrell’s Circus. I gave my word. Even if I continue to fall off Missy every day.’
Mr Burton heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Good. I don’t know if I can help you but I will try.’
‘Is there anyone else who might be reliable?’
‘They’re all reliable, Miss Fisher. But as to who might help you . . .’ He thought about it and gave Phryne the reins while he lit a cigarette. The horse paid no attention to the movement of the leather straps across his patient back. He continued the solid heavy four-four clop and Phryne’s head nodded.
‘Yes, it is hard to stay awake. That’s why I usually have one of the Catalans as a companion. Not that my noble steed Balthasar actually needs to be driven, but he likes some company. Have you noticed the time of the hooves? Exact metronome-measurable four beats in a bar. I’m not telling anyone else or they’ll want to make him a performer and then he might not like the wagon so much. Yes. Well. We are leaving the suburbs behind. This is Deer Park. Not that I know if they still have any deer. Or if they ever had any. Hmm. Now, what can I tell you? Avoid Amazing Hans and the lions. He is a little unhinged. Most wild animal tamers are. Bernard Wallace and Bruno are safe enough.’
‘Yes. Bruno likes me.’
‘Does he indeed? A rare mark of trust.’ Mr Burton seemed impressed. ‘Mr Farrell—well, I don’t know that you should go anywhere near Farrell. Since this Jones man came he’s been looking wearier and greyer every day. Jones has some hold over him. I suggest that it is good old-fashioned money. Rajah is a flighty beast and so is her trainer. Of the flyers, Lynn Bevan is the only one who might even listen to you. Flyers are very self-involved. They are the aristocrats and the rest of us are cast as peasants. Dulcie is a good girl. So, oddly enough, is Mrs Thompson. Being married to a clown is a sore trial. You might be able to talk to the clowns. Toby is a depressive but Matthias is all right—or so they say. I do a performance with them. The only time you can get a word out of Toby is between bouts of this illness, when he is quite pleasant. When he’s down, he is very down and won’t talk. Matthias even has to feed him. But he can still perform and make the whole crowd fall down laughing. Clowns are odd. The Catalans will help but they are looked upon with almost as much suspicion as gypsies. If I were you, I’d look at Mr Jones very closely. And there are three roustabouts who have certainly never done this work before. One has sticking plaster all over his hands.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen him. He gave the head rigger the finger.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ Mr Burton chuckled. ‘His two offsiders are also incompetent, but that may not mean that they are criminals. Circuses have a strange fascination for unhappy boys. Unhappy men, too. They run away and join us. Then when they find out that it is all hard work, erecting tents in the rain, eating Mrs Thompson’s stew and no orgies with the girls, they run away again. If they are still here in a week I shall be more sure that they don’t
