belong.’
‘What about Mr Christopher?’ asked Phryne. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Alas, not well. His only confidants were Miss Younger, poor girl, and the clown Matthias. He was a nice man who kept his own counsel.’
‘And what about the magician? You left him out.’
‘Miss Fisher, I strongly advise you not to go near our Mr Sheridan unless you have company and are wearing armour. He is what was once known as a bounder. There was a scandal with a country girl in Colac and there will be more. He is oily and pleasing and gets his own way far more often than he should.’
Mr Burton sounded very irritated and Phryne decided to change the subject. ‘How far are we going today?’
‘Presently we shall stop for lunch. Then we will have a light afternoon’s jog to Rockbank. It was the first stopping place for the miners. Half a mile out we stop and dress for the parade.’
‘What?’
‘We stop,’ said Mr Burton patiently, ‘and put on our costumes. All the people who are not needed to rig the tent and set up the camp ride something and toot or bang something and we parade through Rockbank throwing leaflets announcing the circus. We do not do a performance until tomorrow night. But we have to let the populace know that we have arrived. I would advise you, at that time, to go and collect Missy, give her a quick lick and a promise and find yourself a costume. They will be in the wagon with all the lady’s gear. Ask Dulcie for something.’
Phryne lunched with the Catalans on a peppery stew made out of mutton and garlic in roughly equal proportions. She did not need the proverb, ‘
Climbing into the back of Mr Burton’s wagon after lunch Phryne drowsed away the rest of the journey, through country which sloped like the limbs of a recumbent animal, furred with short grass dried to the colour of a lion’s hide.
Mr Burton woke her with a cup of tea. ‘Here we are,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Rockbank just ahead. Drink that, my dear, and then go down to get Missy and give Dulcie my best regards. You will ride with me again?’ he asked stiffly. Phryne gulped the tea. She was filled with a rush of gratitude for his company. She had not realised how lonely she was.
‘Mr Burton, I would esteem it an honour.’
Jumping down, she walked along the trail of wagons which carried the tents and gear and the seating. The first ten had branched off to reach the camping ground. She found Missy standing in a line of horses, detached her and fed her a peppermint.
‘Missy, my dear, just look at the state of your coat,’ she exclaimed. She borrowed a body brush from the next girl and gave the mare a quick wipe down, finishing by removing dust from the horse’s eyes with her handkerchief.
Miss Younger swung past, riding with as much comfort as if she were sitting in an armchair.
‘Fern! Take Missy and get Dulcie to give you a costume. Red truck,’ she called. ‘Joan! Can’t you see that’s not temper, it’s a stone in the hoof? Pick up her foot instantly. Well she might kick! So would I!’
Phryne found the red truck and Dulcie in the midst of what looked like complete confusion. Spangled and sequined garments hung from the sides, along with masks and headdresses and hats.
Dulcie, however, seemed calm and organised. ‘Here’s your costume.’ She handed Phryne a red satin tunic, fleshings and a tall feather headdress. ‘Take Missy over to the side and don’t let her drink yet.’
Phryne managed to get Missy through the stream of camels and wagons but she could not simultaneously hold the beast and change into the costume. Missy was thirsty and could smell water. She could not see why this human was being so obstructive. She ramped on her front feet and threatened to buck.
A figure landed on Missy’s back and brought her down onto all four hooves again. It was a clown in full costume, his face painted into sad lines.
‘I’ll amuse her, Fern, while you get into that feather thing,’ said Matthias Shakespeare. His eyes were devouring her. Under this intense regard, Phryne did not feel threatened. Excitement rose up her spine like mercury in a thermometer. She shivered, licked her lips and dropped her feather crown.
‘You are so beautiful,’ said the clown, controlling Missy’s tantrum with hardly any effort. ‘You have been appearing in my dreams.’
‘Oh?’
‘Starring Beautiful Fern,’ said Matthias in his dark brown voice. ‘And Jo Jo the clown whom no one loves.’
Phryne stripped off the pink dress and pulled on the spangled tunic and the tights. They had holes in the knees. Then she knelt to remove the turban and pull the feathers down over her telltale hair.
‘Fern, Fern,’ sang the clown. ‘Makes my heart burn. Tell me, do you like me, Fern?’
‘Yes,’ said Phryne, tucking in the last strand of hair. ‘Yes, I like you.’
Matthias made a grab at Missy’s neck, slid forward, bounced and landed sitting back to front, his hands grasping for the reins.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said a passing girl.
‘It’s my profession,’ said the clown. With the elegance of a cat, he leapt down, retaining Missy’s rein. ‘Fern,’ he said softly. Phryne searched the painted face for an expression but could discern none. Only the gaze of the dark grey eyes affected her, like a caress. ‘Makes my heart burn,’ he whispered.
Phryne smiled. He tossed her Missy’s reins and did a handstand on her back. The upside-down face looked into Phryne’s and she laughed.
Detective Inspector Robinson found a report on his desk and summoned both Grossmith and Harris to hear about it.
‘This is the lab’s report on the notebook. Mr Christopher’s notebook, you remember,’ he prompted. ‘The little red book. It’s been stained and soaked in blood but they managed to get some clearish images. Have a look at this.’
He showed them a photographic sheet, still wet from developer. They stared at it. In small, neat handwriting it read ‘Exit’.
At that moment the phone rang.
‘Yes. This is Robinson. Miss Williams? Of course I remember you. Miss Fisher? Yes, I saw her . . . she’s done what?’ Robinson grabbed for a piece of paper. ‘Yes, I’ve got that . . . yes. Call for a letter at the post office . . . and if we want her have her arrested? What’s her name? Fern Williams? Yes. Dangerous? Not really. But I’ll keep an eye on her, Miss Williams. Yes, I promise. Thanks.’ He hung up the receiver.
‘Miss Fisher has got a job as a trick rider in Farrell’s Circus,’ he muttered half to himself. ‘I saw her there recently. Well, I suppose she knows what she is doing. Not my problem yet,’ he said grimly to his staff. ‘Back to the subject. Look at the rest of the plates.’
They spread them out on the overloaded desk and onto the floor. Robinson bent over the last page. Quite clearly, they could read where Mr Christopher had written:
To Molly,
I have come into some information which proves that Farrell’s is being used by a criminal organisation called Exit. I am going to see Mr Farrell about it tonight. I haven’t told anyone because he has a right to know first. He has always been good to me. But if I don’t see you again, Molly, know that I always loved you. I love you, Molly. You made me into a man.
Chris
‘What’s on the rest of the pages?’ grunted Grossmith, getting down onto his knees. ‘Made him into a man, indeed. Someone was writing love letters to his other half. Christopher/ Christine! Disgusting.’
‘Shut up, Terry!’ snapped Robinson. ‘Here. Yes. A list of places. Damn. They’re the same as Miss Fisher’s list.
