Phryne Fisher is going with the circus, did you hear? And she’s going to all the places that Mr Christopher has listed.’
‘Who’s Phryne Fisher?’ asked Tommy from the floor.
‘An interfering woman,’ said Robinson. ‘A very clever, very beautiful, very rich, interfering woman. And I’m afraid,’ he added, ‘that this time she might have got herself in too deep.’
The parade entered the main street of Rockbank. Phryne was riding ahead of the chariot, driven by Miss Younger, four-in-hand. Dust rose and swirled and children cheered. A pair of young men with slicked back hair gutter-crawled their battered old car beside them and called obscene suggestions to any woman they saw.
Asphalt Arabs, Phryne reflected, were not confined only to sealed roads. She pulled Missy a little aside. Beside her danced Jo Jo the clown. For a second, he laid one hand on her thigh and slid his strong fingers along it. Phryne nearly lost her seat.
The clown’s hands were charged. Then he was gone and the shouting died away. The respectable citizens of Rockbank had been thoroughly informed that the circus was in town.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)
‘I reckon we bring Albert Ellis in,’ said Sergeant Grossmith.
‘On what charge?’ Robinson wanted to know.
‘Being concerned in an attempt to murder Constable Harris here.’
‘We’ve got nothing on him. Only on Wholesale Louis and the two others. The Mad Pole and Cyclone Freddy.’
‘Well, three out of four ain’t too bad,’ commented Grossmith. I say pull ’em in. Scum like that cluttering up my nice clean street.’
‘What about the Brunnies, then?’ asked Tommy Harris.
‘What about ’em?’ grunted Grossmith.
‘They’ll be out looking for the ’Roys, because they killed Reffo. Jack Black Blake won’t be pleased. He probably sent Reffo to sneak on them. He really hates the ’Roys.’
‘So?’ Grossmith was staring at his constable.
‘Why don’t we go and talk to the Brunnies?’
This was self-evidently a good suggestion. Grossmith nodded. ‘All right. I’ll go and have a chat with Jack. Usually to be found in the Brunswick Arms this time of day.’ He stood up, filling the room.
‘Good idea, Terry,’ said Robinson. ‘I’m going to give your constable the task of writing out all that can be deciphered from these photographs. And I think I’ll write a letter to Miss Phryne Fisher, care of Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show. She ought to know about Exit.’
The circus settled for the night. The tents had been erected; the head rigger had dressed the king poles with lights and ropes. After a lot of hauling, the canvas sides and top were laced and the whole resembled a large ghostly grey pancake. Rajah walked amiably backwards and the entire erection rose like a mushroom. The guys were fastened to the trucks and the ring traced out in wooden blocks.
The tired company dined off mutton stew and retired to their various resting places. Animals made sleepy noises. Only the lions roared and complained, unsettled by the thunder in the air or, possibly, the wandering presence of sheep.
Phryne had been allotted a stretcher bed. She unfolded her quilt and got under it. Her diaphragm was in her sponge bag and, in view of what might happen in a circus, she did not intend to be found wandering outside this chaste tent without it. No one seemed to notice what she was doing, or to care.
Twelve women stubbed out cigarettes, stretched, stowed their mending and rubbed a little more ointment into their bruises. Dulcie put out the light.
Phryne could not sleep. She looked up into the canvas ceiling of the tent, feeling as lonely as she had on her first day at boarding school. There she had known no one, had no friends and was not the sort of person who would fit in. Here she had a few allies, but only Mr Burton, Bruno and Dulcie could be said to be friendly. She was surprised to find herself crying.
‘Never mind, Fern,’ whispered Dulcie from the next bed. ‘You’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘Do what?’ sobbed Phryne.
‘Stand up on the horse.’
‘Yes,’ replied Phryne. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ She had never felt so much like an alien.
Muttering an excuse, she rose and went out into the dark. She could not stay in the tent any longer. She was looking for something, though she did not know what it was.
Ten minutes later, Phryne was standing outside a lighted caravan watching Jo Jo the clown strip.
The darkness was hot and laden with scents: engine oil, horses, burned sugar from the fairy lolly machine, and sun-scorched grass. A hot wind caressed her face and stirred the skirts of her cotton nightgown. Phryne could not tell why she was fixed in her place, unable to move even if she wanted to. She did not want to move.
The ragged fall of ash-coloured hair was real, she observed, as he shook his head free of the ridiculous cap. With careful, automatic movements he peeled off his shirt, his trousers, and began to unfasten padding from around his tubby waist. When it was gone he was revealed as slim and muscular. His hands were big and gnarled with years of hauling lines.
He sat down to take off his boots and ran considering hands down the length of his body, from shoulder to calf, as if to calm and reassure it—as one would stroke a nervous animal. She heard him sigh, but because of the painted mask she could not read his face.
His lines were as elegant as those of the great cats. Could he, like them, see in the dark? He had risen to his feet, naked and beautiful, and walked to the caravan door, leaning out, scanning the night.
Phryne was still rooted to the spot as if she had grown there. She realised that her position was equivocal, to say the least, and also that she was clad only in a thin nightdress.
The clown looked down and she looked up, green eyes into slate-grey eyes.
‘Fern,’ he said softly, as though he were tasting the name.
‘Matthias,’ she acknowledged.
‘Were you watching me?’
There was an odd undertone to the question but Phryne answered simply, ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps I was curious.’
‘So am I. Will you come in?’
He made no move to cover his body. It was, Phryne thought as she climbed the stairs into the caravan, a body worth looking at and not one to be ashamed of. She wondered if his nakedness was an invitation or a threat.
She came up over the last step and shut the caravan door behind her. He drew his curtains. The little room was brightly lit by a kerosene lamp and crowded with possessions—posters, a trunk, and a bed covered with a handmade patchwork quilt. On the windowsill stood the trademark eggshell with his clown’s face painted on it, proof of Jo Jo’s ownership of his mask.
‘Sit down,’ he said politely. ‘I’m afraid there is only the bed. Would you like some wine?’
Phryne nodded, overcome by his closeness and the brightness of the light. He opened a bottle of wine and
