own. But since she got on the red biddy she’s been going downhill. Poor old Elsie. The terror of publicans.’
Grossmith filed away the information that the Brunnies, at least, did not seem to hold any grudge against Lizard Elsie. He turned to see a girl being ushered in through the swinging doors.
Pretty Iris had been with the Brunnies for three years. Grossmith put her age at about twenty-five. She was slight, fashionably dressed and pale, with light brown hair and blue eyes. Her hand bore one small but very bright diamond. Diamonds also flashed in her ears. Pretty Iris had expensive tastes.
‘Jack?’ she inquired. Her voice was soft and high. The only things that Grossmith didn’t like about her were the rigid line of her thin lips and the baby intonations which she used on susceptible men.
‘Iris,’ he acknowledged. ‘Give the lady a seat, boys.’
Iris perched on the bar stool between Jack and Snake and asked, ‘What’s going on? I was at a dress fitting. I’m gonna lose my job if you keep dragging me away from the salon. Madam was most upset.’ In her spare time, when not assisting the Brunnies in their nefarious schemes, Pretty Iris was a mannequin.
‘If you lose your job you’ll have more time to devote to us,’ said Jack Black irritably. ‘This is . . .’
Iris’s fine eyes widened. ‘I know who it is.’ She laid a cool manicured hand on the policeman’s arm and he was washed with a gust of French perfume. Sergeant Grossmith was intensely aware of the pressure of her fingers. ‘What does he want here?’
‘He wants you to talk to him.’
‘And do you want me to?’ She cast a coquettish look at Jack and he shifted in his seat.
‘Yair. I want you to.’
‘All right.’ Pretty Iris was supplied with a small sherry by a disapproving Doris. She sipped daintily and then asked, ‘And what does Jackie want poor little Iris to talk about?’
‘The ’Roys.’
Her expression changed instantly. The smooth forehead creased into a frown and the red lips pouted. ‘Ooh, Iris doesn’t like rough boys.’
Grossmith, controlling an inward nausea, nevertheless found Pretty Iris effective. So did Jack Black. His face was darkening. He blinked.
‘Talk about it, Iris,’ he ordered, and Pretty Iris hitched up her skirt to sit more comfortably on the bar stool.
‘There was a man . . .’ she began, and giggled. ‘He thought I was wonderful.’ She drew out the syllables and Grossmith bit his lip. ‘He fell in love with me. The fool.’ True venom dripped from the words. Grossmith wondered if Pretty Iris had ever loved any man and why she was so set against the species. ‘So he took me out to nightclubs and he bought me presents. He said he wanted me to marry him. But he was only after one thing. All men are only after one thing.’ Her voice had deepened. She was forgetting her baby-doll affectations. ‘So he tried harder. He began to tell me secrets as though his secrets would bring me closer to him, make me love him. One night when he had been drinking he told me all about a woman—he called her his perfect woman. He loved her like billy-o. She lived in the same house and she wouldn’t look at him. I wasn’t interested. Every bloke has a perfect woman they want to tell you about. A girl could get jealous, I said. A girl didn’t wanna listen all night to a drunk mooning about after his lost perfect woman. So he said, “I’ll tell you a secret,” and I said, “What secret?” And he said, “I’m going to make a lot of money very soon.” And I was interested, so I said, “How?” and he leaned real close and he said, “Exit.” I said, “I never heard of it,” and he smiled and said, “No,” so I pressed him.’
Grossmith was listening intently. Pretty Iris bloomed under the attention. She ordered another sherry. When it came Jack Black put his hand over the glass.
‘Not until you tell the rest,’ he said. Pretty Iris pouted again and wriggled in her chair. ‘Beast!’ she complained.
‘Go on, Iris,’ said Jack Black unsteadily. She raked him with her eyes.
‘So he said he was going to get a lot of money from Exit. I asked what it was and he laughed again and said it was a funeral parlour. And he said that it was real big. Not just small time, he said. He said he was going to get hundreds of pounds from Exit. I asked him what he was going to do and he wouldn’t tell me. I asked him who else was in it. He said three names: Damien Maguire, William Seddon and Ronald Smythe. I asked him who was helping him and he said the ’Roy Boys. No, actually he said that it was Albert Ellis. But Ellis isn’t in anything on his own. I made like I didn’t know the name and then he got sober all of a sudden and begged me to keep schtum. I said I would,’ Pretty Iris ended artlessly. ‘Or otherwise he would have got cross.’
‘You’re a talented woman,’ said Grossmith slowly. ‘And I can see why they call you Pretty Iris.’
Iris glowed. She patted him on the hand again. Jack removed his palm from her glass.
‘You’re a good girl,’ he told her. ‘A very good girl and Jack’s going to get you a present.’
‘Ooh!’ squeaked Pretty Iris. ‘A present!’
Grossmith could stand no more. As he got up he said, ‘Thanks, Jack. What was the man’s name, Iris?’
‘Smith,’ said Iris with infinite scorn. ‘Robert Smith. They’re all called Smith, aren’t they?’
Grossmith left the pub, thinking hard.
Phryne Fisher crept back into the women’s tent in the early morning, noticing that several other beds were empty. She was sated and dreamy. Once the initial frenzy born of long frustration was over, the clown had been an excellent lover. His touch went deep, right through to her bones. His body was strong and smooth and sweet to the mouth. He might well prove addictive.
She burrowed into her quilt and slept like a log for three hours, after which she was woken by Dulcie.
‘Up you get, Fern. Breakfast is on and it’s time to fall off a horse again.’
Phryne stretched, dragged on the cotton dress and decided to omit washing. She rebound her pink turban and went to the cook-tent for brackish tea and wodges of bread and jam. Not even if she was starving would she consider Mrs T’s porridge. It heaved sullenly in its cauldron and appeared to be semi-sensate.
She walked into strong sunshine, blinked away dust and went to fetch Missy from the horse lines. Her supply of peppermints and carrots was holding out. Missy sidled up to her to be groomed.
Miss Younger was standing in the middle of the ring. The big top looked so permanent that Phryne could not believe it had been disassembled before her eyes the day before. She led Missy into the ring and released the leading rein.
Moving round and round, in a smooth canter, Phryne slid easily up onto her knees and gently into her hands- and-feet bridge. This was the point where she usually fell off. Listening for the command to stand and feeling her tights slide across and squeeze, she was overcome by a vision of the clown. She smelt greasepaint and felt the electric fingers. Sweat dropped from her forehead to spot Missy’s grey back. And without remembering that she had fallen off before, she stood up and stayed up.
The ring flew past. Various lookers-on shouted congratulations. Phryne did not hear them. She was standing up on Missy’s back, one foot either side of the spine, her arms by her sides. Miss Younger smiled for the first time in Phryne’s experience. She directed Missy into another circuit and Phryne stood like a pillar, leaning inwards, wondering why this skill had taken so long to learn.
‘Both hands down,’ ordered Miss Younger. ‘Right at your feet. Now stand on your hands.’
Recalling the clown’s face upside down, Phryne laughed and lifted her legs. She stayed upright for three beats, then sat down astride. The muscles in her upper arms trembled with fatigue.
‘You ride tonight. Get them to give you a costume and some weights to strengthen your arms. Well done,’ said Miss Younger. ‘Joan! You’re next.’
Phryne allowed Missy to walk out of the ring. Dulcie, sitting casually on a trapeze ten feet above the ground, caught the balls she had been juggling with her partner Tom and called, ‘I told you you could do it, Fern!’ Phryne, dizzy with achievement, laughed aloud.
She was passed by a running, rolling, tumbling group of dark men. The Catalans shouted a cheerful greeting as they bundled into the space behind the ring not yet occupied with seating.
At the door Phryne met three clowns. Jo Jo in practice dress and with his own face, leading Toby his brother, attended by Mr Burton in shorts and a paint-stained shirt. Phryne slid down from Missy and bounced as her feet stung.
‘It’ll get you like that,’ said Matthias. ‘Jump, rather than get down too gently. Congratulations, Fern! I knew you had it in you.’ He grinned, an intimate and challenging grimace, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Something deliquesced in Phryne’s middle. ‘Fern, Fern, makes my heart burn,’ he added, clutching at his chest and turning the
