corners of his mouth down. ‘When will you love me, Fern?’
Phryne mouthed, ‘Tonight?’ and the clown’s eyes glowed. He gave a slight nod. ‘Oh Fern,’ he yelled, reaching out stiff arms, ‘come to me, Fern!’
Phryne felt eyes upon her from knee level. The rapport between herself and Matthias must not be revealed to Mr Burton’s acute gaze. She turned on the clown a look of withering scorn.
‘Garn,’ she drawled and led Missy out into the light, ignoring Jo Jo, who howled like a dog after her.
‘I did it,’ Phryne exulted to Bernie, who was leading Bruno into the tent. ‘I did it!’
The man smiled at her. Bruno, recognising a friend of bears, sniffed at her pocket until she gave him a peppermint. He licked her hands rather thoroughly in case any should remain, then got up and waltzed slowly in a circle.
‘Good bear,’ said Bernie absently. ‘Well done, Fern! Dulcie said you’d manage it. Come on, Bruno.’
Missy, who objected to bears, tugged at her rein. Phryne was recalled to the present. She hummed as she brushed Missy, combed out her mane and tail, and left her tethered in the horse lines munching hay.
Having now nothing to do, she went questing for a job. Delight fizzed in her head like champagne. She had stood up on a horse and was now a trick rider in Farrell’s Circus.
She threaded her way through the maze of guys and pegs around the big top and found herself in a canvas alley among the flesh eaters. Voices were raised. Amazing Hans was not happy.
‘Farrell, I have known you for years. I came to you with only three beasts and no money. I know that. I am under an obligation to you.’ The lion tamer was shouting. Phryne decided that she needed a cigarette and stopped, fumbling in her pocket. It took her a long time to separate the cigarettes from her handkerchief and then find her lighter. She listened hard.
‘But now what this Jones wants me to do, it is impossible. I used to put my head in old Joe’s mouth but he was ancient and tame and had no teeth. My lions are young. They are strong. Lions have a natural instinct to bite anything that is put between their teeth. Do I not know? Was I not trained by the great Hagenbeck? What I am demanding of the beasts is not foreign to their nature. That was Hagenbeck’s skill. These creatures are gentled. They love me, they do not fear me.’
‘Scared, eh?’ said Farrell’s slow Australian drawl, scathing to the pride. Phryne heard Amazing Hans draw in a deep breath. The lions moved uneasily in their cages, catching their trainer’s mood.
‘Yes!’ he yelled, loud enough to make Phryne jump. ‘Yes, I’m scared. I, the Amazing Hans, am afraid. And I am not ashamed of it. I will not do as this idiot asks. And I will leave your circus. Sole’s want another trainer. I shall take my lions and go. Now get out of my tent.’
Farrell had just begun to answer when someone grabbed Phryne by the shoulder. ‘Snooping, Fern?’ asked Mr Jones.
She held out the cigarette and the lighter and remembered her accent. ‘Just trying to get a light.’
He lit her gasper with a flourish. Up close, Mr Jones was less attractive than he had seemed, and he had never posed any threat to Valentino. He was tall, running to fat and overdressed in a suit and tie. He had white hair and flat brown eyes. He stank of Californian Poppy, cigar smoke, and mouthwash with an underlying reek of rotten teeth.
‘I reckon you were snooping, Fern,’ he said slowly, and the hand moved to pinch her breast. ‘You be nice to me and I won’t tell Mr Farrell and get you sacked.’
What would Fern do? thought Phryne as the hand took further liberties with her body. Treacherously, it was beginning to react, recalling the touch of Matthias and Alan Lee. Phryne made up her mind that Fern was a good girl.
‘Sorry,’ she said, refusing to meet his eyes. ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’
Mr Jones had evidently met this response before. He gripped her chin and forced her to look into his face. It was a face that might have been carved out of soap. One gash made the mouth.
‘It’s your job, Fern,’ he said softly. ‘You wanna walk home from Rockbank?’
Deprived of the response of Miss Phryne Fisher, which would have been a swift knee in the privates, Phryne was at a loss. She twisted out of the grip.
‘Please,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I need this job.’
Farrell could be heard leaving the lion tamer’s tent. Jones was either anxious to accompany him or still a little in awe of him. He released Phryne from his gaze.
‘Remember that you owe me a favour,’ he said, and Phryne watched him walk cockily away. She noticed that her hands were trembling. The cigarette smoke wavered, tracing blue squiggles on the still, hot air.
‘I’ll remember,’ she said softly, enraged at her helplessness. ‘Oh, I’ll remember.’
The next person to catch her by the shoulder was Molly Younger, and she stepped back a pace as Phryne turned on her fiercely, fists clenched.
‘Oh, sorry, Miss Younger.’
‘Who did you think I was?’ demanded Molly Younger.
‘Mr Jones,’ admitted Phryne.
Miss Younger’s face grew grimmer. ‘Him.’ She summed him up comprehensively with one phrase. ‘He don’t belong. Now, girl, I want a word. Come to my caravan, I’ve got to change.’
Phryne, wondering what this was all about, followed Miss Younger’s straight back as she stalked through the circus to a neat painted wagon with shafts. Miss Younger did not like trucks.
‘Come in,’ she snapped as Phryne paused. ‘Shut the door.’
The caravan was sparsely furnished. Only rows and rows of blue ribbons and rosettes decorated the walls. The bed was flat, hard, and covered only with a thin blanket. Phryne sat down on it and looked at Miss Younger.
She had pulled off her hat and her fair hair was dragged out of its severe plait. With her hair loose she looked more female. Pouring water into a tin dish on the floor, Miss Younger peeled off her shirt and riding breeches. She was wearing a pair of battered silk shorts and the rest of her body was bare. She stepped into the dish.
Phryne watched without comment. Nudity was common in the circus, when it was a matter of changing clothes or washing. The etiquette was not to look, or not appear to be looking. Phryne wondered if this rule applied in a private caravan. Molly’s face was set and her lips tight. She did not seem pleased and Phryne wondered what she wanted with Fern.
‘I told you when you came,’ said Miss Younger, sponging dust off her body, ‘that if you behaved like a tart you’d be treated like one.’
Phryne nodded. The fair hair bobbed across Miss Younger’s shoulders. She had almost no breasts, and strong muscle was outlined and shadowed by her hair.
‘Then you went and did it.’
‘Did what?’
‘I smelt you. I can smell you now. Greasepaint and lust. You slut!’
Phryne sat back on the hard bed and stared. She had not remembered that one cannot keep secrets in a circus. Miss Younger stepped out of the dish and flung the water out the door. She did not dress but stood, hands on slim hips, glaring.
‘You tart!’ she yelled suddenly. ‘I could smell the polecat stink of you from Missy’s back. You haven’t even washed.’
Phryne decided to say exactly what she meant.
‘I haven’t done any harm,’ she began.
Miss Younger’s chest heaved and she began to breathe in short, painful gasps. ‘No harm? No harm? You’ve only been here a few days and you lie down with a clown!’
‘I like him,’ said Phryne coldly. ‘What business is it of yours?’ She decided to attack. ‘Haven’t you ever had a lover?’
Hands shot out to her throat and began to strangle. Phryne choked, broke the grip with both thumbs biting into the tendons and punched Miss Younger in the stomach. Her fist bounced off muscles like rubber. Miss Younger screamed at Phryne, ‘Slut!’ and Phryne slapped her across the face with all her force. The woman crumpled to the ground.
‘He’s dead,’ said Miss Younger, flatly. ‘He’s dead.’
Phryne accepted Miss Younger into her arms. The woman knelt with her face against Phryne’s breasts and
