moaned. ‘He’s dead. Mr Christopher is dead. Murdered.’ Phryne did not know what to say. She had not realised just how much the man had meant to the horsemaster. Molly Younger was now weeping freely, with her head buried in Phryne’s lap, kneeling between her knees. Her tears were soaking the cheap cotton dress. All Phryne could do was embrace Molly close and say nothing.
After ten minutes, bitter lamentations were whispered just above hearing.
‘He wanted us to travel together,’ she heard the woman say. ‘He wanted us to live together, to share a caravan. I said we couldn’t because . . . because we weren’t married yet and I wasn’t a tart. It hurt his feelings. He went back to his boarding house and . . . I wanted him,’ she sobbed. ‘I never wanted a man before. They say I only love horses. I do love them. But . . . you stink of love,’ she snarled suddenly. ‘A little slut off the streets, out of the dancehalls, and you’ve . . .’ She drooped. ‘You’ve got love, even the clown, even though no one sleeps with clowns.’ She groaned, then demanded shrilly, ‘Did you enjoy him, then, slut? Did he please you, Jo Jo the clown? Did he touch you and kiss you until you were dizzy? And did you lie down and open your legs and . . .’ Her voice choked again.
‘Yes,’ said Phryne, treading very carefully. ‘I lay down with him and he loved me and I loved him.’
‘You won’t do it again!’ Miss Younger clutched at Phryne’s hips and sank her fingers in around the bone.
Phryne winced. ‘Not again,’ she said softly. ‘Not if you say not.’
Miss Younger made a convulsive movement, forcing Phryne back onto the bed. She slid upwards, rubbing her body against Phryne’s as though she wanted to penetrate it, to be inside her skin and bones. Her rigid lips gaped and she kissed Phryne’s mouth with great force.
Phryne held her tight and kissed her back. The mouth was strong, with a muscular jaw, and Molly kissed wildly and clumsily as though she would bite. Phryne was seized with great pity. Mr Christopher and Miss Younger. Man–woman and woman-man. They were made for each other and no one else would fit. Miss Younger broke off the kiss and shoved Phryne away.
‘It’s all right,’ said Phryne gently. ‘It’s all right for you to love women. I know two women who live together in the country and they are perfectly happy. No one has even noticed.’
‘No!’ Miss Younger screamed, mouth still wet from contact. ‘No! Not you, not any woman! I’m not a freak, not a pervert! I have done without love, I can forget about love. Only when I smell the stink of sluts on heat, like you, does it come back.’ She was panting and the grip on Phryne’s arm was bruisingly tight. ‘I only ever wanted one person in the world, the only one I could love. I never thought there’d be anyone. I’m a man, you stupid bitch. I’m a man. Cursed with this body, which is wrong and bleeds and betrays me. Formed wrong. Born wrong. And so was he. Born different. Born for me, my only one, my dear love. And he’s dead. Gone. I’ve lost him forever. And I never lay with him, never found out about love while I had the chance. Leave me,’ she said harshly.
Phryne stood up and moved away. She stopped at the caravan door as the woman gasped, ‘The clown.’
‘Yes?’
Miss Younger veiled her eyes in the cloud of her hair. ‘Do you really want him?’
‘Yes,’ said Phryne honestly.
‘Then take him,’ said Miss Younger. ‘Even if he is a clown. Take him while you can get him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Like I should have taken mine.’
She turned her face to the wall and began to weep, deep shuddering sobs, like a man crying, unwilling. There did not seem to be anything Phryne could do. She left, closing the door behind her. A roustabout, seeing her dishevelled condition, laughed.
‘I knew she was one of them sheilas that don’t like men,’ he jeered.
As Phryne walked past she unthinkingly, and with accuracy and force, slapped him off his feet and into a pile of elephant dung.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)
‘Dear Fern,’ began Jack Robinson, then stopped. He always found composition difficult. His pen spluttered and the words just would not put themselves in the right order. ‘Hear you’re with the circus. Hope you’re doing well,’ he went on, then wondered how he was going to convey the information about Exit and Mr Christopher’s murder which Phryne needed to know. Years of writing official reports had cramped his style.
‘Heard a bit of gossip the other day,’ he wrote, getting an idea. ‘Bloke that was with your show. A man– woman act. His name was Mr Christopher. It seems that he was murdered, Fern. Someone stuck a shiv into him. They say there was blood dripping through the ceiling of this boarding house he was living in. Real creepy. Living in the same place as your magician, Mr Sheridan. I think they got some woman for the murder. I can’t understand how she could do it.’
Robinson paused and took a gulp of tea. He was proud of himself. That ought to convey his unease about the case of Miss Parkes. Now for Exit. ‘I also hear . . .’ What
Robinson scanned the letter. That ought to alert Miss Fisher to the danger, at least, and warn her to look out for any mention of Exit.
He put the letter into an old envelope and gave it to an attendant constable, ordering that it be taken by car to Rockbank to be collected with the circus’s mail. Miss Fisher should have it today. He worried about her.
‘Sir?’ Tommy Harris put his head around the door. I’ve deciphered all I could and Sergeant Grossmith has just got back and wants to see you.’
‘Good. Tell him to come in and bring your notes. Ah, Terry,’ he said expansively, ‘what news on the Rialto?’
Before his sergeant could tell him that the Rialto was in the city and that he had been to Brunswick Street, Robinson motioned his minions to a seat. ‘Well, Terry?’
‘I got onto Pretty Iris,’ said Grossmith. ‘By Jiminy she’s pretty, and as hard as nails. Pure vitriol runs in her veins. She told me that someone called Robert Smith told her he was going to make a lot of money from Exit. He said it was a funeral parlour. That’s how we lost Seddon, you recall, sir. He said he was going to get hundreds of quids for doing something, though Iris didn’t know what, and that Albert Ellis had hired him. That’s about all, sir.’
‘Very good. What have you got, Constable?’ Robinson asked Harris.
‘Not all that much more, sir. There’s several lists of dates and names attached to them. But I thought you’d be interested in some of them. On plate ten, the last page, it says “Ronald Smythe”. He’s on the list of Western District places, sir. And so is Damien Maguire.’
‘Are they indeed?’ Robinson leaned forward and Tommy riffled through his notes.
‘I found this on plate three. It’s a bit faint but you can just make it out. Next to “Portland”, sir, down in that bottom corner.’
He pointed and the detective inspector squinted over the pale scribble. ‘It’s William . . . yes.’ He looked up with a light in his eyes. ‘William Seddon.’
‘Well,’ said Terry Grossmith. ‘Three of ’em. What else is on them plates, Harris?’
‘Love letters, Sarge. Never sent. Perhaps drafts. To a lady called Molly that he was going to marry. And one note that I don’t understand.’
