‘Dulcie,’ she said. ‘And Fern.’
They sat down on cushions at her feet.
‘What do you see?’ asked Dulcie tensely. Mama Rosa opened her hands and cupped a crystal ball.
‘Dark,’ she said. ‘Danger.’
‘For me?’ asked Dulcie. Mama Rosa shook her head with a click of earrings. ‘Fern. In the darkness there are eyes. And teeth. Pray that you not be devoured. You will receive a message this afternoon. Heed it.’
Her eyes closed. Dulcie and Phryne tiptoed out.
‘Whew!’ said Phryne. ‘She’s amazing!’
‘Yair,’ said Dulcie. They walked across the gypsy camp and into the carnival. Phryne remembered Alan Lee and had to get rid of Dulcie.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a friend here.’
‘I hope he don’t mind about the clown,’ said Dulcie. ‘Ta ta. You better take a rest this arvo. Show tonight. But no matinees tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘Melbourne Cup,’ explained Dulcie and went away.
Phryne had forgotten all about the Melbourne Cup. If she were at home, she thought, she would be having her last fitting for a fashionable dress, in order to go to the Cup the next day and dazzle the eyes of all beholders. She would bathe in scented water and perhaps eat a little chocolate, Hillier’s of course, before dressing, her maid waiting on her as she did so. Then she would recline in the back seat of her Hispano-Suiza while Mr Butler drove her to the racecourse, with Lindsay or some other suitable escort. There she would sniff the roses, look at a race card occasionally, and dine on chicken patties and drink champagne while the horses thundered past.
It seemed like a dream. Fern the trick rider bought herself an ice-cream and paid to see Samson, the Strongest Man in the World.
Fifteen muscle-racking minutes later, Samson finished his act by twisting a poker provided by a local into a knot. The man who had donated the poker exerted all his strength, grimacing, trying to untwist it again. Samson let him struggle until he gave up. The man put the knotted poker back into the offered hand and Samson flexed a few deltoids and straightened it with one smooth motion.
‘Show’s over, folks,’ said the strong man. ‘Hello, Fern.’
‘Samson, you really are very strong.’
He wiped his forehead on a towel.
‘The poker’s easy,’ he said dismissively. ‘That bloke could do it if he knew how. It’s a knack. I hear you can stick on a horse good-o, Fern.’
‘It’s a knack,’ said Phryne. ‘Samson, if I need you, will you help me?’
‘You can count on me. You know that. You got trouble, Fern?’
‘Possibly. Might be tonight. I’ll . . .’ Someone came into the tent. ‘See you soon,’ concluded Phryne. She walked out into the sun again.
Alan Lee drew her into the cover of his tent and dropped the flap. ‘We can talk if we’re quiet,’ he said. ‘I got your answers and a letter from town, I thought it shouldn’t go in the circus mail. What’s gone wrong?’
She laid her forehead against his shoulder. ‘Nothing but my nerve,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost it. Don’t let go of me.’
His arms closed around her. She could hear his heart beating. On impulse, she unbuttoned his shirt and laid her cheek against his skin. Her heart began to resume its normal pace and her breathing slowed.
‘Funny. That’s what frightened animals do,’ he said softly. ‘Or threatened ones. Huddle together, touching flank to flank.’
Phryne did not speak. She was as close to a frightened animal as she had ever been. She leaned on the diddikoi. They lay down together on the dry and dusty grass, her head on his chest.
After five minutes she sat up. ‘All right. Now, what are the answers?’
‘I rang the number you gave and Dot says the lawyer told her that the circus is owned half by Farrell and half by a company called Sweet Dreams. They own funeral parlours, Dot says. The lawyer made an offer and Sweet Dreams will not sell. They said their half-share cost them three hundred pounds. There isn’t such money in the world. The officers of the company are someone called Sweet, his wife and a Mr Denny. The capital is ten pounds.’
‘You have an excellent memory,’ commented Phryne. The arms around her tightened. He stroked a long hand down her face and turned her head into his chest.
‘I just hope I got it all. You’re important to me, girl. Don’t go getting in too deep.’
‘Any more messages?’
‘Just that she’s praying for you and hopes to see you soon. To make sure that you know it’s her she says to tell you that Ember has come down off the curtains.’
Phryne laughed. ‘And the other?’
‘He says he’s sent you a letter. He also says he’ll be with you soon. I told him about Sweet Dreams. Was that all right?’
‘Yes.’ Phryne was reluctant to drag herself out of this soothing embrace. He had a quality of deep, disinterested calm which was like hot water on a bruise, or a warm hand on the back of a cold neck. Reluctantly, Phryne got to her feet.
‘I can’t stay here any longer,’ she said. ‘I’ll be missed. Stand guard while I read this letter.’
Alan Lee stood by the tent flap as she scanned rapidly through Robinson’s neat page. He heard her say, ‘Well,’ before she folded up the letter and gave it to him.
‘You’d better keep this for me,’ she said, kissing him lightly. ‘I’d better not be found with anything strange.’
‘Be careful,’ said the young man, stroking her arm. ‘Call us if you need us.’
‘You’ll hear me from here,’ promised Phryne and peeped out of the tent. No one seemed to be looking. She slipped out into the carnival and was gone, an ordinary-looking circus performer in lime green that did not suit her colouring.
Alan Lee read the letter before he stowed it in his pocket. He wondered where he had heard the term Exit before. Shaking his head, as though that might make memory surface, he went back to his carousel.
‘What’s the matter?’ Miss Parkes leaned over Lizard Elsie and put a cool hand on her forehead.
The old woman moaned. I ain’t had much to eat for a fucking week. Then I wash all me bloody grime off and eat a good lunch—for a fucking prison it was a good lunch—and me bloody insides just ain’t used to food. I been on the red biddy for a fortnight.’
‘What’s red biddy?’
Miss Parkes had never met anyone like Lizard Elsie before. Not even in prison.
‘Metho and port.’ Elsie writhed. ‘I gotta guts-ache.’
‘Do you want me to call a doctor?’
‘Nah. I’ve had it before. I’ll be all right. I’ve lasted fifty years on the street and you couldn’t kill me with a bloody axe.’
Miss Parkes was clean, clothed in her own garments from her suitcase, which Constable Harris had personally packed. She was full of steak-and-kidney pie, peas, mashed potatoes and about a spoonful of jam roly-poly. Her despair had left her as though it had never been. She wasn’t sure what would take its place. But for now there was this poor tattered creature. Elsie was in pain. Something should be done. It was the first time Miss Parkes had thought about anything but her own inner horror since she had been arrested.
‘Constable,’ she called timidly, ‘I think Elsie’s ill.’
The duty officer made a brief inspection of Elsie and commented sagely, ‘She’s been starving and she’s been hitting the metho. She’ll be raving fairly soon. Poor old Else. Not that she can’t put up a fight. Took three of us to arrest her once. I’ll get some brandy off the sergeant when it gets too bad. I’m sorry to leave you in with her but there ain’t no other cell I could put ladies in.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You yell if she gets obstreperous,’ said the young man, ‘and I’ll get you out.’
‘All right.’
