Phryne knew who had killed Mr Christopher and why. She had discovered who was sabotaging Farrell’s Circus and why.
She nudged the young constable. ‘Listen!’ she said urgently. ‘If you get out of here, then you have to tell Jack all about this and make sure that he catches the guilty parties. I expect they’ll come for us soon. Stick to your story that you came looking for me because someone told you that I was a tart.’ He made a shocked exclamation and Phryne snapped, ‘I tell you, that’s your best chance. By circus standards I am a tart. They all think so. Now, this is important.’
Carefully she told Constable Harris all that Jack Robinson needed to know to solve the portfolio of problems currently in his possession. Towards the end, she stopped.
‘Can you hear something?’ she whispered.
‘No.’
‘I thought I heard a footstep.’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
Phryne completed her theory. Harris nodded. Then he remembered that he could not be seen and said, ‘All right, but I can’t leave you.’
‘Yes, you can,’ said Phryne acidly. ‘If you get away, then you can find Jack and rescue me. Clear?’
‘Yes,’ the young man said reluctantly.
Alan Lee walked around the carousel to the unremarkable man sitting on Windbag and said, ‘Tickets, please.’
‘I must speak to you,’ said Jack Robinson. ‘About Fern Williams.’
‘Wait till we stop,’ said Alan. I’ll get Bill to take over. Then we can talk.’
The carousel went round again, to the tune of ‘A Bicycle Built For Two’, a full quarter tone flat.
Grossmith found that the Rockbank constable had been called out on a sheep-stealing case. He gritted his teeth.
They came for Phryne a little after midnight. She heard footsteps and she and Tommy Harris struggled to replace their gags.
Phryne was dragged upright by unseen hands. Someone chuckled.
‘Leave him,’ said an oily voice. ‘He’s just a bumpkin. Come sniffing after this tart, I bet. But this one . . .’ He slung Phryne over his shoulder. ‘Jones wants this one.’
Phryne was taken out of the tent. Left alone, Constable Harris struggled afresh with his bonds. The gag had slipped back into his mouth and he was rendered mute.
Phryne was carried, her mid-section bumping painfully, through darkness which smelt of canvas and cooking. She tried to see where she was but could catch no clue. Most parts of the circus looked the same, viewed from upside down.
She was conveyed up the steps of what was probably a caravan and thrown down into a chair. Light wounded her eyes. She shook her head and squinted.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Jones, whom she now knew to be Killer Jones of the Fitzroy Boys, ‘you owe me a favour, Fern.’ He reached out with hands scarred to the knuckles and grabbed the front of her scarlet tunic and ripped it slowly open.
Phryne stared at him. There were four people in the caravan. The small man with the sticking-plastered hands. Ronald Smythe, she presumed. The tall man must be Damien Maguire. And the sneering roustabout whom she had slapped across the face. Everybody except Smythe was staring at her, willing her to struggle, wanting to savour her defeat.
Mr Jones, now kneeling, was engaged in untying her ankles. She shuddered at the reason he might do that.
‘I owe you no favours,’ she said though the gag. Mr Jones removed it. He obviously liked screams and he clearly expected that he would not be interrupted.
‘You got in the way, Fern,’ he said with slow relish, peeling off her tights. ‘You been snooping. You even had a gun. Was that a nice thing to bring into the circus? We got to teach you a lesson, Fern.’
Her much-washed knickers gave way under his pulling fingers and tore down from their band.
‘I should find Fern,’ said Robinson to Alan Lee without urgency. ‘Lot of things been going on in this circus.’
‘This ain’t the circus. This is the carnival. The circus is over there,’ Alan Lee corrected him. ‘She was in the parade, all of the girls were. She’ll be in the girls’ tent by now. I’ll take you.’
Alan Lee and the detective inspector began to stroll through the carnival, chatting casually, but when Alan called Dulcie out she told him that Phryne was not there.
‘She ain’t been back,’ said Dulcie. ‘But I know where she might be. And before I say it, I think she’s all right. She don’t belong in a circus but she’s all right, Fern is.’
With delicacy, she told them about Matthias the clown.
Phryne was helpless. For a moment she lay in panic. Her fate appeared to be set. Jones dragged the webbing belt from around her waist. She made no sound until he broke the thong which held the holy medal and pocketed it. Phryne gave a pitiful cry. Her last link with her own self had gone.
Ronald Smythe’s nerve broke. Phryne was far too old to attract him. His chosen sexual objects were all below puberty. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Boss just said to dispose of her. He didn’t say nothing about rape.’
‘Don’t you want a turn?’ sneered Jones. ‘She can’t complain. She’s a spy. Probably belongs to the Brunnies. Don’t you think she’s pretty?’ He indicated Phryne. Her ankles were now free and her hands were still behind her back. The forced arch of her spine thrust out her breasts. ‘She’s defenceless,’ added Jones. ‘She can’t fight back.’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Ronald Smythe. He went out and Phryne heard a match strike as he lit a soothing cigarette.
Jones had found the fastening of the webbing belt. He took out a wad of notes and riffled them.
‘Whacko,’ he gloated. ‘The girl
‘Keep looking,’ advised Phryne. ‘You’ll be surprised.’
He found the card case, opened it and read the elegant lettering. ‘Miss Phryne Fisher. Well. Private detective, eh? You’ve been playing with the big boys, ain’t you? Little girls oughtn’t to play with the boys.’
He approached menacingly. One of the roustabouts seized Phryne’s ankle and the other one grabbed for her foot.
She considered the caravan. It was hung with objects which she could not reach. Her hands remained tightly fastened. She had only a second to act before she would be rendered helpless. Mr Jones reached for the buttons on his trousers.
Phryne let go of her civilisation. Years of ladylike behaviour and carefully learned social rules had peeled off along with her clothes. Her rank, wealth and the protection of class had been deliberately abandoned when she joined the circus. She was the ten-year-old ragged girl standing guard over her favourite pig-bin at the Victoria Market, menaced by the bigger boys in the dark behind the stalls. She was the eighteen-year-old Phryne at bay in the black cornices of the Place Pigalle, with the Apache hulking towards her.
A surge of strength went through her like an electric current. They might rape her. But she would not be a victim.
‘No,’ said Matthias Shakespeare worriedly, ‘she isn’t here. And she said she would come,’ he added softly. ‘But perhaps, since Dulcie told her about the rules, she is no longer interested in clowns.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Dulcie. ‘She seemed interested to me. Said she’d rather be thought a tart than give you up. Where can she be?’
‘Perhaps she did not feel it was safe to come to me, or stay in the girls’ tent,’ said Matthias. ‘You can’t keep secrets in a circus. Perhaps . . . Miss Younger?’
