‘Why?’ she wailed.
‘I don’t know. He said he loved her.’ Tommy was getting confused.
Miss Younger made a guttural sound that he would have expected from a wounded animal. Then she demanded in a fierce, hard voice, ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s run,’ said Robinson. ‘No use hoping to catch him, Miss. But we’ll get him in Melbourne, if he ain’t took ship and gone by now.’
Mr Burton tugged at Miss Younger’s shirt. ‘Sit down and have some tea,’ he urged. ‘You can’t get to him, Miss Younger.’
She pulled away from his touch. ‘Freak!’ she screamed at him and stumbled into the night. Mr Burton stood quite still. His face showed no expression.
‘Poor woman,’ said Farrell from the other side of the fire. ‘I’d better go after her. If she should find our Mr Sheridan there wouldn’t be nothing left for you to hang.’ He walked away into the dark, calling, ‘Molly!’
‘Tell me what this reprobate of a magician has done,’ insisted Mr Burton.
Tommy sipped his tea, which was heavily laced with rum, and told the story while the dwarf listened with the closest attention.
‘But what will his criminal associates think of him deserting them like this?’ Mr Burton asked in his precise, scholar’s voice.
Robinson laughed. ‘If Albert Ellis knew about it, he’d spit chips and there’d be more blood on Brunswick Street. But they don’t know about it. This tea just about hits the spot, Mr Burton. Any more in the pot?’
‘Certainly,’ said Mr Burton, and refilled the detective inspector’s cup.
Tommy Harris caught the dwarfs eye and grinned slowly. Mr Burton made an excuse and trotted out of the firelight, with Tommy following.
‘Constable Harris,’ said Mr Burton, speaking with great deliberation, ‘it is not very far to Rockbank, where there is a telephone operator who is already awake. All I need is the number. What do you say?’
Harris drew a deep breath. ‘I’m risking my career,’ he began. Then he remembered Miss Parkes and her courage and her pain. He recalled Reffo dying in his arms. Lizard Elsie’s remembered face grinned at him. He made up his mind and opened his notebook at the page where he had written down Albert Ellis’s telephone number. The dwarf needed only one look. Then Harris went back to the fire and Mr Burton faded into the scent-laden circus night.
Phryne woke abruptly, stifling a scream. Something was breathing close beside her. She put out a hand and touched hair, slid down and found a human face. Eyelashes flickered against her palm.
She saw that she was lying on a canvas swag in a dark tent. The flap was open. Moonlight streamed in. Outside, she could see a man standing with his heels together in the back-saving stance of a soldier. He was a truly large policeman, in low-voiced conversation with a mountain of muscle. Silver light slid over marble contours. Samson and Sergeant Grossmith were keeping guard over Phryne and discussing horse racing.
Sergeant Grossmith had lodged his captives in the Rockbank lock-up, first evicting the chickens that were the usual inmates. The Rockbank policeman, reinforced with three of Grossmith’s own men, was guarding them with a gun.
‘I favour Strephon,’ murmured Grossmith. ‘In this weather, over that sort of track.’
‘It’s a long distance,’ commented Samson. ‘I’m backing Statesman. More staying power. And he won the Derby, too.’
Phryne moved a little and yelped. All of her body hurt. Alan Lee said softly, ‘It’s all right, Phryne,’ and stroked a gentle hand down her arm.
‘Alan?’ She touched his face.
‘Yes, it’s me, and you’re all right. Lie down again.’
‘And it’s me, beautiful Fern,’ said the voice on her other side. Greasepaint smeared over his ugly face, Jo Jo smiled anxiously. ‘Unless you want me to go away.’
‘No!’ Phryne clutched at him with weak fingers. ‘No. Please stay. Please, both of you, stay. I was so scared,’ she said, lying down between them. ‘I’m so cold.’
Alan Lee and the clown locked hands across her, folding her in a double embrace.
‘How did you both come to be here?’ she wondered aloud.
Jo Jo laughed and said in his treacle-toffee voice, ‘Someone had to stay with you and we couldn’t agree as to which of us. Dulcie washed off your paint and tended your bruises. We thought that you might have been . . . molested but you hadn’t. But you are going to have legs like a tattooed lady in a few days, Fern. Phryne. A name that tickles. Phryne. Hmm. Alan said that you needed warmth. Contact.’
‘He was right.’ Phryne snuggled closer to sides and flanks, breathing in vitality and concern. Jo Jo stroked back her black hair with his free hand.
‘And since we . . . er . . . share your regard . . .’
‘Seeing as we love you,’ Alan Lee did not mince words, ‘we couldn’t leave you. You were limp and Dulcie was afraid for you. She said that you were in shock. She wanted to stay but that head cop said that you’d like men better.’
‘Cheek,’ murmured Phryne.
‘Then it seemed silly for me to have a fight with your other bloke, so we lay down together. I like the clown, Phryne,’ said Alan Lee. ‘I never been this close to any circus folk before.’
Jo Jo chuckled. ‘I never thought I’d be holding hands with a carnie, either. You have a profoundly disturbing influence, Fern. But it won’t be for long, I suppose.’
‘Don’t ask her now, Matt. She’s worn out,’ said Alan Lee. Phryne was falling asleep.
‘Ask me what?’
‘Not to leave us,’ said Alan Lee reluctantly. Phryne reached out both hands. The clown and the carnie took them.
‘I can’t leave now,’ she said drowsily. ‘What a silly thing to say. I’ve got a contract. I’m a rider . . . in Farrell’s . . . Circus.’
They waited in the dark but she did not speak again. She had leaned her head against Jo Jo and one hand lay curled open on Alan’s chest. Phryne Fisher and Fern Williams were both asleep.
On Tuesday, after an early lunch, most of the performers assembled in the big top. Phryne had dressed in her cotton shift and was redolent of goanna oil. She had been repossessed of her belongings, and Dot’s St Christopher medal hung once more at her throat. Her fear was gone. She felt renewed. She had come close enough to death to smell his breath and she had not died. She was, however, so stiff that Samson had carried her into the ring and placed her in a chair as though he were handling a new-laid egg. She sat between Alan Lee and Jo Jo the clown. Dulcie and her partner Tom were there. Amazing Hans sat beside them. Mr Burton had perched on a tub on which elephants were wont to stand. The Catalans were gathered into an interested group. Even the Flying Bevans had made an appearance. Bernie, without Bruno, talked racing with Sergeant Grossmith. Sam Farrell sat in the middle of the ring, turning his hat in his hands.
Robinson walked out to join Farrell and clapped his hands. No one paid any attention. Sam Farrell stood up and cracked the ringmaster’s whip. Instant silence fell.
‘You want to know what has been happening to Farrell’s Circus?’ he roared. ‘Bit of shoosh and we’ll find out.’ He bowed to the policeman and sat down again.
‘This is a long story,’ Robinson began. ‘You’ll have to be patient because I don’t know it all, either. We’ll start with the furthest event in time. A man called Jones approached Mr Farrell with an offer to buy half of his circus. January, wasn’t it, Mr Farrell?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Farrell refused. Then things began to go wrong. Fires were lit. Animals died. The show began to lose money. So, in March, Mr Farrell had to accept the offer from Sweet Dreams Pty Ltd. They bought half of his circus. With the deal, however, came Mr Jones. He could not be said to have been an asset. And things continued to go wrong. In April the circus harboured an escaped prisoner called William Seddon. He accompanied you in the guise of a roustabout and took ship at Portland for Rio. Once there, the cocky bu— bloke couldn’t help gloating. He sent me a postcard. That’s when I found out about Exit. Seddon had escaped by being carried out of Pentridge in a coffin.
