The lump in the tweed coat moved again. It struggled forward. A white dove, spattered with blood, poked its head out from the ruin of its master’s natty suit. Seeing no predator, it fluttered groggily up onto the truck window, gripping the ledge with its claws. It preened shakily, distilling red drops from its beak, shook itself, then flew upward. There was a flourish of snowy wings, fanning out as it wheeled, puzzled. Then the magician’s last dove settled on the grain-shed roof, where the pigeons pecked companionably in the red and gold sunrise.
Three weeks later, Lizard Elsie and Miss Parkes were sitting together in a room in Mrs Witherspoon’s refined house for paying gentlefolk. Miss Minton was gone. Her producer had come up trumps. She had landed a dancing part in a travelling show and was in Sydney.
Constable Harris had paid a visit and demonstrated the trick ceiling, finding that the magician had left his two pulleys and the fishing line in place. Tommy had operated the weighted line and the force of the fall had driven the knife six inches into the mattress.
‘Houdini’s trick,’ Tommy had explained to Mrs –Wither––spoon. ‘He couldn’t even make up his own trap.’
Mrs Witherspoon was mortified. She had trusted Mr Sheridan and mistrusted Miss Parkes and she felt terrible. That was the only reason why Lizard Elsie the sailor’s friend was dwelling under her genteel roof.
‘Well, Elsie?’ asked Miss Parkes. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Look for another sailor, I reckon.’ Elsie grinned. With her hair combed and with clean clothes, she had gained a certain gypsy beauty. She bore her fifty years very well. Miss Parkes took her hand.
‘You could stay here,’ she suggested. Elsie squeezed the hand for a moment, then released it.
‘I’m too bloody old a dog to learn new tricks,’ she said gruffly. ‘I’ll get a room and find a man. Don’t you fucking worry about me.’
Miss Parkes reached into her handbag and laid something in Elsie’s lap. It was a police-issue dinner knife, sharpened to a razor point.
‘What’s this?’ asked Elsie.
‘It’s a present. I won’t need it any more.’
Elsie shoved the knife into her old black handbag and rose to go.
‘Stay one more night,’ begged Miss Parkes. ‘Have dinner with me. We’ll invite Tommy Harris. What do you say, Elsie?’
‘Yair.’ Elsie smiled her wickedest smile. ‘He owes us a favour, I reckon. Pity he ain’t a sailor. I always had a fancy for sailors.’
At the same time, approaching Sebastopol, Phryne Fisher was discovering that making love in a moving caravan, with the windows open, the air moving sweetly over naked skin and the horse walking at a steady pace, was both delicious and soothing to the bruises.
Miss Younger, who had seemed more settled since the news of Mr Sheridan’s death had come to the circus via a week-old newspaper, had seen Phryne climb into the clown’s caravan and had not snarled. A packet of photographic plates of Mr Christopher’s book had been delivered to her by a sympathetic Robinson. She would read them every night until she died. She looked at the caravan with a perfectly blank face, then wheeled Bell and galloped off in a cloud of snuffy dust.
On the road to Hamilton Phryne walked towards Skipton Church. It seemed like an ordinary bluestone building; she wondered why Mr Burton had insisted, chuckling, that she see it.
She paused with her hand on the wrought-iron gates. White things poked out of the tower. Gargoyles, if she was not mistaken. Phryne stared. Four gargoyles grinned demoniacally from the church tower. There was something odd about them. They were not pigs or dogs or dragons, like the standard received gargoyle of Notre Dame. She edged closer. What were they based on? Curly decorations, horns. Phryne began to laugh helplessly, clinging to the church gate. Skipton Church was guarded from evil spirits by four gargoyles in the shape of fanged, feral sheep.
She had almost recovered from Skipton Church when she was watching a team of sweating yokels in a tug of war with Rajah at Lake Bolac. Rajah allowed them to drag with their utmost force, without moving a muscle. Then she reached out with her trunk and gave a sharp tug and fifty men flew off their feet and into Lake Bolac with a mighty splash.
Detective Inspector Robinson attended the committal of Albert Ellis and his gang for various offences, including the murder of Robert Sheridan, stage magician. He sat through the whole lengthy, complicated brief of evidence with a broad smile on his face.
Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show was nearing Hamilton. Jo Jo the clown kissed Phryne awake.
‘Almost at Hamilton,’ he observed. ‘You’re going home from here, aren’t you, Fern?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will we see you again?’
She sat up abruptly and dragged on her cotton dress. ‘Do you think I’m going to waste a skill that cost me so many bruises to learn?’ she demanded. ‘I’m a circus rider now, and don’t you forget it. And I found you, too.’ Her voice softened. ‘I won’t forget you, Matt dear. I’ll see you again.’
Hamilton was a prosperous town, clean and windswept. The circus trucks turned off Ballarat Road for the camping place down by the railway line. The parade, Phryne’s last, proceeded along Cox Street and into Gray Street, attended by running children.
Down Gray Street went Phryne, mounted this time on Rajah the elephant, high up and elated. Jo Jo the clown was encircled by Rajah’s trunk, swept up and dropped unceremoniously beside her. Drums banged and trumpets tooted. Miss Younger led her liberty horses past the Argyle Arms, where the drinkers cheered. Phryne tossed her head and her crown of feathers danced. ‘Oh, this is lovely,’ she sighed. The clown laid a hand on her thigh.
‘So lovely that I don’t know how you can bear to leave us,’ he said. He flung an armload of bright pink leaflets to the crowd. Shearers and stockmen and graziers stood and gaped. Phryne caught a paper as it flew past.
‘FARRELL’S CIRCUS AND WILD BEAST SHOW,’ it read, ‘THE BEST SHOW ON EARTH. LIONS! TIGHTROPE WALKERS! BRUNO THE BEAR! TUMBLERS! TRAPEZE ARTISTES! COME ONE, COME ALL!’
‘I don’t know either,’ she told the clown. ‘But I have to go. My dear Matt,’ she said, pulling his hair, ‘you won’t forget Fern?’
‘Never while I have wits,’ declared the clown, sliding sideways. Rajah caught him and replaced him neatly. The screaming that ensued if she allowed someone to fall off hurt her ears.
The Victoria Hotel emptied, and men waved hats from the men’s outfitters across the road.
‘There’s the doom of the circus,’ said Jo Jo, pointing. Phryne looked and saw a grand building. Emblazoned on its high plastered front was ‘The Prince Regent Cinema’.
‘Will you give me a home, Fern, when the circus is all gone and no one laughs at clowns any more? When the road is only a path that leads to the movies?’ There were real tears in Jo Jo’s grey eyes.
Phryne embraced him, careless of greasepaint, and the gentlemen looking through the window of the Hamilton Club made coarse remarks about circus ways.
‘Of course,’ said Phryne. ‘But I don’t believe it will happen.’
She looked back on the procession. Spangles and tinsel sparkled in the hot sunlight and the drums beat and the cymbals clashed. Hooves pounded and camels bubbled and
Miss Younger’s horses shone like snow. Clowns ran tumbling along the pavement. Dulcie and Tom tossed an assortment of odd articles from one to the other. The crowd laughed and jostled.
‘No,’ said Phryne. ‘The circus is too strong. It can’t die.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
