“Ye came at the worst times!” Martha flailed her arms, her fingers batting against Charles’ side. “I’ve not a minute to spare when there’s food to be a’plated. I’ve a kitchen to manage.”
“Oh, ye’re that important now, are ye, princess? Got ye a regular range and all such fancies? Well pardon me, yer royal highness.” He folded into an exaggerated bow.
“I oughtta swat ye a good one myself.” Martha lunged towards him.
Charles shot out his arm, holding her back. “Don’t let your anger get the best of you.” He spoke for her alone, then louder, “What exactly was the money for, Roy? Why are you in such need?”
“Cain’t say.” Defiant words, but underneath, buried deep, there might be a note of desperation.
“Told ye, Mr. Baggett.” Martha popped her fists onto her hips. “’Twere for no good purpose, just as I suspected.”
“Oh, aye! My life ain’t worth a rat’s tail to ye, that it? Ne’er were to that scoundrel what spawned us neither.”
Martha puffed a snort out her nose. “Don’t go draggin’ the past into this. Ye’ve got to own up to yer own sins ’stead o’ blamin’ it all on Father. The man’s been dead and gone these past twenty years! Ye’ve been in yer cups again, that’s what, and I won’t be party to it.”
The two continued bickering, but Charles’ mind still snagged on that desperate tone in Roy’s voice. Something didn’t add up. Why would he insist Martha didn’t care about his life? A cornered rat didn’t fight for a scrap of bread—or gin, as she accused—but for his very existence.
Ahh. And there it was.
He stepped between the siblings. “Who is threatening your life? Name him, and I’ll see that he’s stopped.”
Roy spat a wad on the ground along with a few ear-blistering curses. “I don’t need no bullyboy comin’ to my rescue! Now I tol’ ye I won’t trouble my sister no more, so get yerselves gone. I’ve got work to do.” He pivoted.
“What? Is this true? Your life is in danger?” Martha darted aside and pulled Roy around to face her. “Brother, please. I’m listenin’ now, and Mr. Baggett here means nothin’ but the best fer us both. What sort o’ black kettle are ye stewin’ in? I’ll not leave till ye tell me, and ye know it.”
Roy’s gaze darted between her and Charles, a fierce battle waging in those stormy eyes. At length, he wrenched from her grasp. “Fie! Come inside, then. I’ll not speak o’ it out here.” He jerked open the flap of his tent.
Charles followed Martha inside, indicating she ought to take the end of a cot with a rumpled blanket while he perched on a nearby wooden chest. The space was surprisingly larger than it looked from the outside, tall enough for a grown man to stand upright, leastwise in the middle. A change of clothes hung over a wooden chair, next to a crate used as a desk if the papers, inkwell, and lantern atop it were any indication. A spare pair of boots—one with a hole in the toe—lay in one corner. And that was it. Sparse but livable, despite the stink of manure, corn whisky, and stale popped corn.
Roy fastened the door flap with a quick knot to the ties. Odd, that. Why take such a precaution for a simple chat? It wasn’t as if anyone couldn’t hear with their ear pressed against the canvas. Paranoid behaviour…but why?
Spare light seeping in added a few years onto Roy’s face as he sank onto the chair. Charles almost felt sorry for the man. Circus life was harsh, and it sounded as though their father had been even more severe. But as Martha leaned forward on the cot and he spied the bump on her sweet face, that inkling of sympathy for her brother disappeared.
“Well, Brother?” she asked.
He propped his forearms on his thighs, shoulders sagging. “Ye were right, partially. One night I did take too many nips and passed out behind the ringmaster’s tent, face mashed against the canvas. Woke in the wee hours to overhear ol’ Gilliam making a deal with a fella by the name of Spaddy.”
Charles’ head shot up. “BootbladeSpaddy?”
“Aye, figgered ye’d know that scoundrel. He was workin’ a deal with Gilliam fer safe harbour and passage to the next town. Ain’t the first time, neither. This circus is a bust without a’shufflin’ thems that need to go from town to town unnoticed.”
Charles blinked. Traveling with a circus surely didn’t sound like a good way to go unobserved. Then again, all the swirl, the fanfare and revelry, could make a fine masquerade.
Martha reached out, resting her hand lightly on Roy’s arm. “But surely ye’re not caught up in that mess?”
“I weren’t, till the gin decided to belch out o’ me and I were nicked fer overhearin’. Gilliam and Spaddy were none too pleased. Tha’s why I need the money. I only got ’til the circus moves on in a week to show my loyalty by payin’ my dues.”
“Or Gilliam will kill you?” Charles rubbed the back of his neck, thinking hard. “Seems a bit over the top. Then again, Spaddy has been known to carve up a body or two if he’s crossed.”
Roy shook his head. “’Tis neither of them I fear. The thing is if I don’t get Gilliam the money, he’ll go spillin’ my secret and the ox man’ll hammer me into the ground. Now that’s a man to dodge or die.”
“I don’t understand. What secret?” Martha shifted on the thin mattress, angling towards her brother. “What has this ox man to do with anything?”
“I had a little…em…” Red crept up the man’s neck. “His wife is the trapeze artist.”
“And you—?” Martha slapped her fingers to her mouth, cheeks far more scarlet than Roy’s skinny neck.
That didn’t make sense. If Roy had taken liberties with the ox man’s wife, then why not just walk away? Leave the circus. Find another life. No, there had to be some other hold here. He stabbed Martha’s brother with a pointed stare. “Why not simply go to the authorities with the information you overheard and remove both Gilliam and Spaddy from the equation? The ox man would never know of your indiscretion if they were taken out of the picture.”
