04 - Carnival of Criminals (15 page)

It was just on 4pm when Tommy arrived home. He entered
the house unaware that for two hours that afternoon it had been the scene of such
turmoil. Only Annie sensed that something was off, yet even she could not
understand how dots of red paint had managed to stain the wallpaper in the
dining room.

“Dr Deáth, thank you for meeting me here.” Clara held out
her hand to the doctor.

They were in the graveyard of St Andrew’s Old Church. The
weather was threatening rain and Deáth had come over in his old horse and
buggy.

“I am really quite intrigued to see what is inside this
vault.” He smiled.

Clara found the doctor’s constant enthusiasm a rare shaft
of light on what had been a rather dark few hours. She was still shaken from
her experiences with Billy Brown the day before.

“Do you know anything about the Seylon family history?”
Clara asked as she showed him the vault.

“Not really, though I have dabbled in Brighton history. I
don’t suppose any Seylons have come through my doors?”

“No.” Clara assured him with a smile.

She pushed away large clumps of ivy until the hole in the
vault was revealed.

“Do you have that lamp, doctor?”

Deáth held up an oil lamp and carefully lit its wick with
a match. He passed it to Clara, who shone the light into the hole. She could
just make out the edges of the coffins.

“It’s a bit cramped inside, I’ll go first.” She said
lifting a foot into the gap.

She braced her hands on the stone sides, a brief thought
flicking through her mind that if the back wall could crumble down, so could
the ceiling, perhaps while she was inside. Knocking the thought away she pushed
and pulled her way into the vault.

With the lamp lighting up the corners it seemed even more
tomb-like than before. The hard stone sides were uncarved and tendrils of ivy
had slipped inside and were slowly working their way around the dead. Various
species of spider had nested in the corners for generations and quivered on
their webs in the bright light. The coffins themselves looked in a worse state
than Clara had remembered. The bottom pair were virtually crushed along with
their occupants, though a few stray bones had apparently been pulled free by
mice or rats and now littered the floor. The next coffins up looked little
better and when Clara accidentally brushed her hand against one it felt sodden
with water. In fact the whole place smelled decidedly damp and the green mould
growing along the ceiling confirmed her suspicion that no one had bothered to
make the place water-tight.

Deáth clambered through the hole spryly and took in the
whole abode. He picked up a bone from the floor and examined it for a moment.

“Human toe.” He suggested, before dropping the bone and
wedging himself next to Clara, “So this is Joshua Romulus?”

He indicated the top coffin.

“I presume so, he was last in after all.”

“Let’s see, old fella, if you are missing a ring.” Deáth
pressed his fingers into the thin gap between the edge of the coffin and the
lid. Years of damp had softened the wood considerably and it began to crumbles
as his fingers dug in. It took no effort to lift the lid. The nails were long
gone.

Joshua Romulus grinned at them from an open-mouthed
skull. His clothes were still there, a fine black suit and carefully polished
shoes, but the flesh of the man had long ago disappeared. Deáth reached for a
skeletal hand that fell apart as he touched it.

“No ring.” He said.

“What is that under him?” Clara had spotted a rip in the
lining of the coffin and something narrow slipped into it.

Deáth had to rip the cloth a bit more to retrieve the
object which turned out to be a box.

“Locked.” He said, “It needs a combination.”

“Let’s take it outside, I can’t stand it in here any
longer.”

They re-emerged into the daylight, Clara highly relieved
to be back out in the open. How Mervin could ever have enjoyed being in that
vault she failed to understand.  Deáth gave the box a good shake as he stood in
the open air. It rattled a little, but seemed too light to contain much.

“If this is his stash I would say your friend Billy Brown
would have been disappointed.”

Clara gave a snort at the name.

“Do you have any idea of the combination?” Deáth
continued.

“Not really, I’m losing my patience with Mervin Grimes.”

Deáth gave the box one last shake then came to a
conclusion. He went over to the churchyard wall and picked a rough-cut stone in
its surface that had a good point to it. Then he hammered the box against it
with rhythmic, loud thuds. The box had suffered from the damp like the coffin
and it only resisted for a few moments before the lock smashed into pieces and
the front panel fell off. Deáth paused. He took off his jacket and spread it on
the ground before emptying the contents of the box onto it. As he had suggested
the stash was not promising. A rusty pair of keys flopped onto the jacket,
followed by a note written in badly faded ink. Clara picked up the note and
examined it.

“That’s Penny’s name.” She pointed to a word at the top
of the sheet, “Something like, ‘Penny if you find this…’” Clara tried to make
sense of the almost vanished words, “I think Mervin left this to give Penny an
idea of where his stash was kept. I guess he didn’t trust Joshua to be a good
enough guard.”

“Does he explain where?” Deáth asked.

Clara ran her finger over the paper.

“Look at that word, isn’t it ‘hall’?”

“It could be, this line here says something about ruins.”

Clara’s mind went back to those old books she had been
reading yesterday.

“The Seylon family home fell to ruins after Joshua died.”

“So perhaps Mervin stole more from the old boy than just
a ring?”

“This bit here, it looks like the word ‘cellar’ and could
this be ‘north corner’?”

“Invariably when a house falls to ruins it is the cellar
that lasts best.” Deáth noted, “If it doesn’t get filled in, then it will remain
there indefinitely.”

“The Seylon hall, I do believe, is just a few miles off.
I was reading a book Joshua published on the family history only yesterday and
he mentioned how St Andrew’s could be just seen from an upstairs window.”

“Let’s take my buggy and see if we can find it.” Deáth
said enthusiastically, “I do hope old Joshua doesn’t haunt the place.”

He gave a laugh.

“Personally, I am more concerned about getting wet
again.” Clara sighed.

“A little rain never hurt anyone.” Deáth reassured her as
he led the way back to his horse and buggy. They managed to make it inside just
in time to avoid the rain that pounded down on the old Seylon vault and dripped
onto the bones of old Joshua.

Tommy had been left at home while Clara went on her
mission and was in the process of deciding whether he should keep his collection
of cricketing cigarette cards or whether they would serve a better purpose on
the fire, when Annie tapped at the parlour door.

“Tommy!” She hissed, “There’s a foreign fellow on the
doorstep asking after you.”

Tommy was puzzled, he had not been expecting anyone. But
if someone had asked after him it was impolite to refuse them entry.

“Send him in Annie.” Tommy said, closing the cigarette
card album and wondering just who this might be.

Annie disappeared and a moment later a tall, lean man
appeared in the doorway. He looked nervous. He was somewhere in his forties,
with fair hair, a downward pointing nose and narrow lips. Though his appearance
was hardly handsome, his bearing gave him a certain air of dignity that could
be deemed attractive.

“Thomas Fitzgerald.” Tommy offered a hand.

The visitor took it and shook lightly. His fingers were
cold.

“Hans Friger.” He said.

Tommy would have been hardly more surprised had the man
announced himself as Jurgen Smith. He stared at the individual before him,
trying to work out how this had occurred.

“You wrote to me.” Hans said agitatedly.

“Yes I did. I didn’t expect you here though.”

“I felt it was important I come.”

“Perhaps you best take a seat, Annie will be making tea
as we speak.” Tommy motioned to the armchair by the fireplace.

“Here, I brought this with me.” Hans handed over a large
parcel wrapped in brown paper and string as he took his seat, “You’ll want to
give that to Jurgen’s mother.”

Tommy found himself staring at the parcel. He quietly put
it on the table then looked back at Hans.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Tommy nodded. He had thought as much.

“What happened to him, if you know?”

“I know.” Hans sat awkwardly in his chair as if ready to
spring up at any moment, “I was there.”

“Then perhaps you could explain it to me?”

Hans ran a hand over his face.

“You know we all got on the train at Liverpool?”

“Yes.” Tommy said.

“Jurgen, myself and Alphonse. We were all headed for
London first, then to get our connecting trains. Well Jurgen and Alphonse
anyway, I was going to stay in London over Christmas with my sister. She is my
only family in this country.”

Tommy indicated he understood but didn’t try to
interrupt, he could see Hans needed to talk.

“I only knew Alphonse a little, but Jurgen and I had
become friends over the years. Have you spoken to Alphonse?”

“Yes I have.”

Hans fell silent, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes
wandering about the room as if trying to find something to focus on.

“Alphonse is not the easiest of people to like. But
Jurgen was. Jurgen was good to talk to, he listened. I found my years of
confinement very hard. He made them easier.” Hans rubbed at his lips, his hands
were trembling, “Jurgen was very excited to be going home, he wrote a postcard
to his mother which he posted at the station before we left. He kept talking
about his mother’s goose and Black Forest gateaux, until Alphonse was quite
sick of it all and told him to shut up. I assumed that was why he seemed so
quiet later on. It was late, anyhow, we mainly slept those last few hours.”

Hans blew out his cheeks, seeming to be building up his
courage to speak further. Tommy remained patient.

“We arrived in London at about 3 in the morning. It was
foggy and cold.” He started again slowly, “Jurgen complained of feeling like
ice was running down his back. Alphonse said he had slept awkwardly with his
head against the window and that was the cause. We stepped out onto the station
platform. Jurgen seemed groggy and almost fell. He complained again of being so
cold. But his overcoat was worn and he had no gloves, so we weren’t surprise.
We decided to go for coffee and that seemed to help us all. Jurgen livened up a
bit and was talking again. They put out an announcement that Alphonse’s train
was about to depart. Alphonse leapt up and raced out, barely saying goodbye. I
remember Jurgen standing to shake his hand and when he sat down again he looked
deathly pale. I asked if he was all right and he said he felt rather faint.

“I bought him something to eat. I think it was a pork
pie. He ate slowly, but he didn’t look right. I touched his hand and it was
clammy. I said did he still feel like ice was pouring down his back? He said
no, he was very warm now.” Hans started to bite at the edge of his finger,
“There was another announcement, Jurgen’s train was ready to board. He didn’t
even move. I said, have you not heard, your train is ready? He just shook his
head. Then he went to stand and almost fell. My legs feel like iron blocks, he
said to me. I had to put an arm about his shoulder just to help him stand. I
wasn’t sure what was wrong just then, but he was obviously ill. I thought maybe
he had caught a bad chill in the train. He had slept with his forehead pressed
against the window and it had been so cold. I helped him back onto the
platform, but he was in no fit state to board a train. I doubted he would even
notice when it stopped.”

Hans had chewed his finger so hard there was blood at the
edge of the nail.

“I made the decision to take him to my sister’s house. It
would only be for a few days, I said to myself, just until he was better. My
sister didn’t live so far away, but it seemed a long walk that night. Jurgen
complained of a headache and wanted to keep sitting down. I made him keep walking,
I thought it was for the best…”

Hans stopped, staring at the bloodied finger as if he
didn’t recognise it as his own.

“Hans, before you continue, do you blame yourself for
Jurgen’s death?” Tommy asked gently.

“I blame myself for many things.” Hans groaned, “But I
don’t think I did right by Jurgen.”

“I can’t comment on that until you finish your story, but
so far you sound a considerate friend.”

Hans timidly shook his head, denying Tommy’s words.

“I should have realised how sick Jurgen was sooner.” He said,
his voice tight, “I helped him to my sister’s house, he was like a block of ice
when we reached the door. No sooner had I woken my sister and she let us in
Jurgen collapsed. I explained as hastily as I could and we got him up to bed.
He seemed feverish though complaining of being cold, so my sister soaked a
cloth for his forehead and I rubbed his hands and feet to try and bring the
warmth back to them. Then I went to my own bed and must have slept until
midday.

“When I woke my sister said Jurgen was no better. It was
Christmas Eve and she had her children downstairs decorating the house with
paper chains and angels. I went in to see him. He looked at me and recognised
who I was, he just couldn’t remember how he came to be in that bed. After I
explained I said should I call a doctor and he said no, he was feeling a little
stronger. He would rest and then try and catch a train to Brighton that
evening. He thought, like I did, that he had caught a chill.

“The day wore on, I helped the children make party hats
for the next day. Jurgen slept mostly. When evening came it was clear to us all
he could not head for Brighton. My sister insisted he stay put in that bed and
brought him a supper of soup and good bread. He didn’t seem any worse and we
were sure he would be well enough to travel on Boxing Day.