04 - Carnival of Criminals (17 page)

“Worse than you can imagine.” Patterson said miserably,
“Couldn’t you just shoot me?”

“I solve murders Mr Patterson. I don’t cause them.” Clara
nodded at Deáth and they turned Patterson around to head for the stairs.

“I only wanted to take a rest. Just a little one. Maybe a
holiday in the sun, somewhere.” Patterson was half sobbing to himself as he
walked, “Why is life so unfair?”

“For that Mr Patterson,” Clara said as she walked beside
him holding up the lamp, “I suggest you ask Mervin Grimes.”

“And this is my sister Clara.” Tommy introduced Mrs Smith
to Clara.

It was just gone 9 o’clock and the good lady had foregone
her usual early bedtime to make allowances for the Fitzgeralds’ late dining
hour. She had arrived just after Annie had cleared the last plates away from
the table and Tommy had ushered her into the parlour where Clara was sitting in
an armchair with a cup of cocoa. She felt she had earned it after the day she
had had.

“Please take a seat Mrs Smith, I must just attend to our
other guest.”

Mrs Smith sat in the armchair opposite Clara while Tommy
departed to fetch Hans. She looked tired, perhaps exhausted would be the better
word.

“Would you like tea or cocoa?” Clara offered.

“No thank you.” Mrs Smith removed her gloves and folded
them neatly on top of her handbag, “I appreciate the efforts you have gone to
for me.”

“Not I, Mrs Smith, Tommy has worked on this case alone.
I’m afraid I was rather distracted with another matter.”

“Well then, I appreciate his help.”

Annie entered the room with a fresh pot of tea. She
offered a cup to Mrs Smith, who again declined. She looked pinched around the
face, as if the very act of swallowing tea would be painful for her.

Tommy returned, Hans Friger a pace behind him. Hans
looked almost as worried as Mrs Smith. When they entered the room Mrs Smith
started to stand, but Hans waved her back into her chair.

“Please Mrs Smith, not on my account.”

Mrs Smith’s face changed when she heard his German
accent. A splash of colour came to her cheeks. Clara realised the desperate
woman was trying to gather if this could possibly be her long-lost son, despite
his appearance being almost completely different to Jurgen’s. Clara thought it
best to intervene swiftly.

“May I introduce our guest Mr Hans Friger?”

Hans gave a very Teutonic bow to the good lady. Something
faded from Mrs Smith’s face, a dullness crept over her. She rearranged her
gloves on her handbag.

“Hans can explain what happened to your son.” Tommy felt
the situation was becoming more awkward by the moment.

“He is dead then?” Mrs Smith bit her lip, “I really
should have known…”

“Madame, I have spent these last two years hoping to find
you.” Hans moved forward and crouched before Mrs Smith, “Your son was a very
good man. That is the first thing I have wanted to tell you all this time. The
second is that he passed away peacefully and was not in pain.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was travelling home to you when he became sick with
the influenza. There was nothing anyone could do.”

Mrs Smith nodded her head, she seemed to have shrunk
considerably.

“I had no address for you, so I could not return his
things. But I kept them safe nonetheless.” Hans picked up the parcel he had
left on the parlour table that morning and set it in Mrs Smith’s lap.

For a long moment she looked at it numbly. Tentatively
she took the end of a piece of string between her fingers and pulled. The knot
jerkily unravelled and slipped away, the brown paper sprung open a little. With
trembling fingers she pushed back the folds of paper and revealed a handful of
contents. On the top was a beautiful pocket watch, still ticking away the time in
precise, little seconds. Next there was the photograph of herself and her
husband and under that a pile of postcards and letters that she had sent to
Jurgen over the course of his internment. Mrs Smith picked one out and read her
own tight handwriting describing the mundane news that April 1917 had been
rather cold and her daffodils were suffering under a blanket of frost. Tears
welled in Mrs Smith’s eyes. The words blurred and then she put one hand to her
face and sobbed silently.

It seemed only polite for the men to leave. Clara
remained with Mrs Smith, letting her cry and release her long-held sorrow.
Annie stirred two lumps of sugar into a cup of tea and waited patiently to hand
it to Mrs Smith when she recovered herself. It took several minutes before the
flood could be stopped and Mrs Smith was finally able to look at them again.
She accepted the cup of tea without hesitation this time.

“I wanted better news for you.” Clara said, “I’m sorry.”

“I only hoped a little that he was still alive.” Mrs
Smith took a long sip of tea, “This… this is good too. Because now I know.”

Clara nodded.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Mrs Smith gave a long sigh.

“I think not. “ She finished her tea and stood to place
it on the table, “You have been very kind, now I need to go on my way and think
about what must come next.”

“Take care Mrs Smith.” Clara said, “Call on us if you
need anything.”

Tommy and Hans had retreated to the dining room and that
was where Clara found them.

“Thank you Hans, though the news is sad Mrs Smith at
least now has answers.” Clara said to the German at her table.

“That is all right, it was the least I could do for
Jurgen.” Hans was silent a while, “I miss him too, so many people don’t care
for Germans these days.”

“The war muddled things.” Tommy said softly.

“You were in it then?” Hans asked.

Tommy clenched and unclenched his hands.

“Yes.”

“And your legs?”

“Let’s just say I have as good a reason as any to hate
Germans.”

Hans placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

“Then your kindness towards myself and Mrs Smith is all
the more gratefully accepted. I am sorry our countries had to go to war.”

“Well, we are all still just people.” Tommy said, a
gruffness in his tone masking his embarrassment, after all he had considered
turning Mrs Smith done simply because she was German, “Just the lingo that’s
different.”

Hans smiled at him.

“Is that all?” He teased.

“Well, I am exhausted.” Clara announced to them both, “So
I am off to bed.”

The boys said good night and Clara made her way upstairs.
She hadn’t been exaggerating about being exhausted, she felt positively
shattered.

“I need a holiday.” She groaned to herself, then smiled.
For a holiday she would first need to start finding clients who paid!

Clara slept late the next day and Hans had already caught
the early train when she went downstairs. Tommy was complaining about the book
shop being closed in the parlour and reminded Clara that she would need to
explain to him how she had happened to have his favourite bookseller arrested.
This detective lark could be really inconvenient some days.

There was a letter for her on the hall stand and Clara
decided to retire to the conservatory to read it. The mellow august sun was
streaming through the windows and warming the old wicker furniture. She settled
into a chair that creaked under her weight and thought about her mother sitting
in this same room, going over her latest charity project. It was always
something like making jam for the workhouse inmates or collecting blankets for
the Lost Animals Home. Clara wondered what she would make of her daughter’s
current project, not exactly jam-making, but she supposed it might count as a
charity case.

Clara let the nostalgic memories drift to one side as she
opened the letter. It was post-marked Cornwall and written on paper headed
‘Ruskin’s Antiquities’.

Dear Miss Fitzgerald,

Thank you for your enquiry. Yes, I do recall the mummy
of the pharaoh Hepkaptut which I sold to Bowmen’s Carnival around a year ago.
He purchased it with several other items of questionable provenance, which I
was selling for a minimal price. I purchased Hepkaptut in 1914 from a gentleman
in your hometown of Brighton. I have the receipt before me as I write and can
tell you his name was Mr Henry Dawkins and he at one time ran a private museum.
I include his address below.

I had doubts about the mummy, but was prepared to take
a chance for the amount Dawkins was asking. Unfortunately Hepkaptut proved
unappealing to my regular customers and I was most relieved when Mr Bowmen took
him off my hands. I do hope this answers all your questions and I thank you for
your interest. If I can be of any further assistance please do not hesitate to
contact me.

Yours Sincerely

Donovan Ruskin

Clara felt the last dregs of exhaustion leave her as a
new purpose came into view. She went for her hat and gloves, said a hasty
goodbye to Tommy and then disappeared out the door. She made her way to Old
Steine, the row of prestigious houses where Mr Ruskin had listed the private
museum as once existing. Clara tried to remember, as she walked, if she had
ever heard of Dawkins and his collection, but she could not say she had. She
was certain, with two parents fascinated by both science and history, had the
museum been a public enterprise, they would have surely visited it at some
point.

Old Steine took the word ‘grand’ very seriously and the
houses that fanned out around a picturesque garden were the finest creations
late Georgian Brighton could offer. Admittedly the residents these days were,
on occasion, of the sort who house-shared and one or two of the farthest houses
had been sub-divided. But the central properties were still the reserve of the
best families, those who kept ten servants whether they needed them or not. Mr
Dawkins, therefore, had to have money to live here.

Clara found his house almost directly opposite where a
statue of King George (she forgot which one) had formerly stood. Like its
neighbours it was grand with five floors, including a basement set beneath
street level. Yet most of the windows were tightly shuttered and there was an
atmosphere of reclusiveness about the property. Clara went up to the front door
and rang the heavy bell. It was a long time before anyone came.

“Yes?” A middle-aged woman in a housecoat answered. She
was holding a scrubbing brush in one hand.

“I apologise for interrupting but I was looking for Mr
Henry Dawkins?

“Well this is Mr Dawkins’ house, but he don’t receive
visitors.” The woman explained. She had a pinched face and greying curls that
were roughly pulled back into a bun.

Clara assumed she was the housekeeper.

“Might I present him with my card? It is really rather
important I speak with him, it is about his museum.”

“Mr Dawkins doesn’t run a museum anymore, not since he
became ill. Mr Dawkins is a very sick man.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“It’s cancer. Doctors are amazed he is still with us at
all.” The housekeeper gave a choked sniff and hastily rubbed at her nose with
the hand holding the scrubbing brush, “I’ve been here thirty years, seeing Mr
Dawkins this way just tears me up. He don’t see people at all these days,
miss.”

“Could you ask him to make an exception for me? It really
is important. One of the artefacts that used to be in his museum has returned
to Brighton and questions are being asked about its authenticity. I am trying
to trace its provenance back beyond the time it was in Mr Dawkins’ museum.”

The housekeeper looked torn.

“I don’t like people criticising Mr Dawkins.”

“That is why I must speak to him, to clear up this matter
before rumours spread around Brighton concerning the item.”

“He is just so very sick.”

“I will not disturb him for long, I promise.” Clara aimed
to look as sincere as she could.

The housekeeper hesitated.

“Mr Dawkins does like talking about the museum. It broke
his heart having to sell it, but how could he keep it running when he has to
rest in bed all day? I thought maybe he would keep a few bits, but he said it
reminded him too much. Used to be all the front rooms were set up with displays
of objects and he had typed information cards for everything. It was a treasure
trove. Then he had to sell it and now we keep the rooms shut up. He can’t bear
seeing the rooms empty.”

“That is very sad.” Clara concurred, “I wish I had known
of the museum while it was still open.”

“I think you would have liked it miss. It was very
informative.” The housekeeper paused, then made up her mind, “I’ll go see how
Mr Dawkins is feeling, but I make no promises. If he isn’t fit for visitors so
be it.”

“I understand.”

“If I can ask you to wait in the hall miss. Excuse the
smell, I try to keep things clean.”

Clara stepped inside and was struck by a strong odour of
disinfectant. Her mind flashed back to her days of nursing in the hospital and
the endless battles waged by orderlies to try and keep the building clean. It
seemed the housekeeper was on a similar, one-woman, mission.

She waited patiently, examining the doors of the shut
rooms. They were each locked as if the precious treasures Dawkins had once
hoarded still resided behind them. What it must be like to put your life into
such work only for illness to snatch it from you. Sickness was a cruel thing.
Clara concluded, far, far crueller than death itself.

The housekeeper clattered back down the stairs.

“He says he would like to talk to you, but I must warn
you again miss that he is very ill and it might shock you a little.”

“I worked in the hospital during the war, I am almost
unshockable in that department.” Clara assured her.

“Well then you will understand not to tire him too much?”

“Absolutely.”

“And make sure he pauses and takes a drink regularly,
else he will start to choke.”

“I understand.”

The housekeeper led Clara upstairs to the third floor
along very empty, but also very clean, corridors, to a room set at the back of
the house.

“I can’t do anything about the smell.” The housekeeper
gave one last warning as she opened the door.

The room beyond was filled with sunlight, the brightness
controlled by thin blinds at the windows which gave the light a strange hazy
quality. Clara noticed the smell and recognised it as the last days of a dying
man, the strange aromas of cleaning materials and a decaying body that only
awaited the death of its owner to fully throw itself into decomposition. Mr
Dawkins lay beneath several thick blankets and a quilt on the bed, a porcelain
bowl propped on his right and a jug of water on his left. He was extremely pale
and his skin clung to his bones like rubber, revealing every contour of his
skull. He was probably not so old, perhaps in his early sixties, but he had the
appearance of a corpse. He tilted his head slowly towards Clara and hoarsely
welcomed her.

“Do come in!”

Clara approached the bed. Everywhere there were the
tell-tale signs of a sick and dying man; the bottles of medicine, the syringes,
the smells of chemicals, the untouched cups of tea and half-finished letters
that had slipped from an exhausted hand onto the floor.

“Thank you for seeing me.” Clara said, “I shan’t disturb
you for long.”

“I don’t mind if you do, dear. There is very little else
for me to do.”

“I’ll let you talk.” The housekeeper announced from the
doorway, “I’ll be back in half an hour precisely. Don’t over-tire him.”

She gave another concerned look at her employer and then
vanished into the empty hallways of the house.

“Mrs Grebe cares a great deal.” Dawkins said with a faint
smile, “She has been in this house almost as long as me.”

“If at any point you want me to leave…”

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear lady. I shall make plain if
such is the case, but I hope it will not need to be. Now, you want to talk
about my museum?”

“Specifically about a former object from your collection
whose provenance is being questioned. Namely…”

“Wait, don’t tell me.” Dawkins weakly held up a hand, he
seemed adept at interrupting people, “Let me guess. Is it the stuffed Dodo? I
always feared I had paid a great deal of money for an over-large pigeon?”

“Not the Dodo, no.”

“Then it’s the will of Oliver Cromwell that states he
gives all his remaining wealth to Charles II?”

“Not that either, though I imagine that too is
questionable.”

“Yes, I fear so, but I came across it cheap in a
bric-a-brac sale.” Dawkins mused for a moment, “What about the Aztec Crystal
skull supposedly engraved with the name of Cortez?”

“Perhaps I should just tell you as we only have a little
time?”

Dawkins sighed.

“Very well.”

“The object in question is the mummy of the pharaoh
Hepkaptut.”

“No!” Dawkins almost rose from his bed in surprise and
alarm, “But he was one of my finest items!”

“Nevertheless,” Clara said as gently as she could, “It
has been questioned whether he is really Egyptian or, for that matter,
ancient.”

Dawkins sank back into his pillows, drawing the blanket
up beneath his chin and clutching it with both hands.

“Hepkaptut.” He whispered, “He used to stand in the green
bedroom, second floor, third door on the right. I called that my Ancient
Antiquities room. I had a fine collection of Egyptian Scarab beetle carvings and
a Peruvian shawl that was at least 1,000 years old and found high up on a
mountain. Hepkaptut stood in the centre, facing the door, so the first thing
people saw when they entered was his face. I scared my dear old aunt by not
warning her that he was there.”

“Perhaps, you might recall how the mummy came into your
possession?” Clara hinted.

“I really can’t believe he was a fake. I know I was not
perfect with all my finds, I mislabelled a child’s black marble as a Roman jet
bead once, but that was an honest mistake. I always tried my hardest and my
museum gave great pleasure to those who visited. It was not a public thing, you
know, people had to make an appointment, but I never turned anyone away.
Children always loved looking at Hepkaptut as I told the story of his origins.”

“But how did you come to have Hepkaptut?” Clara pushed,
fearing Dawkins was a man whose train of thought ran in all directions at once
and only occasionally collided with a relevant piece of information.

“Hmm?” Said the old man.

“Who did you buy Hepkaptut off?”

“Oh some lady. Now who is questioning his authenticity?”

Clara refrained from sighing in frustration.

“Mr Dawkins, the current owner of the mummy has some
doubts. By tracing the provenance of the item and tracking down those who have
come into contact with it recently, I hope to definitely prove one way or the
other whether the mummy is real or not.” It was a white lie, but Clara didn’t
see there any need to trouble a sick man with the news that he once had a
murder victim on display in his house. There was no knowing how he would take
such information.

Dawkins pursed his lips.

“Mrs Grebe can probably pull out the account book with
the full details of the sale, but I remember most of it myself.” Dawkins
coughed a little, “It was 1912, or there abouts. I had spread the word that I
was interested in unusual objects for my collection and I would get the
occasional visitor knocking on the door with something to show me. One day this
gentleman, well, that’s rather generous, this man knocked on my door and told
me he had been sent by a lady with an ancient mummy to sell and would I be
interested? Naturally I asked a lot of questions and the answers seemed
satisfactory, and I agreed to take a look at this mummy if it was brought to my
house.

Dawkins began to cough harder. Without hesitation Clara
reached out for the pitcher of water by his bed and poured out a glass. She
held it to Dawkins’ lips and he drank some gratefully. Refreshed he was able to
continue.

“A day later this cart appeared with a large packing
crate on top. I had it brought into the house and opened and there was
Hepkaptut. The story I was told by the lady’s agent, was that her uncle had
gone abroad and spent time around Egypt. When he returned home he came with the
usual souvenirs and one mummy. He had died that winter and the mummy was
looking for a home.”

“Do you recall the lady’s name?”

“I dealt with things through her agent. His name was Mr
William Brown…” Dawkins stopped because Clara had given an abrupt start, “Are
you all right?”