04 - Carnival of Criminals (2 page)

“All these dead things are giving me the creeps.” Annie,
just behind them, gave a theatrical shudder, “Could we go look at the monkeys
now?”

“From one charade to the next, all right Annie let’s go
see your singing monkeys.” Tommy agreed.

They headed out of the tent and aimed in the rough
direction Annie thought the monkey display was in. Clara found her melancholy
temporarily lifted by her curiosity about the supposed mummy. Imagine if there
really had been a Hepkaptut murdered by one of his wives, she thought, and
imagine if his body had been preserved all the way through time to now. He
would be the oldest murder victim to still exist. Now, Clara mused, that would
be an interesting case to investigate.

Two days later Clara was in her office working through
her accounts when her bell rang. Clara’s detective agency was situated above a
haberdashery shop, a small set of two rooms up a narrow stairway that served
its purpose of keeping her business separate from her private life at home.
Unannounced visitors were unusual, however. In general people wrote to her
first, outlining their problem before arranging an appointment. Since she had
nothing scheduled in her diary, this had to be one of those rare cases of a
client just appearing on her doorstep.

Curious, Clara headed downstairs to open the door. She
had to admit she was a tad disappointed to see the person standing there was local
photographer and friend to the Fitzgeralds, Oliver Bankes. She had been hoping
for a new case.

“Hello Oliver.”

“Clara, so glad you are in. Can I talk with you?”

Oliver sounded breathless and worried. He had a large
brown envelope clutched in his hand.

“Of course, do you want to come upstairs?”

They headed to the office and Clara offered to put a
kettle on to boil, but Oliver declined. She motioned for him to sit in an
armchair just by the open window, where a breath of fresh air was helping to
cool the muggy room. Clara turned around her desk chair and sat facing him.

“So, what’s up?”

“Have you been to the fair?” Oliver pointed his finger in
the direction of the sea-front.

“I have. I went with Tommy and Annie.”

“Did you go in the House of Curios?”

Clara was worried by Oliver’s urgent tone. She was
beginning to wonder if someone had taken dangerous offence over Tommy’s
remarks. Had he upset someone?

“I did yes.” Clara said hesitatingly, “Tommy was only
japing with the people in there.”

Oliver looked blank for a moment, then carried on.

“Did you see the mummy?”

“King Hepkaptut? Yes, what of him? Don’t tell me someone
has been idiotic enough to break into his case. That jewellery was clearly all
fake.”

“No, no, the mummy is perfectly safe, it’s just…” Oliver
suddenly gave a hearty sigh and slumped back in his chair, “When I try and
explain all this it stops making sense, even to me. I half wonder if I have
gone a little mad.”

“Try me.” Clara said, her disappointment long abated,
“I’m good at things that don’t make sense, remember?”

“Well, I am convinced, or at least partly convinced, that
I know who King Hepkaptut is, or rather was. And if I am right, then I guess we
are looking at a case of murder.”

“Are you saying that mummy is real?”

“I’m saying no, it’s not a real mummy, and yes, it might
be a real corpse.” Oliver shook his head, “I told you it didn’t make sense.”

“No, it makes a sort of sense. The body is real and it
somehow ended up masquerading as an Egyptian pharaoh, or so you believe. In
that case, who do you think it is?”

“Ah!” Oliver brandished the envelope, “Meet Dog-face
Harry, otherwise known to his mother as Mervin Grimes.”

Oliver pulled a black and white portrait photograph from
the envelope. It showed an unpleasant looking man in his mid-twenties; he was
heavy-jawed with ears the size of saucers and a mean stare that glowered at the
photographer. He wore a dandy-boy’s suit from before the war, and he had a tall
bowler clutched in one hand, while he rested the other hand on a table.

“About fifteen years ago Mervin Grimes called into my
father’s photography shop and asked for a studio portrait. I never knew a more
unpleasant man. He scowled the whole time and did nothing but bully and snap at
my father. He was a thug, clear as day. Father didn’t dare say anything in case
of trouble. So he took the photo. I was just taking an interest in photography
then. I used to move all the props about for father and help position the
sitter. I remember this fellow clear as day, especially that ring on his
finger.”

Oliver pointed to the photograph where Mervin Grimes was
resting his hand on the table. Clara reached over to her desk and picked up a
magnifying glass. She held it over the image and peered at the hand. There was
certainly a large ring on his finger.

“He was the sort of man you never forget. Well yesterday,
when I walked into the House of Curios, I got the shock of my life when I
looked into a case and there was Mervin Grimes staring back at me.”

“King Hepkaptut? How could you possibly recognise that
wizened corpse as anybody?”

“By the ears first off and something about his face, the
way he was scowling. All right, so I know that isn’t conclusive. But that’s where
I come to the ring. I swear the ring that man is wearing in the photograph is
the same as the one on the mummy’s hand in the fairground.”

Clara peered through the magnifying glass again.

“It’s difficult to be certain.”

“That’s pretty much what the police said.”

Clara stiffened.

“You went to the police first?”

Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it as he recognised
his error.

“I thought they would seize the body. Sorry Clara.”

Clara let it go. She put aside the scowling image of
Mervin Grimes, then turned back to Oliver.

“So, let’s start with this logically. Are we certain
Mervin Grimes is dead?”

“Mervin Grimes vanished not long after that portrait shot
was taken. The police were looking for him and there was a notice in the paper
for anyone with information to contact them. As far as I am aware he was never
found.”

“In that case, assuming Mervin really is dead, how did he
end up mummified? Or, for that matter, in a fairground?”

“I don’t know.” Oliver admitted.

“Funny place to put a corpse, where everyone can see it.”

“But as you say, who would recognise him like that?”

“You.” Clara said simply, “Of course that is assuming
that whoever runs the House of Curios had any knowledge that their latest
exhibit had once been Mervin Grimes. If it is Mervin Grimes.”

“Clara, you see that we have to investigate this, don’t
you?”

Clara found herself looking at the photograph again.

“It is certainly curious, but basing this on a ring alone
is hardly conclusively. Mervin might have lost or sold the ring, it might not
even be the same one.”

“True, but if it is?”

“Then it is certainly worthy of investigation. Let’s
start with the basics; our only clue is that queer ring on king Hepkaptut’s
finger, which doesn’t look very Egyptian to me. If we could identify that ring
as conclusively once belonging to Mervin Grimes, it would be a start. I don’t
suppose you have any other photos of Grimes that show the ring in a better
light?”

“I would have to ask father.” Oliver admitted, “He might
remember it also.”

“Let’s do that first and then we will need to take
another look at this mummy.”

“Thanks Clara, for believing me.” Oliver smiled.

Clara gave a shrug.

“Someone had to.” Then she winked at him.

Oliver escorted Clara to his father’s house down Clifton
Hill. The modest terrace sat in the middle of the row, set back from the road
behind a scrubby patch of grass one might loosely consider a front garden.
Oliver opened a short black gate and stood back to let Clara through.

“Clara, before you meet him, you should know that my
father is rather an odd soul.”

Clara paused and looked back at Oliver.

“In what way?”

“Just eccentric. He has funny ways. I’m afraid he may
have been exposed to too many of the developing chemicals in the shop.”

“Will he be able to help us then?”

“Oh yes, he has all his marbles. Well, all the ones that
count.”

Oliver hastened to the front door and rang the bell.

“I live in the flat over the shop these days.” He
explained almost apologetically, as if feeling the need to defend his decision,
“Father gets a bit lonely, I think.”

The bell echoed in a hallway beyond the door and there
was the sound of footsteps. The door opened and an old man with grey hair and a
sergeant-major moustache greeted them. He had an antimacassar perched on his
head. Clara tried not to stare.

“Father! What have you got on your head!” Oliver couldn’t
believe his eyes, mortified at the appearance of his parent.

“What? Is my toupee on the wrong way?” Bankes senior
reached up and patted his head.

“That isn’t your toupee!” Oliver groaned, his horror
growing.

Mr Bankes snatched the antimacassar off his head,
revealing a bald pate, and scowled at it.

“Oh bother.” He smiled an apology to his son, “I must
have muddled them up.”

Clara had been trying to contain a stifled giggle,
finding the whole situation both preposterous and amusing. She now presented
her hand to Mr Bankes.

“Clara Fitzgerald.” She introduced herself.

“Father, we have come to discuss some of your old
photographs.” Oliver regained the conversation, “This is my friend Clara, she
is a private detective.”

“Really?” Mr Bankes stared at Clara, “But she looks like
a woman?”

Oliver actually blushed as his father blundered from one
faux pas to the next. Clara merely took it with amusement, she had heard far
worse in her short time as a detective.

“Could we come in?” Oliver said in a strained voice.

“Naturally. Would you like a cup of tea?” Mr Bankes moved
back from the door and motioned to his front room, “I was cataloguing some old
images, don’t mind the mess.”

As Mr Bankes went off to make tea, Oliver led Clara into
the front room and gave another groan. Every chair, table and flat surface
(including some of the floor) was covered with photographs. Sitting among them
were pieces of card with writing on such as “Parks, Brighton”, “Seaside, Punch
and Judy, 1907-1910” and “Unknown, misc. scenes”. Most of the images however
seemed to have been scattered with little consideration for the category they
might best conform to.

“I’m sorry about this Clara. He is always inventing new
filing systems and dragging all his pictures out to re-sort them. He gets very
particular about them.” Oliver illustrated his point by picking up two cards.
The first read “pigeons, grey”, the second “pigeons, white (doves?)”, “Most
people would be just content with labelling them under pigeon, or even just
birds.”

Oliver scooped photographs off a chair in irritation,
depositing them in a heap on a card table already over-flowing with pictures.
He offered the now empty chair to Clara. She sat down on something soft and
furry.

“I think this is the toupee.” She proffered the grey
hairpiece to Oliver.

He just shook his head and perched it on top of a
porcelain dog sitting on the mantelpiece.

“Ah, do you mind no milk?” Mr Bankes appeared in the
doorway looking sheepish, “I thought I had some, but it appears to have gone
off. My ‘help’ doesn’t call in until lunchtime, you see.”

“Let’s not worry about tea.” Clara decided to act as a
peacemaker, seeing the look of mild fury developing on Oliver’s face, “Perhaps
we should just get to the point of why we are here?”

“Oh yes, why are you here?” Mr Bankes perched himself on
the arm of a chair, “Oliver normally only comes on a Sunday. It isn’t Sunday,
is it?”

“No, it’s Wednesday.”  Oliver said through gritted teeth.

“I thought as much.” Mr Bankes nodded, “Sorry, I lose
track of time being at home all day.”

“Look father, we came about a photograph you took years
ago.” Oliver produced the envelope he had been carrying around, “Do you
remember this fellow?”

Mr Bankes took the image of Mervin Grimes and peered at
it for a bit. He reached over to a side-table and dug among some photos for a
pair of round glasses. He propped them on his nose and studied the picture
again.

“24 May 1905. Mr M. Grimes, paid three shillings but
never collected his pictures. That is the country-house prop set, including
fake Sheridan table. Very popular with those looking for a formal backdrop.
It’s very classical.”

“You actually remember the date?” Clara said,
incredulous.

“I remember everything about my pictures.” Mr Bankes
didn’t look up from the image, “Mr Grimes came in the day before wanting his
photo taken because he had just come into some money. He had bought a new
bowler hat in celebration. I arranged for him to return the next day and I took
the picture. He was very precise with what he wanted, which was why I was
surprised he never came back for the photos.”

“Mervin Grimes vanished.” Oliver said.

“When?”

“Just after the picture was taken, I’m not sure of the
exact date. Do you remember anything else about him?” Oliver pressed.

“Such as?” Mr Bankes studied the picture a little longer,
“I remember I didn’t like him. Thought he was a street thug dressed in better
clothes than he deserved. But he was a customer, so you put up with these
things.”

Oliver was visibly disappointed his father had not
mentioned the ring.

“Mr Bankes, did you happen to take other pictures than
the one you are holding of Mr Grimes?” Clara asked, as she carefully retrieved
a crumpled photograph she had accidentally sat on.

Mr Bankes scratched his chin.

“For three shillings I wasn’t going to take a lot of time
over him.” He said, “I took a seated picture. I call it the casual pose. The sitter
leans back in an armchair with one hand lightly resting on their knee. The
other arm is positioned with the elbow on the chair arm and the sitter’s chin
perched on the hand. It gives a relaxed charm to the final photo. Mr Grimes was
not very accommodating with that.”

“Mr Bankes, think carefully, which hand does the sitter
rest on their knee?”

Mr Bankes gave Clara an odd look.

“Depends on the person.”

“And do you have this second picture of Mr Grimes?”

“Look now you two, what is going on?” Mr Bankes, who at
first had seemed rather vague, now revealed he had not lost all his marbles,
“Has Mr Grimes been found?”