04 - Carnival of Criminals (7 page)

Tommy pressed the tips of his fingers together, braced
his elbows on the table and rested his chin on the platform his hands had
formed. He had spent a lot of time thinking about the war in the last few hours
– dark, unhappy thoughts. Dr Cutt had felt there were signs for optimism when
Tommy returned to his surgery after the sedative. He had blindfolded him and
then run through a series of tests to see how much or little Tommy’s legs were
working. He felt the results had been promising, though for Tommy the
consultation had seemed to consist of pins being shoved into his toes. In any
case he had to go back in a week’s time.

Had he not had the diversion of Mrs Smith to occupy his
thoughts he might have found himself contemplating too hard on his doctor’s
appointment. As it was he had hardly given Dr Cutt a thought since he had left
the surgery. The story of Jurgen Smith had completely absorbed his mind.

Tommy suspected that Jurgen was dead, how, where or why
was another matter. Finding the answers to those questions would probably not
bring Mrs Smith any peace, but it would be something. The question was, where
to begin? He knew the last place Jurgen had been, but then what? If he had
caught the ferry as he said, he would have come back to the mainland, then he
must have had some plan as to how he was going to get home. Logically he would
catch a train, perhaps overnight. So which train was he liable to catch? Tommy
pulled down a book off a shelf, it was listed as a railway guide showing all
the stations and tracks available in 1908, things could not have changed so
much in twelve years, could they? Tommy flipped to the section listed as Isle
of Man, and began making notes of all the trains which could carry a man to or
from the ferry that served as a link to the island. After ruling out routes
that were for goods trains, detracting smaller lines and ones that would lead
in the opposite direction to Brighton, he had narrowed his options to four
routes, each with a stop in London. If Jurgen Smith took any of these trains he
would have found himself in the great city and just a stone’s throw from a train
that would take him home. So why had he never made it to Brighton?

An accident, was the logical answer, or possibly Jurgen
was not the son Mrs Smith so dutifully remembered and he had decided to simply
vanish. If that was the case tracing him would be virtually impossible. But
whatever the cause, the only way to find out more was to contact the stations
in question and see what records they saved about their passengers. He could
get lucky, on the other hand it might be a dead end. He made a note of the name
of the first station, then pushed his wheelchair into the hall and picked up
the receiver of the phone. He asked the operator to connect him to Liverpool
and then waited patiently as the phone rang and rang.

“Good afternoon, Liverpool Central Railway Station.
Stationmaster Jones speaking.” A slightly out-of-breath voice answered on the
eighth ring.

“Ah, hello Mr Jones, I am making an enquiry on behalf of
a friend about passengers who took your trains two years ago. More specifically
German passengers coming from the Isle of Man and heading probably to London or
Brighton.”

“What a strange request.” Mr Jones said over the phone,
Tommy had visions of him as a gentleman with glasses and a moustache and one of
those large railway pocket watches, “Why would they want to know that?”

“We are trying to trace someone who was once interned on
the Isle,” Tommy decided honesty was better than trying to think of a plausible
lie, that was Clara’s department, “He went missing shortly after sending word
that he was coming home.”

“Oh, I see. So you want to know if he caught a train
here?”

“Yes, he was travelling under the name Jurgen Smith and
it would have been the end of 1918, just before Christmas.”

“I do recall a lot of Germans booking tickets about that
time. Of course we knew a little about them being interned on the island.
Smith, you say? Not very German.”

“I believe they anglicised their name.”

“I see, well if he was on this train there may be a
record of it. During the war, because of espionage concerns, our head office
decided we should take names of all passengers boarding our trains. I think we
kept the books running until late 1918. I could check through them?”

“That would be most helpful, I am fully prepared to
compensate you for your time. Perhaps you could send me a letter explaining
whether you found anything or not?”

“I could, indeed, do that. Was this fellow a spy? I
always wanted to catch one and be a hero.”

“As far as I am aware he wasn’t.” Tommy answered as
honestly as he could.

“Shame. But I’ll do it anyway.”

“Thank you Mr Jones.” Tommy recited his house address
over the phone and with a final expression of his gratitude to the helpful
stationmaster he put down the receiver.

That happened to be the same moment Clara walked in the
door.

“Tommy, would you mind keeping Annie in the kitchen for a
few minutes? Some men from the police are outside and I don’t want her seeing
what I’m about.” Clara was pulling off her hat and gloves as she spoke.

“Is this to do with the mummified corpse on the dining
room table?”

“You were not supposed to go in there!” Clara said in
exasperation.

Tommy merely raised his eyebrows at her.

“Fine, it is about the mummy. Annie doesn’t know?” Clara
suddenly looked worried.

“I like Annie’s cooking, so no, I didn’t let her see what
was decorating the dining table.” Tommy gave his sister a grin, “She would run
a mile if she knew.”

“Which is why you will keep her in the kitchen.” Clara
said firmly.

“Absolutely.”

There was a knock on the door and the police coroner
poked his head into the hallway.

“Are we all right to come in? The police wagon outside is
causing your neighbours some consternation.” Dr Deáth (pronounced De-Ath) was a
small, jolly man who did not give at first glance a hint that he spent all day
working with dead people, many of whom had come to their untimely ends under
unpleasant circumstances. In fact, he managed to make his morgue an almost
welcoming place. But then, Clara supposed, why should one be miserable just
because one was dead?

“Come in Dr Deáth. I would offer you tea but…”

“No, of course, let’s get this over and done with
swiftly. My lads have got the stretcher.”

Clara led Dr Deáth into the dining room. Even as
experienced as he was, Deáth gave a start at the sight of Mervin Grimes. His
lads came very close to dropping the stretcher.

“What a fascinating case!” Dr Deáth peered over Mervin’s
head, “Everything preserved! Natural I would say, modern mummification like the
Americans’ use involves large amounts of chemicals and leaves the body
flesh-coloured. Arsenic at one time was quite popular. In fact, I almost
wondered if it was a poisoning case when I was told I was collecting a mummy.
Arsenic victims are often remarkably preserved after years in the ground.”

“Mervin was shot, we think.” Clara pointed out the bullet
hole.

“Indeed, I shall examine it and see if I can determine
whether the bullet killed him. And you say he was just propped up in the
fairground?”

“Displayed as an Egyptian pharaoh.”

“How curious! I really should go to fairgrounds more
often.” Dr Deáth bent his head until he was almost nose to nose with Mervin’s
grimacing face, “You don’t see this sort of thing often in England, we don’t
have the weather for it really. Too damp, you see. The ancient Egyptians used
to remove all the bodily organs because they liquefy rapidly and encourage all
sorts of insects that help the decaying process. Worst of all being the
intestines, filled as they are with waste material. Yes, all told, this fellow
was very lucky to have lasted in this way.”

“I suspect he wouldn’t agree.” Clara said with a faint
smile, “Nor his murderer for that matter.”

“True, no murderer with any shred of sanity would want to
see their victim on display.” Deáth ran his fingers over the leather-like flesh
of one of Mervin’s arms, “Well, old chap, shall we get you back to my
headquarters?”

He motioned to the two lads with the stretcher, who came
forward with noticeable reluctance.

“You’ll see a lot worse if you carry on working for me.”
Deáth puttered at their reticence, “Here, you get his feet, you his shoulders,
I’ll support the middle. And don’t let anything drop off!”

Clara held her breath as the stiff mummy was manhandled
off the table and deposited on the stretcher. No significant portion of Mervin
Grimes fell off in the process, though he did leave quite a lot of dust and a
few large flakes of black material on the table. Clara was inordinately glad
she had put a cloth on the table before Mervin had taken residence there. She
decided the linen cloth would have to be disposed of at once, there was simply
no way she could reuse it after seeing it covered in bits of Mervin.

Deáth covered Mervin with a white cloth and ushered his
stretcher-bearers to the door.

“Give me a day or two to take a better look at our fellow
here and then pop by.” Deáth grinned at Clara, “I’ll make us a pot of tea when
you come.”

“You make it hard to resist.” Clara laughed.

The body was negotiated out of the front door. Several of
Clara’s neighbours were on their doorsteps pretending not to notice what was
going on. Clara singled out Mrs Braithwaite as the best gossip among them and
stepped over to her. Quietly she whispered in her ear.

“Dear great uncle Ernest. Came down late last night, you
might have seen the car that dropped him off. Lovely fellow, but too fond of
his port. Though I suppose breathing your last at a family dinner with a
decanter at your elbow is not such a bad way to go.”

“He died at dinner?” Mrs Braithwaite gasped.

“Went face-down in his soup. Dreadful business. It was
pea and mint.”

“Oh you poor things!”

“He was eighty-five. We fully expected this to be his
last visit, but not quite so literally.” Clara gave a sigh, “I suppose I better
finish that letter to his wife.”

“Oh my, he was married? What will the poor love do now?”

“I expect she shall remarry.”

“Really?”

“Well yes. She’s only twenty-five.” Clara left Mrs
Braithwaite with that little golden nugget of fictitious gossip, content in the
knowledge that her neighbours would now be too absorbed in discussing the moral
vagaries of old men marrying young women to ever even consider that Clara had had
a mummy in her house. In fact, before she had reached her front door several
ladies had gathered around Mrs Braithwaite to hear what Clara had told her.
Before teatime the story would have been so embellished and mismanaged that even
if it had been the truth, there would be nothing of fact left in it.

Clara stepped into her hall and firmly closed the door
behind her. Great uncles were very handy for these sorts of situations, far
enough removed that no one was surprised they had never seen them before, yet
close enough to suggest the family should be given a modicum of privacy while
they overcame their grief. Clara went into the parlour and sat in the soft
armchair by the fire. She pried off her shoes which were beginning to pinch and
wriggled her stocking-clad toes with some satisfaction.

“Has Mervin Grimes made his exit?” Tommy rolled into the
parlour.

“Yes. By the way I told the neighbours a great uncle had
died.”

“How dreadful.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could lie as easily as you Clara.” Tommy gave
his sister a mock serious look.

She put her tongue out at him.

“How did the doctor’s appointment go?”

“He has hope he can help, so that at least makes one of
us.” Tommy shrugged.

“Don’t be maudlin, I’m sure we will get you walking
again.”

Tommy didn’t answer. His opinions on the subject were far
less optimistic than his sister’s. He decided to change the subject.

“While I was waiting at the doctor’s I got talking to
this woman who was planning on coming to see you. Her son went missing at the
end of the war.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes, I know, but this is an unusual case because he was
German and he was interned from 1914 on the Isle of Man. Anyway, the woman had
hardly any money so I said not to worry about fees.”

“Wait a moment,” Clara held up a finger, “Weren’t you the
one who told me off for constantly taking on cases for free?”

“That’s not the point…”

“Precisely is the point!”

“Anyway,” Tommy said a little loudly to stop the
argument, “I thought that as you were clearly busy with this Mervin Grimes business
that I would take on the case of the lost German son, then it doesn’t matter if
it is done for free, as no one pays me anyway.”

Clara was quiet a moment, a smile playing on her lips.

“That sounds a logical plan to me.”

“Good. Well I’ve made a start. I rang up the Liverpool central
train station to see if they have any records of this young man boarding a
train there. He last told his mother he was heading home, you see.”

“And if he didn’t get on the train?”

Tommy opened his mouth before he realised he wasn’t sure
of the answer to that question.

“Perhaps you will need to contact the Liverpool police? I
wonder if the army was involved in guarding the internment camp? Perhaps they
kept records?”

“Yes, but he left the camp and was heading home a free man.”

“It’s all useful background information. In any case I
doubt the army or police just waved off a load of German prisoners without
keeping a quiet eye on them to make sure they headed back to the places they
were supposed to. No, I would be very surprised if this young man
did not
board the train. At least up until that point he was probably watched.
Afterwards anything could happen.” Clara stretched one foot out and eased the
tight muscles in her calf, “It’s what I would do if I was in the authorities’ footsteps.
Keep a close watch until the prisoners were safely out of my jurisdiction.
After that it is someone else’s problem.”