04 - Carnival of Criminals (9 page)

“Which is why he bought Hepkaptut?”

Jane took a long sip of her coffee, clearly enjoying the
bitter taste as it slipped down her throat.

“Hepkaptut is part of the sideshows, every fair needs
them. For times of the day like this when no one is performing but people want
to see things. And they are cheap. They don’t eat or need paying, and they
bring in the public. Curiosities, novelties, sometimes downright frauds, they
are all part and parcel of the fair.”

“Where do these novelties generally come from?” Clara
risked a sip of her drink, trying not to pull a face as she drank.

“Derek has contacts who deal in those sorts of things.”
Jane shrugged, “I suppose they find them in house clearances and junk shops. I
know the two-headed calf came from Scotland where it had been stuffed and
mounted for a Lord of the manor who thought himself an amateur naturalist.”

“But you don’t know where Hepkaptut came from?”

“I know it was one of Derek’s dealer friends. We were in
Cornwall passing those dull days between Christmas and Easter when no one can
be bothered with fairs. This dealer stops by any time we are passing through
the area and offers Derek a first look at any new merchandise. I believe he
supplies a number of fairground operators.” Jane took more coffee, “He had brought
over a shrunken head, said to be that of a missionary who went to Fiji, and a
stuffed tiger which he claimed had tried to kill a member of the royal family
before being shot by a valiant native in India. Quite frankly they were dull
things, no wonder the mummy caught Derek’s attention.”

“Did the mummy have a story too?”

“Something about it being unearthed in Egypt a century
ago. A lost king that no one knew existed. Said it had been in private hands,
until it reached him. That’s about all I remember. It gave me the creeps then
and it still does now.”

“And you can’t remember the name of this man?”

“No. Derek will have the details. Look, don’t judge us
too harshly. Everyone knows the fair is nothing but illusion. Hepkaptut might
not have been Egyptian, but he looked the part and Derek was thinking about
paying the bills.”

“I don’t blame any of you, I am just trying to discover
how a murdered man ended up on display in the House of Curios.”

“Murdered?”

“The living Hepkaptut was alive and well fifteen years
ago in Brighton, then he vanished. All these years later he turns up at a
fairground. Here, you are looking a little shocked, have my coffee.”

Clara handed over the foul drink and Jane drank it almost
in one.

“That’s awful!”

“Do you think Mr Bowmen will be able to speak to me now?”

“Even if he isn’t I’ll wake him!” Jane said firmly,
hoisting herself up from her deck chair, “And to think I had that… that…
corpse
in my caravan!”

She led the way back to Bowmen’s caravan and personally
hammered on the door to gain attention.

“Derek? Are you in? Someone needs to speak to you!”

There was a muffled voice from within and a thud that
sounded like a shoe being thrown at the door.

“I’m not leaving until you let me in.” Jane said without
reacting to the sound, “Do you hear me?”

A second thud suggested the shoe’s pair had also been
thrown.

“He is really bad in the mornings.” Jane spoke
conspiratorially over her shoulder to Clara, then went back to hollering at the
door, “Come on Derek, it’s nearly midday!”

Finally the door swung open and a dishevelled Derek
Bowmen, wearing a crumpled shirt and a bleary expression, glowered at them.

“Wha..?”

“This lady needs to speak to you.” Jane pointed out
Clara.

A nasty look crept onto Bowmen’s face, it was the sort of
look a man might give a rat that has just crawled over his foot and stolen his
last slice of bread. Clara felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“I loaned you the mummy, what more you want?”

“I have a few questions.” Stated Clara, “It won’t take
long if you have your records book to hand.”

Bowmen was not impressed.

“You know how much trouble you have caused me? Why is
everyone looking for that damn mummy?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Clara admitted, “Which is why
I thought you could help me. I need to know who sold you Hepkaptut.”

“Donovan Ruskin, dealer in Cornwall.” Bowmen snorted,
“Satisfied?”

He was about to close his door, but Jane wedged her foot
firmly in it.

“Did he say where he had come by it?” Clara asked.

“No, and I didn’t care. Look, he said it was an ancient
mummy. I’m not exactly an expert on those sorts of things, so if it was wrong
it was wrong. I thought he looked the part with the headdress and all.”

“Do you have an address for Donovan Ruskin?”

Grumbling, Bowmen vanished into his caravan and returned
a moment latter with a card that read  ‘Ruskin Antiques, House Clearance,
Furniture Removal, Free Evaluations’.

“Is that it?”

“For the moment.” Clara said coolly, “Hepkaptut has been
identified as a man who died fifteen years ago.”

“So?”

“He was murdered Mr Bowmen.”

Derek Bowmen didn’t even blink.

“Guess I’ll have to find another pharaoh then.” He
snatched his door and gave Jane a small shove so he could slam it shut in their
faces.

“He can be a sweetie when he wants to.” Jane apologised
to Clara.

“Who could I ask about the men who have been causing a
bother around here?” Clara had decided Bowmen was a dead loss.

“Black Pete’s in charge of security. I can show you to
his caravan, he is probably there at this time of day. Unlike Derek he is on
duty the entire time the fair is open.”

Jane led Clara back through the fairground and towards
the far side where most of the acts had their accommodation. Several sleepy-eyed
performers were just rousing themselves from their slumbers and starting
half-hearted practice routines. Clara noted some Chinese acrobats tumbling in a
corner and a juggler who couldn’t stop yawning as he threw balls in the air.

“We are night folk.” Jane said, stepping daintily over a
pile of horse manure dropped by an Arabian with a white feather topping its
head, “Most of us only perform after 3pm and then on into the wee hours. It’s a
strange life, I suppose.”

Jane took them to a caravan with a bull terrier sleeping
outside. The dog raised its head and stared at them curiously.

“Take no notice of Punch.” Jane patted the dog’s head,
“He is for appearances only. He is too soft to even chase a cat.”

Though this was probably true, Clara felt it prudent to
give the dog a wide berth. Punch lost interest and dropped back into a doze.

“Black Pete, are you in?” Jane hammered on Pete’s door,
she was good at hammering and the noise reverberated around the nearby caravans
causing several people to look over curiously. Punch, however, feigned sleep.

The door on the caravan opened and though Clara
half-expected to see an angry-faced man like Bowmen, Black Pete was apparently
not concerned at being roused by vigorous knocking. He also failed to live up
to his name. There was nothing very black about Pete, his hair was grey and his
skin as pale as marble. Clara wondered how he had received a nickname so at
odds with his appearance.

“What’s the matter Jane?”

“This lady needs to speak with you, it’s quite urgent.”

Black Pete turned his attention on Clara.

“Is it a lost handbag? Or perhaps a child gone astray,
the little ones get very distracted at the fair.”

“It’s nothing like that.” Clara promised, wondering if
she gave the appearance of a fraught mother seeking a lost child, “Actually I
am here about the problems you have been having with Hepkaptut.”

“For a dead fella he is certainly a nuisance.” Black Pete
agreed, “Would you ladies like to come into the old office.”

The hospitality of Black Pete was certainly a far cry
from that of Bowmen. He found Jane and Clara chairs and offered them tea and a
biscuit, both politely refused, before settling himself in a decaying armchair
that groaned unhappily as he sat down.

“So ladies, what is this all about?”

“My name is Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara began, “I work as a
private detective and I have been asked to investigate the death of Mervin
Grimes, or King Hepkaptut as you know him, by his family.”

“Gosh, so Hepkaptut was a real fella?” Pete felt a shiver
of repulsion go down his spine, “Doesn’t that make you think? All this time I
thought he was some dummy made of paste and plaster. Never expected him to be a
real man. I’ve seen some things during my time here, but that takes it all.”

Black Pete was a man who took things at face value, a man
who lived simply and didn’t worry about difficult questions. That had served
him well over the decade he had been a security man, but occasionally things
cropped up that temporarily buffeted his simple thinking into dangerous
territories of contemplation. Right now Black Pete’s mind was going over the
times he had handled King Hepkaptut without a concern and it was giving him the
creeps. He helped himself to three biscuits to settle his nerves.

“The thing is Mr…” Clara faltered before recovering
herself, “Pete, the thing is, Mervin Grimes’ body has been drawing a lot of
attention since it arrived back in Brighton. Perhaps you can tell me more about
that.”

Black Pete stopped munching his third Garibaldi.

“You want to know about the break-in the other night I
suppose?”

Clara nodded.

“Well they didn’t get very far, smashed the glass on
Hepkaptut’s… I mean, Mr Grimes’ case, but there was too many people around and
someone raised the alarm. I found them trying to prise his arm off, of all
things.”

“Really?”

“I presume that is what they were doing. Anyway they were
yanking at his arm and screaming at each other. I went in with three of my best
lads and they legged it as fast as they could.”

“What did these men look like?”

Black Pete had to take a moment to circle his thoughts
back to that evening. He wasn’t usually called upon to remember much.

“Three of ‘em. Wearing what I would call Sunday suits.
Dressed up for the fair, I imagine. Not so young either, at least one was my
age. One was just a lad, the other was a grown man. Worker types. Rough hands,
faces full of cares. Probably only had a few pence in their pockets and were
hoping to make a night of it at someone else’s expense.”

“You think they were opportunists?”

“I did at the time. You see King Hepkaptut, when he is
dressed in his finery, looks quite swanky. But it’s all paste and glass,
nothing of value, any fool would realise that, at least you would think.”

Clara nodded again, making no mention that at least one
object on Hepkaptut was of potential value. That ring on his finger would be
attractive to any thief but, more importantly, it could tell any surviving
member of the Black Hand just who was in the case, as it had Oliver. Supposing
someone realised a murder victim was on display at the fair and was worried
someone else might find out?

“Since that night have these three men returned.”

“Probably.” Black Pete shrugged, “I glimpsed them, that’s
all. Even if I gave my lads a description of the three, finding them among the
hundreds of people in here at any one time would be virtually impossible. If
they wanted to come back, and they had the sense to do so at a busy time, I
doubt anyone would notice.”

“So there has been no specific further trouble?”

“Do you mean that business at Bowmen’s caravan? Someone
tried to steal the master keys. He has a spare for every caravan, stall and
money box, just in case. But they are always locked in a safe in his caravan.
They got as far as opening a window before someone noticed. My lads were on it
in a flash, but they legged it. To be honest most of my job is just chasing
people away. I couldn’t say for certain they were the same fellows who were
after Hepkaptut.”

“If you ask me that mummy was trouble the moment it came
here.” Jane Porter suddenly piped up, “They talk about pharaoh’s curses, and I
think that had one.”

“But the mummy isn’t ancient Egyptian.” Clara protested.

“Doesn’t matter, there was something wrong about that
mummy. It gave me goosebumps every time I saw it.” Jane touched her bare chin
sadly, “I swear our takings have been down since it arrived.”

Black Pete gave a shake of his head, as if such a thought
was beyond him. Very possibly it was, Pete would be the first to admit he had
no imagination.

“Well thank you very much for explaining that.” Clara
decided it was time to take her leave.

“It was really no bother.” Black Pete answered, ushering
the ladies to his door, “I suppose I ought to do my rounds.”

He followed Clara and Jane outside and stretched in the
fresh air.

“Come on Punch, let’s see what’s what. Good day ladies.”
Pete gave them another nod and wandered off with the bull terrier following his
heels.

“Thank you Jane, I can see myself out.” Clara turned to
her guide.

“If you need anything else, just ask.” Jane answered
amiably.

“Perhaps you could keep an ear out for any gossip
concerning Mervin Grimes?” Clara held out one of her cards, “You can contact me
here.”

“All right, I’ll keep my ears pinned back. Nothing better
to do after all.” Jane grinned, “One word of advice thought, take care how you
go.”

Clara rolled her eyes as she turned to leave.

“As I tell everyone else, I always do.”

Tommy had followed Clara’s advice and contacted the
Liverpool police division who had ultimately passed him on to an office that
dealt with railway offences, who then transferred him to a bobby called PC William,
who explained over the phone that he had been in charge of walking the beat
past the central railway station for the last four years. Tommy felt he had
been passed from pillar to post without getting any further, but when he raised
the question of German internees William assured him that
he
was the right
man to ask.

“I know all about the Sausage-eaters.” He said loftily,
“Was my job to keep an eye when they boarded them trains and set off for home.
Has one of ‘em committed a crime? You ask me they should all have been shot on
sight. You can’t trust a German.”

A picture flashed through Tommy’s mind of the
grief-stricken Mrs Smith and her assurances that her son was as British as any
native of the isle.

“I am trying to find a particular man who may have
boarded the train and then vanished.”

“Good riddance.”

Tommy was surprised at how offensive he found this
remark. A day ago he may not have exactly agreed with it, but certainly would
have understood its sentiment. Now he was wrapped up in thoughts of a grieving
mother who had been through Hell and back just because she had the wrong
accent. That made Tommy deeply uncomfortable.

“His name was Jurgen Smith, he was in his twenties,
dark-haired.”

PC William was silent on the phone, presumably thinking
over the matter.

“Hello?”

“I was looking in my notebook. I kept a list of all the
Germans who left at the end of 1918, just in case one proved to be a spy. I
figured if I kept a record that would set me in a good light as someone who
thinks ahead. Initiative, you see. I spoke to ‘em all, though some insisted in
speaking in that funny lingo of theirs. Drove me insane.”

The phone clunked a little and William’s voice seemed
further away.

“I wrote down three Jurgen Smiths, they all call
themselves the same thing, you know, no imagination.”

Tommy was silent.

“Anyway,” William rustled some paper, “I think the one
you want was Jurgen Smith no.2. Left Liverpool on the 2.15, Thursday 12
December. He said he was heading to London.”

“He definitely got on the train?” Tommy pressed.

“I made a note that he did so. I watched them all get on
their trains just to be sure. I’m a thorough man Mr Fitzgerald.”

“That you are PC William.”

“Anything else I can do to help you?”

Tommy started to say no, then stopped himself. A thought
had sprung to his mind.

“I don’t suppose you know who Jurgen boarded the train
with? The people who shared his compartment, I mean.”

Tommy could hear paper rustling again. PC William struck
him as a man who rarely used the phone and didn’t understand that Tommy could
not see him doing these things and that lengthy silences made one thing the
connection had been lost.

“I wrote down two other Germans who got in the same
carriage as Smith.” William said after a long pause, “Alphonse Dieter and Hans
Friger.”

Tommy scribbled down the names, just maybe, he theorised,
these were men who had been friendly with Jurgen. They might have all decided
to share a carriage as they made their way home and even if they got into the
same carriage by coincidence, they could be witnesses to what happened next.

“Do you have addresses for these men?” Tommy asked.

“Hang on. No.2 Green Drive, Guildford, Surrey for Dieter.
Flat 3, Park House, Norwich, Norfolk for Friger. Does that help?”

“Thank you, yes, it helps a lot.”

Tommy put down the phone and wondered if these were dead
ends or leads? He was still waiting for the information from the Liverpool
Stationmaster which might hold more clues, and there was one other source he
could chase. Tommy went to his bedroom and searched in a drawer for a small,
black diary. He didn’t get the thing out often; probably it was over a year
since he last looked at it. His reasons for keeping it were complicated and
didn’t entirely make sense even to himself, but his reasons for avoiding
looking at it were quite simple; it was stained with blood, his blood. Some of
the pages were stuck together and quite frankly it made him grimace just to
hold it. The diary had been in his pocket on the day he was shot. It still even
smelt of Flanders. Normally Tommy kept the diary hidden, not quite prepared to
discard it. But today he needed something from it and he was prepared to brave
the sickening feeling it gave him to touch the cover (and the nightmares that
would no doubt follow) to extract a certain piece of information from it.

He flipped to the pages at the back of the book where he
had stored useful information. Names of the dead flashed in front of his eyes;
at first he had crossed out their names and addresses when they had gone to
meet their Maker, but that had become too demoralising an activity, so he had
just started to ignore them. Now names flicked before his eyes and stirred that
familiar, painful gripe of loss in his stomach. A knot that burned and twisted
and threatened to make him gag. Percy, Frank, Stephen, John, all men he had
known well and who had perished in that Hell of mud and shells. Morris, Ernest,
Joshua, Sebastian. Gassed, shelled, buried alive, died of flu.

Tommy shut the book and got a grip on himself. Old names,
old friends. He had to let it go. He opened the pages again and tried not to read
every entry. Why had he written so many down? Back then he had diligently
recorded these addresses in the naive certainty that one day he would write to
these same people, when the war was long over and they were old men who wanted
to reminisce about their youth. Even when they all started dying he somehow
couldn’t stop. His diary had become a list of the dead.

He turned another page, fingers shaking, and there was
the one he wanted. Edward Beard. He wrote down the address on a fresh piece of
paper as fast as he could. Captain Edward Beard had been his superior, now he
was a brigadier. Once, on some dark, God forsaken night Tommy hardly
remembered, he had saved the life of Captain Edward Beard. Pulling him
half-conscious out of a shell hole just as another round pounded down nearby.
Beard had assured Tommy he would be eternally grateful and would return the
favour whenever he could. Tommy was cynical about such oaths said in the heat
of battle, but just perhaps Beard had meant it, and if he had now was the prime
opportunity to call in a favour. After all, who better than a brigadier to find
out what military records had been kept concerning the internees on the Isle of
Man?

Tommy dialled the number for Beard’s brigade
headquarters, hoping they would know how to get in touch with him.

Brigadier Edward Beard in general did not receive calls
from people he knew in the trenches, in fact he didn’t receive phone calls from
civilians at all. That, he felt, was what secretaries were for. But when Mrs
Burrows came in looking a little ragged and explaining that the man on the
other end of the line was very insistent and refused to hang up, it gave Beard
pause for thought.

“What is his name?” The aging soldier asked.

“He says he is Private Thomas Fitzgerald.”

Beard gave this due consideration, not, he would have
people understand, because he could not remember one Thomas Fitzgerald. For the
actions of that brave man were forever etched in his mind. Rather because
Brigadier Beard always gave everything due consideration, he found that this
was the best means of avoiding embarrassing decisions.

“Put him through to me.” He said after a good minute had
elapsed.

Tommy found the familiar voice that suddenly came on the
line rather disconcerting. It brought back memories of a time he dearly wanted
to forget.

“Private Fitzgerald.”

“Brigadier Beard, Sir. Congratulations on your promotion,
Sir.”

Even after two years as a civilian it came naturally to
Tommy to revert to strict military protocol, somehow there seemed no other way
of addressing Beard.

“Thank you Fitzgerald. I assume you are calling in that
favour I owe you?”

Tommy had to smile to himself. Beard had not changed.

“Yes Sir.”

“If you want me to open some fete or gala day, I really
am rather busy. I know there isn’t a war on, but I still have work to do.”

“I’m afraid it’s something a bit more delicate than that,
Sir.”

“Really?” Beard paused, giving this latest information
its due consideration, “Perhaps you better explain Fitzgerald.”

“Well Sir, I am looking into the disappearance of a young
man, only it is slightly awkward because he was a German internee.”

“How did you get mixed up with that?”

“His mother presented the case to me, Sir.”

“Lots of
British
mothers lost sons in the war and
don’t know what happened to them.”

“I appreciate that, Sir. But this man went missing on
English soil and that makes me concerned. After all, he was a civilian who had
lived in London since he was an infant.”

Beard mused again.

“What have you done so far?”

“Gathered information from the police and station
authorities in Liverpool. I’m still waiting on the latter, but the police say
he was released from internment on the Isle of Man and then boarded a train at
Liverpool. Somewhere after that he vanished. I was hoping you might be able to
help me learn more details about his time at the internment camp and also about
two men who boarded the same carriage as him.”

Beard whistled through his teeth.

“You are asking me to look into private files.”

“Yes, Sir, but only because I need something to help me
track this man. Perhaps there was something in his history on the Isle of Man
that could give me clues as to what happened. I don’t expect to find this man
alive, you understand.”

“They are still classified files.” Beard tutted.

“I know Sir.”

There was a long silence. Beard stared at the wooden door
in his office and his mind drifted back four years.

“His name was Jurgen Smith, Sir.” Tommy decided to give
his superior officer a nudge.

“Anything could have happened to him. Lots of anti-German
sentiment when the war ended.” Beard muttered noncommittally.

“Yes, Sir, but Jurgen had a London accent. No one would
have suspected him of being a German unless he told them, and that is unlikely.
I rather imagine he was either the victim of an accident or was accosted by
someone he knew. Hence I have a couple of names it would be useful to have
background information on.”

“Fitzgerald, you are asking an awful lot.”

“I know, Sir.”

Beard sighed.

“How have you been since the war?” He asked, it was a
leading question.

“Not too bad, Sir. Lost the use of my legs in 1917,
though.”

“That’s a shame.” Beard paused, “I still remember that
night. Because of you I lived to become a brigadier.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Not everyone would have risked themselves like that. I
have always felt myself in debt to you for my life.”

Tommy gave no reply. Beard tapped his fingers on his
desk.

“It isn’t unheard of for a senior officer to want to look
in classified files.” Beard spoke to himself, but naturally Tommy could hear
him, “You couldn’t use the information in a court of law, if this fellow has
been murdered, I mean.”

“Obviously, Sir.”

“But it would be possible. I would be putting my neck on
the line for you, but it would certainly be safer than clambering into a shell
crater in the middle of a bombardment. I didn’t survive the war to become a
deskbound coward afraid to take a risk or two.”

“No, Sir.”

“But this would be the one and only time Fitzgerald.”

“I completely understand Sir.”

Beard gave another long sigh, his mind made up.

“Give me those names then Fitzgerald, and I shall see
what I can do. I have a friend in the Home Office, might be able to help me get
access.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Tommy read out the three names and then
gave Beard his address, “This is much appreciated, Sir.”

“No doubt. Take care of yourself Fitzgerald.”

“Will do, Sir.” Tommy barely finished speaking and the
line went dead. He returned the receiver to its holder and then felt as though
he had been mentally shaken from head to foot. Hearing the deep, booming sound
of Beard’s voice brought back a thousand memories of mud, blood and dead men.
The last hour had been rather an ordeal for Tommy and he was feeling rather
sick. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his nerves. He was going to pay
for all this digging up the past with nightmares in the wee hours. He just knew
it.