04 - Carnival of Criminals (3 page)

“That is the thing, I’m not sure.” Oliver looked bleak,
“But maybe, yes.”

“And you are trying to identify him? Why haven’t you told
the police?”

“They aren’t interested at the moment.” Oliver shrugged,
“They think I am chasing shadows.”

“But that other photo might help?”

“Maybe. Hopefully.”

Mr Bankes whistled through his teeth.

“It will be filed under portraits, 1905, May, Male,
Single Sitter, G.” Mr Bankes slapped down the photo in his hand, “And there
wasn’t a copy in the office filing cabinet? Right. And it was never collected.
Give me a moment.”

Mr Bankes disappeared from the room.

“Your father seems nice.” Clara said to Oliver, doing her
hardest to smooth out the photo she had sat on now Mr Bankes couldn’t see her.

“He’s a tad eccentric and embarrassing.” Oliver ran a
hand through his dark hair, still feeling mortified over the antimacassar.

Clara smiled at him.

“At least he isn’t boring.”

“Oh, he’s not that!”

“Why did he give up photography?”

“He hasn’t.” Oliver said, “Just the business. No, he
still takes pics in his spare time. I don’t know what of because he has never
shown me.”

“Perhaps because you have never asked?”

“Don’t go making a fellow feel guilty here, Clara.”
Oliver protested, “I try my hardest, but I have a shop to run.”

“I’m interfering again, aren’t I?” Clara sighed.

“Only a little, and it’s one of the things that makes you
a grand detective.” Oliver grinned at her, “I’m rather excited to be working on
a case with you.”

“It’s not a case yet.”

“But it will be, I hope.”

There was a noise on the stairs and Mr Bankes briefly
sailed past the doorway.

“Not upstairs, going to try the footlocker in the
conservatory.” He called as he vanished.

“See?” Oliver said to Clara in exasperation.

“He is being very helpful.” She defended Mr Bankes.

They waited patiently a little longer. Oliver pointing
out a couple of pictures on the walls he had taken, including one of Loch Ness
in Scotland.

“I was after the monster.”

Clara rolled her eyes.

“Really Oliver, and you say your father is eccentric?”

Oliver laughed.

It was at that moment Mr Bankes reappeared holding a
photograph.

“I had filed it under T for Time waster. I must start
keeping better track of my system.” He proffered the photo to Oliver, “Any
good?”

Oliver looked at the picture and then turned it over to
Clara. She took a good look at the figure and in particular his right hand
which was resting on his knee.

“Can you do that clever thing where you take a small
detail in a picture and make it bigger?” She asked.

“A blow-up of his hand? Yes, of course, it probably won’t
be very clear, though.” Oliver took back the picture, “It will take a little
while.”

“Then I suggest we arrange to meet at seven o’clock. Mr
Bankes, how do you fancy a trip to the funfair?”

Mr Bankes looked at Clara bemused.

“Tonight?”

“Precisely. How does that sound with you Oliver?”

“I’ll have the picture ready.” Oliver agreed.

“Then I will see you tonight, seven o’clock at your shop.
Bring a magnifying glass and both pictures of Mervin Grimes.”

“This is very curious.” Mr Bankes muttered, scratching at
his chin again.

“It will get even more curious before the night is out if
Oliver is right.” Clara said sinisterly.

Fairgrounds come alive at night, with their bright bulbs
and gaudy colours. The shadows of darkness mask their defects and for a few
short hours they burst with glamour and glitz, before daylight dispels the
illusion and shows up all the cracks. But the fairground at night, along with
the innocent fun-lover, also attracts the dubious element, those who favour
darkness over the stark glare of daylight. Under normal circumstances Clara
would have much preferred to stay away from the fair at night, even if seven
o’clock in summertime was not exactly pitch black. Still, there was definitely
an air of trouble pervading over the tents and amusements, not helped by the
presence of several police constables.

Brighton was a popular holiday spot for London gangsters,
assisted by the lure of seasonal racing. City prostitutes were also notorious
for taking a trip to the seaside on the tail of wealthy holiday-makers. A short
train ride from London was all it took to escape the smog and smoke of London
and breathe fresh sea air. Not to mention it was a handy cooling-off spot for
anyone who found themselves in trouble in the capital. Clara loved her
hometown, but she had to admit it had a dark side that scared her.

Oliver met her promptly at seven outside his shop. He was
sporting a striped summer jacket and a straw boater. She couldn’t resist
tapping her finger on the latter.

“Expecting a boat ride?”

“You don’t appreciate a man trying to look smart for
you.” Oliver said with mock hurt in his tone.

Clara laughed.

“So you are trying to look smart for me now, Oliver
Bankes?”

Oliver winked at her.

“Don’t expect my father to be on time, by the way. I
don’t think he knows the meaning of punctuality.”

Oliver was right; it was nearly half an hour before Mr
Bankes wandered along the road. In the meantime Oliver had popped over to a
Lyons teashop and persuaded a Nippy to let him abscond with two cups filled
with tea. He and Clara had drunk them perched on the sill of his shop window.

“Sorry I’m late folks, damn watch has stopped again.” Mr
Bankes doffed his bowler hat to them, apparently missing Oliver’s disgruntled
look.

They walked together to the entrance of the fairground.
It was thruppence to enter, a token price to keep the tramps and vagrants out,
once inside the showmen knew exactly how to squeeze every last penny out of
their visitors.

Having been to the show once already, Clara found the
dazzle less exciting than before. The novelty had most definitely worn off.
Oliver on the other hand looked eager to try everything and already had his eye
on the rifle range, which was offering jars of cocoa as prizes for a perfect
score. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone to bed on a good mug of
cocoa. Mr Bankes was meanwhile staring at the big wheel which could be seen
spinning over the tops of the tents. He whistled through his teeth.

“If only I was younger.”

“Before we all get swept away, should we head for the
House of Curios?” Clara suggested, her own instincts telling her to keep an eye
on her handbag in the large crowds now circulating the fair. Every moment she
stood there, the fair seemed to lose more and more of its sparkle. Not helped
by some decidedly dubious fellows who were loitering around the best rides for
no obvious reason. She had a nasty feeling something was going to happen
tonight.

Oliver distracted himself long enough from the lure of
cocoa to lead the way through the fairground to the tent marked House of
Curios. It might have been quiet earlier in the day, but tonight the tent was
buzzing with people wandering in and out, gasping and giggling at the objects
on display. A wooden cigar store Indian now stood just outside the door, a sign
hung around his neck informing everyone – “See the Mermaid of Syria! Goggle at
the Two-Headed Calf! Marvel at the headless chicken that lived for a week!”

“Are we ready to meet Mervin Grimes?” Clara asked her two
companions.

Oliver gave a grimace. Mr Bankes showed no sign he had
heard anything, but followed them as they entered the tent. It was packed with
people and difficult to move through. The mournful calf was still staring out of
its case with its baleful eyes and attracting a suitably shocked audience.
Clara had to do a bit of polite barging to squeeze through to the glass case
containing King Hepkaptut, or at least the place where the glass case had
stood. For the good pharaoh was mysteriously gone and in his place stood a
large stuff bear that a sign declared was the very creature shot by Davey
Crockett as it mauled him.

“Where is Hepkaptut?” Oliver said in astonishment.

Clara crouched down and plucked something out of the
grass. It was a small fragment of glass.

“Oliver, who else did you tell about your suspicions?”

“No one except the police.”

“Hmm.” Clara tossed the piece of glass back to the
ground, “I think we better find the man in charge of this place. Something very
curious is going on. I’m starting to think you are onto something Oliver.”

Oliver grinned.

“Really?”

“Yes. Now where on earth do we find the fairground
manager?”

He wasn’t as hard to find as might be imagined. After
asking for directions off a few stall holders they were shown to a large
showmen’s caravan in the centre of the fair. It was smartly painted and bore
the name on the side ‘Bowmen’s Touring Carnival’. A large van that normally towed
the caravan was pulled up discreetly to one side. Clara hopped up the two steps
to the door and rapped loudly. She could only hope Mr Bowmen was in and not
abroad keeping an eye on his showground.

After a moment there were sounds of movement and the door
opened outwards forcing Clara back a step.

“Yeah?” The man peering out of the caravan was in his
forties, dressed in pale trousers and a white shirt. He wore no waistcoat or
jacket, but had a cloth napkin tucked into his collar. He glowered into the
night looking belligerent, while the hand he rested on the doorframe still held
a fork. They had interrupted him in the middle of dinner.

“Clara Fitzgerald.” Clara offered him a card, which he
didn’t look at, “We would like to speak to you about the matter of King
Hepkaptut.”

If anything Bowmen’s expression grew more malignant.

“He ain’t for sale.” He went to slam the door shut, but
Clara saw it coming and stood in front of it, so he would have to drag her into
the caravan if he wanted to close the door.

“I’m not interested in buying. I am interesting in
discussing exactly who Hepkaptut is, or rather was. I think you really would
want to talk to us, if you understood.” The showmen didn’t look impressed so
she quickly pressed on, “There is a secret concerning that mummy, and if the
signs in the House of Curios are anything to go by we are not the only ones to
realise that. Before anything worse happens, I suggest we talk.”

“Are you threatening me?” Demanded Bowmen.

“Absolutely not. I am trying to help.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“Perhaps not yet, but we really must talk. Else, I will
have to take the matter up with the police and allow them to investigate a
possible murder.”

“Murder?” That had caught his attention, “What are you
talking about?”

“Do you really want to discuss this on your doorstep? We
are talking about a very serious crime.”

Bowmen hesitated, then he reluctantly took a step back
and motioned for Clara to enter. Oliver quickly jumped up behind her, but when
Mr Bankes went to follow, Bowmen blocked the way.

“Not enough room!” He snapped and slammed the door in his
face.

Inside the caravan the main portion was set up like an
ordinary parlour. Two snug armchairs sat either side of a modest fireplace,
over which hung a huge mirror. The walls were ornamented with posters of acts
past and present, along with a small bookcase that boasted the complete set of
Dickens. At the front of the caravan a plank swung down from the wall to act as
a table and on it sat Mr Bowmen’s dinner of liver and potatoes. Bowmen sat
himself down at the table and dug back into his meal, shovelling a large piece
of liver into his mouth before he turned back to Clara and Oliver.

“Well? What’s this about Hepkaptut?”

Clara glanced at Oliver. There was, of course, always the
possibility that Bowmen knew the true identity of the mummy and had in fact
been instrumental in his death. But Clara thought that unlikely, most murderers
were not insane enough to put their victims on display, even when they did run
a fairground.

“Perhaps you better show him the photograph Oliver?”

Oliver produced the brown envelope once more and removed
the picture of Mervin Grimes. He offered it to Bowmen who glared at it without
putting down his fork.

“Who’s this?”

“The man we believe became Hepkaptut.” Clara explained,
“Unless, of course, you have proof that the mummy in your House of Curios is
thousands of years old.”

Bowmen caught the hint of sarcasm in Clara’s tone.

“I just buy the things, if someone tells me it’s an
Egyptian mummy what came out of a tomb who am I to argue?” He said defensively,
“Anyway, this fellow don’t look like Hepkaptut.”

“I admit the resemblance is not exactly plain to see.”
Clara nudged Oliver, “The other photo Oliver, please.”

Oliver produced a second picture, an enlargement from the
seated portrait Mr Bankes had found. It showed Mervin Grimes’ hand.

“Please note the curious ring on his finger Mr Bowmen, I
think you may have seen it before?” Clara held the photo before Bowmen’s nose.

He glowered at the image, then some of his anger turned
into fear. His eyes went back to Clara.

“So the mummy is wearing Mervin Grimes’ ring, doesn’t
mean it
is
Mervin Grimes.”

“That is true, but I think it warrants further
investigation. Besides, we are forgetting that someone attempted to steal your
mummy this afternoon, didn’t they?”

“I figured it was kids fooling around.” Bowmen grumbled,
“They smashed the glass. Fortunately one of the workmen was passing and heard
the commotion. He shouted and ran into the tent, but whoever it was had run out
the other exit. They hadn’t had a chance to take anything.”

“I personally suspect that someone else knows this is
Mervin Grimes. Someone who isn’t keen on his body being on display.” Clara
turned the picture of the ring to face her, “Mervin Grimes hung around with
some very unpleasant people. Not the sort you want loitering around your
fairground. Where have you put Hepkaptut?”

“He’s locked up in the bearded lady’s caravan.” Bowmen
stabbed at a potato and swirled it round in greasy gravy, before shoving it in
his mouth, “No one will be getting it from there in a hurry.”

“With your permission I would like to take Hepkaptut to
someone who can properly confirm if he really is Mervin Grimes. I should add
that, if that proves to be the case, the police will want to take him and
ultimately his body will be returned to his family, I imagine.”

“And I lose my mummy.” Bowmen snarled.

“In the scheme of things it is a small sacrifice.
Besides, would you rather I tell the police you have a modern murder victim on
display?” Clara fixed him with her most determined stare.

Bowmen gritted his teeth, but he knew he was in no
position to argue. Besides, who wants a suspected murder victim’s corpse on
their hands?

“If it isn’t Mervin Grimes, I get my mummy back.” He
stated, a slither of liver on his fork.

“I imagine so.” Clara replied.

“Give me your card again.”

Clara handed over one of her cards which read; “Clara
Fitzgerald, Private investigator” and gave her office address. Bowmen turned it
over in his hands.

“So I know how to find you.” He said, placing the card on
the table.

“I’ll keep you informed of what happens.” Clara promised.

“Well if you want the mummy you best find Jane Porter,
she’s our bearded lady and the only one with a key to her caravan. Tell her Derek
said it was all right for you to take Hepkaptut, not that she is likely to
argue, she doesn’t much want that thing in her caravan.” Bowmen wafted his fork
at them, “And if it does turn out to be Mervin Grimes I want nothing to do with
it. I bought Hepkaptut a year ago in good faith. I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Thank you Mr Bowmen, I will bear that in mind.”

Bowmen huffed.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.” Clara knew when she had outstayed her welcome,
“Shall we let ourselves out?”

“Go right ahead, you didn’t seem worried about letting
yourselves in.”

Clara turned to Oliver and they left the caravan, feeling
Bowmen’s venomous glare follow them all the way. Back in the fairground they
discovered Mr Bankes had vanished.

“Do you want to go find him?” Clara asked.

“He can look after himself.” Oliver shrugged, “Besides,
I’m not leaving you unescorted.”

Clara rolled her eyes. She hardly considered herself in
any danger, at least, not yet.

“I suppose we must track down the bearded lady, I suggest
we head over to the rather offensively titled freak show.” She said.

“You know, with most bearded ladies it’s all fake.”
Oliver said as they headed in the direction of a number of large tents, “A bit
of glue and suitable hair is all you need. Though I dare say some are real.”

“Poor creatures.” Clara replied, “To live your life
always mocked or derided by others because of an unfortunate quirk in the
fabric of one’s body. I feel extremely sorry for the likes of Jane Porter.”

“At least she has the fair.” Oliver mused.

“That is hardly a just compensation.”

They aimed for Gypsy Rose’s stand since Clara recalled seeing
a sign for the freak show near her stall. The fortune teller’s tent was doing a
mediocre trade, considering Gypsy Rose’s talents Clara found that rather
surprising. She gave the old lady a little wave, feeling sympathetic to her
plight. They headed around the back of some more tents and came upon a sign
that indicated the freak show was nearby. A motley crowd of gawkers had
gathered around a raised platform, no wider than six foot, and were listening
to a man in a tatty evening suit telling them about the vagaries of Mother
Nature and the cruel fates she could inflict on the unfortunate.