Read 04 - Carnival of Criminals Online
Authors: Evelyn James
04 - Carnival of Criminals
Carnival of
Criminals
Evelyn James
©
Evelyn James 2014
First
published 2014
Red
Raven Publications
The
right of Evelyn James to be identified as the Author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known
or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from
the author
Copyright for the
cover images: Anagoria; Doronenko; Emillie & Lloyd; Libens Libenter;
Richard Ash; Texnik
Carnival of
Criminals is the fourth book in the Clara Fitzgerald series
Other titles in
the Series:
Memories of the
Dead
Flight of Fancy
Murder in Mink
Clara Fitzgerald maintained a polite façade of interest
as the rather decrepit woman sitting opposite her gazed into a scratched
crystal ball. The name over the tent had read
Gypsy Rose, Queen of the
Fortune Tellers
. It had been as much impatience as curiosity that had
driven Clara into the tent. She hated waiting for people, it made her all
twitchy, and the tent had offered a five-minute distraction. Besides, Gypsy
Rose had looked rather forlorn all alone in her tent – the fortune telling
business had seen better days.
“I see you meeting…” Gypsy Rose had a Romany accent and
wore a lot of black lace, particularly over her head. She appeared to be aged
around eighty, “…a tall, dark stranger. Very dark, indeed. Oh, but…”
Gypsy Rose stopped waving her arms mystically over the
glass ball and propped a pair of gold pince-nez on the bridge of her nose. She
squinted hard into the crystal ball. When she looked back at Clara the Romany
accent had disintegrated into a broad Yorkshire brogue.
“Dearie, I only tell it as the ball says it, so don’t get
in a dither, but I see you meeting a tall, dark stranger and… urm… he’ll be
dead.”
Gypsy Rose bit her lip waiting for Clara to scream or
shriek outrage at her for such a ghastly fortune. Clara, Brighton’s first
female private detective, merely laughed.
“You would be surprised how often that is the case.” She
rose, deposited a sixpence in the bewildered fortune-teller’s hand, and left
the tent reflecting that Gypsy Rose was undervaluing herself.
Outside it was a beautiful August day, the sun was high in
the sky and the air rang with the laughter of children. Clara was standing in
the middle of a fairground on Brighton Green, with music and excitement all
around her, which made it seem all the more remarkable that Clara could feel so
morose. Many would have considered her setting if not idyllic, certainly happy.
Unfortunately Clara could not help that August made her feel sorrowful; the
summer was drawing to its close, the flowers had bloomed and mostly gone past
their best, the roses in the garden were overblown and smelt sickly sweet, the
bees buzzed frantically around them as though sensing their time was running
out. The trees looked dry and tired, the grass was yellow and dead. Everyone
complained of the heat and the sulphuric smell coming out of the sewers.
Before long the leaves would go golden and orange, summer
would be gone for another year and it would be the long trek back into winter;
frosty mornings, icy afternoons, chilly evenings. It all added up to a strange
fug that lingered over Clara and made her feel quite depressed when really she
should be enjoying these last hazy days of sunshine.
Of course it didn’t help that six years ago the Great War
began on just such a sunny August day. It only seemed to compound, in Clara’s
mind, that August marked the end of things.
“Fresh Scotch toffee?”
Clara was shaken from her doldrums by the arrival of her
brother and a paper bag of creamy, tan-coloured toffee.
“Stop looking so miserable.” He instructed as he thrust
the bag at her.
Clara gave a small sigh as she dug her hand into the bag,
deciding that her attempts to develop a slim-line boyish figure (as was all the
rage) had once again been thwarted. Tommy grinned up at her from his
wheelchair.
“We just saw the ugly lady, as I predicted she is one
fine pig dressed in a frock. Gloucester Old Spot, I should say.”
“I was rather relieved that was all she was.” Annie, the
Fitzgeralds’ maid and firm friend, said rather primly. She had come up behind
Tommy bearing three stone bottles of lemonade, “After all, if every ugly lady
had to run away to the circus to earn a living, Brighton would quickly be
emptied.”
“Annie!” Clara said in mock horror, accepting the
lemonade proffered towards her.
“I exclude us, of course.” Annie amended her earlier
comment, “Anyway, are we going to take a look at the performing monkeys? I
heard tell they sing and dance.”
“Don’t believe all you hear.” Clara smiled as they
started to head into the heart of the fair, “I was just told by Gypsy Rose that
I would meet a tall, dark stranger who would be very dead.”
“She must have heard of your reputation.” Tommy
asserted with a shrug.
“Perhaps.” Clara answered.
Brighton had not seen a funfair since those glorious
summer days of 1913. War had dampened the spirits and made travelling shows
difficult. Workmen and performers were called up into the army and the
logistics of carting dozens of wagons and attractions across the country became
impossible. Not to mention all the horses who were also conscripted for service
at the Front. The English fairground had almost ceased to exist during those
four long, dark years. Then peace returned and the showmen pulled their rides
and engines out of the yards and fields where they had been stored. They
cleaned them down, tarted them up, found new horses or invested in a steam
engine, and the show was back on the road. After so long without the bright,
bawdy carnival attractions of the funfair, the arrival of carousels,
freak-shows, coconut shies and the myriad of other novelties that went with the
fairground had struck delight into all but the hardest heart. What had once
seemed tawdry and old-fashioned in the glamour days of Edwardian Brighton, now
seemed fresh, vivid and alive. Just like the spirit of good old Britain. A lick
of paint and both were as good as new.
The fairground that had come to Brighton had certainly
made the most of the opportunity. There were around 100 stalls and attractions
scattered along the seafront. Clara had spotted two carousels, the stars of the
show with their leering horses and spinning mirrors. There was a huge helter
skelter, a swing chair, and a dizzying whirler. Dotted among them were tents
containing everything from discreet films of an adult nature to snakes and
lizards, not to mention the food vendors and the wide array of smaller games,
such as the bowling alley and rifle range. Clara wasn’t entirely clear whether
this was one large fair or several small ones that had banded together. But
whatever the case, they had certainly put on a fine show.
“Isn’t that Colonel Brandt?” Annie motioned with her hand
to a gentleman leaving a large white tent.
“I do believe it is, he looks a little pale.” Clara
watched as Colonel Brandt mopped his brow with a large handkerchief.
He had just emerged from beneath a sign that read
Exotic
Birds
,
Delightful Creatures from all Four Corners of the Globe.
Either side of the words were painted two scantily clad women, cunningly avoiding
public scandal by the strategic placement of large palm leaves. A sign near the
entrance read
Adults Only
and a surly looking fellow barred entrance to
anyone who had yet to pay, which pretty much told Clara all she needed to know
about the attractions inside.
“Colonel Brandt.”
The colonel looked up and his face went crimson. He
daubed furiously at his brow with the hanky and looked a little faint. Clara
hurried forward and took his arm.
“Are you all right colonel?”
“Just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. I misunderstood
the context of that sign,” Colonel Brandt was about to wave behind him, then
remembered he was speaking to a lady and did not want to add to his
embarrassment, “I never saw anything like that in India.”
“Never mind colonel, would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Yes, I would. I was expecting parakeets you know.”
They found their way to a stall selling hot drinks and
ordered four cups of tea. Then they arranged themselves on a verge of grass between
two stalls and all began sharing their experiences of the morning. Tommy had
seen his first crocodile, though admittedly it had been a small one and rather
disappointing. Annie had ventured into a food tent and learned a new way of
making dumplings. Brandt had explored most of the animal tents, up until his
fateful arrival at the
Exotic Birds
. Only Clara had little to share,
having spent most of her time wandering rather aimlessly, her mind on other
things.
“I haven’t seen a proper vulture in years.” Colonel
Brandt was explaining, waving his teacup around rather perilously, “Ugly
critters, but smart as a dog. I swear if I could tame one I would be quite
inclined to keep it as a pet.”
“But would you not have to keep feeding it sheep
carcasses and such.” Tommy observed, ignoring Annie’s outraged look at the
mention of such an unpleasant topic as deceased farm animals.
“I imagine I could work around that. Not sure my
housekeeper would approve.” Brandt slurped his tea, “Well Miss Fitzgerald, tell
me what case are you working on at the moment?”
“I am case-less.” Clara answered, “Since we returned from
our cousin’s abortive wedding, I have had nothing in particular to work on.
Unless you count that little matter of the elderly gentleman who had lost his
glass eye. I found it in a rather unsavoury place.”
“I say! A picture house?” Gasped the colonel.
Clara laughed.
“No, in his maid’s bedroom. Bundled in some rather
personal laundry. I imagine it was accidental.”
“Old men do a lot of things accidentally.” The colonel
gave her a theatrical wink and Clara started to wonder if he had really
wandered into that colourful tent under the mistaken belief it would be full of
birds of the feathered variety.
“If we are all done with our tea, might I suggest we try
the House of Curios?” Tommy nodded to a distant marquee with a large sign
outside proclaiming it contained many ancient wonders, “I am always game for a
laugh.”
The four of them headed for the pale green tent which had
a steady footfall of curious onlookers entering its canvas doorway. There was
no attendant for this particular display and several Bright Young Things had
taken advantage of the large displays and dim recesses of the tent for a spot
of canoodling. As was the way of things, everyone was pretending not to notice
them. Tommy, however, was not everyone.
“Why look, that is Mrs Barker’s lad! Hellooo young Freddy
Barker! Who is your friend? Why the delightful Miss Brown from the paper bag
factory. How unexpected to see you two together when dear Mrs Barker was just
saying how she was hoping you would get in with Penny Draper who lived two
houses down.”
“Gosh, isn’t that Deirdre from the library? What ho,
Deirdre. I don’t suppose you know if my book on typography came in? Oh, I see
you are with a fellow, don’t let me bother you. Did you realise you had lost a
button?”
“Mr Parkinson, what a surprise to see you here Sir. How
is the school these days? Isn’t that Miss Prim the girls’ games mistress
standing beside you? She looks a little faint.”
Having thus pierced the veil of polite disinterest, Tommy
paved the way for everyone in the tent to now pay close attention to the named
persons and their respective partners. Several embarrassed excuses followed of
such things as “I was looking for my shoe,” “This lady came over a little queer
and I brought her into the shade,” “We were only discussing cataloguing systems.”
Having cleared the tent of lovebirds Tommy shook his head and tutted.
“The youth of today.”
Clara clipped him lightly around the ear, grinning at his
mischief.
“You’ll have traumatised them, especially poor Mr
Parkinson. He’ll never be able to set foot in a tent again.”
“He should know better.” Tommy answered, “That Miss Prim
has more fellows than she does pupils.”
Clara chuckled to herself and wandered over to one of the
displays in the tent. It proved to be a two-headed calf said to have been born
in 1805. It stared at her mournfully from four glass eyes. A faded card noted
that superstitious locals thought it’s birth a sign of the impending apocalypse
because it was born in a violent thunder storm and lived only an hour. The
biographer of the unfortunate calf had clearly thought it rather important to
note at the end of this grim tale that it was a Hereford from the herd of one
Mr P. Oakes.
Clara moved on to a glass cabinet containing alleged
pieces of meteorite, one had a nail stuck to it, which the card beside it
stated proved it was magnetised. Clara squinted her eyes and spotted a
yellowing blob of glue. A further case along proved more interesting. This one
was around seven feet tall and contained the lower half of a wooden
sarcophagus. Inside the sarcophagus a wizened mummy gaped at them from its wide
open jaw. Remains of bandages hung off the shoulders and arms, while a blue
scarab dangled from a chain around the mummy’s neck. Various glittering golden
items ordained the mummy’s wrists and fingers, including a rather large ring
with a sapphire blue stone. Clara was confident these items were no more than
costume jewellery; showmen were charlatans, not fools. She paused to read the
printed sign taped to the mummy’s case;
“Before you stands the noble pharaoh Hepkaptut, last
ruler of the ninth dynasty. His tomb was discovered in 1907 untouched by
robbers and with countless priceless relics inside (now safely housed at the
British Museum). Hepkaptut was an unfortunate pharaoh who died at the hands of
one of his many wives, probably poisoned. He died without an heir and left the
Egyptian kingdom in chaos. The scarab you see about his neck was placed there to
protect his body in death, clearly a powerful totem as his tomb was unspoiled.
He wears gold armbands to denote his royal heritage. Hieroglyphs in his tomb
tell us that the ring Hepkaptut wears was a gift from his sister and wife,
Neratutu.”
“And if you believe that you’ll believe anything.” Tommy
said.
Clara glanced down at him.
“It does look very realistic, as a body I mean. I don’t
imagine it is a real pharaoh.”
“Probably paper-mache stuffed with sawdust.” Tommy tapped
the glass case, “Nice ring though, looks as though there is an S engraved into
the stone.”