by Ishbelle Bee
“This is not a haunting. This is something quite different.” I glanced over at the old wardrobe in the corner of Dotty’s room and approached it, “May I?” I looked at her and she nodded. The door creaked open theatrically and inside were hung half a dozen moth-eaten dresses with lurid floral patterns. They seemed too big for her. Nothing else there.
I wandered into Mortimer’s room, still gripping the skin in my hand like a strange talisman. His room was larger, very dark, without a window. A large bed in the centre of the room which I looked under . No human skin. The room was as hot as an oven. No pictures on the walls, just the same dirty brown wallpaper. Instead of a wardrobe, there was a set of drawers, which I went through. Old pairs of socks, shirts and holey trousers. Again, nothing of interest.
A newspaper was folded in the corner of the room, used as a doorstop. The date caught my eye: 27 December 1881. I left the room, as I had started sweating. Dotty stepped lightly in front of me on the landing. “I’ll make some more tea while you show him the cellar, Mortimer dear.”
“A splendid idea.” Mortimer led me back down the staircase, past Mr Pickles, the long lost cat. I didn’t know what to do with the skin, so I wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it in my pocket. He removed a gold key from his pocket and placed it in the elaborate lock.
“It’s a beautiful thing isn’t it? The lock.” He examined my response.
“It’s unusual,” I replied.
“Yes, you could say that,” and then he winked at me. This took me greatly by surprise. “Tell me,” he said, “have you always been a policeman?”
I felt the letter again, warming against my heart, throbbing. “No. I was a boxer in London in my twenties.”
“A fighter. I can see that in you.”
The door gently opened to reveal a brightly lit, white painted room with a white set of stone washed steps. I had been expecting a dungeon of sorts. But it was almost clinical, a complete contradiction to the rest of the house. We descended the staircase. Hanging on the wall, the only object in the room, was a strange silver clock ticking softly. It has engravings carved round it, intricate human feet and hands. “What do you store in here?” I asked.
“Well, as you can see, nothing at the moment.”
“Why is there a lock on the door?”
“To stop you from leaving.”
* * *
Police Detective Sergeant White
Statement to press officer of The Times
7th October, 1887
* * *
A mass grave was discovered at the residence of 7 Dewdrop Lane, South London, yesterday. Mortimer Crumb and his sister Dotty were arrested by Detective Honey-Flower.
So far over one hundred bodies have been recovered from under the floorboards, in the walls and the garden. We ask anyone with any information to come forward.
VI: Meeting Mr Tumbletee
I was given a two week sabbatical after that experience, and I took a holiday to Norfolk to calm my nerves and visit my Uncle, who was a monk in the Priory of Lowstar, and who had requested my assistance in a private matter.
The path to the Priory was littered with red coloured leaves, some dancing into the air like flames and then falling round my feet, exhausted and extinguished. The mile long walk to the Priory gates stretched out like a great red tongue, surrounded by trees that enclosed it like broken teeth. My Uncle’s letter had arrived two days earlier, requesting my assistance in a peculiar situation of which he had supplied me with no information, only an urgency that I attend. I had not seen my Uncle in ten years, and I was both apprehensive and full of happiness, as I had missed him greatly.
The gates of Lowstar Priory manifested behind a thicket of creeping ivy. The small medieval building sat within large gardens of herbs and flowers and a vast expanse of lawn, leading downhill to a lush woodland area. It was beautifully peaceful.
I withdrew a small tin box of sugared pear drops from my pocket and popped a couple in my mouth.
Frederick was standing by the entrance to the Priory, underneath a pouring of wild daisies in a hanging basket. He was tall and strongly built, beardless with a thick head of dark hair. He approached me softly and took my hand in his.
“Goliath, my dear nephew. Thank you so much for coming.” The look on his face was of relief and affection. “Come with me, we’ll have some tea.”
Frederick guided me into the Priory, and led me into the small kitchen, which overlooked the herb garden. The room smelled of honey and spices.
“How was your journey?” He spoke as he guided me to a deep wooden chair around a vast oak table.
“Comfortable, thank you. The scenery, I found very calming. All that flatness.”
“Yes,” said Frederick, filling a small metal kettle with water and putting it on the stove, “It has an attractive eeriness. but it’s not for everyone.” He paused and stared at me, sadly. “I can’t believe it’s been nearly ten years since we last saw each other. I am sorry for it.”
“Do you have any biscuits?” I said.
“But you haven’t changed, you still have that sweet tooth.” He walked over to the cupboard and pulled out a tin. “Custard cream?”
I nodded and he placed them on the table “What has happened, Fred? Tell me.”
Frederick stood motionless over the stove. “A few days ago we had a visitor to the Priory. His name was Mr Tumbletee. An eccentric young man. He said he was delivering a gift.”
“A gift?” I said, selecting a couple of custard creams.
“Yes, a gift. He had a little black box in his hand, a great big red ribbon around it.”
“And who was this gift for?”
Frederick stared at me curiously. “He said it was for you.”
The kettle boiled, piercing the air like a banshee. There was a delicate silence between us for a moment. He removed the kettle from the flame and prepared the tea.
“Did you open it?” I finally said as he approached with the tea.
“No, I have kept it safe.” He handed me a cup. “I will go and fetch it.” And he left the room.
Outside I could see a mangy old white cat lying in the herb garden, its eyes as green and deep as a demon’s. It was scratching itself lazily under the rosemary. I sipped my tea and contemplated another custard cream.
Fred returned holding the box, which was a lined with slippery black velvet, and, as he had described, garnished with a large red ribbon bow. He rested it upon the table.
“Did he say anything else to you?”
“No, he just handed me the box and smiled. I noticed he had very bad skin.”
I untied the bow, which fell softly aside, and lifted the lid off the box. Inside were ten perfectly preserved white milky human teeth, and a calling card:
* * *
Ebeneezer Tumbletee
Travelling Magician and Collector
of Rare Antiquities
* * *
Frederick looked horrified and stepped back across the kitchen floor. “Get that thing out of here, now.”
I followed his wishes and disposed of the box. I walked a half a mile from the Priory to a little stone bridge, and dropped the foul gift into the waters, watching it carried downstream. My hands were clenched and sweating and my heart felt as though it had been squashed by a fist.
When I returned to the Priory, he was waiting for an explanation. I felt physically sick. I sat back down in the chair in the kitchen while he hovered above me, furious.
“I am so sorry,” I said, my head in my hands. “I have no idea why this has happened.”
“You’re a policeman. You must have enemies, Goliath,” Fred muttered. “Who have you angered?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been sent teeth before.”
There was the sound of a horse and carriage and we both looked up at one another. We walked to the door, where outside stood a blood red carriage and a cabby, a young man with bright orange hair who approached us gingerly. “My name is Foxhole. I am here to collect
Detective Honey-Flower. An invitation from Mr Tumbletee, Esquire.” He had a wicked little grin upon his face.
“Don’t get in that carriage,” Fredrick boomed and stood in my path, and he glared at Foxhole, “And as for you, sir, I don’t appreciate your master’s vile gifts.”
Foxhole stepped back and muttered something inaudible under his breath. I put my hand on Fredrick’s shoulder. “Let me go. I have to find out what he wants.”
Foxhole opened the carriage door. “In you pop, sir.”
Frederick stared at me. “Are you mad? What power do these people have over you?”
“Please, Fred. You have to trust me. Send a telegram to Detective Sergeant White. Inform him of what has happened.”
“I’ll have him back by midnight, sir. Just like Cinderella,” smirked Foxhole.
“You better,” demanded my uncle, and turned to me. “I will be waiting for you.”
I stepped into the carriage, which was lined with red silk. Fred watched me leave. He looked so worried for me.
We drove off down the beautiful red mile leading out of the Priory grounds, while the little black box floated downstream gently on silver notes of water.
We drove for an hour while the sun descended – an orange melting into the flat frying pan landscape. Foxhole remained silent, occasionally glancing over at me with his curious little dark eyes.
Finally, the carriage stopped. The sky outside was inky black and dotted with stars. Foxhole opened the door.
“Where are we?” I said.
He had a mouth like a slit in a moneybox. “Your dinner reservation.”
We were standing in a large flat field. In the centre was a table laid for dinner, with a candle burning and a bottle of red wine. A heavy, fat moon sat over us, providing a luminescent light, as though a theatrical backdrop. Seated at the table was a young, slim gentleman dressed in an elegant dinner jacket, his top hat resting on the ground. As I approached him, he rose and our eyes met. His face was moon glow white with black eyes and a pox-scared complexion. His hair stardust white. He looked half fairy, half demon.
“Welcome, Goliath Honey-Flower.” He spoke softly and gestured to me to sit while he poured out the wine. Foxhole wandered back to the carriage. I wondered whose field we were sitting in and whether a disgruntled farmer would suddenly appear, shotgun in hand, upon discovering two gentleman having dinner. He might get the wrong idea.
“Did you enjoy the teeth?” He sipped from his wine glass. I considered for a moment that he was perhaps completely insane.
“What do you want from me, Mr Tumbletee?” I refrained from drinking the wine.
“You interest me, Mr Honey-Flower.”
“What on Earth are you talking about?” I fumed.
“You destroyed the Crumb Siblings – my little project. I had invested a great deal of time and energy in them both and you put an end to it. You have been an inconvenience to me. And you have been noticed.” His eyes rolled upwards.
“They were mass murderers and they tried to eat me,” I said, disgusted, banging my fist heavily on the table. It shook violently, the wine bottle nearly falling off. Tumbletee stepped forward and leaned over me and whispered, “They were my pet project. You spoiled my fun.”
I stood up and squared with him. I was huge in comparison to him. I was built like a wall and a foot taller. His face cracked into a slight smile and he delicately stepped back. “It’s like you’ve been carved from a rock. You’re a force of nature. But you will stop your meddling into my affairs in future or I will be forced to deal with you.”
“You give me no choice but to arrest you–”
He interrupted me. “You will do no such thing,” and pointed a gun at my head. “Now sit down and we’ll discuss this like gentlemen, there’s a good boy.”
“You’re ma–”
He interrupted me again. “Mad... Yes, of course I’m mad. Do you think a sane person would collect human teeth? Of course not, it’s just not rational. Now calm yourself. As I was saying, I really don’t want to have to shoot you. Call this a friendly warning.” He smiled and it was ghastly.
“What are you?” I said, dumbfounded.
“Now that is an interesting question.” He opened his mouth wide.
“You’re not going to sing, are you?”
“You’re a funny man, detective. No, I wasn’t about to break into song, although I have a great fondness for musical expression in all its forms.”
“WHO ARE YOU?” I bellowed, pounding my fists on the table, the wine bottle shattering on the ground.
He stood up. “I am the game, detective. I am the game.”
“I want to return to my Uncle now,” I said. “I have nothing else to say to you.”
I turned to leave and walked towards the carriage, where Foxhole was leaning mischievously, trying to earwig on the night air.
Tumbletee called out to me. “It’s been a delight. We must do this again soon,” he said, placing his top hat on his head and bowing like an actor on a stage, his audience the dead planet that hung above him in the cosmic stalls.
VII: Tumbletee in London
I travelled back to London. The trial of Mortimer and Dotty Crumb was headlining the newspapers. Their faces peered out from the pages like ghosts trapped within glass.
I returned to work, where a handful of parcels were waiting for me. Beautifully wrapped boxes, each with a set of human teeth.
Mr Tumbletee would not leave me alone. I took them in to show Detective Sergeant Percival White and I sat in his office while he examined them carefully, and I explained the story.
“How many of these gifts have you received, Goliath?” His fingers cupped the little box.
“So far – half a dozen, sir.”
“After your telegram I put out some general inquiries on Tumbletee, to see if anyone has heard of him. Hopefully some information should materialise soon. This is an obsessive, strange individual. Take no chances, Goliath. I shall send out a constable outside your lodgings tonight. Fellow named Walnut, very reliable. Keep me informed if any other nasty little parcels arrive. He sounds like a showman to me. He wants a reaction. Don’t give it to him. Let’s draw him out.”
“What do you think he wants with me?”
Detective Sergeant White put the box of teeth back on the table. “He is of course completely insane. He likes to play games. You ruined one of his games, and so now you must play.”
That evening I spent with Constable Walnut outside my lodgings. I watched him from the small attic window. He would occasionally stare at the stars, whistling, and this made me like him. I used to do that as a boy in Cairo. He also seemed to like his food very much, as he had several packs of sandwiches and a large slab of plum cake in his pocket. I took him out some hot tea, which pleased him.
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, traces of cake round his lips.
“Anything suspicious?” I asked.
“No, no sign of the lunatic, sir. Man with a limp earlier, couple of stray dogs, but nothing more to report.”
“I really am grateful for this. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. The stars are out. Very bright. Lovely evening, really. If the tooth collecting fruitcake appears, sir, I’ll have him.”
“Thank you, Walnut,” and I returned to my lodgings, where a small box with a red ribbon rested on the step.
The following morning brought some results from Detective Sergeant White’s inquiries into Mr Tumbletee. An elderly lady was waiting with information in White’s office. She sat hunched over the desk, wearing a filthy lacy brown dress with matching grubby gloves. Her face was spider-lined and also grey with a mass of white hair piled high on her head, and rotten black teeth. She smelt foul, the bottom of the Thames foul. Detective Sergeant White and I sat opposite her and he opened the line of questioning.
“Thank you for coming. May I ask your name?”
The lips of the creature moved, slightly wonky. “Alice Butters.”
“Can you pleas
e tell me something about yourself?”
“Why?” she asked mockingly, her little dark eyes fixed upon him like a goblin.
“I like to know where I am getting my information from.”
She relented. “I work at the Bluebell Tavern off Mitre Square. Serving drinks, cleaning. That sort of thing. Landlord lets me sleep in the cellar. Got my own bed. I have no family. All dead. Just me.”
I thought her an odd little creature.
Detective Sergeant White watched her coolly. “What do you know about Mr Tumbletee, Alice?”
“Well, I’ve seen him before. He’s been in the pub a couple of times. Very elegant dresser. A real gentleman. But he frightens off the girls ’cause of his face.”
“His face?” Detective Sergeant White remarked.
“Yes. He’s had the pox or something. Bad skin and white as the moon, sir. He left his business card with the landlord, said something about selling antiquities,” and at this she handed it over, exactly the same as the one I had been given.
“Did he mention his work, or where he lived in London?”
“He said he was a collector, sir, of unusual artefacts. Said he travelled a lot, mostly abroad, and had come back to England for some unsettled business.”
“Which was?”
“He didn’t say, sir. But he said he was lodging with a Mrs Pudding round the corner.”
At this remark Detective Sergeant White opened the door and called Constable Walnut in. He spoke quietly in his ear and then sat down again.
“You sending your hounds off to sniff him out, detective?” Mrs Butters asked.
“Something like that,” he replied. “Now what else do you know? Any small detail may be important.”
“What has he done, exactly, if I may ask?” she peered at him curiously.
“He’s someone with whom I would very much like to have a conversation.”
“He sounds like a bad boy to me. A very bad boy…” and she began to cackle, to laugh. That black mouth, with green gums and brown teeth. I felt ill looking at that mouth.
