When I arrived at the home of the Crumb siblings, it was raining so heavily that my umbrella broke under the weight of the painfully big wet splodges of rainfall, and lay in my hands like a drowned blackbird. Disposing of the umbrella in a convenient bin, I approached the small terraced house and knocked on the door. My knuckles were bruised, for in the evenings I had been boxing, something my father had trained me to do in Egypt.
I could hear a soft shuffling from within, a pair of slippers moving over a carpet, approaching slowly. That morning I had been reading a letter from my father. The pages were folded like a handkerchief in my pocket, near my heart. He had begun an excavation in Cairo on the tomb of an Egyptian princess. It would take many months to complete, but he was overjoyed. He was hoping I would come back to Cairo and stay with him, something I had promised. My father’s handwriting was swirling and beautiful, with hieroglyphics dotted about the corners: magic symbols.
I missed him. I missed Egypt. He had sent me some of his sketches of the finds near the entrance to the tomb and of the wall engravings. Red and black ladybird-like creatures dancing over the entrance, sketched hurriedly. Comical drawings of priests wearing insect-like masks lined the walls in some sort of procession, each carrying a jar containing something belonging to the princess. Each of these priests displayed with a ceremonial dagger and a mirror. My father had told me they carried mirrors to catch souls within, and they also acted as doorways into other worlds and as divination tools. I wondered about the princess and the power she held over these men. How far would they go for her? Was there a limit at all?
The door opened with a slight creak and Dotty Crumb, a tiny woman dressed in a pink dressing gown and oversized fluffy slippers, peered curiously at me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Crumb. My name is Detective Goliath Honey-Flower. I’m here about the complaints.”
Her lips curved into a crescent moon, her eyes were very pale, egg-like. “Oh yes, do come in,” she chirped. Her voice reminded me of a child; it didn’t belong in her body. I followed her into the hallway, where a shabby birdcage hung, now empty. “I’ve made jam tarts, they are Mortimer’s favourite,” she said, patting me gently on the shoulder. In the small kitchen sat Mortimer Crumb, long and lean, almost skeletal, wearing a long, brown oversized coat. He had a small bird-like face and very large, long teeth.
I was guided to a seat by Dotty, while a cup of tea was poured for me out of a cracked teapot and a jam tart plopped on a plate in front of my eyes. Mortimer extended his hand towards mine, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
The kitchen was small and dark with tobacco-stained wallpaper and a framed picture of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, wearing a grimace, hanging lopsidedly over the sink. Glancing outside the window, there was a tiny garden overrun with weeds. Behind Mortimer was another hallway leading to a staircase, and beneath that a green door, which I assumed must lead to the basement. What caught my eye was the ornate gold lock on this door.
Mortimer wiped jam from his lips and spoke. “May I ask where you originate from, Mr Honey-Flower?”
I took a sip of the tea, which was very well stewed. “I was born in Egypt, but my father was English.” The chair underneath me creaked with my weight. I caught my reflection in the mirror; my beard was damp and dishevelled. I looked like a great bear that had fallen into the river. The siblings stared at me mischievously.
“For the last few weeks we have been receiving complaints from your neighbours about noises at night coming from your house. Screaming and banging, mostly. Can you explain any of this?”
Mortimer scratched his nose. “We have a problem with this house. We believe that there is a malignant presence here.”
“Malignant presence?” I replied.
“Yes, we’ve been hearing strange noises, and we have heard our names called out on several occasions.”
“And don’t forget the smell, dearie,” said Dotty. “A terrible whiff, like burning pig flesh.”
“Are you suggesting your home is haunted?”
“That’s correct, Mr Honey-Flower,” said Mortimer, helping himself to another jam tart. “We have had a very quiet life, my sister and I. We have lived in this house since we were children and there have never been any problems. The first occurrence happened at Christmas, when Dotty was preparing dinner in the kitchen and she heard something call her name. I also heard a voice. I was reading the paper. We had a cat and a song thrush in a little cage, and both disappeared soon after.”
“Anything else?”
“My sister and I don’t dream any more.”
There was a queer silence. Mortimer was munching on his jam tart. Dotty tapped her bony finger against her cheek. Mortimer suddenly laughed and Dotty giggled like a schoolgirl. I found them both somewhat unnerving.
Mortimer adjusted his coat, which was spotted with jam, and leaned forward towards me.
“So, are we being haunted, Detective Honey-Flower? Have we offended a dead relative?”
“Yes, perhaps Great Aunt Margery,” Dotty said slyly. “She never liked us as children, do you remember the incident with the tea cosy?”