The chair beneath me creaked painfully. I could feel one of the legs wobble nervously. “I am not an expert on the paranormal.”
“What are we dealing with, detective?” Mortimer said, gazing into me. His eyes were small glimmering things, like faerie gold.
“What is behind the green door?” I said, without realising the words had left my mouth. I could feel the letter in my jacket; it was like a hot water bottle over my heart. I could smell a rich sweetness in the air, a thick heavy scent that was overpowering and covering up the stink of something else.
“That will be the tapioca pudding ready then.” Dotty gleefully spooned a huge mass of frog spawn creamy steaming pudding into three bowls and handed one to me.
“Oh really, I couldn’t manage any more.”
“Don’t be silly. A big bear man like you. You like sweet things, don’t you dear?”
Mortimer interjected, “Dotty loves to feed people.” Squeezing a large splodge of tapioca into his mouth. “And as for the green door, it leads to the cellar. I would be happy to show you. You should really see the whole house, get a sense of the place.”
I sat and ate my pudding silently. I kept thinking of the fairy story of Hansel and Gretel, the letter still hot on my chest. And yet I did not leave. They watched me while I ate. When I had finished, I thought suddenly of my father when I was a boy, and he was warning me not to step too near sleeping crocodiles, because they are not sleeping, they are waiting to catch you.
On the shelf, a beautiful clock caught my eye. It was silver and engraved with fairies dancing round the face. It hummed delicately like an insect.
A dampish hand patted my head, and I looked up at Dotty.
“Come on then, dearie.” My head was fuzzy.
I followed her down the hallway and we began to ascend the staircase. Again the brown tobacco-stained wallpaper, a running décor theme throughout the house. A small framed picture of a grey cat called Mr Pickles, no doubt the missing pet, hung near the landing window. And the smell that was lingering in the kitchen but covered up by all that sweetness was much more pungent here. A deep, burnt fatty smell.
Dotty led me into her bedroom. “Here you are, ducky.” The room smelt sour. It was again a small room with a large bed with a floral cover. Floral wallpaper and a bedside mirror that had broken.
“Sometimes I hear voices in the walls at night. Chanting and grunting.”
The carpet was filthy, cat turds and dust. A framed sepia photo hung above the bed. It was of Dotty as a young girl, tap dancing on Brighton Pier. She looked like a little pixie, a bob of blond curls and twinkling eyes. I got on my knees and looked under the bed. Again, more cat turds, and something else. I reached for it and pulled out a piece of dried human skin with a few hairs sticking out from it.
“Ooh,” said Dotty, edging closer, “I wonder what that is. You are staying for dinner, Detective Honey-Flower? I’m making apple pie. Isn’t that your favourite?”
“Yes, yes it is my favourite, how did you know that?” I turned to look at her. The piece of dried skin rested like a leaf in the palm of my hand.
“You look like an apple pie sort of man. All big and strong and sweet.”
Mortimer popped his head round the corner of the bedroom door. “Found anything interesting?”
“Human skin,” I said, holding it out towards him. He glanced down at it momentarily, his eyes then fixing upon me. “And what does this mean for us?”
“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.