“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?”