“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 please 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.