I peered over the edge of the boat into green waters, saw a flash of silver fin. Closed my eyes and imagined an underwater city with pyramids tangled in black seaweeds, the priests float through their temples with fish tails and algae frilled eyes. I dipped my hand into sea foam, icing on a great salty cake. I smell shipwrecks and shark bites. But Captain Mackerel is favoured by the old Gods; he wears bone charms round his neck and kisses mermaids. We are safe with him.
Goliath and Captain Mackerel play chess at night. Captain Mackerel always wins (I think his cat helps him, for cats know about hidden things, they can smell secrets). It purred and flicked its tail, expecting a boiled herring. I stroked its back, stared into its giant jewelled eyes. “What sort of magic cat are you?” I asked it.
It replied with a sly wink and leapt off my lap into shadows, in search of rats.
At night Goliath told me fairy stories; princesses and peas, kissing frogs and bad tempered wizards. I liked to hear about the wizards; their funny pointy hats, their wands that zap, their long blue beards and unicorn horn shaped towers. Spiral to the top. Point at stars like a pyramid. I miss Egypt, I tell Goliath and pull his wild beard.
“We will return, little one,” he says, and I fall asleep, my little fist still clutching his great beard. Taking him with me into dreams.
IX: August 1888
The Chase for Tumbletee
My grandmother Isabella told me once that there are plenty of funny buggers in London. That gem of wisdom was given to me while she was peeling spuds. She said “men are like potatoes – occasionally you come across a rotten one, or one that looks suspicious.”
Constable Walnut and I were on the trail for Tumbletee, and if he were a potato my grandmother would have slung him in with the pig slops. We had located the landlady, Mrs Pudding, off Mitre Square.
“Do you think he will be dressed up as a woman again, sir?” said Walnut.
“Be prepared for any eventuality, Walnut,” I replied.
The lodgings were small and run down. A very short, plump woman in a mourning gown let us in.
“Mrs Pudding?” I enquired.
“Yes,” she said.
“My name is Detective Sergeant White and this is Constable Walnut. Do you have a tenant named Ebeneezer Tumbletee?”
“I do, and he’s a very fine gentleman.”
“May we see his room, madam?”
She took a brass key out of her pocket. “You may, but you’re interrupting my mourning of my late husband, Mr Pudding, who died at sea.”
“My condolences, madam,” and we followed her up a flight of creaky stairs to the attic rooms.
“Shark,” she added.
“Where?” said Walnut and looked worried.
“My husband was eaten by a shark.” Mrs Pudding crossed herself.
We arrived at Tumbletee’s room.
“He’s been a very good tenant. Quiet, pays his rent on time, polite and well behaved. I couldn’t ask for any more. He’s a perfect example of what I expect in a tenant.”
She placed the key in the lock and the door swung open. The room was covered in blood. It was all over the floors and up the walls and on the ceiling. Mrs Pudding screamed and fainted into the arms of Constable Walnut, who buckled under her weight.
I stood looking into the room. On the bed, which was saturated in gore, was a little box tied with a black ribbon. It was the only object in the room not bloodstained. I moved closer and picked it up. It was the size of my fist. I opened it. A row of human teeth sat at the bottom of the box, and a small piece of paper with writing on.
* * *
Dear Detective Sergeant White, Meet me for a little chat at the British Museum, 2pm today in the Egyptian exhibition.
Your faithful friend,
Ebeneezer Tumbletee Esq.
* * *
I informed Constable Walnut and left him with Mrs Pudding to take a brief statement. I left immediately for the British Museum, as I had less than an hour before my appointment. Walnut would follow shortly. The sky was already beginning to cloud over; thin eel-like swirls painted the sky.
The Museum was quiet and empty. I counted only a handful of people. I walked past a series of Roman statues, each one smooth and cream-coloured, watching over me softly. My feet tapping, echoing on the stone floors.
The Egyptian exhibition was on the second floor. I could see three people hovering about: a little girl and her mother, holding hands, peering at a gold and turquoise tureen within a cabinet with crocodile engravings. And a curate with red hair, and a large, equally red nose was touching the black sarcophagus in the centre of the room, where a young king slept in death. I could hear the little girl speaking to her mother, “Why do they like crocodiles so much, Mummy? Crocodiles eat people.”
I stood next to the curate, “Hello, Mr Tumbletee.” I knew it was him. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it again.
The curate turned, grinning manically. “Oh, well done, detective. So you met Mrs Pudding?”
“Yes.”
“She’s in mourning, you know. So I hope you were sensitive with her.”
I said nothing.
“Of course,” he continued, “He’s been dead over fifteen years, so she needs to get over it at some point.”
“I have to arrest you, Tumbletee.”
“Have you ever been to Egypt, Detective Sergeant White?”