Miss Matilda Hayward and the Freak Show (Miss Matilda Hayward series Book 1)

by Helen Goltz

  ‘Not a word to the police or anyone else,’ he reiterated.

  ‘But won’t that make her look as if she knows something?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘It would be worse if she said the wrong thing. We don’t need the police sentencing her and asking questions later, which has happened on many occasions.’ He saw Matilda’s expression. ‘I’m sure your detective wouldn’t do that though.’

  ‘He’s not my detective, Amos.’ Matilda blushed. ‘I believe you were with us when we grew up… remember him?’

  Amos smiled. ‘Old teasing habits die hard, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, that works both ways. Now Father said—’

  ‘You took this to Father first?’ he asked, stiffening and looking affronted.

  ‘Yes, he offered his services for free – he does take on a few charity cases in his retirement – but he said as Mrs Tufton has indicated she can pay, and her husband may also pay for legal services, I’d best give you the business first.’

  Amos nodded. ‘Good, rightly so.’

  Matilda studied him; he was once so confident – the eldest and most like her and their mother. Quiet, considerate and not needing to be as demonstrative as the other boys by his position of being eldest which came with its rewards. She wondered if Minnie was expecting too much from Amos or if he was putting undue pressure on himself to meet her standards, imaginary or real. Amos would never admit that, so she determined to rectify it as best she could.

  ‘Besides, Amos,’ she said, ‘you are the most diplomatic and influential person I know, and Mrs Tufton needs you.’

  His lips betrayed a small smile of pleasure and he read the note again before pronouncing, ‘Let us go then and hear what she has to say,’ and rising from his chair.

  Matilda retrieved her hat from Amos’s desk and waited while he briefed his clerk. They descended the stairs from his office together and Amos hailed a hansom cab. He gave Matilda his hand and helped her into a seat; she allowed it as they were in public near his workplace.

  Settling next to her, he said, ‘I am impressed, Matilda. Don’t tell me you are becoming a lady at last.’

  ‘I do know when to play the part, especially for your sake, Amos. That would impress Minnie, wouldn’t it?’ Matilda said with a smile. ‘I am quite capable of getting in and out of a cab without the assistance of a man’s hand… don’t forget I was always a much better climber than you and should the opportunity present itself, I am sure you will find I still am.’

  ‘Heaven help us,’ he said, rolling his eyes and Matilda laughed.

  She reached for his hand. ‘Thank you, Amos, for helping me.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. It might all be over before we begin, or her information may not be of any value. When we arrive, if there are police present, leave me to talk with them and you go in and see Mrs Tufton. Remember…’

  ‘Tell her to say nothing,’ Matilda said and nodded.

  ‘Precisely.’

  *****

  A sizeable crowd was milling around the grounds of the Freak Show, held back only by a rope draped across the entrance path stopping public entry. A sign hung from it reading ‘Closed today. Management apologises for any inconvenience.’

  Thomas glanced around, concerned about the encroaching crowd.

  ‘Death can be inconvenient,’ Harry agreed as he caught his breath; his partner’s stride far exceeded his own at this time in his life.

  A young constable stood near the marquee, preventing anyone unofficial from entering. He drew himself up straighter on seeing Detective Thomas Ashdown and his partner, Detective Harry Dart, approaching.

  ‘Sir,’ the young constable said.

  ‘What have we got, Constable?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘A dead body, sir, a man in his forties identified as the owner of this show, Alfred Burnham. He appears to be bludgeoned to death, around the head. The coroner is in there now, but Mr Burnham was last seen alive around 11pm and was dead when found at 6am.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Constable Robinson is talking with a few of the, um—’

  ‘Artists in the Freak Show, Constable?’ Harry helped him out.

  ‘Yes, that’s it, sir. He’s getting statements now if they saw or heard anything.’

  ‘Good work,’ Thomas said, remembering how little encouragement he received in his early days before making detective rank and being partnered with Harry.

  A swelling crowd of curious locals was getting closer to the tent and Harry put an end to it.

  ‘Nothing to see here, ladies and gentlemen. I suggest you get on your way, or we may need to detain and talk with you,’ he bellowed, and the crowd dispersed.

  A man appeared through the marquee flaps and ventured to the three police colleagues.

  ‘Morris Wilks, at your service,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid Mr Burnham is not available this morning, he’s had an… accident.’

  Thomas flashed the man his identification.

  ‘Yes, a nasty one,’ Harry agreed. ‘Let’s see the body and talk with the doctor then.’

  ‘Right. Best you come in then,’ Mr Wilks said, standing straighter and glancing around uncomfortably as if he were the obvious suspect. ‘The show—’ Mr Wilks asked.

  ‘May go on,’ Thomas informed him, ‘once we no longer need the premises and we’ve spoken to everyone on-site, including yourself, Mr Wilks.’

  Mr Wilks nodded. ‘Some of the artists will not wish to speak with your people; you have to understand they are not all comfortable talking with people.’

  ‘I’m sure that feeling is mutual,’ Thomas said.

  Chapter 10

  Detective Thomas Ashdown left Harry to finish talking with the front man, Morris Wilks, and entered the tent. He couldn’t be counted as amongst the curious – he had seen plenty of freak shows in his everyday investigations – murders, assaults, wife and husband bashing, abandoned children, industrial accidents – the sights inside this tent were some of the least freaky sights he’d encountered thus far. But he understood those in the police force who were new and green and who may not feel as comfortable in these surroundings.

  He moved along the internal corridor of the tent until he came upon a large area with several rows of chairs – a private exhibition area perhaps, he thought. There he encountered Constable Douglas Robinson whom he noted was waiting, pencil and notebook in hand, his shoulders back and chin up.

  Good man, Thomas thought, best to look confident even if you don’t feel it and he could tell the constable was not comfortable; his breathing gave him away.

  ‘Constable Robinson?’ Thomas asked.

  The constable eyed him suspiciously until Thomas opened his suit jacket to show his badge.

  ‘Sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I’m waiting on the first frea–uh–subject to interview.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘I’ll observe, you ask your questions.’ He moved several of the front rows of chairs and turned them so that they faced the row behind with a comfortable gap in between, to create a makeshift interview room. Thomas then took a seat and suggested the young police officer do the same.

  The young constable left the middle seat between them, sat and swallowed, nervously.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Thomas assured him, ‘we’ll cover for each other.’

  ‘Sir.’ He nodded and took a deep breath.

  They waited and Thomas looked around, taking in the area until his eyes rested back on the constable, who sat perfectly erect and still as if at attention.

  ‘At ease, Constable. Are you stationed in the city then?’ Thomas asked, attempting to relax the young man.

  ‘Yes, sir, I graduated three months ago.’ He ventured a smile. ‘They told me during training that I’d see some odd sights and meet all types, but I wasn’t expecting this.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘No, well you wouldn’t be, that’s for sure. Who is first up?’

  Constable Robinson glan
ced at his notes. ‘Jo-Jo, the Russian dog-faced man. The manager said that some of the exhibitors didn’t speak English, so they’d be escorted to see us with a translator.’

  ‘Good.’ Thomas nodded, and they both turned as a couple entered – a middle-aged blonde woman, hard of features but attractive nevertheless, accompanied by a smaller person, a man, completely covered in hair. The small man walked with a limp and was supported by a cane.

  ‘Mr Jo-Jo doesn’t speak English,’ the woman said in a strong Russian accent, ‘so I’ll translate for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ Constable Robinson said. He gave Mr Jo-Jo a nod of greeting which was reciprocated. ‘This is Inspector—’ he stumbled on Thomas’s surname.

  ‘Ashdown,’ Thomas said, and offered his hand to the woman and Mr Jo-Jo.

  Constable Robinson’s eyes widened in surprise, and Mr Jo-Jo offered a small smile as he took the detective’s hand to shake. It was not often Mr Jo-Jo received human contact; people feared touching him as if the hair growth would be contagious.

  ‘Shall we sit?’ Thomas asked, indicating the row of chairs.

  The four people each took a seat.

  Thomas and Constable Robinson sat opposite the interview subjects.

  ‘Who might you be, madam?’ Thomas addressed the woman with Mr Jo-Jo.

  ‘Irina Wilks, Mrs Irina Wilks. My husband is the manager.’

  ‘Ah yes, we met Mr Wilks on the way in.’ Thomas nodded, and then looked at the constable, inviting him to start the interview.

  ‘Right.’ The constable looked to the translator. ‘Could you ask Mr Jo… uh, Mr Jo-Jo where he was between 11pm and 6am last night, this morning?’

  While Irina translated, Thomas glanced up at a sound to his left and saw a woman, or rather, two women conjoined, watching them from the doorway. She or they entered the room and took a chair or two in this case, in the corner as far away from the interview as possible. The translator turned and addressed them in English.

  ‘Ella, Elvira, the police will be with you soon.’ One lady nodded to show that she understood.

  Thomas tried not to stare; he noticed now that Constable Robinson shuffled uncomfortably. Thomas didn’t like the ladies being close enough to hear the questions and formulate answers in advance, but he doubted, given the small stature of the ladies and balance difficulties, that they could have bludgeoned Alfred E. Burnham to death.

  He returned his attention to the subjects in front of him as Irina’s gravelly voice cut into his thoughts. ‘Mr Jo-Jo said he was asleep in his caravan and never left the premises. And before you ask, he said he had no witness to his activity.’

  Thomas nodded; Irina was clearly no stranger to police investigations and her answer was a lot shorter than what Mr Jo-Jo had said. He wondered if he was getting the full translation or the version that management wanted him to hear.

  Constable Robinson asked his next question. ‘Could you ask Mr Jo-Jo if he noticed anything suspicious in the last few days or anyone loitering around other than paying spectators, uh, public?’

  Thomas’s partner, Harry, interrupted. ‘The coroner is ready to see us, he’s waiting at the entrance,’ he said to Thomas. ‘Why don’t you meet with him, and I’ll see this through with the young constable.’

  Thomas gave his partner a grateful nod. He rose. ‘Thank you. Constable Robinson, I think you’ve got this in hand, but Detective Dart will be here. Send us your report when you are finished.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ he said, looking fleetingly pleased until his gaze travelled to the ladies in the corner waiting.

  ‘Meet me outside when you’re done?’ Thomas asked, securing a nod from Harry. Thomas excused himself and made his way out through the tent corridor to the entrance, where he saw more people had now gathered as word of the murder spread.

  As he engaged the coroner’s eye, he saw a familiar figure disappearing into the exhibitor’s caravan area – Matilda, and in front of her, just a fleeting glimpse of a tall man, his face obscured.

  Thomas let out a frustrated sigh. As soon as he was done with the coroner, he’d be finding out exactly what Miss Matilda Hayward was doing here, how she knew to come, and most importantly, who that man was accompanying her.

  Chapter 11

  According to Mr Wilks, manager of The Freak Show, the giantesses’ caravan was second from the end of the row with a red stripe upon it. Matilda followed Amos, tentatively looking around him in search of the van, aware that they were in a private area and tensions were running high.

  ‘Over here,’ Amos announced, indicating the caravan with the door ajar. He stood back to let Matilda make the first contact less he should frighten the lady within, regardless of her size and capability.

  Matilda stood outside the ajar door and cleared her throat with a delicate cough. ‘Mrs Tufton, it’s Matilda Hayward. My brother, Amos, accompanies me.’

  She waited a moment and, to her relief, footsteps approached.

  ‘Matilda, please come in, both of you,’ the giantess said, peering through the door, her smile genuine and a look of relief on her countenance.

  ‘Thank goodness you are all right,’ Matilda said. ‘Such a terrible affair.’ She took the two steps up and entered the caravan. ‘May I introduce my brother, Amos Hayward of Hayward & Bruce Solicitors.’ The Bruce had long since departed but the name remained out of respect.

  Amos lifted his hat and bowed. ‘At your service, madam.’

  Despite her imposing figure, somehow Mrs Anna Tufton, the giantess, came across as vulnerable.

  ‘It was so kind of you to come. Please take a seat. Can I offer you tea?’ she asked.

  The caravan was small, but at one end was a large bed and at the other a table with two bench seats. Opposite was a small sink, kettle and a large jug of water. A small milk jug sat covered with a lace top.

  ‘Thank you, we would love tea,’ Matilda said, taking off her hat. ‘Allow me to help.’

  Amos seated himself to get out of the way while the ladies prepared tea and the giantess placed a plate of biscuits on the table. Amos thanked her and happily accepted one. Minnie would not allow him treats for fear of him gaining a married man’s figure.

  ‘This is delicious!’ Amos declared of the Florentine biscuit and received a genuine smile of pleasure from Anna.

  ‘In an interview some time ago, I mentioned my favourite biscuits were Florentine. Whenever I come to a new town, I often receive a gift from the local bakery. It’s a kind thought.’

  ‘And good for them, I suspect,’ Matilda said with a sly smile, ‘especially should you thank them during your show.’ Matilda put the sugar bowl, spoon, and teacups on the table as directed by Anna and then sat out of the way.

  ‘I do that a couple of times during our stay,’ she conceded. ‘It seems only fair.’

  Anna placed the teapot on the table along with a small, hand-painted milk jug. Her size made everything seem more delicate. She took a seat, and Matilda and Amos sat opposite, the two of them comfortably fitting on the one bench.

  Matilda got down to business. ‘The police are here. I’m sure you know that.’

  Anna nodded. ‘Yes. Mrs Wilks told me she would come for me when it was my turn to speak with them.’ She poured the tea, passing the cups to her guest.

  Matilda took the lace from the top of the milk jug and poured a little in her and Amos’s cup, offering the same to Anna, who accepted.

  ‘Who is Mrs Wilks?’ Amos asked.

  ‘She’s the wife of the general manager. Mr Burnham was master of ceremonies and owner, but Mr Wilks was his right-hand man. Mrs Wilks is Russian, but he is not.’

  ‘Is she an artist?’ Matilda asked diplomatically.

  Anna shook her head. ‘No, but she’s involved with obtaining artists and negotiating the contracts.’

  Matilda explained how Amos might assist and his basic fee, finishing by advising, ‘But if you are not in a position to afford that f
ee, Amos can discuss that, or if you would like to interview several lawyers before making your choice, please don’t hesitate.’

  ‘I can afford that rate, thank you, and I would like to retain your services, please,’ she said to Amos.

  He nodded. ‘Then my first piece of advice is to say nothing. You mentioned in your note to Matilda that you had information, so can you share that?’

  She nodded, glanced at the door before returning her attention to the Haywards and took a deep breath. ‘My husband is in town. He always comes with me to each location where we perform, but he rarely stays on site with me. He has business to attend to in town and it is more convenient for him to remain there.’

  Matilda and Amos read between the lines and understood the delicate situation. The Freak Show was well positioned near the town centre, so they understood the couple to be separated.

  ‘Last evening,’ she continued, ‘he paid the owner, Mr Burnham, a visit to discuss my contract and payment.’

  ‘I see,’ Amos said. ‘Were you present?’

  ‘Yes, and my husband, Carl, insisted I be paid more. It became quite heated, so I left the men to their negotiations and returned here to my caravan.’

  ‘About what time was this?’ Matilda asked, knowing that Detective Ashdown would soon have a time of death for Mr Burnham.

  ‘Carl arrived around 10pm and I returned here around 10.30pm. I didn’t see Carl or Mr Burnham after that, and I don’t know the result of the negotiations as yet.’

  ‘You haven’t seen your husband this morning then?’ Amos confirmed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, you want us to ensure that your husband is not incriminated?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘No, that is not the legal representation I am seeking,’ Anna said, and looked from Matilda to Amos. She explained to Amos, ‘It is not my choice to be part of this exhibition. I don’t want to do this; I don’t want to be entertainment for the masses.’